Quinoa & Pomegranate Salad and Mentors

by Amy

“And how’s Isabelle doing?” asked Gamache.

“Acting Chief Inspector Lacoste?” asked Beauvoir with a smile. His protégée had taken over as head of homicide for the Sûreté, a job everyone had once assumed would be his on the Chief’s retirement. Though Jean-Guy knew it wasn’t accurate to describe what had happened as a retirement. That made it sound predictable. No one could have predicted the events that had caused the head of homicide to quit the Sûreté and buy a home in a village so small and obscure it didn’t appear on any map.

“Isabelle’s doing fine.”

“You mean Ruth Zardo ‘fine’?” asked Gamache.

“Pretty much. With a little work she’ll get there. She had you as a role model, sir.”

And what a role model.

I read a book in my teens that has stayed with me. Don’t ask me the name or the author. I don’t remember. I was abroad, spending some months with friends, and found a book in English in their (very small and limited) library. The book was about the importance of relationships to keep you motivated and on track in life. It compared life to the Boston Marathon and mentioned the importance of motivation once you reach Heartbreak Hill. Relationships matter. The book goes on to describe five types of people in our lives.

It is a testament to the impact the book had in my life that over than two decades have passed and I still remember what they are (although I don’t remember the precise wording). The positive ones are the mentors, the friends, and the disciples or protégées. There are neutral people who neither applaud nor bring you down. Then there are the ones that drain you. They have a negative impact in your life.

The author distributes these people on a spectrum and turns their presence and influence in your life into a mathematical representation where mentors contribute with +++, friends ++, protégées +, neutrals 0, and drainers with -, --, ---...

Or at least that’s how I remember it.

Gamache is a wonderful role model. He not only sets a good example, but he makes sure to be available. That’s important. Some things can be learned by watching or reading, but it’s important to find the time to learn through interaction with people who know more than we do. The younger and the more inexperienced you are, the easier it is to find people to fulfill this role. As you yourself grow into a mentor, there are fewer and fewer people available to play that role in your own life. They should be cherished.

Sometimes books can act as mentors. We can converse with great thinkers long gone and we can strive to learn from their ideas. We can argue with their logic, and we can learn from their mistakes.

Friends – and even protégées - can sometimes play the role of counselors and supporters and listeners. 

But there is a certain comfort in talking to someone more experienced who knows what you’re going through, who you respect and whose opinion and validation matter. It’s like being able to crawl into a parent’s lap and be held. It makes you feel safe.

“Isabelle Lacoste called Gamache at least once a week, and they met for lunch in Montréal a couple times a month. Always away from Sûreté headquarters. He insisted on that, so he wouldn’t undermine the new Chief Inspector’s authority.” 

Lacoste had questions only the former Chief could answer. Sometimes procedural issues, but often questions that were more complex and human. About uncertainties, about insecurities. About her fears. 

Gamache listened and sometimes talked about his own experiences. Reassuring her that what she felt was natural, and normal, and healthy. He’d felt all those things almost every day of his career. Not that he was a fraud, but that he was afraid.”

Lacoste has Gamache, just as Gamache himself had Émile. When he was Chief he did the same. He visited his own mentor and, in his time of need, his mentor’s home was the safe haven he went to while he regrouped and recovered.

"Gamache stirred his coffee and watched his mentor.

He considered him a great man, one of the few he'd met. Great not in his singularity of purpose, but in his multiplicity. He'd taught his young protégé how to be a homicide investigator, but he'd taught him more besides.

Gamache remembered being shown into Chief Inspector Comeau's office his first week on the job, certain he was about to be fired for some mysterious transgression. Instead the wiry, self-contained man had stared at him for a few seconds then invited him to sit and told him the four sentences that lead to wisdom. He'd said them only once, never repeating them. But once had been enough for Gamache."

One of the things I admire is both these dynamics is that not only are the mentors willing to listen, but their protégés are respectful. It is not unusual for youth (and they say young is 10 years younger than you, right? So I'm not talking about an age group, I'm speaking of relative youth) to ignore, reject, belittle, or ridicule the past and those who lived it. I think both Gamache and Lacoste are wise in that they not only respect, but use their mentors as a foundation on which they build their own practice.

“Agent Cohen started this morning,” said Lacoste, taking a forkful of quinoa, feta, and pomegranate salad. “I called him into the office and told him that there were four statements that lead to wisdom. I said I was only going to recite them once, and he could do with them as he wished.”

Armand Gamache lowered his fork to his plate and listened.

“I don’t know. I was wrong. I’m sorry.” Lacoste recited them slowly, lifting a finger to count them off.

“I need help,” the Chief said, completing the statements. The ones he’d taught young Agent Lacoste many years ago. The ones he’d recited to all his new agents.”

And Lacoste is not only a respectful student, a good colleague, and a protégée who continues to honor and include her own mentor, but she is willing to do the (hard) work of mentoring others.

I was writing the first draft on a Sunday when a patient’s mom called asking me to talk to her little sister because she wasn’t feeling well. They’d just lost their mother to very aggressive leukemia. She died within three days of being first hospitalized. Her youngest daughter, at 11 year of age, was experiencing chest pains and shortness of breath. 

My patients frequently come to my home when there’s an emergency during the weekend or a holiday. So when she asked, I said sure. I’ll be waiting. And I was. My husband and son played a videogame inside and I sat in my living room with this child and listened to her pain.

This beautiful and articulate child asked me the questions everyone asks when faced with insurmountable challenges and pain. If it hurts this much now, will it get worse? Will I ever be happy again? How will I survive the pain? What if I feel so breathless that I can’t stand up? What if I faint?People say she can see me, but how do I know that for sure? She used to say change can be a good thing, but she was the one who helped me handle changes in my life – how will I manage this change without her? What if I can’t do my homework? Who will remind me and tell me to do it even when I don’t feel like it? What if I fail? She used to say she’d be sad if I didn’t do well at school – what if I’m so sad I can’t pay attention? Who will help me choose my wedding dress? What if I wake up in the middle of the night and forget she’s gone and try to find her? Who’s going to tell me jokes to make me laugh when I’m upset? Who’s going to tuck me in and say ‘I love you’? How will I tell my children about her?

We cried together. She told me stories about her mother and she made me laugh. She managed to smile and surprised herself when she realized she still knew how. At one point I asked if she wanted to curl up in my lap. It wasn’t the same, but it was available. She nodded and sobbed while I held her. I couldn’t stop my own tears. I didn't try. I'm used to getting emotional with patients and have learned that it's no use trying to stop myself from shedding a few tears (or a bucket-full) and people usually don't mind.

At one point she said her mother still sometimes cried when she thought of her own mother. I hugged her tighter and said, “So now you know what you’ll sometimes do when you talk about her for the rest of your life, right?” She nodded.

Her chest pains and shortness of breath were gone by the time she left for her mother’s funeral. I cried a little bit more for the little girl who lost her mentor. I cried at the thought of losing my own mother – who’s also one of my best friends. And I cried at the idea of leaving my own son behind when I know he still needs me. Needless to say, I cried while writing this post.

I have said, time and again, that this blog is a form of therapy. This time it was also preparation. I’d been writing right before she came. I’d been thinking of how wonderful it is to have mentors and to have people we look up to. I’d been thinking of how sometimes (and more frequently as we grow older or more experienced in our fields) there are less and less people to fulfill the role of mentor. I was thinking of how important it is to find the time to listen and help those who come to us for advice and help.

When I hugged this little girl and we cried together, we talked about how special her mom was and how she’d already taught her so much. The girl told me what her mother would have said and done if she were there. I repeated back to her what her mother would have said. I did what her mother would have done. It wasn’t her voice. My hug wasn’t the same hug. But, in the end, I told her she was stronger than she thought. And her mother was so real and present and important in her life that she knew exactly how to help me help her. I told her sometimes the people we need to hear are not with us. When that happens, we rely on memories, on stories, and on new sources of wisdom.

I realize not everyone is blessed with wonderful parents. Most of us will never have a professional mentor like Gamache. Maybe, at this point, we should remind ourselves to honor those we still have with us and gratefully remember those who are gone. But, more important still, we should strive to be good, empathetic mentors and to listen and share with those who are willing to learn from our experiences – and our mistakes.

My son and I both love pomegranates. They take very (very, very, very) long to ripen. It takes months to go from a flower to a ripe fruit. The tree is right outside my office window and we’ll both watch them bud and blossom and ripen. We both love to eat it plain.

I confess to feeling a little guilty for not sharing this one with him as he didn’t enjoy the salad. I cooked some quinoa and let it cool off. I then added pomegranate seeds, chopped parsley, a squeeze of lemon juice, a teaspoon of olive oil, a pinch (half a pinch) of salt, and a few nuts pulled out of the homemade granola jar that was on the counter. It was refreshing and delicious. I didn’t have any feta, but I didn’t miss it in the salad.

But then, you know that thing with mentors? When it comes to gardening and cooking, Libby is waaaaaay beyond my skills. A whole other category (probably many categories). When we first thought of making this blog she had ripe pomegranates in her garden (what are the odds? we live around the world from each other and both have pomegranates in their backyards!). She went ahead and made this salad - I think it was one of the first meals she made and photographed. It was one of the meals that's been circling in my head ever since.

Here's her fabulous recipe:

Quinoa, Pomegranate & Feta Salad
by Libby

This late summer/autumn salad, when pomegranates are in season, is all about balancing taste contrasts and interesting textures. Quinoa is a high protein cereal and a good substitute for rice. You can cook it similarly to rice. I cook it in chicken stock for added richness and flavour.

The nutty taste of quinoa works well with the sweet/tart explosion of pomegranate seeds and the rich salty creaminess of the feta. The crunch of fragrant pistachios is an added contrast.   Caramelising some red onion and garlic as a flavour base ensures that the salad won't be bland. This is a dish to taste as you put it together, to check that the balance of flavours is right for you.

1 cup of quinoa

2 cups of chicken stock (or water)

1 red onion, halved and sliced thinly

2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

seeds of 1 pomegranate

300g/10oz of feta cheese, broken into small bite-sized pieces

2/3 cup unsalted pistachios, toasted

3 spring onions, finely sliced

2/3 cup of flat leaf parsley, sliced

extra-virgin olive oil

one lemon, halved

sea salt and cracked black pepper

1.  Bring the chicken stock (or water) to the boil in a medium saucepan. Pour in the quinoa and simmer for about 15 minutes until the germ of the quinoa pops out. Strain and set aside.

2.  Fry the red onion, garlic and a pinch of salt in extra-virgin olive oil in a large heavy-based frypan on a low to medium heat. Add a squeeze of lemon juice.Allow the onion to soften and slowly caramelise. This will give a lovely savoury base note to the salad.

3.  Reduce the heat to low and add the cooked quinoa. Mix thoroughly with the onion and garlic.

4.  Toss through the pistachios, spring onions, parsley and feta cheese.

5.  Generously drizzle with good extra-virgin olive oil and lemon juice. Season with cracked black pepper.

6. Toss through the pomegranate seeds.

Taste and adjust the balance of ingredients to maximise the flavour contrasts. You might, for example, prefer more or less feta cheese, or more lemon for added sharpness.

Serve warm.

I couldn't resist making a 'zingy' drink of freshly squeezed pomegranate juice, grapefruit juice and sparkling mineral water to accompany the salad. 

So there you have it! Two salads!

A Dinner of Interactions - Fettuccine with Basil, Tomatoes, and Brie

by Amy

“What does that piece of wood mean?” Gamache asked his team as they ate.“Well, it was just about the only thing in the cabin that wasn’t an antique,” said Lacoste. “And what with the whittling tools I’m guessing he made it himself.”
Gamache nodded. It was his guess as well.”
[…]
“Why would someone carve that for himself?” Gamache put down his knife and fork. “And you found nothing else in the cabin that looked as though it had been whittled?” (The Brutal Telling)

I love watching Gamache and his team interact. I love how they share the evidence that they’ve uncovered and then they speculate, interpret, and add to each other’s ideas. They seem to talk their way towards conclusions.

They all feel free to share ideas – even when they turn out to be far-fetched ones like going to the Charlotte Islands. Sometimes they fill in the gaps in the other’s line of thought with evidence that supports it. Sometimes they question a conjecture and will add their own reasoning and why they disagree. As a team, they complement each other.

These conversations might be a writer’s strategy to give us, the reader, important information regarding the mystery itself. Usually we move forward in the investigation by “listening in” on the team’s conversations as well as their interviews with suspects and witnesses. Louise Penny has mastered the craft. The conversations don’t read like information dump. You don’t have people monologuing about their findings. Even in these conversations, which could be a plot-advancing strategy, we are given a wealth of feeling and deep interactions.

“He liked the food, but what he mostly loved were the conversations with the Chief. Just the two of them.” (A Trick of the Light)

We can all empathize with Beauvoir here. That’s what this blog is all about, in fact. We all love the food. The mention of their menus frequently has me salivating (except for Beauvoir's meals in the earlier books – I’m not much of a meat eater). But what we really love most are the conversations interactions between the characters. The menu is less important than the company. Or is it just me (and Beauvoir)?

Some people think out loud. Others need time to process their ideas alone, and then they share them. Some people can easily switch from one train of thought to another and can go back and forth between ideas and contradict themselves and question themselves and easily incorporate other people’s ideas. Others have to follow a straight line and need time to digest and ponder over new lines of thought before they are ready to modify their own.

Gamache not only allows himself to use both strategies, he also encourages other to use either or both. Time and again he takes long walks after an interview with a suspect. I believe he uses that time to silently gather his thoughts. He organizes his ideas, but he doesn’t cement them. He values interactions with his team and is open to reordering his initial conclusions. I believe he asks his agents the questions he has asked himself already. He listens to their answers and adds their thoughts and impressions to his own. It is in this interaction that he gains a broader view. He is a better Chief and investigator because he is willing to listen. I think that's one of the things that makes Lacoste a good successor - she's a bit like Gamache that way. (Although  I think Beauvoir, in his own way, would have been just as great.)

On a tangent here, I'm kind of glad Gamache as the chief (and Louise Penny, as the author) had such a solid reason not to have Jean-Guy as the next chief. Beauvoir is still kind of growing up as a character. It's the growing up that makes him interesting... and I like that there's still so much that could happen to him! So many roads he could follow. That kind of potential is attractive in a character (in real people, too).

“It struck Gamache like a ton of bricks. Why hadn’t he thought of that? He’d been so overwhelmed by what was there, he’d never even considered what might be missing.”

I know exactly how he feels! Time and again someone will say something and I think, “WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT?” Of course, once it’s been pointed out, it seems so obvious!

Isn't it great how one comment prompts another? This is true not only of this scene. It’s not really an argument or a discussion. It’s more like they’re trying to find a path and it is in their wording and working through their impressions – out loud, sharing – that they slowly find their way together.

I understand Gamache’s need for alone time because I, too, need time by myself (preferably in silence, which is why running or walking is a good option) to process and organize thoughts. Once I do, they’re still kind of spread out and confusing even to me. It is in trying to verbalize them that I am able to actually explain things to myself.

There are few things I enjoy more than talking to someone who contributes to the process. I value the colleagues and friends that are able and willing to converse like this. Professionally, it is a blessing to have people to “think out loud” with. Frequently it is in interacting with other professionals, particularly those with different backgrounds, that we reach a better understanding of a patient’s needs. And in any role - personal or professional - it is always enriching to broaden my ideas through contrasting and complementing my perceptions with other points of view.

Books can play a role in this. In my life, at least, they do. Like I said in the Myrna post, I believe in the magic and therapeutic power in books and stories. However, there is a different (not better or worse) power in the interaction between people.

A friend told me recently that one of his two criteria for finding a life partner is “good conversation”. I think he has a point.

“The main courses had arrived. A fruit-stuffed Rock Cornish game hen, done on the spit, for Gamache; melted Brie, fresh tomato and basil fettuccine for Lacoste; and a lamb and prune tagine for Beauvoir.”

Lacoste and I make similar food choices. Sometimes it's the same choice because she is choosing a lighter meal (although there have been a few times where she’s drooled over Gamache’s dish while eating a salad). Usually because it is truly the one that most agrees with my own taste buds. This is one of those times. It didn't hurt that it was also the easiest of the three to make.

Versions of this meal are a staple in my home. Pasta is usually quick to put together and pleases most people. I have two versions here. One is the way I usually make it (the spaghetti pictures) and the other is from allrecipes.com. I think I like my own version better – it’s less oily and I prefer the brie on the side. But then, the reheated left-overs of the allrecipes version tasted awesome. I think it has to do with it absorbing the tastes longer. I'll have to keep making them to reach a decision...

This is one of the recipes: http://allrecipes.com/recipe/11932/fettuccini-with-basil-and-brie/. If I were to make it again, I’d keep the brie, but I’d probably use grape tomatoes and leave in the seeds. I’d also use half the amount of olive oil they recommended.  I did enjoy the touch of red wine vinegar. 

My own version involves chopping fresh basil and halving grape tomatoes. I cook the pasta (whichever one I have in the house) and once it’s cooked, I drain it. In a large pan I add a few tablespoons of olive oil and throw in the tomatoes and the basil and usually a squeeze of lemon juice (a couple of tablespoons, probably). Then I add the pasta. If necessary I add a bit more olive oil. I don’t like it too oily which is probably why I didn’t enjoy the other recipe as much. I sometimes add garlic and fry it a bit in the olive oil. Usually not. I prefer the lemon taste. I usually add some cheese. Sometimes on the side, sometimes mixed in. Usually Parmesan.

Which of the three main courses would be your choice if you were at Olivier’s Bistro?

In your line of work is conversation and interaction and important tool for problem solving?

Hanna's Cookies & Second Impressions

by Amy

“[Hanna] placed a cup of tea in front of Agent Lacoste. A white plate piled with cookies was also put on the spotless table.

Lacoste thanked her and took one. It was soft and warm and tasted of raisin and oatmeal, with a hint of brown sugar and cinnamon. It tasted of home.”

I think I misread this scene the first time around. I didn’t pay attention to the word “oatmeal”. I got caught up in the brown sugar and cinnamon and the taste of home. Somehow, in my mind, I pictured my favorite homemade cookies:  Pumpkin Chocolate Chips. They smell and taste like home to me. So I seem to have read it like this:

Amy thanked her and took one. It was soft and warm and tasted of pumpkin and chocolate, with a hint of brown sugar and cinnamon. It tasted of home.

I think I literally tasted the pumpkin cookies when I was reading. I’d already baked, eaten, and pondered on what I was going to write in the post before I wrote out the quote and realized that I’d made the “wrong” ones! I do love oatmeal cookies, but I usually add chocolate chips as well as (or instead of) raisins. I even have my favorite oatmeal cookie recipe which is perfect because it’s one of those “pour everything into a bowl, mix, and bake for 10 minutes” recipes. Don’t you love those?

I hope you’ll forgive my creative license. Or should I call it absurdly deviated interpretation of the text?

I think these cookies are startling because of their contrast to Lacoste’s impression of sterile angularity. The house didn’t, at first glance, look like a home. Hanna Parra's warm smile (and warm cookies), Roar’s contained temper, and Havoc’s charm prove that it is, in fact, more than concrete and glass. It is a place full of passion and emotions where this family feels comfortable and at home. While the building may be intimidating, I think the cookies are proof that first impressions aren't always right.

“Lacoste got out of the car and stared, amazed. Facing her was a block of concrete and glass. It seemed so out of place, like finding a tent pitched on Fifth Avenue. It didn’t belong. As she walked toward it she realized something else. The house intimidated her and she wondered why. Her own tastes ran to traditional but not stuffy. She loved exposed brick and beams, but hated clutter, though she’d given up all semblance of being a house-proud after the kids came. These days it was a triumph if she walked across a room and didn’t step on something that squeaked.

This place was certainly a triumph. But was it a home?”

It’s foreign. It’s different. It’s alien and out of place. It’s strange and, sometimes, difficult to read.

The house doesn’t blend into its surrounding. It’s not that the architecture is aggressive. It seems out of place, but the agents later come to understand that it was built as a huge window to best contemplate and appreciate the place this family had chosen to settle down in. It is, in fact, a testament to the fact that they appreciate their surroundings to the extent that they built a home that would showcase its beauty.

This scene, to me, is a lesson in first impressions. Lacoste is one of the most open and tolerant characters in the books. She’s thoughtful and doesn’t usually make rash judgments. If it were Beauvoir, we might expect him to be somewhat prejudiced and even derisive – he frequently is towards the Canadian Anglos - the Czech are probably beyond his comfort zone (Hanna Parra even accuses him of profiling in a later conversation although that wasn’t his intention).  As a younger man he sometimes seemed to perceive himself as superior to others – in particular those who were different from himself. I think it's a sign of his deep rooted insecurity. He matured – the hard way – and has become a very different man. But we’ll get back to Beauvoir some other time. This scene is about Lacoste.

“The door was opened by a robust middle-aged woman who spoke very good, though perhaps slightly precise, French. Lascoste was surprised and realized she’d been expecting angular people to live in this angular house.

“Madame Parra?” Agent Lacoste held up her identification. The woman nodded, smiled warmly and stepped back for them to enter.

“Entrez. It’s about what happened at Olivier’s,” said Hanna Parra.

“Oui,” Lacoste bent to take off her muddy boots. It always seemed so awkward and undignified. The world famous homicide team of the Sûreté du Québec interviewing suspects in their stockinged feet.

Madame Parra didn’t tell her not to. But she did give her slippers from a wooden box by the door, jumbled full of old footwear. Again, this surprised Lacoste, who’d expected everything to be neat and tidy. And rigid.”

Lacoste perceives differences and feels intimidated. She compares this triumph of a house with her own messy, loving home. She wonders at what kind of people would choose to live in a place like this and expects them to be angular, rigid, unbending.

The beauty in Lacoste’s character is that she’s always willing to rethink her perceptions. It takes very little for her to reassess her initial ideas and question her first impressions. Very very little. A smile, slippers, tea, and a cookie. She is able to overlook appearances – represented by the house – and see these people for who they are. Or at least to permit herself to be surprised.

“She noticed the teacup had a smiling and waving snowman in a red suit. Bonhomme Carnaval. A character from the annual Quebec City winter carnival. She took a sip. It was strong and sweet.

Like Hanna herself, Lacoste suspected.”

What I love most about this scene is that Louise Penny reminds us of the kind of people it takes to create a diverse community or a heterogeneous group of friends. In a small town like Three Pines, everyone is an outsider and a foreigner until they are welcomed. Three Pines is composed of a wonderful assortment of people. They embrace odd and strange and colorful and secretive and loud and thoughtful and hurt and helpful. The Parras may be more foreign, in a traditional sense, than the Gilberts, for instance. But, to Three Pines, the Parras have already become part of the patchwork that makes up their community.

In a later scene this is explained by Gabri. When he goes to apologize to the Gilberts he also justifies the town’s behavior towards them by making it clear that there is room for diversity and for newcomers, but not for competition and division. The town is wary of the Gilberts (initially), just as they were of CC Poitiers. There is acceptance of all sorts of people. The town is less tolerant of those who undermine or underestimate their own.

I can certainly empathize with the Parras (having frequently been an outsider and a foreigner in various places throughout my life), and I am grateful for all of the Lacostes and Gabris and Claras – and even Ruths - I’ve encountered. They have made me feel welcome.

I hope I, like Lacoste, do the same to those who choose to join us. The new child in my son’s class. The neighbor who moved in upstairs. The new colleague who joins our team at the hospital… And also the “odd” friends who have different tastes in architecture, music, fashion, politics, and books… but who challenge me because they remind me that odd is a subjective quality.

And last, but not least, there’s Havoc. 

One of my absolute favorite bits of Louise Penny’s writing (it makes me smile every time) is Lacoste’s inner dialogue when she meets Havoc.

After a few more yells a short, stocky young man appeared. His face was flushed from hard work and his curly dark hair was tousled. He smiled and Lacoste knew the other waiters at the bistro hadn’t stood a chance with the girls. This boy would take them all. He also stole a sliver of her heart, and she quickly did the figures. She was twenty-eight, he was twenty-one. In twenty-five years that wouldn’t matter so much, although her husband and children might disagree.

Isn’t that brilliant?! I love how Louise pens it. I’m assuming I’m not the only one who can relate to Lacoste’s losing a sliver of her heart. Of course, real-life people have to compete with fictional characters who frequently take over entire chunks of my heart. Beauvoir is one of them, my the way.

I haven’t forgotten the pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. I said they taste like home. And by home, I mean here. My home away from home. A little town we’ve frequently vacationed in and that bears some resemblance to Three Pines in its mountains and size and isolation and delicious bread from a café down the street. I first ate these cookies here and whenever I make them in my real home (often enough) I am transported to this place and these mountains and the trails I run here to make up for the cookies I inevitably eat too many of.

Chewy Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Cookies

Ingredients:

½ cup butter

¾ cup brown sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

6 TBS pumpkin puree

1 and ½ cups flour

¼ spoon salt

½ tea spoon baking powder

1 ½ teaspoon cinnamon

½ teaspoon nutmeg

½ teaspoon ginger

½ cup dark mint chocolate chips

Almond slices (optional)

Cashew nuts (optional)
Raisins (optional)

Blend melted butter and sugar. Add vanilla and pumpkin.

Mix dry ingredients.

Add wet to dry ingredients and mix well. Add chocolate.

Leave in refrigerator for at least 30 minutes – at this point I sometimes freeze the dough.

Bake at 350oF for 10 minutes. You want to pull them out of the oven when they’re still soft and look almost undercooked. That way they’re chewy. Perfection!