Month: November 2025

A “gift” from round 2 covid was no more wheat 4 me

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I hunt for delicious recipes. Glutenfreeonashoestring.com has lots. Sometimes I simply want easy, pre-made, and reasonably priced. The last bit hasn’t happened and with grocery prices continuing to climb from scratch is a must.

I have deeply missed pancakes and donuts. Restaurants that do GF pancakes usually do the protein ones. They’re OK, but not what I crave. I’ve tried Pamela’s baking mix and it’s not bad, but the pancakes are a little thin. Here is the recipe for the best GF pancakes I’ve made, they taste like gluten filled and are light and fluffy.

The sheet pan is genius. I used Bob’s Red Mill 1 for 1 baking flour (she recs it in her make your own dry mix entry). It has a wee bit of xantham gum. Also, weigh the flour and eggs.

*Dairy free version, from the chef: Any nondairy milk will work in place of the cow’s milk, but my favorite is unsweetened almond milk.

https://glutenfreeonashoestring.com/sheet-pan-pancakes/#wprm-recipe-container-64128

At the beach, I deserve a calm nervous system

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We have been gifted some beautiful weather for the beginning of this trip. First was wall-to-wall sun, today was a mix of clouds and sun. Warm, delightful, the hubster is fishing today.

I am making 5 hour stew to eat and drop with a neighbor who is recuperating from surgery. I started an art piece.

Here is a photo of the view from our deck. It is a perfect place to do my meditation.

Blue sky with a layer of light white clouds. A turquoise house to the left, a green house to the right. A large dune in between and the green blue waters of the Atlantic can be seen. A deck railing is in the foreground and it is made of wood.

A Slow Walk to Death (written 2016, revisited 2024)

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I have a hospice client I’ve been visiting since March. She is on a slow walk to death. She is unhurried about the process in all ways. She is directing it. Never doubt that the one who is doing the business of dying has a say in the progress. Every person I’ve sat with has shown this to be true. Not a stop to it, mind you, but the final puff of breath doesn’t come without consent.

Each week there is a little less fat under her skin as her illnesses take from her more than she can manage to replenish. She gets chilled easily so she wears thick clothes, lap blankets, and fingerless gloves pulled halfway down her hands. I see the upper half of her fingers, and I see the bones more clearly each visit. This week her gloves were pushed back to her wrists.

It was like an anatomy lesson laid out in topographic relief across the backs of her hands. Almond and purple tissue paper skin creates the ground with raised blue roads running the length, winding around knuckle-boulders as tendons stretch taut between unnaturally long looking bones. As she drifted in and out of naps I looked at her hands, fascinated that they could be reduced to their base elements, yet still function to pick tiny bits of fluff from her blanket, grab my hand and pull it to her lips to give a kiss, then entwine her fingers with mine for our prayer before I leave.

The human body is an amazing thing, and it stays just as amazing during the final slide to the door that we all go through. Blessings to the hands, and all they have done, and all they continue to do, even as they waste away to resembling the model strung up on poles in physiology labs. Blessings to the hands of the dying, offering poignant visuals to become memories for those who will remain.