This Thanksgiving was...different

There was no queue of recipes beating down my door, demanding entrance. I heard no warm, fall spice singing me alluring songs. No piece of kitchen equipment--old or new--glittered or rattled as I walked by. The only possible explanation is that I was feeling utterly exhausted, whether I was aware of it or not. Otherwise I would surely have succumbed to a siren song.

In this hapless state of non-inspiration, I was debunked from my place of prominence as premiere dessert chef and relegated to the homely task of dinner rolls. The agony and insult!

I tried. I really tried to research an impressive roll. Martha had an intriguing one with caramelized sweet onions which were swirled, cinnamon-style, into circuitous buns. Mom gave that suggestion a short sneer.

I thought mini-cheddar scallion puffs sounded scrumptious; but they seemed too competitive to be served at a bustling table. I needed a servant bun: one content to sit in the background of an extravagant family feast.

Viola--whole wheat dinner rolls. They’re healthful. They’re non-assuming. And the description reads, “These rolls will impress guests with how incredibly soft and moist they are.” I live to impress guests. Sold!

I began my dough in the early hours, before many hands crowded the kitchen, turning my piano solo into a discordant, musical tug of war. I measured precisely; warmed exactly; kneaded until my forearms reminded me of my lapsed weight-lifting routine.

After the first rise, my creation was glorious. The smell of satisfaction permeated the first floor of our home, as only yeasted dough can. I tenderly sliced and gently rolled to form chubby balls, then lovingly lined them up in a 9x13. I took a kitchen towel and snugly tucked them in for a short nap in a warm, draft-free place: the belly of our protective, motherly oven.

The second rising of my precious little ones well under way, I set my attention to the only recipe that had truly gripped my heart this holiday: hot apple cider. I set some cider and Apple Jack to a simmer on the stove, and began experimenting with the combination of freshly whipped heavy cream and marshmallow fluff for a pillowy topper. Freshly grated nutmeg and cinnamon were ready to fall like rain above my cloud, as well as a homemade caramel sauce drizzle. What a decadent weather forecast!

And so, that Thanksgiving afternoon, three generations of fierce-cooking women simultaneously ceased their fevered dinner preparations. The piano fell silent. We sat at the kitchen table, sipped hot, slightly-hard apple cider, and giggled. Mom joked about becoming tipsy from my drink and spoiling the whole dinner. Grandma told of the time decades ago when her Aunt Kate served seriously hard apple cider, and she and Grandpa were unable to return home that night as planned. Had their hosts planned it that way, she wondered, remembering a certain sparkle in her Uncle’s eye as he served them third helpings?...

We chuckled. Then I glanced up and shouted, “MOM! The stove is on FIRE!”

Yes, flames at least a foot high were greedily licking and consuming my precious buns, indignant that they had not been invited to our feast. Mom grabbed the salt and a pot lid while I dashed to the basement to flick off the circuit for our fire alarm.

Out went my buns--smoking and wheezing--into the freezing back yard, where their black-singed sides heaved their last and sunk deep upon themselves.

The oven betrayed us. Though meant as an atmosphere for a soft, gentle rise, my mother cranked up the temperature (unaware the apartment was occupied) to prepare a suitable furnace for our turkey. The “quilt” I had tucked my darlings in with caught fire.

Really, I can't blame the stove. Perhaps, the cider was again culprit, as it warmed our hearts and made us forgetful of the intricate dinner symphony we were weaving.

Alas, there were no rolls featured at the Gourmet Family’s Thanksgiving table. And we coped just fine, the four other featured starches filling in the “shocking” gap.

My first dance class

My good friend Paula wrote:
“Let me know how your dance class went! You were probably adorable!”

Dear Paula,

Four-year-old-girl confections in pink tutus are adorable. Whether they twirl, sashay, or fall on their little rumpuses, they inspire giggles of delight. Every tip-toed gallop and half-formed motion is precious, whispering promise of a someday-graceful-dancer.

A room full of women ages thirty to mid-life is a different picture altogether.

None of us has prior training. All of us are painfully self-conscious. Half this motley crew (me included) signed on “because Jesus told me to dance.” We don’t really know what to do with that command, other than attend this class out of obedience.

We stretched. “Um, I don’t think my body could ever do that, even when I was in junior high,” one woman joked about instructor Johanna’s split.

We learned a bit of ballet. I was okay with the relevés. But when putting them in succession with stepping and in conjunction with arm swooshes, well…I sort of lost track of which limbs were doing what.

“My teenage sons swore to me that they’d leave the church if I started dancing up front,” a classmate confided. I gazed at myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I might leave the church if I see myself looking this awkward up front in the sanctuary, I thought.

“Straighten up, and keep those bellies in!” Johanna chirped.
Thank God I don’t have a lot of belly to reposition! I thought. I can’t manage my four limbs; don’t throw a trunk in!”

“Peanut butter! Remember ladies, every movement should be like peanut butter.”
I’m an almond butter fan, myself. Is that why I have no clue what you’re saying?

“Now pull those buns together. Remember, keep them happy and tight!”
What?!?! *blushing!*

“Okay, we’re half way through; let’s switch to a second routine.”
Only half way?! I here began feverishly tabulating how much money I’d lose if I never darkened this doorstep again.

Okay, I survived. And it wasn’t really that bad. But it was bad. Absolutely terrifying to every perfectionist cell in my body. Mind-numbingly intense as I tried to incorporate far more information than my non-dancer-trained pea brain could possibly absorb. And those unruly limbs! I felt like a gangly, awkward teen at her first school dance who didn’t know what arm to put where.

If willing infliction of self-humiliation can bear testimony of love, then you can be sure I’m a devoted follower of Christ.

PS: I woke up at 5:30 this morning, with muscle spasms in my tush.
While my someday spouse may appreciate their approaching tightness, they are definitely not happy, Johanna!

Chronicles of Merida, Servanthood

I used to think I had servanthood all tied up. Little makes my heart sing more than blessing, loving, and doing for others (especially if it involves food!).

Then I went to Merida, where I learned that I have eons to go before collecting my merit badge. It was indescribably humbling. Here’s a sampler of times when my spirit and emotions went TILT:

***Ushers at the conference were easily distinguishable via coordinated T-shirts. They stood at allotted intervals in each aisle throughout worship and during the messages, so they could be of service to anyone at any time.

In the middle of one sermons, I dropped my trusty waterbottle (which was continually balanced on my hip). As it rolled a few feet away, I made a split-second decision NOT to retrieve it. (The thought of me crawling on all fours across the front seemed like it might have proved distracting :)

But barely had I made that decision before one of the ushers DOVE to get it for me, and then presented it to me with a little curtsey and smile.
My word, how these people LOVE!

***At one of the conference services, we made a bit of an early exit to go outside and sit. Mind you, this was after nearly two straight hours of aerobic worship, a sermon, and then they went BACK into worship.
“I have no jump left in me!” I remarked to Kathy.

So there were sat, under a huge Coca-Cola umbrella, with our feet propped up on chairs across from us. A local came over to chat with Kathy and remarked to me, “Tired?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and our feet are swollen from the heat.”
“I understand,” he said knowingly, and bent over and began massaging my feet while he continued chatting with Kathy in Spanish.
“Is he a friend of yours?” I asked after he left.
“Oh,” remarked Kathy, “he’s one of the local pastors.”
[Insert stun here.]
“Lovely,” I said in shock. “So an amazing and precious pastor just stooped down and massaged my sweaty, swollen feet!”
No foot washing could have been more impacting.

***Let it be known that I jumped through at least 85% of the worship down there, determined not to let heat, sore shins, or tired feet hinder me from giving my all. But there was one time in worship where the absolute appropriate thing for me to do was to bow with my head plastered to the cement floor. While pinned there by the presence of God, I happened to notice that one of the users had come over to stand directly on my right. Though for two moments I wondered what she was doing, I then dismissed it from my mind. Ten minutes later when I felt like His glory was lifting so that I could breathe, I raised my torso to an upright position. This dear woman immediately tucked one hand under my elbow and placed the other on my back, guiding me back into my seat.

Yup. She stood at my side for TEN MINUTES, just so that she could help me up, when I was ready.

I have never experienced servanthood like this. Especially from people I’d never met. I was so humbled I wanted to melt into the floor.

Forget merit badges; I’m trying to imagine the radiance of the rubies the Father has in store for these people’s heavenly crowns.

I now have a whole new measuring system for understanding the scripture:
“Be devoted to one another in brotherly love, in honor preferring others above yourself.”
Romans 12:10

Snapshots of Merida: BUGS

So you’ve read my spider post. You’re aware, then, that this trip was going to be a stretch.

Snapshots:
*** Sheets and pillows that reeked of insecticide.***
Okay then, I can live with that. I’d rather nuzzle up to chemicals than have creepy crawlies sharing my sheets.

***The ants picnicking with us at the dining room table.***
Host family: Talk, bite, chew, listen. Repeat.
Randy & Kathy: Talk, bite, chew, listen, swipe ants off table. Repeat.
Rick: Bite, chew, listen, smush, smush, smush (itty bitty ants). Repeat.
Elise: Smush, smush, smush, pretend to listen, smush, smush, bite, smush, chew, smush. Repeat.

***Cockroaches clinging to the kitchen walls.***
Elise to Rick, “Um, is somebody going to kill that guy, or is he like a house pet?”
Rick: Shrug.

***Host father George (pronounced Hor-Hay) killing a scorpion on the steps leading up to our bedroom.***
Whack!
Julie comes running to see the fresh corpse: “Nice one!”
George: Does the classic macho huff on his fingernails then buffs them on his shoulder.
Julie: “So, did you get the other one, too?”
Elise: “What?—the other one?”
Julie: “Yeah, you know--scorpions always run around in pairs.”
Elise repeats: “What?!!!”
George, wagging his head: “No, no. See, this one was a wee-dow [widow]” Smirk.
Elise, muttering like she’s praying a Rosary in high gear: “Thank you Jesus, You’re my protection. Thank you Jesus, You’re my protection” (ad infinitum).

Seriously, thanks to all my PROTECTION prayer warriors. I truly experienced supernatural bug peace and security. I was able to coexist without freaking out. I ate. I slept. I trusted Jesus to keep me safe from bites and stings, and to keep my body immune to any disease the insects were carrying. He came through. The only thing I suffered was mosquito bites—which is a major victory, when 1) scorpions are running around, 2) Rick had red ants in his bed, but only got one bite, and 3) Kathy was able to quickly spot and kill an invader in her bedroom which she described as having a cockroach body with daddy-long-leg legs, and was the size of an orange.

You, my friends, are MINT! You preserved my body and sanity with your prayers.

Chronicles of Merida, Day One, DANCE!

Imagine an event with hundreds of pastors, representing many countries of Central America, as well as Spain.
They gather at an indoor arena...in the hottest summer Merida has seen in 10 years (according to locals). It's 115 degrees at mid-day, and we're toasting like tortillas encased in their lidded warmer.
Does that matter to anyone? Not one bit.

These people CELEBRATE. Celebrate like I have never seen sisters and brothers celebrate before.
The worship team blasts trumpets until I need to make use of my earplugs.
A trio of shofars blow in union, giving emphasis to shifts we can all feel occurring in the spirit realm.
Many of the churches represented sent women's dance teams. All use tambourines. Some use flags. Some banners, scarves, streamers. They are dressed in gorgeous, coordinated garb, and literally encompass us around this 360 arena.
A men’s color guard is front and center on the floor, led by a most meticulous and fervent leader. These young men dance, flag like a color guard, and even kick in a line like Rockettes--all to the glory of Jesus.
It is a spectacular display of vibrant worship.

When we arrived on our first day--fashionably late, per Mexico standards, I could almost hear the amplified drums before we made the turn to the arena parking lot. As we made our way inside, I recognized The Happy Song, and I literally thought my spirit was going to explode out of me. I started jumping in the hallway, and I couldn't stop. Not even while spelling my name to the poor man at the registration desk. The line of people to be kissed and greeted before entering the arena proper was an eternity. Randy and Kathy are adored by everyone, and kisses and hugs are mandatory. But--LET ME IN THERE! I MUST WORSHIP!

I can't quite say that I danced the Mexicans into the ground, but I want you to know that I did America proud. I held up our end, so no one could say, "Those poor, reserved Americans; they don't know how to worship our King."

During the offering, after everyone had been seated, they played the Tomlin version of Great is Your Faithfulness/Raise up Holy Hands. Once again I thought my heart was going to leap out of my chest. I bless Rick Pace for standing up to worship--when everyone else was seated--because it was the nudge I needed to shoot up and begin to jump, stomp, flail and use every part of my body and every ounce of strength to declare Jesus’ Greatness, Trueness, Wideness, etc. I didn’t care about the heat; I didn’t care if I passed out; I was just overwhelmed with His worthiness and desperation to abandon everything to Him.

The speaker in the morning was from Guatemala, and if I can say this without you conjuring negative images, he reminds me of the Tasmanian Devil. Tito Lopez is short, dark-skinned, and has a husky but booming voice, which Rick equated to the Godfather's. He was brimming with wild, fiery, Holy Spirit energy. Though I DID have an interpreter, I think streams of tears would have been running down my face, regardless, because the urgency of God was tangible, pressing down on your chest and bursting out of your abdomen.

Before I had left for Mexico, my mom assured me that I was going to be prophesied over. I balked. "Hundreds of weary pastors from across this planet, and God's going to speak to me?"

I was the third person Apostle Tito picked out of the crowd in that first service of the conference. I had my translator Jackie’s bilingual Bible sitting in my lap. He ran over in the middle of his message, started pumping his pointed index finger in my face, and shouted, "You! Just as The Word is sitting open in your lap, it is IN you! And it is going to come out of you. It is like wheat that the Lord is making into bread, that is going to feed others. And it is going to bring balance." Then he cited Revelation 6:5, "When the Lamb opened the third seal, I heard the third living creature say, 'Come!' I looked, and there before me was a black horse! Its rider was holding a pair of scales in his hand."

It was completely surreal: I was sitting in Mexico. Sweating like a running faucet. Worshipping my guts out. Sensing the fervency of God for these pastors running through me like live electrical current. And having a living fireball pick me out of the crowd and scream destiny in my face.

Body, soul and spirit sizzled.

The Great Stunner

Warning: If you’re considering maintaining or deepening a friendship with me, there’s an important character flaw I need to reveal. I harbor an irrational fear of spiders.

I don’t quite shriek, but I’ll probably give a start (causing my heart to skip a beat), gasp in air, bulge my eyes, or exhibit any combination thereof for about three seconds.

For the love of Pastor Thom, I trace this behavior back to a viewing of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom in 1984. Note to Willie (Kate Capshaw): these days I try to act like an adult and not scream, but every time I see a spider, I’m a little girl at the theater again, in the dark cave with you—horrified—as creepy crawly things skitter everywhere (including all over your body).

But why is this important to my readers? Because you need to know that if a spider ever emerges while we are in company (he implying that a trio would be grand), you will be called upon--as a reasonable service of friendship--to mercilessly KILL said spider.

It doesn’t matter how engrossing our conversation, how formal the occasion we’re celebrating, or where our pleasantries are being exchanged. Your action must be immediate. (Otherwise the enemy might shift to a concealed position, where his torture will be amplified by my inability to pinpoint his location.)

Having participated in decades of arachnid warfare, I would like to share with you a family secret weapon: Windex. Mom and I have lovingly dubbed it “The Great Stunner.”

I’ve tried Tilex. I’ve tried Lysol. I’ve tried many cleaning products on the market (about eight of them in combination, one day when no Windex was handy). Nothing executes swift judgment like the Big Blue Spray Bottle.

This comes in particularly handy when my little friends are clinging to ceiling corners, as they love to do in our second floor hallway. No need for stools, brooms, or cricked necks. One spritz of Love Potion #6 and Jack comes tumbling down. Not dead, mind you. Just temporarily disarmed (or –legged, as it were).

But lately it’s been bothering me. What IS it about Windex that’s so potent, making it immediately—if momentarily—asphyxiate spiders? And if it has that effect on my little “friends,” what is it doing to MY lungs?

Out of some research and much conviction, I have recently decided to “greenify” my life on multiple levels. After all, it’s the only responsible thing to do (though also ultra-hip in pop culture). And as well, this year’s theme for our Adult Summer Reading Program is “Go Green @ Your Library.” So I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t try it out.

I’m currently testing a cross section of products purchased from friends through Shaklee, a nearly 50-year-old global company with an outstanding reputation for providing “premium quality, natural [and] environmentally friendly nutrition, personal care, and household products.”

I have been really satisfied with everything I’ve tried. Honestly, it took a few weeks to “unlearn” a lifetime habit of putting my trust in nose-hair burning chemical smells, freakishly fluorescent colored dyes, and gratuitous bubbles, all of which previously convinced me that something was becoming “clean.”

But the Windex and other incidents have been making me reconsider: “Clean at what cost?”

If you’d like to check out the Pontius’ website and test-wipe a few products of your own, visit here:

http://www.shaklee.net/pontius_healthierlives

And live an extra decade—for the sake of your grandchildren.

My kind of Thanksgiving

For your tasting pleasure, I present my stand-outs from this year's meal. We had a full and festive day, marked by Christmas music and a hundred savory scents wafting through the house, the tree going up, and everyone vying to stake out their kitchen counter space. (Things were so bad, Dad was caught stringing beans in the living room! But don't feel too badly, he multi-tasked by watching football.)

Special thanks to my colleague, Cindy, who kindled my culinary imagination by sharing that this year her family was celebrating with salmon! I immediately set to researching recipes, and came up with this hybrid. Tasters raved about the warm notes, and I appreciated the quick preparation.

1 lb salmon
Marinade:
1/3 C pure maple syrup
1/4 C rum

Simmer to reduce by half, cool slightly, then pour over cleaned salmon (in a zip-top bag) and marinate for about 2 hours.

Pecan encrusting:
3/4 C pecans
1 T fresh tarragon
1 T butter
Blend ingredients to a coarse grind.

After salmon has marinated, place on a sprayed baking sheet and season with freshly ground pepper. Coat the fish with a layer of the nut mixture.

Bake at 350 for about 20 minutes (depending on the thickness of your steaks). Finish with a quick broil (distraction led to a bit of charring on mine) to toast up the nut crust.

A far more labor-intensive standout was a sextet of Apple-Onion Tarts from Martha. The crust was tender with a pleasant bite, due to the parsnip, and the onions delivered a wonderfully mellow sweetness from their caramelization. Overall, they won high marks for originality. And working with my adorable sous-chef--who did a meticulous job of layering the tart fillings--was a highlight!

Though I'm decidedly biased, I think that Executive Pastry Chef Mom hit a stroke of brilliance by crimping the edges to provide a crowned appearance. It's far superior to Martha's rustic folded execution.

My final favorite was the Carrot-Orange Sorbet. I used a stellar standby from The Best Recipe, and substituted half 100% carrot juice where the recipe calls for freshly squeezed orange juice. The result was delicious--just slightly unexpected. All three of my toddler tasters shoveled it down, the one below even requesting a third serving!

I also served a tasty pureed Butternut Squash & Granny Smith soup, but it paled beside the memory of its cousin, a squash/pear/turnip combo. I'll definitely post that recipe in the future. And I experimented with a new carrot cake from a source my father purchased at my beloved Wegman's. Boulevard: The Cookbook presents a gorgeous 6-layer cake (complete with three garnishes!) which captivated me. While I stopped at 4 layers, the overall outcome was pleasing. We already have an "everything-but-the-kitchen-sink" recipe (with nuts, pineapple, etc.), showing this one to be less sweet and more sophisticated, by comparison. Whether I'll feel ambitious enough to attempt all those the layers again is undecided.