‘Magical’ Green Smoothie

June 7, 2018 by toripintar Leave a Comment

I moved into my apartment in Bozeman on a Sunday in late September. We’d spent all day boxing things up in Big Sky and arranging the pieces of my Montana life thus far haphazardly into a U-haul. In the dark we unload those pieces into my new Bozeman life. Exhausted I stood in my new very dark kitchen and surveyed my ‘home.’ Tears threatened. What had I done?

In an attempt to comfort my growing anxiety the first thing I unpacked was my Vitamix and my peanut butter. I found all the ingredients necessary to make my favorite smoothie at that time and arranged them neatly on the counter so that their familiarity would greet me the next morning when I awoke to my uncertainties. At least, I wouldn’t start my day with a pseudo crisis of faith over what to eat for breakfast. As I gathered my cinnamon and soaked almonds for nut milk, my fears lessened. Maybe it was going to be ok. If I could make this smoothie in this new place, maybe this new place dungeon and all wasn’t so bad. Maybe I had not made a mistake in believing Bozeman was my next step.

As an over thinker it’s amazing the number of times I have quickly made a decision without considering how that decision actually manifests in reality. I decided to go to a jumpstart program the summer before my Freshman year of college with out connecting the dots that I’d be leaving my friends 6 weeks early. I studied abroad in Australia with out realizing what it really meant to leave my boyfriend behind for three months and go somewhere that I knew not a soul. That was one of most frightening drives to an airport I’ve ever made. I kept hoping my mom would give me an out, tell me I didn’t have to go. Time and again I make decisions that feel obvious and easy in the moment and then suddenly I’m thick in the change and suddenly the weight of the I realize I’d never fully considered the repercussions of my choice. I’m in part thankful for this. I would have missed out on so much richness and forward momentum were it not for this form of cognitive dissonance.

While I still return to that peanut butter green smoothie now and again, I’ve evolved in my smoothie making. This was the smoothie of last summer and the smoothie that marks the beginning of my truly falling in love with not only my Bozeman life, but also my Bozeman ‘dungeon.’ I was newly single, living alone, running a lot and running on serious mountain trails for the first time. I was grieving the loss of said relationship, but I was also growing back into myself and taking ownership of my life in new ways. I vowed to live simultaneously with my grief and joy. I planted seeds in my garden and watered them barefoot in the early mornings, wide-eyed every time I found a new green shoot. I ate toast and smoothies or matcha wrapped in a blanket and the first rays of sun on the porch each morning. Soon I filled that porch with friends. The first time I made this smoothie the word that came to mind was magic. Maybe my tastebuds were amplified by my personal rejuvenation or maybe it really is a bit magical. I don’t use that word lightly. I’m not really one of those people who promises you life changing anything, but this time in my life was life changing and I still make this and think, damn this is good.

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Magical Strawberry, Lemon & Green Smoothie

Author: Tori Pintar

Recipe type: Smoothie, Breakfast

: Vegetarian, Plant Based

Serves: 1

Note: Depending on your strawberry and spinach ratio the color of your smoothie may be less than Instagram worthy, but we don't really care about that do we? There are a couple really important ingredients to the flavor of this being on: lemon zest, bee pollen and mint. The bee pollen really adds this floral note that complements the strawberries and lemon. It is pretty easy to find at your local health food store and farmer's markets. The lucuma powder is totally optional so don't buy it just for this smoothie.

Ingredients

¾ cup nondairy milk of choice (I use cashew or coconut)
big handful of spinach (go as big as you want)
1 heaping cup frozen strawberries
½ small frozen banana
10 big mint leaves
heaping teaspoon coconut butter or teaspoon of coconut oil*
1 scoop vanilla protein powder
two teaspoons bee pollen (see above)
zest of one medium to large lemon
1 teaspoon lucuma powder (optional)

Method

Add all ingredients to your high speed blender. Blend on high until completely smooth.
Pour into your favorite glass and enjoy.

Notes

*Garden of Life Vanilla Protein and Greens is my favorite

Expectation and Intervention in Budapest

June 5, 2018 by toripintar Leave a Comment

(Note: This is my recollection of our intervention. I encourage you to read the beautiful words from Prem’s perspective and explore his other writings on his blog here).

“I think you forget that I’m a real person.”
…
“I mean, I am very good at saying all these honest vulnerable things about myself like they are facts, but behind the facts…I, I, feel all these things, too.”

I inhaled relief. And courage. After a week of deep empty talk I finally said something truly vulnerable.

“I don’t really understand it, but I feel like I have been trying to make you like me these last few days. I mean, I think you already like me, I know you do, you asked me to join you in Budapest…
Pause as my courage considers a retreat: should I really be saying this?
“But, I have just felt worse and worse each day. It’s like when I tell you these painful things we talk about it like an experiment, except the experiment is me. It is my life.”

I’m not entirely sure why I came to Budapest. I had met Prem in a sort of meet-cute moment in Mexico City at the famed Pujol. We both had early lunch reservations and were sat minutes a part in the relatively empty restaurant. My table was bathed in sunlight, the room itself felt more outside than inside, it was one of the most beautiful places I had ever eaten. Prem was seated at the taco bar opposite me. I noticed him right away, not because he was tall and attractive–though that was true too–but because he seemed to know the waitress at Pujol and was speaking Spanish with relative fluency. He was Indian and his language skills impressed me. As did his apparent ‘regular’ status. Our first interaction was over a picture. He asked me if he could photograph the space I was seated in revealing that he too owned a nice mirrorless camera. I decided I would ask him to join me. I also decided I would order a cocktail first.

The first interaction

My cocktail arrived. It was magic and smoke. Mezcal and other delicious things I’ve long forgotten made it playfully pink in color and more importantly quite possibly the best mixed drink I’d ever had. I noticed the stranger was drinking one too. My first course arrived, followed by another and a young Mexican wine to follow up my playfully pink drink. Every so often I thought about asking the stranger if he’d like to share the rest of his lunch with me.

I think it was after the mole madre course, probably the most famed dish to come out of Enrique Olvera’s kitchen, that I ran into the stranger outside the washroom. My moment had come, mid small talk, I said something to the extent of maybe this sounds strange but would you like to join me for the rest of your lunch? Prem’s memory tells the opposite story. He asked me. But I assure you my memory is the more astute member here. He said an easy yes and my magical lunch became more magical if not because of the food (I was honestly a little disappointed) then because of the newfound company and another glass of another very young Mexican wine.

Mole Madre – Over a thousand days old

One can’t be sure why I expected that our conversations would flow easily but I had and they did. Before I knew it I’d eaten not one but two desserts and was sipping on an espresso. Around us the daily life of the restaurant carried on as we dove deeper into sharing our own stories with one another. I began to wake up to the world around us and recognized the methodical movements of a service team preparing for the next shift–the dinner shift. I’d been there for over four hours, which is not entirely unusual at a nice restaurant but I’d been oblivious to the passing of so many minutes. I’m positive my interest in Prem was purely circumstantial and bound up in the delight of being able to talk for three hours about many things I hardly talk to anyone about, but nonetheless I was unprepared for the conversation to reach it’s fated conclusion. I also did not want it to be misconstrued as romantic. Had I mentioned my boyfriend yet? Surely, I must have but maybe not because there is still sometimes a part of me that feels a male and female can be curious about one another only if there is an opportunity for something beyond the physical and emotional limitations of friendship.

The details thereafter are a bit hazy, drinking a bottle of wine will have that effect even if it took four hours to do so. While I knew our time in Pujol was drawing to a close, I was not ready to give up the winding conversations we were having about our seemingly similar dissimilar lives. We walked back to our adjoining neighborhoods and it seemed this stranger was also not ready to give up our conversations. He asked if I wanted to get a drink. I said yes. I most definitely did not need a drink.

After our drink we walked a little more. I never wanted to eat again. Prem mentioned he might get tacos from Álvaro Obregón. As we meandered down the median walkway the fading light he suggested we travel together in the future. It was an obvious suggestion given our shared disposition towards taking in the foreign by spending your days like you indeed live there. It was both a completely normal and completely odd suggestion. But I said yes quickly. And just as quickly wondered how. I was in a relationship with someone I knew I would no longer marry but at one point believed I really would. He was just ending or in the process of ending a relationship of similar import, but I was uncertain which. It was a beautiful idea and maybe the idea in and of itself was enough.

We never saw each other again in Mexico. 6 months later I met him with wet hair that I tried to hide under the hood of my yellow pea coat on a cloudy morning beside the airport bus in the Jewish quarter of Budapest. We’d kept in touch sparingly via email or Facebook. He’d write asking if I happened to be traveling to Colorado in June? Or did I find myself in Mexico City again? Perhaps he could come to Montana in June. Another, simply asked: Are you ok? I imagine he’d read a recent Instagram post and read between the lines that my life was decidedly unsettled. I had broken up with my boyfriend and I was trying to renegotiate the world I lived in yet again. In September he told me his brother was getting married in Goa. I asked him if I could come to the wedding with him–I love Indian weddings. After sending the message, I realized one might think I was asking to be his date. I was being presumptuous. Maybe he already had a date. Was date the right word? In the end he told me presumption aside he would like me to be his date.

I did not go to India. But then Prem asked me to join him again. This time Budapest in November. I thought seriously about going. I said yes. Yes, because I was heartbroken about how running was turning out. Yes, because I wanted to do something spontaneous. And yes, because I was curious about this person who wrote to me every so often.

I arrived to Budapest before Prem. I settled into our rented flat–one we’d joke about being able to sleep a family of 15. I searched out good coffee and sourdough for us. We wrote a lot on messenger as his impending arrival grew closer. We talked about marriage–did either of us want it? (Not together). Children–did we want those too? (Also, not together). I was so excited to have these conversations face to face and continue to unpack the way I understood how the world works with someone also who seemed to think about it as intently as I. Unbeknownst to me, expectations were beginning to build. Of what I am not entirely sure. Maybe something romantic. Definitely of easy, real conversation, something I often feel lacking from my day to day life. It would be just like our day in Mexico City, but there would be multiples of it this time. And, I was excited to finally travel with someone. We’d find our daily coffee shop, I would order a mocha and Prem would get a flat white. We’d eat at a possibly too expensive meal together but the wine would be worth it. I’d be humbled alongside someone else who was a stranger to this city fumbling now and again to find the appropriate customs. Only donning the clear glasses of hindsight, I can also see I was at the tip of an emotional iceberg seeking someone to be my confessor.

Finally, Prem’s arrival date came. I went running early. I ran past the Danube in the early sunlight. Tendrils of sun were seeking passage down the streets of Pest. Back at the Airbnb I found everything to do but stretch and shower–the only things I needed to do. Still in my towel, I saw a message from Prem. He was just one bus stop away. As much as I did not at all think this was a romantic thing, I still felt the pressures of expected modern day male/female decorum. I wanted to look presentable if not pretty but I also did not want to make someone who has traveled through the night and is presumably quite tired wait outside in the cool November morning while I dried my hair and put on makeup. So as a 33 year old wizened to the unimportance of such trivialities long term I decided to throw on clothes and ignore my very wet hair.

I knew the minute I saw Prem there would be nothing romantic. I should have dried my hair–joking. I think I was a little more disappointed in that than I would care to admit especially because I’m not sure I even wanted or could handle that, but ego can be hard to tame. Even with romance cast aside I still expected to find the friend I had been writing to with growing delight. However, even that seemed to have been misplaced. At first, I kind of ignored it assuming it would dissipate like jet lag. It lingered. Our conversations grew deeper and I felt more alone. Sometimes, I would come back from my run and he would have gone for coffee already and I would be grateful to live out my morning alone. But then I’d find myself missing the company I had sought in Budapest and I’d hope all over again we could surpass this growing impasse and I’d message him to find out what coffee shop he was at. I was confused as to why this was going so wrong.

As the days stretched on towards my impending departure I fell in love with the city of Budapest, but I do so almost entirely alone. I do silly things like ride the Budapest Eye because it looks intriguing or drink terrible beer in a terrible bar because it kind of frightens me to be outside my own standard of comfort. Everyday we try again and fail to find connection behind our introspective proddings.

The famed under-salted cauliflower

Something delicious at our favorite restaurant Mák.

On my second to last night we found ourselves sitting in the same restaurant at the same table where we’d shared our first meal together in Budapest. We order the hummus again. For some reason, even though experience at this point had consistently taught me how it would go, I found myself opening up to Prem about something I had only shared with one other person at this point. If you have never made a habit of talking with strangers in your travels, you’ll find it is often much easier to tell them the things you so desperately want to tell your best friends, spouse, parents etc. At this point, though, Prem was less of a stranger and more of real person. We could tell people, “Tori and I went to Budapest together.” We had shared: photos, meals that were good and meals that were so-so, inside jokes about poorly salted cauliflower, and mild disagreements about how to store sourdough bread. As I told him this painful thing, a thing that is still painful as I write to you all these months later, I spoke my secret plainly as if it didn’t actually cut to the heart of some of my greatest pain. And he began to dissect my problem as if it was a project at a job. I can’t tell you how the rest of the meal went or what we talked about but something had shifted for me. I had had enough of this dance. I had had enough of the increasing emptiness I felt.

Taking the short walk home, I found myself saying, ‘I think you forget I am a real person.’ Finally, I had really gotten to the heart of the matter. Maybe this was one last olive branch before my impending departure. Maybe I was just a hurt girl. Or both. I realized that I had also been trying to impress this person and make them like me, even though I thought they already did. In Mexico City, I didn’t really care. Of course, he’d like me, because why wouldn’t he? And I didn’t even know he liked my striped dress. In Budapest, I sought a joint admiration that I had assumed was preexisting.

‘Tori, I think I am living a lukewarm life.’

Almost back to our apartment, we walked the multiple flights of stone steps with heaviness and ease. When we opened the doors, the stalemate of our friendship seemed to have passed. We sat on the floor of the entryway–the space that existed between our two rooms–and told the truth for the first time in days. I felt relief. I had not completely misjudged our connection and stupidly come to Budapest for a friendship that didn’t exist. For once the words we shared lacked formality and the heaviness of extensive analysis. We were both two messy people who had arrived with our own excess baggage and sitting on the old wood floor we finally saw into the struggles of the other. We embraced and went our separate ways into our giant bedrooms.

On my last day, as we walked to my favorite coffee shop where I would order the second cortado of my life, which just so happens to be my favorite ratio of milk to espresso an introduction I owe to Prem, we were once again talking deeply about some facet of being human and the crisis of human connection. Our own unique abilities to overanalyze were not disrupted by our intervention. I made a remark about how we would make terrible partners and should never date because of this affliction we both suffered from. He agreed.

Why I Cook and Crispy Broccoli with ‘Cheesy’ Jalapeño Sauce

May 22, 2018 by toripintar Leave a Comment

The first time I made pickles was the morning after a boyfriend had broken up with me over the phone. I already had the pickling cucumbers in the fridge, a project planned for a later date, but I decided at 7:30am with a heavy heart that the pickling schedule was moving up. If I could pickle, then my grief schedule might be delayed another hour. Never having pickled much of anything save quick pickled onions, I started with internet research. I wanted to make the pickles of my childhood I snuck by the fork full straight from the jar of my grandmother’s fridge. As Google does, my search was rewarded with thousands of recipes. I compared several, an amateaur guessing at the result with the most promise and as often happens in my cooking decided on making a mix of two recipes as none had quite everything I was hoping for in a pickle. I felt excited. In short time, I’d have pickles ready to be eaten by the fork full straight from the jar. For a moment, my despair was occupied with spices and brine.

Over the weekend someone asked me how I got into cooking, a question for me that is more about the why than the how. It wasn’t something I always did and I don’t have a particularly interesting story as to how I grew so obsessed, but I do have a lot of whys. Yesterday, I thought about one reason that seems to be consistent over the course of my adult life. Yesterday, was an awful day. The cumulative days were building to it. I have been going through a lot with my health and after months and months of coping, being positive, keeping perspective, picking myself back up, trying again, surrendering, starting over, I believe you get the point, I reached a breaking point. At some point, I will tell more of this story because I believe it is an important one and is becoming a defining piece of this chapter of my life, but while I still stand in what feels like quicksand I am both an ineffective storyteller on the subject and unable to tell my story from a healthy place. Feeling so lost physically and emotionally in my own body, the only one I have for the next however many decades I get to be in this world (which I do really hope is quite a few), I went to see my doctor and I sat in her office and cried. And then I came home and made bread. And cooked chickpeas. And turned the cooked chickpeas into chana masala. There were a dozen other things lining my fridge shelves ready to be eaten and despite my emptiness, my grief, my sense of loss, my desire to sleep for a while, I still found my hands dirtied in a bowl of flour.

I was called into my kitchen yesterday, for many reasons but perhaps the biggest lies in the basic treatise to cooking: there is a beginning, middle and end. There are questions along the way, detours, last minute additions and changes, but you start with one thing and you eventually end with another. Life is not this way. Or not in a way we can see when we are in the thick of it. That fiend hindsight might suggest it is this way, however the unfortunate pitfall to hindsight is that it is by definition useless to the your seemingly dire current circumstances. One of my closest friends talk a lot about the ways in which we soothe ourselves. I cook to soothe. I cook because it makes sense to me when little else does. And if it doesn’t, I make the recipe again and again until it does. Cooking also comes with rewards: something potentially delicious to eat and magic. You start with one thing and end up with something else entirely. Would you like ice cream, custard, creme brulee? All you need is cream, sugar and eggs. An onion in the hands of a chef can be transformed into so many different things with only the addition of heat and fat. In my hands flour, salt, water and wild yeast become a sourdough bread that might make you consider if bread is the right word for all that other stuff you’ve been eating.

Originally, I had intended to write to you about how I am a champion for vegetables. It’s the reason this recipe exists. That story too is saved for another day, but not this recipe because I want you to have it in case you need an appetizer for Memorial Day Weekend. This is delicious. Easy. It happens to be vegan, though I suggest you don’t tell anyone that, I don’t and everyone thinks it’s cheese. I have made this numerous times for the diehard meat and potatoes lovers and they love it. The trick is in the crispy broccoli because everyone loves cheese sauce already.

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Crispy Broccoli with 'Cheesy' Jalapeño Sauce

Author: Tori Pintar

Recipe type: Appetizer, Vegetarian, Vegan, Gluten-free

Prep Time: 10 mins

Cook time: 30 mins

Total time: 40 mins

Serves: 4

This is one of my favorite things to make because it surprises people. It's basically a lot of roasted broccoli with a good sauce that happens to be vegan but tastes anything but. It's unassuming and I love that it wows. The key is in getting your broccoli crispy and finishing with the lime.

Ingredients

2 crowns of broccoli with stems if possible
Olive oil
Sea salt and fresh cracked pepper
½ cup of cashews, soaked overnight or in boiling water for 30 minutes
1 heaping tablespoon of nutritional yeast
1-2 cloves of garlic
2 pickles jalapeños
¼ teaspoon kosher salt
Juice of half a lemon
Juice of one lime

Method

Preheat your oven 425˙F. Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil and set aside.
Chop your broccoli heads into fairly uniform pieces, creating a flat side whenever possible as opposed breaking off individual florets. Chop your stems into chunks similar in size to the florets. Place on your prepared baking sheet and drizzle with a healthy glug of oil, season with salt and pepper and toss with your hands to coat. Don't skimp on the oil here, it's important to developing crisp broccoli. Spread broccoli heads and stems into an even layer on your baking sheet. If it is crowded prep a second baking sheet. Crowding leads to steaming and we want crisp broccoli.
Bake for 25-30 minutes or until the broccoli has begun to char. Do not stir. You want to encourage browning on one side.
Meanwhile make your spicy cashew 'cheese' sauce. Place all remaining ingredients, except for the lime juice into a high speed blender with a scant quarter cup of boiling water. Blend on high, adding more water by the tablespoon full until desired consistency is reached. I strive for a fairly thick sauce that isn't quite pourable. Taste and adjust salt, lemon and nutritional yeast to preference.
Once your broccoli is done serve alongside 'cheese' sauce on a serving platter. Finish with the lime juice. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Notes

You'll likely have some cashew cheese sauce left, which is really not so terrible. It is excellent as a topping for tacos, other vegetables, on nachos, basically anywhere you like spicy cheese sauce.

Rhubarb Cornmeal Upside Down Cake

May 17, 2018 by toripintar Leave a Comment

Two years ago I was in the south of France at the beginning of spring. There was asparagus everywhere. All different sizes and colors. There were french radishes too and perfect baby artichokes in a shade of purple that reminded me of velvet. I’d never paid too much attention to spring produce before. I had grown up with tomato season, the kind where we had such a surplus my job was leaving full grocery bags on the doorsteps of our neighbors. Then there was pumpkin season that also came with apples, which meant apple pie. But spring was lost on me until I stood in the early morning sunshine in Nice looking at row after row of all that spring had to offer.

When I returned to the US in May, I found myself in Washington at a farmers’ market surrounded by even more perfect asparagus, the first garlic scapes of the year and piles of rhubarb. I had been wanting to get my hands on some rhubarb for weeks. The only other time I had bought rhubarb before was to make strawberry rhubarb pie for a boyfriend’s birthday in college. That was my understanding of the purpose of rhubarb, you put it with strawberries and a lot of sugar. However, thanks to the food blogging community around the world I found out about the endless possibilities that lay hidden in those deep red stalks. When I got my bunches home I was so excited and a little overwhelmed. I had saved 30 different rhubarb recipes in the last month, I didn’t know where to start.

This has become a theme in my seasonal cooking. There are certain things that are the crown jewels of such a limited window of time each year. I spend weeks, sometimes months (ahem, tomatoes) waiting for their arrival and when they finally come I’m almost a bit shell shocked that they’ve actually materialized in my kitchen.

This year I got caught up in the throes of a love affair with ramps and neglected my poor friend rhubarb until this week. I kept thinking back to this simple cake I’d made with my Washington rhubarb two years ago. I had every intention of making it again, but when I found myself chopping rhubarb in the first wisps of morning this week, my mind wandered to cornmeal and then down the rabbit hole of recipe development I went.

This cake is everything I was hoping for when my mind started it’s wander. It is a bit toothy. It’s dense. It has moisture for days and it’s a bit sweeter than I might normally allot myself in weekday bakes. But it’s rhubarb season which means winter has really and truly come to an end and upside down cake feels like the right way to celebrate that feat.

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Rhubarb Cornmeal Upside Down Cake

Author: Tori Pintar

Recipe type: Dessert, Vegan, Gluten-free, Refined Sugar-Free

Prep Time: 30 mins

Cook time: 60 mins

Total time: 1 hour 30 mins

Serves: 8-10

A few Springs ago I made a simple rhubarb cake I found on one of my favorite food blogs. It was inspired by the author's grandmother and I could taste that in each bite. I was going to make it again when I found the first rhubarb of the season in Montana but then I started thinking about a cornmeal cake. Something a bit toothy. My mind wandered further and I decided I wanted it to be plant based and gluten free. I added just enough lemon and almond to make the rhubarb shine. This ended up an upside down cake because after making it once and my rhubarb sinking to the bottom I realized this could be my redemption after a failed upside down cake attempt this winter. I love how this turned out and I love that while it uses a few bowls, it doesn't require a mixer.

Ingredients

Topping
1 pound rhubarb
1 cup coconut sugar, separated*
2 tablespoons cornstarch
One medium to large lemon, zested and juice from half, separated
Wet Ingredients
A little less than one cup plant based milk
1 tablespoon ground flax
¼ cup canola or olive oil
¼ cup applesauce
½ teaspoon almond extract
Dry Ingredients
1 cup oat flour, plus one tablespoon, separated**
¾ cup cornmeal
¼ cup almond flour
¾ teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
For Serving
unsweetened thick greek yogurt or coconut yogurt, if vegan (optional)

Method

Remove tough ends of rhubarb stalks. Slice rhubarb into long thin ribbons with a chef’s knife or vegetable knife. Cut ribbons into about 3-4 inch pieces in length. Toss in a medium bowl with ½ cup of coconut sugar, cornstarch and lemon zest. Set aside for about 20-30 minutes, mixing every so often.
Squeeze juice from half a lemon into a measuring cup. This will be about 1-2 tablespoons worth depending on your lemon. Fill measuring cup to one cup mark with plant based milk. Stir and set aside to curdle for 10 minutes. You just made vegan ‘buttermilk.’
In a small dish, mix 1 tablespoon ground flax with 2 ½ tablespoons of water. Stir and set aside for 10 minutes. You just made a flax ‘egg.’
Grease and line a 9” springform pan with parchment paper. Line a baking sheet with foil and place prepared springform pan on top.
Preheat oven to 350˙F.
In a medium bowl whisk together 1 cup oat flour with cornmeal, almond flour, salt, baking powder and baking soda.
In a medium bowl, combine curdled milk, flax egg, remaining half cup of coconut sugar, oil, applesauce and almond extract until uniform. Fold in dry ingredients with a spatula, stirring to combine, but not over-mix. Let rest for 5 minutes.
Meanwhile, line the bottom of your springform pan with the softened rhubarb. You can make an elaborate pattern or I chose to make a roughly even overlapping layer with all pieces facing the same direction. It’s ok if you have enough rhubarb to start a second layer, I did. There will be quite a bit of juice left in your bowl. Mix your remaining tablespoon of oat flour into it with a fork, ensuring it mostly dissolves. Pour into the pan over your rhubarb. Using a spatula scrape your batter over the top of the rhubarb. The batter should be fairly pourable but still thick. Carefully smooth it out as needed trying not to disrupt your rhubarb layer.
Bake in the middle rack of your over for about 50-60 minutes, until the edges begin to pull away from the sides and cracks form on the top. You can alternately do the toothpick test however, the denseness of this cake means it will likely never be completely clean, so use that as more of a gauge.
Remove springform pan from oven and allow to cool on a wire rack for 10 minutes. Run a knife around the edges and then remove the outside ring. Allow to cool completely then place your serving dish upside down on your cake, ensuring the cake is centered. Invert your cake and serving dish in one motion. Now your rhubarb layer should be upright. Remove your parchment paper.
Serve at room temperature alone or with a thick lashing of yogurt if you fancy, but it was delicious alone. Store at room temperature covered. This cake is so moist (everyone's favorite word) it can be made a day ahead and stored covered at room temperature.

Notes

*If you don't have coconut sugar, substitute light or dark brown sugar.
**If you don't have oat flour, I'm sure you could substitute an all purpose gluten free flour or all-purpose flour.

My Life in Brooklyn & a Salty Tahini & Romaine Salad

May 11, 2018 by toripintar Leave a Comment

June Wine Bar, Brooklyn

Sometimes it’s fun to try on a different life. It’s probably part of the reason I love travel so much. Last week I pretended I lived in Brooklyn. Staying solo in a friend’s apartment helped. I had context for the space, I knew a few stories about the meals that had been eaten at their table and the life of the person who calls it home. Armed with a list of recommendations from the true resident, I wandered around Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens reimagining myself and my life as a New Yorker.

Even though I was there just a few short days I had my routine. I’d wake up to white walls beginning to turn blue in the early morning light each day. I’d read in bed, something Montana Tori never does. I’d think about running for a while and finally I’d go running. (Ahh, New York Tori and Montana Tori have something in common). Mostly I ran along the Brooklyn Piers eventually crossing the bridge. Sometimes I ran to Prospect Park. I’d return home and make breakfast. Toast. Always toast. I made avocado toast and toast with local labneh and cherry tomatoes–no peanut butter toast for New York Tori. After, I would shower and think a lot about coffee.

It was hot in New York. Like 90˙F hot. Everyone was outside and everyone was smiling in the surprising spring heat. The friend whose life I borrowed for the long weekend, recommended I look for Ethan Hawke at Blue Bottle on Dean Street. I went there almost everyday alternating between the creamy, syrupy New Orleans iced coffee and a mocha. I just can’t quit milky slightly sweet coffees. I’d sit on the bench in the sun and read some more and spy a little into the lives of the New Yorkers around me. A mom and her daughter dressed in a matching color palette. A student disappointed that she dropped out and now works 7 days a week. A man much older, surreptitiously admiring her. A fellow artist drawing in his journal.

Spring in Brooklyn

New Orleans Iced Coffee & Salad

Lunch with a Greek wine

After coffee, I would return to the apartment to work. When it was lunch time I would make a giant salad from all the vegetables I had purchased at the greenmarket. Usually, I had a glass of wine too. I was living on the 4th floor during 90˙F weather but I had the good fortune of making friends with the owner of the wine shop across the street. He suggested, rather urged me to drink a semi-sparkling Greek orange wine in that weather. He was right.

At the conclusion of lunch it was back to work until my mind reached it’s limits for the day. I’d venture out into the buzz of the city evening. One night I had dinner with a friend. Another I tried a vegetarian tasting menu. I cooked too. But more than once I found my way to a neighborhood wine bar for wine. I would sit at the bar imagining my Brooklyn life. Was I writer? A photographer? The doctor I once wanted to be enjoying a glass of wine and a deep breath after a long shift? Was I someone’s partner? A mother? All of these things, perhaps. From my seat at the bar, I watched rosy cheeked patio diners laugh and smile and sip their wine beneath the glow of carnival lights. I envied them a little. And I felt content because sometimes I too am them, just not that night. Another night, a salad on the menu piqued my interest. I knew I should enjoy the beautiful vegetables waiting for me in my fridge but I was intrigued by the combination of romaine with tahini, and I really wanted a second glass of wine. Tahini isn’t even my thing. But as I sweat in my barstool I couldn’t think of anything more delicious sounding. I ordered it. And I fell in love with the salty tahini dressing and the hint of licorice–was that tarragon? I ate it slowly. I drank my wine even slower. I watched the sky turn bright orange between the heights of the buildings through the windows. I read my book about love, true New Yorkers sitting outside under the carnival lights around me. And then I thought about ice cream.

•••

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Salty Tahini & Romaine Salad

Author: Tori Pintar

Recipe type: Salad, Side, Brunch, Vegetarian, Vegan, Gluten-free

Prep Time: 10 mins

Total time: 10 mins

Serves: 1, or 2 as a side

This is my re-creation of the salad I described above from June in Brooklyn. The dressing is a bit salty but it is meant to be. Using good tahini really helps here, I like Soom Foods a lot. The textures here matter. You want the big pieces of lettuce and chunks of cucumber. I think the saltiness of this really complements a warm day. If you want to make it more of a meal, there is an option to add chickpeas. This recipe easily doubles and triples for an easy side to bring to a party or for a brunch.

Ingredients

Dressing
1 heaping tablespoon tahini
juice from ½ a medium to large lemon
¼ teaspoon kosher salt*
1 teaspoon water
Salad
1 head of romaine lettuce, local if you can get it
¼ of a large English cucumber
fresh mint (about 8 large leaves)
fresh tarragon leaves (about 1 large stems worth)
cooked chickpeas (optional)
toasted sesame seeds
thinly sliced radish (optional)

Method

Combine ingredients for dressing in a small dish and use a fork to mix and thoroughly break up the tahini so that you have a uniform dressing.
Taste and add more water or lemon to thin. It should be salty.
Tear romaine leaves and heart into large pieces and chunks and add to a medium bowl. You want them to be on the larger size but not too big to eat.
Cut your cucumber in half and deseed with a spoon that you scrape along the center. Discard the seeds or you can add them to the romaine, which is what I did to reduce waste.
Cut each cucumber half into thirds lengthwise. Then cut into thirds again on a slight angle. Again, you want bigger chunks here for both texture and so that you get bursts of the fresh cucumber flavor as you eat your salad. Add to the bowl with romaine.
Give your mint and tarragon leaves a rough chop and add to the bowl.
Add a handful of chickpeas, if using, to your bowl.
Pour about half the dressing into your bowl and toss to evenly coat. Taste and add more dressing as needed, you will likely have extra left over.
Serve in a large bowl topped with toasted sesame seeds and radish slices if using.

Notes

*If you are sensitive to salt then start with less. It may taste salty on it's own, but once you add it to the romaine the saltiness will be dulled by the high water content of the lettuce. But again you can always add more and everyone's salt preference is a little bit different.

Hats and Skirts and Break-ups

May 10, 2018 by toripintar Leave a Comment

It has been almost a year since D and I broke up. When I started dating again last fall my mom asked me to do one thing for her. She said, “Tori, please don’t change. You have worked too hard to become the person you are.” After a long, dry summer I was watching big drops of rain hit my cracked windshield. She and I often talk in our respective cars parked outside wherever it is we need to go next. Her words surprised me. Firstly, I felt pride. I knew I had worked hard but to have one of the most impactful people in my life see it too, that meant something to me. But, the meaning behind them was that I had changed for D. I had spent the summer untangling myself from love that had failed, love that I had thought both logically and with my heart at one point, was my ‘one.’ In reflection, I knew I had changed but I did not think it was enough that it would perceptible to others, especially enough to warrant words of caution as I embarked into my next love.

Last week, I was wandering around Brooklyn. It was 90 degrees and basically the best thing ever. I think I am learning I like heat. I am a different person in the summer than the winter. My spirit has woken up with the sun. I wandered into a shop and I wanted to buy something that yelled summer. I wanted to celebrate this change in season. As I browsed the merchandise in this far too cool for me store, I found myself drawn to wide brimmed hats and long pleated skirts. I admired them but I didn’t consider trying them on. They’re not me. But then I realized, why are they not me? I like them. I want to wear these things. D had very strong opinions about clothing especially on practical, smart girls like me. I realized these were the things I imagined he felt were stupid and hipster–the latter may very well be true. And I had determined that he was right: I don’t wear those things. Hats and skirts, these are such trivial things. They are not the pieces that make up who we are, and yet material possessions can still have so much power. They can be a way of sharing who we or who aren’t in this world. Probably their largest power is in what we let these things tell us about ourselves.

I decided that day that I am going to buy a hat. Maybe it will be a hipster hat, one that is so very Instagrammable, but I like some of those hats and I really think it would be fun to wear one and to live outside the sometimes narrow definition of who I think I am, namely not a hipster and definitely not fashionable. Interestingly enough this decision to not care what anyone thinks about my silly or not silly yet to be purchased hat had a profound effect on me for the rest of the weekend. I used to wear a lot of rings and jewelry. But I stopped. I used to have a more bohemian look that was albeit often needing some serious style guidance but I loved those clothes and dressing that way. On Saturday, I bought two gold plated bracelets made by an artist in Brooklyn. They’re the kind of cuffs that are quite in right now. But I didn’t care, I just really liked them. Every day since, I have put them on with great joy. I have looked forward to showering (which I never do) just so I can get ready for the day and wear my bracelets. When I put them on it feels like putting on this whole other version of myself that I have neglected for too long.

I called my mom after leaving the hat and skirt store. I get it I told her. I said, “Mom, it has been almost a year since we broke up and it has taken me a year to let go of the person I was with him.”

Whimsy: A Call to Lean In

May 3, 2018 by toripintar Leave a Comment

“I used to want to fix people. Now I just want to be with them.” Bob Goff, Love Does

My feet were quick under me and the sun was threatening to poke through and announce that spring was here, or at least that spring might come. Bob’s warm voice played in my ears as he talked about how to lean in to life. His words scared me. They reminded of this awful feeling I’d get in high school when the thing I knew I needed to do was the last thing I wanted to do. Things that were different, uncool and defied the status quo. Things that took courage I wasn’t always able to muster. And still can’t.

Yet, as he told stories laced with chance and whimsy and great delight in this life—stories of complete strangers asking if they could propose in his yard with 20 other strangers present oh and did he have a boat too said stranger might borrow (and he said yes!)—I remembered a part of my 16 year old self that despite the fear of being different believed that inside that sickly sweet fear was this great big life waiting for me.

It feels like life is asking me to lean in right now. I started this year following curiosity. I wanted to play big but what I needed was to play small well. This is a year of evolution, a year of less. But now I feel like I’m waking up and I need to play both big and small. Big with my heart, big in my relationships. Big in how I interact with the people I meet in this world, from the porter at Newark airport, to grumpy Canadian border officers, to new loves, best friends and maybe even just with myself.

After a winter where at moments it felt like I would truly never heal and never know running the way I had before I have been taking a new approach to my near daily runs. Every run is great, even when it was not. It is great because I get to do it. Sometimes I want it to be easier or faster or I worry I won’t get fast again but this slight shift in attitude is having a profound effect on my joy in running and in life. Add to this the stories of Bob Goff and I was feeling pretty excited about life a few Fridays back. Plus sunshine in what has felt like a never ending winter. I found myself craving a little adventure.

My adventure started pretty tame. I found a brewery on google maps in near Rochester, New York and drove there. The inside was not what I had hoped for: sunlit, wooden beams and views of the lake. It was dark, little natural light and I considered leaving. But life was really good so why not stay a little longer.

The beer list sold me. They had an IPA with milkshake in the title. And a maple pecan stout. I sampled them both. A couple sitting next to me started talking to the bartender and I learned they were from Canada and the bartender also happened to be a wedding photographer. Montreal bound on Monday myself, the couple was eager to offer up a slew of suggestions after having fallen a little for that city on their own trip there last summer. We started talking about food, and then family, and then careers. At one point it came up that I was on the east coast to photograph. Alita, said you must be good because someone had hired me to travel across the country. I opted to demurely decline that I might be good and Aleta said, “Girl, you are and you have to own that.” Such timely words from a stranger in a bar in Webster, New York.

The strong IPA began to creep into my blood and I thought, I want to take this couple’s photo. It took a few more sips of beer before I found the courage to ask if they might step in front of my camera. They said yes.

I left that brewery riding a wave of joy that was born out of whimsy. I am positive that running for pure love and the scary words of Bob Goff helped make that Friday afternoon what it was. Otherwise I might have sat there a bit more caught up in my own life and not curious about the world around me. I’ve had so many experiences like this before and they’ve all had the common thread of me showing up and actually feeling present. Days like Friday leave me bereft of the jaded armor I sometimes sport. Instead, I believed in life and love and that anything was possible. In fact, I was so inspired by the encounter that with 3% battery left on my laptop I furiously wrote to another friend I had met under similar circumstances in another city that was not my home about my afternoon.

Thank you Bob and running and sunshine and of course my subjects and new friends Aleta and Jeff.

100 Things in 2017

April 26, 2018 by toripintar Leave a Comment

I completely stole this idea from Kimberly Hasselbrink who borrowed it from Austin Kleon. (Sidebar: If you are not familar with either of these creatives I highly recommend them. The former has beautiful seasonal recipes and sage words and the latter inspires me to keep pushing myself to live a creative life).

As I get older, I find myself reflecting more and more on where I was three years ago on this day (Washington) and five (Grand Canyon). It’s possible, my thoughts drift here too often, but it’s also helping me to see the rich tapestry of the 33 years I have lived thus far. The gratitude grows and so does my thinking that I am doing pretty ok at this whole living thing. Last week, I was in upstate New York, yet again not in Montana this time of year–have you heard about our springs?–I saw Kim’s post. Immediately, I began to make a list of my 100 things for 2017. It was a really good year. I became more ‘me.’ And most remarkable were all the small moments, whether they were in my own garden, basement kitchen or in a coffee shop in magical Budapest. What I fell in love with in 2017 more wholly were the little things. In big ways, 2018 is being shaped by 2017 realizations that checking the progress of my spinach seedlings is what most inspires me to jump out of bed in the morning. That and peanut butter hot chocolate. Here are a few tidbits of joy–big and small–and because it’s me of course some of the hard stuff that now with hindsight I feel much more grateful for.

My first real trail run. I crushed it. And I don’t ever use words like that, but I did. 14 miles, 7 of which were up the trail. Coincidentally, the same day that my long term boyfriend moved out.
Lunch at Mák in Budapest.
Peanut Butter Hot Chocolate.
That cocktail at Pujol.
A surprise 6 minute PR at the Bozeman half marathon (which I almost did not show up for because I didn’t believe in myself or my resiliency after a month of rocky training).
Baking sourdough bread–the joys and the frustrations.
Daffodils.
The Mountain Project.
Taking an online writing class and finishing it.
The end of a relationship.
Laying in the dirt on Pete’s Hill at 11pm the day after my 33rd birthday.
Tuesdays at the Bogert Farmer’s Market.
Writing my first post on this blog
The cheeseburger I ate in Vienna.
The sachertorte I ate in Vienna.
While we are on the subject of food, this cardamom pastry knot I had in Budapest at Artizán Bakery. I want to eat that every day.
Sharing one of my greatest shames with those closest to me and that shame losing some of it’s power over me.
Walking in my neighborhood on summer evenings.
Standing in the street on summer nights looking up at the sky and announcing I am here, I am alive. Thank you Petie for reminding me of that fact.
Mornings on my porch with a hot drink, toast and my favorite cookbooks.
Falling back in love with photography.
Reading more.
Running 24 miles in the mountains in the Bangtail Divide Race. My first comeback race.
Winning a Junebug award for one of the best wedding images of 2017.
Dancing in the rain at my childhood best friend’s wedding.
So many friends eating meals in my home with me.
Buying a plane ticket to France on a whim because a friend asked if I wanted to come along.
Small Business Saturday shopping with my mom–there was a cocktail and laughter and all the things my mom and I love.
Drinking beer with my mom at 10am on a week day. (Not on Small Business Saturday).
More pancakes, especially the zucchini bread ones. .
Eating ice cream from Pink’s in Kauai. It is so damn good. Go there.
Running in Maui before the sun came over the mountains. Maybe a runner’s high moment, definitely a moment of I had no idea running could bring so much joy to my life.
Jumping in the pool at 2am with all the guests after photographing one of the best weddings of my career.
Running.
Meeting Caroline and Beth at Kara Goucher’s Podium Retreat.
Riding my bike in dowtown Bozeman.
My CSA.
Homemade sweet potato nachos with a ‘cheesy’ cashew sauce.
A Sunday long run in Mexico City on the closed down streets of the historic district.
Eating coconut ‘bacon’ for the first time.
My first cortado at Espresso Embassy.
The first time I made coffee in my Chemex.
An adventure run in Budapest with out an agenda. I remembered why I run and how strong I actually am.
Falling in love.
Letter writing.
Peanut butter toast perfected by the addition of Skyrr super thick yogurt, dried raspberries and cacao nibs.
Matcha lattes, peanut butter toast and loud pop music on early Sunday morning drives to the trail head.
Making ice cream cake for my college boyfriend’s 36th birthday after over a decade of friendship. Mint chocolate chip with homemade fudge.
Lunch picnic dates with my mom.
Making the best spicy cilantro cashew dressing and putting it on every grilled salad with squeaky halloumi cheese.
Finally getting to make Ashley Rodriguez’s tomato tart that she teased on Instagram last summer. It is in her upcoming book so unfortunately you will have to wait.
Supper club in my house and too much wine.
Standing on the dock in Bellingham.
An ice cream sundae in a waffle cone for my birthday.
Eating at Manolin for my birthday with Gina and Chris.
Yoga.
Doing a work out on a dirt track with frogs singing under the stars in New Hampshire. It was my friend’s childhood track.
Ice cream cones in New Hampshire with Catherine.
My Uncle Mike’s speech at his daughter, Anna’s wedding in August.
Drinking really good wine with my uncle.
Telling my truths to Lauren the day after my birthday.
Having the courage to find a new therapist and ‘break up’ with my old therapist.
Going to the Ballard Farmer’s market for the first time.
Tamarind margaritas, tuna tostadas and the green sauce at Entremar.
Reading Chasing Slow and reading part of it on just the right day.
Talking about Iran and the kind people I met there on a stage in Big Sky.
Ice cream at Frankie and Joe’s for the first time. And then all the other times I got to eat it thereafter.
Speaking of ice cream, a wine and ice cream date (also Frankie and Joe’s) in Capitol Hill with Whitney.
Seattle.
Photographing my first wedding in Washington.
Niles and Sarah’s day after wedding shoot in Olympic National Park. Photography bucket list item checked.
Rich Table annual dinner with Maddie year two. That rib-eye steak with dungeness crab drawn butter. You do not leave the fat behind on that plate.
French radishes.
Lauren’s very Italian dad teaching her to make pasta in my kitchen.
Making a vegetarian meal for my aunt and uncle’s friends in Big Sky.
Taking myself on dates to Blackbird.
The bread at Blackbird.
The chocolate cake I ate at Blackbird both at dinner and then for breakfast the next morning.
Beginning the path to healing.
The First Mess Cookbook.
My second home in Seattle with Gina and Chris.
Crabbing in Anacortes.
Adventure day with Gina in Edison, Washington.
Going to Tartine for the first time.
Buffalo milk softserve at Tartine Manufactory.
Falling more and more in love mornings.
Trying out veganism.
Crying.
Online dating and so many awkward dates.
Running up Mt. Sanitas in Boulder.
Asking strangers to join you for lunch in Mexico City.
The Merry Fucking Christmas workout at the Mountain Project.
Running in -10 degree weather on Sourdough trail on the last day of the year.
Discovering running friends, especially Stacie.
Spending an afternoon and evening photographing one of my favorite food bloggers and her family.
Eating her nectarine salad.
Being asked to cook the desserts for your physical therapist’s Christmas party.
A new friend who shows up for you.
Lunch at Mák in Budapest.
Ditching running to bake cookies, banana bread and tahini banana bread muffins.
Feeling more like ‘me’ than ever before.

Ok, so it’s 101 things and really this list could go on and on and on and on…Thank you 2017.

Pea + Mint Avocado Tartine a Year Later

March 15, 2018 by toripintar Leave a Comment

I remember these weeks of 2017 very vividly. I can’t quite put my finger on why but as I walk through them in 2018 I find traces of them around every corner. Maybe it is the daffodils that I have once again filled my home with. Or that this time last year I started going to a gym and one year later I voluntarily continue to go because it’s not really your ordinary gym. Possibly, it’s that this week a year ago, I felt the strongest I had ever on a work out and then bam, my initial adductor injury decided to rear her ugly head. To add further insult to injury I’m able to run even fewer miles now than I was running 365 days ago. Something about those final weeks in March and those first weeks of April feel transformative and meaningful with a year’s worth of reflection and living under my belt. And yet, as I remember them I have remembered them with a sense of sadness. Sadness because sitting here today it is easy to look at my life a year later and feel like nothing has changed, that in some ways, in too many ways, I am either the same or further behind my spring self of 2017.

My inner critic who has far too strong a voice in my head wants to see it that way, especially right now, where so much feels hard and never ending. It wants to tell me the story of how I’m not good enough because: ‘Look, look at the progress of the last 365 days, can’t you see there isn’t very much?’ I could look at it that way. Part of me wants to because I had envisioned myself sitting in a very different place when I was buying daffodils last March. Irregardless of that fact that those thoughts are plain untrue, that isn’t the mindset I want to have. All this thinking that results in me finding the ways I am lacking and not enough. It needs to go. It helps no one. Least of all me. And I have grown, tremendously in some areas. In others I am in the thick of it and all I can really do is throw my hands up in the air and surrender myself to the process, commit to the process and acknowledge it may be sometime before I can really see or measure the growth. Patience has never really been my thing.

Here is the on paper comparison:

Spring 2017

I was injured. But I was able to run my first half marathon.

I was stressed about my weight.

I was stressed about my finances. 10 weddings booked.

I was in a relationship and yet I felt like I was living my own life fully independent of it.

I found I was physically stronger than I believed.

I felt guilty about all the things I had in my life and my ability to travel.

I filled my house with daffodils.

I discovered my love of hot almond milk tea lattes.

I didn’t believe in myself as a photographer.

I wanted to control everything. (But I didn’t know it).

I really wanted to start a blog.

I had this idea about photographing women.

I was really really hard on myself.

I could not get my sourdough bread to properly rise.

I was afraid to be alone.

I wanted to spend more time with my family.

Spring 2018

I am injured. But I have not given up. My resiliency surprises me and makes me proud.

I am stressed about my weight, but I am working hard to take a new, intuitive approach to my health that is really hard but that I deep down believe in.

I am stressed about my finances and yet I am honoring the call to a slower pace this year despite it. 8 weddings booked for the year.

I am single.

Despite all my setbacks in all forms of training I feel like a stronger athlete and person.

I feel less guilt and more gratitude for what I have. I travel guilt free.

I am writing these words surrounded by daffodils.

I am drinking peanut butter hot chocolate as I write these words.

I am more in love with photography than ever. I recognize that it is a part of how I experience this world and my life. And that I have something to offer the photographic world.

I want to control everything (still). But I see it now.

I started this blog and it while it has taken me almost a full year from the first post to actually share here, I believe in my commitment to write and share my story. Or I fake that belief on the days I am filled with doubt.

I am photographing women for a project but I’m afraid that I don’t have the follow through to see the project through.

I am hard on myself but kinder.

I can consistently bake sourdough bread that rises.

I am not afraid to be alone.

My mom and I talk on the phone almost daily. We are closer than ever. This last 365 days has been filled with so much joy because of her.

A very good and very wise friend once told me about her future 80 year old self. They’d already had a conversation about the life this 80 year old woman would be looking back upon. But what this friend pointed out that I had too often failed to consider was that the path to reaching that joy filled slightly eccentric a bit nutty 80 year old self was not linear. Life feels very nonlinear right now. Progress is in the smallest of steps, the slowest of breaths. It’s in the choice to keep fighting, to keep pushing, to keep giving myself grace, to granting myself rest when that need is only as quiet as an itch. It’s the sum of all my choices and not each move on the board because some of them feel like, ‘WTF was I thinking there?’ or ‘I finally know what I am doing’ often in the same day, sometimes the same hour, the same breath. Basically, this feels like a very weird time in my life.

A year ago I made this ‘springy’ avocado toast (which I’m calling a tartine because I love France and feeling fancy and it is an open faced sandwich so that makes it a tartine) with the intent of sharing it on this blog very soon after first consuming it. I made it the first time I went to my gym. It feels right to finally be sharing it a year later as I in some ways live an identically different life these hundreds of days later. One key difference in the recipe is last year I made it on stunted sourdough that I made with my own two hands. This year, it’s made on sourdough I lovingly coaxed into rising and producing an even and moist crumb.

Happy spring friends!

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Pea + Mint Avocado Tartine

Author: Tori Pintar

Prep Time: 5 mins

Cook time: 5 mins

Total time: 10 mins

Serves: 1

This comes together so easily and if you opt for a poached egg it is quite filling. If you live somewhere where winter tends to hang on the bright mint and frozen peas serve as a reminder that spring is coming. If you can grab a loaf of delicious sourdough from a local bakery it will make all difference. I used Mycopia greens from the Farmer's market which are delicate and delicious but arugula or mache would be great here too. If you go the dairy free route with the cheese, I recommend Kitehill Chive Cream Cheese spread or Treeline Cashew Cheese Scallion Flavor.

Ingredients

¼ cup frozen peas, thawed
¼ large avocado or ½ a small avocado
¼ teaspoon yellow mustard powder
5-8 large fresh mint leaves, divided and thinly sliced
sea salt to taste
thick slice of sourdough bread
goat cheese, ricotta or dairy free spreadable cheese
greens of choice
olive oil
lemon juice
salt and pepper
sunflower seeds, toasted
radish, thinly sliced
poached egg (optional)

Method

Toss your greens with a drizzle of olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper in a bowl and set aside.
Toast your bread in a toaster or on an oiled cast iron skillet flipping to brown each side.
Meanwhile, in a small bowl mash the peas, avocado, mustard powder, half the mint leaves and sea salt with a fork until a rustic mix forms.
Spread toasted bread with your a layer of cheese of choice. Top half the cheese layer with your pea and avocado mixture. Top the other half with your salad greens. Finish with a poached egg if using and sunflower seeds, radish, the remaining mint and a final squeeze of lemon juice.

(Fear of) Taking Up Space & an Everyday Winter Salad for One

March 7, 2018 by toripintar 2 Comments

I still struggle greatly to feel ok about taking up space on the internet. I actually think that it parallels a similar feeling I have in the physical world. I am afraid to take up space. I cannot bear a world with more of me in it, yet that’s what I want. I want to have a voice and tell a story, but I want to do so in a way that does not cause ripples. I want to quietly enter the waters, unannounced and only make a great big splash at just the right moment, when everything is perfect and I have explained myself and everything in just the right way so that there is no chance of misunderstanding, no way to offend, I want to be the embodiment of boldness in the guise of gracefulness. Can we be both and be both well?

I have never been graceful or quiet and actually myself at the same time.

I am graceful in the kindness and understanding I extend to people, especially those who have hurt me, but not in how I move through the world. I might be graceful when I run, but not in the moments of the race that matter most, not in the painful ones where I dig deep and have to verbally coach myself through the final 800 meters, the final minutes where I can feel the tiny fibers of my muscles tearing under the load of physical demand. I am not graceful then and I am not quiet. I am uncoordinated, a bit too loud, extremely talkative, very opinionated, fiery, as passionate about the planet as I am about good sourdough bread and the importance of cake with all the fat and sugar being part of a balanced diet. I am all of these things. I like these things about myself. But I am afraid for other people to really see them and me. Especially as I become more Tori and these things that make up who I am, multiply and take up just that much more room in this world. And there is more me available to the world. And yet, for so many years I have longed to do just that. If I could have any career right now, it would be motivational speaker. I feel like I must have a lot of ego to write that, but it is nonetheless true. If I could tell all my stories, my truths, my pains, share my shame, my suffering, my joys, my loves, my passions, my highest of highs on a stage, I’m pretty sure I would jump at the chance to do it, even if the audience is one.

As a child, we gradually stopped having people over to our house. We lived in a fixer upper and year by year just as many new projects got started as the ones that remained unfinished. As grandparents grew older and some of them died, our possessions grew. They took up space greater than the person who left them ever did and my grandfather George, he took up the whole room. I have always been surrounded by stuff and ‘mess.’ Out of embarrassment, my Mom who knew better than I did in my teens, encouraged me to go to friends houses instead of having them to ours. Gradually, no one came over, at least not without weeks or what felt like months notice so we could prepare and clean and hide the mess that we were.

“And isn’t the whole point of letting others into your life supposed to be that you get to be who you really are rather than who everyone else expects or even wishes or demands you be?” Emily Nunn, The Comfort Diaries: My Quest for the Perfect Dish to Mend a Broken Heart

This past summer after 8 months of living in a new city, in a new home, an incomplete one with little furniture, bare walls, 12 kinds of flour, 10 types of dried beans, a college bed that journeyed all the way from California to Montana that still lives like a college bed on the floor sans box spring, I decided to start letting people into my true messy life. I had been waiting for the perfect moment when everything was clean and done and organized and my home resembled more of the home I felt people expected and demanded of my successful white, middle class self. Instead, I invited people into my little dungeon as I lovingly call it (basement apartment with tiny windows in a state with loooong winter) without an apology for the state of things and the incompleteness of my life. Because I was missing the point and missing out on what I loved most–feeding people at my table.

Reading those words in that book that were previously followed by words about not having people in her new home because it was not ready yet (when are we ever ready for anything, especially anything really good?) I thought of this little home on the internet I’m trying to create and how the same concept basically applies. It is unfinished. It is as bare as the walls in my own home. It has no polish. It has no clearly defined purpose or mission. It has no format. It’s a passion project. It’s a place I hope becomes a home. Yes, I acknowledge that as public space I’m inviting a lot of people into my life who may have plenty of demands and expectations of me that I do not ask for. Those are not the people I am here to serve. They are not the people I write to or really care to join my table both virtual and real.

This space is for those who want to see who I really am and in return feel the freedom to be who they really are. Some days that will be easy to do. Others it will be muddled and confusing. It will be a mess.

Here is a recipe that’s as unfinished as my home on the web, my home in Montana, and as unfinished as I am as a person. I have been thinking about this ‘recipe’ for a month but it’s lack of precision and thus imperfection kept me thinking about it. I have not invited you to my table to eat a simple winter salad of beets and citrus because I was afraid that this all too real way I cook might not translate to your home. I was afraid it was lacking just like I’m afraid all to often that I am lacking. So, if you make this and you don’t like it or you find my lack of specifics frustrating, I am truly sorry about those things. But I’m also not sorry because this is how we learn to cook and sometimes there is so much freedom when formulas are guides and we can pick and choose how we borrow and enhance them for our own needs. The best things, relationships especially are born that way in my experience.

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My Everyday Winter Salad for One

Author: Tori Pintar

Recipe type: Salad

Ingredients

1-2 steamed or roasted beets, peeled. (I love the color of Chioggia and golden beets and often buy those because their vivid colors brighten even the dullest of winter days. I encourage you to do the same.
1 orange (blood or Cara Cara are my winter favorites) or a Grapefruit (depending on size, you may only need half the segments)
a few gratings of citrus zest (feel free to use a mix)
greens of choice (I love microgreens here or the small tender winter/spring lettuces like mycopia or mache that pop up even in Bozeman. Arugula is another great choice)
maple syrup
vinegar (apple cider is wonderful here, or white balsamic. When using lighter colored beets I avoid regular balsamic because it muddies their beautiful color, but it works in a pinch)
good olive oil, or walnut oil or pumpkin seed oil
herbs of choice, roughly chopped or torn (tarragon, mint or chives or all three)
toasted nuts or seeds of choice (my favorites are pistachios and walnuts)
sea salt
fresh ground pepper

Method

Depending on the size of your beets, quarter them or thinly slice on a mandolin or with a sharp knife. Depending on the day, I will vary the presentation of my beets because I have found that this small variation livens up my meals and the different cuts create different texture and therefore taste. Place cut beets in a small mixing bowl. Grate a few good shavings of your chosen citrus over the beets and set aside. Using a sharp knife, typically a paring knife, cut off the bottom of your citrus so that it sits flat on a cutting board. Working from the top cut ribbons of the peel away including the white pith exposing the beautiful citrus flesh. It’s ok if some of that flesh comes away with your sections of peel. Supreming citrus is a bit of an art and with practice you’ll end up with less flesh on your peel. I’ll warn you that supreming can feel like a tedious task but again with practice the movements will become second nature and you might even appreciate this slowing down and the attention this task requires. Once you have removed all the peel and white pith (if you removed too much of the flesh, do as I do and and suck that delicious fruit off the peel before discarding or squeeze those sections over your bowl of beets to release the juice), while holding the fruit in one hand and your knife in the other, cut each segment away from the remaining pith by making cuts as close to the pith as possible. Do this over your bowl of beets to capture any juice that escapes. Alternately, with really juicy oranges, especially smaller blood oranges that are ripe, I’ll cut them into rounds and pour any juice from the cutting board over the beets as I add the orange slices.
Add a generous pinch of flake salt and a few grinds of pepper to your bowl. Add a splash of maple syrup, vinegar of choice and olive oil to your bowl and toss to combine. Taste and add more of anything you feel lacking. Add your chopped or torn herbs and toss again.
Make a small bed of greens on a plate. Top with your beet citrus mix. Garnish with more herbs and nuts or seeds of choice. Enjoy!

Notes

Additional Inspiration: Add in some avocado for creamy boost of fat, mince a little shallot and add at the same time as your makeshift dressing, add a little full fat greek yogurt or creme fraiche with the dressing, or do all of the above.