Of books that race your pulse and swell your heart - Spinach and cheese soda breads for the win

Very few things make me as happy or give a high as much as writing. One of them happens to be reading. But not just any book. I will read pretty much everything and push through to the end, unless it is so badly written I can't go on or I simply cannot relate to the plot and characters. This last tends to happen with what's commonly denominated as chick-lit (which I find demeaning and disrespectful at best) and rom-coms. Contemporary romance simply doesn't cut it for me, I am not a fan. I'll take classics anytime, give me all the Austens, all the Brontës, give me the passionate and endearing love stories of old, just don't give me modern love in girly books. As for the rest, I'm perfectly happy with Fantasy books in all its subgenres, I'll take Paranormal Romance and swoon if it has vampires, I'll jump in on any thriller or mystery book that finds its way into my hands. Mystery was, and will remain, my first love.

But the truth is, although I will read most any book, not every book gives me the high I crave, that feeling I get from writing. In fact, rare are the books that speed my pulse, shorten my breath, fluster my heart. Rare are the books I find myself constantly thinking of while I'm reading them, the ones I cannot wait to go back to, the ones that populate my mind and dreams so obsessively I long to live within them. I remember feeling like this when I was younger and spent all my free time nose stuck between the pages of a book. Back then, I seem to be more easily captured by the contents and the characters and the stories. Many were the books that made me feel this way while growing up. From Dostoievski's White Nights and the Gambler, to Dumas' The Three Musketeers, from Stoker's Dracula to Brontë's Wuthering Heights, from Laclos' Les Liaisons Dangereuses to Stendhal's Le Rouge et le Noir, not to mention every Stephen King I laid my hand on, I feel I was so much easier to please when I was 15, 16, 17.

Now that I'm much older I feel like I'm less easy to please. Don't get me wrong, there's been an awful lot of very entertaining books I've read these past few years - I'm not counting re-reads, which was all I could do for close to ten years, as we couldn't afford new books. Since I got a tablet, my reading game has upped a lot, as I can get really great discounts or books for free. And I've been lucky enough to nail some really great reads. But books that wrapped sharp claws around my heart and refused to let go, these have been sparse. And although I mostly read self-published authors these days, I find that the trad-published books I do get to read are no better, in this department. I honestly fear spending money on trad pub books because all I've done lately is be disappointed by them, and wonder how on earth did that get trad-published.... All this to say that, even though I've read plenty of books that have entertained me immensely, only a few of those had me jumping up and down in excitement at the thought pf reading them. Rare were those that made my pulse race while reading them, and gave me a sense of high equal to writing. And they were all self-published.

And nothing inspires me more than the books that do this to me. Nothing gets me more excited to write, more inspired than reading a good book, a well written story. Nothing infuses me more than being completely swept up into someone's imaginary world. Makes me want to do the same. Makes me hope someone, somewhere, someday will feel the same while reading one of my books. That tightening of the heart, that speeding pulse, that sense of complete and utter joy. I want to give this to my readers, and nothing makes me more hopeful I can do it than reading a book that makes me feel this. I get more discouraged by reading books that feel bland to me, or books where all I do is find fault, than reading a superb, outstanding novel. When I read a book that grabs me completely, I don't even find myself wishing I had written it, or that I was able to write something like that, no. I find myself grateful I get to read that book. And this is what I want people to feel when they read my stories. It's kind of the same as I want them to feel when they eat my food, you know?

It's pretty much what happens with these soda buns. They are so scrumptious and more-ish you won't be able to resist. Filled with spinach and cheese, they are to die for, and perfect for a carefree, casual dinner. Here's how to get them:

• 250 gr flour
• 100 gr rye flour
• 200 gr chopped spinach leaves
• 50 gr of grated cheese - I used a Portuguese cheese that's tart and pungent, a bit spicy
• 1 level tsp salt
• 1 tsp soda bicarbonate
• a pinch of oregano
• a pinch of thyme
• 1 egg
• 300 ml buttermilk

Start by preparing the buttermilk in advance, fifteen minutes in the least, by mixing a dash of cider vinegar or lemon juice to 300 ml of milk. Once ready, turn on your oven at 190º. On a large bowl, mix the flours, the spinach, the herbs and the cheese with the salt and the bicarbonate. Prepare the buttermilk egg mix by beating the egg lightly and then adding it to the buttermilk, mixing the lot thoroughly. Now, with the help of a fork, whisk the wet mix into the flour mix and stir. Once it starts to come together, lightly flour your hands and a cold working surface and pour the batter onto it. Pat together until you form a rough ball, but do not knead it. Divide it into smaller balls. Transfer the dough onto a baking tray lined with parchment paper and flour, sprinkle some more flour onto the top of the breads and with a knife score a cross or a star over the surface. Place in the middle of the oven and bake for about forty to forty five minutes. Take it out of the oven and allow to cool on a rack.