Showing posts sorted by relevance for query quiche. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query quiche. Sort by date Show all posts

May 4, 2022

Recipe for Love - Four of Quiche

Recipe for Love - Four of Quiche

Start with four pre-made pie crusts unless you feel adventurous and want to make the pie crust yourself. Why four? Because pie crusts come in pairs, and it’s just as easy to make two as one, and just as easy to make four as two, and it freezes beautifully. Remember to take a fork and poke holes at the bottom for a more even-cooking and to release steam.

Add a layer of grated cheese - cheddar, Irish cheddar, jack, or even feta - enough to cover the bottoms of the crust.


Top this with a layer of sofrito, which is a combination of minced yellow onion, a whole head of chopped garlic sauteed in butter with a buttload of spices: rosemary, thyme, oregano, and basil.

Add a layer of protein. This could mean various meats- Sliced deli turkey, pink tender ham, picked apart rotisserie chicken, crispy bacon or even some fried spam. Diced curried tofu or smokey tempeh are yummy too.

Next add your vegetables: Raw broccoli, steamed spinach, sliced tomatoes, fresh asparagus, oily artichoke hearts, even green peas. Play the mix and match game.

For each quiche, you’ll need:

4 eggs

1 cup of milk

1/4 teaspoon of salt

1/4 teaspoon dry mustard

3 tablespoons of flour

Beat the eggs and milk together, then sift in the remaining ingredients. You can also add more spices - garlic powder, onion powder, a dash of ubiquitous salt and pepper. Pour in your custard: Use a fork or gently jiggle the pan for gentle disbursement. Sprinkle the tops with paprika.

Bake at 375° for 50 minutes

Quiche is ready when the custard pulls from the sides of the pan or you can stick a knife in and it comes out clean. Let cool for 15 to 20 minutes. Serve with sour cream or emo or slices of fresh avocado. 


Freeze your extra quiche. Thaw in the fridge overnight or pop on the counter for 4 to 6 hours. Reheat in microwave, toaster oven, or air fryer and enjoy.

October 5, 2022

Thoughts on Eating: The Cafe Years

I've been cooking a lot more of these last two years during the pandemic - L
asagna, spanikopita, chicken cordon blue, bone broth, and of course ubiquitous quiche

I look up recipes online but fail to bookmark them, so each time I want to make a bechamel, I have to look it up again. Not that the trusty Joy of Cooking is moldering on the kitchen counter mere inches away, but it’s not the same joy.

In 1997 I bought out my business partner and took over the cafe. I'd make and serve at least fifty meals a day - five days a week - that's a thousand a month, over the next two years. That's 24,000 meals. Pretty much that's when I stopped cooking for myself.

"There's no romance in mopping a floor," my Dad would say. Owning the cafe was work. I had to get there by 6:00 a.m. to cook forty strips of tempeh for the ubiquitous Yukimochi sandwiches, our best seller. The tempeh was cold and slimy, a task I detested. 

I slashed the menu in half, got rid of all the single ingredient items, and reduced the staff. Finally the cafe started to break even, if not make money. Still it was endless runs to Costco for supplies, New Leaf for rice dream ice cream, Ledgers for a new appliance, usually a five thousand dollar espresso machine. I became friends with the drivers at Watsonville Coast Produce, the cooks at Aunt Nettie's Bakery, but never really got along with the health inspector, who would write us up if the fridge was off by half a degree, or the soap container in the bathroom was only three-quarters full.

My boyfriend (who used to be my girlfriend, that’s another story) did most of the cooking for the six years we were together, which I deeply appreciated. 
After we broke up, I lived a life between going out to eat and having Trader Joe's frozen lasagna. 

I'd pick my daughter up from Soquel High and we'd get lunch - Gayle's, The Bagelry, Carpo's - usually with enough leftovers for dinner. If I was alone, I'd graze - handfuls of sunflower seeds, raisins, almonds, dried apricots or simply cheese and crackers. It was years before I cooked anything more than the ubiquitous macaroni and cheese, chicken tenders, and the occasional steamed broccoli.

March 30, 2022

Ode to Lists

Ode to Lists

In my computer, I have this particular file,
It’s my List of Lists that I do compile - 

Daily, weekly, monthly, quarterly, and annual,

This is my “How to Channel Anxiety” manual.

On top of endless errands, laundry, dishes, repetitive chores, 

Reminders to take out the trash, change the litter, mop bathroom floors,

Emergencies, wildfires, vacation - what to pack?

Supplies that I think I need, actually, those which I lack.

I’ve written my short, mid, and long term goals too,

There’s always an agenda telling me what I’m supposed to do,

Sounds controlling, but I find it kinda fun,

Because if it’s on a list, it's somehow halfway done.

Pay the property, sales and self-employment taxes, 

Since goodness knows, no one at the IRS ever relaxes,

Make a spreadsheet for handling student loans,

Health Insurance, Retirement, and other financial moans.

Put some stuff on Etsy, Ebay, NextDoor and Craiglist,

Now check the pantry for what my recipe missed,

Ingredients for quiche, powdered sugar for cake,

If I don't jot it down now, it will be a mistake.

Questions for the doctor, the dentist, the new mobile vet,

Symptoms that may need x-rays, vaccinations, better yet,

Is it time for a mammogram, endoscopy or pap smear?

Believe you me, I'd rather reschedule for next year.

The precisely quartered scraps of recycled paper by the phone, 

Strengthen my inner resolve, support my backbone,

Although sometimes when I’m feeling lazy and soft, 

  • I note down something I've done - just so I can cross it off.

There’s always updates: master, clients, wedding, mailing,

Plans for the kids, the time share, skiing or sailing,

Then there’s books, projects, all the crafty diys

Bookmarked, tagged, for when “I have the time”

While all this gives me some sort of ease

Sometimes I write, “Remember to breathe.”

Imagine what I compose when it comes to Christmas…

But really there’s nothing worse than being listless! 

September 21, 2022

My Kitchen

My kitchen is always clean. Clean and tidy. Every morning I put away last night’s dishes, fill or empty the dishwasher, the ice cube trays, the little trap inside the sink. I scrupulously wipe down the counters for fear of ants, which arrive with the rains anyway. I turn the toaster oven from the Toast setting to Off because it makes a humming noise which my husband either can't or chooses not to hear. I eradicate down the sticky mess from last night's Masala curry, hunt down the escaped couscous which has hidden behind the coffee jar, sweep the floor of renegade garlic peels and coffee grinds, dust down the trash can and the pet food dispensers, start thinking about tonight's dinner, look through the fridge, the freezer, choose something to thaw. Could be quiche.

We rarely sit at the kitchen table - a big glass affair made out of iron ivy which I painted a glittery purple with bronzed Raku leaves. There's a green spider plant suspended from where the legs meet, a bitch to water. When I was in high school, family conversations were strained, and became more stressful as my teenage years progressed, so by the time I was a senior I would do anything to get out of dinner. It's no wonder that now we never sit at the dining table to eat.

Sometimes we'll do a puzzle on the table, or I'll pop one of Chip’s photography lamps underneath and turn it into a lightbox for an art project. It belonged to his mother, and he used to eat breakfast at this table when he was a child. Now it's the space for painting watercolors, paying bills, or simply being a clear surface, a place for the ephemera of life to land, emptying grocery bags or opening packages from Amazon.

I remember this table in Helen's house after she passed, then it sat in our backyard for years, the pale green paint slowly flaking off and rusting. I worried the cats would eat the paint flex and be poisoned, so sometime during COVID I sanded and painted, brought it into my office, and used it as my desk for the  ubiquitous zoom meetings.

At some point, when I decided to start offering Reiki again and needed space for my massage table. I sold the blonde wood kitchen table that I had bought at Sweets-In-The-Nude when I first moved here in 1994, but kept the chairs. Usually we have only two at the table - one of the others is upstairs in the bedroom for me to fling my work clothes on, the last one sits in the back room, a makeshift shelf for the box of stuff that Chip is supposed to scan, file, and shred. That's another story.

June 15, 2022

The Red Still Life

I posted a recipe for Four of Quiche recently, with a photograph of, as one one would expect, four beautifully baked quiches. There’s also four knobs on the stove, beautifully aligned. The quiches are subtle shades of ocher curry, yellow turmeric, burnt paprika and dusted cumin, atop a bland cook top with a speckled black counter top. On one side you can see part of an enamel green kettle, which I know longer have, but was part of a set with a turquoise kettle, Two of Kettles, that’s another story. There is also a rather sad looking pot holder, not sure just yet if it needs washing or replacing.

Dominating the scene is a still life. A red still life The infamous Red Still Life in Mr. Bartman's senior year art class at Walt Whitman High School, Bethesda, Maryland, 1985. We started the first semester with a white still life. I remember a candlestick, a set of goggles not much else. We played with shadows and light, complements and contrasts, created psychedelic paintings fit for a tea part with Alice from Wonderland. The year went on, and right after Christmas break we discovered just how devious Mr. B was in his set up.

There were bright red, rooster red, cast iron camping red. Shiny objects, cherry. A proud water jug, crowing coffee pot, vermilion soup bowl, crimson funnel, versatile lid - all with a gleaming white enamel interior and a severe black rim. Two mottled apples and a purple onion. Along with highly polished steel, both the pestle and mortar and the meat grinder, which reflected in more ways than one our thoughts as high-schoolers in the eighties. We had two months to complete this painting before the annual student art fair, let alone graduation. Day after day, tube after tube of Liqitex’s Naphthol Crimson acrylic paint splooged onto a random magazine page that will be ripped off for tomorrow's palette, we learn how to make a layer upon layer upon layer. How to contrast the saturated red with a soft, complementary background made of soothing dark greens, and what happened to apples as they turned to mush over two months, as well as the fact that the onion sprouted and then grew every day.

I found this painting in my parents house when they decided to move from Seaside to Santa Barbara, about five years ago. It was with a bunch of other paintings from my high school. Purple Tony, a sad looking merry-go-round, the back of a VW bug. I gave away all the paintings to Project Purr figuring someone would just paint over the canvases and use it for their own art. This one I kept because it was a good reminder of how many layers it takes sometimes to complete a particular vision.

October 16, 2013

Silent Retreat, Big Sur

My summer retreat started early, on Thursday, after dropping Amber off at her other parent's, knowing she was also getting ready for her big adventure in Europe. I spent the afternoon in relative silence, exchanging a few words with a neighbor, chatting with the cats, mostly fettering around, packing for the weekend. I had been quite surprised by the last minute email from Chip deciding not to go on the retreat, but was glad that he was taking care of himself, taking care of business, and most importantly, willing to look in on the cats over the weekend.

Friday I cleaned the house, mowed the lawn, did laundry and dishes, put clean sheets on the bed, not just for Chip to enjoy but for me to come home to order and grace after the retreat. I gave up on writing my final paper, realizing quite simply I had more research to do than could accomplish in a few hours,and went on a walk instead, depositing checks at the ATM and stopping for a few goodies from New Leaf before heading down the coast.

Despite leaving early, traffic was ridiculous at 2pm, construction creating bottle necks and head aches as I contemplated alternate routes. I decided the truth was I had nothing else to do, plenty of time, and that this was a part of the retreat, sinking into my thoughts rather than getting distractedly the radio, the hum of the air conditioner my only tune. I found myself in a deep fantasy of our wedding day, now that our plans had changed quite drastically from a large celebration with friends and family to what I had originally envisioned, a completely private ceremony between the two of us. My fancies ranged from trekking out to Point Lobos to skydiving in Hollister, ballroom dancing in the city to quiet beaches in Kauai.

After twenty minutes of stop and go, traffic let up after Park Ave, creating smooth sailing for the rest of the two hour trip down the coast. I waved at my parents house in seaside, noticed the driveway to highlands inn, thought about stopping at the Lucia lodge, and suddenly there was the turn into the New Camaldoli Hermitage. The two mile driveway switch-backed over the golden hills bursting with life - Scottish broom, purple sweet peas, pampas grass cheering me on as red tailed hawks swooped overhead.

I went into the bookstore to register, and to my surprise the assistant on duty not only lives in Santa Cruz, but we live on the same street. Small world, interesting way to meet a neighbor. I drove my car down to the hermitage, found my room and unpacked. I sat outside in my little enclosed garden, enjoying the late afternoon sun. A blue jay flew down from the fig tree, looked at me, ruffled it's feathers and pretended to be hurt. I know this bird ruse to lure predators away, and sure enough as I peered up into the leafy green foliage I could see a nest.

Little peeping noises commenced, and as I sat half a dozen teeny fuzz balls began to appear on the tiny trail by my garden. After a few minutes a mama quail appeared, saw me, and quickly ushered her young into the bushes. Hummingbirds came to sip from the orange monkey flowers as I looked across the ocean.

After a light supper, I walked over to Scholastica were the writing workshops were held. A dozen women sat in a circle, each with several journals piled at their feet, candles on the table flickering over an altar of stones, statues, seashells and pinec ones. I realized that I only had a couple pages left in my journal, so the rest of the weekend would write in old journals on random blank pages, something I found rather pleasing in disrupting any linear conceptions of time.

Saturday I woke up early and started reading a book my daughter had recommended. At 9am we had another workshop, reviewing our journals for themes. After lunch I spent the entire afternoon in my little garden, devouring the four hundred page book. After finishing it, I decided to walk down the two mile driveway for some exercise. Going down was easy enough, but hiking back was way more of a struggle, and I had to stop it seemed every ten yards or so, resting in the shade of tree, photographing the purple sweet peas, California poppies and live oaks. We had another evening workshop, after which I was quite content to simply go to bed.

Sunday I ate quiche for breakfast, then went to the morning session. The rest of the day was evenly divided between reviewing old journals, collating in scraps of paper that had accumulated over the years, and creating a healing mandala for my new blended family. I had a lot of satisfaction in  ripping out some pages and  destroying them, no need to cling to the pain of the past. After dinner I started packing, already thinking about the cats, emails, the rest of my week, reminding my self to stay present and enjoy the last of my stay.

Monday morning I woke up early again, took a shower and finished packing up the car. I took a shorter walk to stretch out my calves, still aching from the hike up the hill on Saturday. The fog filled in the valley and there was this feeling of looking down into the clouds, pale pinks and golds dancing in the snowy whiteness, the crisp blue sky above. Wafts of mists would come and envelop me, not the least bit cold, I felt like I could take bites our of the fog, feed myself on the droplets of moisture. Circling back around to the hermitage I found a picnic table to sit and contemplate, writing down my notes for the weekend, eager to share them with Chip after getting back home to Santa Cruz.