Potlucks again.

I've written before--in the distant past of this blog, which isn't too hard to find, since the archives are pretty shallow--about my affection for potlucks.  These days, however, I'm finding potlucks more an exercise in frustration, since my affection is now met with the reality of dietary restriction and the lack of labeling.  So, when I am invited to a potluck now, my first task is not to think of what I have in the fridge that can be compiled into something approximating a dish; rather, I have to consider the scope of what I bring in terms of the real possibility that I may not be able to eat anything else.

So, when we were invited to a Labor Day potluck last night, I mulled over the possibilities, thinking both of the veggies that needed to be used and the sustenance I would desire. 

I considered and rejected Corn and Tomato Salad, since I didn't think I'd be satisfied if I didn't end up with anything else.  So, I ended up breaking a cardinal rule by bringing a dish I had never made before, but it was such a success that multiple folks ended up requesting the recipe.  Here it is:

Spicy Rice Noodle Salad (mostly vegan and gluten free)

1 (8 oz.) package of rice noodles, prepared according to directions and then rinsed with cold water
1 red bell pepper, thinly sliced (I used the slicer on my food processor for the veggies)
2 medium carrots, thinly sliced
1 head of Napa cabbage, thinly sliced
(I didn't have a cucumber to spare, which would have been nice.  I also think snow peas and/or bean sprouts would also be nice)

Dressing (measurements are approximate)
In a food processor or blender, combine
1 garlic clove
1/4 c. Tamari (wheat-free soy sauce) or regular soy sauce (if not gluten-free)
1/4 c. honey (or brown sugar, if vegan)
1/3 c. seasoned rice vinegar
2-3 Tb. Siracha or other hot sauce
3/4 c. cilantro (a generous handful is what I pulled off the bunch)

Blend until thoroughly combined, making sure the garlic, especially, is incorporated.

Dress the noodles first, if you have time, adding the veggies later.  If you're headed out the door quickly, combine everything, tossing and chilling before serving.

Corn and Tomato Salad (what I didn't bring but thought of)

1-2 ears of sweet corn (either leftover or cooked for this purpose)

As many ripe tomatoes as you have to get rid of immediately (2-3, at least)

Chopped cilantro

1 chopped green or red bell pepper (or combination)

1 minced jalepeno (if you have it and want some spice)

2-3 Tb. lime juice

Salt to taste (at least 1-2 tsp.)

August

It still is, isn't it?  And that would explain why I'm both late coming back to the blog and the fridge is filled up with all kinds of late-summer goodness.

The weather took a turn yesterday, and there's a chill in the air suddenly.  It feels like back-to-school weather, and I should be sitting in meetings all week.  But I'm not.  I'm on sabbatical, messing up my kitchen and playing with green chile and peaches and corn and all sorts of goodness.

Yesterday, Jonathan roasted our annual case of Hatch green chile that made its way all the way from New Mexico, and we froze two gallons after we ate heartily of meatballs in green chile sauce (my compromise since I couldn't have the precious green chile cheeseburgers).  Today, I made peach-green chile chutney to freeze, as well.

Beyond cooking, my sabbatical goals include lots of reading and writing.  So, after I get the kitchen tidied, expect to see me back here more regularly.

Peach and Green Chile Chutney

1/2 onion, sautéed
3 c. roasted, peeled, and diced green chile
3-4 c. peaches, peeled and diced
1/2 c. dried cranberries
3/4 c. cider vinegar
3/4 c. sugar
2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. chili powder
1/4-1/2 tsp. cayenne

Combine everything and simmer until slightly thickened.  I'll freeze mine in 1/2 pint jam jars.  (What I don't eat for dinner over chicken breasts tonight, that is.)

Away.

At last a real break and not just a neglectful one.

Time for really fresh fruit and picnics and bodies of water.

I'll be back in August.

Pray to End Hunger

That's what the sidewalk-chalked entrance to the prayer labyrinth said.

"Pray to end hunger."

We went to the ballpark for church on Sunday in what may be a new tradition for our congregation.  Our Christian Education coordinator used to work for our local minor-league team and has a great affection for baseball, so using her connections last year, our pastor got to be the "starting preacher" for the day.  We returned this year, with a few more folks from a few more congregations, and another chance to support our local food bank. 

On the lines that traced the labyrinth, we placed rows of canned goods and boxes of pasta.

We're headed out of town soon for a trek west, so on Saturday we shopped lightly for the few days we're here.  Jonathan wondered when I started piling the boxes of on-sale noodles in the cart--since noodles aren't much on the menu these days, anyway--and then he recalled the food drive as part of Sunday worship, too.  I also had a chance to get to the back of the pantry, which I try to do every couple of months, to pull out the things that have been languishing (again, a bit more than usual since I've adjusted to the new restrictions) and add them to the offerings.

So as the photographer from the local paper tried to snap pictures of her in her pink hat and new glasses, Jo got to line up pineapple and salad dressing and pizza sauce in the "maze" that people were walking through, reflecting on the plenty that so many of us have right in our own kitchens, praying and learning how to share, so that all may be fed.

What's for Dinner?

The company that collects our trash and recycling has "points" to earn for pounds of recycling each week.  These points can be redeemed for a variety of coupons (most of which are useless to me) and free magazine subscriptions (a self-perpetuating system, if you will).  So, I subscribe to a variety of home and garden and cooking magazines--all aspirational, I assure you--and each month I review the steady stream of tips about exercise plans and organizing my house and planning my meals.

Planning my meals?  Who does that?

But since every month at least one of these magazines finds the advice useful for someone out there, I contemplate it briefly, and promptly ignore it. 

Planning meals at my house means keeping a (relatively complete) running tally of what's in the fridge and freezer in my head at any given moment and knowing that we can go out for dinner on Friday night since by then there's precious little left (Saturday morning is shopping day, as you know).

Planning meals means picking up the kids from daycare and preschool and asking "what should we do for dinner?"  (Lately, Jo's answer has been "pot roast," which is not particularly helpful at 4:47 when we need to eat dinner by 5:30 in order to get out the door for Dad's concert by 7:00.)  It means getting in the door, finding any necessary snacks to stave off complete collapses in blood sugar (we not always quite quick enough on that, but somehow we all survive) and turning on a DVD with Dad while Mom escapes to the kitchen to figure something out. 

But this system works for us.  Some nights are more put together than others, and sometimes I even feel accomplished in finding and using the resources at hand.  Some nights it is more eclectic and crowd-pleasing: turkey bratwurst, the end of the tater tot bag, edamame, and the remains of the snow peas from the farmer's market.  Matt got to have peas, too, trying them for the second time in the schedule of green and orange vegetables. 

And then there's others--frozen tamales with farmer's market asparagus or oatmeal with an edamame and grapes chaser.

 Maybe there's something to this meal-planning thing.

What I Get.

Many people's initial reaction when I mention my new diet (and, let's face it, I've mentioned it to just about everyone in the last six weeks or so, including total strangers) is "What do you eat?!"  Frankly, it was my first reaction, too.

But if my narrative of late has been the narrative of "no wheat, dairy, or eggs" (to the extent that Jo has also taken it upon herself to inform strangers that "Mom is allergic to wheat, dairy, and eggs"), it has also become a narrative of unsuffering sacrifice.  Ribs instead of a burger.  Sushi instead of a sandwich.

I made a fantastic batch of granola last week that I'm not sure I would have happened upon were it not for the new diet.  And I've returned to an old affection for vanilla soy milk.  Berries and watermelon and peaches and nectarines.  Soon we'll be home in the Pacific Northwest before cherry season is over.  I can hardly wait.  Roast chicken.  Olives.  Hummus and tahini, salsa and chutney.  I am not suffering, I assure you.

Last night I tossed together one of my new favorite desserts that will linger long after this phase has passed me by, Coconut Polenta Cake.  Indeed, the sacrifice is small, and the limitation renews my creativity as every good artist learns when muddling with a new medium.

Good Granola

Wet Ingredients (mix together)
1/2 c. unsweetened applesauce
1/4 c. canola oil
1/2 c. brown sugar
1/4 c. honey
2 tsp. vanilla
2 tsp. salt
1 Tb. Penzey's Baking Spice (or good cinnamon)

Dry Ingredients
3 c. rolled oats
1 c. steel cut oats
1 c. nuts (slivered almonds are my choice)

Mix together dry ingredients and pour wet ingredients over, stirring until evenly coated.  Press onto parchment-lined rimmed sheet pan and bake at 300 degrees for 25 minutes.  Stir, and continue to bake at 10-15 minute increments, stirring in between, until golden brown.  Store in air-tight container.  Frankly, I don't know how long this will keep, since it never lasts me as long as it should.

Coconut Polenta Cake

Preheat oven to 350.

Whisk together 1 can light coconut milk, 3/4 c. cornmeal, 1 tsp. salt, and 1/2 c. sugar. 
Pour into greased 9x9 pan, top with a generous handful of fresh or frozen raspberries. 
Bake 40-45 minutes until set. 
Cool to room temperature and slice. 
Also good chilled (that is, for breakfast).

What I Miss.

• Bread.
• Fried eggs.
• Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies.
• Cheese.  Yes, cheese, Gromit.
• Did I say bread?
• Restaurant Menus.
• Milk.
• Licking the spoon.  Or my fingers.
• Evening up the edges.
• Stroganoff.
• Scrambled eggs.
• Communion bread.
• Toast.
• Cheese samples.
• Yogurt.
• Bread samples.
• MorMor's Fruit Cobbler.
• Mindless eating.  (Okay, it's probably good I've given this one up.)
• Pizza.
• Cheese.
• And bread.

Faithfulness

Taking up a new habit such as this (rather dramatic, if I may say) shift in my diet has only been possible so far with a daily commitment.  That is, each day I commit to eating this way, today.  I ask no more than that of myself.

In the past week, however, I have read two distinct blog posts both from faithful and wise friends who advise, conversely, to make some long-term plans that might serve as a guiding star for one's life, and to acknowledge the immediacy of each day--even each moment--in the reminder that in tomorrow, life might be entirely changed.

How to balance this tension?  How to make a commitment that is only one day long and nonetheless call it a commitment?

These questions lead me to think about the double meaning of faith and faithfulness.  On the one hand, we speak of faithfulness as a steady commitment over time.  To keep faith with someone is to endure.  To walk.  To live.  To entrust.  Faithfulness is not fleeting.  On the other hand, to live in faith is to step into the unknown moment.  To move into the realm of unseen things.  To trust.  Faith reaches toward the future, uncertain of all that lies ahead.

I often tell my students (and remind myself) that I am a person of faith.  I don't know how they understand the term, but when I say that, I mean to speak the double meaning of faith.  I am a person of commitment and consistency (overmuch, perhaps some would say) and at the same time, I endeavor to cast my lot into the unknown stretching out before me.

Of course, what I also mean to say when I announce that I am a person of faith is that I do not and cannot dwell in this faith alone.  It is a gift from God, and it is sustained by the community of faith that surrounds me.  This faith is ultimately the food that I eat.  It is the blessing of God realized in bread and wine (even, though they are dreadful in a way I had not anticipated, gluten-free wafers) that becomes my life.

Past and future.  Surrounding and within.  Received and given.

Passing up pizza for a time hardly seems like an act of faith, particularly given the real sufferings the world has to distribute among God's children, but the daily choices of what and how I eat have a way of getting my attention.  So I am grateful for the faith given to me and hope, for today, that I will live it out on behalf of others, or at least one other.

Amen.

Eating in a New Way

When the pediatrician suggested we run some allergy tests to see if we could help Matt's itchiness and dry skin, I said a quick prayer that it wouldn't turn up a dairy allergy. 

When the nurse called a few days later, she told me that it was, in fact, wheat . . . and eggs . . . and dairy . . . and peanuts.

Oooof.

My first inclination was that he'd be switching to formula right away.  But then I remembered how expensive formula is--especially the allergy-safe formula.  So I decided to take it one day at a time.  So far, more than a month later, I'm still sticking with it.  At least for today.

I did allow myself to go shopping right away for some alternative ingredients to have on hand, and I immediately proved to myself that I could still make and eat treats by whipping up a batch of rice crispy treats and eating almost the whole pan. 

So now I'm a gluten-free, meat-eating vegan who is the obnoxious person pestering waitstaff with questions.

I've also gotten to read a whole host of interesting cookbooks I wouldn't have otherwise touched.

And I'm still eating pretty well.

An update, of a sort

There's too much to catch up on in the more-than-a-year past, but I'm back in cooking and writing mode.  Cooking because I'm taking up a challenge on behalf of my young son (yes, he's part of the more-than-a-year past) to eliminate all wheat, eggs, and dairy from my diet.  If you look back over many of the recipes I've posted here, you'll see that this is a significant shift.  In fact, the title of the blog belies an affection for baked goods that is strong (and without wheat, eggs, and dairy, cookies are a mere shadow of what they are meant to be).  But I'm finding plenty to eat nonetheless, and I've made some interesting chemical discoveries in the world of substitutions.

And writing, I hope that will be returning, too, since I'm faced with a double-edged sword of time in the form of a sabbatical from ordinary teaching and administrative responsibilities, and I have a host of writing projects I'm planning.  Yes, this blog is one of them. 

So, if you're still out there, thanks for checking in.  I'm planning to be here more often in the coming weeks, too.

Resurrection and Revelation III: Terror and Doubt

But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came.  So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.”  Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”  Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!”  Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

John 20.24-29

As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed.  But he said to them, “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.”  So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

And all that had been commanded them they told briefly to those around Peter.  And afterward Jesus himself sent out through them, from east to west, the sacred and imperishable proclamation of eternal salvation.

[Now after he rose early on the first day of the week, he appeared first to Mary Magdalene, from whom he ahd cast out seven demons.  She went out and told those who had been with him, while they were mourning and weeping.  But when they heard that he was alive and had been seen by her, they would not believe it.

After this he appeared in another form to two of them, as they were walking into the country.  And they went back and told the rest, but they did not believe them.]

Mark 16.5-13

 

There's so much to celebrate on Easter morning.  In the dimness of a pre-dawn gathering, we can smell the lilies and anticipate the alleluias that have been quiet for so long.  The brightness of "He is Risen!" shatters the sorrow and darkness.

 

That's what we say.

 

But the first narratives of the resurrection weren't filled with the joy of Easter finery and egg bake and jelly beans.  The first narratives of the resurrection were filled with terrified people and confusion and disbelief.

 

Thomas's story is one of few passages of scripture that appears annually in the lectionary readings.  We never get a year without Thomas's doubt (for which he is named) and his proclamation (for which we would be better served to remember him):  "My Lord and my God!"

 

But in Mark's gospel, the picture is even more fraught.  The language of the revelation is harsh:  Alarmed.  Terror.  Seized.  Afraid.  "And they said nothing to anyone."  Silence.

 

And then, in the appended ending to Mark, we seem to have attempts to smooth the story over a bit--but instead we get two more stories that end in disbelief.

 

The miracle at the end of Mark's gospel hardly even seems to be the resurrection.  In fact, it's hard to read resurrection in this narrative of emptiness and silence and confusion.  The strongest miracle seems to be what happens afterward: through them, "the sacred and imperishable proclamation of eternal salvation"--that is, the story.

 

The story--the proclamation--itself becomes the imperishable.  The story of resurrection that cannot die.

So in others' doubt and terror, we receive the story.  We receive a story that does not destroy doubt but, instead, provides an enduring narrative that shows us how, even in the midst of the dimness and silence and fear of our lives, revelation comes.  We don't often recognize it at first (and we may not recognize it at all), but resurrection is walking around among us.  And what is more, that sacred and imperishable proclamation is sent out through them.  Them.  The them who kept not believeing.  The them who were terrified.  The them who were fearful and silent.

Miracle of miracles:  the story moves beyond the faith and courage of the teller.  Even when we are timid and tired, the sacred and imperishable proclamation remains.  Sustaining us in our belief and in our unbelief.

Resurrection and Revelation II: Fish for Breakfast

While they were talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, “Peace be with you.” They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost.  He said to them, “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts?  Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.” And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet. While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, “Have you anything here to eat?”  They gave him a piece of broiled fish,  and he took it and ate in their presence.

Luke 24.36-43

After these things Jesus showed himself again to the disciples by the Sea of Tiberias; and he showed himself in this way.  Gathered there together were Simon Peter, Thomas called the Twin, Nathanael of Cana in Galilee, the sons of Zebedee, and two others of his disciples. Simon Peter said to them, “I am going fishing.” They said to him, “We will go with you.” They went out and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing.

Just after daybreak, Jesus stood on the beach; but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus.  Jesus said to them, “Children, you have no fish, have you?” They answered him, “No.” He said to them, “Cast the net to the right side of the boat, and you will find some.” So they cast it, and now they were not able to haul it in because there were so many fish.  That disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, “It is the Lord!” When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he put on some clothes, for he was naked, and jumped into the sea.  But the other disciples came in the boat, dragging the net full of fish, for they were not far from the land, only about a hundred yards off.

When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread.  Jesus said to them, “Bring some of the fish that you have just caught.”  So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred fifty-three of them; and though there were so many, the net was not torn. Jesus said to them, “Come and have breakfast.” Now none of the disciples dared to ask him, “Who are you?” because they knew it was the Lord.  Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish.  This was now the third time that Jesus appeared to the disciples after he was raised from the dead.

John 21.1-14

 

Fish-eating is apparently a party trick of the resurrection.

 

At least, that's what it seems like in this passage from Luke.  The disciples still don't understand.  (How could they?)  So Jesus has a snack.

 

Why?  The resurrection is clearly not a ghost story.  Ghosts don't go around asking other folks for fish.  Ghosts don't invite touching.  Ghosts aren't hungry for breakfast.

 

And in the face of such a display, the disciples still don't know what to do, so they go back to their familiar routines.  "I'm going fishing," Peter announces.  And the routines are just as empty and pointless as they maybe often are, hours spent trawling for . . . nothing, apparently.

 

But in both of these stories, Jesus does not demand faith. He doesn't condemn the disciples for returning to the comforting emptiness of pre-resurrection routines.  Instead, he invites them to come close--close enough to touch.  He eats.  He cooks.  He feeds them. 

 

Rather than calling them away from the emptiness of their daily tasks, he fills it.

 

And he fills it so that they--and he--might be fed.

Resurrection and Revelation I: Bread for Dinner

Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem,  and talking with each other about all these things that had happened.  While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them,  but their eyes were kept from recognizing him.  And he said to them, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?” They stood still, looking sad.  Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?”  He asked them, “What things?” They replied, “The things about Jesus of Nazareth,who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people,  and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him.  But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place.  Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning,  and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive.  Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.” Then he said to them, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared!  Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?”  Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.

As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on.  But they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” So he went in to stay with them.  When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them.  Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight.  They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?”  That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together.  They were saying, “The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!”  Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

 

Luke 24.13-25

I love the stories of the resurrected Jesus.  It's clear that the gospel writers are as confounded by the idea of resurrection as the rest of us, but over and over they come back to the same theme:  the resurrection means bodies doing bodily things.

In this narrative from that first Sunday of the resurrection in the Gospel of Luke, the scene is as ordinary as it can be.  Bodies walking somewhere.  And talking.  And wondering.  And then, the story climaxes in an ordinary supper.  Bread.  This is "how he had been made known to them."  Sitting around a table, reaching for the rolls he passed.

These readings from this Easter season are the source of this writing project of mine and this resurrection faith I walk around with, talk about, sit down to eat with.

The stories of the resurrection are not about ethereal otherworldliness.  This is not the time for abstracted notions of spirituality.  This is not even the time for meditative solitude and prayer.  The stories of the resurrection constantly call people together and often provide snacks.  The stories of the resurrection are about touching and proclaiming and walking and questioning and fishing and eating.

The stories of the resurrection, like the stories of the incarnation, demand that we confront our humanness and, in fact, place that humanness at the center of the story, at the place where the story begins and ends.

The revelation of the resurrection is the revelation of the truest end for human beings realized by the grace of God.  Pass the bread.

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.

---

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.

Four Maundy Thursday Scenes

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

---

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.

---

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.

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.

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.

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.)

Lent I (or, Spring Is Coming)

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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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.

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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.