Hindered health among baptismal blessings

Yesterday, in a sweet ceremony attended by some of our dearest friends and relatives, our Lia was baptized. I thank God for the beauty of the day and the spirit of love that surrounded us. (Not to mention my blessed relief that attendees refrained from sparring with me regarding the sacramental significance of infant baptism. I simply wasn’t up for that, seminary education or not.)

Lovely as it was, I spent much of the morning feeling like Ariel from The Little Mermaid. I could barely speak, afflicted with laryngitis or some such vocal chord impediment. I croaked out a little testimony about Lia’s name and the gift that she is to our family, but after the service I felt seriously hampered in my inclination to “work the room” (the church fellowship hall, in that case). I had invited the two dozen extra people who showed up in our support, and they happily meshed with the rest of our congregation for the so-called Loaf-n-Ladle Luncheon afterward (thus dubbed, no doubt, to duck the theologically dubious term “potluck”). I wanted to serve as hostess, but about all I could do was sit in the corner and smile, hunched over a homemade bowl of white chicken chili sprinkled with fresh cilantro (“cheers” to whomever brought the fresh cilantro).

In a way, I suppose my hindered health was also a blessing of the Spirit. Anything that suppresses my false notions of being in charge and/or the center of attention seems good for my soul. Humility accomplished (an oxymoronic benediction).

Frail children of dust, and feeble as frail,
In Thee do we trust, nor find Thee to fail;
Thy mercies how tender, how firm to the end,
Our Maker, Defender, Redeemer, and Friend.

Can you say, “Keen-wah”?

I don’t know if she coined the term, but my sister accurately labels the following phenomenon: You find out about something for the first time, and then, over the next few days or weeks, it keeps popping up—conversation at the gym, magazine article, radio reference, grocery store…it can get a little eerie. B calls the experience “déjà new.”

My most recent case of déjà new is called quinoa, a plant valued for its grain-like seed that’s also a complete protein. Oh, I think I’d seen the word in recipes in the past, but when Real Simple magazine identified it as a superfood that can solve all your problems in life (okay, they didn’t actually say so, but they implied it), I perked up and paid attention.

Presuming I would not find such a specialty item at my first-choice discount market (which is not Walmart), I looked for it at the A-Town Tops. “Excuse me,” I optimistically interrupted the stocky teen-aged stock boy. “Do you happen to know whether I might find something called ‘quin-oh-uh’ in this store?” “Uhhhhh…what is it?” he understandably replied. (I’d like to interject here to say that my own dear dad is a stocker at the B-Town Wegmans. When I related this story to him, he said he’d have told me I could find the mysterious product in the pharmacy dept. Dad’s humor.)

Three stock boys and 2 managers later, I discovered there’s no quin-oh-uh at A-Town Tops, but they do have it at the M-Town store. Well, that’s fine, and M-Town is only 12 minutes away, but I just don’t drive in that direction very often. So, instead, I sought out the miracle food at Dad’s B-Town W, where I learned it is pronounced “KEE-nwah” and it is Gluten Free. Bonus. (Lately, I have taken to fantasizing that perhaps I am lactose- or gluten- or nutrient- intolerant, and that is the reason I am having so much trouble shedding pounds…not anything at all to do with my over-consumption of Cake Mix Cookies and other carb-rich comfort foods.)

The very next day, I eagerly put my new friend Keenwah to the test and whipped up (“painstakingly plowed through” is more like it) the following recipe, which had been posted by a Facebook friend as part of the déjà new quinoa experience:

Quinoa-Stuffed Peppers

Quite possibly the most complicated recipe I’ve ever attempted, but also quite possibly the tastiest, healthiest meal I’ve ever served. Maybe my problems didn’t mysteriously disappear with consumption of this concoction, but, by gum, I’m pretty proud of myself for the effort. And a little boost of the spirits, a tad more culinary confidence, plus a whole lotta vitamins, sure help stave off the doldrums!

(Incidentally, my peppers turned out just like the photo, which reminded me of the Cheesy Bells A-Town entry of old. What goes around, comes around. I think I’ll dance the Hokey-Pokey today.)

"It's Baaaaaaack!" (a comb and a brush and a bag to be mushed)

Vi had a friend over this weekend. When we went to pick her up, Shana piled into our van with the usual sleepover gear, plus a gallon-sized Ziploc bag and a page of instructions, which she handed to me unceremoniously. I LOL'd. "It's baaaaaack," I chortled. (What's that from? Chucky? Freddy? Some '80s horror film series, I think.) Three years ago, I received another such bag, and I wrote a blog post about it. Only then, I didn't have a blog to post it on. So here you go – my former reflections on the 10-day culinary challenge that boomerangs ... eventually. (The nice thing about re-reading this, for me, is to discover that I've actually made a bit of progress in my life. The kitchen/cooking deficiencies I described back then are not what I would call a "big deal" now. One other note: I still miss Dale's Market.)

Bread recipe breeds friendship
(Or: Amish bread and friends named Sharon)

About two weeks ago, a friend named Sharon gave me a bag of batter along with a two-page list of instructions for making "Amish Friendship Bread." Ten days' worth of instructions. "Do not refrigerate batter, Do not use metal spoons or bowls with batter, If air gets in the bag, let it out..."

I let air out of my lungs as I read on: Day 1: Do nothing. (I relaxed. I can do that.) Day 2: Mush the bag. (That's it? Mush it? You mean, like pick it up, squish it around and put it down? I can do that.) Day 3: Mush the bag… (OK, I told my husband, who is even less culinary than I am – I think I can handle this.)

But by Day 6, I wasn't so sure. So far, I'd only had to pick up the bag and squish it around once a day – and let the air out of the bag a couple of times. What I hadn't counted on was having to protect the bag from my 2-year-old daughter, my 3-year-old son, and my cat. (Higher – oh, how I yearn for higher shelves, for practically everything I own. Every parent of a toddler understands this.)

On Day 6, I added sugar and milk to the bag, according to the instructions. And I mushed the bag. And put it up high. I joked to my husband, "I'm not so sure I want to be Sharon's 'friend' anymore."

We survived – though perilously – Days 7, 8 and 9, and finally the Big Day arrived: Day 10, Baking Day. I fumbled through my cupboards: Not one loaf pan to be found, nevermind the two the recipe called for. I called my mother. Later in the day, she sent over two loaf pans, one ceramic, one metal. Oh no! "Do not use metal spoons or bowls with batter…" Did that rule apply to metal pans too? I called my sister-in-law (she is very culinary), who assured me that the metal rule only applied to the batter, which would be kept going when I got to the end – I'd see. (Sigh.)

I had to work all afternoon. Then I had a chiropractor appointment. We ordered pizza for supper. (Did I mention we're not very culinary?) It was about 8 o'clock in the evening before I attempted to bake the batter. I poured it into a non-metal bowl, I began adding ingredients and stirring with a non-metal spoon. At one point my 2-year-old tried very hard to grab the bowl off the counter and dump the precious batter onto our kitchen floor. I rescued the batter (again) and proceeded with the long list of ingredients – at least a dozen, which is a lot for me.

At one point, the instructions required me to divide the batter into four new gallon-sized plastic sealed bags, which, miraculously, I had on hand. I poured one cup of batter into each bag, marked the bags with the date, and wondered which of my "friends" wouldn't mind this rigmarole.

I carried on with the list. I had pre-heated the oven and prepared the borrowed loaf pans and was nearing the end of the end when I discovered it: I had no baking soda. The recipe called for ½ t. – that's one-half of a teaspoon, even I understood. I had none. By this time, it was 8:30 p.m., Dale's Market closed over a year ago (I still miss it), and I didn't want to drive across town to Pawlak's or Tops and definitely not Wal-Mart to buy a half-teaspoon of baking soda!

But I had to do something. I'd labored over and protected this blob of mush for 10 straight days and I wasn't about to let it go to waste – not now. So I did the unthinkable: I called my neighbor. Her name is Sharon (really). By the time I scampered the thirty paces from my side door to hers, she had generously prepared a small tub of baking soda, which I gratefully (albeit sheepishly) received. I mumbled a few words about "friendship" and "batter" and hurried back to my chaotic kitchen, where the non-metal bowl somehow sat unscathed on the counter. (I thought for sure it would be disturbed during the two minutes I had left it unattended.)

I baked the bread. It was delicious. And now I have four more bags of batter to mush. Any takers?

Just Say “No” to…

Switching bags. As if I don’t have a hard enough time keeping track of things, I’ve got about 4 bags in rotation right now and I’m so, so confused. Also, Will just informed me that his “main bag” has been missing for more than a month! How did I not know this?! [I predict a future A-Town entry entitled, “Our house is like an ocean/The tide takes what it will.”]

Cake mix cookies. Especially after 7 p.m. They’re way too easy, way too tasty, and way too bad, bad, bad! (In case you choose to disregard my admonition, Devil’s Food Cake mix works best. My conscience won’t allow me to hyperlink a recipe here.)

Discouragement. To draw from one of my newly acquired Bible Quizzing quotes: “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full”—John 10:10. Satan seeks to rob me of the joy of the Lord, and the joy of the Lord is my strength. I won’t let Satan “poof” out my light—I’m gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!

Mom jeans (a la Tina Fey). My own mother meant well when she provided these thrift-store finds for my post-partum wardrobe, but I’m giving them back to the Goodwill. Immediately. Since this pregnancy-induced padding persists for now, I’m at least gonna try to make it look good. Gonna “hip up” those hips! (…and some hips they be!) 

Not flossing. Unless you inherited invincible enamel, as Will Waters apparently did (as, I dare hope, did our children), daily flossing is a minor hassle worth its weight in “tooth-colored composite,” as my dentist so eloquently dubbed my new filling today. Doc H is a nice guy and all, but I’d rather restrict our relationship to happenstance meetings in the grocery line.

Be my guest, add to my list—go ahead, it’s fun: “Just Say No” to…

A pedestrian post—do not read if expecting excitement

My friends keep turning 40, and I keep missing their birthday bashes! Third one in as many years, I missed tonight, no thanks to the crummy weather. On an “up” note, at least I’m not the one turning 40. (jk, GF—HB2U, and I’ll get your gift to you ASAP)

On another up note, a sunny pot-o-daffodils is bloomin’ in my kitchen. Nothing says “Scram” to the dead-of-winter doldrums like a bouquet of forced bulbs. (thx, D1)

I’m still waiting for the birds. No takers yet on the yummy seeds, nor the sumptuous suet I hung on our repurposed Tannenbaum a few days ago. Am I supposed to advertise somehow?

Lastly, “I have a cavity in my upper bicuspid”—really! I’m not just quoting Michael Douglas in The American President. (Does anyone else sometimes fold laundry to that flick?) Found today, filled tomorrow. Lucky me—someone cancelled, leaving Doc H with an 8:40 opening in his chair. Seriously, after seeing Castaway a half-dozen times, I’m pretty-darn-grateful for access to dental care that doesn’t involve an ice skate.

Ciao for now! ~ Grace

Mashed potatoes, mortality, and waiting for the birds

I redeemed my Thanksgiving Elmer’s glue-like disaster with some pretty passable smashed potatoes yesterday. We had some old friends over for Sunday dinner. The sort of friends who feel like a soft, sentimental sweater you’ll never outgrow and never, ever give away. The sort of sweater you might like to be wearing when you die. In your sleep.

We did discuss death, actually. And later, when I met with another small group of friends, we also talked about our mortality. I suppose winter inspires the subject. 

At the lunch table, our friend John said that ours was the kind of meal he’d want to be served on Death Row—his “last supper”: Pot roast, potatoes, green beans, coconut cake. These morbid reflections prompted others to ponder their preferred final feast, while one friend wondered aloud whether such a meal might not be a waste of food. Ugh!

At my evening gathering, we exchanged small gifts and epiphanies about Epiphany…and other important days highlighting the liturgical calendar. We come from congregations that barely acknowledge occasions such as Epiphany, the Baptism of our Lord (which high-church Christians celebrated yesterday), and All Saints Day, which of course celebrates the lives—and deaths—of those who have progressed to the heavenly realms.

We don’t typically talk about death, and we don’t always tell the truth about life. But the truth is: We’re all dying…or, we’re all going to die…or, we’re all moving in the direction of death, at a pace unknown to us. Any way you want to spin it—or deny it—death awaits us. I, for one, do not dread it—not as one without hope. (At least, I say I don’t. Perhaps fear would attack me like a ravenous animal if I really were facing it, toe to hoof.)

Meanwhile, I am awaiting the birds. With Epiphany behind us and guests to help us, I asked John and Will to relocate our Christmas tree to the backyard, where I decorated it with suet cakes and birdseed bells. Word has not gotten out yet, but I feel fairly certain that it will. Then we will perpetuate life for our feathered friends, who suitably serve as a metaphor for the nearly indescribable necessity of this sun-starved season:

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

—Emily Dickinson

Dropped drum sticks, wad of TP, George and gang highlight holiday

My promised list of favorite Yuletide gifts and memories (because so often, “presence” is the best present):

Middle school music (really!), a gift significantly supplemented by Old Man Winter—Vi’s band and chorus concert was originally scheduled on a Tuesday that got snowed out. No school, no concert. But for our family, that became a big blessing because Grandma and Grandpa were not going to be able to attend the event, until it was rescheduled for the following Monday night. My dad conducted the junior high band for more than three decades on the very stage our Vi played Dad’s own instrument of expertise, the venerable “Voice of God” (more humbly known as the trombone). Dad had attended previous concerts of Vi’s in the A-Town Middle School auditorium, but this one seemed special, considering his history.

I could write a whole entry about this, but I’ll share 3 tidbits that made this concert memorably funny:

1.       During a quiet section of the concert’s choral component, some dopey kid dropped his brass mouthpiece on the concrete floor of the auditorium. Classic. Dad stifled a laugh and demonstrated a twisting motion to me. (Basic brass instruction: When inserting mouthpiece into instrument, twist gently to secure the mouthpiece.)

2.       During a quiet section of the concert’s band component, some dopey drummer’s sticks clattered cacophonously on the hardwood stage. “How quickly,” flashed immediately to mind, referring to one of Dad’s many famous sayings pertaining to junior high kid behavior: “How quickly they become bored.” Dad stifled more laughter. I leaned over, chuckling also, and whispered, “Sure, you can laugh now that you’re on the other side of the podium!”

3.       Just before the junior high jazz band took the stage, Dad saw fit to retell one of his many instrument jokes: “What’s the difference between a bari sax and a lawn mower? ……. The reed.” But then the bari sax player, whose mere appearance on the stage had inspired the joke, played two solo riffs and proved his tone superior to that of a grass-cutting machine. Dad changed his tune and said something like, “A solid bari sax player like that can really anchor a group. You can build a good sound from that kind of bass line!” A few pieces later, the concert band played an African drum song that called for different drums to be played throughout the ensemble, not just by percussionists. Mr. Bari Sax took a turn at some tom-toms and—wow!—knocked our cynical socks off. He was so adept at the drumming, we couldn’t help but laugh again. “He’s a keeper!” Dad said while we applauded the group. “Give that kid limo service to and from the concerts!”

Vi was great, too, of course. Dad noted the strength of the lower brass section of the 6^th grade band. Dad also noted Vi’s stylish black-and-white checkered scarf, because Dad’s a bit metro that way.

The concert ended with a Christmas sing-along including—I could hardly believe it!—an abbreviated version of “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” which, I had just complained a day or two earlier, is a regrettably under-sung Christmas hymn. (My friend and fellow blogger Holly wrote a very insightful entry about this song a few weeks ago.)

Handmade for the holiday—Pearl both procured and presented some of the coolest Yuletide gifts this year:

·         Nestled among the (if-I-do-say-so-myself) smartly wrapped presents under our tree was a wad of toilet paper, topped by an exceptionally extravagant curly gold bow. Inside the wad, it turned out, was a precious gift for Lia: Pearl’s magic rock. Pearl had plucked the porous piece of pumice from among the shale at our family’s annual vacation destination. In Pearl-esque painter fashion, she had transformed it into a “rainbow rock,” which evolved into her “magic rock” and remained one of her most prized possessions until about a week before Christmas, when she mummified the object of her affection and bequeathed it to another, her much-more-prized baby sister. If this sacrifice doesn’t exemplify the spirit of the season, then I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.

·         Speaking of monkeys, Santa brought Pearl a super-cute, super-sized sock monkey made by an elf named Elsa. Meet “Flower,” Pearl’s new BFF. (Message me if you want to know where to find a friend like Flower.)

·         Tucked behind the tree was another treasure from our resident Cindy Lou Who: a big box of family portraits. Pearl had taken advantage of all the packaging materials entering the house last month and had created 6 canvases, giving us each a likeness of ourselves on Styrofoam. (sample picture forthcoming)

A final favorite Christmas memory: Midnight Mass—I’ve waxed poetical before about Midnight Mass at St. Joe’s Church and how much I enjoy it. The same was true this year, perhaps even more so since I wasn’t sure until, literally, the 11^th hour, whether or not I’d finish my Christmas preparations in time to scurry up the block. In spite of several November and December wrapping sessions, I found myself surprised by a pile of naked presents on the eve of the 25^th. So, I set up in front of the television with George Bailey and the gang as my company, and I wrapped as rapidly as I could. The movie ended at 11, and so did my job—except that I needed to stuff the stockings and stage the tree room for C’mas morn. Will helped. Around 11:30, I was “cleared for take-off”! I primped minimally, shrugged into my handiest jacket, and hustled out the door. The words of the hymn “joyful and triumphant” rang in my mind—I made it! I’m on my way to Midnight Mass! And do you know? For the slightest second, I looked up into the starry sky and expected to see Santa’s sleigh. Silly me…but it was a wonderful imaginary notion. In a flash, I found myself kneeling with the faithful, earnestly believing in the best present imaginable: God’s Love, made manifest in the Christ Child. “Venite adoremus, Dominum.”

Vanity, nobility and something about a cake with a bean in it

From beautification back to bare bones, this blog’s been through makeover mayhem the past couple of days! It started with an innocent Google search: vintage blog templates. That led me to ShabbyBlogs.com, which led me to “try on” several stylish online outfits, including an admittedly garish multicolored rose background dubbed “Megan” that, rather inexplicably, I adored. But ultimately, Will objected to the “florification” of our family blog. He requested something “less feminine.” Which led me to this, my simplest, but perhaps most original look yet. I created the Life in A-Town header using some tips and tricks I picked up over at ShabbyBlogs, namely, a referral to nifty, thrifty digital playground called FotoFlexer.com. (You should check it out. If you’re into that sort of thing.)

On a heavier note: Five days in, and I’m still going strong with my New Year’s resolution not to weigh myself! I’m even thinking about baking a King’s Cake in honor of the Twelfth Night, an unsung holiday in these parts.

On a more serious note: I found the words to a hymn that suits my New Year’s aspirations to a tee, and I share them with you here:

Holy Spirit, Truth divine

By Samuel Longfellow

(Tune: Canterbury)

Holy Spirit, Truth divine,

dawn upon this soul of mine;

Word of God and inward light,

wake my spirit, clear my sight.

Holy Spirit, Love divine,

glow within this heart of mine;

kindle every high desire;

perish self in thy pure fire.

Holy Spirit, Power divine,

fill and nerve this will of mine;

grant that I may strongly live,

bravely bear, and nobly strive.

Holy Spirit, Right divine,

King within my conscience reign;

be my Lord, and I shall be

firmly bound, forever free.

"Breakin' Free" & Christmas Ain't Over, Peeps!

It’s the New Year, and I’m back to blogging, with mixed emotions. On the one hand, I do enjoy writing for writing’s sake, and it seems worthwhile to record the small delights of daily life with our lively family. On the other hand, I worry too much about who’s reading, who’s not reading, whether anyone’s reading, and whether my readers are wholeheartedly appreciating, merely tolerating, or contemptuously critiquing my words. Basically, I bring entirely too much ego to the digital page.

I recently read this testimonial about a wonderful Christian person: “There are some people who, when you look in their eyes, have apparently retreated so much from their ego that you can really see Christ in them...he’s one of them...” Yes, I breathed inwardly. I want to be that beautiful! As yet, I am not, but I continue to yield my spirit to Christ’s Spirit, aspiring to fuller inspiration, more truth, more beauty, more love to share with humankind.

On a lighter note, I’ve decided to quit weighing myself. It’s my New Year’s resolution. Stepping on the scale every day is so redundant, and so discouraging. What’s that oft-quoted definition of insanity? Something about doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. That accurately describes my “body life” for that past 5 months. So I’m ditching my scale (okay, just moving it—out of sight, out of mind) and forgetting that the $#@% doc said, “Your weight 6 months post-partum is where you’ll stay.” He’s wrong! Just like the college prof who said life would only get harder after college was wrong! Just like the boyfriend who told me I wasn’t free to live my own life was wrong! (I suddenly have an urge to burst into High School Musical song: “Breakin’ Free”! What a corn-ball I am, my Vi would say. And she’d be right!)

That’s all I have time for at the moment. Coming soon: A Christmas List of favorite gifts—because, contrary to popular culture, Christmas isn’t over till the 12 drummers drum!