Good Christians, fear

There's a school I know that, until recently, had a problem keeping their baby Jesus in the manger of their Nativity display.  It seems that some of its students had a problem with him being on display, and would steal him each year from the manger, to be returned on Christmas Eve.  After many attempts at reasoning with the students, and even threatening expulsion, the school finally came to the conclusion that if they wanted their baby Jesus on display, they had best find a way to make him permanent.   And so, this year, the baby Jesus was nailed to the manger.

There's a beautiful hymn in our Lutheran hymnals that is sung during the Christmas season in churches, and as a Christmas carol.  It paints a lovely picture of the manger scene- Mary holding the sleeping baby Jesus on her lap, the angels singing and the shepherds keeping watch.  "Good Christians, fear;" the hymn pleads- "for sinners here/the silent Word is pleading." And then comes the line that gives this hymn its meaning, its fullness, its depth; that tells us exactly why we ought to fear; and yet, so many want to cut it out.  "Nails, spear shall pierce him through,/the cross be borne for me, for you."

Without this line, the hymn is worthless.  The Christmas season is worthless.  I know it detracts from all the good feelings we want to be feeling- how good we are for getting such wonderful presents for our families, how merry we are to be spending time with our loved ones, how sweet a newborn child is.  But folks, unless we remember that the sweet little baby grew up to be nailed to a tree, Christmas is foolish.  Our good feelings are all we have, and we'll feel them fade as soon as a child scoffs at the gifts, a loved one dies, or Lent rolls around.  The coming season finds its worth and value not in a newborn babe, but in the grown man who died for us to give us hope a beyond the merriment of our festivities and our emotional highs. 

So rejoice! Your Savior is nigh!  And fear, good Christians; fear.  For Christmas isn't Christmas until we've driven the nails through Jesus.

Garaunteed!! Or your money back?

It seems that we're all to ready to answer someone who's sharing her misgivings about her life with meaningless babble instead of recognizing her burdens as they are- the weight of sin upon her- and giving her the reassurance that can only come from the cross.  Whether she's wondering if she'll ever marry, be blessed with another child (or a child), if she'll ever get a good night's sleep, or whether she'll feel confident about the decisions she's made as a mother or wife, the correct answer is not, "Oh, it will happen."  Or even, "Give it time."  It's most definitely not, "It will happen when you least expect it."  

Unless, of course, you've had some dream or vision that you are certain is from God himself that sheds light on the future of the woman, and you have been given clear revelation about the meaning of said dream or vision.  If that's the case, then, by all means, lead the woman to believe that her trial is going to be over soon.  But if you're like the rest of us, who flounder through life without the vision and dreams, then please, point her instead to the only things that can be guaranteed:  that Christ loves her, and shed his blood for her, and will come again to redeem this world and everything in it, including her; and until then, he will sustain her in his Holy Supper, and with his life-giving Word.

Inside a toddler's brain

The Illusion of Control

The woman who finds her body torn by yet another child, the woman who longs to feel her womb fill with life, and her breasts grow heavy with milk, and the woman who grieves for the life she carried, but lost too early; these women know that infertility treatments and contraception only give us the illusion of control, but it is the Lord who giveth and the Lord who taketh away. And with them I say, "Blessed be the name of the Lord."

Seen this yet?

Hoopde doopde! You'm genuis!

Though I haven't (yet) been able to locate any scholarly articles on the subject, I'll take this as a reassurance that I ought not worry so much that my son still doesn't sleep through the night.

Drudgery

Why is there more laughter when Dad's around than when it's just Mom?  Is Dad that much more fun, or is Mom just that boring?

Yes, when Dad comes home you can be done
making mud pies in the kitchen sink.

Empty arms

"During this time the thought of her own mother often came to her; she couldn't remember her mother except as an aging and melancholy woman.  But she too had once been young, when she lay and warmed herself with the heat of her own body; her mother's body and soul had also been marked in her youth by carrying and giving birth to her children.  And doubtless she hadn't given it any more thought than Kristin had when she sat with the sweet young life at her breast--that as long as they both should live, each day would take the child farther and farther away from her arms." (Sigrid Undset, Kristin Lavransdatter)

I'm realizing more and more that I no longer have a baby in my house.  Rather, I have a young boy, who has the ability to imagine and create, who has desires and ideas of his own making, and who can experience a plethora of complex emotions and respond with empathy to another's sadness.  Without even noticing what was happening, my son grew into a boy who can converse with me about the day's events, count to twenty, and supply the appropriate words from the Creed, Lord's Prayer, and Evening Prayer that I leave out. 

I find joy at every turn; but ah, to hold a sweet young life at my breast once more!

Marital Status

A few week ago I received a compliment from a man while I was bagging my groceries at the store.  Being unaccustomed to such praise from strangers, I merely said "thank you," and tried to go about my business.  He, however, must have had other intentions, for he persisted with his flirtation until I mentioned I was married-- which was about the next thing I said, mind you. At that, he apologized profusely, gathered his groceries and left.  And so, after weeks of pondering how I can avoid future awkwardness, I figure one of three things needs to happen if I'm going to be solo-grocerying:

1.  My husband needs to buy me a larger diamond ring. Much, much larger.

2.  I design a new set of t-shirts to advertise my relationship status as boldly as Facebook.

3.  I adopt a new hairstyle:

Or, I rely on the universal symbol of love: dolphins, and get a tattoo*.

*NB: Ctrl + F "dolphin"

On Trying To Do It All

After my son was born, I went back to work.  (I thought that it was my responsibility to work and provide for my family since my husband was going to school, but that's another story)

From time to time, someone reflects on this year of working outside my home and comments, "I don't know how you did it."  To be frank, I didn't.  Our house was a disaster.  Our clothes were stained and wrinkled, if not lying in heaps about the floor.  My dishes piled up so much on the counter I would spend hours (hours!) on the weekends handwashing them.  My husband cleaned the bathroom when we expected company, which was rarely. I cried at least once a day- before leaving for school, after dropping off my son at the sitter's, while sitting in the nurse's room pumping during lunch, upon reentering the mess of my house at the end of the school day, after burning dinner because I needed to nurse my son, before going to bed- I cried about anything, and everything.

I spent my weekends trying to play catch-up.  At times, we cooked all weekend and froze meals to last a month.  I lesson planned two weeks in advance. My husband helped me grade the papers I ignored during the school days.  We washed loads and loads of clothes, and loads and loads of dishes.  I nursed on demand to increase my supply, but still, I felt myself slipping further and further behind.  So many days, I wanted to walk into the principal's office and quit.    By the end of the school year, I had composed an apology letter to the parents of my students because I felt so guilty about everything I had done poorly at school, and was relieved that we were moving away and I wouldn't have to face any of them anymore at church and pretend my life was okay.

Since I've been staying home, I've had a much different experience.  I'm not going to say that my house is never untidy, or that I never make poor parenting decisions, or that I never burn dinner.  Those things still happen from time to time.  But I'm happier here, and therefore, so is my family.  I have fewer jobs to do, and I can do them better than I could when I was working.  I can't imagine ever going back to that lifestyle, no matter how old my son gets, or how bored  and lonely I get.  I can do this,and often, I can do it well. That's a reality I'm not willing to compromise.

Helicopter mom?

Perhaps it's because I just have one child, or perhaps it's because I'm still a "new mom," but I still can't understand why I would be expected to leave my child with a person whom he considers a stranger, simply so I can go do something without him when he's only two.  It just seems selfish.  But perhaps I'm an overbearing mom and my son will never find a job and will live forever in my basement eating take out pizza and playing video games.

And back again

We've unpacked (mostly). We've installed-and used!-our washer and dryer.  I've hung some pictures on the walls, and plugged in the sewing machine.  We've entertained guests, and met some of the neighbors.  We've located the nearest grocery store, gas station, and library, but still can't find a park.  We've settled into a nice little routine, and had our son asleep by 9:00 most every night.  It's safe to say I'm starting to feel like I'm home.

A Woman's Work Is Never Finished

Last summer, I called my district office and requested to be removed from the roster of church workers.  I had been a teacher for two years, but had decided I needed to be at home.  So I phoned the office and requested to be removed from the roster.  The dear secretary asked me several times if I was certain I wanted to be removed, and not just listed as "unavailable," or "not open to calls."  Being removed isn't easily reversed.  But I was certain.  I had tried the working-mother gig for a year, and found it too difficult.  I had tried the working-wife gig for three years, and found that too difficult.  The many conversations I've had with my husband had all resulted in the same decision:  I am staying home.  Not just for my son, not just for a short time until he's in school, not just until I feel "ready" to go back.  I am staying home.

Staying home has its place in this world, as long as it's just for your kids, and just as long as they're pre-schoolers.  After that, it's foolish for a woman to be in the house spending her hours laboring over oppressive chores. Certainly she would feel better about herself if she had secured herself a job- a career!- a paycheck for her efforts.  But I'm not convinced that my work at home will be done when my son is grown.  As long as I have a home and a husband, I'll be satisfied to stay here and care for them. 

I do not want to yoke myself to another job with its own burdens, stressors, deadlines, and mandates.  I do not want to go to interviews to answer questions about my strengths and weaknesses, and what good I would bring to a company or school.  I don't have those answers.  I do not want to deal with the guilt I would feel for leaving that job to care for my father or mother-in-law should they need it.

I used to think differently about such things.  But now I've learned that my place is here.  My husband and my home need me here, and my heart is in this work.  I know that my son will grow up, and at that time, I will be expected to go back out and rejoin the workforce. But I will be content to remain here, caring for the extraordinary large garden I intent to have, and reading all the books I've wanted to read but can't understand right now.  And we intend to structure our lives accordingly, even if it means becoming a better seamstress and learning to can the vegetables my garden produces.

The fourteenth time's a charm....wait, that's not right.

After fourteen moves, you would think I would have packing down to an art.  But it seems that no matter how organized I am, no matter how soon I start, no matter how many boxes I have sealed and stacked, I realize the week before we're supposed to move that I haven't done nearly enough.  So to combat the stress I feel over getting everything boxed up and neatly stowed in a moving trailer, I start shoving our stuff into boxes with wild abandon, hardly noticing what ends up where, even though I know I'll cringe when I haul boxes into our new house that are labeled  "Really Random Stuff," and "To Be Organized VI."

I will be a happy lady when I can throw away all the boxes I've saved since we got married, (That's right.  I have them all!), and move into a house that I can believe will be our home for more than a few months to a year.

Ruh-Ro, Raggy!

Things I don't understand

I've read that children need fathers in their lives, in part, because a father is more likely to rough-house with his children than the mother.

I've read that children need mothers, in part, because a mother is more likely to be caring and nurturing with her children than the father.


So why is it that my child views me as a jungle gym and gives me a fat lip while I'm putting him to sleep?

Having fun is really hard, despite the library card.

Libraries used to be wonderful, exciting places.  I used to go there regularly and pick out books or study.  I enjoyed browsing for a title that sounded unique, cover that looked interesting, an author I recognized, or a genre I enjoyed.  I carried a book with me wherever I went, and often spent Saturday afternoons curled up in a chair with a cup of tea and a novel.

Throughout college, I maintained a wishlist of books on Amazon, and gladly purchased the required texts for my literature courses.  And, unlike many of the other students in my classes, I actually read them!  Twain, Kipling, Defoe, Bronte, Orwell, Dostoyevsky, Hemingway, Salinger, whatever a professor threw at me, I read.  Everything, but Mrs. Dalloway.  Try as I might, I couldn't wrap my head around that.  And although I was looking ahead to a series of moves, being engaged to a Pre-Seminarian, I kept every single one of them.  Even Mrs. Dalloway.

During some dizzying years a third-grade teacher, I had little time for books with a reading level higher than 8th grade.  I was always in need of the next great read-aloud, and knew I wouldn't find it hiding on the shelves at home between D.H. Lawrence and Emily Dickinson.  So I grabbed E.B. White and Shel Silverstein; Kate DiCamillo and Beverly Cleary.  Good authors, no doubt.  But certainly not challenging.

I eventually quit that job, moved again, but this time, left most of the books packed away in storage.  Since having a kid, something in me changed.  Certainly I was aware that the majority of the books I would be reading would be at his level (at most, 32 pages, and fully illustrated).  But surely, since I would be staying home, surely I would have time for something more challenging that Eric Carle and Kevin Henkes.  Surely, surely I could find time for something well-written and though-provoking.

But sadly, no.  Most of the library time is spent finding books at his level.  If I ever get a chance to venture to the "Adult Fiction" section, and actually manage to peruse the shelves and select a novel; even if I'm lucky enough to bring it home and start to read, I'm sunk.  Somewhere along the line, everything above an 8th grade reading level became like Mrs. Dalloway.  I find myself rereading entire pages, searching past sections for the plot I missed, even wondering who the main characters are supposed to be.  I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that I'm interrupted every fifteen minutes, and that I'm constantly wondering what my child is up to when he's not interrupting me.

And so, I try to keep out of the Adult Fiction section.  The books I have managed to find and read (excepting Michael Perry) have been sorely disappointing.  But I keep being drawn back, in search of that elusive well-written, thoughtful text, authored by someone kind enough to keep everything simple enough that I don't have to think too hard about the meanings of the words on the page.  After all, I may only get a few minutes before my son wakes up, or empties a gallon of water on my kitchen floor, but I still want to read!

How to mop your kitchen floor (with your toddler still awake)

1.  Fill large bowls with warm soapy water.

2. Place bowls on towels in middle of kitchen floor.

3. Give toddler several measuring cups and several empty bowls, pans, pots, whatever.

4. When towels are thoroughly soaked, scoot them around the floor with your feet.

What Mary Saw

What Mary Saw, George Denninger

"The world looked at Jesus' tomb and saw a dead man, a lost cause, abject poverty.

The Magdalene saw the beginning of a promise fulfilled"

It's that time of year again

Jesus, I will ponder now
On Thy holy Passion;
With Thy Spirit me endow
For such meditation.
Grant that I in love and faith
May the image cherish
Of Thy suffering, pain, and death,
That I may not perish.

Grant that I Thy Passion view
With repentant grieving
Nor Thee crucify anew
By unholy living.
How could I refuse to shun
Every sinful pleasure
Since for me God's only Son

Suffered without measure?

 If my sins give me alarm
And my conscience grieve me,
Let Thy cross my fear disarm,
Peace of conscience give me.
Grant that I may trust in Thee
And Thy holy Passion.
If for me he slays his Son,
God must have compassion.

Grant that I may willingly
Bear with Thee my crosses,
Learning humbleness of Thee,
Peace mid pain and losses.
May I give Thee love for love!
Hear me, O my Savior,
That I may in heaven above
Sing Thy praise forever.


TLH 140, sel. verses
Sigismund v. Birken, 1653
Translated by: August Crull, 1923, alt.

I know that feeling....

Right about here ^

Bug Invasion

Centipedes are, by far, the creepiest bugs that I have ever seen in my house.  It's got to do with all those legs, and how they're able to propel the critter up the bathroom wall at record speeds; and how, when smashed, all the little legs go flying off and scatter across the floor.  They send shivers up my spine every time.

It's not rocket science

When I was in 7th grade, my school started a new extracurricular activity for girls only.  We would meet during our lunch period, and have special woman visitors come and speak about their lives, their jobs, and what it meant to be a woman.  The sole purpose of the group was to encourage young girls to think of themselves as special- special in their own ways, with their own talents, and their own gifts, free to pursue those gifts in any way they decided.  I joined.  I didn't want to sit by myself in a cafeteria full of boys.

This idea of being "special" has really got us duped.  I don't mean to say we don't have different gifts and talent, most assuredly, we do.  But we've taken this notion of specialty a bit too far.  So far, in fact, that we now think that it takes it special kind of woman to stay at home, caring for it and her family.  And that taking care of the children, house, and husband require special tools to make up for the gifts we lack.

Think of all the products we bring into the home to make up for our lack of talents-- magazines divulging the secrets the child-rearing and husband-pleasing, special mops and brooms promising to clean the floors better than the old varieties, packaged meals pledging to bring a tasteful, healthy entree to your dinner table--all because we believe that only a special woman could figure out how to do everything a house and home require, and we are not that woman.

It's no wonder that women are running from their homes and families so quickly.  When we're frustrated that our children pester us all day, mess our floors moments after mopping, and interrupt us when the dinner's almost finished causing it to burn, it's easy to look longingly at the neighborhood's We-Have-All-The-Answers! Child Daycare Center and dream of picking up take-out on the commute home from a job where children won't interrupt us.  But if an ordinary woman decides she'll stay home, she most certainly must invest in expensive equipment and purchase the specialized knowledge of child psychologists, or she will be a failure.

What we've forgotten is that ordinary women have been doing these ordinary tasks for centuries without Parents magazine, Swiffer Wet Jets, and Voila! dinner entrees.  I'm not saying these products are bad, in and of themselves.  They can most certainly be helpful in a pinch, and stave off frustration from time to time.  But what they've caused us to believe is that women, on their own, aren't sufficient to be running a household- that failure isn't acceptable. But to look back through history, we must acknowledge that ordinary women have been gardening, sewing, washing, quilting, cooking, nursing, pie-making, and canning.  They did it, not because they had been granted some unique insight on the workings of needle and thread, garden fertilizer, stain-fighting, or food preservation, but because their families needed blankets and shirts, food in their stomachs, and a place to eat that wasn't crawling with larvae.  And their husbands were busy making sure they could give their wives the tools they needed to carry out their tasks.

Now certainly every woman wasn't accomplishing every feat with the same amount of success.  Some were better stitchers, others made prize-winning pies.  Some were regarded as exceptional mothers, others grew beautiful produce.  But these woman continued to do the things their families needed them to do, even if they didn't do it very well, and they passed on their skills to their daughters, so that when their time came, they too could run their households.

Today's homes do not require more of a woman than they did before.  In many ways, they require less.  They do not require any more exclusive skills or knowledge than they used to, though my great-great-grandmother may have stared questioningly at my dishwasher and marveled at the frozen chicken breasts in my freezer.  Homes ask one thing of women, as they have in the past: that they be there, doing they best they can to care for their families.  For it is in the home that a woman becomes special-special to her children and her spouse, not because of the work she does, but because she does it.

Yaaawn

I haven't had a decent night's sleep since my second trimester....two years ago.  I'm sure it foolishness to hope that when he turns two he'll suddenly start sleeping through the night. After all, all things are full of weariness.  It's nice to know that, having only the one, I can still sleep when the baby sleeps.  Even if the baby is actually a toddler.  And the toddler only sleeps for 40 minutes in the afternoon.  Still, it's something.

The problem with "happy"

Whenever my mother comes to visit, she always surprises me with her enthusiasm for changing diapers.  She literally jumps at the chance to change my son's diapers.  Of course, I let her.  Most of the time, diaper changes are gross, and here, where we use cloth, they involve putting my hands into the toilet.  But as thrilled as she is to do such a dirty task, I would never go so far as to say that she enjoys changing a diaper for the mere act of changing a diaper.  Rather, I'm fairly certain that she sees it as an opportunity to bond with her grandchild, and she finds pleasure in taking care of him.

I have yet to meet a woman who would claim that changing a diaper for the sake of changing of diaper brings happiness. The act is by nature unpleasant. The joy comes from knowing that the mother is taking care of her child.

Likewise, the act of labor is by nature unpleasant.  No woman could (or, perhaps to be politically correct, as some would challenge me- few women can) could find any amount of bliss in the midst of the pain if it were not for the knowledge that she was bringing forth a new life.

And yet, we seem to think that perpetual bliss is attainable, and we set out to structure our lives in such a way that we eliminate the things that are uncomfortable, annoying, or gross, so that we can have the pleasure without having to do any of the work.

The irony here is that this requires us to push those uncomfortable tasks off on someone else.  We hire another woman to change the diapers, hang out the wash,  make the beds, and scrub the toilets.  We gladly cook the meals, but expect our husbands do the dishes.  Consequently the pursuit of happiness often comes at the expense of another's happiness.  Who could argue that a hired woman could find pleasure in the act of scrubbing a toilet?  While she may appreciate the paycheck, the tasks of her job prevent her from obtaining perpetual bliss. Structuring our lives in such a way that we force another person to do the unhappy jobs we've been given only results in a social hierarchy where certain people are allowed spend their days doing only that which brings pleasure, and the rest of the people are there to clean up their messes.



As Christians, we were never promised happiness.  We were encouraged to be content.  And, at times, we may find that being content is extraordinarily difficult, and that life is unfair.  But we were called to many and various vocations, and those vocations will require us to do the uncomfortable, annoying, and downright gross jobs that the people around us need us to do for them.  And it's because of that relationship we have with those around us that we find the satisfaction.  Our relationship with each other drives us to serve, and to serve contentedly, for it is through our service to one another that Christ is meeting the needs of his people.

What every father should teach his children

"Your mother is delicate flower. She doesn't take well to headbutts."

The Manslator

HT: Cyberbrethren

Why I make my bed

Because you never know when the tax assessor is going to stop by and want to do a room-by-room evaluation of the structural integrity of your house.

It's also just reasoning for keeping the laundry hampers from overflowing, and ensuring that whatever your kid dug out from the bathroom cupboards, was, indeed, returned to the bathroom cupboards.

Thanks All Around

It's St. Valentine's Day, and hijacking my wife's blog, here is a little note of encouragement.

To all of you faithful women who write your own blog, and graciously comment here on Leah's blog as well: Thank you. You have been a tremendous source of comfort and consolation in our family. You have made us laugh and provoked thoughts. Thank you for helping point us towards God's Word and encouraging us to live out our lives in the Gospel.

To our families: Thank you for all of your prayers, love, and support. It has meant so very much to us. We truly would not be here without our families (not in small part because you helped to get our stuff here!).

To my wife: Thank you for being my lovely bride and my beautiful wife. You have supported me through hard times and helped make me into a better husband, a better man. Your love and service is more than I would have ever hoped to receive. You are wonderful gift from God. Thank you for our son. Thank you for the pain that you endured to bring new life into our home. Thank you for all that you put up with on a daily basis. My family is a constant and daily source of joy for me. Thank you.

As rich as my love for...Nevermind, I'll stop before you get sick.

Perhaps I'll get the hang of this yet!

Ever since my son was born, I've second-guessed everything I've done.  Have I encouraged healthy sleep habits? Did I introduce solids too early?  Should I have weaned him months ago? I suppose it's a direct result of all the magazines and internet sites I used to browse, and all the uber-opinionated babyologists who claim that if I didn't follow their child-rearing instructions exactly, my child would end up in juvie before he turned 10.

I've stopped turning to Google with every baby question I have, and instead rely on my own intuition, the advice of seasoned mothers I personally know, and (most importantly) what my husband and I know about our child.  I still have my misgivings, and I doubt they'll ever fully go away.

So it was quite a treat when I found my son sitting on the floor, holding a book, pointing at the pictures, and saying the appropriate words.  For the first time in motherhood, I can honestly say, "There! I did something right."

As promised, though a day late

First off, I have to say it's well worth it to invest in a good spice cabinet.  And I do mean invest.  They're expensive, but have say, a little curry, on hand will be just the thing to kick-up your chicken salad.  Or cumin for your meatloaf (go ahead and throw in some cheddar cheese, black beans, and a dash of salt while you're at it.*) A few new spices can make your bland grand.

With that in mind, here are couple recipes so you can try out those new spices I'm sure you'll dash off to buy.

Beer-braised pork and black bean soup.  Don't you dare open a can of Pace for this. If you don't want to buy the fresh stuff, make your own.

Serve with cornbread.



And, a new one I intend to try this weekend:
Chicken with Curry Sour Cream Sauce.

Heat some oil in a large skillet or Dutch oven.  Brown  4 breast halves (or 2 1/2-3lbs cut up boiler-fryer chicken).  Drain fat.  Sprinkle chicken with salt, add some chopped onion and a couple tablespoons of water.  Bring to a boil, reduce heat, cover and simmer until juices run clear.  Remove chicken, keep warm.  Add 1/4c. water to the skillet,  2 tsp. curry, pinch of ginger and a pinch of cumin.  Bring to a boil.  Be sure to scrape up all those little brown bits from the bottom of the pan.  Reduce heat, stir in 1c.sour cream until it's hot.  Pour sauce over chicken and rice.  Serve with chutney.

You can also put dry-roasted peanuts, shredded coconut, mandarin orange segments, and chopped green onions out to sprinkle on top of the chicken.

Vegetable options: Well here I'm no good. I'm not knowledgeable enough with Indian cuisine to know what would be good.  You decide.


As with the last one, if you have a great idea for a non-American salt-and-pepper-spiced meal, let me know.

*I ought to give credit to my Sister-in-Law for this idea.  I threw in the beans myself, but the cumin and cheese was all her.

The Great Recipe Exchange (or What would you do with a freezer like this?)

I'm in need of new recipes.  I've been poring over my forgotten and little-used cookbooks hoping that something will jump out and say "I won't taste like anything you've been making for the last four years!"  I've gleaned from them what I can, and I'm still desperate for something different. So I propose an exchange.  I'll give you a couple of my best recipes (I promise not to mess with the proportions or leave key ingredients out), if you'll do the same for me.  I'll try just about anything.  Teriyaki chicken, Indonesian Peanut Chicken, and Tandoori chicken show up on my menus as often as enchiladas and broccoli-cheddar soup.

Rules:

1. Your recipe must be frugal.  As much as I would love to cook up a standing crown roast or leg of lamb, I refuse to buy one.  Same goes for most steaks.  I can't justify spending $7.00 on a pound of meat. Meatless meals are fair-game.

2.  Tell me what else you serve with it.  I don't have to have  the recipes for all those- I just need some ideas.

3. It cannot contain tuna.  (As much as I like it, my husband won't eat it. Sigh.)



Old Standby 1: Cheddar Chicken

Shred 6oz of cheddar cheese (or cheese of you choice) into a medium bowl.  Add 16-20 crushed buttery cracker (like Ritz).  Add a teaspoon or two of your favorite herb (I've done dill, thyme, rosemary), and 1 tsp. pepper. Mix well.  Melt 4 Tbsp. of butter in a medium bowl.  Dip 6 4 oz. boneless, skinless chicken breasts in the butter, then into the cheese mixture. Place on a foil-lined baking sheet (don't skip the foil unless you like scratching baked-on crusties off your dishes).  Bake at 400 degrees for 30-45 minutes, or until internal temperature reaches 165 degrees.

I serve it with rice and green beans.  Broccoli would be great, too.


Old Standby 2: Pork Chop Dinner

Disclaimer: I know condensed cream soup isn't the healthiest thing out there, but this is super easy to make, and it's a one-pot meal, so it finds it's way to the table fairly often.  I figure if I buy the low-sodium stuff, I'll be okay.  It's not like we eat fast food every day.


In a large skillet (and make it large, you'll be cramming in quite a few veggies) brown 4 pork chops  (bone-in or boneless, it won't matter) in a bit of oil and some chopped onion.  Top with  4-5 small cubed potatoes (your choice of varieties), few handfuls of sliced carrots (I've used fresh, I've used frozen), and some mushrooms if you'd like (I'm partial to fresh, though you can use canned.)  Dump a can of condensed cream soup on top (chicken or mushroom or celery- low-sodium will taste fine), and add 2 cups of milk.  Bring it to a boil, reduce heat to simmer, cover and forget about it for 25-30 minutes, or longer if you'd like.  Just make sure the veggies are tender before you serve it.

Serve with a salad.


Tune in tomorrow for my Ethnic-inspired recipes.

The tedious little hobby I've aquired

I was finally brave enough to try out my idea on the brocade I bought for my husband's stole.  And no, it's not done yet!  I still have to fill in the spaces, and whip-stitch the outline.  There's also the task of adding four lilies...

Best of all, this is just practice.  I don't have much goldenrod thread left, so I doubt I'll be able to make a match, if I'm even able to fill the spaces...

Gotta love embroidery.  It's addicting.

How the 60s failed us

When Karen Owen first appeared in the news, I decided not to take up the debate.  Rather, I would leave it to the people who were more gifted in wisdom and words.  My wait was worthwhile.  From Caitlin Flanagan in the most recent Atlantic:

 "As I read the woman's report, and imagined the tones of outrage and hurt and violation in which it was surely given, and as I lingered on her account of how drunk she'd been, a very old-fashioned phrase suddenly floated through my mind.  It was a phrase I hadn't thought of in years, a simple formulation that carried within it a world of assumptions and beliefs, 'She's angry,' I thought to myself, 'because he took advantage of her.'

. . . In those days, we relied on our own good judgment to keep us safe, but also--and this is the terrible, unchanging fact about being female--on the mercy of the men around us."

While I may have used a word other than "terrible" to describe the truth of women relying upon the mercy of men, I believe Flanagan has hit upon a truth we have ignored.

"We've made a culture for our college women in which they have been liberated from the curfews and parietals that were once the bane of co-eds, but one in which they have also shaken off the general suspicion of male sexuality. . . "

And not just our college women, but our young daughters as well, as evidenced by the alarming fashions available in the "girls" section of any clothing store.  We have not taught our women and girls to guard themselves, but encouraged them to be seductive in the name of beauty, and therefore have left them vulnerable to the pain only a man can bring upon a woman.

God grant us wisdom as we teach our daughters what is good: to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled, pure, working at home, kind, and submissive to their own husbands, that the word of God may not be reviled.

Flanagan's full article here.

Arise, shine

One of the biggest challenges a mother will face is being privy to the demons that daily arise in her children. The nights her child refuses to sleep and keeps the family awake from one until four; the scream fest that initiates the moment he is set upon a chair so she can prepare dinner. The whining and complaining that commences when she reveals she has to stop reading for a moment to use the restroom; the throwing of toys that occurs when the Thomas train falls off the track again and the frustrated child cannot verbalize his emotions.  The refusals to nap when she is deliriously tired; the demands that she hold him while loading the dishwasher or washing machine.

Each event wears upon her until she feels she is about to break open and lash out.  Whereupon she enters church, and her demon-child becomes angelic, charming the crowds with his smile as he toddles down the aisle to his father at the end of the service.  "What a sweetheart!" "What a well-behaved child!" "What a doll!" the crowds gush.

And she must be stoic in her response of thanks.  "Come visit," she longs to say, "moments after I've plopped him in his crib for pulling the dog's tail and listen to him scream obscenities at me that, I assure you, are not part of our family's vocabulary."

It's difficult to acknowledge that children, even the tiniest of infants, and the toddliest of toddlers, are indeed, sinners, too. It's difficult to acknowledge that the most angelic of children sometimes throw their blocks at their mothers and keep them up all night.  And it's difficult for a mother to watch another woman's children without feeling that she is somehow, someway, doing something wrong, because her own children don't behave as they ought.

And while this too, shall pass, she cannot help but allow that this set of demons will only be replaced with another, and the cycle will continue until all things are created anew.  So she begins each morning, thankful for the rising sun that sheds new light upon the earth, and reminds her that she, too, can arise and shine, for her light has come.  She will see and be radiant, her heart shall thrill and exult.  Her sons will come to her from afar, and her daughters will be carried on her hip.

The IQ is dropping by the minute around here.

Yesterday, I opened the dishwasher in an attempt to get the milk.

I used "meaned" as the past tense of "mean" instead of "meant."  (And I'm picky about grammar.  Really picky.)

I misplaced my glasses around noon, and my husband finally found them this morning.

I had superb idea for a blog post, but since I can't recall the brilliant idea, you get this one.

So I'm buying one of these, and hopefully my brain will get back on track.  Thanks to The Happy Housewife, you can get a coupon code here.

Jealousy strikes again

While sitting through the Christmas Eve service, I noticed I was becoming increasingly skeptical of the hymns we were singing, and rather jealous of the Holy Mother.  In most every song, the Baby Jesus is portrayed as the perfect sleeper. Mary sings a lullaby as he rocks on her lap, puts him down on a pile of hay in a manger, and they all sleep in heavenly peace. Sure, the cattle and their lowing wake the poor kid, but he doesn't cry.  He doesn't wake his mother and make her hold him or insist on sleeping in her bed.  He puts himself back to sleep.

Maybe you have a kid like that.  I am not so fortunate.  In fact, while I was attending this late service, my son was at home with a babysitter watching Cars. He was supposed to be sleeping.

Perhaps when he leaves for college, I'll finally get a good night's sleep. Until then, you can probably find me rolling my eyes at all those sentimental Christmas melodies, and secretly wishing I knew what Mary knew about putting kids to sleep.