Saturday, March 30, 2013

The Day of Preparation

I can only think of two Easter dinners I haven't at least partially hosted since I left college (and, actually, at least one I hosted at someone else's house when I was in college).  Holy Saturday is, for me, the Day of Preparation.

In the midst of the shopping and cleaning and cooking and getting out the good tablecloths and dusting and throwing open the doors (at last!  a warm spring day!) I think about what that Good Friday--that Day of Preparation for the Sabbath (the Passover Sabbath, in particular) may have looked like.  I think about the women, in particular, who had already cleaned the house for the Passover--scrubbing and sweeping and searching for any hint of leaven in the smallest cracks--prepared and served the meal on Thursday night, and who were then preparing all of the food for two days' needs, since they would be unable to cheat, as I will likely do, and finally sweep the floor in the morning.

I think about the women who followed to the foot of the cross and those who found out later from their friends.  I think about the women who then spent the Sabbath sitting still, this Holy Saturday, realizing that the tangible work of their grief had to be put off for the day, making the somber task of caring for the dead even more difficult.

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Holy Saturday is a bit of a conundrum for me.  When we leave in the silent darkness of Good Friday, I know it's not magic that brings about the Sunday morning celebration. 

This morning, a small group of us set out flowers, changed paraments, sailed banners high on the pitched ceiling, and prepared eucharistic elements.  I listened to the brass players rehearse the hymns and alleluias for tomorrow.  It's all ready.  Waiting for the early morning proclamation.

And this afternoon, I joined the crowds in the grocery store, stocked the ham and potatoes, picked up the bakery rolls, made the egg bake for brunch at church, and set out Jo's Easter dress.

Sometimes I have wondered if my joyful preparations that anticipate the morning disrespect the gloom of that first Holy Saturday.  I wonder if I move too quickly past Friday afternoon as I boil the eggs for dyeing and put the flowers on the table. 

But the preparation is not the feast.  The work is not the reward of rest--as joyful and satisfying as the work may be.  This is a day when I smell the mix of furniture polish and bleach on my hands at the end of it.  This is the Day of Preparation because of the promise of that first Day of Preparation.  Because of that Friday when, amid the flurry of holiday shopping and cleaning and cooking, the death of someone who appeared to be a common criminal changed everything.

And because those first witnesses on Sunday morning knew about preparation, they were prepared for death.  But because of what they found and the story they have told, I have the privilege of preparing for life.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Four Maundy Thursday Scenes

Jonathan said that there was a sign up at the gym this morning advertising free hand and foot massages.

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The bread for communion tonight was made by those receiving first communion.  The loaves look like what you might expect loaves of bread made by fifth graders to look like.

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The woman's curious gaze followed Rayber up the stairs until he disappeared.  She observed as his feet passed the level of her head that he had on one brown sock and one grey.  His shoes were not run-down but he might have slept in his seer-sucker suit every night.  He was in bad need of a haircut and his eyes had a pecuilar look--like something human trapped in a switch box.  Has come here to have a nervous breakdown, she said to herself.  Then she turned her head.  Her eyes rested on the two boys, who had not moved.  Anad who wouldn't? she asked herself.

The afflicted child looked as if he must have dressed himself.  He had on a black cowboy hat and a pair of short khaki pants that were too tight even for his narrow hips and a yellow t-shirt that had not been washed an ytime lately.  Both his brown hightop shoes were untied.  The upper part of him looked like an old man and the lower part like a child.  The other, the mean-looking one, had picked up the desk cared again and was reading over what he had written on it.  He was so taken up with it that he did not see the little boy reaching out to touch  him.  The instant the child touched him, the country boy's shoulder's leapt.  He snatched his touched hand up and jammed it in his pocket.  "Leave off!" he said in a high voice.  "Git away and quit bothering me!"

"Mind how you talk to one of them there, you boy!" the woman hissed.

He looked at her as if it were the first time she had spoken to him.  "Them there what?" he murmured.

"That there kind," she said, looking at him fiercely as if he had profaned the holy.

He looked back at the afflicted child and the woman was startled by the expression on his face.  He seemed to see the little boy and nothing else, no air around him, no room, no nothing, as if his gaze had slipped and fallen into the center of the child's eyes and was still falling down and down and down.  The little boy turned after a second and skipped off toward the steps and the country boy followed, so directly that he might have been attached to him by a tow-lne.  The child began to scramble up the steps on his hands and knees, kicking his feet up on each one.  Then suddenly he flipped himself around and sat down squarely in the country boy's way and stuck his feet out in front of him, apparently wanting his shoes tied.  The country boy stopped still.  He hung over him like some one bewitched, his long arms bent uncertainly.

The woman watched fascinated.  He ain't going to tie them, she said, not him.

He leaned over and began to tie them.  Frowning furiously, he tied one and then the other and the child watched, completely absorbed in the operation.  when the boy finished tying them, he straightened himself and said in a querulous voice, "Now git on and quit bothering me with them laces," and the child flipped over on his hands and feet and scrambled up the stairs, making a great din.
Flannery O'Connor, The Violent Bear It Away
(from O'Connor: Collected Works, Library of America, 1988, pages 426-427)

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After she woke up from her nap, Jo and I traced each other's hands and feet.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Catching Up II: Upscale Dining and Trader Joe's

We tend to go out to eat on a pretty regular basis at our house.  As much as I love cooking, when it comes to Friday nights, in particular, I'm anxious and ready to pay someone else to take care of it for me.  Most of the time, we make our choices from the array of restaurants in our small city (which is broader than it should be, given our city's smallish population, but since we're the biggest town around for a while, we have quite a few restaurants.  For a time, the rumor was that we had the most restaurants per capita in the country.  Since they were counting Subways, apparently, I'm not sure this is a significant statistic).  Since the time she was tiny, Jo has eaten at national chains, local diners, cafes, bistros, ethnic restaurants, and others.  We've taken her just about anywhere we would (afford) to go, and only once did I feel even mildly uncomfortable bringing her along.

So when we went to brunch at a lovely, upscale place for Grampa's birthday, I didn't fret a bit.  But later that week, when we were in a not-too-far-away larger city, in a revitalized shopping district, I looked longingly at the quaint bistros and brew pubs we strolled in front of.  We chatted casually about where we would eat that evening, pausing in the sunshine to scan menus posted on the windows. 

After we chased her through the antique stores and used book shops, we settled on a large, clearly-family-friendly spaghetti warehouse with red-checked tableclothes and a server who clearly understood the importance of sauce on the side.

It was a lovely meal.  Not what we would have chosen without Jo along, perhaps, but a lovely meal. 

One of these days, we'll stroll along that sidewalk again and duck into a quiet bistro.

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We were visiting nearby city for our 27-hour spring break vacation, which had originally been scheduled for what became the Week of the Flu.  Our primary destinations were Half Price Books and Trader Joe's, neither of which has made it to our spot on the frozen tundra (though I keep entering my zip code in the Trader Joe's location request form).

We wandered the TJ aisles, filling our cart with pantry treats and staples that we just don't find here (Ginger Cat Cookies, TJ's salsa verde, and salted chocolate almonds), and since it was a cool day and we shopped right before the drive home, I hit the cheese section hard, reveling in beautiful gorgonzola for $5.99/pound and aged havarti for the same price.  Mmmmmmm, cheese, Gromit.

We also filled a cart from a friend's list and delivered the goodness they had requested, since in this community, it serves us well to foster relationships with fellow TJ fans who might return the favor when we're unable to make the drive.  After we delivered it, she was cheered that she no longer had to hoard the last few simmer sauces in her pantry. 

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So we've been feasting more this season than we should have been, I suppose, but the rest--and restoration--of the past few weeks has settled me to look toward the coming few days better than self-denial this year.  I am filled up--with good food, with fun, with sunshine, with love.  And better able to be filled with the anticipation, hope, and joy that culminates shortly.

Sunday, March 24, 2013

Catching Up I: Pudgie Pies, Birthday Cake, and S'mores

We've had a lovely few weeks here, with Grandpa visiting for his birthday and for spring break.  At last, the chance to catch our breath and look toward spring.

Grandpa had requested an adventure while he visited, so we took to thinking of what activities are conducive to two-year-olds, parents, and early March in the upper midwest.  The weather didn't cooperate fully, but we did manage to spend some time outside, flying a kite, striking up a campfire in a nearby state park (where the river's ice breaking up sounded like gunshots to punctuate the hour we were there), and s'mores both in the fireplace at home and in the campground.

Grandpa and Jonathan bought sandwich irons for cooking over the fire, so we ate the delicacy of my family, pudgie pies, in a living-room picnic with orange cream sodas, carrot sticks, and marshmallows (Jo doesn't really care for chocolate--strange child).

The Sunday that he was here, Jo tracked down Pastor Lori at church to remind her that it was Grandpa's birthday so that he could be properly sung to by the congregation.  And then she helped me make a cake in the afternoon.


I suppose I could blame Jo for the listing cake and lumpy frosting, but that comes from my own inadequate greasing of the cake pans.  When half the cake gets stuck in the bottom of the pan, it's hard to frost the layers evenly.  Jo did take charge of the sprinkles and the candles, however.  She picked out the fancy candles that spell Happy Birthday, see?  And can you figure out how old Grandpa is now?

Despite an uneven appearance, the cake was delicious.  The frosting, especially, I recommend for just about any application.

I hope there will be more catching up in the next few days, since the remaining spring break adventures should be reported before I get into the Holy Week reflections (Lenten suppers!  Parades in church!  Hosanna!).

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Pudgie Pies

2 slices white bread
thinly sliced or diced ham
grated cheddar or co-jack cheese
ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise

In the center of one slice of bread, place ham and cheese, spreading the other slice with mayo and including mustard and ketchup (this is important!) atop the ham and cheese.  Butter both sides of the outside of the bread thoroughly, place in sandwich iron, trim off crusts, and cook over an open flame (fireplace or woodstove is actually more typical in my family than campfire) until the sandwich is lightly grilled and heated through.  Eat cautiously, since the inside will be quite hot.  Then, make more.

Brown Butter Frosting (modified from BH&G 14th edition)
 
1/2 C. butter (1 stick), melted gently, milk solids skimmed off, and cooked until browned (the color of caramel; do not burn)
Mix together
4 C. powdered sugar
2 Tb. milk
2 tsp. vanilla
Add brown butter.  Beat until combined, ading additional milk as necessary to reach appropriate consistency.

Monday, March 4, 2013

Feasting in Lent

We saw a sign at Pizza Ranch this weekend advertising their Lenten Buffet.

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I must confess that I'm still unsure about Pizza Ranch in general (and have managed to avoid it in the five-plus years we've lived here, though people tell me that now that the child is growing up, we won't be avoiding it too much longer).  And perhaps this reveals something of my snobbery, even though my tastes in food remain broad and, often, cheap.

But the sign made me giggle, even as I realized how the traditions of fasting always lead us to feasting.

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As long as I've observed Lent, I have held that Sundays are feast days.  I know that in some traditions (particularly in the Eastern Church), the fast is maintained throughout the entire season, culminating in the great feast of Easter that commences in the middle of the night on Holy Saturday.  But I believe there's good theological and practical reason for fasting with time for a break.

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I suppose what makes me think of this more is the fact that I live in the broad expanse of the middle of North America, far from any significant bodies of water.  The notion that eating fish constitutes a fast is a strange one when we live here:  fish is always a special occasion.  We just don't get it that often.  (And since I have become much more attuned to what it means to buy wild-caught fish, I am cautious since it's far more costly than even sustainably raised meat of other varieties--at least in this part of the world.)

So we get salmon perhaps once a week for a few weeks in late summer, when the Alaska salmon goes on sale.  It's still a splurge, but it's worth it.  We didn't go out for Valentine's Day but had broiled Ahi Tuna instead, spending almost as much on ingredients as we usually do on a whole restaurant meal.  And this week, when the Alaskan Cod was on sale, we splurged on a fillet. 

It was most definitely a feast.

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What is it that makes a fast, a fast?  How do we frame our minds--and our lives--toward thinking of enough rather than excess?  And how do we acknowledge the excess we have and shed it not as some matter of self-denial but rather of generosity toward others.  How do we use our fast to call others to share the feast?

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On Sunday morning, we packed up the boxes and cans overfilling our pantry to bring to church.  Jo saw the boxes of pasta and wondered why we were bringing noodles to church--were we going to eat them at church?  When I explained that we were sharing them with people who didn't have enough noodles, she protested, wondering why we weren't bringing some for ourselves.  I tried to show her that we had plenty of noodles in our cupboard, and we could even have noodles for dinner later that evening. 

As I thought about the evening menu, however, I decided I didn't want box noodles and took the time to make spaetzle instead.  Talk about a feast!  Giving away the noodles is as much about challenging me to focus my time, energy, and gratitude on what it means to cook and to eat.  Food is a great blessing of our lives, in fasting and in feasting.  Recalling what that means when I'm working with dough over a pot of boiling water and when I'm sharing with others is an important part of both fasting and feasting for me.

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Mayo-less Coleslaw (a side for baked cod)

1/2 head of cabbage, thinly sliced
1 large carrot, grated
2 tsp. dijon mustard
1/4 c. red wine vinegar
salt and pepper to taste
sugar to taste (about 1-2 Tb.)

Whisk mustard, vinegar, salt, pepper, and sugar together until combined.  Drizzle some canola or olive oil if you prefer, but I usually leave it out.  Pour over cabbage and carrots; toss and let stand for 15-20 minutes; toss again and serve.

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Spaetzle (a side for roast pork . . . or just about anything)

1 C. all purpose flour
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. pepper
1/4 tsp. ground/grated nutmeg
2 eggs, beaten
1/4 C. milk

Mix dry ingredients together, combine milk and eggs and add at once to the dry ingredients.  The dough will be quite sticky.

Drop into boiling, salted water in very small amounts (about 1/4-1/2 tsp.); I use a zip-top bag with a small hole--a makeshift pastry bag--and a spoon to drop the noodles into the pot.  Cook for 3-5 minutes (until they float).  Serve with butter, if you choose.  (Since this was enough of a feast on its own, we skipped the butter.)