We have fog and thick hoarfroast this morning; the trees in the cemetery look like ghosts. It's cold, too, and the paper has been hinting at snow for a few days.
Last week we had the most significant snowfall we've had since Christmas--so much so that I worried about getting stuck on one of the few hills we have in town. The Subaru made it through, however, and I got safely to my destination.
Outside, it looks like winter. Deeper winter, in fact, than we had two weeks ago, when the weather flirted with the forty-degree range for a while. But something has changed. We're by no means done with snow and cold, but we're making the turn to spring.
---
This week some friends and friends-of-friends are dealing with tragedy, uncertainty, and fear. I have spent more time praying for relative strangers in the past few days than I have in a while. The circumstances aren't mine; for the most part, I am untouched by them. But their sadness is in part my own. This is how the body of Christ works, even when we don't recognize it.
---
Later this week, Pope Benedict will step down in order to devote himself more fully to prayer and meditation. What could that look like in my life?
---
The doldrums of February and the early weeks of Lent feel heavy. Sure, Lent is named for springtime, but it's not here yet. Certainly, Lent prepares us for the joys and burdens of Holy Week, but we have a ways to go.
I know what it is that turns me toward spring. The light is different. The change in light always catches my attention as seasons shift--well before the temperatures catch up. We'll have the frost for a while, but the light is becoming the light of spring.
In the cold and fog, I'm not seeing clearly. But it's coming.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Saturday Mornings
Sorry about that. A bit of a relapse, which meant a few more days home with the feverish two-year old who only wants to eat noodles and green cheese (yes, we have parmesan cheese in a can in the house, for just such an instance as this).
But she recovered and we got back to work and are now almost feeling caught up with ourselves. Whew.
And spring break is only two weeks away.
. . .
But it's Saturday morning, and we've got a little time to regroup. We'll hit our ordinary errand: library, bakery, HyVee (yes, we are creatures of habit, aren't we) and try to do some grading and some other shopping and housekeeping this afternoon.
Saturday has also become my default cooking day, where I can haul out the crock pot and throw something in the oven and plan ahead--at least a little bit--for the week. Short of actually planning ahead, I have a few extra brain cells on Saturday to think of something out of the routine that might be good to eat, and, with the HyVee trip in the morning, I generally have ingredients in the house with which to do something different.
Saturday mornings, though, are an exercise in making the most out of whatever's left at the end of the week. I'm happy enough with oatmeal or toast or yogurt during the week, but a Saturday breakfast feels like it calls for something more. Often that means eggs scrambled with whatever veggies are left in the fridge and whatever deli ham or piece of sausage is hiding in the leftovers. Sometimes it means pancakes or waffles (and occasionally with homemade turkey sausage if I'm feeling ambitious).
This morning it means muffins--and since the fruit bowl hadn't been emptied yet, Ginger Pear Muffins. I started out well enough, following the basic recipe pretty faithfully (which is rare for me) until I realized we only had about 1/3 C. of milk in the house. So, a little more adaptation.
And add milk to the grocery list.
---
Yogurt Ginger Pear Muffins
1 C. all purpose flour
3/4 C. white whole wheat flour
2 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 C. sugar
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. ground ginger
1 beaten egg
1/3 C. milk
1/2 C. plain yogurt
1/3 C. canola oil
1-2 ripe pears, peeled and chopped (about 1 cup). (Note, I used Anjou Pears, which are my favorite, but it can be hard to know when they're ripe. Color doesn't matter with these pears for ripeness--they give slightly at the stem when they're ripe.)
Bake in muffin tins at 400 degrees for 18-20 minutes. Makes 10-12 muffins.
But she recovered and we got back to work and are now almost feeling caught up with ourselves. Whew.
And spring break is only two weeks away.
. . .
But it's Saturday morning, and we've got a little time to regroup. We'll hit our ordinary errand: library, bakery, HyVee (yes, we are creatures of habit, aren't we) and try to do some grading and some other shopping and housekeeping this afternoon.
Saturday has also become my default cooking day, where I can haul out the crock pot and throw something in the oven and plan ahead--at least a little bit--for the week. Short of actually planning ahead, I have a few extra brain cells on Saturday to think of something out of the routine that might be good to eat, and, with the HyVee trip in the morning, I generally have ingredients in the house with which to do something different.
Saturday mornings, though, are an exercise in making the most out of whatever's left at the end of the week. I'm happy enough with oatmeal or toast or yogurt during the week, but a Saturday breakfast feels like it calls for something more. Often that means eggs scrambled with whatever veggies are left in the fridge and whatever deli ham or piece of sausage is hiding in the leftovers. Sometimes it means pancakes or waffles (and occasionally with homemade turkey sausage if I'm feeling ambitious).
This morning it means muffins--and since the fruit bowl hadn't been emptied yet, Ginger Pear Muffins. I started out well enough, following the basic recipe pretty faithfully (which is rare for me) until I realized we only had about 1/3 C. of milk in the house. So, a little more adaptation.
And add milk to the grocery list.
---
Yogurt Ginger Pear Muffins
1 C. all purpose flour
3/4 C. white whole wheat flour
2 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 C. sugar
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. ground ginger
1 beaten egg
1/3 C. milk
1/2 C. plain yogurt
1/3 C. canola oil
1-2 ripe pears, peeled and chopped (about 1 cup). (Note, I used Anjou Pears, which are my favorite, but it can be hard to know when they're ripe. Color doesn't matter with these pears for ripeness--they give slightly at the stem when they're ripe.)
Bake in muffin tins at 400 degrees for 18-20 minutes. Makes 10-12 muffins.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Valentines
We don't usually do much to mark Valentine's Day at our house, but that may be changing.
Last week, Jo and I went to the grocery store to pick out her valentines (the daycare staff had sent the list of class names just the day before, and I didn't want to put it off and forget). She was excited to pick out Dora valentines, but she also made it clear that they were for her, and she didn't want to give them away. Since I was still fighting the flu, I decided not to try to fight the two-year old for the sake of $1.99 valentines, so we bought the Thomas the Train valentines to give away to her friends.
When we got home, we started "making the valentines": Mom writing, Jo adding the appropriate stickers. And there were only about eight for her daycare friends. Out of about 60 valentines total. So we started in on the family members. And then we kept going with some friends from church. And then she wanted to "make more valentines" (at which point, we were into the Dora valentines--that she had wanted to keep for herself). In my flu-fogged brain, I couldn't think of who else to write them to, so I asked her who she wanted to give them to. "My people!" she declared. "And who are your people?" "People at HyVee!"
So I promptly addressed a valentine to "People at HyVee," and then "Deli Lady at HyVee" (who always gives Jo a sample of cheese on Saturdays) and then "Jennifer from the bakery" and "Bakery Friends (since Jennifer is a particular friend of Mom and Dad's, but there are other lovely folk there, too).
And on Saturday, then, as we set out for our weekly errands, we brought along the valentines and delivered them as we went on our regular rounds to surprised grocery-store clerks and bakery staff. And again on Sunday, when Jo got to give valentines to the organist, to Pastor Lori, to Kent and Luanne, and to some others at church. She's still waiting to give the valentines to her friends, but there are only two valentines left unclaimed. She said yesterday again that she wants to make more valentines, so perhaps we'll have to get a few boxes to spare and pass them out to strangers on the street.
Happy Valentine's Day. Spread the love.
Last week, Jo and I went to the grocery store to pick out her valentines (the daycare staff had sent the list of class names just the day before, and I didn't want to put it off and forget). She was excited to pick out Dora valentines, but she also made it clear that they were for her, and she didn't want to give them away. Since I was still fighting the flu, I decided not to try to fight the two-year old for the sake of $1.99 valentines, so we bought the Thomas the Train valentines to give away to her friends.
When we got home, we started "making the valentines": Mom writing, Jo adding the appropriate stickers. And there were only about eight for her daycare friends. Out of about 60 valentines total. So we started in on the family members. And then we kept going with some friends from church. And then she wanted to "make more valentines" (at which point, we were into the Dora valentines--that she had wanted to keep for herself). In my flu-fogged brain, I couldn't think of who else to write them to, so I asked her who she wanted to give them to. "My people!" she declared. "And who are your people?" "People at HyVee!"
So I promptly addressed a valentine to "People at HyVee," and then "Deli Lady at HyVee" (who always gives Jo a sample of cheese on Saturdays) and then "Jennifer from the bakery" and "Bakery Friends (since Jennifer is a particular friend of Mom and Dad's, but there are other lovely folk there, too).
And on Saturday, then, as we set out for our weekly errands, we brought along the valentines and delivered them as we went on our regular rounds to surprised grocery-store clerks and bakery staff. And again on Sunday, when Jo got to give valentines to the organist, to Pastor Lori, to Kent and Luanne, and to some others at church. She's still waiting to give the valentines to her friends, but there are only two valentines left unclaimed. She said yesterday again that she wants to make more valentines, so perhaps we'll have to get a few boxes to spare and pass them out to strangers on the street.
Happy Valentine's Day. Spread the love.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Fasting and Feasting
It's Ash Wednesday, and I'm hardly coming out of the fog of Interim, sickness, and the start of the new semester. Part of me feels like I've been stuck in the gray for a while, so the prospect of ashes and dust seem like more of the same--the ordinary--than the exceptional.
But the rhythm of the church year reminds me that the dimness of Lent, beginning with the shadowy reminders of mortality and sin, is not so much dimness after all, but clarity. Lent, the term in itself, actually is rooted in spring, rather than ashes or death. And what is spring but the growing light, the building warmth, and the hope of resurrection.
The fast of Lent is, perhaps, then a time to concentrate on the dimness of ordinary experience that so often overwhelms us in order to see more clearly the hope that is in us.
Already I've noticed that supper around our kitchen table is lighter. We sit in darkness no longer but, instead, watch the sun set in a bright evening sky. By the end of Lent, the sun won't go down until quite late in the evening (thanks to the wonders, such as they are, of daylight savings).
In my observations of Lent, I've worked through a number of different fasts in preparation for the feast of Easter, but I'm still not sure what my fast will be this year. Perhaps to spend more time outside in the growing light.
Good fasting to you all. Remember that you are from dust. And beloved.
But the rhythm of the church year reminds me that the dimness of Lent, beginning with the shadowy reminders of mortality and sin, is not so much dimness after all, but clarity. Lent, the term in itself, actually is rooted in spring, rather than ashes or death. And what is spring but the growing light, the building warmth, and the hope of resurrection.
The fast of Lent is, perhaps, then a time to concentrate on the dimness of ordinary experience that so often overwhelms us in order to see more clearly the hope that is in us.
Already I've noticed that supper around our kitchen table is lighter. We sit in darkness no longer but, instead, watch the sun set in a bright evening sky. By the end of Lent, the sun won't go down until quite late in the evening (thanks to the wonders, such as they are, of daylight savings).
In my observations of Lent, I've worked through a number of different fasts in preparation for the feast of Easter, but I'm still not sure what my fast will be this year. Perhaps to spend more time outside in the growing light.
Good fasting to you all. Remember that you are from dust. And beloved.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Back . . . mostly.
Hello? Hello?
I haven't been here in a while, but I'm hoping that the new year isn't too old for me to get caught up. I have been thinking about this space, but the pace of recent weeks has overwhelmed me.
So.
What first?
Well, there was philosophy. Lots of it. In a very short time. I'm marginally qualified (at best) to teach the discipline, so it was an intense brush-up for me, with a lot of good questions from students and more doughnuts than were probably necessary.
And then there was the ice storm, with the neighbor who saved our car from sliding down the hill (really. I promise. Jo thought it was some kind of a carnival ride in the backseat. Mom and Dad were more or less terrified in the front). Once we made it back into the garage (with the helpful bucket of sand from the aforementioned neighbor), I decided to bake molasses ginger cookies to thank him. After they cooled, I thought I would walk them across the street, took one step of the stoop, and landed on my backside. I went back into the house with the cookies and my bruised pride and had Jonathan take them over later when things had warmed up a bit.
And then there was the flu. Get your flu shots, people; you don't want what we've had.
But what we did manage to do was eat . . . sort of.
Jonathan got hit first, so I had the foresight to cook some extra chicken to have on hand for Chicken-Mock-Chicken Soup and to make some other planned leftovers (chicken-spinach cupcake lasagnas, among others). We also had an angel drop by one evening in the form of a colleague who left homemade chicken and dumplings, Moroccan-spiced vegetables, fruit, and ice cream. It was a few days before we could all manage to eat together, but it was worth it alone to know that we were cared for on such a cold and miserable night.
And now we're back into our more-or-less ordinary routine--at least in the land of the living once again--dinner out this past Friday, roast chicken on Saturday, and pot roast on Sunday. Leftovers for lunches in between.
I knew I was feeling better for sure when I decided to make oatmeal raisin cookies last week.
It's good to be back.
I haven't been here in a while, but I'm hoping that the new year isn't too old for me to get caught up. I have been thinking about this space, but the pace of recent weeks has overwhelmed me.
So.
What first?
Well, there was philosophy. Lots of it. In a very short time. I'm marginally qualified (at best) to teach the discipline, so it was an intense brush-up for me, with a lot of good questions from students and more doughnuts than were probably necessary.
And then there was the ice storm, with the neighbor who saved our car from sliding down the hill (really. I promise. Jo thought it was some kind of a carnival ride in the backseat. Mom and Dad were more or less terrified in the front). Once we made it back into the garage (with the helpful bucket of sand from the aforementioned neighbor), I decided to bake molasses ginger cookies to thank him. After they cooled, I thought I would walk them across the street, took one step of the stoop, and landed on my backside. I went back into the house with the cookies and my bruised pride and had Jonathan take them over later when things had warmed up a bit.
And then there was the flu. Get your flu shots, people; you don't want what we've had.
But what we did manage to do was eat . . . sort of.
Jonathan got hit first, so I had the foresight to cook some extra chicken to have on hand for Chicken-Mock-Chicken Soup and to make some other planned leftovers (chicken-spinach cupcake lasagnas, among others). We also had an angel drop by one evening in the form of a colleague who left homemade chicken and dumplings, Moroccan-spiced vegetables, fruit, and ice cream. It was a few days before we could all manage to eat together, but it was worth it alone to know that we were cared for on such a cold and miserable night.
And now we're back into our more-or-less ordinary routine--at least in the land of the living once again--dinner out this past Friday, roast chicken on Saturday, and pot roast on Sunday. Leftovers for lunches in between.
I knew I was feeling better for sure when I decided to make oatmeal raisin cookies last week.
It's good to be back.
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