Truth on a grocery list

I was tidying up our main living space this morning, muttering to myself about the incredible accumulation of crumbs, paper scraps, raisins, M&Ms, and broken bits of crayon on the floor I’d just swept yesterday. I was breathing sighs of gratitude for hardwood, not carpet; and I was mentally churning over the array of chores and errands available for my attention today. 

I need to make a list! I realized. Grabbing the nearest scrap of paper littering the living room, along with a Halloween-themed pencil, I scribbled, ironically: paper. The stack we keep by the computer—the one that gets raided regularly for craft projects and ends up in pieces on the hardwood floor—was gone. Next, toilet paper. Then juice, cheese, chocolate chips… (Some people would be grossed out by mixing grocery items with toiletries. Not me…not after living with infants and children for nearly 12 years.)

“What are you writing?” Pearl the master mess-maker inquired.

“Making a list of things we need,” I mumbled back, trying hard to channel the household deficiencies I’d noted recently onto the (literally) crummy piece of paper.

“Like toys?” she asked eagerly. My eyes scanned the kaleidoscopic collection of plastic entertainment cluttering our kid-friendly home.

“Of course,” I agreed, not wanting to lose focus to explain to her the meaning of “irony.”

Toys, I jotted on the list.

Satisfied, she went back to her mess-making. About a minute went by. I kept scribbling, she kept crafting.

“Did you write ‘Jesus’?” she wanted to know.

“Huh?”

“You should write ‘Jesus’ on the list,” she insisted.

“But I can’t buy Jesus at the store,” I said, very grown-up-like.

“But Jesus is definitely something we need!”

Amen, dear child, amen.

The real problem of the Christian life comes where people do not usually look for it. It comes the very moment you wake up each morning. All your wishes and hopes for the day rush at you like wild animals. And the first job each morning consists simply in shoving them all back; in listening to that other voice, taking that other point of view, letting that other larger, stronger, quieter life come flowing in.  And so on, all day. Standing back from all your natural fussings and frettings; coming in out of the wind. — C.S. Lewis

Words fail

These are dark, dark days in A-Town: Suspect could face first-degree murder charge. Since Saturday, when the news broke, I’m finding it hard to sleep, nevermind write. I know that such horrific things happen daily throughout the world, but this is the first time it’s happened a block and a half from my house. Heaven help us.

On codes and chemistry and endeavoring to comprehend and commune with the Creator

When I was a young chemist…ha! When I was a junior in high school, eeking my way through the science of atoms and elements and moles that were, in fact, beasts to be slain…I discovered that I could kind of cheat my way through with a completely clear conscience.

The trick I learned was to learn the formulas. Find out the secret codes that real chemistry students knew, convince one of the insiders to decode the formulas for me, and then store the classified information in my noggin. Hold it…hold it…hold it…until exam time.

At exam time, the moment the papers were distributed, I would scribble down all the formulas I had surreptitiously stored in my mind and then rummage around the test to find places I could apply the codes—the ones I had managed to comprehend and commit to memory. It was a brilliant plan. I couldn’t tell you a single one of those “codes” now, but what I learned was that I could get by; I could be resourceful; I could ascertain enough information to “make the cut”; and, by gum, I could rely on my short-term memory. All of these lessons have served me well in life.

And, by the way, I scored 80% on my Chemistry Regents exam; certainly not my highest grade ever, but considering my relative cluelessness about the subject matter, I count it among my most significant scholarly accomplishments.

I won’t dare say I have found a way to cheat my way to spiritual enlightenment (!), but I will say that the right resources sure do help a wretch like me. Case in point, The Guide to Prayer, a collection of prayers, hymns, readings and retreat plans edited by Rueben P. Job and Norman Shawchuck. I received the GTP as a gift from Northeastern Seminary when I graduated from there in 2004. Unlike the multitude of other devotional books that haven’t held my attention, I find myself returning to this one, again and again. My spirit is repeatedly enlightened by its contents, by its kaleidoscopic manner of graciously ushering me in the direction of the Source of all wisdom and strength. I highly recommend it.

A recent nugget gleaned from GTP (which coincidentally contains the term ‘code’):

“Obedience is indispensable. Not to a static code, however helpful it may be at times. But obedience to God, who is present with us in every situation and is speaking to us all the time. Every obedience, however small (if any obedience is ever small), quickens our sensitivity to him and our capacity to understand him and so makes more real our sense of his presence.”—From The Captivating Presence, by Albert Edward Day

Defying the doldrums

Hark! The February

funk encroacheth!

Resist, resist!

I shall not retreat

from my mundane itinerary—

I shall seize it!

Fold the laundry,

Make the meal,

Comfort the coughing baby, tenderly

~ tenderly ~

carry on with my ordinary life,

finding life itself

Extraordinary.

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?