Tri-ing To Read, Here.

Ok. This is another book review post, but I felt as though I’ve been neglecting telling you about my workouts as of late, so I’m going to do a quick re-cap with where I’ve been in this arena recently. Right now I’m taking it a bit easy, mostly playing with my kids, and chasing them around the park. I’m working back into a walking program to rest areas requiring healing. I do, however, have a long-term goal.

It’s a sprint-distance tri. 15k bicycle, 3.1 mi run (5K) and a 1/2 mile open-water swim. I am good-to-go with the swimming and the running. I could hit those distances half-asleep while doing a keg stand. (Though that is highly ill-advised.) It’s that third bit. That bit on the two wheels.  Jesus, Mary, and all of the Saints, I’m terrified.  (Is it Saints or saints? Any hagiographers read my blog?) I don’t have a fear of riding, so much as a total-and-utter fear of crashing and dying. I’m a New Yorker. Do you have any idea how many white-painted bicycles dot street corners to memorialize the death of a bicyclist? MORE THAN A FEW.  The crazy thing is that I am friends with MANY triathletes. I am friends with honest-to-gods IRONMEN/WOMEN. My sibling equivalent does a century ride every year to raise $$ for MS. The man? Bicycles were his PRIMARY-FORM of transport all through his teens, and most of his twenties. Here is my history with bicyles. In bullet-points.

• I learn to ride between ages 7-9
• It was a yellow bicycle with a banana seat
• my sister spray-painted my bicycle red
• the banana seat remained
• I wore no helmet, ever.
• I fell off said bicycle coming down the hill near my house. It hurt.
• I fell into a ditch near my house. This too, was painful
• I got a new 10-speed huffy when I was tenish.
• It was pink
• I fell off of the Huffy in the woods behind my brother’s friend’s house. It hurt.
• There was no poison ivy, but there was a raspberry bush.
• It was like falling into the vagina dentata of thorny bushes–bloody and full of teeth
• My desire to ride upon two wheels was castrated.
• I no longer had biking balls.

My siblings routinely made fun of my bicycling abilities, though their own injuries made mine look tame in comparison. Namely, my older sister put her teeth through her lip. That had to hurt. But I could not ride without hands, or apparently, without injury. I was strictly a “hands on the bars, ride the brake” rider. Apparently that latter bit is muy malo. I lay the blame for the majority of my injuries on fear and ADHD. A potent combination. I was constantly gripping the brakes, and constantly distracted. You can see how that could go terribly wrong.

So now I’ve been set up by a viking and a highlander to do this tri. I may use training wheels. There’s a possibility of using a Flintstone’s style motorcycle, all wide-stone wheels and foot propulsion. A pink Big Wheels is also under consideration. One thing I can tell you is that I WILL NOT BE CLIPPING IN. I “clip-in” at spin. At spin, if I fall off, I fall onto a mat. I am covered in shame, and perhaps the sweat of the rider next to me, but not blood and viscera.

So it is written, so it shall be.

575 words. Gif break? Gif break.

I like this option.

Onto the sexy. And by sexy, I mean words on pages.

But I was just getting to the good part.

I’ve read several books in the past week that I’ve really liked. None so much as this one:

To be 100% Honest, The first 20-40 pages, I wasn’t truly into it, so I put it down, read The Book of Life (which we know I adored) And then I had a bit of reader’s hangover/ennui. After a few days, I picked up Landline again, and really set-in for a readathon.

Ohallofthefucks was my initial hesitation stupid.  I found myself absorbed in a sea of beautiful prose. I was overcome with a hesitation to continue, lest it end too soon. Yet, I couldn’t stop myself from burning through page after page like a vengeful Savanarola. The story pulled upon every heartstring in my soul’s violin, and wrenched from it a brutal concerto of elation and melancholy.  I once again found myself tweeting passages to a friend who also read the book. I was overwhelmed with the desire to simply “share” in the experience of it.

*tweeted to @JustLeahFelts

So, what’s it about?

From the blurb:

Georgie McCool knows her marriage is in trouble. That it’s been in trouble for a long time. She still loves her husband, Neal, and Neal still loves her, deeply — but that almost seems beside the point now.

Maybe that was always beside the point.

Two days before they’re supposed to visit Neal’s family in Omaha for Christmas, Georgie tells Neal that she can’t go. She’s a TV writer, and something’s come up on her show; she has to stay in Los Angeles. She knows that Neal will be upset with her — Neal is always a little upset with Georgie — but she doesn’t expect to him to pack up the kids and go home without her.

When her husband and the kids leave for the airport, Georgie wonders if she’s finally done it. If she’s ruined everything.

That night, Georgie discovers a way to communicate with Neal in the past. It’s not time travel, not exactly, but she feels like she’s been given an opportunity to fix her marriage before it starts . . .

Is that what she’s supposed to do?

Or would Georgie and Neal be better off if their marriage never happened?

There’s really nothing to add to that without revealing plot points that would decrease one’s pleasure in reading the story.

In Landline, Rainbow Rowell manages to effortlessly blend magical realism into an all-too-real plot with devastatingly real characters. Her world-building and character growth will rightly shut the mouths of any critic wary of reading a book penned by a woman who was previously most-known for her Young Adult novels. (Which are also quite amazing.) One will spend a good portion of the book with their heart in their throat, and tissues against their eyes and nose.

Five.Huge.Stars.

Now? The recipe I promised you on Monday.

Chocolate Almond Spread. AKA non-sketch ingredient vegan Nutella.

Vegan Chocolate Almond Spread

Vegan Chocolate Almond Spread

by Cat Bowen

Prep Time: 10 minutes

Keywords: blender appetizer condiment side snack dessert dairy-free gluten-free kosher paleo soy-free vegan vegetarian

Ingredients

• 1 cup roasted, salted, almonds
• 2 oz of your favorite vegan dark chocolate bar (newman’s or endangered species are my favorite.)
• 1 oz coconut oil, liquid state
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 1 tbsp cocoa powder
• 1 tbsp coconut milk (full-fat from the can)

Instructions

melt the chocolate bar

combine with remaining ingredients

blend in food pro

if needed, add a bit more melted choc or oil to smooth out.

Nest of Wangdoodles.

Well. I did it. I rode a friggen bicycle. I’m still alive…so far. Whoever coined the adage “it’s just like riding a bicycle,” was clearly an idiot. You can absolutely forget how to ride one. There are clearly better comparisons available. Like, for instance, I’d never forget pi. Why can’t the aphorism say: “It’s like the first sentence of Pride and Prejudice; You never forget it.”

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife”

How could you forget that? You can’t. I can easily forget stupid things like gears and how not to die.

Brief overview of how this went. I went with the Viking, the Highlander, and the Professor to the path along the water. (NONE of my ladies went. Surrrre, they all went to Crossfit, but WHERE’S THE GODSDAMNED LOYALTY??? Excuses like “I don’t want to” and “but what if I fall” were out in ABUNDANCE.) The friend formerly known as “Graverobber,” henceforth to be known as “Ellie Mae” actually said “My face is too pretty for road rash.” She’s not wrong. Luckily, I am apparently a hag, and thus totally prepared for microdermabrasion via asphalt.

However, the relative propinquity of this race demands my immediate attention and dedication. So I suited up, strapped on a helmet, and had only a few, petite panic attacks. What I was unaware of before getting on the bicycle, was that I would be riding a bicycle fit for triathlons. The bike weighed less than my purse, and requires me to lean farther over than I thought I should. It should also be noted that I have seen maxi pads larger than the seat of this bicycle. It is also equipped with what I lovingly referred to as an “ass and vag vent” on the seat. I understand why it’s there, but it’s still funny. Though, not nearly as funny as the dude’s saddle which looks like either a confused bunny rabbit or strange sex toy.  It totally fits their wangdoodles like a hot dog bun. I laughed aloud. Hard.

Ladies saddle:

Of COURSE it’s white and pink. OF COURSE.

See what I mean? Wangdoodle nest. Incidentally, just typing “wangdoodle nest” made me think of a Seussian image of a “Nest of Wangdoodles with their throw-hoodles” or something, and the image was unpleasant. Now, I just placed it in your brain. You’re welcome.

In order to keep my mind from wandering toward my own death, the Highlander and the Professor, both of whom are from the UK, decided to have me help them with their French. The Highlander speaks English and Gaelic (Scottish Gaelic, not Irish), and the Professor speaks English, Latin, Mandarin, Welsh, and Manx. Yes, Manx. As in the mostly-dead language from the Isle of Man. They both have overwhelmingly UK-y accents. The Professor’s is all upper-crust Queen’s English, and the Highlander is, well, Highlandy. I almost went off course several times because I was shaking my head so hard. The unique dips and flat or round tones of French are completely lost on the two of them. At one point, at a break, I shot off an email to the Professor’s husband, begging him to teach him Spanish instead of my teaching him French.

But I digress, I rode NINE MILES without falling. NINE. As in the number after eight. 47, 520 feet.  Fourteen-point-five kilometers. I rode them on a tiny maxi-pad, vag-saving saddle, hunched over like I was doing something fun, like READING A BOOK. I got sweaty and sticky. I contemplated my last will and testament. I regretted not wearing some sort of foam armor. (which you can find instructions for on Pinterest.) I also realize that padded bicycle shorts exist for a reason, and it’s not just to give me junk in my empty trunk. I was wearing tight, capri-style pants. I also learned it matters not how handsome a dude is, when they put on a pointy helmet, they look ridiculous. I looked like an awesome space alien come to meet your leader.

The Highlander insisted that riding a bike in a triathlon was an ethereal experience akin to a wakeful dream. He is obviously insane, and I should re-evaluate our friendship at once. Sure, I thinking oneirically, but the dreams rushing upon my psyche were far more Captain Ahab and far less Stevenson’s dreams of toasted cheese.

For example:

 “A chasm seemed opening in him, from which forked flames and lightnings shot up, and accursed fiends beckoned him to leap down among them.”

Riding a bicycle is my white whale, it would seem. But I did it. No unholy communion required. Just a great amount of ribbing from friends and desire to not be a coward before my children. If I expect them to ride a bicycle, I can do no less. So I rode with the fear of cursed man, and somehow survived. Let’s just see if that holds. I am riding in Catalina for the Tri. We mustn’t forget the cliffs of insanity.

Jesu, near 900 words. Holy smokes. Ok, tomorrow is a book review, and I’m trying to secure a deal code for you scamps, so hold onto your asses until then. For now?

Peach Tea Muffins.

You know I LOVE tea. All sorts. All temperatures. I take my hot tea with milk and sugar, and my iced as black as my soul. But it is an underutilized ingredient in cooking! We use coffee all the freaking time! Why not tea?? Have you HAD a good Irish Breakfast lately? It’s freaking delightful. Ok, to be fair, I used Scottish breakfast tea, but that’s because it’s the strongest of the bunch. I mean, this tea wears a kilt in winter sans underoos; it’s that strong.

That’d be a way to describe the tea on the box. “Exposed stones in winter, strong!”

TO THE FOOD, MACDUFF!

Peach Tea Muffins

by Cat Bowen

Prep Time: 20 minutes

Cook Time: 20 minutes

Keywords: bread breakfast dessert vegetarian

Ingredients (20 muffins)

• 1 cup whole milk
• 1/2 cup coconut oil
• 5 bags of black tea
• 1 cup maple syrup
• 1/2 cup honey
• 3 peaches, diced
• 2 eggs
• 2 tsps baking powder
• 1 tsp cinnamon
• 1 tsp vanilla
• 2 cups AP flour
• 1/2 cup oat flour (pulse oats in a food pro until it’s powder)

Instructions

preheat oven to 375F

stir together oil, sugars, and vanilla

microwave milk on high for 1 minute and 30 seconds

add in tea bags

let steep five minutes

while steeping, sift together dry ingredients and toss with peaches

whisk eggs into oil-sugar mixture

SLOWLY stir in tea milk into the egg-oil-sugar mixture

stir in peach/flour mixture

scoop into muffin cups to the top

bake for 18-22 minutes or until lightly browned on top, darker at the edges.

Sapere Aude

As I type this, I have my children watching Cosmos on Netflix. It’s an hour of keeping the kids lulled by the sweet, dulcet tones of Neil DeGrasse Tyson and his love of logic and science. I want my kids to be dreamers. I want them to question everything. I want them to question me, you, their teachers, everyone and everything. Every time they don’t find an answer, I want them to dig deeper, search harder, and seek to find. Nullius in Verba.

The place I take the kids most-often in the winter months is the American Museum of Natural History, and the Hayden Planetarium. They love strolling the halls of Science and paleontology, marine life and folk art. They ask question after question about who and what came first, and where it is we’re headed. My son could spend hours in the planetarium, simply mesmerized by the grandeur of the cosmos which is so difficult to see in NYC, with all of its light pollution. “What’s beyond our galaxy, Mama? What happens if you throw a magnet in a black hole? Could Zeus make lightning on Jupiter?” He may or may not have seen me watch a silly documentary called Chariots of the Gods on Netflix. Aliens+gods+pyramids+beer and a sofa=awesome night at home.

I remember watching the original Cosmos with Carl Sagan in reruns on PBS as a kid. I was instantly enamored by his easy manner and fervent passion. He also had some boss blazer and turtleneck combinations. He remained important to me even through my turbulent teenaged battle between where and how my faith and science could fit together. I was taught that evolution was a joke, that we aren’t a changing universe. I was taught this in spite of the fact that I could SEE evolution. I could SEE changes in the universe. Somewhere, deep inside my mind, lived the quiet words of Carl Sagan, just waiting to be given an ear, and a fistful of curiosity. I am so grateful for that.

Now? My kids have ample opportunities to question, to seek, to know. The can go to the museum, or the library, or even just an iPad. They can watch Into the Universe with Stephen Hawking  and then scroll through the Science News and Discoveries App, and see what correlates.

We are lucky to live in an era that between My Little Pony and Transformers, there is NGD and Hawking, open and accessible at the press of button.

On a compleeeetely different note, you know I’ve been training for my first triathlon. You also know I’ve been terrified of riding bicycles. Lately, I’ve been doing REALLY well on the bike. Yes, I’ve fallen, but it WASN’T THAT BAD. I mean, I’m a klutz. I’ve fallen HARD just by walking! So it wasn’t really that bad. I didn’t break both arms, my cheekbone, and grind my teeth! So…WINNING! (I fell down the stairs at fifteen and did just that. You know, WALKING.)

Anyway, I typically like to listen to audiobooks when I cook, but because I’ve been baking and cooking up a storm for triathlon fuel, I’ve been watching documentaries on my tablet. Biking and running documentaries. By the dozen. Yesterday, while making the recipe featured on today’s blog, I watched Rising from Ashes on Netflix, and was immediately inspired and immediately felt like an asshole for eating batter while watching a documentary featuring bicyclists who overcame GENOCIDE to keep on riding.

Yup, asshole party of one.

I got over it by watching Run for Your Life: The Fred Lebow Story on Netflix after the biking movie. I felt SMUG. I like SMUG. Smug is a comfy duvet of self-aggrandizement. The whole thing reminded me of the fact that unlike Boston, my marathon allowed women runners THE VERY FIRST YEAR. (so she got sick and couldn’t run. WHO CARES?!?!?!) Proving once and for all, NYC kicks Boston’s ass in all things, not just city layout and baseball. BOOM!

Now? Food for your Face.

Almond Banana Power Balls

all-natural, nutrient dense, happy balls of yum.

Almond Banana Power Balls

by Cat Bowen

Prep Time: 15 minutes

Cook Time: 10 minutes

Keywords: bake appetizer bread breakfast dessert snack vegetarian soy-free kosher gluten-free dairy-free

Ingredients (1 dozen balls)

• 1 cup almonds
• 1 1/3 cup whole-grain oats
• 1 egg
• 1 very ripe banana
• 1 tsp cinnamon
• 1 tsp baking powder
• 3 tbsp honey

Instructions

Preheat oven to 350F

grind together nuts and oats in a food pro

when smooth-ish add in remaining ingredients

stick in freezer for 10 minutes

scoop onto greased baking sheet

bake for ten minutes or until golden brown

Amazon is Out of its Hive.

Hold onto your collective asses; it’s my summer “must read” list of 2014.

Must read books for summer.

I’m not going to do what Amazon is doing, and suggest “beach reads,” that should be titled “books if you like to sob so hard in public that your nose becomes a fire extinguisher of mucous, and your eyes are so red you look like you’ve been binge drinking moonshine laced with snake venom.”

Really, The Fault in Our Stars is a beach read? Do you know what sand does to swollen mucous membranes? IT DOESN’T TICKLE. I know this because I once made the mistake of reading A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry at the beach. Over a period of two days I went from a sort of deep ache, to full-blown ugly-cry, sobbing so hard that the straps of my swim suit fell from my shoulders. Being NY, people came over just to see which book could evoke such a public fantod! They, like all masochistic New Yorkers were desperate to read it.

yep. we’re assholes like that.

THE LIST!

From the blurb:

Meadow Woodson, a fifteen-year-old girl who has been trained by her father to fight, to kill, and to survive in any situation, lives with her family on a houseboat in Florida. The state is controlled by The Murder Complex, an organization that tracks the population with precision.

The plot starts to thicken when Meadow meets Zephyr James, who is—although he doesn’t know it—one of the MC’s programmed assassins. Is their meeting a coincidence? Destiny? Or part of a terrifying strategy? And will Zephyr keep Meadow from discovering the haunting truth about her family?

From the blurb:

An immigrant boy whose family is struggling to assimilate. A middle-aged housewife coping with an imploding marriage and a troubled son. A social worker at home in the darker corners of Las Vegas. A wounded soldier recovering from an injury he can’t remember getting. By the time we realize how these voices will connect, the impossible and perhaps the unbearable has already happened. We Are Called to Rise is a boomtown tale, in which the lives of people from different backgrounds and experiences collide in a stunning coincidence. When presented the opportunity to sink into despair, these characters rise. Through acts of remarkable charity and bravery, they rescue themselves.

Impulsive high school senior Monroe Baker is on probation for a recent crime, but strives to stay out of trouble by working as a flapper at her father’s Roaring 20’s dinner show theater. When she cuts herself on one of the spent bullets from her father’s gangster memorabilia collection, she unwittingly awakens Bonnie Parker’s spirit, who begins speaking to Monroe from inside her head.

Later that evening, Monroe shows the slugs to Jack, a boy she meets at a party. He unknowingly becomes infected by Clyde, who soon commits a crime using Jack’s body. The teens learn that they have less than twenty-four hours to ditch the criminals or they’ll share their bodies with the deadly outlaws indefinitely.

 

For years, English anthropologist Andrew Bankson has been alone in the field studying the Kiona tribe of Papua, New Guinea. Haunted by the memory of his brother’s public suicide, and increasingly infuriated with and isolated by his research, Bankson is on the verge of killing himself when a chance meeting with colleagues, the controversial and consummate Nell Stone and her wry Australian husband Fen, pulls him back from the brink. Nell and Fen have just finished their studies of the bloodthirsty Mumbanyo and, in spite of Nell’s ill health, the couple is ravenous for another new discovery. Together with Bankson they set out to uncover the Tam, a local tribe with an almost mythic existence. As the trio settle with the tribe in their paradisiacal surroundings, inspiration flows and mutual affections swell. In the midst of this new, unchartered territory, Nell, Bankson, and Fen must learn not only to adapt to their invigorating present, but to also confront their complicated and haunted pasts.

It’s Stephen King. It’s worth a read. No blurb needed.

Georgie McCool knows her marriage is in trouble. That it’s been in trouble for a long time. She still loves her husband, Neal, and Neal still loves her, deeply — but that almost seems besides the point now.

Maybe that was always besides the point.

Two days before they’re supposed to visit Neal’s family in Omaha for Christmas, Georgie tells Neal that she can’t go. She’s a TV writer, and something’s come up on her show; she has to stay in Los Angeles. She knows that Neal will be upset with her — Neal is always a little upset with Georgie — but she doesn’t expect to him to pack up the kids and go home without her.

When her husband and the kids leave for the airport, Georgie wonders if she’s finally done it. If she’s ruined everything.

That night, Georgie discovers a way to communicate with Neal in the past. It’s not time travel, not exactly, but she feels like she’s been given an opportunity to fix her marriage before it starts . . .

Is that what she’s supposed to do?

Or would Georgie and Neal be better off if their marriage never happened?

Augusta and Owen have moved to the country, and live a quiet, and rather solitary life, Gus as a painter, Owen as a writer. They have left behind the city, and its associations to a troubled past, devoting their days to each other and their art. But beneath the surface of this tranquil existence lies the heavy truth of Gus’s past betrayal, an affair that ended, but that quietly haunts Owen, Gus and their marriage.

When Alison Hemmings, a beautiful British divorcée, moves in next door, Gus, feeling lonely and isolated, finds herself drawn to Alison, and as their relationship deepens, the lives of the three neighbors become more and more tightly intertwined. With the arrival of Alison’s daughter Nora, the emotions among them grow so intense that even the slightest misstep has the potential to do irrevocable harm to them all.

Therese Walsh’s poignant and mesmerizing novel is a moving tale of family, love, and the power of stories. After their mother’s probable suicide, sisters Olivia and Jazz are figuring out how to move on with their lives. Jazz, logical and forward-thinking, decides to get a new job, but spirited, strong-willed Olivia, who can see sounds, taste words, and smell sights, is determined to travel to the remote setting of their mother’s unfinished novel to say her final goodbyes and lay their mother’s spirit to rest.

Though they see things very differently, Jazz is forced by her sense of duty to help Olivia reach her goal. Bitter and frustrated by the attention heaped on her sunny sister whose world is so unique, Jazz is even more upset when they run into trouble along the way and Olivia latches on to a worldly train-hopper. Though Hobbs warns Olivia that he’s a thief who shouldn’t be trusted, he agrees to help with their journey. As they near their destination, the tension builds between the two sisters, each hiding something from the other, and they will finally be forced to face everything between them and decide what is really important.

Pilgrim is the codename for a man who doesn’t exist. The adopted son of a wealthy American family, he once headed up a secret espionage unit for US intelligence. Before he disappeared into anonymous retirement, he wrote the definitive book on forensic criminal investigation.

But that book will come back to haunt him. It will help NYPD detective Ben Bradley track him down. And it will take him to a rundown New York hotel room where the body of a woman is found facedown in a bath of acid, her features erased, her teeth missing, her fingerprints gone. It is a textbook murder – and Pilgrim wrote the book.

What begins as an unusual and challenging investigation will become a terrifying race-against-time to save America from oblivion. Pilgrim will have to make a journey from a public beheading in Mecca to a deserted ruins on the Turkish coast via a Nazi death camp in Alsace and the barren wilderness of the Hindu Kush in search of the faceless man who would commit an appalling act of mass murder in the name of his God.

When the gutted body of a businessman is discovered in the Icelandic embassy in Berlin, Iceland’s best detectives are sent to Germany to investigate the crime. The stab wounds and the murder weapon—an elegant hunting knife—suggest a ritualistic killing. But the only suspects present in the sleek modern office building were some of the island nation’s cultural elite, including Jón the Sun Poet and ceramics artist Lúdvík Bjarnason. The victim is someone few would miss, and investigators Birkir and Gunnar, joined by forensics expert Anna Thórdardóttir, wager they have an open-and-shut case on their hands. What they find is anything but: The crime reeks of premeditation and vengeance, and leads the team into a sordid tale of international child abuse, arson, and retribution.

 On her nineteenth birthday, Princess Kelsea Raleigh Glynn, raised in exile, sets out on a perilous journey back to the castle of her birth to ascend her rightful throne. Plain and serious, a girl who loves books and learning, Kelsea bears little resemblance to her mother, the vain and frivolous Queen Elyssa. But though she may be inexperienced and sheltered, Kelsea is not defenseless: Around her neck hangs the Tearling sapphire, a jewel of immense magical power; and accompanying her is the Queen’s Guard, a cadre of brave knights led by the enigmatic and dedicated Lazarus. Kelsea will need them all to survive a cabal of enemies who will use every weapon—from crimson-caped assassins to the darkest blood magic—to prevent her from wearing the crown.

It’s going to be a good summer, I can tell.

Apart from reading, which I am sure to do every day, I’m really looking forward to getting the man into the water to teach him how to row. It’s a wonderful warm-weather sport, and sculling down a river at daybreak is one of my all-time favorite things to do. For more information, or to find a row club in your area, check here.

Rowing not only burns an INSANE 700 calories per hour, it also engages nearly every muscle in your body, leaving it feeling pleasantly spent. Fair warning: watch what you wear. I once spent a several mile row with a split-seat and had no idea. Stretch is best. Unless you like everyone seeing your ass.

I’ll also be making EVERY DESSERT EVER with delicious and seasonal ingredients.

like this one.

Spicy-Sweet Peach and Cornbread Cobbler.

This recipe uses something I almost never use….A MIX. Yes, a MIX. I know, shudder, right? In this case, the mix is simply better. There must be some devil-juju-mystic shit going down in the self-rising cornmeal mix, because it’s awesome. Use it.

This recipe makes a metric fuckton of cobbler. If, say, your family is from West Virginia, and eats cobbler like it’s their damned job, make the whole recipe…and add ice cream. If you’re normal. Halve it, and use a 9″-9″ square or 10″ round pan.

I also do not peel the peaches. I love the rich, pink color the skin adds.

Spicy-Sweet Peach and Cornbread Cobbler

by Cat Bowen

Prep Time: 1 hour

Cook Time: 1 hour

Keywords: bake dessert side snack

Ingredients (serves 12-16)

for the topping

• 2 cups self-rising cornmeal mix
• 4 tbsp bacon fat or butter
• 2 eggs
• 1/3 cup sugar
• corn from 2 ears
• 1 cup milk

for the peaches

• 4 pounds sliced, fresh peaches
• 1/2 tsp chipotle powder
• 1 tsp cinnamon
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 1/3 cup sifted flour
• 1/3 cup sugar
• 1/2 stick ice cold butter, chopped into small cubes

Instructions

preheat oven to 375F

grease 13″-9″ pan

toss peaches with spices, flour, sugar, vanilla, and butter

evenly spread in pan

mix together cornmeal mix ingredients and pour evenly over peaches

bake until brown and bubbly–about an hour