Letter From the Editor
A Note from the Stone Soup Test Kitchen
For the last few weeks the Stone Soup test kitchen has been filled with delicious smells, from melting cheese and savoury tomato sauce, via sweet baking rich with fruit and chocolate, to refreshing smoothies and celebratory spiced punch. Every one of these smells and tastes evokes a memory or a feeling, and each one of the recipes in the Food Issue tells a story--of family, of inventiveness, of literary inspiration, of home, of friends, or what happened the last time our writers tasted or made this or that. We’ve loved reading the recipes’ stories as well as making—and eating—every one of them, and we hope you do, too. Write and let us know the new stories they inspire as they travel from our writers’ kitchens and into yours. Let the culinary adventures begin!
Fiction
My name is Jeff and I am like every other normal kid in the world going into the seventh grade. Actually, maybe I’m not normal because my family is rich. My family has a mom, dad, older brother, and younger sister. I am totally different from everyone in my family. For instance, I have never liked summer. On the other hand, everybody else in my family does. I wish my family would let us have more fun. If I ask my parents to get a pool, they say no. If I try to think of something else we could get for fun, like a beach house or something, the answer is always no. My parents just say, “Your brother and sister don’t need a pool or beach house. Why do you?’’ Well, moving on, I know my family better than anyone else. I don’t think my older brother knows I am alive. He is always in the basement. My brother is either on his phone, computer, or x-box. I think basements are gloomy and dark. Don’t forget creepy like my sister’s dolls. My sister is always upstairs somewhere. I think she’s either drawing on her whiteboard or teaching her invisible class. She likes to play school with her dolls and teach them useless stuff! I’m a boy so I don’t like to play with creepy dolls. When I ask my brother and sister if they want a pool, my brother just says no, he’s happy in the basement, and my sister says, “No, I don’t want to drown!” Besides my parents’ favorite word being no, here’s more information about them: Every single morning I wake up to the sound of my dad exercising. I hear the jump rope noises. “Whoooo, whoooo, whoooo,” goes the rope. It makes me giggle a little. I laugh into my pillow because it’s so annoying. So just like my brother and sister, my dad likes his summers. My smart mom is always busy shopping and taking care of everyone in the house. She has no complaints about summer either. So then there is me, Jeff. As I said, I’m totally different from everyone in my family. I like checkers, chess, drawing, reading, and painting. Wait; I feel like I am forgetting something important. Oh yeah! I love to bake. So every summer I sign up for a baking class. My family thinks baking is messy and not a good way to spend my time. I am always the best student in the baking class. The baking teacher always says to my parents, “Your son is the #1 baker in my class! I have never seen anyone bake as wells as him!” When the teacher told them this, my parents would say, “We love to hear that good news! We love that he is the best in the class and hope he does such a good job every single time!” When I heard them say this the first time, I thought to myself, “Really? That isn’t true.” You see, I didn’t think they really cared much that I am so good at baking. I thought what they were really thinking was, “Jeff! Stop wasting your time with this baking nonsense! Be like the other kids!” When we drove home from baking class no one said a word during the ride. When we got home, I ran to my room full speed. When I got to my room, a million thoughts were in my head: “Why are they mad at me? I’m trying to be myself. What’s wrong with that?” I wanted to stay in my room forever, just like my brother stays in the basement. But one night I had a sudden thought. I felt like a koala wondering why he was awake! I thought about how baking is a great activity, that I liked it as much as koalas like to sleep, and that I had to prove this to my family. I went downstairs with my flashlight. I didn’t want to wake anybody up. I looked at the table to make sure I had baking class in the morning so I would be able to carry out my plan. I always leave myself reminder notes if I do. I was right! I did have baking class in the morning! I thought about the one time I missed baking class because my parents had thrown out my reminder note, hoping that I would forget that I had class. I went back to bed feeling happy about going to class in the morning. I slept like a baby. Wait—not like a baby, because babies always scream! I slept like a koala because koalas sleep almost all day. As usual, just like every morning, I woke up to the sounds of my dad doing his exercises. “Whooooo, whooooo, whoooo,” said the rope. I went downstairs for breakfast. I thought about my plan and felt as happy as peanut butter smashed together with jelly. Oh, no! The reminder note about baking class was gone! Well, this time I was not going to forget about my class! I waited until it was time to leave for class. Instead of asking my parents to drive me there, I took myself there on my bike! I knew that if I asked my parents to take me they would say, “Jeff, you don’t have class today.” I outsmarted them! I rushed to class on my bike. At baking class the teacher said, “We are going to make brownies today.” I was surprised! I thought the teacher had read my mind for a moment there, because making brownies was my plan late last night when I woke up. But then I remembered that she had told us that last week. I added a special ingredient to my batter—cocoa powder! When the teacher tried my brownies she said, “This is the best brownie ever! It is super soft and chocolaty!” It was now time to put my plan to work. After class, I
Fiction
This summer, I traveled with my family to China’s Jiangsu province. One night, we had a soy sauce chicken wrapped in tinfoil for dinner. It looked like a present with a bright red ribbon tied around its center. The plate was china and somehow three times the size of a full sized chicken! Our waitress did the kung-fu hand symbol and then bowed at us, took out a scissor with red blades and handles. Very unique, in my opinion. The waitress said cutting the ribbon would mean good luck and prosperity, and she passed the scissors to me. She looked at me with a look of calm benevolence in her eyes and said: “God bless you, eternal luck and fortune to you.” The meal reminded me of when my mom makes hot pot chicken at home. She makes it at least once a week, always preparing it early in the day and letting it boil for hours, until the meat is perfectly tender and flavorful. When we sit down to eat, each of us has a little dish for sauce, and after we finish eating the chicken, my mom cautiously carries in a pan of fresh raw vegetables to dump into the pot to soak up all the leftover chicken broth. Tall, white mushrooms, sometimes lettuce, but mostly this Chinese green called bok choy, as well as sweet potato leaves, which sometimes leaves a purple mist on the top of the soup, are dropped in. The vegetables make a sizzling sound that make me feel safe and comforted. We always have plenty of leftovers to last the week. I never tire of chicken, and sometimes I wonder if it has anything to do with the fact I was born in the year of the rooster. Obviously, a chicken and a rooster are not the same thing, but the rooster is the closest animal a chicken gets to in the Chinese zodiac. Once, I wanted to know more about my animal, so I looked up some of its personality characteristics. I learned that roosters have five main virtues; they are literary, warrior-like, courageous, benevolent, and trustworthy. I think they describe me. In fourth grade, I read 137 books. I usually win ‘Mercy’ when we play that in school (boys and girls included). I don’t know if I’d call myself courageous, but I guess it depends on the situation. This summer, for example, I had to play the violin before thousands of people night after night for several weeks.The first night we played in Chicago, and I was terrified, but eventually I got over it... After that, we traveled all over China, playing in major cities, including Nanjing, which is where I encountered the chicken with the red bow, one night after playing a long concert that left me very hungry. I’ve read that roosters were especially important in ancient times. They didn’t just serve as farm animals, or food, as we see in the chicken. Roosters were once treasured for their hunting abilities and hunger for pesky insects. Even weirder, I learned, was that people born the year of the rooster will be unlucky in 2017. Apparently, this zodiac year offended the God of Age, and his curse is a stroke of bad luck this year! All of this sounds particularly odd when I think about the delicious chicken I had a few months ago in Nanjing—this strange combination of good and bad luck possibly headed my way. I only have a few more months until the new year, so I guess I should count my blessings now, but I’ve never taken all of the folklore seriously. I guess I realize that every memory I have of eating chicken, or sharing it at a restaurant or around a holiday, reminds me how each place in the world carries its own traditions. Sometimes I wonder if, as humans, we are programmed to enjoy, or even need, traditions to pass down to future generations. I also like to think about how it isn’t natural to think something like, what do chickens think of us? Instead, we focus on what we know, or want to believe, about chickens!
Fiction
“Wait up Maggie!” Helen yelled at her older sister as they raced towards the Rite Aid at the corner of Montgomery Street. Every day they would meander in with their fifty cents and buy the blueberry Pop Rocks in the candy section. Maybe they would have a small conversation with their friend Rhonda who worked at the register. Rhonda would tell them how cute their new dresses were, and that they have gotten so big, even though Helen didn’t feel any bigger than she did the day before. Helen would admire the long, tight, dark braids that hung down from Rhonda’s head, and Maggie would talk to Rhonda about “grown up stuff” as Helen felt the popping of the Pop Rocks on her tongue. However, things were different that fall day. As she skipped across the sidewalk to catch up to Maggie, Helen saw the old, blind man sitting on the dirty, tattered bench outside the Rite Aid. His ripped wool hat was lying upside-down in front of him. His pursed lips slid the side of a harmonica in his hands, a beautiful tune. Helen couldn’t help but wonder why he decided to sit on that old, dirty bench, getting the remains of his clothes all muddy. She looked inside the upside down hat and saw one penny lying there, almost lonesome. Helen reached her hand down to the bottom of her back pocket and slowly pulled out the fifty cents that she planned on using for her blueberry Pop Rocks, and dropped it into the almost empty hat. “Bless your soul,” the old man smiled at Helen, as if he could see her. Something about that moment made Helen’s heart feel warm, almost like she put a brand new wool sweater around her soul. “No Pop Rocks today, Helen?” Rhonda questioned, frowning, “You’re too young to go on a diet. Eat while you can because when you get to this age—” “I’m not going on a diet Rhonda,” Helen chuckled, “I just gave my fifty cents to the man with the empty hat in front of him.” “Oh, I see. Well, I suppose a good deed like that deserves a reward. Here you are.” Rhonda held out a pack of blueberry Pop Rocks in front of Helen. “No Rhonda, it’s okay. I don’t need Pop Rocks.” Helen didn’t know why she felt a sudden impulse to help the old man, let alone ignore free Pop Rocks. It felt like it was her duty, her duty to help this man, this stranger, somehow. Over the next three weeks, Helen gave her fifty cents to the old, blind man sitting on the dirty bench outside the Rite Aid. Every week the man, who through small conversations Helen eventually learned was Salvatore Johnson, would smile and thank her. With time, Helen seemed to forget her childlike ritual of buying Pop Rocks, and she was only concerned now with her new friend Mr. Johnson. A few days later, Helen was walking to the Rite Aid alone. Her sister, who used to accompany her, was home sick. She skipped down Montgomery Street and pulled out the fifty cents from her back pocket, but when she looked up she was surprised. Mr. Johnson wasn’t on the bench. There was no one there. Helen frowned when her eye spotted two words encrusted in the bench that she had never noticed before. She traced the letters with her finger: MARY JOHNSON. Helen didn’t know who this Mary Johnson was, or why her name was on this bench, or why her last name matched Salvatore’s. * * * Helen didn’t know what happened to Salvatore Johnson. She hoped that his life improved for the better, and that was why he was no longer on the bench every day. She hoped that her good deeds brought him good fortune. Helen’s eyes went from the dirty bench to the window of the Rite Aid where she saw Rhonda smiling at her. “You buying Pop Rocks today, pumpkin?” Rhonda asked Helen as the bell over the door rang when it opened. “Yeah,” Helen said, “I think I’ll get some Pop Rocks today.” As Helen ambled out of the store and past the bench with her Pop Rocks, she noticed an unusual feeling that she never had before. She felt aware, selfless, and humbled. She knew that she would be forever changed, all because of some Pop Rocks, some spare change, and Mr. Johnson.
Fiction
Life is great as a mushroom. I live in a forest, in mountains of Tibet. Each day starts with the chirping of the early birds, ready to start off our morning on a good note. All across the steep valleys, red pandas, musk deer, and takins are awakening from a night slumber. I live under my own personal blanket of moss, and I listen to the sounds of nature as my body absorbs nutrients from the roots of a thousand year old tree. What a relaxed, laid back life. Nothing could be better. One day, I heard the sound of voices in the forest. They grew louder and louder, until suddenly, a blinding light came upon me as my moss was lifted from my head. A human peered down at me. I was gently eased out of the ground. A soft hand held me to be examined by shining, brown eyes. Black hair frames them on a face that is much tanned. Her cheeks are such dark red that it looked as if the sun had pinched her on both cheeks. Her eyes crinkle at the edges as she smiles. “Mom, I found one! I found another mushroom!” she exclaimed. Her mother, standing not too far away, also smiles. “Good work, Tashi, put them in the basket.” Tashi skipped over and put me in gently, as if she were afraid to break me. In the basket were about ten other mushrooms. Tashi walked away. I don’t know how long I lay in the basket, listening to their talk. Once in a while, another mushroom was put into the basket I was in. After a long time, we eventually came out of the borders of the forest, to a small house. The house seemed old, built with painted white material that looked like stone. The shingles on the roof were made of wood. The sun was settling down behind a nearby hill, as the girl and her mother entered the small house. Inside, sat an old man, tending to the blazing fire in the middle of the little room. Two other rooms could be seen from there. They each had lumpy beds, a bucket for washing, and some clothes. It was all very clean and tidy, or at least, as much as it will get. A pot and a pan hung from the wall. On a peg were two cloth hats, and a table was under them, against the wall. There was a small cabinet for cooking supplies, and there were some jars for food. “Hi, grandpa, not so many mushrooms today,” Tashi addressed her grandfather with a long face. He handed her two bowls of butter tea, with two lumps of roasted barley flour. She handed one of each to her mother. “It seems that my goal will never come true,” Tashi’s mom sighed. “The motorcycle?” asked the grandfather. “Yes. It will make us so efficient, getting to the forest and market; it will boost our income considerably, with the added time to pick mushrooms.” Tashi looked up from her food. “Used motorcycles aren’t a hopelessly high price. I think if we save up, we’ll be able to get one in no time.” “Oh, Tashi,” her mother said, “you always know how to cheer me up.” The next morning, they ate a meal of yesterday’s meager leftovers. “We have to go now, grandpa,” Tashi reminded him. He smiled, and bade them a swift journey. Tashi and her mother set out to the market. After about an hour of walking, we approached a line of tents. Stopping at a green one, Tashi’s mother unloaded us onto the table. The man behind the desk sorted us into piles and counted each. He handed her something, and piled us into a crate. I was able to see through a hole in the crate, as the same man put us in a truck and took us to some kind of facility. There, once again, they unloaded us onto a table, but this time, masked people were all around us. One of them lifted me up, examined me and gave me a gentle bath. It felt very nice, as the person’s fingers rubbed my grubbiness away, turning me to a flawless model of a mushroom. He dried me off, and wrapped clear plastic all over me. Then, I was whisked into a bin, which was tightly sealed, then hauled onto a plane. When we were off of the plane, I heard a man say, “New York.” Huh. I wonder what that is. I was transported to a refrigerated truck, full of other produce. The icy air was comforting. It reminded me of my forest back on the mountain in Tibet. I was transported to another market that was much bigger, cleaner, and more modern. It has white tile floors and bright lights. It was so air conditioned that it didn’t feel much warmer than the truck. We were put on display, in a bed of ice. Nestled next to me was a bundle of carrots, also clean and shiny, mirroring how grand I looked. I felt proud to be looking so delectable. Not minutes after I was placed in the ice, a looming face came out of nowhere and looked at me. It reminded me of Tashi, when she picked me up. However, this girl could not be more different. Her skin was a soft peach color, and her golden hair was held back by a silver clip. She seemed a little younger than Tashi, too. Her big eyes stared at me. They were a soft blue, like water. “Oh, dad, could we get this one? It’s so beautiful and delicate.” Her dad, with brown and silver hair, leaned over her shoulder. “These are a special mushroom called matsutake. They come from Tibet. I’ve heard they are very good grilled with steak.” I was shocked. Grilled? The girl shook her head. “Couldn’t I just plant it? Somewhere I can see it? Please, dad?” After
Fiction
The jeep jostled over the uneven terrain. Though the tough tires absorbed most of the shocks, I still jumped around in the back seat, my stomach lurching with every bump. It was late afternoon, and the sun blazed in the blue sky. A slight breeze stirred the tall grass and scrub brush and stunted trees that provided sparse shade, but it did little to combat the sweltering heat. Little moved on this vast plain, and I had spotted no animal life so far. The driver of the jeep, my parents’ good friend Cecil Dzwowa, explained that many animals escaped the heat of the day by hiding in the shade: the land really only came alive at night. I sighed, wiping sweat from my forehead. A refrain played over and over again in my mind—why, why, why. It was all I could think about. When I had suggested to my geologist parents that we spend winter vacation at home in Connecticut catching up with old friends and playing in the snow, I had not expected an outright refusal. I had not expected to be told that we were spending Christmas thousands of miles from home. And I had certainly not expected to be dragged along on yet another trip to survey rock formations. But that’s what happened. I had rebelled, like any self-respecting teenager would, but Dad got this annoyed look in his eyes and told me that I could either tag along or stay home alone for the full three weeks. And that, in my opinion, was not an option. I wanted a Christmas, and staying home alone was not the way to get one. And so that’s how I ended up on this stupid trip. The end. * * * We arrived at the village of Mbamano at sunset. Shadows were lengthening, and the shafts of light that penetrated through the trees above us looked golden. Mom and Dad took several photos, and I leaned against the dusty jeep and took a swig of sun-warmed water from my canteen. The village itself was small, mostly hidden in shadow. It consisted of about fifteen small huts that were scattered around a wide circle in the dust, like planets orbiting the sun. Cecil led us to one on the fringe of the circle. It was one of the largest huts, with clean, whitewashed walls and a thatched roof. Small windows punctuated the smooth surface at regular intervals, letting light in. Three beds, no more than cots, really, lay side by side on the floor. Each one was made up with a soft sheet, a pillow, and a netting of mesh to keep the mosquitoes away at night. Just past the beds, built into an extended recess in the wall, a small toilet and a washbowl with a water pitcher beside it stood at the ready. It wasn’t much, but the homey little hut was a lot less Spartan than what I expected the dwelling to be like. “Thank you so much!” Mom exclaimed, beaming at Cecil, who flashed one of his rare smiles at her in return. Dad pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “Yes, thank you.” Suddenly his face clouded. “But there are only three beds. Where will you sleep?” Cecil had a quick answer for that. “Oh, I figured that the third bed was for me. Angela can sleep out with the lions tonight.” Mom and Dad laughed, and Cecil laughed too. I stretched my lips into a fake grin, trying to act as though it didn’t bother me. It did, though. I hated it when adults spoke as though I wasn’t there or teased me about something. Sometimes I wished that all grown-ups were like my parents’ friend Celia Dwyer. She was a writer blessed with a memory that fell back into the distant past. She remembered what it was like to be thirteen—too old to be considered a kid, but too young to be spoken to like an adult. That was why she always talked to me as an equal, not someone to be looked down upon. When the laughter died down, Cecil spoke again. “I am only kidding, of course. I have arranged to spend the night with a friend who lives here in Mbamano. He has an extra bed, and it is time we caught up anyway. Good night, good friends.” “Good night to you too, Cecil,” Mom said. He left with a jaunty wave, and the three of us settled down. By the light of a solar-powered lantern, we brushed our teeth and spit our toothpaste into the dirt, rinsing with the water in the washbowl. When I finished, I settled down in bed, staring up at the white ceiling above me. Anger still smoldered in my chest. Now I was here, ready to be bored beyond my wildest dreams. But at least I could expect to return home soon. Mom and Dad always misjudged the time it would take them to get their work done. We’d likely have a full week back at home to spend any way we wanted. “Good night, Angela,” Mom said, rustling sheets as she got into bed. I didn’t say anything. I crossed my arms and pouted. Dad extinguished the light. “Good night, An,” he said. I turned over, facing away from him. Outside, a soft wind blew. The moon rose, and myriad stars twinkled. Peace reigned over all, but I still burned with anger. “You sure you’ll be OK?” Mom asked worriedly. “Of course, Mom!” I replied, rolling my eyes. “It’s just that…” She trailed off, looking at the steadily rising sun. “Just go!” I flopped down on my cot, making an irritated sound in the back of my throat. I’d rather stay in the hut than let myself be dragged along on another survey. “OK, but you better have dropped the attitude by the time I get back,” Mom said. She sighed. “There’s food in the blue bag if you need
Poems
Here is a naughty child. He acts like a wild tiger. He sounds like a screeching car. He pretends he is an exploding rocketship. He ate too much sugar before bedtime.
Poems
Dough spinning like a helicopter blade then toppings tomato sauce, veggies, cheese. It bubbles like hot stew in the oven, it sizzles on the pan. Crunchy as an apple Gooey as honey. Cheese drips like a lava waterfall. Crackles when I chew it, Explodes in my mouth like dragon fire.
Honor Roll
Stone Soup Honor Roll: December 2017
Welcome to the Stone Soup Honor Roll! We receive hundreds of submissions every month by kids from around the world. Unfortunately, we can't publish all the great work we receive. So we created the Stone Soup Honor Roll. We commend all of these talented writers and artists and encourage them to keep creating. – The Editors Scroll down to see all the names (alphabetical by section), including book reviewers and artists. STORIES Atara Bayla Feldman, 8 Olivia Marocco, 11 Kaya Simcoe, 12 Mia Widrow, 10 Stiles White, 13 POEMS Anna Calegari, 12 Maggie Kastelein,11 Isabella Webb, 11 ARTWORK Erin Eicher, 13 Andrew Mc-Cullough, 8 Ripley Wong, 10
Recipes
Ponche Navideño (Christmas Punch)
Walking into my grandmother's house, I gaze at the Christmas tree, sparkling lights winding their way to the peak where a silver star adorns the top branch of the petit pine. Beneath, is a mini lit-up Christmas village, with a fragile train chugging its way through the town and winding through the snow-coated cottages. My grandmother has arranged this small village for nearly fifty years, since she married my grandfather. This year is no different; the same train whistles. I hear my aunt's dog bark a cheerful “hello.” Nat King Cole’s, silky tone is singing “The Christmas Song” alongside the joyful chorus of voices from my aunts and uncles. I sigh blissfully. I breath in the sweet, spicy smell of the Ponche. The list of ingredients gallop through my mind: cinnamon, cider, cloves, coconut, pineapple, papaya… Just this past autumn, my grandmother taught me the recipe, patiently helping me prepare it, and write down what had been locked away in her mind. My grandmother greets me at the door, giving me a hug, and smiling, the words spilling out of her mouth soft, smooth and sweet, “Feliz Navidad!” She proceeds to present me with the Ponche, and I gladly take it, daintily slurping the flavorful drink: spices, apples and raisins fill my mouth. The cup is warm to the touch; heat is radiating off the white ceramic mug and filling my heart with happiness. Serves 7 Ingredients 1 medium Granny Smith apple 1 small Gala apple 1 ½ cups (350g) papaya (any variety) 1 ½ cups (350g) pineapple 1 baby Thai coconut 9 pitted prunes ½ cup (115g) raisins 4 cups (1 litre) water 4 cups (1 litre) apple cider 3 medium cinnamon sticks 3 cloves 4 allspice berries ½ cup (115g) raw sugar Method Dice the apples, papaya and the pineapple into small cubes. Place them in a large pot. Have an adult open the coconut. Empty the juice into a separate glass. (You will not need it in this recipe.) Scoop away the coconut flesh with a spoon. Place the coconut in the pot. Cut the pitted prunes in half. Place them in the pot, and add the raisins. Pour the apple cider and the water into the pot. Put in the cinnamon, cloves, and allspice. Pour in the sugar. Set on the stove with medium heat until it boils. Lower the flame and simmer for 18-20 minutes. Serve hot.
Recipes
It all began with boredom. It was a sweltering August day, and my younger brother, Ciaran, and I couldn't agree on what to do. "We could play Go Fish," Ciaran suggested. I shook my head. "No." Okay," Ciaran fidgeted a little, trying to think. "How about—" "I could read to you," I interjected. Ciaran sighed. "C'mon, Evelyn, it's summer. School doesn't start for two weeks. How about—" Once again, I interrupted: "We can pick raspberries and make a raspberry smoothie." On the side of our house, there is a colossal, overgrown raspberry bush that produces many raspberries from about May up until mid-October, when the weather turns cold. One of my favorite summer activities is picking raspberries and then eating them. But it was a small spark of genius that it might be fun to try to make raspberries into a smoothie. After all, we had a blender—though I had never used it before. Ciaran smiled and agreed with me. "Let's do it." And after grabbing a couple of bowls and calling, "Mom, going outside to pick raspberries!", we were on our way. When we pick raspberries, it isn't the most pleasant thing in the world. It just so happens that the bush is west of the house, and that at 3:00 in the afternoon, the scorching sun is in the west, too, and it decides to roast your back. It doesn't help that the bush produces raspberries as well as thorns. The thought of getting a cool smoothie at the end of all of this kept me going, and at least it was only 90°. As soon as we filled three bowls with raspberries, we went inside, dumped the raspberries in a strainer, and washed them. As we did, Mom came into the kitchen. "Hi," she greeted us. "What are you doing with the raspberries?" "Making a smoothie," Ciaran replied as I set down the strainer and searched in the cupboard for the blender. "You've never made one before," she said. "Do you need help?" I shook my head. "We're good. This was our idea, after all." "Okay," she said and left. As we dumped the raspberries from the strainer to the blender, we couldn't help but be excited. We had never made anything with raspberries, and now we were making a smoothie. "Moment of truth," I told Ciaran as I plugged the blender into an outlet and switched it ON. The blender began to whirr, and the raspberries began to spin. It looked pretty good, actually, in the minute before raspberry smoothie bits began spewing out the top and onto the counter that had just been cleaned. "No, no, no!" I fretted. To Ciaran, who was closer to the blender, I said, "Switch it off!" "I can't do that without—" Ciaran began, reaching for the switch. Before he could, mushed raspberry bits sprayed him in the cheek. "Who cares?" I snapped at him. "You can wash your face after!" A few raspberry bits in the face later, Ciaran flipped the switch and it was off. I reached for a towel so that I could cover the top of the blender. A few minutes later, after we drank our smoothies, Mom came into the kitchen. "How did it go?" she asked. I smiled. "Perfect. Just perfect." Now picking raspberries and making smoothies out of them is one of our favorite summer activities. Of course, we put a rag over the top now so that raspberry bits stay in the blender. But if I were to choose, I wouldn’t put a rag over the blender, just for the fun of it. Serves 1 Ingredients 1 cup (200g) fresh raspberries 1 Mandarin orange, peeled 2 ice cubes Method Put all ingredients in a blender and switch it to high. Blend until thick and smooth. Note: If your blender is over-reactive, make sure to screw the top on tight and put a towel over the top, just in case!
Recipes
Mom’s S’mores Bars, from My Family Cookbook
My mom always makes these for my family and me. She also made them for my neighbors when they first moved in, that was our way of making them feel welcomed. They also loved them. My mom is an amazing baker and can make anything that requires baking for any type of occasion. Ingredients ½ cup (115g) butter, softened ¾ cup (175g) brown sugar 1 egg 1 teaspoon vanilla 1 1/3 cups (200g) all-purpose flour ¾ cup (65g) graham cracker crumbs (or crushed wheatmeal or Digestive biscuits) 1 teaspoon baking powder ¼ teaspoon salt 5 Hershey bars, or 200g other milk chocolate) 1 small container marshmallow crème, or 200g marshmallows Method Heat oven to 350ᐤF (180ᐤC). Grease one 8-inch (20cm) square pan. Beat butter and brown sugar in a large mixing bowl until light and fluffy. Add egg and vanilla beat well. Stir together flour, graham crackers, baking powder, and salt. Add to butter mixture and beat well until blended. Press half the dough into pan. Arrange chocolate bars over dough. Spread marshmallow crème over it and press rest of dough over it. Bake 30-35 minutes.
Recipes
This cookie was discovered when I was bored. I wrote up a recipe and the Lembas cookie was invented! This cookie is named after the Lembas bread from the Lord of the Rings that the elves make. And, just like the bread, you can eat one cookie and be full for a couple of hours. As my family says: “It tastes like gingerbread, smells like banana bread, and has a texture like a sponge cake.” This cookie is truly unique. Ingredients 1 cup (120g) all-purpose flour (or cake flour. I use all-purpose for everything) 1 cup (200g) sugar (less if you like. You can use ½ - ⅔ cup (200g) of honey as a substitute. I found that honey tastes better if you like that sort of thing.) ½ cup (115g) butter (unsalted, as salted doesn't taste good. Blech!) 2 eggs 1 pinch salt 1 tsp baking soda (to make it rise. Don't be surprised when something bubbles in the oven, it's just the soda!) ½ cup (120ml) milk (lactose-free works just as well as the real thing) Optional ingredients These optional ingredients are just suggested flavorings. Some people don't like ginger, so if they don't want to, they can take it out with no ill effects, same with the cinnamon, and the molasses. Ginger (½ - ¾ tsp) Cinnamon (½ - ¾ tsp) Molasses (up to 1 tsp, to taste) Method Put all the dry ingredients into a big bowl. If using honey instead of sugar, please see next step. Melt the butter (but not completely!) and add to the dry stuff. If using honey, pour it in now, please. If you use honey, it might be runnier, but once it's baked, it'll be fine. Add the eggs and mix in. Pour in the milk and mix everything together. In the meantime, you can preheat the oven (some ovens heat up almost immediately, like mine does, so for me, heating the oven is always the last step. If yours heats up slowly, turn it on while melting the butter). Pour the mixture onto a baking tray tray (approx 9 x 13” / 23 x 33cm) covered in parchment paper, and bake at 400 ̊F (200 ̊C) until golden brown (around 20-30 mins). Don’t worry if the mixture is runny at first, because this is what is supposed to happen. Enjoy with jam or butter. Yum!
Recipes
My family makes three kinds of cookies every year at Christmas. There’s a dark chocolate mint brownie, a sugar cookie, and a chocolate chip peanut butter cookie. Ever since I’ve been small, I’ve asked my mom every year if I can help. For as long as I can remember, she’s let me get things for her—whisks, bowls, measuring cups. However, this year, even though I’m twelve, I don’t expect any more than a “Not this year, Lily. Maybe next year.” But when, as she’s getting out the ingredients for the chocolate chip peanut butter cookies, I ask, “Can I do them this year, Mom?” I’m surprised when she says, “Sure, Lily. You’ve helped me for a bunch of years. Do you think you could manage it?” “Sure,” I say, thrilled. I’ve made muffins before, but never one of the Christmas cookies. She hands me the recipe, and under her watchful eye, I gather the ingredients and begin to mix them together. When I’m about halfway through, the phone rings. My mom picks it up, saying, “I’ll be on the phone for a little while. Finish mixing them and put them in the oven. I should be off the phone by the time they come out, but if not, let them cool and put them in some Ziploc bags and put them in the box with the rest of the cookies.” Then, to the phone, she says, “Hello? Oh, hi, yeah, this isn’t a bad time…” She walks up the stairs to talk in peace. I finish mixing most of the ingredients. The last ingredient is butter—I look at it for a moment, then shrug. Dad always substitutes oil for butter. I get out the oil and pour in the correct amount. Mixing them together, I accidently spill the chocolate chip bag a bit. Oh well, I think. A few extra chocolate chips never hurt anybody. I set them on the cookie sheet in little balls and stick them in the preheated oven. By the time I’m done cleaning up the timer is beeping and I open the oven. The cookies look slightly…flatter…than usual, but I think nothing of it as I let them cool, then lay them in plastic bags and put them with the other Christmas cookies. A few minutes later, Mom comes back in. “Done?” she says. “Good. It’s time the Christmas cookies were done, we’ve never been doing them on the twenty-third before.” * * * Now it is Christmas day, and we’re spending it, as always, at Aunt Lavinia’s with the rest of our family. Mom and I lay out the cookies on a large tray. She unloads our box and looks at me very, very hard. “What did you do to the cookies?” she asks, rather angrily. “I only traded the butter for oil like Dad always does,” I say, brushing my hair out of my face nervously. “Not for cookies!” she said. She never fools around with recipes. I’m expecting more, but she just sighs. “Oh well,” she says. “Too late to change them. They’ll have to do.” About halfway through the night, Aunt Lavinia comes up to me and Mom, one of my cookies in her hand. “These are the best you’ve ever made!” she says enthusiastically. “What did you do differently?” Mom’s face breaks into a smile. “Ask Lily,” she says. “She’s the one who made them.” Aunt Lavinia turns to me. “These are great,” she says. “You should make them again next year!” Since then, I’ve always made the chocolate chip peanut butter cookies at Christmastime. Aunt Lavinia’s yet to be disappointed. Note: “Christmas Cookies” is a fictional story! However, it was inspired by the following recipe. Recipe makes approximately 36 cookies. Ingredients 1 cup (200g) all-purpose flour ½ teaspoon baking soda ¼ teaspoon salt ⅓ cup (80ml) vegetable oil ¼ cup (60ml) milk ½ cup (55g) granulated sugar or honey 1 cup (200g) packed light brown sugar 1 cup (200g) peanut butter 2 eggs 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 cup (200g) chopped peanuts 1 cup (200g) semi-sweet chocolate chips Method Preheat oven to 350⁰F (175⁰C). Prepare your baking sheets with parchment paper or butter. Whisk flour, baking soda and salt in a small bowl. Set it aside. Cream oil, milk, granulated sugar and brown sugar in a mixer or with a whisk. Slowly add the eggs and vanilla, continuing to mix until they are incorporated. Then add the peanut butter to the wet ingredients and combine thoroughly. Slowly add the dry ingredients into the wet, stirring constantly, to make a soft dough. Stir the peanuts and chocolate chips into the cookie batter. Scoop tablespoons of dough onto sheet pans, leaving 2 inches between each cookie. Bake for about 12 minutes. Cool for about 2 minutes before removing from pan.
Recipes
Gluten Dairy Egg-Free Brownies
My best Brownies ever. The first bite of my OWN recipe. All in that one bite, I tasted what I had been working on for such a long time. About a year before I made my brownies, I had found a recipe on the internet that I wanted to try. It turned out so well that when people tasted it, with a smile on their face saying it was so good, that they wanted another one, saying they couldn't stop, it made me want to keep going. I bake for many reasons, it makes me happy, I go into my own world in the kitchen, I forget all my troubles and just BAKE. But the main reason I bake is that lots of kids have allergies like me and my family do. I can't have gluten or wheat. I also can’t have too many eggs or dairy. The rest of my family is allergic to things like me but they are also allergic to nuts and soy. It sounds pretty impossible to bake without all of those crucial ingredients, but I do it differently. I put my heart, soul, love, joy, sorrow, sadness, my everything into what I bake. I hope that you give this recipe a try and come to adore baking as much as I do, and I hope that you and your family enjoy these brownies as much as we do. Serves: 16 Ingredients 1 cup (175g) vegan/dairy free butter, melted and cooled in the fridge 2 tablespoons (30ml) grapeseed oil 1 cup (200g) brown sugar 1 cup (200g) white sugar 4 flax eggs, made from 4 tbsp ground flaxseed 5 tbsp hot (not boiling) water 4 teaspoons vanilla extract 1 cup (200g) gluten free flour blend 1 cup (85g) good quality, unsweetened cocoa powder (I use a combination of regular and dark) 1 teaspoon salt Dairy-free chocolate chips added to your liking (up to 1 ½ cups (200g)) Method Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C) then line a 7x11 inch baking tray with parchment paper and set aside. Make your flax eggs: combine your ground flaxseed meal with your warm (not boiling) water and set it aside for at least 5 minutes. In a large bowl combine the cold melted butter, oil, and both sugars. Add the flax eggs, vanilla and salt then whisk for about one minute until evenly combined. Over the same bowl, sift in the gluten-free flour blend and cocoa powder. Gently fold the all of the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients until JUST combined (do NOT overmix). Fold in half of the chocolate chips. Pour the batter into the prepared pan, then smooth the top. Generously top with the remaining chocolate chips. Bake for 35-40 minutes*, or until the center of the brownies is JUST set to the touch. Remove your brownies from the oven and allow to cool to room temperature before removing from the baking tray and cutting into pieces. *A note from the Stone Soup test kitchen: we only needed 30 minutes of baking, as our oven is quite hot, so you might want to check yours a bit sooner. Ours came out of the oven bubbling like lava so if yours do too we’d advise not touching them until they have cooled!
Recipes
One Saturday night a long time ago, my grandma and I had nothing to do. I went in the pantry to find some baking recipes. I saw a recipe that said Very Berry Pie. "Grandma," I said "come look at what I found!" My grandma told me this was her great grandma's recipe. "LET'S BAKE IT!" I said excitedly. We got out the pans and got the oven ready. We rolled out the pie crust and put it around the rim of the pie pan. Meanwhile my little brother sneaked into the kitchen and took some pie dough to play with. "WHERE DID THE PIECE OF THE PIE CRUST GO?" I hollered. I saw my little brother run off. He was so fast I could not catch up! DONK! I tripped over the stairs. He dropped the piece of pie crust and I caught it! "I HAVE RETURNED THE PIE CRUST!" I shouted like a brave knight. I looked at my arm and saw that it was bleeding. "That little rascal", I whispered. I grabbed a bandage and wrapped it around my arm. It stop bleeding. When we finished baking the pie, the crust was golden brown. The filling was warm and looked like a mixture of thick berries and sauce. I will always remember the first day I made Very Berry Pie because I still have a scar on my arm, and I bet my little brother will remember, too. Ingredients List of ingredients for the crust 1½ cups (180g) flour 1 stick (120g) butter ¼ cup (60ml) ice water a pinch of salt 1 egg yolk List of ingredients for the filling 8 oz (200g) blueberries 8 oz (200g) blackberries 8 oz (200g). raspberries 3 thinly sliced strawberries 1 cup (200g) granulated sugar ½ cup (55g) cornstarch 1 lemon Method How to make the crust First, get out a 12 inch (30cm) pie pan. Next, you need your flour and put it in a bowl. Rub the butter into it with your fingers. After that, take your egg. To separate the yolk, crack the egg in half over a bowl, let the yolk settle in one half of the shell and then keep transferring the yolk back and forth allowing the egg white to fall out into the bowl. Tip the egg yolk in another bowl. Make sure there are no egg shells in it. Whisk it with a whisk until it gets thick. Put it in with the flour and mix it in. Grab your half cup of water and pour it in the flour. Mix until thickened and combined. Take your hands and pick up the dough and sprinkle some flour on the counter. Take a rolling pin and roll out two pie crusts. Then gently set one crust in the pie pan. Put the crust around the rim. How to make the filling and bake the pie Take out a two quart saucepan and put in the berries and the sugar. The berries should be boiling. You want to reduce the heat, then add the cornstarch, and stir with a wooden spoon. Cook the berries over medium heat until they reduce. They should be thickened after 15 minutes. Let them cool off for 19 minutes. Take your lemon and stab it with a fork. Cut it in half. Squeeze the lemon juice in with the berries. Mix until thick. Scoop up the filling and drop into the crust in the pie pan. Wet the edges of the bottom pie crust so the top crust can stick together. Take your 2nd pie crust and put it on the top of the filling, then crimp both crusts together using a fork. Take your fork and put a little hole in the top of the crust so the pie can have some air. Bake the pie for ¾ - 1 hour at 350⁰F (175⁰C).* Let it cool for about fifteen minutes. *A note from the Stone Soup test kitchen: the pie will turn golden brown. This might take a little longer or a little less time, depending on your oven. You can start to check it after 35-40 minutes.
Recipes
For me, meatball subs are the taste and comfort of home. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been helping my grandma cook in the kitchen, and one of my earliest memories is helping her roll out the meatballs and place them on the cookie sheet. My grandmother, of course, was an excellent cook, and mostly eyeballed her ingredients, but I finally got her to write down a family recipe. This is a family legacy that has been passed down in my family, from my grandma, to my mom, and now to me. Ingredients Sauce 1 tablespoon sugar Two 14 oz. (400g) cans Italian seasoned stewed tomatoes One 28 oz. (800g) can peeled plum tomatoes 2 teaspoons sweet onion and herb seasoning* 2 garlic cloves, peeled Salt and pepper to taste Meatballs 2 lb (500g) ground/minced beef 1 lb (250g) ground/minced turkey ½ cup breadcrumbs 1 tablespoon sweet onion and herb seasoning* 2 teaspoons salt 2 teaspoons pepper To Serve 8 submarine rolls (found in the bakery section) 1 package. pre-shredded mozzarella cheese or other grated cheese to your liking Method Mix all of the meatball ingredients in a large bowl. Make sure you get it all combined, so your seasonings won’t be off. Drizzle about 2 tablespoons olive oil in a large pan, and let warm over medium heat. While that is happening, roll all of the meat into meatballs the size of golf balls. Brown the meatballs in the pan for about 3 minutes, then flip to the opposite side. If it will not turn, it is either burnt or it is not done. After another 3 minutes, turn the meatball to another raw side. When that is done, cook the remaining side, and then put in a large soup pot. It is ok if there is raw meat showing. While the meatballs are cooking in the sauce, they will cook thoroughly. Put all of the sauce ingredients in a large food processor and puree. (Another option is you can put all of your ingredients in your pot BEFORE the meatballs, and purée using a hand-held food processor or stick blender.) Pour all of the sauce into the pot with meatballs, and cook over LOW heat for about two hours. (You could also use a crock pot if you have one.) About 5 minutes before serving put your halved submarine rolls on a baking sheet in the oven for 5 minutes at 350օF / 175օC to toast them lightly. This is so the sauce won’t make your bread soggy. To assemble, take out one roll per person, and pour about 3 to 4 meatballs onto the roll. Pour on some extra sauce, top with a little cheese, and then you have your masterpiece! *A note from the Stone Soup test kitchen: you can use some onion salt and a mixture of basil, oregano, rosemary, thyme or other herbs to your taste if you don’t have any seasoning mix.
Recipes
Mamaw’s Mac and Cheese, from My Family Cookbook
I picked this recipe because my grandma always makes it for my cousin and me. Whenever we eat it we think of her. My grandma is the best cook ever! My family and I used to always meet at her house on Sundays and she would always make it. It tastes creamy and chewy at the same time. It is also the best mac and cheese ever! Ingredients 1 cup (125g) macaroni noodles ½ stick (60g) butter ½ cup (125ml) milk a little half-and-half or single cream 1 block (approx 4oz (115g)) Velveeta or other processed cheese Method Cook macaroni till partly tender. Drain and put back in pan. Add half and half, butter, and milk. Put over low heat. Microwave a chunk of Velveeta cheese to melt (about 1½ minutes in 30 second bursts); add to pan with macaroni and stir in. Watch closely, it is easy to burn, and take off when it looks ready.
Recipes
One day I wanted some pizza but it was too late to order any. But we did have all the ingredients in this recipe. I decided to experiment and see if I could make several small pizzas using the English muffins. With help from my Dad we cut a couple of muffins in half then toasted them in the toaster. Then I covered two of the muffin halves with ketchup and a layer of cheese. On the other two I put a piece of seaweed on top of the cheese. We put the four muffin halves in the microwave and cooked them for about 30 seconds. That melted the cheese. They were great! My favorite was the seaweed mini pizza! You can add other things, too, like pineapple or sausage.* Ingredients English Muffins Tomato Ketchup (or tomato paste/tomato purée) Mexican Three-Cheese Sprinkles (or other kinds of melting cheese like mozzarella, cheddar) Seaweed or Other Things (optional) Instructions Split English muffins in half and toast in a toaster Place halves on a microwavable tray, face up Spread ketchup on the halves Place a layer of cheese over the ketchup On top of the cheese add seaweed or any other topping Put the tray in the microwave and cook for about 30 seconds or until the cheese is nicely melted *A note from the Stone Soup test kitchen: we tried capers as one alternative topping, and some artichokes in oil from a jar as another. They were really good, too!
