Not a bad birthday… Went to Saint Paul to see Sam Smith after a fancy dinner at the Heartland with KP; got properly serenaded by Michael Bolton; then Izzy gave us an Ebola scare with hemorrhagic diarrhea and explosive vomiting (and yes, I know you’re wondering, our grey-white carpets have never been better—ho ho, in fact, look as though we have been slaughtering bilious, manic pigs in the house for several days). I spent most of my thirtieth birthday wishing and praying that Izzy would see her sixth, which is next month. She’s been holding down liquids since midnight, so keep vigil with us in spirit. Or send diapers.
In other news, I was thrilled to take part in a unique festivity at the People’s Co-op this evening—A Celebration of Entomophagy. That’s right, bug-eating. It’s so vile it’s vogue. Actually, it’s a sustainability thing. Bugs, as we all know from life experience, are far easier to grow than they are to kill. And certainly cheaper/easier than plants or animals. They also pack a lot of protein in their wiggly little bodies. For example, from a baking standpoint (which is my only standpoint in the culinary community), one quarter cup of cricket flour has 7g of protein in it as compared with like 2.5g with the equivalent amount of regular flour, or 3.5g-ish if we’re talking whole wheat. Also, they require far less water/energy to produce. Did you know that it takes a gallon of water to produce one almond!? So a group of local dieticians and foodies, myself included, wanted to know—do foods made of bugs taste good?
My simple answer: Yes.
Tonight the culinary motif was crickets, and together we enjoyed:
Chocolate chip cookies,
and pumpkin truffles made with cricket flour:
For my contribution to the feast, I spiffed up my oatmeal chocolate chip cookie recipe with the addition of ½ cup whole crickets. I was gifted the remainder of the Bitty cricket flour at the end of the night, challenged with the task of making a tasty loaf of bread, which I shall, forthwith.
I give you Oatmeal Chocolate Chirp Cookies, protein-packed cookie dough!
Welcomed home to a
Fancy dinner, a show, and
On turning thirty
There was no odometer
Click, just this poem.
Why does sadness and
Winter make dark, burrowed holes
seem so appealing?