I’ve finally gotten back in the kitchen to create a well-rounded meal. I like to come up with different challenges to get out of my usual cooking habits. Something I do occasionally is try to create a complete meal from one recipe book. I did that this evening with this book.
This evening I made chickpea and spinach stew served over cooked and fluffed cracked wheat.
Topped with garlic mayonnaise.
Our side was honey mustard glazed carrots.
I also have two loaves of cracked wheat-honey bread in the oven. (Except I used bulgar and molasses.)
Here they are rising in the pan.
We will top it off with an evening snack of homemade snickerdoodles (not from the cookbook) and mango sherbert (from the cookbook.)
Even though I get frustrated with menu planning, finding new and different things everyone likes, cooking and baking on a tight budget, serving my family in this way brings me great joy.
Liquid gold, drinking in the aroma of Gain laundry detergent, regular scent
Inhaling deeply the month of June, sterile hospitals, funeral homes, and her, still covered with the fluid of my womb
Whispers of family and friends on soft summer breezes, gathered fully together for the first time in years, to mourn our lost love
Eyes averted, conversation avoided, but inhabiting one space
Tears and laughter juxtaposed
Could it be? Heart healing in our greatest pain?
Cleansing communication, only love remains
Empty bassinet, unfinished nursery
Tears washing grief from our eyes
Hearts united in the sacred dance of grief and joy
Her scent now faded from her soft white blanket
But not from the laundry that hangs on the line
You probably won’t hear much from me in this forum over the next couple of weeks. I am working hard to complete my book, “By Way of Sorrow, a story of life, death, adoption, and hope.” (Much more on that soon.)
But I was planning my menu for the next week and saw this recipe, long forgotten, in the back of “Pantry Gems II,” a favorite cookbook of mine.
Read instructions carefully and completely before trying it for yourself. Enjoy. 🙂
I don’t do many chips around here, but when I do, my favorites are these Factory Seconds. $1.79 a bag at our local discount grocery and bursting with character and flavor.
As I munched on some today, I thought of how these potatoes, for whatever reasons, were not chosen for the first and finest batches, and yet I love them more than perfectly shaped and colored chips.
They reminded me of life. Some of us get knocks and bruises. We come in all sizes and colors. The final outcome is not what fits into a perfect mold. But oh the character, the flavor, the uniqueness we posses at the end of the day. Don’t sell yourself short. Don’t let anyone tell you you’ve gone too far, messed up too badly, failed to miserably, to be made into something lovely and desirable. You are worth it, you are loved, and your experiences are what makes you who you are.
I was talking with mother-in-law about these Sears “wish books” recently. Nostalgia almost swept me off my feet when she found these 1992-1993 Fall/Winter annual and 1993 Spring/Summer annual treasures in her basement. We didn’t order much from these because most everything was “too worldly,” but I would page through each one when they came and daydream about what I would get if it wasn’t worldly and we could afford it. (We mostly used them for our hineys to make us sit taller on the benches at the supper table.) Paging through them again brought back special memories of a child dreaming about something far beyond her reach, but I loved dreaming.
We had a beautiful gloomy rainy day. At the very end the sun broke through for a glorious display. I was reminded of a hymn from my childhood, “Lo, Behold The Western Sky,” by Ruth R Martin and Carol Stroop, copyright 1985.
I made four batches of fresh buttermilk biscuits and two gallons of my famous sausage gravy to feed the BBQ chicken crew at church in the morning. This is our first one of the season. We sampled the fare for dinner and it was satisfactory. 🙂
Now downstairs for some much-needed family time. Have a great weekend, everyone.
Often there are people around us who are also impacted by the source of our grief. Certainly our family and friends grieved in their own way for the death of our daughter. Looking back, I can see more clearly how each of them expressed their grief and love in their unique ways. I am so grateful for everyone who has walked this road with us.
I flung myself to the floor, weeping, alone for the first time since Sadie died
The doorbell rang, our neighbor an awkward witness to my uninhibited grief
She brought a beautiful hanging basket and said, “I’m so sorry”
Family cleaned, weeded flower beds, and snapped buckets of green beans and shucked copious amounts of corn on the cob to feed those gathered
Their presence comforted me
Daddy went grocery shopping
I still have the green bottle of Gain laundry detergent, empty now, but a reminder of their coming together and of my sweet Sadie Rose
Not all of them came together for the happiest day of my life, but they did for the saddest
That laundry detergent bottle reminds me so
Two sisters with small infants shied away at first, but upon my request brought their babies for me to hold
They cried survivor’s guilt tears as I held their little ones and wept for my Sadie
They didn’t want to know the pain of empty arms, but they also didn’t understand why they were so blessed
I marveled at the perfection of their tiny infants and knew Sadie was perfect in her own little way
My niece, then 12 years old, brought a red balloon and asked us to write notes to Sadie
We released it in our backyard, our younger nieces and nephews intrigued by the tears but delighted by the floating red heart carried away into the sunset
We sat around her grave on a beautiful Saturday afternoon
Nieces and nephews laid stuffed toys on her tiny white casket
We sang Jesus loves me
My father-in-law coughed and rubbed his eyes, grief had snuck up on his stoic composed form
My husband looked off into the distance, always far away, I wondered if he would ever come back
But he did, he would come back for a while to find me
Crumpled in a heap on the shower floor or staring out the window into the night
We fluctuated back and forth, being strong while the other was weak and vice versa
Another sister came after her farm chores
We dunked chocolate-dipped biscotti into our coffee until our stomachs hurt, mostly silent, with occasional bursts of detail accompanied by grunts and nods
Nearly every day I travel the same road and turn at this intersection where a house once stood. The vacant house burned to the ground a few months ago.
The rubble so changed the landscape that the first time I went that way after it burned, I missed my turn.
I took the familiar route for a second time today, but this afternoon was stunned to find merry little daffodils poking through patches of snow and ashes and concrete.
If you are looking around in your life today and all you see is ashes, rubble, ruin, despair, coldness, hardness, emptiness, I pray for you glimmers of hope.
When we are in times of great distress, it can feel like our landscape changes. Our sense of direction becomes unclear, landmarks crumble. What was familiar becomes strange.
But God’s promises are true and he is faithful.
To all who mourn in Israel, he will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair. In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks that the LORD has planted for his own glory. Isaiah 63:1
Like the seed that is buried in the ground, dormant, lifeless, and cold, eventually the seed germinates, a sprout emerges, and a bud bursts forth.
At just the right time, when it seems there is nothing left to live for and despair seems to have the final word, hope springs forth from the ashes of our lives.
These “dark nights of the soul” are potential times for great transformation.
I am reminded of this “Hymn of Promise” by Natalie A Sleeth.
In the bulb there is a flower; in the seed, an apple tree;
In cocoons, a hidden promise: butterflies will soon be free!
In the cold and snow of winter there’s a spring that waits to be,
Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.
There’s a song in every silence, seeking word and melody;
There’s a dawn in every darkness, bringing hope to you and me.
From the past will come the future; what it holds, a mystery,
Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.
In our end is our beginning; in our time, infinity;
In our doubt there is believing; in our life, eternity,
In our death, a resurrection; at the last, a victory,
Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.
May you sense these blessed promises in your own life today!
From day one, my life has been blessed with multiple indomitable women. In honor of Honoring Women Day, here’s a brief post about the virtuosic women that have shaped my life. With mom’s stoic Old Order Mennonite family and daddy’s colorful Russian/Hungarian family, I’ve had quite a conglomeration of influences, all of them prodigious!
First and foremost, my mom.
This woman birthed seven children in nine years and three months. Due to circumstances beyond her control, she found herself a single mother and the sole provider for our family.
She literally worked her fingers to the bone, milking cows, tending chickens, butchering animals, working in a bake shop, caring for yet more children, and still running our household.
She lives most of our childhood with a crushed spirit and a broken heart, but her tenacity to provide and care for her brood never wavered. She is a women of quiet yet profound faith. She never allowed us to speak ill of our dad for not being there, even when she had every right to complain herself. She was and is quiet, meek, gentle, soft-spoken, and timid, but hear me when I say she is a force to be reckoned with when her mind is set and when the concerns of her children and family are involved.
Mom, it would take a book to begin telling you all you mean to me, but I pray my heart and life speak as loudly as anything I might say of the legacy you have instilled in me. I love you!
Aunt Lois, mom’s sister, played a tremendous role in my musicality and appreciation of music and singing. Although she was not permitted to have instruments or “worldly” music, I spent hours with her metronome, pitchpipes, tuning forks, and vast supply of hymnals. Aunt Lois taught me how to feel music in your soul. She was also a woman of great faith and conviction which she exemplified by the manner of her living. She died when I was a young teenager. I still miss her.
All mom’s sisters played their own unique role; Aunt Edie let me dress up in “fancy” clothes.
She still sings like a song bird and her talent as a professional seamstress is second to none. (That’s a skill I never mastered, but have great admiration for.) Aunt Ruth, mom’s twin, has always been a quiet loving presence. Aunt Mim always sees the silver lining, is a prolific writer, and gifted photographer. Aunt Mary Etta, for as long as I knew her, endured tremendous physical suffering and yet praised God anyway. I didn’t know Aunt Mabel as well, she lived in Missouri and I seldom got to see her, but she came to help our family when mom was laid up after being hit by a car while riding bicycle.
Two of my great aunts, Mary and Wilda Beery, and their mother, grandmother Mary Beery, instilled in me a love of memorizing and reciting Scripture and poetry.
Switching gears now, Aunt Nellie, one of my dad’s sisters, could make a sailor blush with some of her language, but she was one of the most caring persons I’ve ever known. I seldom saw her without curlers in her hair and a Coke and cigarette in her hands. She often held a fly swatter too, and her grandkids would say, “no beaty a$$, Nan, no beaty a$$.” Aunt Nellie worked in the coal mines. Her rosary in her casket was made of Mardi Gra beads and a miniature Coke bottle. She left bags of “beads” for us, and my favorite colorful crocheted afghan for me.
I’m pretty sure Aunt Ethel has an Energizer Bunny inside. She has endured many physical complications from a horrible car accident years ago, yet at nearly 78 years old, she still works and cares for others. She lives a good four hours from us and we’ve never arrived at her house without an entire feast prepared. And we ARE expected to eat, even if we arrive late at night. I recall arriving around two am when we were children (car trouble) and she had baked ham, macaroni salad, and all kinds of other goodies prepared for us and was vacuuming her living room.
Aunt Tresa was full of life and laughter. She wore red lipstick and red heels. She kissed my brothers and made them cry. (Not really, she just loved how embarrassed they got with a bright red lip print on their little cheeks.)
Nearly all of my aunts lived out of the area, but they have all left their imprint in my life.
My mother-in-law, Sandy, has spent her life invested in children, teaching them to read. She has traveled the world, and is independent, stoic, composed, intelligent, a master gardener, and a life-long learner and reader.
My sisters and sisters-in-law have also inspired me in many ways.
This brief post is only a glimpse of these tremendous women, and there are many others who have shaped my life in various forms. If I can leave even a portion of the legacy of faith, tenacity, and meekness that these woman have instilled in me, my life will have been worth it.
On this day of honoring women, today I salute my grandmothers, my mom and mother-in-law, my aunts, my great grandmother and great aunts, and my sisters and sisters-in-law. I am who I am because of each of you! I love you!
Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun. On top was a perfectly placed white head covering, complete with white strings, her modest caped dress hung well below her knees. The 17-year-old scooped ice cream from the cooler as she tried to place the customer’s accent.
“Why do you wear that,” He asked, pointing to her head.
As a young lady (Sorry I con’t figure out how to rotate the photo)
She referenced 1 Corinthians 11 where Paul instructs women to keep their heads covered and Ephesians 5 where the Paul tells women to submit to their husbands. That’s the only answer she knew. Not too long prior, she had called her older sister who had stopped wearing the covering, pleading with her to come back to the faith.
“I’m curious,” the customer continued, “I’d like to know more about your religion. Come see me at the table over there when you get a break.”
She was used to people’s questions and curiosity. She was curious about him. Her first free moment, she walked over to the table where he waited patiently. Their conversation flowed easily. He was a businessman from South Africa and that brought him to the area. He had never seen Mennonites before and had lots of questions about their faith.
“What do they believe about the Holy Trinity,” he asked.
“The what?” She replied.
“The Holy Trinity, you know, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”
“Um, I don’t really know,” She muttered, embarrassed. “I’m not sure I really know much about the Holy Spirit.”
“Wow! Really?!” He gasped. “You don’t know what you are missing out on!”
He went to great lengths to share with her how the Holy Spirit guides, convicts, woos, calls, changes, sets free. He told her that while he respected her religion, it seemed to come with a great deal of bondage, unlike the freedom Christ offers. He shared enthusiastically, but with love and joy, not condemning or mocking like she was used to from those who didn’t understand her religion. He seemed to understand that her faith was not just a personal interpretation of Scripture, but was rooted in generations of tradition and ritual that had become her very identity. In her mind she was wondering what kind of flake she was talking to, but something in her spirit stirred.
I am that girl.
Charles and I stayed in touch, writing occasionally, even though I never saw him again. Several years went by. I eventually stopped wearing the head covering and plain clothes and at some point the letters from Charles ceased. I never gave it much thought. I was always amazed he had taken so much time and interest in a little Mennonite girl from across the pond anyway.
Then one day I received another letter post-marked South Africa. This time it was Charles’ mother telling me he had died unexpectedly of a heart attack at 42 years old. While she grieved she consoled me, his long distance friend, that he was ready to meet God and that he would be waiting for us when our time came. She told me that he had often spoken of me to her and that he was excited about the freedom I was finding in my own relationship with God.
I still have a refrigerator magnet he sent me some twenty years ago. Every time it catches my eye, I thank God for sending Charles my way.
As my freedom grew, so did my “Holy Spirit Fire.” I wanted everyone to have a taste of this freedom. I shared with anyone and everyone with or without their consent. I knew the truth and it had set me free.
I got bold with my new-found freedom, but not everyone was ready to be enlightened. I could rapid-fire loveless truth bullets faster than lightening, leaving a trail of stunned, wounded loved ones in my wake.
One day I drove my rusty (not-so-trusty) Chevy Blazer to an Old Order Mennonite preacher’s house, kicking up a trail of dust as I barreled down the long gravel driveway. I caught him completely off-guard in the garden and demanded answers to questions about this faith I’d always had, but was too afraid to ask before. By this point I had studied Scripture on my own and I had a Scriptural rebuttal for every single answer he gave me. He was speechless and I was proud.
Nobody won that day. Although I did eventually gain a reputation as a “Scripture authority to be reckoned with,” I lost friends. A lot of them. No one wanted this freedom I had when it caused me to be arrogant and heartless toward those who understood and interpreted Scripture differently than I.
Over time my message softened. I began to remember where I’d come from and how firmly and faithfully I believed what I believed, despite the bondage. I no longer consider myself any more enlightened than the next person, because we are all on an individual faith journey. I also came to love and cherish the foundations of my faith formed in youth and childhood.
We can boldly proclaim our freedom and enlightenment all day long, but I quote Paul in Galatians 5:13-15 NLT. “For you have been called to live in freedom, my brothers and sisters. But don’t use your freedom to satisfy your sinful nature. Instead, use your freedom to serve one another in love. For the whole law can be summed up in this one command: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ But if you are always biting and devouring one another, watch out! Be aware of destroying one another.”
I go back to my story about Charles. If he had presented his Holy Spirit theology in an arrogant or demeaning way, I would never have listened. I would have been defensive and closed, spouting off my rhetorical answers like a pre-programmed champion. But instead he shared with love and my spirit resonated with his words.
We can dispute our theologies all day long, we can argue man’s laws and God’s laws, and which ones were historical and cultural and which ones are timeless and eternal. But this I can assure you, “the Holy Spirit produces this kind of fruit in our lives: love, joy, peace, patience, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There is NO LAW against these things.” (Galatians 5:22-23 NLT). Emphasis mine.
There will always be people who disagree or understand differently. We should expect and respect that. But they are living as faithfully to the Gospel as they understand it. I am always eager to break bread together, to share honestly and openly and safely, and to learn from one another. I am faithfully living out my call as best as I can understand it with my finite and imperfect being and enjoy walking this road with others.
Our faith stories are important. Let’s not diminish or hinder the work of God in one another with loveless truth bullets that maim and wound other parts of the body who understand and interpret Scripture differently. Find common ground and build trusting relationships with people outside of your circle of influence and see what fruit grows. Seeds sown in discourse and contention will reap simply that. Seeds sown in love… Well…
Hebrews 10:24 NLT “Let us think of ways to motivate one another to acts of love and good works.”
With bonus plant-based chocolate chip cookie recipe. A family favorite in our house!
My mother-in-law gave me a book a while back, “Twelve Months of Monastery Soups.”
She also gave me a January/February 2017 Food Network Magazine with recipes for cupcakes for each month of the year.
These two books were part of the inspiration behind my “Fifty-two soups, breads, and treats” idea. The bread idea came about when my brother-in-law gave me a bread machine for Christmas. Although I often make our own homemade bread, this machine makes it possible to have a nice fresh loaf ready right at dinnertime.
We love soups around here. I love that they can be hearty and healthy at the same time. I also appreciate their versatility and how easily they can come together just with leftovers from the fridge or odds and ends from the pantry.
So with the inspirations mentioned above and the ongoing effort to do more with less, I thought it would be fun to have one night a week for a whole year with soup, bread, and a simple treat for supper.
I often look at the ingredients I have on hand and then peruse Pinterest for ideas. Since I’m usually working from scratch without having shopped for a specific recipe, I supplement and interchange ingredients as needed.
This week I made my own version of this chicken and wild rice soup, using leftover BBQ chicken from a fundraiser. I didn’t have all the exact ingredients on hand, but the substitutes were still delicious and the children loved it!
I also made this vegan Irish Stout Vegetable Stew, from my emeals menu.
I had made basic white bread a few days before and didn’t make any fresh bread on soup day.
I did, however, whip up a batch of our favorite “healthy” chocolate chip cookies.
I have served these cookies to many adults and children who had no idea they were considered “Whole Foods/plant based” and they raved and raved about them. Let me know if you try them and what you think.
Lunchbox Chocolate Chip Cookies
Recipe by Isa Chandra Moskowitz
Forks Over Knives Cookbook
1/3 cup unsweetened applesauce
1/3 cup almond butter
1/2 cup dry sweetener (Sucanat or raw sugar)
1 Tablespoon ground flax seed
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1&1/3 cups oat flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup sorghum flour or whole wheat pastry flour
1/2 cup grain sweetened chocolate chips
Method: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line two cookie sheets with parchment paper. Mix together applesauce almond butter, dry sweetener, and ground flaxseed. Once smooth, mix in vanilla. Add in the oat flour, baking soda, and salt and mix well. Add the sorghum or whole wheat pastry flour and chocolate chips and mix well.
Drop spoonfuls into prepared baking sheets and flatten a bit so they resemble thick discs. Bake for 8-10 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool.
Inspired Ramblings 