Wanna know how many times I’ve made these cinnamon buns in a week? FIVE. Five times. That’s 20 cups of flour, and a whole lot of yeast. The first time I made them, I forgot to put cinnamon in them. I know. I’m totally Amelia Bedelia. Then I made them a second time, and they turned out perfect. So I figured I could make them again, because I went from Amelia Bedelia to Gordon Ramsey pretty quickly. So I did. For the third time. I put them in the oven and went to feed Olive. You know where this is going. I baked them for a solid 10 mins more than they needed, which resulted in dry, hard…. crusty, nasty garbage. So then I thought, maybe third time isn’t the charm, but maybe the fourth time is a charm? Can that be a thing? I think it should be a thing for moms, cuz we deserve an extra chance over the average person. So I made these for the fourth time in a week, and my yeast must not have worked cuz my dough ended up in the garbage next to a poopy diaper. I’m not selling this recipe am I? In it’s defence, the three times they’ve failed, they’ve been my fault. Or my baby brain. Either way, don’t blame the cinnamon buns. On the fifth attempt I got this bright idea to put raspberries in them. And low and behold, the fifth attempt became legendary. Just kidding. But Dane is my biggest critic, and he said these were delicious. And somehow 9 went missing from 7:00 in the evening to when I woke up this morning… so that says something. If you’re a conservative, you can skip the raspberries. But you should take a walk on the wild side and try them, you might surprise yourself. You might even change your political views due to these little red berries appearing where they normally wouldn’t. You’re welcome liberals, I may have just gotten you an extra vote.
In a small bowl add your 1 teaspoon of sugar and yeast, along with your warm water. Let stand until frothy and you can smell the yeast, Approx 10 mins.
In a small saucepan, heat your milk until it starts to bubble. Remove from heat, add in your ¼ cup of butter, and ¼ cup of sugar. Stir until butter has completely melted. Set aside until it is room temperature.
In the bowl of your stand mixer with the dough hook attachment, combine your yeast mixture, your milk mixture, as well as your beaten eggs and 1½ cup of flour. Mix until the flour has been incorporated, and continue to add the remaining 2½ cups of flour, ½ cup at a time. Once the dough has come together, knead on a floured surface until smooth and elastic. (about 5-7 mins). Form into a ball.
In a large lightly oiled bowl, place dough and turn over a few times making sure all sides of dough have been oiled. Wet a dish towel so it is damp, and cover. Place in a warm area where there are no drafts (I always place mine in the oven). Let sit for at least one hour, but two is ideal. Or until it has doubled in size.
Turn onto a lightly floured surface, and with a floured rolling pin, roll dough out to a rectangle 18x14 inches. Brush with ¼ cup of softened butter, sprinkle with brown sugar and cinnamon, and with raspberries. Tightly roll up, brush the edge with butter and pinch to seal. Cut into 12-15 pieces, place unto cookie sheet/ or pan. Brush outsides of cinnamon rolls with any leftover butter, cover and place back in a warm, draft free area for another hour, or until doubled in size.
Bake in a preheated oven at 375* F, for 25 mins, or until slightly golden. Do not over bake or you will end up with dry cinnamon buns!
So I have this friend. I won’t say her name, but it starts with an “A”, and the last three letters are “ton.” And there is an “F” after the A. It’s Afton. Her name is Afton. She’s my best friend, and I love her to bits, but she has a problem. She’s a shopaholic. More than me. Her favourite phrase is “Ya But!” when she’s defending her last purchase to her fiancé, and “I could be tempted” when she’s trying to not full on say that she is going to buy something. I’ll give you an example. We’re at anthropology, and she sees a dress she doesn’t need, nor does she have the funds to buy it. “I could be tempted to get it….’ Or I’ll ask her if she’s hungry, “not really, but I could be tempted with a glass of wine…” But her “tempted” means she gives in to it EVERY time. Like she bought the anthro dress and had the glass of wine. But I love her, and I could be tempted to be her best friend forever. A few years ago we found a tank top at Lululemon with ruffles on the bottom. I bought one in black and one in cream because it’s the perfect under shirt to complete an outfit. So one day Afton and me are in Lululemon and she sees that they still have a few of these ruffled tanks still in stock. Ours are in perfect condition, and basically still new. But she is adamant that she should buy an extra one to have as “backup.” “Look Claud, they have more of our tank top… I could really be tempted to get another one.” If she hadn’t seen the tank top, she wouldn’t have been “tempted” to buy another one, but because she SAW it, she wanted it. What does this have anything to do with key lime pie? The other day I was in Save on Foods buying a cucumber. ONE cucumber. And off to the corner I see a bag of key limes. They are the tiniest, cutest little limes I’ve ever seen. I have no idea what to do with them, nor do I need them. But “I could be tempted” because they’re tiny and cute, and they don’t always have them in stock. So I buy not one, but TWO bags of key limes. And this is how this key lime pie came to be.
The Duchess Bakeshop is the most delicious bakery I’ve ever been to. It has the cutest decor and style, but best of all, the best pastries. Their key lime pie and florentines are my all time favourite thing to order. Or maybe their eclairs. Or their macarons. Their Paris Brest is pretty top notch as well. Everything. I choose everything. This is their recipe from their ridiculously awesome cookbook. Thanks Duchess, for making my jeans tighter circa 2012.
The creamiest, easiest Key Lime Pie you will ever eat.
Author: The Duchess Bakeshop
Recipe type: Dessert
Serves: 8 servings
1¼ cups graham cracker crumbs
3 Tbsp granulated sugar
½ cup unsalted butter, melted
2 egg yolks
Zest of one lime
1¼ cups of condensed milk
½ cup key lime juice (regular limes can be used)
1cup of whipped cream
Preheat your oven to 300* F degrees.
To make the crust, in a large bowl mix together your crumbs, sugar and butter (I found that you could get away with adding more crumbs than the recipe calls for). Gently press into an 8" inch pie plate, making sure to go up the sides. Bake in preheated oven for 14 minutes. Remove and set aside.
Increase oven to 325* F
In a bowl whisk together your egg yolks, lime zest, and condensed milk. Whisk until well blended and smooth. Slowly pour in your lime juice whisking again until smooth. Pour into prepared pie crust and bake for 18 minutes. Allow pie to cool, then refrigerate for at least two hours. Serve with whipped cream, topped off with some fresh lime zest.
I dunno what to do. I wanna cry, I wanna yell at Dane for telling me having a baby was good idea, I wanna tell Tara to stop being so nice because it’s making it hard to be a cow, which is all I wanna do. I wanna tell the nurse that came to hang out that she should have been an anesthesiologist instead of a nurse, I wanna tell my mom to stop rubbing my leg, I wanna scream and tell Olive that she’s being a real brat and she needs to come out NOW. I wanna be doing anything but feeling pain. Which is crazy right? Cuz who doesn’t like feeling pain?
Tara suggests maybe jumping into the shower while we wait for Mr. “emergency C-section” to get his little behind in with the drugs. So I waddle over to the shower. I can’t stand anymore because the contractions are too strong and I wanna puke. So I lay down in the tub. Tara sits on the edge of the tub and with the shower handle pouring hot water over my belly, and It kinda helps. KINDA. Like a really big KINDA. But it helps. Then I get this brilliant idea that I’m gonna start pushing, but I know Tara won’t let me and tell me it’s a bad idea. So I tell her that I really want Dane in here for support. He comes in all not sure of what to do, and he sits where Tara was. Then I start pushing down and making who knows what kind of face. He looks at me like I’m insane and says “what are you doing?! I don’t think you’re supposed to be pushing until you’re completely dilated….” I give him my wife look, which basically every wife has (you know the look!) Basically means do NOT tell me what to do right now. I’m getting this baby outta me. So I try that for awhile, but no baby comes flying out. Tara comes into the bathroom around 11:30 pm and tells me that the anesthesiologist is going to be here soon, so I need to be ready, on the bed with my sports bra off. Having to get up and out of the tub, honestly, was one of the hardest things I had to do that day. And that’s not really an exaggeration. I have been in labour for almost 2 days, I’m exhausted, I’m scared, and I just want to sleep. But I get up. I go to the bed, and trying to take off a soaking wet sports bra, well flip, I might as well be having twins. Dane has to help me wiggle out of that thing, and if I wasn’t exhausted, and in pain, I might have almost cared. Because a 9 month old woman wiggling out of a wet sports bra very well could be the most unattractive thing you might ever see. Picture a hippo trying to do up a belt with only his teeth. Thats about as graceful as one can look.
The anesthesiologist waltzes in at 11:45 pm, all chill and I wanna punch him in the face. I’m sarcastic, I know I am. But my sarcasm got to a whole new level that night. He asks how I’m doing and I look at him and go “buddy, how does it look like I’m doing? What the heck took you so long?” He thought I was funny cuz he chuckled. My mom was horrified, because young, polite ladies don’t talk like that. I ain’t no lady today Momma. (Did she not see the hippo trying to do up the belt?) He tells me that I have to be extremely still while getting the epidural. Because if I move and he hits somewhere else I could be paralyzed, die, my husband would divorce me, my dog would probably get run over, and I could possibly lose all my possessions, blah blah blah, with some other side effects. So I tell him he better know what he’s doing, and he laughs at me again and says he’s done at least a couple before (Mr. emergency c- section is trying to be funny now). So I sit as still as possible, and then I feel the needle go in, and of course that’s when I get a contraction. So he pulls the needle out and tells me I need to be still. Dude, my contractions are less that 90 seconds apart, and you’re being slower than a turtle trekking through molasses, what the flip do you want me to do? He goes in again and it works. But then I see Dane’s face and I get scared. Because he looks like he’s about to pass out. (He told me afterwards that the guys hands were covered in my blood).
They tell me to lay down and relax, I’m hooked up to an IV now pushing fluids through me, and I can almost handle the pain. My contractions slow down and get further apart. It’s close to 1:00 in the morning now. Tara tells my mom and dad and brother to go home, get some rest, because I’m not having this baby till the morning, at least 7:00 am she tells them. So they say their goodbyes and leave. As soon as they go, my contractions start to feel super strong again, basically just like before. And I start to FREAK. OUT. “Tara, this feels just like before. I don’t think the epidural did anything.” She tells me I need another dosage because the first one wasn’t enough. She goes to the front desk to see if Mr. emergency c-section can come back. He comes back pretty quick- probably because he doesn’t anymore lip from me. He tops me up and leaves, and I start to relax in like 15 mins. And then in like 20 mins I tell her I’m ready to push. My parents have literally just left maybe half an hour before, and Dane is trying to get sleep because “I’m not having this baby till the morning…” At least we thought. Tara is knitting, and she doesn’t really think I could have dilated to the full 10 cm in that short of time. So she tells me to relax and get some sleep. So I grab the hand rails of the bed and start pushing like I have never pushed before. Not really the sleeping Tara had suggested. She rushes over and checks me, and her eyes go big. “Your mother is going to KILL me. I sent her home. You’re ready to push. Holy crap. Dane, call her mom, tell her to come fast.” Dane calls my family, they were just getting home. He tells them I’m ready to have this kid and they better come fast. They all jump in the bugatti (we’re loaded like that), and drive all the way back. My brother and my dad wait in the waiting room (for obvious reasons), and my mom comes stands at the end of the bed. Not even Dane ventures that way.
I feel every contraction. I knew when I had to push, I knew when the contraction was over. It was brutal. I swear that that epidural wore off, even though I’m sure it eased the pain. Tara coaches me on how hard I need to be pushing, when to ease off, when to go hard, all to prevent from tearing. It takes everything I have to not just bear down and give it all I have. I keep yelling at her that I feel like I’m taking the biggest poop, and she tells me I kinda am. It’s just a baby this time. Now is not the time for jokes Tara. I remember my mom saying she can see the babies head, and in my mind that means her head is out. I ask how much of her head they can see and Tara says “like the size of a toonie!” I wanna cry. A TOONIE?? I thought her head was out! I almost lose it there. I feel like crying, and I hear myself ask “can’t you guys just like…. pull her out??” The nurse, Tara, my mom, and Dane all laugh at me. I wasn’t trying to be funny. I legit was asking if they could pull her out.
I can go on about the pain, and the pushing, and I can get graphic, but here is the short, pretty version. I closed my eyes, put a damp cloth over my face because I knew my face about to do things that might possibly give Dane nightmares. I felt this strange wave of strength come over me. I knew that this was it. I knew that this next push was going to make me a mother. No more Dane and me. No more of just him and me doing whatever we pleased. This next push was going to be the most life changing push, and I closed my eyes and asked for a little help from above and I pushed. I pushed when I could feel myself getting light headed. I kept pushing when I wanted to stop. I kept pushing, and I kept pushing. I could hear Tara “she’s almost here. c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, you can do it, she’s almost out! You got this.” I pushed until I felt relief and I knew it was my baby, my daughter whose head I had just brought into this world. Tara tells me to reach down and touch her head, and I do. It’s soft an squishy, and slimy and warm. I close my eyes once more and I bear down and there it is. This swoosh of relief, of warmth, of adrenaline. I just brought a life into this world. I fall back and I wanna sleep. You thought I was gonna say I cried didn’t you? No. I closed my eyes, and the exhaustion is like not other feeling I’ve ever felt. They put her on my chest and she cries. Her first gasp of air that this child has ever taken, and it was on my body. That is something that sticks with you for a long time.
I don’t feel much of anything, other than relief and tiredness. Olive is sleeping on my chest, and she feels slimy and warm and like a baby bird that’s all skinny and dangly. I ask Dane for juice box after juice box. I chug 3 juice boxes in less than 2 minutes. They leave her on me for about an hour and half, and it still hasn’t hit me yet, that this life is my child. We lay there, Olive and me, and she starts to root looking for milk. How is it possible that this baby, only and hour and some old, already knows where she will get her nourishment from? I suppose the same way I know when I see them golden arches.
My labour plans didn’t go according to plan. I should’t be surprised, my plans usually suck. But she’s here, and she’s eight months old, and she’s the cutest kid I’ve ever had. If you’re expecting, do yourself a favour? Don’t be too hard on yourself if your plan doesn’t work out. And thank you for reading this if you read the whole thing. That’s pretty crazy. I conclude this very long post with “On May 24, 2016, after forty-four hours of labour, Miss Olive Rose Redel came into my life.”
My water broke on May 22nd, at 7:45 am. Dane had literally come home from BC at 3:30 am that morning. I was laying in bed and I knew that I was gonna go into labour that day, I dunno know how or why I knew, but I had gone to bed the night before with a weird feeling in my stomach. I had blamed my supper (Boston Pizza, why do you keep me coming back?! Oh ya, perogy pizza). Turns out it was Olive getting ready to make her grand entrance. So ya, back to my water breaking. I stood up out of bed and it was like a mini waterfall, so much water on the floor that I slipped (that’s not a lie. Like for real though). Here’s a fun little fact that I didn’t know. Once your water breaks… you keep leaking. ALL. DAY. And you don’t really stop leaking till like two weeks after you have your baby. So I sent Dane put to buy the really cool super jumbo, “I’m an old lady and pee myself” pads, and almost went through the whole bag.
I texted my midwife who just told me to stay at home and relax until my contractions were 3-5 mins apart. You know how in movies the woman’s water breaks and she instantly starts screaming and the baby is about to fall out between her legs? Ya, that’s not what happens at all. Which is weird, cuz Hollywood is so realistic (Rachel Green anyone? When she’s in labour with Emma? I like how they made her forehead look sweaty to make her look “relatable.” Lady, I get a sweaty forehead walking to the fridge to get my håagan-dazs, PUH-LEEZ). So I spend Sunday pretending I’m not silently freaking out in my head with a giant diaper between my legs. She wasn’t due until June 7, so I had my diaper bag at the cabin, over an hour away. So off to the cabin we went. I started to get tiny contractions on the way back to the city, but only tiny ones that didn’t really hurt at all. I ate Thai food for supper and called it a night. Around 3:00 am my contractions started to get more painful. Like they would wake me up and I would have to crouch over and hold my stomach, but they were still 45 mins apart. I didn’t really get much sleep that night.
Monday morning rolls around and I ask my midwife if she can check me, so we go to her house. It’s 10:00 am. Do you know how you get checked to see how far dilated you are? NOT with a ruler. Think latex glove and a hand. “Please don’t leak on her white couch, please don’t leak on her white couch, please don’t leak in her white couch” kept running through my head. “You’re 4 cm dilated! You’ll have this baby by the end of today” she says. This sense of excitement and absolute fear comes over me. She sends us home and says that until my contractions are 3-5 mins apart, there’s no need to go the hospital. So we go home. And wait. And do nothing. It’s the strangest thing… you literally have to wait for one of the most life changing experiences, fully knowing it’s going to happen in the next few hours. The things that go through your head are crazy, and your nerves are shot, and you’re uncomfortable. Basically, labour sucks.
At 1:00 pm my contractions are getting stronger and closer together. So I text my midwife that I want to go to the hospital. So she tells us to meet her there at 2:45. We grab our stuff and go. Here’s the weird part, I didn’t cry ever. Not even during labour or after I had her. But you know when I ALMOST did cry? Leaving my house. It was this weird realization that the next time I would walk through these doors again, I would have a little babe with me.
2:45- Get to the Lois Hole Hospital for women and go up to our room. So because I went with a midwife, there was not doctors, no nurses, no commotion in the room. Like my midwife literally brought her knitting stuff to knit. THAT’S how chill it was. She tell us to do whatever we need to do to pass the time. So we go downstairs and Dane gets a snack from Tim Hortons, my mom gets a drink, I just walk and try not to freak out. On the way back up to our room my contractions start to get a bit more intense. I have to stop walking and take breaks and crouch over.
4:00- My contractions had slowed down, so they were getting further apart, which is no bueno. So my midwife suggests that I jump into the hot shower to help myself relax. I go in there for about 40 mins and it works, cuz they’re coming back and they’re mad. They are INTENSE. She checks me and I’m 7 cm dilated. I decide it’s time to go into the pool, because I only have 3 more cm to go until I can start pushing, and I really want to have her in the water. Here’s the thing about a birthing pool. It’s the best thing ever. My contractions felt way less intense in the warm water, and they were way more manageable. I labour in there from about 4:00 to 9:00 pm. And in that time, my contractions were intense, on a scale of 1-10 pain wise, they’re at a 10. All 1-3 mins apart. I think the adrenaline makes you sick, cuz I puked. A lot. My mom would come over and hold a bucket for me while I barfed, and then I pee’d in the pool and started freaking out cuz I didn’t want my baby to swim in my pee. My midwife just laughed and said it wasn’t a big deal. So then I just kept peeing after that. Haha, I kid, I kid.
The thing about having a baby is that it’s really boring. You’re literally just waiting for hours and hours for a human to pop out of your vajayjay. At 9:00 I called my midwife over and I whispered “Tara, I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I am in a lot of pain. Is there anything else other than an epidural that I can have for pain?” And this is why I will never bring a baby into this world other than with a midwife. She knelt by the pool, put her had on my wet arm that probably had pee and barf on it and she smiled and said “I know. You are doing amazing. Your breathing techniques are perfect, you’re working through contractions perfectly, you’re staying calm. But no, there isn’t really anything I can give you for pain.” Her reassurance actually helped so much. It sounds so cheesy, but you need to hear those words. Did it help my pain? Not one bit. But it helped me mentally. You think you’re pretty BA when you realize how tough you are. She decided that because I had laboured for 5 hours with contraction so close together, I could probably even be ready to start pushing soon.
So she tells me to get out of the pool and lay on the bed, she’s gonna check me. Getting out of the water sucked. You’re wet, cold, and in pain. But I somehow manage to get out and get checked. I’m laying on my back, she checks me. Her hand comes up and her face says it all. And I already knew what she’s gonna say. “I’m so sorry Claudia. You’re still at 7 cm. I’m not sure what’s happening.”
Oh I’ll flipping tell you what’s happening. I’m being punished for stealing glitter pens from my desk buddy in grade 7. I’m being punished for that time I snuck out of the house at 16. I’m being punished for flipping my dad the bird at 15. I’m being punished for grabbing that stupid alley cat by the tail and swinging it in a circle cuz it wouldn’t leave me alone when I was 9. I’m being punished for telling my 4 year old brother that a ghost named Martha lived in our attic for years. Know what else is happening? I’m getting that bloody epidural shoved into my spine, because I’ve had enough.
Here’s the funny thing about pride though. It makes you do stupid things. I still had too much pride to admit that I wanted the stupid needle that would grant me oh such sweet relief. Tara (my midwife) looks at me because she knows she just crushed my dreams and everything good in the world when she told me I hadn’t progressed. Dream crusher. That’s what she is. She says “Claudia, I know you didn’t want an epidural. And you’ve done amazing so far. You have gone 12 hours with your contractions less than 5 mins apart. But I need you to save your energy for pushing the baby out. Because the doctor that’s on call right now, if we end up needing him, he’s gonna do a c-section. I know him, and that’s always what he chooses to do. And you don’t want a c-section if you can help it. So I’m suggesting to you, as your midwife… to get the epidural.” Music to my ears. Hit me up with the drugs then Tara! So Tara, my dream crusher midwife whom I love, goes to the front desk and tells the nurses that I’m gonna get the epidural. And I am R-E-A-D-Y. She comes back, and I’m laying on my back with a contraction happening, and I look up and see her face. “Where is the anesthesiologist?” “Um… he had to go into an emergency c-section… so they aren’t sure when he’s gonna be free. And he’s the only one on call tonight.” See what I mean by dream crusher? “wait…. so I have to keep labouring, with these contractions for who knows HOW long?” OK. So when I was 14 I stole $14 in change from someone. That’s what this is really about. Because this definitely feels like payback…..
So I’m going to tell you a story. Mostly because this post would be boring if I didn’t. It’s about this time I picked peppers. Before I begin to tell you this story, I’m gonna start by telling you a different story. I’ve been known to be….. loud. I’m loud. I dunno why, maybe its the Latin in me, or maybe it’s just my personality. Nonetheless, I’m heard wherever I go.
I used to work for these chiropractors, and one in particular really liked me. I was terrified of him for the longest time, he was “the boss,” and I was completely intimidated by him. So in normal Claudia fashion, I never showed he intimidated me. How? By being loud. I would tell him jokes, stories, I’d tease him, ask him about golf (borinnnngggg), basically used my voice. It worked. He thought I was hilarious (that would be really awkward if he ever reads this and thinks “she actually wasn’t that funny.”) Anyways, we went to another chiropractor’s wedding once. I had done my hair all pretty, my makeup was on fleek (just to clarify, I don’t normally use the term ‘fleek’), my dress was the bomb.com (again, I normally don’t use the term bomb.com), and I was wearing my friends super expensive $400 leather heels (they were $300, but $400 sounded better). It was an outdoor ceremony. With gopher holes everywhere. See where I’m going with this? So here I am looking all fly (Again. ‘fly’ isn’t in my day to day vocabulary), and I’ve got this super hot guy as my date (Dane), and I’m all flipping my hair, doing my celebrity wave and walking toward this boss of mine. I’m a foot away about to go in for a hug when BAM! Frigging gopher ruins my game. My boss had to catch me. Yup. Fell straight into him, and not in a cute “oh I’m so tiny my boss caught me and gave me a raise cuz I’m so cute.” No, more like shamu the orca falls on her boss and pulls his back. Good thing he’s a chiropractor. His exact words were “trust Claudia to make a grand entrance. Like always.” At my going away party after I quit (no, I didn’t quit because I was so embarrassed), his speech to me said, and I quote “I’ll miss Claudia’s work ethic, blah blah blah, but mostly I’ll miss how Claudia never just showed up. She never just walked into a room, she made an entrance. There was always something that had a story.”
Awwwww…. so cute right? Naaaat. Basically he called me a drama queen. Meh, if the shoe fits. Point of this story is to show that I don’t just “pick” peppers. There will always be a story to go along with it. Even if it is calling myself out.
I wanted to make my friends mom’s peppers (Hi Joan!!) They are delicious. You will never buy store bought peppers after you make these. Joan’s peppers are red, orange, and yellow. So those are the colours I wanted. Why? Because. That’s why. So we’re in Osoyoos and we are about to buy peppers at a fruit stand on the side of the road, when I get this bright idea to PICK my own peppers! Like OMG, “how cute would it be to pick our own peppers Dane??” Dane is thrilled. CLEARLY. So I drag him into the field in +35 heat mid afternoon to pick hot peppers. Only thing is, there are only yellow peppers. Apparently, all of these peppers are supposed to be yellow, and when they get too ripe they turn red and orange. So the pickers chuck those out (the pickers names are Peter, obvs). But they have left a few behind, and it is my mission, my life’s goal if you will, to have orange, red, and yellow peppers. So I instruct Dane to look through this whole field with me, looking for the orange and red peppers. Just Like Joan’s. Dane is not impressed. I’m hot and I’m probably hangry, so me over heating and hungry + a hot, sweaty husband who has a nutty wife = husband and wife fight in a pepper field in Osoyoos, BC. Like a full on fight where we yell and walk away from each other. The best part? Dane was recording it on his goPro the entire time. So somewhere in our files, there is a silent video of me CHUCKING peppers into my basket and glaring at my husband. At least they were red and orange peppers;) I win.
Fast forward to pickling them. You have to remove the core and seeds from each pepper by hand. I had a good 100 peppers. It took me 3 hours to do all of them. My hands were on fire by the end. Each finger was swollen and beet red and itchy and hot. I thought I was gonna have to go the hospital. No, seriously, I LEGIT thought I was gonna have to go and get my hands drained somehow. I had to sleep with ice packs on my hands. Karma’s a………
This all happened about four years ago. I’ve been making these peppers every summer since then. Everyone who has them, loves them. You should try making them. My only advice? Wear latex gloves, Oh, and don’t stress too much about the red and orange peppers:)
I've been making these every summer for the last 4 years.... they are the best peppers you'll ever eat!
Author: Martha Stewart
Serves: 8-12 half quart mason jars
12 lbs Hungarian peppers
2 cups water
6 cups white vinegar
8 tbsp pickling salt
6 peppercorns (per jar)
2 whole garlic cloves (per jar)
1 sprig of fresh thyme (per jar)
Boiling water to "cook" the peppers
12 500 ml mason jars
Have all of your jars sanitized, and keep them warm when packing. Thinly slice and seed all of your peppers. Pack each jar tightly with your peppers.
Once you have them all packed, pour boiling water in each jar, making sure all the peppers are covered. Let sit for 3 minutes.
Add your garlic, thyme, and peppercorns to each jar.
In another large stockpot, make your brine. Bring your 2 cups of water with the vinegar and salt to a roiling boil. Carefully pour into each jar, making sure to leave about ½" of room up top. Seal with lids.
Thanks to Joan for never being selfish and letting Afton and me devour these, even when she was down to her last jar. And also, thanks for the passing along the recipe:) You can put these peppers on almost anything. We put them in burgers, sandwiches, quinoa salad, eggs, with cheese and crackers. Use your imagination. And latex gloves.