3 cups rolled oats ground into oat flour
3 large bananas
1/3 to 1/2 cup dried cranberries
1/4 cup mik
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1/3 cup maple syrup
1/4 cup brown sugar
3 tsp cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
Preheat oven to 350F.
Using a food processor / blender / nutri-bullet or whatever, grind 3 cups of steel cut oats into fine oat flour.
In a large bowl, mash bananas with a fork. Then, whisk in all the wet stuff.
In a seperate bowl, add all the dry stuff and mix to combine evenly.
Next, combine all ingredients together into a wet batter and allow to rest for 5 minutes.
Bake in a buttered loaf pan for 50-55 minutes. Test with a dry toothpick.
This recipe was inspired by a recipe I found online at Hungry Hobby.
When I baked this bread, I was hoping for rustic, healthy bread. Quickbreads are great at showcasing ingredients like nuts and berries, fruits, vegetables, and rustic grains. This turned out a little heavy, and super delicious. It really hits the spot. This bread is very filling, high-fiber, and nutrient-rich without gluten. Give this a try.
My hound dog, Ellie, was abused
by a cop before I rescued her
from her rescuer, an abused puppy,
unable to restrain her bladder
all day long. The cop’s wife begged
the pound to reclaim her,
to save her from her savior.
That’s where I come in –
a hero – they say things like that
so you will take a dog home.
Still, Ellie couldn’t hold it
at my house either, she told me,
with a cowering whimper,
one need only care enough to listen –
and every night I carried her
down the stairs, out the door,
placing her gently on the grass,
where she proceeded to lollygag
for a frustrating minute or two
before doing her business –
it went like that for two months…
Eventually she made the trek herself,
and these many years later, still,
she wakes me – with a bark these days,
and in the stretch of these fortunate years,
my forties gave way to my fifties,
a slow event marked by back pain,
aching knees, stiff joints all over,
and for every one of those years,
Ellie has aged seven, they say,
always wagging her tail, graying
face unaware she is now older than me.
Soon, I will lift her into the bed
when she can no longer leap,
and I’ll carry her in my human way,
down the stairs when she tells me,
each painful step a gift to the old girl,
and I will set her lightly in the grass
where I have no doubt that she’ll delay,
sniffing the yard, stopping occasionally
to look up the mountain for a rabbit,
and she can take as long as she likes
because she is older than I am,
wiser in the way she quickly lives,
fully present every waking minute.
Ellie is now the rescuer, teaching
calm grace before the setting sun,
wagging her tail when I look at her,
the way she never changes, always
living and loving completely.
Johnstown is sleeping
except for me, awake –
gazing at the rooftops
in the valley below
my old cliffside home,
and if I squint my eyes
just a little, blurring
the wintry spectacle,
now a Christmas village,
I delight in imagining
all the sleepy-eyed
to my January vision,
another downy morning,
a gift without words.