Headed out of town soon, I've got housekeeping on the mind. A stack of bills to pay, a leaking faucet, and more dust in the new place than the old one (at least more dust that I'm noticing). Is it the carpet?
I brought a batch and a half of Oatmeal Chocolate Chip cookies to church yesterday, though, packed in freezer bags, as my contribution to the VBS that will be happening while we're gone. With the leftover bars from Orpha's funeral, we may have enough cookies at church to see us through to the fall.
There's more of a story to tell about these than I have time for today, but for the sake of brevity I'll only say that this recipe is scribbled on the back of a torn envelope (a remant of another pile of bills from a housekeeping day years ago). I had sudden need of them, and I called Mom to get the recipe I had lost or had never managed to bring along once I left home.
When I 'fessed up to her that I had been without the recipe--for years, at this point--she asked, "How are you managing to keep house without them?"
How, indeed, my husband also asked--since I had been without the recipe for as long as I had known him.
They're my staple now: my go-to cookie for all occasions. And I've got the recipe memorized, but I keep the torn and scribbled envelope in the recipe box, just in case.
Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies
1 C. butter
2/3 C. brown sugar
2/3 C. white sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
2 Tb. water
1 1/2 C. flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
3 C. oatmeal (I use old fashioned rolled; quick oats are too mushy for my taste)
1 12-oz. bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips
Bake at 350 for 10-12 minutes
Monday, July 30, 2012
Friday, July 27, 2012
Bars for Orpha
I'll be bringing bars for Orpha's funeral on Saturday.
It's not enough. In a situation like this, nothing is enough.
But I'll be bringing bars for Orpha's funeral on Saturday as my own way of living out the hospitality and grace Orpha radiated in her whole life.
I'll be bringing bars for Orpha's funeral on Saturday as a way of honoring a woman who constantly reached out her hand to others.
I'll be bringing bars for Orpha's funeral on Saturday because I'm still a young(ish) church lady, and I want to grow up to be an old church lady someday.
I'll be bringing bars for Orpha's funeral on Saturday since mourning the dead also means feeding the living.
I'll be bringing bars for Orpha's funeral on Saturday in the hope that they might taste something like the sweetness of a life well-lived.
I'll be bringing bars for Orpha's funeral on Saturday that will mark us with slightly greasy fingers and the crumbs of community.
I'll be bringing bars for Orpha's funeral on Saturday because the resurrection is coming, and it will be a feast.
I'll be bringing bars then, too.
Straight out of Betty Crocker's Cookie Book (1986 edition):
Butterscotch Brownies
1/4 cup shortening or vegetable oil
1 cup packed brown sugar
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup chopped nuts
It's not enough. In a situation like this, nothing is enough.
But I'll be bringing bars for Orpha's funeral on Saturday as my own way of living out the hospitality and grace Orpha radiated in her whole life.
I'll be bringing bars for Orpha's funeral on Saturday as a way of honoring a woman who constantly reached out her hand to others.
I'll be bringing bars for Orpha's funeral on Saturday because I'm still a young(ish) church lady, and I want to grow up to be an old church lady someday.
I'll be bringing bars for Orpha's funeral on Saturday since mourning the dead also means feeding the living.
I'll be bringing bars for Orpha's funeral on Saturday in the hope that they might taste something like the sweetness of a life well-lived.
I'll be bringing bars for Orpha's funeral on Saturday that will mark us with slightly greasy fingers and the crumbs of community.
I'll be bringing bars for Orpha's funeral on Saturday because the resurrection is coming, and it will be a feast.
I'll be bringing bars then, too.
---
Straight out of Betty Crocker's Cookie Book (1986 edition):
Butterscotch Brownies
1/4 cup shortening or vegetable oil
1 cup packed brown sugar
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup chopped nuts
As I'll actually make them:
1/2 C. canola oil
2 C. packed light brown sugar
2 eggs
2+ tsp. vanilla
1 2/3+ C. flour
2 tsp. baking powder
1 1/2 tsp. salt
no nuts (at a potluck gathering, you never know who'll have an allergy)
Bake at 350 in a greased (liberally cooking sprayed)
10x15 glass dish for 25 minutes until largely set.
As with any brownies, the cardinal rule is Do Not Overbake.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
The Daddy
Like the Boy, the Daddy story Jo requests doesn't go by this name in the Baby Bible. In fact, the designation is "The Little Girl." For symmetry, I would expect Jo to ask for "The Boy" and "The Girl" each night, but she's intent on "The Daddy."
And I can hardly blame her. In this narrative, the desperate father comes to Jesus, asking for his help to heal his dying daughter. Jairus is a good man. In a world that devalued women in general and girls in particular, he seeks out the Rabbi's help for his little girl.
It's a short narrative in the Baby Bible, and Jo seems not to mind when I rush through to the end (after four rounds of Curious George, Noah, and the Boy, I'm usually losing steam by this point). But on the last page, we always have to stop to note the figures represented. The daddy, the little girl, and the mommy--and on the facing page, the neighbors who had gathered to mourn, now carrying trays and pitchers, and dancing.
One night a few months back when we were repeating our evening ritual of naming the characters, Jo pointed to these and I said, "The neighbors, having a party." Jo turned to me and said, "They're celebrating."
At barely two years old, we didn't know she knew the word (or that she could say it). Indeed. They're celebrating. Having a party. Singing, dancing, bringing out the snacks and the wine. "Jesus had made them happy again," concludes the story.
But happy doesn't begin to show what the picture shows. The daddy, the mommy, and the little girl, with a backup chorus of their community, bringing in the fried food and baked goods. Breaking out the party food.
But why "The Daddy" as Jo's title? Perhaps because he sets the story in motion. He asks. He reaches out of cultural expectation to draw attention to a little girl. He humbles himself before the Rabbi and then challenges the leader to hurry. He's insistent. Pushy.
And on the last page of the story--at least the one I read every night--he shamelessly dances with his wife, his little girl, and three female neighbors bringing in the feast. Outrageous. And a happy man, indeed.
And I can hardly blame her. In this narrative, the desperate father comes to Jesus, asking for his help to heal his dying daughter. Jairus is a good man. In a world that devalued women in general and girls in particular, he seeks out the Rabbi's help for his little girl.
It's a short narrative in the Baby Bible, and Jo seems not to mind when I rush through to the end (after four rounds of Curious George, Noah, and the Boy, I'm usually losing steam by this point). But on the last page, we always have to stop to note the figures represented. The daddy, the little girl, and the mommy--and on the facing page, the neighbors who had gathered to mourn, now carrying trays and pitchers, and dancing.
One night a few months back when we were repeating our evening ritual of naming the characters, Jo pointed to these and I said, "The neighbors, having a party." Jo turned to me and said, "They're celebrating."
At barely two years old, we didn't know she knew the word (or that she could say it). Indeed. They're celebrating. Having a party. Singing, dancing, bringing out the snacks and the wine. "Jesus had made them happy again," concludes the story.
But happy doesn't begin to show what the picture shows. The daddy, the mommy, and the little girl, with a backup chorus of their community, bringing in the fried food and baked goods. Breaking out the party food.
But why "The Daddy" as Jo's title? Perhaps because he sets the story in motion. He asks. He reaches out of cultural expectation to draw attention to a little girl. He humbles himself before the Rabbi and then challenges the leader to hurry. He's insistent. Pushy.
And on the last page of the story--at least the one I read every night--he shamelessly dances with his wife, his little girl, and three female neighbors bringing in the feast. Outrageous. And a happy man, indeed.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
The Boy
Each night, we read. For about the past two months, it has been at least the three Curious George books that we own (now supplemented with one checked out from the library) and an array of Bible stories. Of late, the favorite Bible stories have been "Noah," "Boy," and "Daddy." These, by the way, are not the names assigned the stories in the Baby Bible. These are Jo's labels, identifying those whom she sees as the most important characters. (At least Noah isn't "Shark," though the sharks are her favorite of the illustrations.)
"The Boy" is the Baby Bible's version of the feeding of the multitudes. It begins with a girl and her mother remarking that they're hungry. (Should I pause to note my skepticism that any mother would go out for a day with her children without snacks readily at hand? Perhaps I've not been in as much of a hurry to go listen to Jesus as she was that I've been without at least a few graham cracker crumbs to sustain us through the duration. Though I will note that the Sermon on the Mount would have been particularly long and even the graham crackers might have run out.) But it's not the girl and her mother whom Jo has attended to. This is the story of "The Boy." The Boy, of course, is the one who offers to Jesus his five loaves and two fish. His lunch that numerous preachers have pointed out was not as substantial as our perception. We're talking small pieces of flatbread (crackers, really) and herring here, not Sara Lee loaves and Steelhead.
By a miracle, there was food for everyone.
So ends the story in the Baby Bible (yes, I have it memorized, thankyouverymuch). There's precious little role for the boy in the story, but Jo has recognized him as the story's central figure--even over Jesus, who responds to the people, instructs his disciples, accepts the food, blesses it, and pronounces the benediction.
I've pondered this: what does the boy do that has so captivated my daughter?
He's a child, like her, so I suppose that's part of her association. But more than that, he's apparently aware enough of the situation to realize others' hunger, even though he himself is not hungering. Jesus does not make an appeal for donations to the food bank; no one advertises the need. The boy is paying attention to the people around him, and he knows they're hungry.
The boy also knows Jesus. That is, he doesn't pass his bread and fish to the people sitting next to him; he brings them to Jesus. I'm not sure how this miracle works (and I know there are a number of theories about it), but had the boy passed only to those nearest him, the community of those fed might have remained pretty small, but in Jesus' hands, the community is vast--a multitude. And the food is plenty: "All ate and were filled," says Mark the Evangelist (6.42).
Because a child paid attention, all were fed. Because a child recognized his own hunger, others' hunger was satisfied.
May I learn this faith of a child: to know my own hunger and the hunger of others, and to recognize the capacity of my sharing that extends far beyond my own reach.
Next up, the Daddy story.
"The Boy" is the Baby Bible's version of the feeding of the multitudes. It begins with a girl and her mother remarking that they're hungry. (Should I pause to note my skepticism that any mother would go out for a day with her children without snacks readily at hand? Perhaps I've not been in as much of a hurry to go listen to Jesus as she was that I've been without at least a few graham cracker crumbs to sustain us through the duration. Though I will note that the Sermon on the Mount would have been particularly long and even the graham crackers might have run out.) But it's not the girl and her mother whom Jo has attended to. This is the story of "The Boy." The Boy, of course, is the one who offers to Jesus his five loaves and two fish. His lunch that numerous preachers have pointed out was not as substantial as our perception. We're talking small pieces of flatbread (crackers, really) and herring here, not Sara Lee loaves and Steelhead.
By a miracle, there was food for everyone.
"Enjoy the food," said Jesus. And they did.
So ends the story in the Baby Bible (yes, I have it memorized, thankyouverymuch). There's precious little role for the boy in the story, but Jo has recognized him as the story's central figure--even over Jesus, who responds to the people, instructs his disciples, accepts the food, blesses it, and pronounces the benediction.
I've pondered this: what does the boy do that has so captivated my daughter?
He's a child, like her, so I suppose that's part of her association. But more than that, he's apparently aware enough of the situation to realize others' hunger, even though he himself is not hungering. Jesus does not make an appeal for donations to the food bank; no one advertises the need. The boy is paying attention to the people around him, and he knows they're hungry.
The boy also knows Jesus. That is, he doesn't pass his bread and fish to the people sitting next to him; he brings them to Jesus. I'm not sure how this miracle works (and I know there are a number of theories about it), but had the boy passed only to those nearest him, the community of those fed might have remained pretty small, but in Jesus' hands, the community is vast--a multitude. And the food is plenty: "All ate and were filled," says Mark the Evangelist (6.42).
Because a child paid attention, all were fed. Because a child recognized his own hunger, others' hunger was satisfied.
May I learn this faith of a child: to know my own hunger and the hunger of others, and to recognize the capacity of my sharing that extends far beyond my own reach.
Next up, the Daddy story.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Fire
I've had a hard time this month.
The world seems to be on fire. First wildfire in Colorado (I'm sure I'll write about my relationship with forest fires at some point) and fiery rhetoric online. Fires raging in nations far away, and then gunfire. Random, senseless violence that rocks us all--however distant we might seem.
On Friday I prayed for a world free from fire, but I remembered the most typical benefits of fire--warmth and light--and I realized I could not do without them.
And then I remembered (what Alton Brown pointed out once, as I recall) that what makes cooking possible is fire.
Without fire, we have no soup. We have no kabobs. We have no roasted cauliflower (one of my current favorites).
Fire makes bread possible.
Fire gives us cookies.*
And so even though it seems impossible this month, I thank God for fire, and I ask the Spirit (who comes in tongues of fire) to gently guide us in light and warmth and sustenance as we learn to live in the firestorms that surround us.
*Okay, I suppose we could debate the relative merits of no-bake cookies, but, really?
The world seems to be on fire. First wildfire in Colorado (I'm sure I'll write about my relationship with forest fires at some point) and fiery rhetoric online. Fires raging in nations far away, and then gunfire. Random, senseless violence that rocks us all--however distant we might seem.
On Friday I prayed for a world free from fire, but I remembered the most typical benefits of fire--warmth and light--and I realized I could not do without them.
And then I remembered (what Alton Brown pointed out once, as I recall) that what makes cooking possible is fire.
Without fire, we have no soup. We have no kabobs. We have no roasted cauliflower (one of my current favorites).
Fire makes bread possible.
Fire gives us cookies.*
And so even though it seems impossible this month, I thank God for fire, and I ask the Spirit (who comes in tongues of fire) to gently guide us in light and warmth and sustenance as we learn to live in the firestorms that surround us.
*Okay, I suppose we could debate the relative merits of no-bake cookies, but, really?
The Ministry of Cookies
By way of introduction, a credo that I wrote in February of 2009:
I believe in the ministry of cookies.
Because, before the cookies, those who came also received the sacrament of holy communion, as we all came together in a circle around the altar, standing side by side as members of the body of Christ, taking in the body of Christ, confessing our dependence on him and on one another in a community of faith.
In one of the most memorable images that represents the presence of God, Rublev presents three figures—the persons of the Holy Trinity—gathered around a table, sharing a snack. It could be cookies.
Every Sunday afternoon and evening, for two years of my life, I made cookies for college students.
I made dozens of cookies a week for two years in order to stop my college chaplain from bringing in the same, tired bag of generic store-brand cookies and trying to pass it off as “fellowship” each week.
About two months into the experiment, he told me that he suspected many of the people were coming for the cookies. I was glad.
And so, tonight, when my fear, anxiety, and anger has striven to consume me all day long—all week long—and when my prayers have seemed altogether pitiful, I came home and baked cookies. I bake for my colleague, who won’t be my colleague much longer. I don’t know what else to do for her in this moment, but I know that in times of grief, food can be a comfort. At the very least, my making cookies might make her laugh about my own, somewhat stilted and Midwestern way of doing things. I bake for my students, whose eagerness and joy inspire me in the mornings and remind me of the commitment I have made to them and to this particular community of faith. I bake for myself, because I believe that when we are most in need, when we are starving in our own frustration and loneliness and poverty, God comes to us in very real, very tangible ways. I bake because my image of God is of the Holy Trinity, gathered in communion around a table to which we have been divinely invited.
On the night in which he was betrayed, Jesus took bread, broke it, and gave thanks. Because of the grace he has given me, I pass the cookie plate around and pray for God’s peace in my community.
The buzzer just rang. I should get them out of the oven.
Amen
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