Chocolate Pecan Pie with Graham Cracker Crust

Today is Thanksgiving here in Canada but our celebrations have finished and we are resting after a busy, social and incredibly fun and heartwarming weekend. We hosted a small Thanksgiving at our house on Saturday, (Orphans’ Thanksgiving as we call) which involved a Thanksgiving dinner for friends who don’t have family locally to celebrate with. This year that included an Australian friend of ours who had never experienced Thanksgiving at all. It was a lot of fun sharing the traditions we Canadians have been lucky enough to grow up with.

Following Orphans’ Thanksgiving, my extended family gathered, cooked, laughed and shared the traditional harvest feast, complete with turkey and all the things that come with it. Highlights included my brother wearing a turkey shaped hat and making an incredibly odd, yet accurate, gobbling sound, our grandfather proclaiming that next Thanksgiving we should all take to the road and celebrate at our cabin, despite its tiny oven, and lastly, but not at all least, my tiny nephew Gavin who is just 13 months old, pointing and laughing at everything and repeating his one phrase “what’s that?”.

So why, after all that, am I baking? Well, the truth is, I kind of failed at my post yesterday: I was supposed to bake these pies for Family Thanksgiving. Orphans’ Thanksgiving went late, I had cooked all day and I ended up sleeping in yesterday morning (thank goodness Costco was open so we were able to take a store-bought apple pie). Additionally, tomorrow is Baked Goods Tuesday in my office and it’s my turn to bring in the treat. What better to bring in after a holiday weekend than something that nods to Thanksgiving itself? (As if we haven’t had enough already …)

The recipe is simple enough, though I have made some tweaks to the original with a change of crust, amplified butterscotch flavours and earthy fall spices to offset the nuts and chocolate. It’s quite forgiving, so don’t stress — considering what its made of, it’s nearly impossible to go wrong.

Enjoy!

Chocolate Pecan Pie with Graham Cracker Crust

Adapted from a Bon Appetit recipe found on epicurious.com

preheat oven to 350° makes 1 – 9″pie

For the crust, combine the following and press into a 9 inch pie dish:

1 1/4 C graham cracker crumbs

1/4 C butter, melted

Add to the bottom of the crust:

1 C chocolate chunks (chips would do fine)

2 C whole, raw, unsalted pecans

For the pie filling, mix together:

1/2 C butter, melted and cooled slightly (about 5 mins)

1 1/2 C light brown sugar, packed

4 eggs, lightly beaten

2 tablespoons Scotch or dark rum (if you’re not into adding alcohol, use vanilla)

1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon

1/4 tsp. ground nutmeg

Pour the egg and sugar mix over the nuts and chocolate in the prepared pan.

Place the pie dish on a parchment lined cookie sheet and bake for 35 minutes until it is puffed and golden, still slightly jiggly and smelling richly of caramel.

Allow to cool and set fully before slicing and serving.

Cinnamon Raisin Baked Oatmeal

I have always admired ‘morning people’ because I have never really been one. I’m not a sleep-all-day type either, but I do not have a magical internal clock that rouses me, energetic and alert, every morning. In fact, the snooze button gets a lot of use and I have been known to spend far too much on really, really comfortable bed sheets.

But  sometimes on the weekend I cannot help but purposely get up early before everyone else because I love the quiet stillness of the house in the early morning. I like to get up, putter around, make some tea, and catch up on some online reading — nothing too strenuous. Not surprisingly, I also capitalize on such quiet, solo mornings by cooking, blogging and taking pictures – thank goodness for the huge kitchen window and the moody softness of morning light.

So much of life is spent hurrying, worrying and just trying to get up and out the door. A weekend morning of solitude can be a welcome reprieve after (or before) a hectic work week. In the summer, early mornings are nice to spend outside before the heat hits, but now that fall has really arrived, the coziness of foggy mornings keeps me inside and gets me thinking of something warm and sustaining for breakfast.

Cinnamon Raisin Baked Oatmeal

Preheat oven to 350°

Butter for the baking dish

1 ½ C rolled oats (not quick oats)

2 tsp cinnamon

½ tsp nutmeg

1 C raisins

3 C milk

1 tsp vanilla

3 Tbsp pure maple syrup

Butter a 8×8 inch baking dish. Add oats and spices. Top with raisins. Stir together milk and vanilla and pour over oats. Bake for 40 minutes until tender and browned. Serve immediately with milk and more maple syrup or brown sugar as desired.

Pumpkin Spice Loaf

It’s officially been fall for a few days now and I can’t say that I mind. I always welcome the cooler weather and this year is no exception. I even have a new pair of brown corduroys in my dresser drawer that are calling out for a long fall walk in the woods with the camera, (perhaps wearing one of these? Love them, must order one!). However today’s rain (and wind warning), not to mention a case of the sniffles, has kept me indoors.

Not surprisingly, as a devoted lover of almost all things Autumn, pumpkin is one of my most favourite flavours so I don’t really mind that it seems to be everywhere: as soon as Labour Day passes, every bakeshop, coffee shop and restaurant adds this iconic squash to its menus. Lucky me, it is only a matter of weeks before my Uncle Rick will harvest the pumpkins from the pumpkin patch that crawls around the front garden of his house and make is famous pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving.  Light as air and boldly spiked with bourbon, his homegrown pumpkin pie in home made pastry is dessert perfection.

Hmm. I wonder if he’ll share the recipe …

Seriously though, I likely won’t be making from-scratch pumpkin pies this year, but I am certainly following suit with plans for a savoury sage-laden pumpkin ravioli, pumpkin soup and a pumpkin trifle, all of which I will share here in the coming weeks.

Until then, I have this sturdy pumpkin loaf to share. It’s nicely spiced with a clean, bright pumpkin flavour and the recipe is large, yielding 2 hefty loaves so there is plenty to share (or freeze for yourself for later). I hope you enjoy this recipe, woolly socks and hot tea, optional.

 

Pumpkin Spice Loaf 

adapted from a recipe from King Arthur Flour

Preheat oven to 350° and grease 2 loaf pans

Whisk together in a medium bowl:

3 -1/2 C all purpose flour

2 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp baking powder

1 tsp ground cinnamon

1/2 tsp ground nutmeg

1/4 tsp ground cloves

1/4 tsp ground ginger

1/8 tsp ground all spice

1/2 tsp salt

In another larger bowl, mix the following until well combined, stirring after each addition:

2 cups canned pumpkin puree (plain pumpkin — not pumpkin pie filling)

3 eggs, lightly beaten

1 -3/4 C sugar

1/4 C sour cream

3/4 C vegetable oil

1/2 C milk

1 tsp vanilla extract

1 tsp hazelnut extract (double the vanilla if you don’t have hazelnut)

Once the wet ingredients are well incorporated, add the dry ingredients to the wet and mix well. Fold in:

1-1/2 C finely chopped walnuts

Spoon batter equally between the 2 prepared loaf pans. Top with:

1/4 C green pumpkin seeds (pepitas), divided

2 Tbsp sugar, divided

Bake for 1 hour or until a skewer inserted in the center comes out clean. Allow to mostly cool in the pan then turn out onto a wire cooling rack.

September : Where does the time go?

Here we are, already past the mid-way point of September. Where does the time go?

My last post saw the slow fade of summer, its sun-bleached glory cooling, thinning and dissolving before our eyes. This post finds itself, just 13 days later, in the full, cool, dawn of fall. The family is already planning Thanksgiving and when and where to celebrate the October birthdays. Stores have begun to fill with Christmas merchandise. Our neighbours grew pumpkins and have harvested them, proudly displaying two lumpy green-orange gourds weighing an estimated 15 lbs each. They are lovely.

So where have I been, during all of this, while the seasons have been changing? Here. Still cooking, writing, laughing, reading. We had some technical difficulties (2 dead computers in the same week) and blogging from the ipad just isn’t the same. I make no real apology (don’t you hate it when bloggers apologize for hiatus?) but I do hope and intend to be filling this space with heart and tummy warming recipes very soon. I’m working on a few gems that I hope will get you feeling cozy and ready for crunching leaves, an old sweater (or a new scarf!) and a cup of something warm and soothing.

Until then, be well, and thanks, as always, for reading.

Sorrel Soup

Just like that, summer is ending. It feels as if it barely got started. It’s back to school time and soon the leaves will be turning colour and the air will have that distinct chill to it that whispers fall. Until then the afternoons are bright and hot and the evenings are balmy until the sun dips, then they are refreshingly cool, wooing you to stay outside after dinner and have just one more glass of wine.

Despite its late start, it was a nice summer. The sun seemed so precious that we crammed a lot into the bright, hot days, knowing that any one of them could be the last. It was busy, fun and productive. One of the most exciting elements of this summer was the successful maturation of (most of) the garden. We have eaten more beans in the last 6 weeks than in our whole lives! Radishes and fresh greens were growing so fast we couldn’t keep up and the tomatoes are just now gracing us with their red, yellow, orange and deep purple bounty. Even our poor carrots, which over all did poorly, did something: enough for a few salads and few jars of pickles for mid winter hors d’ouevres. Sure, the zucchini and pumpkins have struggled, but all in all, for our first year, it was a success and we have already planted autumn/winter crops to take us through the colder months.

We planted so many things, and so much of it grew beautifully, but nothing was quite so voracious as the sorrel. Tucked between purple kale and a rainbow of Swiss chards, one small sorrel plant became a behemoth bush, pushing up countless deep green spade shaped leaves. If you have never had sorrel and have the opportunity, try it. It’s a somewhat old fashioned green that for one reason or another has fallen out of favour. Stronger and more astringent than spinach, it is an assertive and nutritious green. Raw it has a tart, green apple crossed with spinach kind of flavour. Cooked it has a milder, more earthy taste.

When I was very small and we still lived on the farm, I recall eating shallow, cold bowls of sorrel soup. It was emerald green, creamy, and always had slices of hard boiled egg floating in it and cold, boiled potato. You’d spoon a slice or two of the potato into your bowl, scoop up some egg and the bright, deep green soup. The flavour was intense, fresh and rich all at once and it dazzled against its benign garnishes. Because I have never found sorrel in any market, I have never recreated this soup until this summer. The sorrel grew so immense that it threatened to take over the world so there was no guilt in cutting it back and making up a big, cold jug of sorrel soup. We’ll be having it tonight with grilled fish and some very cold sauvignon blanc to punctuate the end of the summer season and celebrate the gifts of the garden and the summer sun. Cheers!

Sorrel Soup

serves 4

2 Tbsp olive oil

1 Tbsp butter

4 C sorrel leaves (packed)

6 C spinach leaves (packed), divided

1/2 C leek, finely chopped

1 clove garlic, smashed

1 C chicken or vegetable stock

1 C cream

sea salt and pepper, to taste

Wash and dry the spinach and sorrel thoroughly. In a large sauce pan, over medium heat, melt the butter into the olive oil. Add the chopped leek and garlic, stirring frequently to soften. Do not allow to brown. Add 4 C spinach and sorrel, stirring to wilt them. When they are fully wilted, spoon the greens, with the leek and garlic into a food processor (or blender – just be careful if using a blender that the steam doesn’t blow the lid off). Puree completely, about 1 minute. Add the remaining 2 C spinach and continue to puree. With the processor running, add the stock. Once fully incorporated, add the cream. Taste and check for seasoning. Add salt and pepper as needed.

Chill the soup thoroughly.

Serve chilled garnished with:

Cold hard boiled egg (chopped or sliced) and cold sliced boiled potato

Quinoa and Black Bean Burgers with Lemon and Horseradish Aioli

It’s not often that I make dinner for one. I am the primary cook in our house, but the duty does rotate and we have 2 nights a week that we declare “scrounge nights” where no one has to cook and we all just forage, finishing up left overs, or making a PB&J to be eaten on the couch or behind a laptop. We usually do a good job of eating together as a family unit and it’s something that I, and I hope everyone else, enjoys. Then there are the rare nights when everyone is out and it’s just me. On these rare occasions I don’t usually default to peanut butter on crackers or a quesadilla, in fact I usually try something new, partly because it means the kitchen will be empty and I can make a mess and take my time but mostly because total flops and “failures” are easily forgotten and aren’t compounded by the supportive and optimistic smiles as things get pushed around plates. “No really,  it’s …good.”

I’m pleased to say that these meatless wonders were neither messy nor time consuming, but the biggest win of all was when my niece Justine ate one as a late night snack, hastily wrapped in a tortilla. Justine is a hard one to please when it comes to new foods. She is a texture-phobe and has made her feelings well known when it comes to commercially available veggie burgers. She visibly snarls in the face of a pre-frozen rice-heavy veggie option and would much prefer a grilled portabello atop a chicken breast or hamburger than alone. As she sat down to her snack I promised her she would like these seed and quinoa filled patties. She looked slightly dubious until I gave her the full run down of the ingredients. In her matter of fact way she replied, “Well, I like ALL those things, so …..” She bit in, her eyes went wide, and she exhaled a long and satisfied “Soooooooo goooooood!”.

That’s all I needed to hear.

Quinoa and Black Bean Burgers 

Good in a burger bun or pita, over salad greens or topped with a fried or poached egg for brunch, this recipe makes ten 1/3 cup burgers. 

1/2 C green (raw) pumpkin seeds

3 Tbsp sesame seeds

1 Tbsp poppy seeds

1 Tbsp chilli powder

1 tsp curry powder

2 Tbsp whole wheat flour

1/2 C goat cheese

1 egg

2 C cooked black beans, divided

3 C cooked quinoa (from 1 C uncooked)

In a large bowl, combine spices, flour and seeds. Add 1 C black beans and the goat cheese. Mix well, add the egg and continue to mix until smooth. Stir in remaining cup of black beans and quinoa.

Pack into patties (I pressed the mixture into a 1/3 C measuring cup). Set formed burgers onto a parchment lined baking sheet and chill for 15 minutes.

Fry, 3 minutes per side, in a hot pan with 1 tsp olive oil until crisp. Serve immediately.

Lemon and Horseradish Aioli

3/4 C mayonnaise

2 Tbsp sour cream or Greek yogurt

1 tsp very finely grated lemon zest

2 Tbsp finely minced chives

1 Tbsp prepared horseradish (use 1/2 tsp if you are grating your own fresh)

Combine all ingredients and mix well.

On community, love and the power of momentum

Love.

It has to be, without much question or argument, the most common topic for all of humanity. No single phenomenon has held humankind more spell bound than these four letters. No one is immune. One way or another, it finds us. We search for it, we long for it, ache for it and when we get it, we never want to let it go. And when the one(s) we love are gone, it becomes impossible to imagine how to go on.

Community.

For most of this month I have watched my twitter feed erupt with outpourings of love, generosity, respectful silence and hope for Jennifer Perillo and her daughters. I have never met Jennifer, but her reputation as a gifted member of the food blogging community precedes her. When I read the news that Jennifer had lost her husband Mikey to a sudden and unexpected heart attack, I could not help but stare at my twitter feed and refresh it over and over again as her colleagues and friends began the emotional dialogues of support. Like so many of them, many of you who may be reading this, I was dumbstruck imagining that loss. No words. Just empathy, understanding, and honestly, though strangely, love. Love for Jennifer, a woman I have never met and love for her their two little girls.

Love.

For those of us who have lost someone we love we know about paralysis; the the deep white silence that comes to fill the void when there is nothing to say, no way to change things, no possibility of bringing them back. We know the silence, the fear, the five stages of grief, the sleeplessness, the heartache. We know how it feels to believe in nothing, to feel forsaken, to fall back into ourselves and wish that it was us and not them. We know how it feels to have cried out all our tears.

Momentum.

And yet, we live on. In time the hollow fills again. We grow and change. We begin to reawaken and see the world in full colour. How can that be? How can such tragedy be overcome? Love. Slowly we begin to move again, to gather momentum until we are no longer suspended in heartbreak, but living, breathing and laughing again.

Love.

In the wake of Jennifer’s particular situation, this generous community of bloggers has come together and started an incredible movement that has gained astonishing momentum in a short period of time. Not only is this community there to nourish Jennifer and her daughters with support and well wishes, Shauna Ahern and Bloggers Without Borders have set up an incredible fund for Jennifer to help with all the pragmatic and logistical details that come with such a loss (instant-single-motherdom being just one of them.) You can read more about this beautiful project here.

Love.

Whether you know the depths of loss, or only the depths of love, please join this generous community by clicking right here and making a donation for Jennifer and her girls. You can also bid on a variety of items and services generously donated by fellow bloggers and readers. Stay connected with Jennifer and the whole community on twitter with the hashtag #afundforjennie and give a bit of your love to this project.

Lavender Lemonade

An odd thing happened yesterday: I was home alone with nothing in particular that I had to do. No people, no plans, no restrictions. Sure, I could have done some laundry or spent some hot humid hours weeding the garden, but a solo day with no distractions and the possibility of total relaxation is too glittery a gem to squander on chores. So what did I do? I worked on a quilt I am making for my friend Meghan’s baby girl who we will get to meet in November when she finally gets around to being born. I also made some plans/preliminary designs for a quilt for my niece Lizzy with some gorgeous fabric I bought on etsy at this little shop. I puttered, I pottered, I lazed and I wrote. I also worked on a couple of recipes, one of which I will share here. For the other you’ll have to wait until mid-week.

So… not only was I home alone with my thoughts, it was one of the hottest days so far this summer. By mid morning I had the curtains closed to hold out the blazing sun, the fan cranked and I was keeping cool in the studio, which faces north and never gets sunny. As I put away the sewing machine I remembered the little zip-top bag of lavender blossoms and the case of sparkling lemon mineral water in the pantry. Not only was I mentally half way to highball heaven, I had all the fixings at my fingertips for what I am calling a Lavender Lemonade Fizz.

I promise you, it couldn’t be simpler. A quick, sweet syrup steeped with the blue-grey lavender buds, poured over ice with lemonade (and gin if you’re feeling in the mood). Dead easy. Good for what ails you. Delicious. Good for scorching summer afternoons (alone or with friends).

Lavender Lemonade Fizz

1 part Lavender Syrup

1 part your favourite gin (optional)

8 parts sparkling lemonade

Pour lavender syrup and gin into the bottom of a highball glass. Fill with ice, top up with lemonade.

Or just make a pitcher full. They’ll be quickly consumed, don’t worry.

Lavender Syrup

1 C water

1 C sugar

1/2 C lavender blossoms*

Heat water, sugar and lavender blossoms over medium high heat until the mixture reaches a gentle boil. Boil 1 minute. Turn off heat and allow to steep for 30 minutes. Strain through fine strainer into a clean container that can be tightly sealed.

*When buying food grade lavender I opted for ‘organic super’. The organic made sense since flowers are so often heavily doctored with pesticides and the “super” seemed to be about the colour. The regular organic lavender was a much more grey/brown colour and didn’t have the same beautiful grey/blue. I wanted the colour to come through in the syrup so I opted for the “super” and I’m glad I did, as the colour of the syrup turned out very nicely. 

Summer Salad with Roasted Corn & Avocado

This house has always smelled the same, and smells most like itself in the summertime. The high, hot sun bakes itself deep into the asphalt shingles and that slow creeping heat slides down through the walls, the floors, so much so that even the basement tiles become less chilly. With that warmth, comes a cache of memories, hanging, gallery-style in the warm air. I have known seventeen summers with this house. I’ve seen it’s lilac hedges fill in, watched the night sky from it’s front stoop, slept and wept and dreamt in its rooms. It would be impossible to count the number of family dinners around its table, and more impossible to forget the family who have sat there, sharing a meal and a laugh, some who will never return.

The dining room table stands at the house’s heart. It is wide and round, a great, old oak relic, a memory from the farmhouse of my childhood, resurrected in the city of my youth. At any chance, without prompting, my grandfather, now nearly ninety, will tell you the story of how he bought that table at auction in 1952 (or was it ’47?) for eight dollars. He’ll tell you that it’s solid oak, and run his hand over the tabletop and remark that it needs refinishing.

When the whole troop is here the table spreads and seats almost everyone, but it wasn’t always that way. By the time there were enough kids old enough to feed themselves and fill the card table in the living room, I was too old to join them. I’ve always slipped in to a seat at this table, preferably by the wall, at the window. This is an especially pleasant vantage point in the summer months when the evening sun is too low and still too hot to eat in the yard, and that old oak table fills up. With your back to the west wall you can catch the breeze from the window in your hair and stave off the heat as you sit elbow to elbow, proverbially breaking bread.

You could cover my eyes and spin me until I couldn’t stand and then lead me into this house and I would know precisely where I was. It’s not the colour on the walls, or the corner cabinet full of Granny’s pheasant-patterned china that makes it so familiar. It’s not the birds nest on the mantle or even that weathered old table, it’s the smell. Like a fingerprint on glass, it is clear and unique and wholly recognizable. But like a fingerprint, it is mysterious in its specificity. Without a particular quality to describe, I cannot quite articulate it for you. I only know that the summer heat brings it out like no other time of year, amplifying the magic and silence of this house. Its what makes the space feel known, what prompts the stories and memories. It is a part of the quiet moments and the raucous laughter. For me the smell of this house in summer is the shimmering thread in this family’s tapestry, woven over nearly two decades, so much of which we have spent simply chatting around an old table, pouring more wine and serving up summer salads.

Summer Salad with Roasted Corn & Avocado

The roasted corn in this salad is most efficiently achieved on the barbecue, but a couple of careful minutes on a hot griddle pan or under the broiler will do the trick. Aim to cook the starchiness from the corn as well as achieving a flavourful partial char which is both pretty and delicious. 

2 ears of corn, shucked, roasted and cut from the cob

1 large red bell pepper

1 large yellow bell pepper

2 ripe avocados, peeled, pitted and chopped

1 tomato, chopped with seeds removed

1/2 cup chopped scallions, green parts only

Juice of 1 lime

pinch of red pepper flakes

sea salt and pepper to taste

Stir together the corn, peppers and scallions. Season with lime, red pepper flakes and salt and pepper. Add avocado and stir gently before serving. Garnish with lime wedges for extra zing.

Serves 4-6

Lemon Blueberry Muffins

I can recall many a bygone summer punctuated by berry picking. Just a stone’s throw from the edge of Vancouver proper unfolds seemingly endless opportunities to pick your own fruit. Nearly any berry you could want, you can pick, if the time is right. As the thermometer rises, and the sun does its magic, the region swells with fruit, ripened and ready to be plucked by the adventurous, the frugal and sometimes the unwilling. (The unwilling being myself and my niece Justine, who is only 5 years younger than me.)

As kids, we hated it, dreaded it.

The car ride: too hot with bare legs sticking to the seats, and seat belt buckle burns. The farms themselves: there was always a dodgy looking old guy or a ferocious seeming dog. The blazing sun: high sun, sweltering down on us, shoulders and backs peeling despite the slick of sunscreen and the embarrassingly wide brimmed hats. The bugs: at every turn there were spider webs to get ensnared in, sometimes with spiders. Or grasshoppers whizzing and clicking and zipping up the leg of your shorts. Or snakes. The reach: we were kids so we were short (we still are) so leaning into brambles, bushes and rows upon rows of shrubbery to reach up-high clusters of berries meant falling into them, crushing your plastic ice cream pail, losing your hat, likely swallowing a spider and getting leapt upon by any manner of creature. The work: this was hard labour, man. Minutes dragged by, hours felt like days and had we not been so creeped out by the flying, biting stinging things we would have just laid down under the bushes and waited for it to be done.

However did we make it through?

In reality it was never as bad as we remembered.Those car rides were filled with games of 20 questions, rock paper scissors and singing along to the radio. The farms were a change of pace from our city homes and the dogs, although full of bark, were never filled with bite. And the sun? We lived for midday sun. Justine would turn an impressive deep caramel and I would freckle — peeling sunburns and comparing tan lines was all part of the fun. The bugs were bad, the snakes were thrilling and while the grown ups were rows away from us, chatting, steadily filling their pails, we could be rambunctious, squealing at the sight of a wasp, chasing a snake, or poking spiders’ webs with sticks, only to shriek and recoil if they moved. Was it work? Not at all, it was a day outside with all the berries we could possibly eat.

As an adult, I now appreciate the work of picking berries, whether it’s me who picks them, or whether I just pick them up at the market. Either way, I have a better perspective on what it takes for local farmers to grow, produce, harvest, and sell their fruit. I’m also no longer “unwilling” to stop by a u-pick and fill an old ice cream pail or two on a sunny weekend afternoon. What changed? Well, now I get to do things with the pickings. Jams, tarts, cereal toppers, or muffins. The culinary options abound with fresh, seasonal fruit. It’s a short season, we may as well get all of it that we can – even if that means battling the grasshoppers, sidestepping snakes or even feeling like a kid again.

Lemon Blueberry Muffins

Since these little gems are not made by the “muffin method” they have a more classically cake-like crumb to them and they transform into loaf very well. Make this recipe as 2 loaves, 24 muffins or 1 loaf and 12 muffins.

preheat oven to 350°

1-3/4 C all purpose flour

2 Tbsp baking powder

a scant 1/8 tsp nutmeg (just a little pinch)

1/4 tsp salt

1 C yoghurt

2 Tbsp lemon juice

1 Tbsp vanilla

zest of 2 lemons, finely grated

1/2 C butter or margarine

1 C sugar

3 eggs, beaten

1 -1/2 C fresh blueberries

In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, salt, baking powder and nutmeg. Set aside. In a small bowl, mix the yoghurt, lemon juice and vanilla together. Set aside. Cream together the butter, lemon zest and sugar until pale and fluffy. Add the beaten eggs one at a time. Once the eggs are incorporated, mix in one third of the flour mixture then one half of the yoghurt. Repeat, alternating until all the flour and yoghurt mixtures are blended. Carefully fold in the blueberries. Scrape the batter into prepared (greased and floured) loaf tins or into muffin pans.

For loaves, bake for 60 minutes or until a toothpick or skewer comes out clean. For muffins, bake 20-22 minutes.

Allow to cool in the pan 5 minutes before turning out onto wire cooling rack.