The Future "Us"

She is tall. With brown boots hugging her calves over brown leggings. A long grey sweater with a wide ruffled bottom and broad bell sleeves is buttoned with a single large button over her chest. Hundreds of tight twirls of hair, the color of twine, are wrestled into submission by a clip on the back of her head.

He wears jeans and a blue work shirt. His hair and beard are grey but between the two is a pair of bright eyes behind black-rimmed glasses.

We are standing outside Giovanni's, waiting for a table for two. "Only four of us waiting," he says to us as they approach from the parking lot, "I thought it'd be packed." They step inside, and immediately return to wait with us. "Ten minutes," he says. "That's not bad." We all smile at each other and in a few minutes, Husband and I are called in by the hostess. She leads us to a booth and we sit down across from each other. When the waitress comes, we order a Coke and a lemonade and Ranch Cheese Fries. When they are led in a few minutes later, to a booth across the room, they sit down together, on one bench of the booth, next to each other, and talk animatedly about something.

They are us. In maybe 35 years. A handsomely aging couple, still excited to eat out together. With plenty to talk about as they enjoy pasta and salad and garlic breadsticks. A couple proud of each other, a couple who are friends. Even after many, many years.

Merry Merry

It's Christmas Eve. The year is nearing its end, and I'm looking forward to preparing for 2012. For today, though, I reflect on a few delights of Christmas.

1. Tom, our new Christmas bear. Mom used to get Sister and me each a stuffed animal for Christmas and Husby has revived the tradition this year with a Christmas bear which sits on the bookshelf above my stocking. We have named him Tom and I'm pretty excited that he's joined our family.

2. These homemade caramels which our neighbor/landlord made. I can't stop eating them!

3. The greens I cut from the cemetery next door and placed around the house. I didn't realize they were supposed to be in water, so they're all turning a bit brown by now. But they still lend a cozy Christmas atmosphere.

4. The Nantucket Cranberry Pie that's in the oven. I'm taking this to my in-laws' house for our Christmas celebration this afternoon.

5. Merry Christmas ribbon I got at Michael's. Loved wrapping presents with it!

6. Our cute tree on the windowsill.

7. Vintage ornaments, like this one from Husby's mom.

8. Christmas cards, especially this one from my favorite client at work. She painted this.

Merry, Merry!

Hark! The herald angels sing, "Glory to the Newborn King! Peace on earth and mercy mild; God and sinners, reconciled." Joyful, all ye nations rise! Join the triumph of the skies! With angelic host proclaim, "Christ is born in Bethlehem!" Hark! The herald angels sing, "Glory to the Newborn King!"

Twenty-Five

I thought I’d have a lot to say about my twenty-fifth birthday. It seems like an important year: ¼ of the way to 100, a halfway point between decades, the beginning of my “late twenties.” But I feel the same today, on December 10^th, as I felt waking up two mornings ago, on my last day as a 24-year-old.

A day doesn’t do anything. This December 9^th did the same thing each of the last twenty-five December 9^th’s has done: merely marked another year since God brought me into the world. What will make my twenty-fifth birthday important, I think, is what happens in the next 52 weeks. How will I spend my twenty-sixth year? What does today kick off? What will I begin today that will define my life as a 25-year old?

While I have a few goals for my twenty-sixth year, the defining characteristic I most want to develop in the next year is peace. At the root of all discontent in my life, all arguments with those I care about, all restlessness is a lack of peace. I fail, most of the time, to put my future into God’s hands and to leave it there, taking with me the peace He promises. Don’t we all tend to snatch our plans back from His hands, confident that they’re safer under our control? I don’t pretend to be any different. But my goal this year will be to develop the silent, trusting peace of someone who doesn’t need all the answers. I aim to be a person who is content under any and all circumstances, not resorting to grumbling, not wallowing in worry, and not questioning the purposefulness of what I’m called to do each day.

“My peace I leave with you,” Christ said. And he meant it. With twenty-five years under my belt, I think I’m ready to accept that peace. And doing so will make this year extremely worthwhile.

The Eyes Have It

In the check-out aisle in Target, there is gum for sale with a picture of a famous snowboarder on it. It’s named after him, in fact. I guess it’s supposed to have a snowboard-y flavor. It’s the size of a credit card, and costs less than two dollars, yet the packaging has been designed to attract buyers who wouldn’t otherwise pick up a pack of gum at all. Of course for Stride, this is a great marketing idea and probably a successful way to rake in more sales.

But when I saw this product in the check-out aisle, it wasn’t the gum company I thought about. It was me, the consumer. Why, if I liked Shaun White, would I buy this pack of gum? Surely it can’t taste much different from spearmint or wintermint or peppermint. It doesn’t fit better in a pocket or purse. It’s not cheaper and it’s not likely to gain me any friends, make me any money, secure me any crowns in heaven, or otherwise offer fringe benefits. I conclude, therefore, that buying this gum has everything to do with the image on the front. If I like Shaun White, I want to have something with his face on it in my possession. Even if 12 sticks later, it will just be tossed into the trash like any other gum package.

This conclusion led me to reflect on other image-related choices we make every day. Things like home décor and clothing are obviously sight-based decisions. We buy these things primarily for what they look like. But other decisions, and not just shopping decisions, are less obviously but equally sight-based.

This weekend, I had a friend over for breakfast. This was a perfect opportunity to use the tea party dishes I inherited from my Grammy. They’re white with gold edges and different designs of fruit and leaves are painted on each one. Each plate has a round divot where the tea cup sits. I set the table with these, some glass tumblers for orange juice, and dark plaid cloth napkins. For breakfast, I planned to make buttermilk pancakes which in my head were perfect circles, golden brown on both smooth sides, thick and puffy like a good diner would make. This was wishful thinking. They were lopsided, flattish, crinkled from bad flipping technique, and of varying shades from something you could kindly call gold to something you could most certainly call brown. They were ugly. However, they tasted quite perfect with butter and syrup and a cup of hot coffee. If I closed my eyes they were even diner-perfect.

After breakfast, we worked on some craft projects which will be Christmas presents for our family members. This was most certainly an eye-driven activity and we aimed to make creations that will please our loved ones visually while also serving their function. (No more details or the surprises will be spoiled!) Our vision made these projects possible and our attention to sight-based detail made them beautiful.

Later in the day, I went for a walk and clipped some branches from a big evergreen tree dotted with tiny pinecones. I propped the branches up in vases and bottles and jars around my house and set a Christmas-y mood in just a few minutes.

I say “the eyes have it” because I think if we don’t keep them in check, they really do. More than our other senses, sight is immediate, constant, works from a distance, and is often out of our control. Sight, more than our other senses, is the reason we desire certain things. I wanted pine branches in my home to signify to anyone who comes in that this is a festive place, laced with seasonal spirit and made cozy with personal touches by its thoughtful caretaker. This is not wrong. I wanted my pancakes to look like creamy moons because it would signify my domesticity, my skill with a frying pan, and my ability to make a stellar, diner-quality breakfast. This was slightly more wrong. While buying WhiteMint gum would not have been wrong, buying it for the simple reason of having the name and picture of a celebrity in my purse would have bordered on obsessive.

I caution myself, with these reflections, to be alert for things that merely attract my eyes. I think Jesus meant it when he called the eyes “the lamp of your whole body.” Are my eyes full of light? Or easily drawn to darkness? I hope that I will have the wisdom to shine a clear and revealing light on that which is appealing to my eyes, rather than being a servant to them. May my eyes – and yours – be filled with pleasing things this Christmas season, but always slow to feast greedily on easy pleasure and quick to look more deeply at things deserving more than a cursory glance.

Cookie Day

 [Today's post brought to you by 18-year-old me. The following is an Essay of Observation, written when I was a senior in high school. It is just as accurate today as it was seven years ago. Photos are from today, not 2004.]

Checkerboards, not featured in the post.

The countertops are glistening as I come into the kitchen.  Today is cookie-baking day and Mom has wiped every surface clean.  Christmas music drifts in from the family room.

Shanna rummages through muffin tins and plastic silverware in the bottom cupboard, her hands finally emerging with the shiny black cookie sheets and stainless steel cooling racks.  I reach to the top shelf of another cupboard, fumbling for the plastic canisters of flour and sugar.  Mom rustles through her old, red Betty Crocker cookbook to find the stained and tattered booklet that contains all of our precious recipes.  Our favorites are marked in yellow highlighter and the kinds to prepare first have been carefully numbered in pencil. 

Before long the air is hazy with flour and our fingers are sticky.  The mixer drones on as I snap the switch to low speed and pour in a teaspoon of vanilla.  Shanna uses a warm dishcloth to wipe a thin film of flour off the plastic-coated recipe card and reads off the next few ingredients.  Mom is recounting the sticks of butter softening on the counter.  Butter is a staple in all of our calorie-laden cookie recipes.

The oven timer barks anxiously and there is a mad rush to save the batch from any trace of singeing.  Presently the cookies are sampled.  They might be my favorite sugar-coated “pecan snowballs,” their delicate nuttiness melting on my tongue.  Or maybe buttery spritz cookies crumbling at the first bite.  

Tiers of Spritz

At last the final cup of flour has been measured and the final cookie has been decorated.  The oven has been switched off and the last batch of cookies has been counted and set out to cool.  We collect the Christmas cookie tins and rinse out last year’s crumbs.  Then, layering them between ragged sheets of waxed paper, we gently nestle the cookies in the tins.  With a final sheet of waxed paper on the top layer of each tin, we snap on the lids and pack them away for a brief hibernation in the basement freezer.

A Busy Weekend and New Things

This weekend I went out to my school for our annual Auction. I haven't been in years, but on Saturday I met up with my best friend, and we bought chicken corn soup and apple dumplings and watched the bidding on home goods, furniture, and the "class baskets." I ran into some old friends and soaked up some nostalgia. It was perfect. Later in the day, I went over to the school where Peter teaches where there was a similar homecoming event. We ate BBQ chicken and watched a soccer game, then Pete played in a staff vs. alumni volleyball tournament. It was a lot of fun, and we even won a rocking chair at the silent auction.

When we were ready to go home, I decided to drive out to a nearby furniture outlet first. They're going out of business and I thought I'd check for a cheap love seat. All the furniture in our apartment - and I mean all of it - was used. It was either mine previously, Peter's previously, or we bought it second hand, or it belonged to a family member who graciously gave it to us. We did not own a single new item. Our beautiful queen bed belonged to my cousin. I haggled for our retro kitchen table set at an antique store. The hutch by the door was in Pete's parents' basement and Dad repainted it for us. Many of these items we love partially for the stories that come with them. They are family pieces that we were proud to inherit. Our love seat, though, which belonged to Peter's grandmother, was one piece we did not plan to keep for long.

The love seat on move-in day... when the living room was clean.

The pattern was a seventies floral, brown and mustard and splashes of turquoise. But the whole thing was a few shades darker than its original color, made dirty by the years. It was a sturdy piece of furniture, and we appreciated having it when we moved in, but it was first on the list to be replaced.

Thus, I went to the furniture outlet. As I came in the door, I was greeted by a tall man in a white button down shirt with greying hair.

"I guess I'm your furniture salesman," he said. "I'm Rick. What are you looking for?"

I told him just a love seat, and he said most things were being sold in sets, but he knew of two love seats being sold singly. I liked one, texted a picture of it to Pete, called Dad to ask if it was a good deal, and within a half hour, I was driving to the warehouse to pick it. Peter's dad met me with the pick up truck, and then brought it over to our house.

The new love seat, in Olympic Chocolate.

Now, it's in the living room, our first truly "new" home item. I like it. Pete loves it. He napped on it this afternoon. I'm cozied up on it now. It's settling in and becoming part of the things that make up home.

In other weekend news, I hung out with my Bible Study girls Friday night to throw Jen a baby shower, Sunday afternoon we celebrated Peter's dad's birthday, and just this evening I made bread pudding. Most interesting of all, though, on Saturday I met a woman in the parking lot of Martin's who told me her whole life story as if I were an old friend. She saw me taking a picture in the parking lot (because I'll miss Martin's and I wanted a picture of it) and she pulled up beside me in her minivan and said, "Oh, I'm so glad you're taking a picture! I was just going to take a picture, because I'm out in the middle of nowhere, aren't I, and I wanted to show my son where I went to get fabric for his little girl, but I was worried I'd offend someone by taking a picture of this place!" It was quite sweet, actually. She told me how tough her job is and what it was like being a single mom who wasn't out to land a new husband, but was focused on her kids, and how people always think she's younger than she is which was always fine, but now she's a grandmother and she doesn't want people to think she's a "hoochie-mama," so now she wants to look her age for the first time... I'll be praying for this woman, a special ed teacher in Philadelphia who's helping her son raise a 9-year-old granddaughter whose mom died four years ago. Her name is Laura, and you can pray for her too.

New things: Jen's coming-in-two-weeks baby. Laura's story. A rocking chair. Our chocolate love seat. The bread pudding cooling on the counter. And the week that's about to begin.

Extravagance

I have started playing a game with myself when I go food shopping each weekend. The game is: buy as little as possible. The game is secretly: spend as little money as possible, but that is not as fun. I challenge myself to recall what I already have at home, and to work with those items, plus a carefully selected collection of economical new items, to create a week's worth of food for me and Pete.

Today I played the game in an even more challenging environment. After church today we went on a date to... Wegman's. Although we agree there is nothing inherently wrong with the veritable cornucopia of fruits, vegetables, breads, cheeses, meats, seafood delicacies, and baked goods, the abundance of food at Wegman's seems a bit extreme. And it does make it extremely easy to fall into greediness and to desire the luxurious life that is associated with cartfuls of expensive food. Walking by displays of bright orange peppers, just-misted bunches of fresh parsley, bundles of sunflowers, and $4 menu magazines is tempting. But I actually did well with my game at Wegman's today. The one luxury I planned to purchase - English crumpets - was out of stock. So I was spared that indulgence.

For a girl who's become accustomed to shopping at ALDI - where there are absolutely no frills - the extravagance of Wegman's is a bit of a shock. So are the women in heeled leather boots drinking lattes while they shop for organic fat free ice cream and Romanesco broccoli. There's a woman handing out tiny sample cups of just-squeezed orange juice. A small child is screaming at the gelato bar where her grandmother is about to buy her chocolate ice cream. There's a whole aisle of various international foods (although NOT crumpets). There's a miniature train set suspended from the ceiling that chug-a-chug-chug's in a loop above your head in the cheese section. The environment of the luxury grocery store is a bit embarrassing.

But at the heart of Wegman's and ALDI is the fulfillment of a basic human need - the need to eat. And if I can create meals that tantalize, satisfy, and nourish us, I don't think it matters where I've purchased the ingredients. Wegman's is a place to ponder the creativity of God in his design of a world full of edible things. At ALDI, food is just food; no fanfare. Either place, it's a loaves and fishes game to make something plentiful out of whatever I can afford. Sometimes, tossing in a little something extra is alright too. Today, a five-dollar container of gourmet olives from the Mediterranean Bar was not on the shopping list, but it made Pete's day. And for my splurge - if you know where I can get crumpets, let me know.

Detergent

For the past fourteen months - since I moved into this apartment - one household chore has taken a seat as the most burdensome task on my list. It's a chore I've never hated, never minded, never been annoyed with. But now, it requires lifting, maneuvering, driving, waiting, then lifting, maneuvering, and driving again. What is it, you ask?

Laundry.

You see, like many others living in small first apartments, I do not have a washer or dryer. Instead, Pete and I have trusted the kindness of our parents and used either my mom and dad's washer or his mom and dad's washer almost once a week to do our laundry. Not only does this mean getting our laundry baskets downstairs and through the narrow porch doors, into the car, and over to someone else's home, but it also means waiting for the wash to be done - usually two or three loads - and then waiting through dryer cycles, all while 20 minutes from home and unable to complete other chores.

Last weekend - thinking that perhaps after a year, we might find another solution than the kindness of moms - we ventured for the first time to the local laundromat. I have a fear of looking dumb in public (who doesn't, I guess?) so I tried to pretend I totally knew what I was doing. I walked in boldly, head held high, and found a few washers together that weren't humming with someone else's clothes. The washers were the same ones we had in my college dorms, so it wasn't too hard to figure out. And each load cost only $2.00! A bargain, I thought. I had brought quarters, so that part was easy and after we put three loads in (three loads at once - who dreams of such luxury!?), I zipped down the street to Wawa for some sustenance: a blue slushy for Pete, Nantucket Nectar for me, and a stuffed soft pretzel to share. I felt pretty secure there on the bright blue plastic bench with Husby, waiting for my clothes to be cleaned.

The laundromat experience was excellent, not only for the ease (three loads at once, then tossing the contents of all three into a MASSIVE dryer) and the quality time with Husby, but also the people-watching opportunities. I had brought my crocheting and was working on a project while I sat on the bench along the wall. A woman sat down on the bench next to me, browsed a few magazines sitting there, then turned to me and asked what I was making. I told her, and she said she used to crochet blankets too. She had made two the same, a pattern with three dimensional rosettes on each square. The first, she said, she made ignorantly out of wool, and it got destroyed in the washing machine. Later, she made one out of more suitable yarn and she says she still has it. That day, she seemed to be washing mostly mu-muus, slips, and other things made of silky material. She must have pushed the button for a quick cycle, because she was in and out of there in no time at all. In the meantime, I had barely noticed another woman trotting back and forth between the two change machines, evidently trying her single five-dollar bill in each one, flattening it out against her leg and trying again, with no success. Finally, she came over to me and asked if I had change for a five, which I did. It's nice to help a stranger. Later, as I was pulling my clothes out of the dryer, hurriedly folding each item in half just to keep them unwrinkled until I got them home, a girl about my age in leggings and a white t-shirt was meticulously folding a bunch of colorful toddler clothes. Small square piles of shirts and pants, and little stacks of socks covered the folding table in front of her. Perhaps an afternoon at the laundromat was the break she needed from the little ones.

This week at the laundromat most of the people I saw brought in their laundry in large plastic trash bags. Two little sisters were pushing the wheeled laundry carts in races from one side of the room to the other. A few youngish men seemed surprised at the capacity of the dryers and I felt proud for having learned this already. And a middle aged man was doing a load by himself. It was a funny group of us there, all sitting, waiting quietly (the laundromat does not play the radio, I was surprised to discover), spending a Sunday afternoon together

The laundromat creates a community of people in need. We may get our clothes at Goodwill or at J. Crew, but we all need them washed. We may use Tide or Wisk, carefully apply stainlifter to each garment or toss everything in the washer in a tangled mass, pay with quarters we've saved all week or feed a ten into the change machine and catch a noisy pile of coins in our hand. It doesn't matter. It's a leveling instrument, a humbling place where we admit that our lives - or at least our cheap apartments - are lacking something. At the laundromat, we're sharing space for an hour or so, then going home with something warm and good-smelling. It reminds us that in all things - not only our laundering needs - we are not so very different from each other as we might think.

Irene

Sometimes a little storm is all life needs to be suddenly sunny again. This weekend we hunkered down under the splattering edge of Hurricane Irene and enjoyed the drama of just such a storm.

Saturday morning, with Hurricane Irene blazing a trail toward us, Pete and I went for a bike ride with Dad (whose knee is slowly on the mend). Just 8 miles or so, a good short workout in preparation for our ride in four weeks. It was a windy ride, but that was good preparation too. Those bridges into OC are killer with a stiff headwind. Afterwards, I made my weekly ALDI run, but was careful not to buy too much food that might spoil if the power went out during Irene. I spent the rest of the day reading, crocheting, and watching the rain start to come down. We went to bed as the wind and rain intensified and hoped for the best.

The power went out around midnight and we heard the whistling wind as we tried to sleep for the next eight hours. When we got up, Pete decided we should have ice cream for breakfast since it would otherwise turn to inedible soup in the warming freezer. A bowl apiece made for a nice breakfast, but it turned out to be unnecessary. Our landlord graciously let us run an extension cord out our kitchen window to his generator so we could power the fridge.

I sat on the porch for the next hour or so, reading and then - suddenly - around 11:00, the power was restored. I whipped up a batch of chocolate chip muffins, which I'd been craving since last night, and took some over to Mom, Dad, and sister who'd also been without power and had spent the morning bailing water out of the basement.

Later in the afternoon, Pete and I took a drive over to the park to see the river. It was brown and swift, much swollen and looking rather tired of all the drama.

Me? I would rather enjoy another day at home, a cup of hot tea on the porch, and a safely whistling wind outside. But if I must return to the office tomorrow, I will make the best of it buoyed by the refreshing glow of a storm that has passed.

[I write this post in the context our our safety in southeastern Pennsylvania. For those who weathered Irene in far more dangerous conditions, I do not assume that a refreshing glow was the result and I certainly do not mean to make light of a storm that, for some, caused extensive damage.]

Celeste, Loss, and The Best Pork I Ever Made

One of the first years I rode the MS-150 City to Shore Bike Tour with my dad (which I'm riding for the eighth time this year) I remember seeing a bright sea-foam green bike at one of the rest stops, propped up against a tree, and I pointed it out to Dad. I thought it was so pretty and unique. My hybrid mountain/road bike was a patriotic blue color and most other bikes I saw were white, red, blue, or maybe yellow. This one stood apart. Dad told me it wasn't just the color that made that sea-foam green bike special; it was a very expensive and especially good bicycle. It was a Bianchi. They make Biachis in other colors, but this sea-foam shade is the classic Biachi hue and is most recognizable. It is known as Celeste.

For quite a few more years, I happily rode my hybrid Raleigh and was content. But this summer, I have been given the chance to purchase a Celeste Bianchi from my sister-in-law for an incredibly affordable price. I borrowed the bike last week to give it a try. They say "It's like riding a bike" to refer to something natural and completely easy. When I straddled Celeste for the first time and put my hands to the curled handlebars... I felt I had never been on a bike before in my life. The shape my body assumed, the pressure points and aches that instantly became sensitive, even the way my leg muscles reacted to each stroke... it was a feeling unlike anything I've encountered on a bike. Still, I'd never felt more like a cyclist than when on that sea-foam Bianchi. I'm riding her again this weekend, and very excited to get a better feel for her and put a few miles under our belts together. I have a feeling Celeste and I are going to become good friends.

_______________________

Early this week, some Facebook news sank like a knife into my nostalgic heart. First, a bit of background: About three and a half years ago, I spent three months at Oxford University with a student exchange program. I lived in a delightful British house with 21 other American students and our British Junior Dean. The program, SCIO, owned the home and had been housing students there for years. This week I learned that SCIO has sold the house. As with the loss of a childhood home, a grandparent's backyard, or an elementary playground, the loss of this house has chopped out a piece of my heart. Although chances were quite slim I would ever venture back to 8 Crick Road, there was a certain peace in knowing it was always there. The crazy quilt still in the living room. The sink still in my bedroom downstairs. The tea kettle still in the kitchen and the freezer in the library. The washing machine spinning constantly with someone's clothes and the map of Cracker Barrel restaurants still tacked up in the powder room. I liked knowing that if the Road ever took me back to Oxford, 8 Crick would be waiting for me. Now, that hope is gone.

________________________

 Tuesday brought a culinary success with my attempt at Peppered Pork Sandwiches. Peter was a bit skeptical, and even asked why I don't stick with recipes I already know, but in the end he enjoyed it too. I have not had good success with pork in the past, and was hoping for a first success. I cut boneless pork chops into strips and then in half so the pieces were about an inch and a half long and less than half an inch thick. Then I peppered them - coarse pepper would have been better, but regular black worked fine - and tossed with olive oil, then sauteed them until cooked through. It took about 10 minutes, maybe, and the pork was deliciously tender. Then I threw in some chopped roasted red peppers from a jar and let the whole thing warm on the stove. In the meantime, I whipped up a quick sauce of mayonnaise, a little Parmesan dressing, a few splashes of milk, and one minced garlic clove, adding more mayo until it was thick enough to spread. I didn't buy pitas, but used some good bolillo rolls from the Giant bakery. We spread these with the sauce, then spooned on the pork and peppers, and enjoyed sandwiches that made me think of a carnival. They were perfect. I think I've just secured my go-to pork recipe.

Vacation Is... (Part II)

Tuesday, July 5: After work, Peter and I went to Mom and Dad's house to pick up the bikes. Then we were on our way to Peahala Park, NJ on Long Beach Island. Over the bridge, along the straight, thin roads of New Jersey, around a couple round-abouts, and in just over two hours, we were there. Jon and Kim met us at 104 Sailboat Ave, our cottage, and helped us unpack. A few hot dogs later, we were off to bed.

Wednesday, July 6: Finding a coffeepot in the cottage kitchen, but no filters, I improvised with paper towels and made a pot of just-drinkable coffee. Then we whipped up some pancakes, and chopped some strawberries, and by the time Jon and Kim were up, it was breakfast time! We enjoyed a delicious meal in the little dining room, then packed up and walked down to the beach. From towel, to chair, to ocean, to towel again, we relaxed throughout much of the day on the shores of the Atlantic. In the late afternoon, we went back to the house and took turns in the shower, then Peter and I drove down to ACME for some dinner items and we grilled up burgers for dinner. With a little leftover baked beans and fruit salad, it was a perfect meal. Afterwards, we took a stroll to Skipper Dipper for ice cream, and then Jon and Kim headed home.
Peter and I hopped on our bikes for an evening ride and stopped to watch the sunset on Winifred Street, where his family's cottage still stands although it was sold many years ago.

Thursday, July 7: We began the day with a bike ride up the island to the Haymarket, Peter's favorite toystore in the world. On the way, we stopped in at Bageleddi's for breakfast and enjoyed our muffin and bagel on the bench outside. After browsing the toystore, we rode back home and got ready for the beach. It was a beautiful day. Peter got me in the water a few times, although I'm usually a sand-dweller, and we took a walk down the shoreline. In the afternoon, we took a drive to browse some shops including The Wizard of Odds, Firefly, and Lucille's Candies. We bought some fudge and taffy, and then cozied up back at the cottage (in front of the food network - we don't get cable at home!) with chicken soup from the crock pot. Later, we took a little stroll on the beach.

Friday, July 8: A cloudy morning delayed our beaching, but we sat on the deck and read our books for a little while, then beached a little later. In the afternoon, Mom, Dad and Shanna arrived and we went back to the beach. In the evening, we drove out for dinner, and picked - simply because it looked local and not too crowded - a place called Boulevard Clams. It turned out to be a fish market that also had about ten tables for eat-in diners. It was clearly a local joint, friendly, homey, and casual. I ordered lemonade, which came in a plastic quart container. Huge! Allen, our awesome waiter, also got me some Advil for my very painful sunburn. We all ordered seafood -- even me! Dijon salmon, which I really enjoyed. It was a very enjoyable meal. Three cheers for Allen and Boulevard Clams!

Saturday, July 9: Mom and Dad picked up coffee and donuts for us Saturday morning and we snacked while packing and cleaning. We spent a little time on the beach in the morning, walking in the shallows and sitting on the sand, then we finished up back at the cottage and drove the key down to the Real Estate Office to check out. For the rest of the day, we headed up to the northern end of the island to the lighthouse. We walked on the jetty and climbed the lighthouse. Before heading home we had lunch at Viking Village and browsed the cutesy shops there.

Peahala Park, Long Beach Island and 104 Sailboat Ave, thanks for a lovely little getaway.
Hope to see you again next year!

Honey, I saved the dinner... Maybe.

Dinner was flavorless tonight. I can't figure out why, because it was a fairly tried and true recipe, something I call Tie the Knot Pesto Pasta. It's basically bow-tie pasta (although tonight I used penne, which I had), tossed with sauteed chicken, peppers, and onions with about 4 tablespoons of basil pesto sauce. I've loved this meal in the past, but tonight it lacked its usual flair. Admittedly, I did things a little differently. There was the penne instead of the bow-ties. Then I swapped the peppers out for zucchini which I had instead. Also, the chicken had been frozen, although I've never thought that makes a difference. As far as my cooking knowledge goes, it should have come out the same. It did not.

My attempt to save dinner: make it into a casserole! I browsed my cookbooks for chicken casserole recipes, and found a common ingredient: cream of chicken soup. So, I went down to the Farm Store. I needed milk anyway, so it was worth the trip. (However, I did waste at least ten whole minutes talking myself out of buying chocolate chip cake, blueberry muffins, and cinnamon raisin bread - all freshly made, and oh-so-tempting.) Sadly, the Farm Store does not carry such lazy-cook necessities as cream of chicken soup, so back at home I whipped up a quick alfredo of butter, flour, milk, chicken broth (which may have been in the fridge for over a month, but smelled fine), and some seasonings. When this had thickened, I added it to the skillet meal, dumped the whole thing into a casserole dish, and topped it with Italian shredded cheese.

It's out of the oven now - baked at 350 for about 25 minutes. Jury's still out, though, on the results. Fingers are crossed.

Vacation Is... (Part I)

Friday, July 1: After work, dinner of fried chicken from Giant, buttery rice, and a steaming skillet of veggies. Get a call from a friend as we're cleaning up. He's house-sitting for rich family. With a pool. And kittens. Come over to hang out? We do.

Saturday, July 2: Get up, do grocery shopping, pick up bike roof rack from Dad. Come home and bake summer berry pie. Drive to Peter's Aunt and Uncle's house. Hang out in the pool in brand new blue and white Polo swimsuit. Have a long chat with sister-in-law, Jess. Have a delicious dinner that involves corn on the cob and taco salad. Play Rummikub and string lights up outside for Aunt Pam.

Sunday, July 3: Church. Go for 13 mile bike ride with Peter and Dad that includes stop at Rita's. In the evening, head back to rich house where friend is house-sitting. Kitten cuddling. Steak and veggies on the grill. (Mmmm!) Swimming in the dark in lit-up pool.

Monday, July 4: Wake up early. Meet best friend MJ at the outlets for killer sales. Walk away with some bold, fun finds including yellow belt, purple shorts, headbands, bright blue short-sleeved sweater/shrug, faux boat shoes, and blue and white cross-body purse. Come home and make best-in-the-universe macaroni and cheese. Drive to Maryland for annual Dowdy Family Picnic. Chow down on cheeseburger, calico beans, macaroni and cheese, and pasta salad. Float aimlessly in pool admiring the gorgeous babies of my cousins. Eat several desserts. Start driving home. Pull over in elementary school parking lot to watch gorgeous sunset. Relive childhood on slides and swings. Drive home to start packing for vacation. Drive back to school parking lot to watch local fireworks.

Tuesday, July 5: Go to work (ick). Come home and leave for the beach!

Part II to follow!

Necessity

Necessity is the Mother of Invention.

Example 1:
In our shower, we have two suction-cup hooks on which we hang our loofas. I use the fluffy mesh kind. Peter prefers the sea sponge variety. When I bought Peter a new loofa this weekend, it did not have a loop of cord to serve as a hanging mechanism. Determined to hang that loofa on its hook, I got some twine from our closet and a big yarn needle. With the twine threaded through the needle, I pierced the loofa, pulled the twine through, and knotted it. Voila: a hanging loop.

Example 2:
We're preparing to go on vacation, so I am emptying my fridge of perishable such as milk. I had used a whole entire quart of milk in Monday's macaroni and cheese which I took to the Dowdy Picnic. This morning, my coffee needed a lightening agent, so I squirted in some whipped cream. Mmmm.

OK, not all that inventive, but small triumphs.
Little bursts, if you will. (an Olive Kitteridge reference)

Yum

A few delicious things my lunch bag has held recently:

1. Vanilla yogurt topped with frozen raspberries. I put this together in the morning and as the raspberries thaw, they create a bright pink juice that mixes with the yogurt. The result is a scrumptious raspberry yogurt with whole berries in it. Mmm.

2. Mini cucumbers. I discovered these at ALDI this week, bought a bag of five for $1.99, and LOVE them. Chop off the ends, pack a tiny container of ranch dip... it's a perfect, healthy side.

3. Sharp Cheddar with Wheat Thins. Party food? Maybe. Perfect lunch? Yes. I love this combination and it's so much easier than making a sandwich. Just a baggie of crackers, and a baggie of cheese pieces... the ideal finger food lunch.

4. Chicken Salad Sandwich. I love making chicken salad. Love it. Take a few breasts, slice them into large-ish "fingers," spread them in a baking dish and glaze with ranch dressing. Bake at 350 for maybe a half hour or so until they're no longer pink inside when sliced. Meanwhile, chop up a cup or so of red grapes. Make sure they're crisp. Chop up a few stalks of celery, maybe four or five. Limpish celery is alright, actually. Toast some chopped pecans in a little skillet on the stove. Just stir them constantly until you start to smell their hot nuttiness. That's when they're done. Put the grapes, celery, and pecans into a big mixing bowl. When the chicken is done, let it cool, then shred it with your fingers into the bowl. Add about a half-cup of mayonnaise, stir, then add ranch dressing until it's as wet as you want it. Some Original Perfect Pinch is a good addition too, or just some black pepper and basil. It's best on homemade toasted white bread, but summer isn't really bread-making season. Some multi-grain bread will work well too.

Nothing saves a wretched day like a delightful lunch in the middle of it.

A Few Favorite Things

1. I've rediscovered rice cakes. How did I forget these existed? They are the snacks of childhood. Of Pioneer Clubs and kindergarten. Yet they are suprisingly delicious, healthy, and filling to have on hand in a desk drawer at work. I love ALDI's brand, the lightly salted variety.

2. Neutrogena Naturals, Purifying Pore Scrub. I bought this for the packaging. White. Green. The word "Natural." I love it. It's a much finer scrub than I've ever used before, more like a wet fine white sand rather than a gel with beads in it. It's delightful.

3. Twila Paris's A Heart that Knows You. I think this was my first CD. I pulled it out again this week to listen to in the car on the way to work. Starting my day with songs that uplift and encourage, pointing me to God is undeniably effective. Now, more than 10 years after its release, this CD is moving my life again. The title song seems especially applicable as I fight the temptation to be dissatisfied with my life. Lyrics run, "A heart that knows You is a heart that can wait, die to the dearest desire. A heart that knows You is a heart that can still celebrate, following love through the fire. It may be for my sake, or just to help me grow. Maybe for your kingdom, Lord. I don't need to know." I am encouraged, as this song has begun to take hold in my mind and run through my brain throughout the day, that I don't need to know the reasons that things happen in my life. It's enough to know God and to trust that He will never lead where He has not been. And if my heart is fixed on Him, I can walk through anything without fear, anxiety, or need. I can set my desires aside, waiting on Him to answer every prayer in His own time and way. Ultimately, it is for my good and for His glory. What a treasured thought!

Little Things

Funny how life's small joys can make a big difference. Normally, when I arrive at work each morning, I spend a little time looking online for a new job. It's not that I hate my job - although I often say I do. It's more the dark shadow it casts over my life, a blurry grey haze. My job search is an attempt to set up shop under a new sky, in hopes that it might be less gloomy. Sometimes, though, a spear of sunshine will pierce through the gloom and brighten the undersides of even the darkest clouds, reflecting a warm glow on life for a while.

Last night I experienced such a sun spear when I went to a local coffee shop for Open Mic Night with two delightful friends. We'd never been before, and when we walked in, a tubby sort of young man in a blue t-shirt was singing an a capella version of Over My Head by The Fray. He couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, and his notes were splashing rather messily all over the shop. We paid the $3 cover charge and sat down warily, hoping the next act would be better. Aside from a few girls reading poetry much too fast, every act of the night was wonderful. I ordered a toasted marshmallow hot chocolate, and we sat in a little corner table, people-watching and enjoying the music, floating on a constant stream of girl talk.

This morning, although my arrival at the office was entirely ordinary, and my usual annoyances and boredoms instantly applied as they always do, I felt a warm glow brightening my cloudy skies. I do not feel the urge to search career websites for a new position. I don't feel my usual irritation at the failures of my coworkers, the ugly paint in my office, or the myriad "other duties as assigned" that are constantly added to my job description. Instead, I feel content about whatever this day will bring. I feel cheered by a hot chocolate and a few pretty songs. A little indulgence on a Thursday night can make all the difference on a Friday morning.

Seasons

I love spring. The sun, its vitamin D, the flowers... when spring starts to flirt with summer, though, my affection wanes. This past week, spring has been flirting hard and it's been frighteningly hot, especially in my little upstairs apartment. On my menu this week, I did a dumb thing: I listed Vegetable Chowder. I did this because last time I made it, it was fabulous. Also, it uses vegetables, which I like more than meat. And it's girly. Also, I was able to get some leeks at The Farmer's Daughter, which made me feel earthy and local, and I had a potato left over from some other meal that was just begging to be chopped up and put in a chowder. Tonight was Chowder night. The heat index today was 106.

Nevertheless, I am a stickler for following The Menu, so I turned the fan on high, chopped those leeks and the potato (also carrots, celery, & onion), and spent 45 minutes or so in my toasty kitchen whipping up a Vegetable Chowder. I threw some just-add-water biscuits in the oven. Then, I sat at my table and ate it. Cooking hot food is nothing compared to eating hot food. I sweated more just consuming that steaming soup than I did standing over the open flame on my gas stove stirring flour and broth into the onions.

All of this is to say that I might benefit from treating seasons with the respect they deserve. Spring is a time for grilled chicken. Or corn on the cob. Or pasta salad (Ooo, that sounds fabulous). Or spinach and strawberry salad. As summer swoops in to steal spring's thunder, I intend to give it what it deserves. And to give my stove a break.

Festival Weekend

I was raised on grassy hillsides, a funnel cake on my lap, a thin sheen of powdered sugar on my fingertips, a jangly anklet making music as I shift my muddied feet on the old worn blanket. I wasn’t raised a hippie child, not all the time, but one weekend each summer, we packed up for the Folk Festival. I have friends who remember their “first concert.” I probably saw my first concert before I was old enough to talk. A whole weekend of folk and indie artists - known and unknown to the general world - made for more than a “concert.” It wove a backdrop of sound that has become one of the most peaceful sounds I know. A few fiddles, an upright bass, harmonica, and a vocal sound somewhere between blues and country... that is the soundtrack of a folk festival. Layered on top of the music itself was the chatter of other folk fest-ers on their own blankets near ours, the smell of wet mud and campfires, the sensation of sun crisping my pale skin, the taste of a funnel cake or a cold lemonade, and, often, the roll of distant thunder and the crinkle of tarps being spread over food, knapsacks, books, and small children to protect from the coming shower.

One of the best things about Folk Festival weekend, though, was that my best friend, MJ, would come along and camp with our family. She and I would take morning walks around the campground before the concerts started, we’d walk the craft aisles together and buy sterling silver rings or beaded necklaces, we’d buy smoothies to share and bundle up later for the evening concert, shivering under the stars until we were too tired to keep our eyes open, then curling up in our sleeping bags back in the tent at Campsite 30. 

It’s been about six years since we shared this tradition. Four years of college and then weddings for both of us crowded into all corners of life and made such indulgences impossible. This year, though, Folk Festival weekend approached and we were both free. We didn’t stay the weekend, but on Saturday afternoon, we bought tickets and spread a blanket in the grass, ready for a day of fest-ing. The campground looked the same: the grassy expanse in front of the stage, the carnival food vendors in their trucks parked along the driveway, the camp store, the two ponds, the gravel road weaving through the campsites... It was all just as we’d left it. 

We started the day with snacks. A strawberry lemonade for MJ, cheese fries for me. Cheese fries were not on the menu, but when I asked for them, the vendor said, “Cheese fries... hmm, yeah, we can do that. Hey Adam, just put some of that cheese on top and nuke ‘em.” I have confidence in fest food, and was happy to wait for my makeshift cheese fries, but when I was finally handed my $4 treat, I found it to be a pile of fries sprinkled with shredded mozzarella and, well, “nuked.” It hadn’t melted too well and was not sticking to the fries but had become its own entity in the paper fry dish. I had a good laugh over the mess, ate around the gobs of white cheesiness, and enjoyed every fry. MJ bought a flowy pink skirt for three dollars to replace her jeans, too hot in the surprisingly summery weather. 

We walked to the pond where we sat and talked about our grown-up lives - jobs, husbands, homes - while children played blissfully in the shallow water and teens walked by, reeking of coolness. Phases of our life in living color right in front of our eyes. The sun had its reddening way with our winter-fair skin and we finally succumbed to the need for ice cream, just $2.44 in the camp store, and made our way back to our blanket where we listened to some music until night began to settle and we collected our sweatshirts from the car for the evening concert. 

It was late when we finally left. Dew had settled on our blanket and the grass surrounding it, and our feet were damp as we made our way back to the car. The day had bubbled up with memories, the present and the past colliding at a place unchanged by time. And when it was over, I felt more sure of the things that time cannot change - not just a pond or a hillside, although those also remain firm, but also a friendship and the bedrock it becomes, undergirding a life through the cycling seasons of many years. I think now that it wasn’t the pond and the funnel cakes and the marshmallows over an early morning fire that made my childhood festing such a part of my soul. It was the companionship of my family, of MJ, of the musicians on stage who never saw or knew me but were experiencing the same life I was for that one weekend. That is what I recaptured this weekend and that is why the Folk Festival will always be part of my bedrock: It’s a sense of home wrought of exclusivity. It’s a set of memories and feelings that can’t be transferred, must be lived. And it’s the fertile ground in which memories can take root and a lifetime of love can grow.

Ancestry

My great grandmother had three daughters. The oldest is my grandmother, Ginny, who had two daughters and one son. The second one is my great aunt, Mary Lou, who has no children. These two sisters live near one another about an hour from me in Pennsylvania. The third is my great aunt, Tobi, who also has no children, and lives in Florida. My great grandmother's brother had one daughter, Jean, cousin to my Gram and her two sisters. She lives in Philadelphia.

Yesterday, all of these people gathered: Ginny, Mary Lou, Tobi, Jean, my mom, her sister, me and my sister. All the known living female relatives in a line begun by my great great grandmother, Pearl. I have rarely felt the sense of kinship I felt with all these women, my blood relations who all hail from a strong, independent Southern woman who steered her own family through trying times and bequeathed that fortitude to all of us. While we were together, we had the chance to watch some old home movies that my grandmother had saved on film reels and had made into a VHS tape. The videos were the kind I didn't think actually existed. Grainy black and white shots skipping from a quick scene of my great grandmother walking out the front door in her fur-collared coat to a shot of her two daughters walking toward the camera in Easter dresses and hats and then to a sky-skimming shot of my grandmother sporting a 40's bob and flashing a grin at the camera. The films are silent, making the emotion all the more raw and freeing the imagination to fill in the gaps and create whole stories out of single images. A doll house, a long brick wall, a trio of children kneeling in the grass... These videos are my family. They are my history.

As I reflected on the people whose genes I have inherited, the people of my mother's mother's mother's family, I realized how many other lives have shaped mine. There is my mother's mother's father's side. Then there's my grandfather's family - the Scottish Boyds. And that's only the ancestry on my mom's side. My father's family is another whole world of names, stories, histories, and homes.

All of these people have made me possible. I am a little link in a big web of people spanning the decades, the ocean, and the continent. This could make me feel less important - merely a product of years of genetic mixing, the result of a bunch of fruitful families, and just another name on the family tree that my great-grandchildren will someday pencil in. But I don't feel unimportant. I feel, instead, the significance of my life. Not that I'm so great, but that I AM at all. The cocktail that makes me me could only have been arranged by the centuries of ancestors who came before, the choices they made of a spouse, of when to have children, of where to live, and of the values to pass along. I am not me by chance; I am me because of the great Orchestrator who guided lives for years in order to assure my existence. I am me because He designed the life circumstances of my ancestors to be just right for His plans. And He is designing my life not only for my own good, but also for the benefit of my descendants.

I am thankful to my ancestors for their lives and for the hand they had in bringing me about. But more than that, I am amazed at the way God has woven together a tight web of people for His purposes and I am aware of my own role in that weaving. May I live in such a way as to be a good ancestor, a woman my descendants will be proud to have come from, a person who lives by the orchestration of God's hand.

Firsts

Today was a regular Tuesday, but it held some exciting firsts in my fledgling little life. I thought I'd document them.
1. I stopped at the grocery store after work today and walked out with a bag containing ONLY the items on my list. This was about five items. I was exceedingly proud.
2. One of the items was a whole rotisserie chicken. Mom used to get these sometimes on a rush-rush night, and tonight was one of those for us. We ate less than half of it, so after dinner, I picked clean my first chicken carcass. Not a particularly pleasant task. Something I'm glad I don't have to do often. But bearable. And it made for a (hopefully) tasty chicken salad for the next few days.
3. I joined my first book club tonight! A friend of mine had a few ladies over for a book night - a chance to share what we've been reading recently and what we might recommend. At the end of the evening, one of the ladies suggested that we make this into an official book club since we all seemed to like each other's suggestions and had similar preferences. I look forward to sharing this special group with some wonderful ladies.

Perhaps our lives need more firsts. In my quest for order, I often lack the fresh feeling of new things. May this Tuesday be a lesson to me: firsts are good. New is good. Change is good. 

Royalty and Me

Kate Middleton woke up to get married today. Was she much like me? Did she go outside in the dawning hours and feel the dewy air on her bare shoulders as the sky pinkened into day? Did she take a few minutes to write down her feelings in a spiral-bound notebook? Did she have a cup of coffee? A bagel? A fresh kiwi? Was there time to reflect, to realize the threshold she was crossing? What had she and her sister talked about the night before? Fond memories of childhood, perhaps. Or maybe the excitement of what was coming next. Both, probably.

As she rode from the hotel to the church, did she realize she'd forgotten anything? I suppose she didn't have to fret about the caterers showing up on time. Had she described the dress to William? Was she nervous about the world's approval?

I didn't follow the courtship or wedding prep or much royal family news at all. I can't say I cared much. Until today. Suddenly, I couldn't get enough. I turned on youtube at home this morning to watch live coverage and saw the couple parading through London, the ceremony long over. Once at work, I watched The Kiss(es) over and over, read up on the Royal Family, watched highlights of guests and their get-ups, clicked through slideshows of Harry's, Kate's, and William's lives and read about Kate's "Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue." Frowning Flower Girl and the octopus hat, Beckham's lapel pin and William's whispered words - I became an expert on all of this. I was proud to be part of the 1.6 million who made the Royal Wedding the biggest event ever to be watched on the web.

My excitement stemmed from the feminine fascination with romance as well as from my own love for Great Britain. (How would Simon Schama have narrated this wedding day?) But it was not only the "princess bride" magic and the pageantry that drew me. I also found myself captivated by, if I dare say it, the normalcy of it all. Isn't Kate a woman just like me? With more money, a better sense of style, and a lot more social pressure, perhaps, but she's a young married lady with a future ahead. She'll disagree with William, be tired at the end of a long week, long for a vacation. When everything is peeled back, at the heart of Wedding Day is a couple not much different from my husband and me.

It didn't make media headlines I read, but I know some people assume this "celeb wedding" will end like so many others: that Kate and William will divorce. Marriage is difficult, and no palace by the sea or custom-designed acorn earrings or Astin Martin convertible can make it easier. The battles every couple fights will seep through the Welsh gold of the wedding ring and become part of Kate's experience too. I don't know if the marriage will last - I hope it will - but I know marriage will be for these two what it is for all couples: challenging.

In this big world God has sprinkled people into all manner of situation. Kate and William live in a castle on an island. Children in India live in boarding schools. I've spent 24 years in southeast Pennsylvania. All of us, though, face the ultimate decay of our world, our friends, ourselves. Kings and queens are not exempt. I know that when my life fails, I'll be part of an eternal royal family. Will Kate?

Working Woman

My day:
6:30 Got up, showered
7:00 Ate breakfast, had my coffee, read the Bible, got ready for work
8:00 Left the house
8:30 Arrived at work (OK, it was more like 8:40. I am habitually late.)
9:00 Helped serve breakfast and walk morning laps in the Gathering Room (I work at an adult day care center with people more than three times my age. I love them.)
9:30 Sit-down Tai Chi (very relaxing; I love this part of the day)
10:00 Read the news to our clients
10:30 Took a short break, read part of a short story from this book
11:00 Led a game of Trivial Pursuit with my clients (Team A won. It was fun.)
11:30 Sit-down exercises with my clients (A few of us stood up for the line-dancing part. Line-dancing is so much more effective standing up.)
12:00 Served lunch (Vegetable soup followed by macaroni and cheese with ham and stewed tomatoes. Unless you're on a low-salt diet in which case you got peas and carrots.)
12:45 My lunch break, which I enjoyed outside in the lovely sunshine (No stewed tomatoes for me! A ham and swiss sandwich on a potato roll, fresh strawberries and kiwi, and the last slice of Easter's Cherry Chess Pie)
1:30 A game of indoor golf with the clients
2:15 Office work (End of the month = Newsletter time! It's going to be a crazy few days getting this newsletter together)
4:30 Drive home, including a brief stop at Wawa to fill my leaky back tire with air
5:15 Dinner prepared by my fabulous husband. Ham, green beans and potatoes with macaroni & cheese! A perfectly simple meal with easy clean-up.
6:00 Work on freelance project, of which I am thoroughly tired and am thrilled to be completing this week.

My day, as I wish it would have been:
7:30 Wake up
8:00 Get up and go for jog in the cemetery 
8:30 Get back home, shower, lather on cocoa facial, lotion feet, eat a crumpet with strawberry jam while coffee brews
9:00 Enjoy coffee on the porch with morning devotions (Hope neighbor does not walk by and see cocoa facial)
9:30 Wash off facial, vacuum living room carpet, dust furniture, open widows for some fresh air, water plants
10:30 Work on book review of Bel Canto which I'm writing for my other blog
12:30 Meet an old friend for lunch (Order a salad with mandarin oranges and feta cheese, if possible. And a strawberry lemonade.)
2:00 Browse discount stores for home decorating items on sale
3:30 Write a letter to a long-missed friend across the country
4:00 Clean the bathroom, wash some stockings, mop the kitchen floor
5:00 Start dinner (Pesto Pasta with Chicken and Zucchini or All-American Chili)
6:00 Serve dinner to my ever-complimentary husband, and then settle in on the couch with a bowl of Cookies 'n' Cream ice cream and an episode of Downton Abbey.
7:00 Read a few chapters of PG Wodehouse before drifting, carefree, off to sleep

The real day versus the dream day. Life as it is compared to life as I wish it could be. Duty against pleasure. The things I wish could fill my day are squashed into evenings and busy weekends, placed on To Do wish lists for when I have extra time, and sometimes given up on completely. Instead I serve decaf coffee with Sweet and Low, play indoor golf, write low-budget newsletters and marketing materials, spend over an hour in my car each day, and ponder - always - all the other things I could be doing.

What I hate about work is not the work itself. I love "my old people." I enjoy serving lunch and morning Tai Chi and even the occasional game of indoor golf or bowling. I don't mind the work I do in my office, either. Writing newsletters, creating ads and marketing materials, filing medical paperwork, updating databases and sending emails. It's not such a bad gig.

My problem, at the root, is pride. I long, I suppose, to be a woman who does not need to work. I long for the freedom of choosing, hour by hour, how to spend my day. I yearn to be a woman dedicated to home, family, friends, and mostly her own pace. "Is that too much to ask," I hear myself saying. If it results in utter dissatisfaction with the everyday ins and outs of life, then yes. If it causes me to harbor bitterness toward my boss, my coworkers, others on their morning commute each day, the working world at large, then yes. If I had all that I wish for, and were content, I would be basking in the supreme pride of self-success. My journey each day keeps me from pride. It prevents satisfaction and requires me to find pleasure in smallness. It demands thankfulness. Most of all, it causes me every day to examine priorities, time commitments, and needs and to shed that which is unnecessary. It forces me to preserve my energy for the One who deserves it most and convinces me of my own need for Him.

I would still choose my dream day if I could. I'd trade the Bingo and the 1940's trivia games and the new brochure for a day to myself. But for now, I'm called to be a Working Woman. For now, I will use each day to starve my pride and nourish my soul with more permanent satisfactions.

A Sunday Evening

Sunday Evening. The sour taste of Monday's stealthy approach can make one disheartened, irritable, or simply glum. Weekdays start too early. They ask too much. They begin with a foot heavy on the gas and end with a screeching halt as one finally collapses into bed. Small joys go unnoticed or at least unremembered. Weekends, though, weekends are slow. They wake you up with slices of sun through the mini-blinds and the smell of coffee - and the time to smell it - while The Quiet Sounds of Sleepy Hollow welcome you into the day.
Here are a few ways we relished this weekend:
Friday evening brought four wonderful friends to our home and we offered our usual appetizer fare of summer sausage, Armenian string cheese, and garlic and almond stuffed olives. These were met with mixed reviews. For the main event, we gathered in the porch around burgers hot from the grill and just-made peppermint iced tea. It was a brisk night, but with a few blankets for the more goose-bumpy among us, we managed well. We topped off the night with a plate of superb blueberry cheesecake squares and various hot teas.
On Saturday, I enjoyed a rousing concert by One College Ave, the jazz chorus in which my sister sings. A rendition of Alison Krauss's When You Say Nothing at All topped my list, but all the pieces were excellent. I also spent some quality commute time with two dear grandparents as we traveled to the concert together.
Today, Pete and I hit the mall for some serious shopping after church. As usual, he met with greater success than I, but I did come away with a delightful wide-brimmed beach hat which I am anxious to put to use. I stocked up on food for the week at ALDI, the best find being a container (1 lb) of strawberries for just $1.99. When I got home, Pete fired up the grill and made us some cheeseburgers. I threw a tray of frozen curly fries in the oven, sliced up some of the strawberries and a kiwi, and cozied up with PG Wodehouse on the porch rocking chair until the burgers were ready. During dinner Pete said he couldn't imagine anyone being more in love with anyone than he is with me. Could Sunday night be sour with those words sweetening the air? I don't think it could. As I settled on the couch with my crocheting bag, I determined to let my muscles relax, to let my mind release stress, and to fret not for Monday for Monday shall fret about itself.

Dinners, First Week of April 2011

I must be reaching that rung of life's ladder where cooking matters. First year of marriage. First real kitchen. First chance to fill the cupboards with things I love and keep that little countertop sparkling every day. I've found I love cooking. I love planning meals for the week, shopping (first at ALDI, then at Giant for the things I can't find), and putting things away like a little field-mouse... I usually do well with dinners and have recently found great success with some new recipes (Lemon Chicken Stir Fry, Beef Bacon Stroganoff). But this week my cooking was less than stellar. On the whole, it was just food. Not really a collection of meals. Thankfully, Pete is an awesome husband and gracefully ate every bite.

First of all, there had been a minor fire at my ALDI store, so I was forced to do all my shopping at Giant. This used to be fine with me back when I was blissfully ignorant of a whole store of generic food and shopped only at Giant and, yes, Wegmans. But now I am appalled at what Giant charges for simple ingredients and get all I can at ALDI. To save, I went easy on the groceries this week, planning to make do with what I already had. I had potato soup on my menu, for example, because I had some potatoes I'd forgotten about up on top of the cabinet and I thought I should use them up. When I got the bowl down, though, they were ogling me with dozens of growthy eyes, and leaning a bit towards the softish side, so after doing a bit of online research about the edibleness of eye-studded potatoes, I determined I should toss them. That left me one meal down. Fortunately, I still had a packet of Shake 'n' Bake in the cupboard, so I scribbled out potato soup and jotted Shake 'n' Bake Pork in instead. Under that I wrote Apple Slices.

Monday was going to be Lasagna Pie out of my Betty Crocker Annual Recipes Cookbook, but when I got home from work I saw that it would take 44 minutes to bake, and I didn't have that much time. It was Craft Night at church. So I swapped the Lasagna Pie for Thursday's plan: Taco Salad. This was the single triumph of my week and only because it's impossible to ruin Taco Salad. I brown the meat with some onions while chopping up black olives, green peppers, and more onions. When the meat's done, I add a packet of taco seasoning with 2/3 cup of water and let it thicken a bit. Some rinsed green leaf lettuce (placed on the table still in the colander), tortilla chips (straight from the bag), salsa, sour cream, and a bag of shredded Mexican cheese make for minimal dishes when it's time to clean up. And it's remarkably filling. The leftovers gave me two delicious lunches Tuesday and Wednesday, definitely a perk in my full-time working life.

Tuesday's pork was when things started to go downhill. First of all, I guess I had a coupon, but normally I do not buy Shake 'n' Bake. It's just got something slightly chemically about it that I can avoid by using a bag of plain breadcrumbs, basil, and pepper. Also, I've never liked pork. In Tuesday's case, the pork tasted alright, although overly salty for some reason, but it did not crisp up the way it should. The Shake 'n' Bake breading was gummy and wet. Ick. The apple slices, paired with extra sharp cheddar cheese, though, were perfect.

Wednesday I planned to get the agony over with and eat Tuesday's two leftover pork chops. I made a box of Zatarain's cheesy rice, reheated the pork in the toaster oven, then chopped it and tossed it with the rice. It wasn't bad, actually. I made steamed broccoli - one of my specialties - and the whole thing turned out OK. OK enough, in fact, that I took the rest for Thursday's lunch.

When Thursday evening rolled around, it was time for the Lasagna Pie, something that sounded so weird I'd been dreading it all week. It actually started its relationship with me on last week's menu, but was scribbled out in favor of leftover Italian sausage soup. I had time for the 44 minutes of baking on Thursday, so there was no more excuse. The Lasagna Pie is made with Bisquick, eggs, ground beef (which in my life translates to ground turkey), tomato paste, lots of cheese, and several other generally yummy-sounding things. But somehow the prospect of all of it together made me crinkle my nose. I recalled something Mom called Impossible Cheeseburger Pie which, while sounding similarly nose-crinkle-worthy, was actually something I remembered fondly. I googled this and found it to be a simpler Betty Crocker recipe with fewer ingredients and the benefit of being linked to positive memories of youth. I made it. We both loved it, had second helpings and took it for lunch today. This will be a new stock recipe for me, just like I suspect it was for Mom.

Friday is always left blank and today that meant stromboli for Pete and a chicken caesar sandwich for me, both from Giovanni's down the street. It was a yummy dinner, one eaten far too quickly, and one that mostly required crumpling aluminum foil to clean up.

Tomorrow is menu day. My goal: A list of meals that don't scare me. A focus on foods I already love to make. Forecast for next week's evening meals: Perfect.