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Archive for beautiful ordinary – Page 5

Golden Moment

I was driving south on Highway 45. Going home to my parents’ house for Thankgiving with the children. The trip is only about 45 minutes, not enough mileage to be considered a real trip, I guess. Still, it was a symbolic trip of sorts, the opportunity to step away from my weekday surroundings and our normal work and school routines. I had spent much of the day working on last minute design projects and gathering clothes, toys, movies, and bedtime favorites for four days away from home. The short drive was my first moment to relax. It’s funny how powerful those moments can be sometimes.

The children had already spent much of their excitement about the trip that morning and one by one drifted off to sleep, lulled by the tires on the pavement. I was alone with my thoughts in transition from the busy-ness of the week and ready for a few unscheduled days. My mind was pressed. It had been a full week of thinking crammed into only two days. I had been in a period of thinking and creating, dealing with stressful situations and my own wrestling leading up to the Thanksgiving holiday. It’s hard to quiet myself during those times.

It had been raining off and on during the morning, so the sky was striped with clouds. The sun had finally dropped below the cloud lines enough to make its appearance. The timing was golden. It was a perfect sphere of light hovering just before its decent into sunset. The glow was what distracted me.

Suddenly, for the first time that day, I was bathed in sunlight. It felt like the first time that week. The first time that month. My light blue shirt was aglow as the western sunbeams streamed into the car window. It’s interesting when light presents itself. It’s unmistakable. It commands attention. It demands to be noticed and given its due. That one shaft of light stunned the noise in my brain into silence.

It made me take a deep breath.

As I looked in the rear-view mirror, I could see each of my gifts. Their faces were turned in odd but restful angles in their seats and shining. The sunlight set them aglow. The same glow I see constant in their spirits through the changes, through the stages, through the brotherly love and scuffles, through the first words and moments of learning, through the bedtime kisses and cheeks pressed against mine. Life. Aglow. A glow that brought into sharp perspective all the efforts of the week, all the commitments, all the decisions, all the needs and wants, all the challenges and joys.

Suddenly, I wasn’t alone with my thoughts anymore. I was alone with the three most precious hearts I’ve ever known.

Thinking About Cows

What is it about kids and cows? Of all the animals in Creation, each of my children have learned to speak cow first. Most recently, Baby Girl has added the standard “moo” to her vocabulary. Only for Baby Girl, it’s a husky, emphatic and insistent “moo.” It’s said with a gusto not found with the ho-hum “woof” and “meow.” There’s just something about cows, I guess.

I grew up around cows. Sort of. My grandfather and my father both kept cows on my grandparents’ farm kind of as a hobby. We visited there almost every weekend when I was a child–sometimes on Friday night through Sunday afternoon, sometimes just on Saturdays. I didn’t spend a lot of time with the cows. They were more of a continual presence. A background, so to speak, for lots of other tomboy activities. In a farm setting, I suppose that’s often the case. My mom grew up on that farm, and I know the cattle were a physical and metaphorical backdrop for her as well. I remember stories she told me of playing “church” in the neighboring cousin’s barn. From the make-shift pulpit, she expounded on scripture she learned at Sunday School… “be not like dumb driven cattle.” Cows. A continual presence.

Cows have an uncanny stare. I’ve been the recipient of it many times over the years, both from near and far. The stare is deep and thorough. But, it’s also a bit blank. You just know there’s not a whole lot going on in there. Still, I’ve always wondered what they’re really seeing with that unflinching gaze. The whole “dumb driven cattle” reference is quite appropriate. They tend to be followers, there’s no doubt. When one begins to gaze, you suddenly find yourself in the grip of the whole herd’s stare. And, if they’re familiar with you, they’ll adopt that stare from up close.

The cows in my dad’s herd learned every pick-up truck he ever had. They saw it every couple of days and with Pavlov’s nod, rightly associated it with feed sacks. When the cows in the front pasture saw it coming around the gravel bend toward the house on those Saturday mornings, they began the trek to the barn. Even if the dumping of the feed sacks wasn’t imminent, I suppose they wanted to be prepared, to make sure they were in the necessary position.

In the back pastures where there were no roads only worn down and less bumpy paths, the cows would gather around the pick-up. There were only select places in that area where feed troughs were stocked. Those cows relied on hay and grass for their sustenance. Still, the truck meant something. They gathered around as close as a bunch of 600 pound, fattened-up beasts could. My dad would roll down the truck window to touch their noses or their foreheads. He wanted them to be familiar, especially the bulls. Bulls are a whole other essay of the more ornery sort, but Dad made a special effort to forge communication with them. He would talk to them, “hey Big Man” and coax them into letting him touch their oversized foreheads. It pays to have a bull on your side.

When the truck was ready to move on, no amount of honking could encourage the cows on their way. Only a small shift in the gas pedal and a slight bump to one’s rear would sink in. From there, the whole group followed that one cow’s jump and bolt away from the vehicle. It was the same with “driving” them or losing them. All it ever took was one cow in some moment of independence wondering if that blade of grass on the other side of the fence would be more tasty, and before you knew it, the whole lot of them had lumbered through whatever sagging barbed wire structure was there to un-pen themselves. Likewise, usually just one wave of the hands and gruff shout from Dad (or whoever might be helping him) could frighten them down the gravel paths required to get them right back where they should be fenced. You would think it would be harder than that. After all, I mentioned the 600-pound quality. But, I guess none of the other cows stopped to wonder why all the fuss or the need for such quick movement. They simply reacted to the one ahead of them, who reacted to the one ahead of him.

Thinking about cows has me wondering. How many times in my business, my home keeping, my relationships or my faith are my actions simply reacting to the one ahead of me? How often do I respond simply out of habit the way that’s always been expected of me? And, how much of my experiences am I missing out of plain old numbness because of it? That “be not like dumb driven cattle,” spoken from a young farm girl’s play and gleaning of faith, is actually a pretty good admonishment. I don’t want to lumber through my experiences bound by the blank stare of simply following old habits because they are habits or following the ways everyone else is doing something because that’s just how it’s done. And, I don’t want to bump and boulder through life immune to the thought that comes from really seeing what I’m seeing. No, perhaps I want to adopt that one creature’s wild hare and be bold enough to step into something new, to push my full weight against the fences binding me until they finally give way.

There’s just something about cows.

September

September is upon us. In Starkville, we are having cooler weather already–a little unusual for Mississippi. That transition is always nice after the heat and humidity of Summer. Those first few mornings when the breeze is actually cooler usually lift my spirits right away. I know I’ve shared that Autumn is my favorite time of year.

As I was deciding on a theme for this month’s desktop wallpaper calendar (click to download if you like), it occurred to me that often there is no other time when we more readily embrace transition than September. In fact, at this time of year we are sometimes even eager for the changes that come. As I mentioned, September brings the end of Summer’s heat and the first hints of more pleasant temperatures. It celebrates the beginning of a new school year for so many youngsters. It sets in motion the warming up of nature’s color palette as we begin to see subtle shifts in the blue of the sky and the fading of green on tree leaves. These transitions shake us out of the tired landscape where we’ve spent the summer.

In September, Summer’s luxuries of play and rest and taking breaks give way to renewed motivation to get back to the tasks at hand. We re-adjust our schedules with more focus. We outfit ourselves with new “necessities” that will spur us on to accomplish new things. We shake off the doldrums and attempt to get ourselves moving again.

I’ve written about the many changes that have been happening in my life over the last few months. Transition should be old hat to me by now. Yet, I find that the doldrums of complacency in my heart still need a little shaking free this month. So often, the heart moves at a different pace than the rest of us in making a transition. Sometimes it leads the charge. Sometimes it lags behind and needs a little coersion. Sometimes it just grows wayward in avoidance or denial. But, the realities of change and transition are just that. Realities. Just as surely as seasons come and go; the cycle of life changes can not be denied.

In thinking about the resistence I sometimes feel in my own heart when faced with transition, I was struck by one little line in the Wordsworth poem I included in my wallpaper design.

“Unfaded, yet prepared to fade”

That observation of September is so appropriate. Summer’s verdant colors still largely remain this month. The cooler temperatures reminiscent of Fall will be sporadic at best. Summer remains unfaded. Yet. [That’s a big word for only three letters.] YET, in September, Summer is “prepared” to fade. For in September, just as in any situation ripe for transition, you never know which season you’ll get moment by moment. At a breath’s notice, Summer and Autumn are just as likely to appear. Perhaps it’s nature’s way of coaxing us into the change.

It’s becoming more and more apparent that this particular season in my life is one of transition. I want my heart to be prepared. I want my heart to be ready to embrace it, to accept it, to shine through it. As chapters fade and new ones open, I want my heart on board. Completely.

Flying Cheesy Dogs and the Art of Perfection

Makes you wanna cuss. And, I don’t mean “curse” in that polite and grammatically correct way. I mean cuss. In the vernacular.

The other night (seriously) I made “cheesy dogs,” the quintessential kid-friendly dinner composed of hot dogs stuffed with cheddar cheese and wrapped in crescent rolls. The parts are out of their respective packages and on the table with presto combined deliciousness in under 20 minutes flat. The pervasive opinion of the preschoolers in my house is that they are best accompanied by tator tots. No, preparing them probably doesn’t actually constitute cooking, and they don’t have much true nutritional value. But, they’re popular, and they can be a Mommy’s salvation after a long day of work.

So, last Friday I took full advantage of my own need for a quick fix at the end of a busy week. I made cheesy dogs. Eight of them. They were fresh out of the oven, and I was prying them from the pan with a spatula in my usual “grip with the pot-holder and scrape with all you’ve got” method. They always stick for some reason. The first one is the hardest to remove from the cookie sheet because of the close quarters produced by eight wrapped hot dogs arranged on about 180 square inches. Plus, the melting cheese always eliminates any space left between them.

I was holding with the pot-holder. I was scraping with the spatula in the upside-down position that almost always works. Almost. Before I could say “beefy jumbos,” cheesy dog #1 flew off the pan and onto the tile floor.

I told you. Makes you wanna cuss.

Don’t you just love the best laid plans? The table was set. Little Drummer Boy and Bug were in the living room announcing “I’m hungry!” I don’t remember, but I’m sure Baby Girl was on top of the coffee table. The week of a thousand heart-filled preschool parties was finally over. Tator Tots were on the table and ice in the glasses.

Just to recap: Cheesy dog #1 was ON THE FLOOR. And no one else was in the kitchen. So, what did I do? NATURALLY, I picked up #1 from the tile, blew it off and gave it a prominent location on the yellow serving plate. I popped those other seven suckers off the cookie sheet in short order, and “Dinner is served.” (Please send Martha Stewart Living subscriptions. Quick. And, Mama, just forget you read this.)

The bad news: Sometimes things just don’t work out the way you planned. The good news: No one has ever keeled over from a little grit on their cheesy dog. Honest.

Life isn’t perfect. In fact, perfection is an overrated and hopelessly flawed pursuit. And although I hate to play the role of the realist, realistically, a life lived in whatever moment of perfection I might enjoy is perhaps a life spent waiting for the other shoe to drop (or the other cheesy dog, as the case may be.) Perfection just can’t be maintained. And, TRYING to maintain it can be a nerve-racking, tension-filled, white-knuckle attempt. It’s simply not sustainable.

Sustainable perfection implies that the people achieving it are perfect. It assumes that those folks will always make wise choices, that they will always take into account and avoid the pitfalls (and clumsy spatulas) of life. It means they will never make mistakes, or at the least, they will always learn from their all-too-brief mistakes immediately and completely. Funny, I don’t see that person when I look in the mirror. I don’t know ANY people like that. In fact, the reality of those traits is pretty much universally disproved by the popularity of Wiley Coyote, don’t you think? Yeah, or at least by flying cheesy dogs.

Now, if you’ve never experienced your own cheesy dog epiphany, let me assure you that it’s coming. It’s a fact, and there is no fruit in denying it. The lesson learned from my own cheesy dog experience was that I can really shift my body a little to the left to block that whole flying off the pan thing, and this: Real life happens in the grit.

Thank God for the grit. It’s the stuff that lets us know we’re human just like everybody else, bound in a commonality of error. It’s the dust that reminds us of our own inherent needs, our own blessed short-comings. It’s the crunch that protects us from the trap of arrogant assumptions and exclusive palates. It’s the road-worthy flavor that ensures we are flexible and patient and willing to change and aware of the unexpected and able to embrace a surprising life.

Sure, plans are better made. They’re better laid with the best of intentions and wisdom and effort. They’re worth thinking about and following. But, from the poster child of plan Bs, let me just say that into every life a little cheesy dog must fall.

Blow it off and bon appetit!

The Act of Feeding

I’ve been thinking about the simple pleasure of preparing a meal. It’s an activity made even more poignant by the situation in Haiti this week. The earthquake calls into sharp focus just how devastatingly fragile the physical world is and how common our basic human needs are. In so many structures in Haiti, where there are no longer tables and chairs, or cabinets and walls, the simplicity of bread and water is magnified to a king’s meal. Why isn’t it so with every meal, especially those prepared in comfort? Yes, it’s hard to think about pork chops and placemats in the light of such a tragedy. Still, the simple pleasure of offering food around a table to ones dear to us is so much more astounding as I’m reminded of the multitude of neighbors in our hemisphere for whom that luxury has been displaced.
I usually like to cook. Sometimes it’s a quick, easy and totally gift-friendly meal of hot dogs, chicken nuggets, spaghetti or some other favorite that allows me to get in and out of the kitchen quickly. In my mind those meals offer only a nod of the head at cooking, but the experience is elevated simply by the presence of those around me. At other times I enjoy making a selection of dishes with more presence, ones based on special recipes or made from “scratch” rather than from some combination of boxes and bags. Those are the kinds of meals almost everyone has in some form or another. They are ones that say home or celebration or culinary success, birthed from familes and traditions, experiences or locales.
Some meals have “place”–like the one from Wednesday night that was unmistakeably Southern from its inception. Although they may have been modernized, the dishes have a context in memory or cooking method that speaks to my life in Mississippi. Corn bread was the first thing I made. My grandmothers made it in large iron skillets heated in the oven first and with handfuls of ingredients tossed and stirred without thinking. I make mine from the recipe on the Martha White Cornmeal package in a square metal pan. I could probably do it from memory if pressed, but I’ve never tested the theory. And, you barely miss the skillet’s influence when it’s warm with a dab of butter.
Macaroni and cheese was next on the menu, and although I’ve had my share of experiences with the blue Kraft box, I prefer to make it myself now–mainly because Bug asks for it. There’s nothing like the repeated requests of a 3-year-old to make you feel like a cooking rock star. I make my mac and cheese with a milk and egg mixture rather than a cheese sauce and layer the noodles with whatever combination of cheddar, swiss and parmesan I have available.
Honey-pecan pork chops were the main event, floured and cooked in butter on the stovetop. Yes, it’s about as heart-friendly as a can of Crisco, but still, it’s not every day. The frying recalls the way my Mom cooks chicken tenders or how my grandmother made deer steak as a child–lifting the edges of the meat with a fork to check the brownness, turning at just the right time, scraping the pan with a spatula. After the chops are cooked, the recipe calls for some measurement of pecans and honey which I can never remember. I just throw some in, and I’ve learned through hard experience and very hardened sugar to turn the eye down first. I like to add a splash of Worchestershire sauce in as well to give this semblance of a roulx a more savory taste.
There are a hundred other stories of recipes and dishes, various combinations with the appropriate green elements, sides, bread and fruit. Most moms and wives have them. And, every woman has her own preferred method and ideal environment for cooking for her family–the kitchen, the pots and pans, what happens to the used dishes and egg shells, the proclivity to use measuring spoons and the penchant for interaction. It’s an integral part of the process of feeding a family.
My kitchen is invariably a cacophony of sights and sounds and movement. The sights: A refrigerator and stovetop grease guard filled with children’s photos, finger paintings tucked behind spice racks and collections of utensils and momentos lining the counters in plain view. I just like to look at things while I’m cooking, while I’m living. One wall of cabinets with glass doors affords me the opportunity to see the vessels I enjoy–bowls and pottery, 50s pyrex I love, colorful plates of various sizes. The sounds: A thousand interruptions to start a movie, answer a question, referee a car chase, or retrieve a 15-month-old from the top of a table. Ocassionally there’s an attempted conversation with my husband from the rocking chair my grandmother gave me. The movement: Perpetual acts of wiping my hands on my pants, various dishes at different stages of completion and imperfectly timed to get on the table somewhere between 6:30 and 8:00pm, and always a flurried combination of preparation and clean-up all going on at the same time. The tasks are often accomplished around Baby Girl unloading the plasticware cabinet at my feet. These kitchen sensibilities are the evidences of time spent trying to elevate this ordinary daily activity to the honored place of extraordinary.
I am struck by the power of the simple act of feeding. In all its complicated cacophony, the individuality and habits found in my kitchen can raise that process of eliminating hunger to the level of celebration. If I embrace them. Somehow in that boiling and stirring and place-setting, I’m feeding more than stomachs and strong bones. I’m feeding healthy hearts and hungry spirits for those in my care. I’m meeting a basic human need we all have–nourishment for body and soul.

I’ve been thinking about the simple pleasure of preparing a meal. It’s an activity made even more poignant by the situation in Haiti this week. The earthquake calls into sharp focus just how devastatingly fragile the physical world is and how common our basic human needs are. In so many structures in Haiti, where there are no longer tables and chairs, or cabinets and walls, the simplicity of bread and water is magnified to a king’s meal. Why isn’t it so with every meal, especially those prepared in comfort? Yes, it’s hard to think about pork chops and placemats in the light of such a tragedy. Still, the simple pleasure of offering food around a table to ones dear to us is so much more astounding as I’m reminded of the multitude of neighbors in our hemisphere for whom that luxury has been displaced.

I usually like to cook. Sometimes it’s a quick, easy and totally gift-friendly meal of hot dogs, chicken nuggets, spaghetti or some other favorite that allows me to get in and out of the kitchen quickly. In my mind those meals offer only a nod of the head at cooking, but the experience is elevated simply by the presence of those around me. At other times I enjoy making a selection of dishes with more presence, ones based on special recipes or made from “scratch” rather than from some combination of boxes and bags. Those are the kinds of meals almost everyone has in some form or another. They are ones that say home or celebration or culinary success, birthed from familes and traditions, experiences or locales.

Some meals have “place”–like the one from Wednesday night that was unmistakably Southern from its inception. Although they may have been modernized, the dishes have a context in memory or cooking method that speaks to my life in Mississippi. Corn bread was the first thing I made. My grandmothers made it in large iron skillets heated in the oven first and with handfuls of ingredients tossed and stirred without thinking. I make mine from the recipe on the Martha White Cornmeal package in a square metal pan. I could probably do it from memory if pressed, but I’ve never tested the theory. And, you barely miss the skillet’s influence when it’s warm with a dab of butter.

Macaroni and cheese was next on the menu, and although I’ve had my share of experiences with the blue Kraft box, I prefer to make it myself now–mainly because Bug asks for it. There’s nothing like the repeated requests of a 3-year-old to make you feel like a cooking rock star. I make my mac and cheese with a milk and egg mixture rather than a cheese sauce and layer the noodles with whatever combination of cheddar, swiss and parmesan I have available.

Honey-pecan pork chops were the main event, floured and cooked in butter on the stovetop. Yes, it’s about as heart-friendly as a can of Crisco, but still, it’s not every day. The frying recalls the way my Mom cooks chicken tenders or how my grandmother made deer steak as a child–lifting the edges of the meat with a fork to check the brownness, turning at just the right time, scraping the pan with a spatula. After the chops are cooked, the recipe calls for some measurement of pecans and honey which I can never remember. I just throw some in, and I’ve learned through hard experience and very hardened sugar to turn the eye down first. I like to add a splash of Worchestershire sauce in as well to give this semblance of a roulx a more savory taste.

There are a hundred other stories of recipes and dishes, various combinations with the appropriate green elements, sides, bread and fruit. Most moms and wives have them. And, every woman has her own preferred method and ideal environment for cooking for her family–the kitchen, the pots and pans, what happens to the used dishes and egg shells, the proclivity to use measuring spoons and the penchant for interaction. It’s an integral part of the process of feeding a family.

My kitchen is invariably a cacophony of sights and sounds and movement. The sights: A refrigerator and stovetop grease guard filled with children’s photos, finger paintings tucked behind spice racks and collections of utensils and momentos lining the counters in plain view. I just like to look at things while I’m cooking, while I’m living. One wall of cabinets with glass doors affords me the opportunity to see the vessels I enjoy–bowls and pottery, 50s pyrex I love, colorful plates of various sizes. The sounds: A thousand interruptions to start a movie, answer a question, referee a car chase, or retrieve a 15-month-old from the top of a table. Ocassionally there’s an attempted conversation with my husband from the rocking chair my grandmother gave me. The movement: Perpetual acts of wiping my hands on my pants, various dishes at different stages of completion and imperfectly timed to get on the table somewhere between 6:30 and 8:00pm, and always a flurried combination of preparation and clean-up all going on at the same time. The tasks are often accomplished around Baby Girl unloading the plasticware cabinet at my feet. These kitchen sensibilities are the evidences of time spent trying to elevate this ordinary daily activity to the honored place of extraordinary.

I am struck by the power of the simple act of feeding. In all its complicated cacophony, the individuality and habits found in my kitchen can raise that process of eliminating hunger to the level of celebration. If I embrace them. Somehow in that boiling and stirring and place-setting, I’m feeding more than stomachs and strong bones. I’m feeding healthy hearts and hungry spirits for those in my care. I’m meeting a basic human need we all have–nourishment for body and soul.

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