Kathleen Rowland's Blog, page 12

Promote normal cells with bok choy, broccoli and their vegetable cousins!

Friends, what we eat is important.  Great news– cervical cancer is now one of the most preventable cancers around, reveals exciting research.  Eating cabbage, bok choy, broccoli isn’t hard, and it cuts the risk of cervical cancer as much as 50% says Lourisiana State scientists.  Thanks goes to indole-3-carbinol, a natural compound that nourishes cervical cells and helps them grow normally, explains Joel Fuhrman, M.D.  Last night I made a Tofu and Bok Choy Stir Fry and served it over quinoa.  Brown rice is good with this also– the microwavable packages are handy.

Ingredients

1 lb. of super-firm tofu (pressed)
1 Tablespoon coconut oil
1 clove of garlic, minced
3 heads of baby bok choy, chopped into bite-size pieces
5-6 Tablespoons low-sodium vegetable broth
2 teaspoons maple syrup
2 teaspoons braggs liquid aminos or low-sodium tamari
1-2 teaspoons Sambal Oelek, or similar chili sauce
1 green onion/scallion, chopped
½ – 1 teaspoon fresh ginger, grated
Instructions


Pat pressed tofu dry with paper towels, and cut into small bite-size pieces, about ½ inch thick.
Heat coconut oil on medium in a large skillet. Add tofu and stir-fry until lightly colored. About 5-6 minutes.
Add garlic and bok choy to the skillet. Stir-fry for about 1-2 minutes, until the bok choy begins to wilt. The skillet will start to dry out a bit, when this happens, you’ll want to add the vegetable broth as well as all the remaining ingredients (maple syrup, liquid aminos, Sambal Oelek, scallion and ginger). Keep stir-frying the mixture until all ingredients are well coated and most of the liquid evaporates, about 5-6 minutes.
Serve over quinoa or brown rice. Enjoy!

Fast relief for tired feet

Did you have a go-go day?  Do your feet feel extra tired and sore? Take off those pretty shoes and lace your fingers between the toes of the opposite foot as if you’re “shaking hands” with your foot.  Hold for a minutes, slowly pulling your toes back and forth, then repeat on the other foot.  This move stretches the muscles between the long bones of the feet, which get cramped from activity or wearing high heels.  Ahh… better?

Rustic Chicken Minestrone– light enough to lose weight but guaranteed to satisfy

My rustic chicken minestrone soup is packed with beans, vegetables, and chicken.  It’s not hearty in the calorie department but will satisfy any hungry appetite. Friends, I know a woman who lost 100 pounds.  She accomplished this by eating a lot of soup and walking.  Spread out a pretty tablecloth and never apologize for serving soup, salad, and a whole grain roll.

Ingredients

2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 medium yellow onion, diced small
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 can (15 ounces) diced tomatoes
10 cups chicken broth and 4 cups shredded chicken)
3/4 cup small pasta shells
3 medium carrots, cut into 1/4-inch rounds
1 Parmesan rind, plus grated Parmesan (optional)
1 bunch kale, tough stems and ribs removed, leaves cut into 1-inch pieces (4 cups)
1 medium zucchini, diced medium
1 can (15.5 ounces) chickpeas, rinsed and drained
Coarse salt and ground pepper

 

Directions

In a large pot, heat oil over medium-high. Add onion and cook until softened, 8 minutes. Add garlic and cook until fragrant, 30 seconds. Add tomatoes with juice and cook until liquid is evaporated, 4 minutes. Add broth and bring to a boil. Add pasta, carrots, and Parmesan rind, if using, and cook 5 minutes. Add kale, zucchini, and chickpeas and cook until zucchini is crisp-tender, 5 minutes. Stir in chicken and cook until warmed through, 1 to 2 minutes. Season with salt and pepper and remove rind before serving. Sprinkle with Parmesan, if desired.

 

Today I recovered my vanity stool!

Besides the new fabric, costing $14, here are the tools I used– screwdriver, scissors,  and staple gun. I turned the stool upside down and removed screws that hold the seat on the frame.  I didn’t remove the old fabric, just cut the new fabric to fit and stapled it on the backside.  Here’s a square of the fabric I used–

What is your favorite aerobic exercise?

New Years Resolutions? A pool might not be the first place you think of going when you’re looking to either shape up and slim down.  I’ve always loved swimming.  My favorite spot is swimming in Lake Okoboji, from dock to dock, under docks, and across Millers Bay. No other workout burns calories, boosts metabolism, and firms every muscle in your body (without putting stress on your joints).  I’m heading for the pool– it’s 82 degrees in the water.

What is your favorite aerobic exercise?

Kathleen’s brised short rib, stout, and potato Pot Pie

To make this Irish pot pie, short ribs are stewed in Guinness for pilling of this Irish meat pie, and crisped potatoes form the crust.  Prep time is 30 minutes.  Total cooking time is 4 hours and 30 minutes.  Recipe serves 8, and makes 8 mini pot pies or one 12-inche pot pie.

Ingredients for Beef Pot Pie:

For the Filling

4 pounds boneless short ribs, cut into 2-inch pieces
Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons safflower oil
1 medium yellow onion, halved and thinly sliced
5 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
2 bottles (12 ounces) stout, preferably Guinness (3 cups)
2 rosemary sprigs
1 pound cipollini onions, peeled
Ingredients for the topping:


6 medium russet potatoes (3 1/2 pounds)
Extra-virgin olive oil, for brushing
Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper Directions:


Make the filling: Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Season short ribs with salt and pepper. Dredge short ribs in flour, coating all sides. Transfer to a large plate. Heat oil in a large Dutch oven over high heat. Working in batches, brown short ribs, about 1 minute per side. Transfer to a large plate using kitchen tongs.
Reduce heat to medium. Add yellow onion to Dutch oven, and cook until golden, about 8 minutes. Add garlic. Cook for 2 minutes. Return meat to Dutch oven. Add stout and rosemary. Bring to a simmer. Cover, and transfer to oven. Bake for 2 1/2 hours.
Remove Dutch oven from oven, and add cipollini onions. Braise until meat is tender and onions are cooked through, about 30 minutes. Shred meat using 2 forks. Season with salt and pepper. Divide filling among eight mini (1-cup) pie plates, or transfer to a 12-inch (8-cup) gratin dish.
Make the topping: Raise oven temperature to 375 degrees. Peel potatoes, and very thinly slice each (preferably on a mandoline). Arrange potatoes over meat to form tight concentric circles, working around the edge and overlapping each potato by three-quarters. Brush with oil, and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Bake until topping is golden and filling is bubbling, about 45 minutes for mini potpies (1 hour for large potpie).

Will Amy end up back behind the wheel of a taxi? Deadly Alliance excerpt

Deadly Alliance is still available for the preorder bonus price of $0.99.  Excerpt from Chapter One:

“You know I love your sportswear designs, right?”

“I’m glad you do.” Amy Kintyre sat opposite a buyer, none other than Kira Radner, at a coffee shop in Lake Arrowhead, California. This sudden opportunity to re-launch her sportswear designs gave rise to the jitters, and Amy clutched her hands under the table.

Kira pressed her face forward, Amy’s sketches drawn on figures in action poses. With the portfolio spread between them, she flipped it sideways to examine the fabric swatches stapled along the sidebar. Their earthy tones blended with the marred wooden table.

Amy stilled the chatty urge.

“You know your presentation is in two weeks.” Kira was giving her the green light with Recreational Sportswear, Incorporated.

“I appreciate this, Kira.” To get her business back on track, she needed blocks of time to sew mockups. Amy inhaled the spicy aroma of the raw cedar wood. The under-construction décor of wide, timber planks on the walls made her think of her new self.   Crazy how thirty felt like seventeen when embracing life and freeing her artistic side.

“Then I beg you,” Kira said, “please, please, please have your product samples ready. Deadline is the first Monday of November.”

“Got it.” Fear over the tight time frame tasted sour in her throat, but this break called like no other.

Kira leaned forward. “Impressive functionality with the shorts. Who would have thought this pocket holds a Swiss Army Knife!” The buyer’s fingertips traced the pick-stitch hem, made with thread matching the fabric, appearing invisible. “Nice detail.”

Amy’s only mock-up kept their face-to-face meeting running like the hum of the fluorescent lights above.

“Oooo,” Kira said and raised both her eyebrows. “Classic nostalgia with a twist. A pocket knife for hikers!”

“Useful, I think.” The bright light flickered over associates who’d worked together in the past, but Amy didn’t share the difficulty of making the deadline. Her breathing shortened, and panic carved a hole in her chest.

Kira rested her chin on her open palm. “If RSI accepts your spring line, I’ve got a manufacturer in Los Angeles. So, I’ll handle production, okay?”

“It’s a deal.” Amy trusted she would do right by her. If Kira benefited by handling the step, she had another reason to bring Amy’s brand to completion.

“Great, Amy. Gotta bounce. Glad our evening meeting worked.” Kira, a Los Angelino up for the weekend, viewed Thursday as the new Friday.

“Your timing fit my schedule.” Amy’s taxi driving shift had ended ten minutes before meet time. Driving a cab gave her flexibility, ideal for taking care of her near-comatose ex-boyfriend. Her dedication ended with his death, but stagnation set in. After Kira’s phone call, Amy’s backbone solidified.

“Coming?” Kira gathered Amy’s portfolio and slid it into her valise.

The bell on the café door jingled, and Amy looked up. A suited man wearing a fedora low on his face stormed in.

About to stand up, Kira braced a hand on the table, but Amy grabbed her sleeve and yanked. “Don’t look up.” She placed a finger over her lips.

Kira whispered, “I take it the dude’s not fueling a cookie binge.”

To Amy’s left, the man’s briefcase lowered to the floor next to the counter. She recognized the distinctive signature clasp of the Irish Claddagh.

“Excuse me,” he said to the owner. “I lost the sheath for my knife. Know what I mean?”

The manager pushed a stack of bills forward.

“He’s an Irish mobster.” Kira spoke in a hushed tone. “This can’t be. Pacific waterfront, yes. Never here.”

Amy cringed. A few years before, her boyfriend had been shot in a Los Angeles drive-by. Was their high-end community no longer spared?

The mobster was counting the money.

The muscle in Kira’s jaw flinched. “This is as good a time as any.” In another second the buyer flew out the door without blowing her usual kiss.

The man in the fedora folded his arms over his chest as though he was king of the world.

Everything hinged on Amy’s ability to be nearly invisible. Looking down,  squeezing her eyes shut, she froze.  The bell rang.  Air escaped her lungs.

Out the window, the mobster steamed around the corner in the neon haze.

Amy collected her keys and belongings, took a deep breath, and headed to the counter.

The owner tallied up the bill and then grumbled about Mafia protection. “I don’t make waves. If I did, I’d drown.” His face contorted in agony.

Amy stared at his wary expression. Her mood shifted from empathy to anger. His passiveness churned in her stomach. “Sir, it’s a terrible threat. That’s the truth.”

“Miss, do you know what truth is?”

“I’m listening.”

“It’s what a guy believes. If I want to be friends, I ask what he believes. He tells me, and I say, ‘Ain’t it the truth?’”

“You can’t protest the mobster’s truth?”

“I foresaw a beating. A whacking would follow.” He shook his head.

“Oppressive.” Out the door to the empty street, she searched over her shoulder. Her knowledge of the area was absolute, but at this late hour she gritted her teeth at the thought of walking two blocks to her taxi. She froze with indecisiveness. Muted laughter and conversation came from the building next door. Instead of going home, she headed into Burlie’s Jazz Club for a glass of wine.

Inside, she waved to Burlie who was as friendly as her granddad with a talent for learning names. He waved back. “Here for the usual, Amy?”

“Sure am, Burlie.”

She made her way deeper into the club, passed couples, and found a solitary spot on the edge of a couch. With work to do, she willed the sax man, back on stage, to immerse her in a state of bluesy creativity.

Soon a waiter delivered a sparkling Cabernet. Between sips, she focused on her hiking shorts design and ripped a page from the back of her sketch book. It wasn’t long before blips of excitement added to the wine’s buzz.

As she hummed to the jazzy beat, she made a to-do list ending with the file with various size patterns. After a half-hour of regrouping and rethinking, Amy stopped tapping her foot. Kira Radner took a chance on her, but to turn this chance into a reality, she needed evenings and weekends to make the deadline.

Last Sunday while pouring over Craigslist classifieds, she’d zeroed in on Finbar Donahue’s bookkeeping ad. After her inquiry, his head accountant sent her a message. She still favored the toe she stubbed after her in-box pinged.

Thanks to what happened, the call from Kira, she needed Finn’s job. Her mind raced to her third interview for his nine-to-five. Tomorrow morning, if all went well, she’d land the regular-hours job, tailor made for her time frame. She ran a hand through her hair, picturing the arrogant know-it-all with a never-ending string of women hanging on his arm.

Handsome wasn’t the word to describe Finn, her late, ex-boyfriend’s partner. She’d been around Finbar Donahue enough to know he looked at his world as if he were the Almighty himself. The former Army Ranger made her way too nervous. She tensed up to such an extent, her voice broke.

Romance wasn’t part of this equation. Her dream to launch herself, stitch by stitch, came down to landing the job. On a mission, her goal was simple. She closed her eyes and prayed tomorrow she’d nail it.  Otherwise…

Get an adrenalin rush with Amy– excerpt from Deadly Alliance

Tirgearr Publishing has Deadly Alliance up at a bonus pre-order price of $0.99. Here is the conference room scene. With a sudden need to use the facilities, Amy headed toward the bathrooms. After the ruckus outside Burlie’s ladies’ room, she expected to make an uneventful visit.

Amy entered the bathroom and faced a door opposite, the entrance to the Harp Hotel on the Lake. No wonder this bathroom was elegant. Waffle towels and an assortment of fragrance mists, lotions, and a milk-glass, soap pump sat on a green-marble counter next to a vintage-looking faucet. If she weren’t in a hurry, she’d spray herself with the cologne in the shamrock container.

There were two large stalls, and she peeked under the shiny white doors to make sure she wouldn’t intrude upon someone. After making sure it was empty, she headed in and hung her little handbag on a hook. About to use the toilet, she heard muffled voices. Wasn’t she alone?

Glancing upward, she spotted a vent. The voices came from a room in the hotel. Did she hear strong words? She stepped onto the toilet seat and stood on tiptoes, straining to raise herself even higher. As she peered through the vent, she realized she was looking over a balcony and onto a large conference room. This bathroom, on the second level of the parking structure, was level with the hotel’s mezzanine.

About twenty feet below, the marble floor gleamed up at her, but the scene was far from friendly business. A half-dozen men wore turbans and black, body armor with the Takbir insignia embroidered on them. The symbol, hard to ignore this year, was white Arabic writing on their rolling-sand motif flag and displayed with every hostage crisis. Flowing robes extended half-way below their shins.

The robed men surrounded four men seated with their hands on a round table. These men were held captive, she was certain. The two facing her wearing Claddagh rings on their third fingers had visited Les. The rings married them, molded them into a brotherhood. Whether they wore suits or the Levis they’d worn on their visit, they bound together by a code of violence and silence. For years the Waterfront Roached remained an impenetrable and unstoppable force. Until now.

The Irish Mafioso appearance was as easy to recognize as the Takbir terrorists. In her hometown of Long Beach, the Waterfront Roaches went about their business in match-match suits. The Irish Kings of Cocaine ruled the warehouse district. After scrutinizing the backs of the other two suits, one wore a fedora identical to the Irish mobster at the coffee shop. Next she zeroed in on the other man with slicked back, silver hair who’d visited Les at their condo. Was  an Islamic gang taking over the Irish mob’s territory?

Fearing they’d see her, she cringed, but the thugs were far below. Concentrating, she tried to make out what was happening down there. She looked through the vent. They were talking again.

One of the robes said, “We are defenders of the Prophet. You failed our leader, Rourke.” Speaking with unaccented English meant he was a recruit.

Where had she heard the name Rourke?

She concentrated on the leader in his white tunic. He jerked to a halt in front of Rourke and pulled his black bandanna down to speak. His accent was Middle Eastern, and his face contorted with anger.

“Let me impress upon you,” came rough words from Rourke, “we can both win.”

“You are not our brother,” the robed leader barked. “This is our territory now. Pledge your finances to us.”

“Wait! Hold on!” stammered a young, suited man facing her direction.

Hold onto what? When Amy watched the leader gesture toward his guard, she feared something bad was about to happen.

The guard raised his arms in the air. Coming from under his robe, light reflected on a long sword. He wrapped both hands around it and whipped it through the air. Like lightning, his arms and body made a complete circle.

Amy gasped at the sword, aimed for the seated guy’s neck.

Rourke whipped out a blade at thigh level and threw it, striking the robed man in the shoulder.

His sword thudded onto the floor, but his man brought out a pistol. With Rourke in its cross-hairs, the gun discharged and ripped through Rourke’s shoulder and out the other side.

Another robed man picked up the sword and swung it upward, but a suited man shot him twice in the chest. He crashed to the floor. A puddle of blood reddened his robe and seeped outward.

In all her years, nothing prepared her for this horror. She shivered from fright but steadied herself against the stall wall. She froze as seconds passed but told herself to serve justice.

Take photos! Pulling out her iPhone, she touched the camera-button, took photos from various angles, and thanked God for the soft click-click-click.

Again, she glanced through the vent. Running his hand through his blood-spattered white hair, Rourke stumbled. Irish companions supported him through the room’s double doors.

The robed leader looked up in her direction. She ducked. A second later, she snapped two more photos of the gruesome scene. Enough evidence. Time to scram. Leaping off the toilet, she darted out the door to the parking structure. Cold air brushed her skin.

She charged down the ramp. Around and around, she sped with all her might. She took a quick glance over her shoulder. A shadow from a careening SUV. Light blue. She dove behind a parked car. As the SUV passed, the windows rolled down. The barrel of a rifle appeared. Tires squealed. The SUV zoomed off.

Crouching motionless for a full minute, her heart thumped from the close call. She willed herself to get out of there. She sprinted through the exit. Coming onto the street, she spotted the open door of the Arrowbear Cafe.  Did she leave her purse behind on that little hook?

 

Piping in the Haggis on Hogmanay, Scottish New Years

Friends, I grew up in a predominately Scottish family.  My dad and brother played the bagpipes.  Another brother played the drum in our Sioux City Scottish band, the Heather Highlanders.  My mom, sisters, and I danced the fling and the reel.  Of course Mom made haggis, and we enjoyed this delicious meat loaf twice a year on Hogmanay and Burns night (January 25). It might be an acquired taste.  Serve with mashed potatoes and turnips if you like them.

Ingredients

1 sheep stomach
1 sheep liver
1 sheep heart
1 sheep tongue
1/2 pound suet, minced
3 medium onions, minced
1/2 pound dry oats, toasted
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
1 teaspoon dried ground herbs–basil, bay leaf, chervil, coriander, marjoram, mint, oregano, parsley, rosemary, sage, savory, tarragon and thyme.

Directions

Rinse the stomach thoroughly and soak overnight in cold salted water.

Rinse the liver, heart, and tongue. In a large pot of boiling, salted water, cook these parts over medium heat for 2 hours. Remove and mince. Remove any gristle or skin and discard.

In a large bowl, combine the minced liver, heart, tongue, suet, onions, and toasted oats. Season with salt, pepper, and dried herbs. Moisten with some of the cooking water so the mixture binds. Remove the stomach from the cold salted water and fill 2/3 with the mixture. Sew or tie the stomach closed. Use a turning fork to pierce the stomach several times. This will prevent the haggis from bursting.

Camellia plants are beginning to bloom in Southern California

This morning as I’m taking down our outdoor Christmas decorations, I’m excited to see camellia buds bursting in flower.  Their bushes with glossy, deep-green leaves are pretty in shady areas but a winter show is in progress. In our yard they also thrive in light shade. Ours are red, but camellias offer ruffled blossoms in glorious shades of pink, white, and blends.