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.

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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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.