To Poach or Not to Poach

We were treated to perfectly poached eggs when visiting Lulu and Stefano recently. He is a perfectionist. He has a very good pan and has making them down to a science, or rather, an art.  Watching him work his craft, we were mesmerized. And of course, since he could be an outstanding salesman, we decided we would now begin to have poached eggs. 

So began The Search. I tried a cheaper version of what I now call a "poaching system."  Sadly, the eggs stuck to the egg cups. Messy, indeed, and not pretty, for sure. Then I began to price really good systems. Hmm, did I really have room for another pan in our crowded cupboards?

So I visited a shop just for the kitchen. You probably know it. It's a little bit of kitchen heaven. I asked the salesperson about egg poachers. "You absolutely must try these!" she exclaimed.  She took me over to something that looked like it could be sports' equipment. "These take no storage room, which is one reason people love them."  I've never tried any of that new-fangled silicone stuff before, but I decided to take it home and give it a tentative try. These "pods" simply float in simmering water. 

Amazing! I can testify to a perfectly poached egg!  Wonder of wonders! Guess I found my "poaching system."

(photo of egg in silicone egg pod, floating in water...)

Drop Ins

I love it when people drop by unexpectedly. Like folks used to do. We had just moved our hammock and they gave it a try--you could say they "dropped in" twice!

Greener Pasture

The family story is told that long ago, my grandmother would send her five boys across the street to play at the neighbors (who also had about five boys.) The boys would play in front of the house and tear up the lawn, as 1o active boys most likely would do. Meanwhile, the front lawn at my grandmother's house remained in good condition. Mrs. S. used to say to Mrs. F. (so the story goes): "I'm so glad the boys play in my yard, because I love looking over at your beautiful, green lawn."

I think about that story sometimes when I mow, as I did today, especially when the springtime grass is lush and green. Of course there are no kids left in this house to play on it anymore. But I get my delight in looking across the street at the little folks playing there.

Kayla came over this afternoon wearing a different flip flop on each foot. I could only think that she liked them both, so why not?

When Times Are Tough

Ken Gire wrote the following about when Jesus was in Gethsemane. It was sent to me twice in the last two days so I think I should share it since it speaks simply, yet deeply to me:

"Reaching for the cup from his Father's hand,

though it is a cup he fears, Jesus takes it.

Because more than He fears the cup,

He loves the hand from which it comes."

A Small Thing

Sitting at our son's table this weekend, a good meal completed, I noticed him filling the pepper shaker. His father fills ours. I don't always notice father in son, but in this very small thing, I saw his father instantly. I am grateful that, although not always obvious, there are many things peppering Second Son's  life that proclaim he is his father's son. Most go unnoticed because they are, simply put, so much of what they both just are. But I took note of the moment, and it has stayed with me.

Lady in Waiting

visitors ...

... from not  far,  bearing a gift!

"Four-Four"

My sister phoned early this morning to tell of the safe arrival of her grandson.  We all had a sleepless night as we had learned my niece was being induced, and there could be a problem with the baby, which they thought was only about five pounds (yet nearly 39 weeks).

Her son-in-law had called her to share the good news just a few minutes before. Maybe Lulu was distracted by the sound of her grandson's cry, but she thought the new father said, "four-four."  "Four pounds, four ounces?" she screeched. (And when I heard the words, I immediately asked, "Apgar score 4-4?")

We were both wrong. For after a night of labor and back rubbing and waiting on God, little wee one's parents welcomed him, weighing in at a wonderful six and 1/2 pounds. Son-in-law was exclaiming Galatians 4:4––

" ... when the fullness of time came, God sent forth His son, born of a woman ..."

It feels like something good has happened today, and indeed it has. In the fullness of time.

What Mothers Know

I am so privileged to still have my mother nearby. Even though our roles have changed to a certain degree, she still seems to know more about many things than I do, and she never ceases to amaze me. The other day I learned that she knows how to tie a bow; something I never have been able to do properly. I didn't think about the fact that she would know, but of course, for certainly she tied many a sash on the back of her three little girls' dresses over the years. My niece was trying on a dress, and Mother matter-of-factly tied the bow right away.

"Can you teach me?" We went over it and over it and over it again, and I think I finally got it, to the soft and patient melody of my young niece: "Are we done yet?"

A Weekend in Review

The Singing of Birds

"The time of the singing of birds is come,"--the time when nature calls aloud to us and bids us awaken out of the deadness of personal grief, and rejoice in the new manifestations of His beauty that God is making to the world. 'Behold, I am alive for evermore, and the dead live to me.' Was not this the secret saying which the new venture was writing all over the hills, and which the young pattering leaves and singing birds were repeating in music? It must be well to have ears to hear and a heart that could respond with a little flutter of returning joy and thankfulness."

                                                                            ~Anne Keary (1825-1879)

A Phone Conversation

"Hello, Mrs. C__? This is the Caymen Polling Company calling."

"Bowling company?" I asked back.  

"No, I said polling company," she giggled.

" I just bowled the other night for the first time in years, and I thought someone noticed how good I was."  By now she was having a hard time talking seriously.  She began to ask me questions about my employment in the healthcare industry.  "How did you know where I work?" I asked.

"I don't know, it just came up on the computer."  She continued to ask questions about my job and if I was happy there and thought I'd be working there five years from now.  Spouse, overhearing the conversation mouthed, "I bet it's going to end up that they are looking for nurses." I asked her that. "No," (she was still an the verge of giggles), "I need a new job myself." I suggested she consider nursing. I hope I was alleviating some of the boredom she must face with her current job.

Then the conversation took a sharp turn. "How important is health care legislation to you?" A few more questions/comments and then an even sharper turn, "Do you know who you will vote for?" "What political party are you registered with?"

That was quite a wandering conversation.  From bowling (well, polling) to HC. We could have gotten right to the point and saved HC some money.

packing mags

I sat next to a thirty-something firefighter this morning and was having a little trouble reading a piece of paper. He offered to take it across the room so I could see it better. He has a good sense of humor. Then he said to me that they are "packing magnifying glasses" in the firetruck these days. "Seems to me," he leaned back in his chair, "that if someone needs a magnifying glass to read a map, maybe he shouldn't be driving." He went on to make some reference to these older guys needing help carrying the hoses anyway. 

I could read without glasses much longer than many of my peers, but when the eyes changed, they did quickly and it's simply an annoyance. I tuck an old pair of readers in the med drawer at work so I can read the lot number and dosage on the medication vials, but I still manage to see everything else as long as the light is good. And I haven't yet gotten used to the marvel of how clear even the tiniest of print becomes when I do put on  readers.

This young servant to our country had a birthday recently and I know his age. It's not all that many years until he too might need something to help him read a map. And he'll still be driving I'm sure. Without trying to magnify the issue beyond its reasonable bounds, I do hope he doesn't make a spectacle of himself.  All puns intended.

Lamb Supper

On a stormy Thursday evening, our book club gathered with our books around the beautifully vested table of one of us and were treated to a festal meal of leg of lamb with all the trimmings. At least six courses. Perfectly executed by Cassidy with the help of her husband and mother who tirelessly (?) worked in the kitchen. Being in their cozy and inviting home was enough of a treat, but to feast with good friends while we discussed The Supper of the Lamb made an evening to remember. Thank you, Cassidy! And thank you, Boniface!

There is so much to share from this rich book on more than the subject of cooking a leg of lamb (to serve eight people four times), but I will choose just one thing Robert Capon says after spending a whole chapter on cutting up an onion:

"[God] likes onions, therefore they are. The fit, the colors, the smell, the tensions, the tastes, the textures, the lines, the shapes are a response,

not to some forgotten decree that there

may as well be onions and turnips, but to His present delight––His intimate and immediate joy in all you have seen, and in the thousand other wonders you do not even suspect.

"... Man's real work is to look at the things of the world and to love them for what they are. That is, after all, what God does, and man was not made in God's image for nothing."

sugar, spice, and all things nice ...

We certainly enjoyed time with our nephew's little girls down in the most southeastern state. Now that they are running around and showing off their personalities, memories came quickly of 28 years ago when their daddy was their age. Such fun to push an umbrella stroller again ... read some of the stories we read to our kids ... picnic in the park ... and many other pleasures that become more so with little people around.

Airport Toys

air port, originally uploaded by podso.

Sitting around in airports again this week, it came to my attention that most people occupy themselves pretty well at an airport. The bottom line, if there is nothing else, is people-watching. That’s actually my favorite airport pastime. But I find most people busy with tangible toys. If they don’t have a laptop open (and if you happen to walk behind and see the screen, you find eight times out of ten, they are playing a game), they are messing with a cell phone (either talking on it or playing with it), an iPod, a blackberry, or, rarely, reading a paperback. A few sleep or eat, but very few aren’t doing something.

On today’s trip home there was a particularly interesting older European couple pushing the system. When they were checking in with a good deal of panache, I noticed they had a pair of wrist-cuffed crutches with them. I wondered what they were for. When it came time for early boarding, we headed for the door with my mother and they hobbled up, each using one of those crutches like a cane. Saw them later at our destination, walking at a good pace, “crutches” tucked under their arms. Toys or a true crutch (no pun intended)?

Breakfast With a View

view, originally uploaded by podso.

breakfast, originally uploaded by podso.

reel it in, originally uploaded by podso.

fruit, originally uploaded by podso.

It's a fact. Breakfast on the beach has always been a favorite of mine. Etched in my memory is a birthday breakfast at sunrise overlooking Lake Michigan, the year I got the Rocky album. Last week we celebrated breakfast on a pier, overlooking Tampa Bay. Not bad at all, definitely a memory-maker. The Rod and Reel was the name, but we didn't have fish. The pictures can speak for themselves.

coming attractions

Ghana Chocolate

A big thank you to you-know-who-you-are!

Easter Morning

lenten rose, created by boniface ... originally uploaded by podso.

When the Sun Is At Its Best

After bedtime prayers, I used to tuck my little boys in bed and say, "See you in the morning when the sun is at its best." Due to the extensive amount of travel we've been doing these weeks, as well as my usual days away from home working, I feel I've lost out on badly needed "home time." I love being home, I love having things around me that tell me stories about our lives, and I love seeing the sun streaming in the windows especially in the mornings. So with the precious little time I have had at home this week, I've found myself stumbling around figuring out what needs my attention the most. And I badly feel the need of accomplishing a project, but there's no time for that these days.  So midst my fretting the other day I stopped myself and said, "Each moment is what it is. It's what it's to be, you have done what should be done with it, and you can only do that one thing (well I do like to multi task at times). Let it go, and go for the next moment.

I made a meal for a family with a new baby on one of those days (I had the extreme joy of caring for the newborn in the hospital last week), but it took me way too long to make it. And I think it's because of the fretting I'm doing with this lack of time at home. It completely exhausted me, which shouldn't be. So I looked at the sunshine streaming in the window, especially welcome after a rainy day, soaked it in, and lived for that sunny moment.

FOR ME ...

... He died.  And the tomb is empty.

No Easter eggs this year ... I'll just look at last year's !

back road baby

On our way home from Atlanta, Spouse wanted to take back roads. Back roads from Atlanta? A bit "over the top" I'd say. That could take hours (and it did––an extra 2 1/2 at least.) Spouse is known for loving back roads. I do too, and love to stop at local eating places, even though here in the south such places often mean an extra helping of grease. But on a Sunday afternoon when I wanted to get home, "back roads" just wasn't what I wanted.

One interesting thing was driving through the heart of  the University of Georgia. Fun to see creatively painted bulldogs on each corner. But I declare Spouse slept through the best scenery. But a nap comes, and can't be helped.

Sunset arrived and then things got good. My absolutely favorite time to drive. Traffic has died down (of course on back roads you about have them to yourself anyway), we turn the volume up on some country music and just relax as the miles fly by. It's so good to be together, me and my "back road baby."

Kirk

"Tornado coming. Take cover now!" These were the words we heard over a loudspeaker as sirens blew throughout the town. We watched the angry sky outside our hotel room window for signs of a funnel. Golf ball-sized hail bounced on to the pavement below. We could hardly believe we drove all the way to Atlanta to be in a tornado (the second day Atlanta area had been hit with torandoes). Thankfully all turned out well, and later when the sun shone the only proof that "something" had happened was noticing that the air had been sucked out of our water bottles.

We were visiting our old friend Jon who we first knew when he was just out of college and trying to figure out his life. He was a superb soccer player, a mentor to our sons, and I cooked many a meal for him! So it was pretty cool to visit Jon––now minister, husband, father of two great kids––and to eat at his table in his home. We spoke at his church and enjoyed his warm and friendly congregation. The church building is brand new and has a certain Scottish feel to it--probably influenced by Jon's studies in Scotland. His little Hans is already doing some good footwork with a ball.

The Basil Was Sweet

The weather could not have been more spectacular as we drove a couple of hours to meet 

friends from (brrr) still-snowy Minnesota ... in a little southern town known for its pine trees. I recognized our meeting place--a little cafe--before I saw the sign, for the window area was stuffed with basil plantings. After lunch at Sweet Basil we walked and talked, and talked and walked--fallen pine needles crunching under our feet while our eyes soaked up glorious blossoms of spring. We had much to catch up on--our roots go deep these 30 years--but we found ourselves going leisurely about it, probably because of the slowness and quietness we sensed amidst the charm of this endearing village.

Yate Butler's Five

Somehow I became the family correspondent. In the early years of our marriage I not only kept in touch with my friends and our friends, but also Spouse's friends. Such as Yate Butler, a lankly English major and for a time, a college  rommate of Spouse's. Our correspondence began in the days before keeping in touch became so quick and accessible with emails and cell phones.

Today Yate and I continue a snail mail correspondence by choice. His letters to us, written in a beautiful, flowing handwriting, are on recycled 8 x 11 paper, and are never short. Content is the best, as Yate writes vividly of his life raising five daughters––five girls with four names apiece. I have saved his letters in a folder labeled "Letters from Yate." Someday I'll send them back to him and he can write his book.

And write he can, as he describes with great flair life with his girls. He has raised them single-handedly since his wife, their mother, died an untimely death when the youngest weren't yet in school. Yate chose to live in a small town near his mother, so the girls could have a feminine influence. His "painted lady" victorian-style house is not far off the main road, and is filled with antiques, fine china, and family heirlooms.  His girls were raised with grace and have become lovely young women, each one very  much her own person. Some remind us of their mom, some have their dad's unique outlook on life, and some are just a good combination of them both. 

I got wind that another letter is on its way to us. When it arrives, its time to sit down with a cup of tea and read the next chapter of the Butler Five. It's something to look forward to, and then, to remember.

The Wheels on the Bus

I DON'T THINK  I'LL ever get used to turbulence on a plane. As many times as I have flown, the fear remains. Our short flight to Chicago had more turbulence than a little flight should be allowed. I turned to frequent-flyer husband, "Is this some of the worst turbulence you've experienced?" (implying, "and you're still here to talk about it?")

"Not the worst," he smiled back at me. My eyes closed. My coping mechanism: I envision myself back in Africa, riding a bus over the severe potholes. Up and down the bus goes, as we jostle around inside, holding on for dear life. I've even been known to chant, "The wheels on the bus are going round and round, and over pot holes, that's for sure. My it's a bumpy ride."

When the turbulence ends for awhile, the relief is as sweet as when a pain pill kicks in, dulling sharp pain. I sometimes feel exhausted.  During some of this flight's bumpier moments, Spouse looked at me and asked, "Did we ever get the executor of our will straightened out?" I hope no other passengers heard my screech, "WHY are you asking me that NOW?  Is there a reason? Could you find a better time?"

We got there. And our flight home was smooth sailing compared to the one going. I always wonder if other passengers are as calm as they look.

The Sidewalks of Home

SPOUSE AND I HAD A QUICK TRIP TO CHICAGO.  BEFORE THE BUSYNESS of the weekend set in, we drove from the airport to the small town I grew up in (a quiet Chicago suburb perched on the commuter line.) The entire suburban area is coming out of the worst winter since we lived there when our firstborn was a baby. Even though it was bleak and cold with dirty snow piled up at the corners, warmth filled my heart as I entered the land of my childhood. Almost everything looked as I remembered--but––of course, smaller.

The memories spilled from my mind to my soul, but it was the familiarity that drew me in. As a child I was allowed to walk uptown to the dime store and hardware store, but not as far as the block the bank was on. As Spouse and I walked the streets, the sidewalks felt like home. Most of the shops were different, but I was amazed at the familiar feeling that came to me from the sidewalks. 

One thing has not changed an iota--Kirschbaum's Bakery. I think the fake wedding cakes displayed in the high glass case are the same ones as when I was a child. This is the bakery I think of every time I walk into and savor the delicious scents of any other bakery. To see this one unchanged by the passing of (40) years was incredible. Spouse bought the cookie I chose, just for "old-time's" sake. We found a little cafe across from the train station and ate our lunch by the window so I could revel in my memories, watching commuter trains fly by, and soaking up the past. A new memory formed among old ones.

SIX

jack, originally uploaded by podso.

Something amazing happened when neighbor Jack turned six this week. He got on his new bicycle and took off without training wheels. A skill he will keep a lifetime. Happy Birthday, Jack! Sister Kayla is not far behind!

kayla, originally uploaded by podso.

Stones for the Temple

"What comforts me is the thought that we are being shaped here below into stones for  the heavenly temple--that to be made like Him is the object of our earthly existence. He is the shaper and carpenter of the heavenly temple. He must work us into shape, our part is to be still in His hands; every vexation is a little chip; also we must not be in a hurry to go out of the quarry, for there is a certain place for each stone, and we must wait till the building is ready for that stone ..." (Charles George Gordon, 1833-1885)

Jesus Christ Himself being the chief cornerstone; in whom all the building fitly framed together grows into a holy temple in the Lord... Ephesians 2:20-21

It is beginning ...

to look a lot like Spring!

Photo by lulu

Lamp Story

There is a lovely blue Wedgewood porcelain lamp that has sat on my mother's dresser for as long as I remember. I've always fancied its simple urn-like lines, and and it's pure white shade. There's a crack or two I've noticed ... it has obviously been repaired but I never really knew what all that was about.

Today my mother and I were taking a walk where she live

s. We passed some windows with messed up venetian blinds and I told her how I hate to see messy blinds in windows.  Just a personal preference--neat rather than messy. Back at her little apartment, we sat on the sofa to talk. 

"Speaking of venetian blinds," she began, "when we moved into our little parsonage as (almost) newlyweds, the church had fixed it up for us and had hung new venetian blinds at the windows. But they didn't know how to hang them. I discover

ed that fact the day I first went to clean the living room. I pulled up the blinds and they came crashing down, taking my beautiful wedgewood lamp with them. It broke into many pieces. How I loved that lamp––a wedding

 present from my aunt and uncle. When your father came home for lunch he found me on the living room floor dissolved in tears."

My father, loving groom that he was (all his life) took the pieces and somehow glued the

m back into a beautiful lamp that still hangs together 65 years later. You'd

 never know how broken it had been. Nor can I visualize my mother on the floor crying!

I love the stories that come at the oddest comments. Now I'll examine the lamp more closely, and from now on when I  look  I'll think of my dad's loving hands gluing broken pieces together for his young bride.  I have two more stories about broken Wedgewood, but this one is the dearest by far! (Top photo is of a favorite lamp of mine, as yet unbroken).