The one on the right looks slightly bigger than the one on the left…or is it just wider? If I pick them up they feel like they’re about the same size. Should I weigh them to be sure? If I weigh them I might make a mess and I really can’t handle that right now. Plus by the time I’m done they might be cold and then the cheese won’t melt. If the cheese won’t melt I won’t like it and then if I try to fix something else and the potato goes in the trash maybe a fox will eat it and then die because they can’t have butter.

Having potentially made the wrong decision about a potato, I may not sleep tonight. Not kidding. I’ll lie in bed thinking about how different the world would be without every bad decision I’ve ever made – not because I do anything of any real significance, but because that’s how life works. Hypothetically, I will have hurt tens of thousands of people or animals or ecosystems because I’m an idiot.

The festive season is a pretty terrible time to be mentally ill. In my case, much of the anticipatory anxiety comes from not being in control. Parties require socialising, manners, food that I didn’t make or buy — not to mention commuting somewhere that inevitably is experiencing some kind of delay in public transport; thus making it impossible to reach my destination on time.

Then there’s my outfit. Standing in front of a full wardrobe, there’s nothing for me to wear. My thoughts race again:

If I wear green is that too Christmas-y? Do I have too much makeup on? If I wear these shoes am I going to be able to stand in them for hours without my feet hurting? What if I wear black and then because I’m wearing black something terrible will happen because black is funereal? 

If I make it through that, I sit in front of the mirror doing my hair for hours so that I can delay leaving the house as long as possible. This is the hardest part. I have to practice smiling, practice laughing so that it doesn’t sound fake. I think of generic questions to ask or funny stories to tell to distract from my hands shaking.

I’m not writing this to complain about my illness or as a plea for sympathy – I’m just aware that I’ve had to cancel a lot lately and I want to try to make my friends and family understand. When I miss your birthday, wedding, or party, it’s not because I don’t care, or forgot, or am too lazy and thoughtless to make the effort.

It’s because I’m completely and utterly exhausted and I am mentally and emotionally hanging on by a thread. Yes, sometimes I can put one foot in front of the other and plaster a smile on and pretend things are cool. There are plenty of people who do that much better than I can. But this is the truth, which I hope you can one day understand.

And if not, I’m sorry anyway.

Childhood was something so different now; so many parties to attend, competitions to enter, languages to learn, instruments to master, and specialist therapy sessions to deal with all the pressure.

Victoria made all the arrangements and left Kurt with a listless child devoid of any of the joy or optimism.

“How was your day, Pumpkin?” he asked gingerly as she strapped herself into the child seat in the back of his BMW. He offered her the front seat, but she insisted that she was ‘underweight for her age group’ and therefore wasn’t safe.

“You always ask me that, Daddy, and the answer is always the same,” she replied. Karen was only seven, but her weary sighs made her seem far more mature; as though her little heart were burdened with secrets of war. Given what she had been through over the past year, perhaps, in a way, she was.

“Don’t make that face, Pumpkin, it’ll freeze that way if you’re not careful” he said with a weak smile.

Kurt glanced at his daughter’s elven face in the rearview mirror; her eyebrows knitted into a ‘V’ as she met his glib remark with consternation.

“No, it won’t,” she grumbled, “That doesn’t happen in real life, only in stories.”

The day Karen was born was not the happiest of his life. She came into the world all flailing limbs, screaming and covered in a layer of jelly, like a glace cherry. In his arms, she continued to scream and squirm, struggling against him with all her little might. The love would come eventually, but the fear was first.

Pizza Nexus may not have met Victoria’s criteria for suitable places to feed their offspring, but there was little else in Kurt’s new neighbourhood; a modern high-rise flat in a soulless offshoot of a strictly commercial block. A woman in a full burka silently pushed a buggy into the glass lift in the lobby.

“I don’t want to go up with them,” Karen said, sinking onto the slate tile floor. She lay on her back with her arms and legs splayed out like a starfish, “What if she has a bomb instead of a baby?”

A warm sensation fluttered across his chest. Kurt knelt down beside her, putting her green ‘weekend’ backpack, filled with coloured ponies and their many tiny plastic accessories to the side.

“She doesn’t, he said, “I would never take you anywhere dangerous. Ever.”

Karen rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her elbow.

“They are being radicalised at a very early age now,” she said, “For all we know, it was the baby’s idea.”

Kurt suppressed a laugh. The biggest concern he ever had at her age was getting benched at his tee-ball game. e

“Suburbanites are so sheltered,” Victoria scoffed when he suggested they leave London, “It’s different for you, being American. It’s all Homecoming Queens and pom-poms — we just don’t do that here.”

She begrudged him any happiness that pre-dated their relationship. That was one of many red flags, and after years of back and forth — the nadir of which was Victoria going on the run six months into her pregnancy — their own friends and family staged an intervention. If they couldn’t end the relationship themselves, they would have it forced upon them. Separating them was the only choice.

to be continued…

“Wait there, please,” she says, and suddenly Raul can see the sun behind Mona and the breeze through her hair. It’s short and silky and poker straight like the golden curtains in the Indian restaurant where Mona used to eat and Raul used to work, too, until his scooter broke. He went to have it mended and couldn’t pay so he sold it.

“No matter,” he thought, “I will just walk or cycle or skate” but then he forgot to learn how to cycle or skate so he walked.

Mona, without her black wavy hair that looked blue in certain lights, opens the box and her hands are shaking. Birds are singing louder than the traffic behind the wall because Mona smiles and there is nothing like hair or darkness above or underneath it because she is only beauty and light.

“Raul, is that you?” asks Mona, and her eyes are weeping but her lips are smiling and she holds out her hand

Mona embraces Raul. Now she is the smaller one, wearing black with a pink skirt, and her hair short and smelling like mangoes. He can keep her safe now, like he promised he would.

Back when Raul was the smaller one, he followed Mona everywhere. She chased flutterbys and drank Coca Cola in glass bottles. The neighborhood girls made bracelets with beads from the shop floor. At night, when people were quiet but insects were loud, Mona lay next to him and Baby Lola and her laughter was like water being poured into a big basin from a jug held high above his head.

“My brother, you are so tall!” she says, and there are tears in her eyes and she touches his hairy face with her hands. She is as beautiful as every perfect sunrise.

“I must ask the other teacher if she can mind my class. We must talk”

Her hand slips out of his hand and she goes inside, behind the great green door with the brass handle. He wants to hold her smile but he can’t because he must do as was planned and instructed and entrusted in him.

He was a foolish child when Father came to collect Mona and Baby Lola and he tried to follow. “Don’t!” Mona shouted when he ran to the car, “Stop! Raul, go home.”

Mona opens the big green door and she is smiling and swinging her hips and clasping her hands. She carries a red bag on one shoulder. Around her neck is Mother’s red jewel; catching sun and sprinkling light all around.

Mona takes his hand in hers and though she is small she is strong. They walk hand in hand, swinging from side to side and speaking in some long forgotten language.

From here there is only music.

(continued from yesterday)

Raul saw lots of thin white women walking with children. Children on pink scooters with paper animals attached to the handles. A lion, a bear, a monkey. Some children move like grasshoppers leaping high to the sky and others look down at the ground. Nobody looks behind them.

Mona’s skin is the color of warm sand and melted toffee. She wore a yellow bathing costume that came in two pieces and her toenails were red and one time green. Children are flutterbys in training with purple cardigans instead of wings.

The leather box is still secure in the pocket of Raul’s yellow rain slicker. His nose is itchy and has thick black hairs above it and below it and inside it. Mother’s curry made his eyes water and his nose itch. “Don’t,” she would say, when he put his finger in the spice pot. Tumeric is yellow but it doesn’t taste yellow. Mother said, “Don’t,” and Mona said, “Please, don’t”.

The white women say goodbye to their children, scooping them up in their black woolen coats and long white scarves and black leather gloves. An orange woman with white teeth kisses her son. Her skin is tough like a worn saddle.

The gate opens again and it is Mona, smiling at the orange lady and taking her white son by the hand. Beautiful Mona’s eyes are a Cadbury cream egg from the outside in and her lips are speckled brown like a quail’s egg.

“Mona!” he shouts, waving to her from across the street, “Mona my Mona!”

He waves but she doesn’t see and she doesn’t hear and the orange lady is gone and the children are locked inside the gate.

Cars and buses are whipping past Raul but he will get to her because it is her birthday and Mona must have her gift. He takes the box out of his yellow slicker and he uses it to bang on the gate.

“Mona!” he calls, hoping she will be pleased to hear his voice because of the time she said she would never forget it.

The gate opens and Raul falls to the ground and the box goes flying out of his hand. He hears a splash and sees the pavement with children’s chalk drawings running in pink and yellow rivelets. He feels hands on his shoulder, but they are man hands and the arms are covered with hair.

“You must leave now,” the large man in the purple cardigan said, “This is a place for children and you have the wrong idea about who does or doesn’t work here.”

Large Man’s words are meaningless, they are not Mona’s music, and his is not a language known to dreaming streamers.

“I need the box before I go,” says Raul, but when he points to the puddle the Large Man takes his arm and for a moment there is no sound, just pain.

Mona is there, bending down at the puddle like the statue of Maria holding Jesus her son when he was dead.

Mona opens the box, and as Raul is dragged out she calls after him,

“Wait…”

To be continued…

When you get back, we should talk about this blog and what it means and where it’s going. My mission statement for 2015 is thus:

I want to write something meaningful, with honesty and integrity, helping me connect to my (totally inexplicably loyal and patient) audience, and the wider community.

But before I start on my new content, it’s time to revisit last year’s resolutions:

• exercise more often and more effectively

This is the one area where I really smashed it. I’ll spare you the evangelism, but I heartily encourage you to try it. It took me a while to find something that worked, but once I did I got completely into it and now I actually think it’s fun!

• be grateful

The practice that I tried this year, apart from meditating, was coming up with three things that I’m grateful for each day. When I can remember to do it, it’s so damn rewarding, especially when I have a shitty day and I end up listing things like dental floss, gummy bears, and Vanderpump Rules.

• learn at least one new recipe each month

I don’t know if I had something new every month, but I’ve tried a lot of new vegan and vegetarian dishes. I’ll pass them on once I’ve perfected them!

• update the blog at least twice per month

Ha! Well, you know how that one turned out.

There are certain adult responsibilities and realities that make total honestly and transparency difficult at times, so I have to be mindful of what I say, and of the quality of work I want to put out there. I love the “THINK” acronym for social media – is it Truthful? Helpful? Inspiring? Necessary? Kind?

If so, I probably didn’t write it!

• talk less, listen more

This is something that comes up again and again, and each year I resolve to just listen to my friends when they’re having a hard time, rather than mothering them through the phone. It hasn’t worked. I’m still everyone’s bossy Mommy, dishing out my unsolicited advice and sending people self-help books as “gifts”.

• actively pursue creative and artistic forms of self-expression

I did well with this one, too, but I took my goddamn time, let me tell you! I heard a very inspiring interview with one of my she-roes, Amy Sedaris, in which she talked about how she always has to have a creative project of her own, in addition to whatever work she’s taken on. There is something deeply satisfying in having complete creative control.

• practice compassion, meditation, and mindfulness each day

Meditation was a big but not big enough part of my life this year. I think the most important thing that I’ve learned through my practice so far is that making time for it is just as important as the act itself — and just as difficult!

• get a little teeny tiny bit more organised/organized

This is what did *not* happen. The most I can say for myself is that I learned how to use the cloud drive.

I only have one resolution this year: patience.

My impatience is the one common factor in all behaviors that make me miserable. It’s my laziness, my negativity, my overly critical eye, my jealousy. So this year I resolve to be more patient. That is all — for now. I’ll be back next week to reflect on the past 30 years.

Losing anyone, even a stranger, to suicide feels oddly personal. I can’t look at the image above, or read it’s accompanying message (“Genie, you’re free”) without immediately becoming tearful and overwhelmed with sadness. Part of it is the loss itself, and the other, admittedly stronger, trigger is the painful and very visceral identification with suicidal thoughts and behaviors. I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on anyone, and in many ways I’m grateful that most people will never have to carry that burden. But sometimes the ignorance of this struggle leads to a very narrow perspective, and as usual the ones who shout the loudest tend to get the most attention. To call the deceased a coward, as this Fox News host did, is perhaps the most hurtful and cruel criticism of all. Though the host has since apologized, this is a prime example of how very flawed and misguided the mainstream media are in their coverage of mental health issues.

I’m reminded of actor/writer Owen Wilson’s 2007 suicide attempt, and the speculation it continues to invite into his personal life, years later. Similarly, Catherine Zeta-Jones’ treatment of bipolar disorder has been well documented and discussed in public. The response to celebrities going public with their mental health problems is rarely met with kindness, empathy, or encouragement. I suppose you could argue that none of those sell papers or magazines, but why can’t any of the armchair analysis and voracious invasion of privacy lead to a more constructive inquiry into the nature of these problems?

I may not (yet) wield a huge influence on popular culture, but what I can do now is to fight the ignorance in my own way, which, it seems, is by sharing my personal life on the internet. There are various reasons why I haven’t written many posts on mental health in the past year, but judging by the response I got to my last post, maybe it’s time to sprinkle a bit of seriousness into the sea of sarcasm and saltiness.

Incidentally, after I wrote the first draft of this post, I found out that the NSPL saw the greatest number of calls in its history on Monday, following the news of Robin Williams’ death. Let’s hope that this terrible tragedy continues to inspire others to seek help.

If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts, please contact Samaritans (UK) or National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (USA)

You are not alone!

xx

M

Sim asked me what I used to dream about visiting before coming to England. In all honesty, my ideas about England and British culture were heavily if not entirely influenced by Richard Curtis films and British TV shows imported to PBS in the late 1980s (Mystery!, Masterpiece Theatre, Jeeves & Wooster, Blackadder, and Red Dwarf to name a few). I was expecting a beautifully crafted city packed with witty, intelligent, impeccably dressed men and women with good manners and a knack for solving crime. I dreamed of literary salons, meet-cutes, and a social life full of colorful characters straight out of a Noel Coward plot.

I cannot tell you how devastated I was when I got here and learned that this was a nation of over-privileged blowhards, crooked politicians, and racist fatties. Just like America!

In spite of all of this, my fascination for English history (as portrayed through television) has maintained a hold on me, and my travel itinerary always reflects this.

Last weekend was spent in Norfolk, in a small seaside village. It’s a place very dear to my heart for many reasons, one of which is that here I can indulge in one of my favo[u]rite forms of travel: Necrotourism. For those unfamiliar with the term, necrotourism is the practice of visiting tombs, grave sites, battlefields, haunted buildings, medical museums, and other such grim locations for the purpose of education, entertainment, or, in my case, both! Why bother pacing around creepy cemeteries and musty old museums full of dead things in jars? I can’t wait to tell you in this exciting new series. Today’s post is all about creepy old churches.

Why churches?

• They are hella old. The Americans have done a pretty great job of wiping out anything truly ancient, so it’s rare to come across a building that’s any more than 200 years old. The above English church has a piece of glass from the 15th century!! It caused a big commotion in the village of course and I would not want to spoil the surprise with a photo here, so if you happen to be rolling through Wiveton anytime soon, make sure you don’t miss it!

• They have all the hot gossip. Before Facebook, there was the church bulletin board.  Along with flyers and pamphlets on local history, there are birth, wedding, and funeral announcements for the whole parish. Plus, vendors are all over them things trying to drum up business. You are likely to score a coupon for discount takeaway or a free coffee. If you’re not into that, you can take a stroll down the aisle and read the floor for past events. Yes, you read that correctly. Many churches have memorial plaques and even graves inside with dedications from throughout history. I recently visited a church with genuinely moving testimonials from 400 years ago. Who knew that sobriety was such an underrated trait? NB – I’m pretty sure “sobriety” meant something else back then, because I’ve never known an “amiable” Englishman who isn’t hammered at least two nights per week.

• They are everywhere. The church pictured above has a rather stunning view of the church in the next town, which is about 2 miles away. With the towns numbering 158 and 376 respectively, it’s hard to imagine why they would need so many churches, but any amount of time in the English countryside will prove to you that they take church quotas pretty seriously. I mean, what if walking 20 minutes rather than 5 minutes meant the difference between paradise everlasting and burning in hell?? WELL???

• Graveyard.  You can learn a lot about a town’s history just by taking a stroll through the church cemetery. While you’re competing with your travel companion to be the first to find a celebrity grave (or just the oldest one), have a look around. Are there any writers, artists, poets, or musicians? What about unknown soldiers? Can you identify any common gravestone symbols?  You can even learn things from the landscape. Did you know that yew trees have been planted at churches and sacred sites since before the dawn of Christianity?

Wherever your travels take you, remember to behave yourself. It may not be a sacred space for you, but for someone else and thousands of others before them, it’s a place of worship and reverence. I know I can be flippant at times, but I have my limits. I don’t tend to take photos of specific graves, no matter how cool they are, and I rarely take photos inside the church if there are people in there. I’m not suggesting that you have to follow those guidelines by any means, but, you know, try not to let your dog pee in the cemetery.

Have fun, and please feel free to get in touch and tell me about your travels via email or on Twitter. I’m @hexpatriate

What happened?

I’ll spare you the detailed reenactment, but I’ll try to summarize it in a way that’s fair to all concerned. Certain people took issue with the assertion in the article I posted, and chose to express their opinion. One person in particular took a stance that was grounded in conjecture and when I pointed that out, he/she dismissed any evidence — even empirical research and statistics —  against his/her opinion as invalid. What followed were several comments, which, combined formed an anti-feminist manifesto no shorter than 500 words. Another person chimed in at various points but was gracious enough to recognize (in his/her way) that he/she was misinformed. It ended with me posting photos of Jon Snow from Game of Thrones, so I definitely won.

What was my response?

I took the bait, every step of the way, up until the end. The comments were incendiary at best and at worst, bigoted and ignorant. I reacted emotionally, yes, but I don’t see that as a sign of weakness, nor do I think that it, in that instance, it undermined my argument. I’m not a goddamn lawyer, who cares whether or not I can present a case objectively in this context? Furthermore, what’s the point of even engaging in a debate over something you don’t care about?

How do I know that I’m right?

One person who contributed to the conversation very wisely said that it’s important to examine one’s own opinion. I’m secure in my ability to do that. I don’t hold a confirmation bias, meaning that if I come across evidence that challenges or disproves my existing beliefs, I don’t dismiss it. For example, I ate meat for years and years until I learned about factory farms and the extent to which the agricultural industry is harming the planet. I have always been, and forever will be a “seeker”. If credible information comes along, then of course I will take it into account and re-examine my opinion.

There are of course, things that I learn from experience, and things that I know to be true on a gut level. For example, racism is wrong, as is sexism, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, ageism, and any other form of bigotry. If the heart of someone’s argument is rooted in any of those, how could they possibly be right?

How do I know that the other person is worth engaging with?

There is a brilliant piece of advice that Dr. Maya Angelou gave Oprah Winfrey many years ago — while wearing pajamas! When people show you who they are, believe them. That deserves its own separate post, but it certainly bears repeating here. Knowing the person you’re arguing debating with ahead of time is helpful, but even when you don’t (or if they surprise you), they will often demonstrate whether or not they are worth engaging with authentically. Do they express themselves in a cogent manner? Do they ask about your opinion in a way that conveys a genuine desire to understand your position? Do they carry a confirmation bias? Most of the time, people will show you this in the early stages of the argument.

If a person shows ignorance, arrogance, prejudice, and bigotry, abandon hope. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you could be the person who changes their mind.

How do I engage authentically with someone I know is wrong?

If there’s some indicator that we can learn something from each other, maybe it’s worth it. On a good day.

What could I have done differently?

I should have ended it before it started. I shouldn’t have drawn attention to the fact that everything this person was saying amounted to a pile of fallacious garbage. Not only was that stating the obvious, but it made me look bad for pointing it out. I lost my cool, and I did not show the characteristics of someone open to civilized debate. My emotions and beliefs may not have undermined my credibility, but my anger definitely did. I have no doubt that I was right, but the way I expressed it was not ideal.

What have I learned from this experience?

I regret that I reacted the way I did. I got angry, and instead of walking away, I got on the offensive. When someone proved themselves to be ignorant, I still acted like there was a reason to stay involved. At a certain point, asking a bigot why they think the way they do is like asking a snake why it bites you.

Anyway, I thought it was worth commenting on. From now on I’m not reading comments that don’t have Tom Hiddleston GIFs attached. AND THAT INCLUDES ANY COMMENTS ON THIS POST.

I almost had to skip posting this week, thanks to a particularly disgusting virus. I think you have to work pretty hard to catch a stomach bug as a vegan (or mostly vegan), but as always, if there’s something that’s difficult or challenging, I must try my hand at it. I probably picked it up at the yoga studio I frequent in central London. It’s a “no shoes, no shaved armpits, no problem” kind of place, and if they washed the mats with something stronger than good vibes and tea tree oil maybe I wouldn’t have caught something. Joking aside, I like that place. They have some great teachers, and anyone who can suffer through the huffing and puffing of tightly-wound skinny bitches trying desperately to fling their ankles behind their heads is a-okay in my book.

Sometimes I re-read things like that and I wonder what happened to the girl who chained-smoked Parliament Lights, drank coffee with half and half, bought lotto scratch cards, and sang karaoke at a pool hall most Thursday nights in Germantown, Maryland. The one who worked 12 hour shifts serving ice cream sundaes to mental patients, then spent weekends pouring cheap cocktails down drunk college kids’ throats. Shit, maybe I would still be there if that horrible woman who shall remain nameless — the one who once proudly proclaimed she owned more thongs than t-shirts — hadn’t poured sugar in my gas tank. Thank you, W*****y, wherever you are. Bless you and the marble that saved my engine.

Anyway, lucky for you this week’s recipe is not dry toast.

Submitted for your approval, I present: Butternut Squash Lasagna w/Kale or Spinach

You will need:

• 1 butternut squash
• 2 garlic cloves – chopped or 3 garlic cloves if you are using spinach
• 2 leeks – trimmed and sliced
• about 125g kale – chopped OR 2 cups of fresh spinach
• 1 1/2 cups of raw cashews + 2 cups water
• a handful of fresh basil leaves and/or Italian spice mix
• 1 can chopped tomatoes*
• 1 – 2 tbsp tomato paste*
• 2 cubes vegetable stock or about 3 tbsp vegan vegetable bouillon
• 1 tbsp nutritional yeast
• lasagne sheets*
• 2 saucepans
• lots of olive oil – why do people bother with tbsp if you’re just using it for drizzlin’ or a bit of fryin’? Use common sense. Or maybe 1 tbsp for each pan.
• 1 glass baking dish or shallow cast iron thing (see photo)
• 1 pot (for boiling pasta) or a bowl to soak noodles in – optional

* A word on time management and cutting corners – I recommend you read the instructions in full before you get started. I’ve tried to put the steps in the order that makes most sense. If it feels overwhelming to cook everything at once, or you simply don’t have space, please please feel free to cook everything one at a time. You absolutely don’t have to make your own tomato sauce here. You can use a jar of the ready-made stuff. You don’t have to pre-cook the lasagna noodles, either, provided the package says it’s okay. I like to soak the noodles in warm water for 10 minutes rather than cooking them. Fortunately, most lasagna noodles are egg-free, so don’t bother with gluten-free unless you are part of the 0.5 – 1.0 % of people who are for real real gluten intolerant.

Method

1. Preheat the oven to 200 degrees C.
2. Peel and chop the squash. Drizzle in oil and pop in the oven for about 30 – 40 minutes. I know that sounds crazy, but you will be preparing other things in the meantime so it will go by faster than you think.
3. Blend the cashews with about 2 cups of water until smooth.
4. For the tomato sauce – cook garlic and herbs until soft. Add tomato, tomato paste, and a sprinkle of bouillon (or a stock cube) and simmer for 15 minutes. If you are using a pre-made sauce, don’t worry about this step.
5. While you’ve got that going, cook the leeks in oil on low heat for 10 minutes.
6. For Kale – Add the kale to the leeks with 1/2 cup water and roughly 1 tbsp bouillon or a stock cube. Bring to low/medium heat and cover for 5 minutes.
7. For Spinach – Add 1 clove garlic and spinach to the leeks, stirring until leaves are wilted. Don’t cover!
8. Add yeast and cashew cream to leeks n’ kale or spinach to create a delicious creamy leek sauce.
9. Turn everything off and take the squash out of the oven.
10. Layer the lasagna like so:

• 1 layer tomato sauce
• 1 layer noodles
• 1 layer leeks/kale/spinach
• 1 layer butternut squash.

You can do as many layers as you like as long as the b’nut squash ends up on top.

11. Bake at 200 degrees for 45 minutes to an hour. Mmmm Mmmm

Can we agree that lasagna looks like an absolute wreck once you slice it? Because it does. Therefore you don’t need visual evidence here. Just taste it.

Have fun with that and if you have any questions please comment or email me. Thanks!

Is that gorgeous or what? It’s even got a ruffle around the edges because nobody’s perfect, ho. Don’t let the pattern scare you, either, I promise it’s easier than it looks.

You will need:

• one sheet of puff pastry – 500g
• 1 large apple – peeled, cored, and sliced into chunks
• 2 large stalks of  rhubarb (AKA pink celery) – chopped roughly
• 3 tbsp arrowroot
• 1/3 cup agave or Sweet Freedom*
• 2 tsp cinnamon
• 2 tbsp vegetable spread/margarine/whichever fake butter you fancy
• 3ish tbsp of almond milk
• 9″ pie tin
• skillet
• rolling pin
• pastry brush
• bitty little cup (BLC) or small bowl

A word about sugar – I don’t have time to tell you how bad sugar is, nor do I care to explain in detail here why sweeteners — yes, even agave — are not great, either. I am not paid to endorse Sweet Freedom. I like it because it is low in fructose (23g of fructose per 100g versus 90g fructose per 100g in agave), free of any nasty chemicals, and it tastes delicious. I use it in everything. However, not everyone has a problem with sugar, and, as with veganism, it’s a personal choice. If you want live dangerously, you can use one cup of the devil’s dandruff, okay? I’m not here to judge. I’ve actually made this without sugar and it’s fine.

Method

1. Fruit chopped? Awesome! Now preheat the oven to oh I dunno like 200 degrees. Which is like 400 F. Throw it in the skillet and soften ’em up for about 2 min.

2. Add the apples and sprinkle on the cinnamon. Cook for a further 2 minutes. Set aside to cool.

3. In a separate bowl or BLC, mix the arrowroot with 3 tbsp water. Stir to create a “slurry” — which is neither a dairy-based dessert on the dollar menu of some factory food chain restaurant, nor a euphemism for tongue-kissing overheard at theatre camp in the late 1990s. Of course, I never got a “slurry”, or any other organic display of male affection until way after my summer camp days, and not just because there is a lack of straight boys at theatre camp. I had braces, a bad haircut, and a crippling sense of self-loathing that made dating extremely painful. In my freshman year of high school, I finally got a real boyfriend but that ended badly. I don’t want to talk about it.

4. Now that you’ve had a think about your own youthful indiscretions, remove the fruit from heat and mix in the slurry with a wooden spoon. Leave it to cool.

5. Roll out your pastry pretty damn thin, we’re talking about or under 1/2 cm. Reserve about 1/3 of the roll for the lattice.

6. Grease the pan with margarine and line with pastry.

7. Cut two strips of pastry, each 10″ x  1/2″ (about 26 cm x 1 cm). Cut the remaining pastry into strips, about 1/2 inch (roughly 1 cm) thick and 6 inches long (about 15 cm). If the mere suggestion of having to dig out your high school pencil case and find a ruler makes your blood boil, just skip to the photograph and make an educated guess. I either failed or barely passed every high school math class I ever attended, so every time I see a protractor I have a panic attack.

8. Lay the first two strips down the middle, making an “X” (or a “+” depending on the angle). You now have four sections.

9. Once you’ve got those down, all you need to do is create two “V”s inside each of the sections. You can cut the strips in half, and trim them further once you’ve started, but I always err on the side of caution and just overlap with longer pieces. Here I am, demonstrating with my own grubby paws:

10. Brush the almond milk onto the crust.

11. Stick it in the oven for maybe 30 – 45 minutes. Maybe even an hour, but be sure to check it after 25 minutes to make sure it’s not burning.

12. Let it cool, and you’re done! My non-vegan guests had this with vanilla ice cream or custard.