Sometimes, this food blogging thing can get a little obsessive. When you’re a bit Type A, like I am, you start food blogging, taking kind of crappy pictures with whatever ambient light you have (even after dark) of the food you make which happened to also taste good. Then, as the years go by, you find yourself with a little studio in your basement, a window of about two hours when the light streaming into your little photography space is just right, and you refuse to post a recipe that isn’t original and hasn’t been subject to round after round of testing.
We’re just getting back from ten days of vacation, so forgive me for wrapping up some vegetables in tin foil and calling it blog-worthy. I’m just not in the headspace for browning butter or grating cheese…or boiling water. It will be a tough week this week, I think, as we plunge back into routines and say goodbye to my hubby as he sails away on an eight month deployment. But we’ll get through it, and I’ll consider anything more elaborate (and green) than scrambled eggs or take-out pizza a victory right now.
It might be getting a little too late for rhubarb, but I’m hoping, if you’re anything like me, that you’ve purchased or plucked extra rosy-green stalks and chopped and frozen or boiled down and canned a few to enjoy in the all-too-many months that rhubarb isn’t in season.
So, with that in mind, here’s one last rhubarb recipe from me this year. It’s one of the things my mom is most famous for, along with chocolate zucchini cake and world-class soil science research. No biggie, right?
As adults, I find that we rarely, truly confront discomfort. We can go years without putting ourselves in that very vulnerable place of learning something new, being in a situation that scares us, or exploring the unknown with no way to predict what might happen. In my work, I see women fighting with the inevitability of the unknown in birth: for many, not knowing what will happen during the course of their labour and birth and not knowing whether they will achieve the outcomes they had hoped for is enough to send them into the throes of in-depth contingency planning or panic, or both.
My job is to match pregnant mamas with doulas that they will love, who will carry the honour of being with the woman and her family during birth with care and attention and love. Every so often, I get to match myself with a family, reminding me of why I cherish this work and how much I have to learn from the power of birthing women.
This spring I had the good fortune of working with a chef and her lovely family. We communicated through words and food, with me bringing her a fortifying traditional Ethiopian postpartum dish just after she birthed, and she making me and my family an exquisite Thai meal a few weeks later.