Tuesday, June 24, 2014
when grace smells like fire
Last night after two chapters of The Phantom Tollbooth, tickling backs, kissing faces, tucking blankets to chins, turning fans on and lights off, fishing pacifiers out from behind the crib, I sat down at the table. Maeve has burned with fevers since Saturday and wakes the moment tylenol wears off, skin hot to the touch. My nights have been interrupted and full of strange dreaming.
But last night, before the the wakeful sleep began, I got to sit alone at the computer and catch up on emails. I'd been sitting for 30 or 40 minutes when I suddenly smelled something I couldn't place -- sweet and smoky at once -- was something burning? a neighbor's outdoor fire? electrical wires in a wall? an oven? something grilled?
A few birthdays ago, Ben gave me a kettle I love. It's unlike any kettle I've seen, made maybe in the 60's, sleek lines, a wooden handle, a round enough body to welcome. I use it every day. The problem, though, is that it makes no sound. Countless times, I've wanted to kiss our obnoxiously loud over-sensitive smoke alarm that's screamed into the house-noise when I've left the kettle on, boiling away until it's dry. The wooden handle has a distinct scent when it gets too hot and has come dangerously close to burning before, the wood now darkened at it's lowest point. I've had a couple of scares -- of holy sh-*#! I could burn this place down, and once was so scared I vowed never to use it again.
But I did use it again (and again and again and again and again--).
Last night, as soon as I realized I smelled the kettle and slowly remembered turning it on so long ago to make a cup of tea, I knew terror. I walked to the kitchen like a slow robot picturing the flames from the burner and wondering what I'd do when I saw them, if I could put them out, how, the old fire extinguisher behind the kitchen door empty and useless left by old owners.
As I walked in, I almost didn't believe what I saw -- the kettle smoking and no fire. I felt sick. It had to have been close to flames. I carried it outside with potholders and left it on the slate, as if the pot needed punishing.
Then I just about fell on my face, pierced to the gut with gratitude and shame at my own insane thoughtlessness. What IF...., my three asleep upstairs.
When I woke up this morning, I could still smell it through the house -- the almost fire that had not charred us. The scent of not quite burned wood hanging in the hall. Grace is not just politeness, not just favor nor ease, it is undeserved assistance (I just looked it up in Merriam-Webster), or more specifically, "unmerited divine assistance given to humans." Was this ever grace, the smoke alarm down and the smell of fire, just in time.
**just bought fire extinguishers**
Sunday, June 01, 2014
Dessekfast Crumble
As I brought home a huge box of strawberries for this crumble, I realized it's also time for early summer pie (a recipe that always turns into mid-summer pie and late summer pie, too, and is easy enough to make with your eyes closed -- and so good).
Like Early Summer Pie, this recipe is a backbone that's easy to adjust -- sub butter for coconut oil, add more honey or sugar to sweeten it up (it's not terribly sweet but great with vanilla ice cream or vanilla greek yogurt), play with the topping. The original recipe (paleo from delightedmomma.com) called for 1 1/2 c almond flour for the topping and no oats or pecans. I've eaten this for dessert and breakfast every time I've made it (hence the name).
Dessekfast Crumble
- 4 c of berries -- whatever you like, mix or keep solo (fresh blueberries may end up watery)
- 1/2 c of almond flour
- 1/2 c oats
- 1/2 c chopped pecans
- 2 tbs of coconut oil (melted)
- 2 tbs of honey or sugar or coconut sugar if berries are sweet, if they are tart, add extra
- cinnamon
- Diretions:
- Preheat oven to 375 degrees
- Grease a pie plate or 8x8 baking dish with coconut oil and spread out berries
- In a separate bowl, mix together the remaining ingredients until crumbly
- Spread the crumb evenly over the berries. Top with cinnamon and a sprinkle of sugar
- Bake for 30-35 minutes or until top is golden brown
Joy (Safety)
I have a knack for instantly imagining worst-case scenarios, like when Ben launches Silas all the way to the sky to plummet down into the shallow end of the pool (where necks break) or shoves his little body onto a giant surf board in huge waves (where confidence is smashed and necks break). It's been a slow learning curve, but rather than speaking, I'm learning to leave the scene or stop watching. And when I hear myself say, no, no, they will never be on a diving team/join boy scouts/do flips/rock climb, and I know the real reasons are because I'm terrified they'll hit their head/be sexually abused/break their necks/be dropped by a moron who can't tie knots, I know I have to take a breath and probably go sign them up for one of those things.
I have a secret pact with myself not to avoid activities just because I am afraid of them (within reason). Risk and growth, they breathe together.
A few weeks ago, I played tennis for the first time in two decades and then skied in crappy conditions wearing boots too big for me. In both situations, I felt flat out bad at something.
Most days I urge the kids to do what they are bad at and to shake off the self-judgement that comes with it, but it's empty advice when I've forgotten what it feels like to be a beginner, to feel clumsy and like I'm making a fool of myself in front of an audience (even an audience of one).
I've structured my life so I'm not a beginner very often, and when I am, I'm a controlled beginner: "oh, I haven't written on this topic before" or "I haven't gone running in a year, I'll try it" or "Ina Garten says I can make that? Ok, I'll get the ingredients." These "beginner" experiences are night and day from, "oh, a lacrosse stick in my hand that I don't even know how to hold and a ball that, try as I might, I can only slap onto the ground a few feet from me? Ok, let's do that."
Trying new things is not safe.
I've been wondering about joy. Joy, rather than in happiness or kindness, seems to be in all this stuff I'm learning about sitting in pain, uncertainty, or unmet hope, and still hoping; seems in the moments when we're unsure of whether a single safe thing will happen, but know that our core, somehow, is and will be ok.
Today it's June, summer, which makes me think especially of reading with Silas and the summer when we read all of the Narnia books together. In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, just before Susan, Peter, and Lucy meet Aslan they, too, reckon with safety:
"Ooh!" said Susan, "I'd thought he was a man. Is he -- quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion."
"That you will, dearie, and no mistake," said Mrs. Beaver; "if there's anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they're either braver than most or else just silly."
"Then he isn't safe?" said Lucy.
"Safe? said Mr. Beaver; "don't you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."
"I'm longing to see him," said Peter, "even if I do feel frightened when it comes to the point."
Maybe it's like Mr. Beaver said, and I've been longing for the wrong thing all along, and Peter's the one about to taste joy.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Hello, Gluten
This shelf perfectly describes the last four months (and whoever arranged this grocery store shelves doesn't quite understand the issue). In short summary, I'm back on gluten for a year.
Building a Fire
Some days there is nothing more cleansing than sitting down and pouring words onto a page.
Other days, we simply need to be dragged out of our selves to breathe.
By morning, the fat wood was gone, but determined not to drink cold tea, I gathered the driest leaves, grasses, twigs I could find. Finally, a flame caught, I added bigger sticks, and sat down with my journal and book. Right as I picked up my pen, the fire turned to smoke. So up I stood, snapping dry twigs, blowing into the embers, and starting the fire again. Then I sat down with my journal and book. Right when I picked up my pen, smoke. So up I stood to comb the woods again. Right when I sat down, smoke. By the time I held hot tea (victory!), it had been an hour.
What I'd most wanted to do was sink into my thoughts, dig around in the restlessness, read words for grounding, and sit outside of the life of constant interruptions. Instead, interrupted constantly, I made a fire with my hands. I fed kindling to hot ash, watched for a flame to catch, and layered logs until it did.
Sometimes the saving comes through our hands.
The other night, I was reminded of camping. It was a dark, not outside with the nearly-full moon, but inside with churning and doubting. I lay in bed with open tired eyes for hours. Around midnight Eden unexpectedly cried out. Her head hurt with sharp pain that made her whimper even after she dozed off. So I sat stroking her hair for an hour, then lay on the floor with a quilt, waiting for her to wake. Eventually I peeled myself up and fell back into bed asleep.
The headache hasn't come back, and I wonder if it wasn't just there to shake me out of myself, to give me a way to care with my hands, to leave my thoughts, and finally to sleep.
Other days, we simply need to be dragged out of our selves to breathe.
It poured a gushing rain two nights before I went camping alone on the grounds of a retreat center a few weeks ago. Even with a couple sticks of fat wood, my first fire, which promised to be a rager, coughed and hissed until it was shockingly just smoke.
By morning, the fat wood was gone, but determined not to drink cold tea, I gathered the driest leaves, grasses, twigs I could find. Finally, a flame caught, I added bigger sticks, and sat down with my journal and book. Right as I picked up my pen, the fire turned to smoke. So up I stood, snapping dry twigs, blowing into the embers, and starting the fire again. Then I sat down with my journal and book. Right when I picked up my pen, smoke. So up I stood to comb the woods again. Right when I sat down, smoke. By the time I held hot tea (victory!), it had been an hour.
What I'd most wanted to do was sink into my thoughts, dig around in the restlessness, read words for grounding, and sit outside of the life of constant interruptions. Instead, interrupted constantly, I made a fire with my hands. I fed kindling to hot ash, watched for a flame to catch, and layered logs until it did.
Sometimes the saving comes through our hands.
The other night, I was reminded of camping. It was a dark, not outside with the nearly-full moon, but inside with churning and doubting. I lay in bed with open tired eyes for hours. Around midnight Eden unexpectedly cried out. Her head hurt with sharp pain that made her whimper even after she dozed off. So I sat stroking her hair for an hour, then lay on the floor with a quilt, waiting for her to wake. Eventually I peeled myself up and fell back into bed asleep.
The headache hasn't come back, and I wonder if it wasn't just there to shake me out of myself, to give me a way to care with my hands, to leave my thoughts, and finally to sleep.
Wednesday, May 07, 2014
how to connect -- striking out til the cake (AMAZING chocolate cake -- and GF)
Embracing Wednesday, I stood up into the chill of May windows wide open and walked across the hall to Maeve, runny nosed, demanding, and looking for Hiya (Silas).
The morning ran smoothly (always a small miracle) until a tearful, puddle-y goodbye with Eden at the bus stop. At noon the nurse phoned to say Eden had a "terrible stomach ache." I drove through the rain, Maeve rapidly unraveling toward nap, and picked her up.
Within minutes, she was recovered, fine, happy, and asking for lunch.
Though I'd known as I pulled out of my driveway that she wasn't really sick and probably could use some 1-on-1, somehow the instant proof made me furious. Instead of camping out with a stack of books or cozying right up to her nose and asking what she'd most like to do with me, I told her in a haughty tone that if she were too sick for school, she'd have to go straight to bed and stay there for the rest of the day. She cried until I told her I'd take her back to school.
Then I sat on the couch under a blanket for a few minutes saying, help help help help. Help me drop my anger and see what she needs here. Help. And I tried to take some deep breaths.
Then I made myself come out and found her with boots and backpack on. She cried again when I told her she couldn't really go back to school because both the nurse and her teacher believed she was sick.
Then we started again.
Thank goodness we can start again.
I scooted up next to her and put my arms around her because she is a touch-baby. We talked about the difference between being sick at school and homesick at school, and how you can't jump ship at the first sign of either. I told her, being an expert, that there are things to do for homesickness, that we could make a little kit to keep in her bag. I told her that now that we'd gotten the sick myth out of the way, we had a couple of hours just us.
Earlier this morning I'd been telling a friend that I don't quite *know* this daughter yet; I don't know how to fill her up right away. Since he was two, Silas has articulated his needs as clearly as an instruction manual: "Mama, I want feshul time with you. Let's read these books," and then we'd sidle up next to each other and read, both connected and full. This child is different.
So sitting there on the couch, I ran through the love languages in my head (gifts, words of affirmation, time, acts of service, touch), and as I gave her choices of what we could do together, I tried to hit each category, saying weird things I never would have thought of: we could sit and have a conversation and I could tell you all the things I love about you, we could go up to your room and I could help you clean it or rearrange it, we could...
It came down to cooking. Not banana bread, not cookies -- A CAKE -- let's make a cake!
There was nothing to say but yes, all right, a chocolate cake -- yes, you and me, let's make that.
So we did.
And even though now, hours later, my kitchen is still smeared with frosting and the sink is piled with chocolate-crusted mixing bowls and cake pans, and there are cake crumbs all along the counter and table, it's ok. She coasted through the rest of the afternoon (the real test will be bed time...), and it turns out, this cake is GOOD, even if you love gluten (like me).
Chocolate Layer Cake
from America's Test Kitchen: How Can it be Gluten Free Cookbook:
Creamy Chocolate Frosting (from same book)
note: this seemed like a lot of work so I compared it with Joy of Cooking's chocolate frosting -- almost identical except JoC added cream of tartar and a little water. I stuck with this one. The double boiler deal also sounded daunting, but was pretty straight forward and helpful it was all in one bowl.
I love a little frosting, but I'm more of a cake girl, especially when the frosting is rich (the opposite of my mother and Eden who could both do without the cake all together). This recipe calls for 3 sticks of butter -- JoC's as well! -- which seemed a little much, so I cut it in half. I ended up with just enough to frost the top and between the layers -- the sides of the cake are bare. I think it's kind of perfect (but if you make it for my mom, definitely use the whole amount).
2/3 c sugar
4 large egg whites
pinch salt
3 sticks unsalted butter, cut into 24 pieces and softened
12 oz bittersweet chocolate, melted and cooled (again I used semi-sweet chips)
1 tsp vanilla
-Combine sugar, egg whites, and salt in a bowl of stand mixer.
-Place bowl over a pan of simmering water and whisk gently and constantly until the mixture is foamy and slightly thickened and registers 150 degrees. (2-3 min)
-Place bowl in stand mixer and beat on med until it has the consistency of shaving cream and has cooled slightly (about 5 min)
-Add butter one piece at a time until smooth and creaming -- if looks curdled part way through, don't worry, keep going. It will smooth out. (my butter ended up mostly melted and the frosting was fine)
-finally, add cooled melted chocolate and vanilla and mix until combined. Increase speed to med-high and beat until light and fluffy, scraping down the sides as needed. If frosting seems too soft after chocolate (mine did), chill briefly and then re-whip until creamy.
The morning ran smoothly (always a small miracle) until a tearful, puddle-y goodbye with Eden at the bus stop. At noon the nurse phoned to say Eden had a "terrible stomach ache." I drove through the rain, Maeve rapidly unraveling toward nap, and picked her up.
Within minutes, she was recovered, fine, happy, and asking for lunch.
Though I'd known as I pulled out of my driveway that she wasn't really sick and probably could use some 1-on-1, somehow the instant proof made me furious. Instead of camping out with a stack of books or cozying right up to her nose and asking what she'd most like to do with me, I told her in a haughty tone that if she were too sick for school, she'd have to go straight to bed and stay there for the rest of the day. She cried until I told her I'd take her back to school.
Then I sat on the couch under a blanket for a few minutes saying, help help help help. Help me drop my anger and see what she needs here. Help. And I tried to take some deep breaths.
Then I made myself come out and found her with boots and backpack on. She cried again when I told her she couldn't really go back to school because both the nurse and her teacher believed she was sick.
Then we started again.
Thank goodness we can start again.
I scooted up next to her and put my arms around her because she is a touch-baby. We talked about the difference between being sick at school and homesick at school, and how you can't jump ship at the first sign of either. I told her, being an expert, that there are things to do for homesickness, that we could make a little kit to keep in her bag. I told her that now that we'd gotten the sick myth out of the way, we had a couple of hours just us.
Earlier this morning I'd been telling a friend that I don't quite *know* this daughter yet; I don't know how to fill her up right away. Since he was two, Silas has articulated his needs as clearly as an instruction manual: "Mama, I want feshul time with you. Let's read these books," and then we'd sidle up next to each other and read, both connected and full. This child is different.
So sitting there on the couch, I ran through the love languages in my head (gifts, words of affirmation, time, acts of service, touch), and as I gave her choices of what we could do together, I tried to hit each category, saying weird things I never would have thought of: we could sit and have a conversation and I could tell you all the things I love about you, we could go up to your room and I could help you clean it or rearrange it, we could...
It came down to cooking. Not banana bread, not cookies -- A CAKE -- let's make a cake!
There was nothing to say but yes, all right, a chocolate cake -- yes, you and me, let's make that.
So we did.
And even though now, hours later, my kitchen is still smeared with frosting and the sink is piled with chocolate-crusted mixing bowls and cake pans, and there are cake crumbs all along the counter and table, it's ok. She coasted through the rest of the afternoon (the real test will be bed time...), and it turns out, this cake is GOOD, even if you love gluten (like me).
Chocolate Layer Cake
from America's Test Kitchen: How Can it be Gluten Free Cookbook:
1 c vegetable oil
6 oz bitter sweet chocolate, chopped (I used semi-sweet chips because that's what I had)
2 oz (2/3 c) unsweetened cocoa powder
1 1/2 c King Arthur Gluten-Free Multi-Purpose Flour (I used Glutino and the texture was great!)
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp xanthan gum
1 tsp
salt
4 large eggs
2 tsp vanilla
10 oz (1 1/2 c) sugar
1 c whole milk
-preheat oven to 350
-grease two 9" cake pans, line bottom with parchment,and grease parchment
-microwave oil, chocolate, and cocoa stirring occasionally (and checking often) until melted. whisk until smooth, then set aside to cool slightly.
-in separate bowl whisk flour, baking powder, baking soda, xanthan gum, and salt
-in mixer, whisk eggs and vanilla, add sugar and mix until well combined.
-whisk in cooled chocolate mixture and milk
-whisk in flour mixture and mix until smooth
-pour batter into pans and bake until toothpick comes out clean, 30-32 minutes, rotating pans halfway
-cool in pan 10 min, then cool on racks
-cool completely before frosting
Creamy Chocolate Frosting (from same book)
note: this seemed like a lot of work so I compared it with Joy of Cooking's chocolate frosting -- almost identical except JoC added cream of tartar and a little water. I stuck with this one. The double boiler deal also sounded daunting, but was pretty straight forward and helpful it was all in one bowl.
I love a little frosting, but I'm more of a cake girl, especially when the frosting is rich (the opposite of my mother and Eden who could both do without the cake all together). This recipe calls for 3 sticks of butter -- JoC's as well! -- which seemed a little much, so I cut it in half. I ended up with just enough to frost the top and between the layers -- the sides of the cake are bare. I think it's kind of perfect (but if you make it for my mom, definitely use the whole amount).
2/3 c sugar
4 large egg whites
pinch salt
3 sticks unsalted butter, cut into 24 pieces and softened
12 oz bittersweet chocolate, melted and cooled (again I used semi-sweet chips)
1 tsp vanilla
-Combine sugar, egg whites, and salt in a bowl of stand mixer.
-Place bowl over a pan of simmering water and whisk gently and constantly until the mixture is foamy and slightly thickened and registers 150 degrees. (2-3 min)
-Place bowl in stand mixer and beat on med until it has the consistency of shaving cream and has cooled slightly (about 5 min)
-Add butter one piece at a time until smooth and creaming -- if looks curdled part way through, don't worry, keep going. It will smooth out. (my butter ended up mostly melted and the frosting was fine)
-finally, add cooled melted chocolate and vanilla and mix until combined. Increase speed to med-high and beat until light and fluffy, scraping down the sides as needed. If frosting seems too soft after chocolate (mine did), chill briefly and then re-whip until creamy.
Mornings -- a poem
This morning I woke to Maeve's "Mom, Mom, Mom, Moooom!" (the ever-so-endearing Mama already gone?) and a sense of overwhelm that it was Monday. But no, it wasn't Monday, and then that it was Friday and I was unprepared for writers' group, but no, it wasn't Friday. And then as the slush of sleep fell, I woke to Wednesday -- sensible Wednesday, smack in the middle of the week. Wednesday I could do.
Oh, to remember the joy each morning.
Oh, to remember the joy each morning.
Welcome Morning
Anne Sexton
There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry "hello there, Anne"
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.
All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.
So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.
The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,
dies young.
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry "hello there, Anne"
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.
All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.
So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.
The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,
dies young.
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