This was my first Thanksgiving as a gluten-free human, so I had a load of experimenting to do. I was super proud of my pie, pictured here, and some folks asked for the recipe. Here it is!
The crust was easy: it’s on the back of Bob’s Red Mill Baking & Biscuit mix, and it’s here online. (It uses butter, but if you’re dairy free, I bet you could use Earth Balance.) I doubled the recipe to have a top and a bottom crust, and had to add a lot more water to the recipe. I rolled it out between 2 pieces of wax paper, and though it was a bit crumbly, it was easy to work with. I had way too much dough in the end, though!
It comes out pretty thick, so I think next time I’ll do a Dutch-apple kinda deal with a crumble top. The texture is great and leans towards biscuit-y, versus flaky; the taste was just fabulous. None of that weird aftertaste like some GF doughs.
For the apple filling, I used my dad’s recipe (which is really his mother’s), and he’s letting me post it here. This is for a shallow 8-inch dish, so if you’re using a deep 10-incher, you’ll want to increase this.
Mix all the dry ingredients together; take a few tablespoons of the dry mixture and sprinkle it on the unbaked bottom crust in the pie dish (this helps make a candied bottom after it’s baked). Peel, core and slice the apples; we generally slice them into sixteenths. Mix the rest of the dry mixture with the apples, and then place them into the crust. We’ve found that placing them in one by one in a pretty tight fashion helps the pie not to blow way up while baking. Place the second crust (or crumble top or whatever) on top, and then bake for 45min.
Top with whipped cream of your choice— ours had collapsed by the time it was pie time, but it was still pretty friggin’ good. :-)
I’d never heard of this holiday growing up; I of course was familiar with the day before, and in the Lutheran church, we celebrated All Saints Day mostly if it fell near a Sunday. Maybe we talked about what November 1 meant more than that, but if so, it didn’t stick with me.
You know how it is, right, ladies? You know a guy for a while. You hang out with him. You do fun things with him—play video games, watch movies, go hiking, go to concerts. You invite him to your parties. You listen to his problems. You do all this because you think he wants to be your friend.
I was one of those kids that couldn’t get enough words. I mean, I was downright voracious—I tried to read everything around me at all times (signs, placards, menus, anything), and books were my constant companion as far back as I can remember, even before I could read. Our little town had (and…
“… I don’t see you arguing for an accurate portrayal of everything in your fiction all the time. For example, most people seem fine without accurate portrayal of what personal hygiene was really like in 1300 CE in their medieval fantasy media. (Newsflash: realistically, Robb Stark and Jon Snow rarely bathed or brushed their teeth or hair). In real life, people have to go to the bathroom. In movies and books, they don’t show that very much, because it’s boring and gross. Well, guess what: bigotry is also boring and gross. But everyone is just dying to keep that in the script.”—» How to be a fan of problematic things Social Justice League
Sind Sie der westdeutschen Frauenbewegung der Siebziger und Achtziger eigentlich dankbar? Auf jeden Fall. Aber ich bin ja in der DDR aufgewachsen. Ein gleichberechtigtes Leben hat für mich deshalb nicht mit der westdeutschen Frauenbewegung begonnen, sondern mit der Erfahrung, dass meine Mutter arbeiten gehen konnte und dennoch Zeit für die Familie hatte. Etwas, das mit dem Fall der Mauer dann nicht mehr selbstverständlich war.
Are you thankful for the West German women’s movements of the 70s and 80s?
Absolutely. But I grew up in East Germany (GDR). Equality therefore for me didn’t start with the West German women’s movements. Instead it was with having the experience, that my mother could go to work, and still have time for her family. That was something that after the Wall came down was no longer a given.
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
”—Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via awelltraveledwoman)
In Once Upon an Internship, I learned early that sometimes being a software engineer means death by 1000 cuts because you don’t have the power to make it stop. Even the tiniest little things add up to something big – sometimes it’s really death by 1000 paper cuts.
The cuts started early. I’m discouraged and humiliated in math classes throughout my school years to the point where I still get anxious doing math in front of others despite being good at it in private. A high school teacher tells me that I shouldn’t go to college for engineering, but instead something nurturing (you know, what women are good for).
After KEEP CALM and CARRY ON Ltd applied for a trademark, Solid Gold Bomb founder Michael Fowler decided to create a flood of parodies. He gathered up a list of words, threw them into a script and pressed ‘go’.
Fowler describes culling a list of ‘millions’ of generated phrases down to 700, and checking the phrases for graphical approximation to the original, apparently without noting the contents.
He claims to be surprised as the rest of us that an offensive combination ended up in the database. (In fact, several offensive combinations showed up, which is to be expected if you put words like ‘rape’ or ‘choke’ or ‘hit’ in your list of verbs.)
He suggests that the reason people got so upset was a lack of digital literacy. I suggest that the reason people got upset was that a company’s shoddy QA practices allowed a rape joke to go live.
Generative programs are force multipliers. Small initial decisions can have massive consequences. The greater your reach, the greater your responsibility to manage your output. When Facebook makes an error that affects 0.1% of users, it means 1 million people people got fucked up.
‘We didn’t cause a rape joke to happen, we allowed a rape joke to happen,’ is not a compelling excuse. It betrays a lack of digital literacy.
So let me just get two things out of the way before I get really, really deep in detail about one specific aspect of the Oscars intro last night:
1) it was super, super-long and self-indulgent. Even by Oscar standards. It was like half an hour before anybody got an award and I laughed maybe…
"The sexuality-as-contest-between-men-and-women thing is bubbling underneath so much that is awful: rape culture, workplace harassment, slut-shaming, abuse-themed porn, pick-up artist culture, etc., etc. It sets aside women as a separate thing from a person, and makes them into an object that is ‘ruined’ by sex or nudity."
“Hear me, O afflicted dudes: If you truly do “get” feminism, you know that, like all oppressed classes, women, as a matter of survival, are intimate to the point of exhaustion with the drives, appetites, illnesses, angsts, yearnings, hopes, dreams, great works, and bodily functions of the oppressor. We grasp these things utterly and without omission because we do not live in a cave; they are the default subjects of all art, literature, music, science, film, blogs, dinner conversation, science fiction, advertising, journalism, legislation, TV, the Internet, religion, technology, sport, and miscellaneous culture both low and high. The minute some dude tells me something I don’t already know about dudeliness, I’ll eat a bonobo.”—I Blame The Patriarchy reminded of this quote today, sigh. at least it makes me giggle a little.
Could you please clarify your recent reaction on Tumblr to Ann Friedman’s NY Mag post? This is probably because while I consider myself a feminist, I am also a man, but I had trouble parsing out portions of both Ms….