Now officially begins the waiting.
I realize that the first Sunday in Advent is officially the start of Advent, but traditionally St. Andrew's Day has also been a marker of the new season and the new church year.
I love Advent. Perhaps it's that my birthday comes in just a couple of weeks. Or perhaps it's that I've lived my life on the academic calendar, and this is the season of the year where we all take a deep breath and sprint to the end.
Most of all, I've learned to treasure Advent's lessons of waiting for fulfillment and revelation, the tension of already-but-not-yet. We know what's coming (or, at least, we think we do), but the mystery of the incarnation nevertheless confounds us every time we try to make sense of it.
And this is what I love: Advent calls us to consider the mystery of the incarnation, to the mystery of God's divine being becoming (not seeming, not appearing, not pretending) human.
But it's not here yet. We have to wait. And in the waiting, we get to contemplate the mystery even more both as we see it now and as it will be revealed in the end.
And there's time to make cookies in Advent.
Happy new year, everyone.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
The Best Field Trip Ever
I got word last weekend that one of my graduate school professors died shortly after Thanksgiving. I remember him fondly (though realistically) for his absent-mindedness, his long digressions, and his books.
But the story I tell most often of him is of The Best Field Trip Ever.
It was ten years ago now, in early November 2002, and I was working as his research assistant (and doing a terrible job, by the way; I was the worst research assistant ever, and I'm not sure anyone other than him knew it. He was a gracious man). I was also planning a wedding.
Dr. B. had strong opinions about many things, and, as I learned that fall, one of his favored concerns was wedding cake and the quality--or lack thereof--at most weddings. He told in rapturous recollection of his own wedding cake. Other than his wife, it seemed to be the only thing he recalled from the event.
So knowing I was planning a wedding for the following spring, Dr. B. asked what thought and research I had given to the cake. I admitted that it hadn't been high on my priority list and that we had simply figured on "something." This was not good enough, and Dr. B. announced that he knew just the place. It was a little French bakery, oddly plunked down in a gritty suburb of western Pennsylvania.
A week or so later, he asked if I had followed up on it. I hadn't. (I was slightly better at wedding planning than research assisting, but not much.)
Another week or two? I still hadn't made a visit to the French bakery.
By early November, Dr. B. decided to take matters into his own hands. He would take me to the bakery himself.
We scheduled a trip for a gloomy Thursday morning, leaving campus at about 9:30. I wondered if this would count toward the research assisting hours I was not completing.
We drove the fifteen or twenty minutes from campus and exited off the highway into an alcove town. As we passed through the business area, Dr. B. also waved at a candy store off to the right. "They make the best homemade vanilla ice cream," as we drove on another block and a half to the bakery.
Inside the tiny shop, I turned toward a photo album on a stand that held pictures of elaborate tiered cakes. I glanced at some price information discreetly and noted $4.25 a slice as the estimate. Um. It would probably be good, but it was well beyond our budget.
Dr. B. looked over my shoulder at the pictures, but he also attended to the bakery case, buying something to send to his daughter out of town. He asked which pastry I would choose, and we went out each with a treat in our hands and he with a box under his arm. It was lovely.
We climbed back in the car and turned the corner back toward the highway. He surprised me, though, "Do you like vanilla ice cream?" It was about 10:30 in the morning.
We pulled around the block again and parked in front of the candy store with red awnings. We headed toward the back--an old-fashioned soda counter with red stools to match the awnings out front. He ordered us each a small dish of ice cream (having just finished the pastries, mind you), and we sat at the counter and chatted about the weather.
I commented that the gloomy grey of November days always reminded me of Truman Capote's "A Christmas Memory"--a story I had read in high school that stuck with me even though I didn't realize it at the time. I told him I think of days like that one as "fruitcake weather," though I've never made a fruitcake in my life.
He mused that his wife made fruitcake every year--in fact, she had recently started on this year's batch. He wondered if she needed more bourbon.
We finished our ice cream, pushed the dishes back, and headed back to the car once more.
Just before the exit to the highway, right on the edge of the tiny business district, was a state liquor store. Dr. B. pulled in the parking lot without comment, and as he turned off the car, he announced that he thought he should pick up some more bourbon for his wife's fruitcakes. So, I followed him in and down the aisles, while he picked up a modest bottle.
He paid for his purchase, and we climbed back in the car.
As we drove back to campus, I pondered the morning's trip, realizing its strangeness and its beauty. We got back to campus about 11:15.
I have a number of other recollections of Dr. B., but this is my favorite. One that I shared with no fellow students, and one that solidifies my understanding of who he was. Whether he was talking about poems, book collecting, paper-making, liturgical pratice, or food, he most of all had a warmth and passion to share with others whatever joy he found in the world.
And while I am a very different teacher than he was, I hope that, someday, some students will be able to ponder some strange trek that shows them something more about how they see the world.
Thank you, Dr. B.
Rest eternal grant to him, O Lord, and may light perpetual shine upon him.
But the story I tell most often of him is of The Best Field Trip Ever.
It was ten years ago now, in early November 2002, and I was working as his research assistant (and doing a terrible job, by the way; I was the worst research assistant ever, and I'm not sure anyone other than him knew it. He was a gracious man). I was also planning a wedding.
Dr. B. had strong opinions about many things, and, as I learned that fall, one of his favored concerns was wedding cake and the quality--or lack thereof--at most weddings. He told in rapturous recollection of his own wedding cake. Other than his wife, it seemed to be the only thing he recalled from the event.
So knowing I was planning a wedding for the following spring, Dr. B. asked what thought and research I had given to the cake. I admitted that it hadn't been high on my priority list and that we had simply figured on "something." This was not good enough, and Dr. B. announced that he knew just the place. It was a little French bakery, oddly plunked down in a gritty suburb of western Pennsylvania.
A week or so later, he asked if I had followed up on it. I hadn't. (I was slightly better at wedding planning than research assisting, but not much.)
Another week or two? I still hadn't made a visit to the French bakery.
By early November, Dr. B. decided to take matters into his own hands. He would take me to the bakery himself.
We scheduled a trip for a gloomy Thursday morning, leaving campus at about 9:30. I wondered if this would count toward the research assisting hours I was not completing.
We drove the fifteen or twenty minutes from campus and exited off the highway into an alcove town. As we passed through the business area, Dr. B. also waved at a candy store off to the right. "They make the best homemade vanilla ice cream," as we drove on another block and a half to the bakery.
Inside the tiny shop, I turned toward a photo album on a stand that held pictures of elaborate tiered cakes. I glanced at some price information discreetly and noted $4.25 a slice as the estimate. Um. It would probably be good, but it was well beyond our budget.
Dr. B. looked over my shoulder at the pictures, but he also attended to the bakery case, buying something to send to his daughter out of town. He asked which pastry I would choose, and we went out each with a treat in our hands and he with a box under his arm. It was lovely.
We climbed back in the car and turned the corner back toward the highway. He surprised me, though, "Do you like vanilla ice cream?" It was about 10:30 in the morning.
We pulled around the block again and parked in front of the candy store with red awnings. We headed toward the back--an old-fashioned soda counter with red stools to match the awnings out front. He ordered us each a small dish of ice cream (having just finished the pastries, mind you), and we sat at the counter and chatted about the weather.
I commented that the gloomy grey of November days always reminded me of Truman Capote's "A Christmas Memory"--a story I had read in high school that stuck with me even though I didn't realize it at the time. I told him I think of days like that one as "fruitcake weather," though I've never made a fruitcake in my life.
He mused that his wife made fruitcake every year--in fact, she had recently started on this year's batch. He wondered if she needed more bourbon.
We finished our ice cream, pushed the dishes back, and headed back to the car once more.
Just before the exit to the highway, right on the edge of the tiny business district, was a state liquor store. Dr. B. pulled in the parking lot without comment, and as he turned off the car, he announced that he thought he should pick up some more bourbon for his wife's fruitcakes. So, I followed him in and down the aisles, while he picked up a modest bottle.
He paid for his purchase, and we climbed back in the car.
As we drove back to campus, I pondered the morning's trip, realizing its strangeness and its beauty. We got back to campus about 11:15.
I have a number of other recollections of Dr. B., but this is my favorite. One that I shared with no fellow students, and one that solidifies my understanding of who he was. Whether he was talking about poems, book collecting, paper-making, liturgical pratice, or food, he most of all had a warmth and passion to share with others whatever joy he found in the world.
And while I am a very different teacher than he was, I hope that, someday, some students will be able to ponder some strange trek that shows them something more about how they see the world.
Thank you, Dr. B.
Rest eternal grant to him, O Lord, and may light perpetual shine upon him.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Thanksgiving Leftovers
Sorry for the unannounced hiatus, but, as you might expect, I was occupied with other things.
We had a lovely holiday celebration with family and friends, and though we didn't end up hosting, I did end up roasting a turkey and am now dealing with an entire bird's worth of leftovers and drippings for gravy (this, in my point of view, is not a problem).
I'm also working my way through the double-batch of Cranberry Orange Relish, which I largely eat straight out of the bowl.
To the potluck celebration I added roasted sweet potates with apples, so the only thing I've yet skipped out on that's unusual to this time of year is the bread stuffing. Since I've got some stray ends of good bread in the freezer, I may yet find an excuse to put it together, but not today.
Friday was the first round of leftovers, and we ended up with Turkey Pot Pie and Sweet Potato Muffins for dessert. Enjoy!
---
Cranberry Orange Relish
(modified from the recipe on the OceanSpray package)
2 lbs. fresh cranberries, rinsed
Zest of two oranges
flesh of two oranges
Combine together in food processor or blender until coarse chopped (not a smooth puree).
Stir in 3/4 C. sugar (or more, if you prefer; I like a tart relish)
Serve on everything thanksgiving-y, including oatmeal, yogurt, or straight off the spoon.
---
Turkey Pot Pie
1 C. leftover turkey gravy
1 c. plain yogurt
salt and pepper (or seasoning salt) to taste
cooked potatoes (even mashed will work), miscellaneous cooked and/or frozen vegetables; ours included diced kolrabi, carrots, peas, red peppers, and green peppers.
1 c. cubed leftover turkey
Heat together in a low simmer while you prepare the biscuits (modified from the Better Homes and Gardens Bread cookbook):
1 C. white whole wheat flour
1 C. all purpose flour
1 Tb. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
4 Tb. cold butter
blend together until butter is large crumbs (lentil- to pea-sized)
stir in scant 1 c. milk
Drop and pat on sheet pan, bake at 450 degrees for 10-12 minutes.
Dish gravy mixture into bowls and top each with a biscuit.
---
Sweet Potato Muffins
Mix together
1 C. mashed sweet potatoes/yams (or canned pumpkin puree)
1/3 C. unsweetened applesauce
1 egg
1/3 C. packed brown sugar
2 Tb. canola oil
1/3 C. milk
1 tsp. vanilla
Whisk together (separately)
1/2 C. white whole wheat flour
1/2 C. all purpose flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. apple pie spice (or cinnamon)
Add the wet mixture to dry ingredients and stir until just combined. Fold in 1/4 C. chocolate chips (I had a small dark chocolate bar, which, chopped, was just right).
Bake at 400 degrees for 20 minutes or so in muffin tins. Makes six generous muffins.
We had a lovely holiday celebration with family and friends, and though we didn't end up hosting, I did end up roasting a turkey and am now dealing with an entire bird's worth of leftovers and drippings for gravy (this, in my point of view, is not a problem).
I'm also working my way through the double-batch of Cranberry Orange Relish, which I largely eat straight out of the bowl.
To the potluck celebration I added roasted sweet potates with apples, so the only thing I've yet skipped out on that's unusual to this time of year is the bread stuffing. Since I've got some stray ends of good bread in the freezer, I may yet find an excuse to put it together, but not today.
Friday was the first round of leftovers, and we ended up with Turkey Pot Pie and Sweet Potato Muffins for dessert. Enjoy!
---
Cranberry Orange Relish
(modified from the recipe on the OceanSpray package)
2 lbs. fresh cranberries, rinsed
Zest of two oranges
flesh of two oranges
Combine together in food processor or blender until coarse chopped (not a smooth puree).
Stir in 3/4 C. sugar (or more, if you prefer; I like a tart relish)
Serve on everything thanksgiving-y, including oatmeal, yogurt, or straight off the spoon.
---
Turkey Pot Pie
1 C. leftover turkey gravy
1 c. plain yogurt
salt and pepper (or seasoning salt) to taste
cooked potatoes (even mashed will work), miscellaneous cooked and/or frozen vegetables; ours included diced kolrabi, carrots, peas, red peppers, and green peppers.
1 c. cubed leftover turkey
Heat together in a low simmer while you prepare the biscuits (modified from the Better Homes and Gardens Bread cookbook):
1 C. white whole wheat flour
1 C. all purpose flour
1 Tb. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
4 Tb. cold butter
blend together until butter is large crumbs (lentil- to pea-sized)
stir in scant 1 c. milk
Drop and pat on sheet pan, bake at 450 degrees for 10-12 minutes.
Dish gravy mixture into bowls and top each with a biscuit.
---
Sweet Potato Muffins
Mix together
1 C. mashed sweet potatoes/yams (or canned pumpkin puree)
1/3 C. unsweetened applesauce
1 egg
1/3 C. packed brown sugar
2 Tb. canola oil
1/3 C. milk
1 tsp. vanilla
Whisk together (separately)
1/2 C. white whole wheat flour
1/2 C. all purpose flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. apple pie spice (or cinnamon)
Add the wet mixture to dry ingredients and stir until just combined. Fold in 1/4 C. chocolate chips (I had a small dark chocolate bar, which, chopped, was just right).
Bake at 400 degrees for 20 minutes or so in muffin tins. Makes six generous muffins.
Monday, November 19, 2012
In passing . . .
I was gone. Now I'm back. (But, as far as being gone and back go, there's a lot in between.)
A quick summary:
A quick summary:
- Airport food. We will not speak of it.
- Eating alone and enjoying it, even with a pitying waiter.
- Opulence and excess and their contradictions of focus and presence.
- No coffee at an 8:00 panel at an academic conference. Really?!
- Mall food court food (even at a really posh mall). We will not speak of that, either.
- Loud restaurants and the (im)possibilities of conversation.
- The delight of a good Thai green curry and a catch-up with a friend.
- Old cobblestones and glass skyscrapers.
- A farmer's market on Copley Square.
- Old people eating lunch at Symphony Hall.
- Chilled sunshine over water. (As opposed to the chilled sunshine over plains at home.)
- A sunset in the sky over Chicago that made me recall the narrator of Wise Blood who said, "No one was paying any attention to the sky."
- Jo's sticky fingers in my hair at home.
Monday, November 12, 2012
"Enough is as good as a feast."
Though this is a proverb I'm familiar with, I can't place it in my recollection. I don't think it was something I routinely heard in my family. As it echoes in my head this morning, it seems to have come probably from Marilla or Rachel Lynde in Anne of Green Gables. As one of those slightly archaic aphorisms, it rings of truth and cliche simultaneously.
In the first lesson from yesterday's lectionary readings, Elijah instructs the widow of Zarephath to "make me a little cake of [the last meal she has] and bring it to me, and afterwards make something for yourself and your son" (1 Kings 17.13). He tells a woman who is preparing to starve that in sharing what she has with him, she will save both herself and her child. The conclusion of the story is that "the jar of meal was not emptied, neither did the jug of oil fail, according to the word of the LORD" (17.16).
A small cake made of meal and oil isn't much, but in its endurance--in lasting--it amounted to a miraculous feast that sustains three people in the midst of famine and drought.
It was both enough and feast.
So this weekend, a few moments to deal with nagging household tasks, an extra hour to fall asleep in front of the television, enough time and money to share in a benefit concert for a local family, two and half hours to see my students work out Shakespeare on the stage, time for Mozart's Clarinet Concerto, and a blissful ninety minutes of food and wine and laughter with friends. Even an hour or two to grade a few of the papers that threaten to overwhelm me.
We live in famine and drought of time. As a badge of social honor these days we hold up to-do lists and packed-out schedules. There's never enough time.
I'm feeling it, too, since I'm headed out of town on Wednesday (and so will be taking a break here until next Monday). But time is also the sustenance we have, and even when there's precious little of it, nevertheless it can sustain us.
And so even though I'm swamped and feel out of time already, I am grateful for enough--and the scant wisdom I have to share it--and especially in sitting down over guacamole and cupcakes last night, time enough becomes a feast.
In the first lesson from yesterday's lectionary readings, Elijah instructs the widow of Zarephath to "make me a little cake of [the last meal she has] and bring it to me, and afterwards make something for yourself and your son" (1 Kings 17.13). He tells a woman who is preparing to starve that in sharing what she has with him, she will save both herself and her child. The conclusion of the story is that "the jar of meal was not emptied, neither did the jug of oil fail, according to the word of the LORD" (17.16).
A small cake made of meal and oil isn't much, but in its endurance--in lasting--it amounted to a miraculous feast that sustains three people in the midst of famine and drought.
It was both enough and feast.
So this weekend, a few moments to deal with nagging household tasks, an extra hour to fall asleep in front of the television, enough time and money to share in a benefit concert for a local family, two and half hours to see my students work out Shakespeare on the stage, time for Mozart's Clarinet Concerto, and a blissful ninety minutes of food and wine and laughter with friends. Even an hour or two to grade a few of the papers that threaten to overwhelm me.
We live in famine and drought of time. As a badge of social honor these days we hold up to-do lists and packed-out schedules. There's never enough time.
I'm feeling it, too, since I'm headed out of town on Wednesday (and so will be taking a break here until next Monday). But time is also the sustenance we have, and even when there's precious little of it, nevertheless it can sustain us.
And so even though I'm swamped and feel out of time already, I am grateful for enough--and the scant wisdom I have to share it--and especially in sitting down over guacamole and cupcakes last night, time enough becomes a feast.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Keeping up.
I'm trying. Though it has been a trying fall.
At our house, we've felt more often like we're falling down than standing up in these past weeks, but today was a short exercise (after yesterday's falling once more) in keeping up.
This time, we passed the child back and forth (no child care on Thursdays) between ourselves and a spare college student while we both attended to our office duties and attended a lecture required of both of us. And then we managed to meet up, all three of us, in the autumn sunshine of an untended yard, raking leaves, stuffing bags, and arriving at the leaf drop-off just as the gentlemen were setting out the orange cones for the night. They were gracious enough to let us through. (Though I think they also were a bit afraid not to when they saw the leaf bags piled in not-quite-on-top-of the two-year-old.)
We got to grab a quick bit of dinner together at the Pita Pit (our favorite fast food in town) before I turned back around to head to campus for my evening class. Whew.
Days--weeks--months like these we've had of late both exhaust me and amaze me. Exhaust for obvious reasons, but amaze when I recognize the resiliance of my own body and soul and the awesome capacity of the people around me to keep going--laughing, talking, working, singing, grading (oh, the grading), and caring--in the midst of what feels a lot like chaos.
Tonight we'll watch a film that juxtaposes the order of the natural world with the frenetic pace of modern life (of thirty years ago--it's only faster now!). At the end, the filmmaker focuses in on individual faces, slowing for the first time in more than an hour to let us see individuals, humans, in the world that hardly seems human any longer.
Perhaps I'll be able to go home and realize that even pausing for a few minutes in the midst of the chaos can remind me that I am, in fact, human. And all of these folks around me struggling to keep up? They're human, too.
At our house, we've felt more often like we're falling down than standing up in these past weeks, but today was a short exercise (after yesterday's falling once more) in keeping up.
This time, we passed the child back and forth (no child care on Thursdays) between ourselves and a spare college student while we both attended to our office duties and attended a lecture required of both of us. And then we managed to meet up, all three of us, in the autumn sunshine of an untended yard, raking leaves, stuffing bags, and arriving at the leaf drop-off just as the gentlemen were setting out the orange cones for the night. They were gracious enough to let us through. (Though I think they also were a bit afraid not to when they saw the leaf bags piled in not-quite-on-top-of the two-year-old.)
We got to grab a quick bit of dinner together at the Pita Pit (our favorite fast food in town) before I turned back around to head to campus for my evening class. Whew.
Days--weeks--months like these we've had of late both exhaust me and amaze me. Exhaust for obvious reasons, but amaze when I recognize the resiliance of my own body and soul and the awesome capacity of the people around me to keep going--laughing, talking, working, singing, grading (oh, the grading), and caring--in the midst of what feels a lot like chaos.
Tonight we'll watch a film that juxtaposes the order of the natural world with the frenetic pace of modern life (of thirty years ago--it's only faster now!). At the end, the filmmaker focuses in on individual faces, slowing for the first time in more than an hour to let us see individuals, humans, in the world that hardly seems human any longer.
Perhaps I'll be able to go home and realize that even pausing for a few minutes in the midst of the chaos can remind me that I am, in fact, human. And all of these folks around me struggling to keep up? They're human, too.
Monday, November 5, 2012
All Saints
We had lovely church yesterday.
On Saturday morning, we stopped by to set up for the weekend services, setting out sandboxes and candles for people to light in memory of loved ones, and counting out the blue votives for those beloved who have died this year and the white votives for those newly baptized.
Then, yesterday, after we sang "Behold the Host" and "For All the Saints," we came forward to light our candles, with Jo grabbing as many as her little hand would hold and then saying, "I want to do more!" The sanctuary glowed in the gloom of a November day.
On the way home, I told Jonathan that though I know Easter is the Queen of Feasts, and Christmas is such a marvelous celebration in the church year, I think All Saints may just be my favorite. I proposed that we should have an All Saints Season (at least so we could sing more of the fantastic hymns; that we sing "For All the Saints" only once a year is a terrible shame), beginning at November 1 and running until Christ the King Sunday, preparing us for the eschatological visions of Advent.
I propose this because we are too rarely reminded of the Communion of Saints--the comingling of the Church Triumphant and the Church Militant; we are too rarely reminded that we are all, even now, set apart for the work of God's kingdom which is every moment breaking in around us; we are too rarely reminded that the communion we share in the Communion of Saints is, indeed, the communion of the body of Christ--we ourselves are part of the sacrament that binds us together; we are too rarely reminded that sainthood is an ordinary calling that is part of the dailiness of our lives, not some rarified, exotic, and unreachable aspiration.
The witness of all saints is the proclamation most of us received as our entry point into the life of faith. We hear stories, listen to prayers, sing songs with people around us; we recognize love and compassion, joy in the midst of suffering, and perseverance in hope. Most of us receive the gift of faith not because of some startling event or dramatic cataclysm in our lives, but we bear witness to the hope that is in us because of ordinary gifts of time, laughter, food, tears, and pain.
And in the memory of those whose lives now continue as the great cloud of witnesses surrounding us, we affirm our own hope in the now-present-end (how's that for a paradox?) of God's dwelling place among his people.
On Saturday morning, we stopped by to set up for the weekend services, setting out sandboxes and candles for people to light in memory of loved ones, and counting out the blue votives for those beloved who have died this year and the white votives for those newly baptized.
Then, yesterday, after we sang "Behold the Host" and "For All the Saints," we came forward to light our candles, with Jo grabbing as many as her little hand would hold and then saying, "I want to do more!" The sanctuary glowed in the gloom of a November day.
On the way home, I told Jonathan that though I know Easter is the Queen of Feasts, and Christmas is such a marvelous celebration in the church year, I think All Saints may just be my favorite. I proposed that we should have an All Saints Season (at least so we could sing more of the fantastic hymns; that we sing "For All the Saints" only once a year is a terrible shame), beginning at November 1 and running until Christ the King Sunday, preparing us for the eschatological visions of Advent.
I propose this because we are too rarely reminded of the Communion of Saints--the comingling of the Church Triumphant and the Church Militant; we are too rarely reminded that we are all, even now, set apart for the work of God's kingdom which is every moment breaking in around us; we are too rarely reminded that the communion we share in the Communion of Saints is, indeed, the communion of the body of Christ--we ourselves are part of the sacrament that binds us together; we are too rarely reminded that sainthood is an ordinary calling that is part of the dailiness of our lives, not some rarified, exotic, and unreachable aspiration.
The witness of all saints is the proclamation most of us received as our entry point into the life of faith. We hear stories, listen to prayers, sing songs with people around us; we recognize love and compassion, joy in the midst of suffering, and perseverance in hope. Most of us receive the gift of faith not because of some startling event or dramatic cataclysm in our lives, but we bear witness to the hope that is in us because of ordinary gifts of time, laughter, food, tears, and pain.
And in the memory of those whose lives now continue as the great cloud of witnesses surrounding us, we affirm our own hope in the now-present-end (how's that for a paradox?) of God's dwelling place among his people.
And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them as their God; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away." Revelation 21.3-4
Friday, November 2, 2012
Another potluck note
I might as well stick with a theme for the week, right?
I have many inheritances from Grandma B. She was the only child of two immigrants who were the only members of their family to leave Norway. She was scrupulous about maintaining stories, traditions, and heirlooms. Because of her, I have the treasure of tea towels woven from flax grown on my great-great-grandfather's farm in Norway with dainty lace knitted by the great-grandmother for whom I am named. I am also honored to wear the same great-grandmother's engagement ring that served as my engagement ring, as well. And because of Grandma B., I also have the Potluck Spoon.
The Potluck Spoon is not a family heirloom in the traditional sense. It didn't live in the silver cloth, polished and protected with the other valuables. It's an ordinary stainless steel serving spoon. It doesn't match any pattern of flatware I have nor any that Grandma B. had, at least as far as I can recall.
But the Potluck Spoon is a treasure from a woman who knew her way around a church basement kitchen. Once upon a time in her life, I don't know when, Grandma B. got her hands on a metal engraver. We have evidence of this from many of her belongings. She was that kind of woman. So on the bowl of this ordinary serving spoon is engraved my maiden name--a fairly unusual one. Carefully, clearly, she identified the spoon she knew she'd always be able to retrieve from the bottom of the drained sink or from the drawers in the church kitchen.
Before she died, Grandma B. moved out of her house and distributed most of the heirlooms she had been saving. In her small retirement home apartment she kept only the necessities and the things dearest to her. I didn't even know about the existence of the Potluck Spoon until she died, and then it was one of the few things I particularly requested as we cleared out her belongings. A woven wall hanging from Norway, a batch of knitting needles, The Book of Concord and The Lutheran Church Basement Women's Cookbook, an orange mixing bowl, and the Potluck Spoon. These are the last things I carried with me from Grandma B.
And I can't tell you how many times I've rescued the Potluck Spoon from the bottom of a sink or a drawer since then.
I have many inheritances from Grandma B. She was the only child of two immigrants who were the only members of their family to leave Norway. She was scrupulous about maintaining stories, traditions, and heirlooms. Because of her, I have the treasure of tea towels woven from flax grown on my great-great-grandfather's farm in Norway with dainty lace knitted by the great-grandmother for whom I am named. I am also honored to wear the same great-grandmother's engagement ring that served as my engagement ring, as well. And because of Grandma B., I also have the Potluck Spoon.
The Potluck Spoon is not a family heirloom in the traditional sense. It didn't live in the silver cloth, polished and protected with the other valuables. It's an ordinary stainless steel serving spoon. It doesn't match any pattern of flatware I have nor any that Grandma B. had, at least as far as I can recall.
But the Potluck Spoon is a treasure from a woman who knew her way around a church basement kitchen. Once upon a time in her life, I don't know when, Grandma B. got her hands on a metal engraver. We have evidence of this from many of her belongings. She was that kind of woman. So on the bowl of this ordinary serving spoon is engraved my maiden name--a fairly unusual one. Carefully, clearly, she identified the spoon she knew she'd always be able to retrieve from the bottom of the drained sink or from the drawers in the church kitchen.
Before she died, Grandma B. moved out of her house and distributed most of the heirlooms she had been saving. In her small retirement home apartment she kept only the necessities and the things dearest to her. I didn't even know about the existence of the Potluck Spoon until she died, and then it was one of the few things I particularly requested as we cleared out her belongings. A woven wall hanging from Norway, a batch of knitting needles, The Book of Concord and The Lutheran Church Basement Women's Cookbook, an orange mixing bowl, and the Potluck Spoon. These are the last things I carried with me from Grandma B.
And I can't tell you how many times I've rescued the Potluck Spoon from the bottom of a sink or a drawer since then.
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