So interesting! Very similar to C. S. Lewis’ Perelandra, too (no accident, I’m sure). As a visual thinker but a sloppy reader, I’m always grateful to people who take the trouble to render accurate diagrams of worlds we’ve read about.
2. Will suffering make your marriage better or worse? Someday, I will read something I don’t like by Jen Fitz, but today is not that day. This is actually an old post, but it’s oh-so-worth another read.
3. Modesty and the Ontological Shaming of Both Women and Men My sister, Abby Tardiff, wrote this excellent piece about modesty and ontological shaming for The Personalist Project. If you’ve gathered the impression that we can correct the misogyny of the modesty police by coming down hard on men who are, by their nature, all piggies, then this short essay will recalibrate your thinking. On behalf of my sons and my husband, I’m grateful for this piece, and I’d love to see more understanding between sexes on what ought to be a shared struggle to learn how to treat each other well.
4. The always-entertaining Deirdre Mundy gleefully delves into the Church’s long history of body-snatching, still (um) alive and well in the highly unspiritual tussle over Fulton Sheen’s remains. I have a hunch Sheen would be vastly amused by the whole thing, even though I know the last few years have been painful and discouraging for the people who just want to see him canonized already.
Most of the poems from my last list are all tattered and stained now, so I’m picking out a new crop. I got a pad of card stock in earth tones for matting. Now I just have to remind my printer who’s boss, and voilà, everything is awesome.
Okay, fine, I wanted an excuse to buy card stock. I’m secretly in love with expensive paper. Not even my husband knows this about me, but now you know.
Again, here’s last year’s list. I haven’t read a new poet in ages, and would love to branch out. Can you suggest anyone — preferably with specific poems? It’s okay if the subject or themes are over the kids’ heads, as long as the words sound good. I’d like to stick to shorter poems with reasonably simple language.
[img attachment=”98244″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”whats for supper aleteia” /]
Okay!
SATURDAY Pizza
I had the worst time making a meal plan on Saturday. I struggled and sweated, crossed things out and switched things around, compared prices and looked up recipes and finally came up with a week’s worth of food without too much repetition, a few new dishes, and some wiggle room for busy days. Not bad!
The whole time, I was thinking, “This is a good week to try out a few complicated recipes, because next weekend I’ll be getting ready for the fourth of July, with fifty guests or so, and I’ll be too exhausted to do much. Phew, thank goodness the 4th isn’t this week.”
Well, you know how that worked out. So I hadda go back.
I treated myself to a whole new piece of paper.
***
SUNDAY Grilled ham and cheese, asparagus tart, strawberries, grilled bones. Yes.
I’m going to tell the whole stupid story, but I’m warning you, it’s stupid.
On Sunday, we were cleaning the house, fixing up the yard, and prepping food for tomorrow, so I wanted a quick, easy meal to throw together.
We were supposed to have savory ham sandwiches on Saturday, but I couldn’t find Hawaiian rolls, so I bought frozen rolls. Which the kids put into the freezer when I got home from shopping, so they were too hard to bake. Because this was the perfect time for them to realize that civilization really does depend on people putting things away. So I took them out again on Sunday, and . . . someone put them back in the freezer again. So I was reduced to making grilled ham and cheese, and then we also had strawberries that were being devoured by flies, and asparagus threatening to go rancid.
And, a ton of very meaty pork ribs. I had bought pretty much all the pork in the world for spiedies, realizing way too late that it would have been sufficiently delicious to just grill some pork ribs, rather than cutting the meat off bones, trimming it, cutting it in chunks, and then stringing it on skewers, which are just basically artificial bones. I was, by this time, in the same state of mind as Dave Barry’s wife, when he caught her opening boxes they had never opened from their last move, taking out the contents, and packing them into new boxes so they could move. Except with pork.
So that all went into the fridge, and then we had all these bones, and also tons of marinade, because I don’t know how to make enough of something; I must make outlandishly excessive multiples of everything.
[img attachment=”111109″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”garlic and lemon zest” /]
Go ahead, make the “mother of ten children” joke. I can take it.
So we grilled those bones, and they were good.
The three-ingredient asparagus tart, I made purely out of spite, because I was hot and supper was already crazy late, and I was still mad about the freezer rolls. I don’t even know what fontina cheese is. I used mozzarella, colby jack, and parmesan, I think.
So of course it was delicious. The whole freakin’ meal was delicious. Even the freaking ham sandwiches on regular bread.
[img attachment=”111114″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”ham and swiss” /]
*** MONDAY The cookout to end all cookouts!
Hamburgers, hot dogs, spiedies, veggie burgers, pasta salad, vegan pasta salad, vegan bean salad, potato salad, chips, pickles, watermelon, corn on the cob, enough beer to float an aircraft carrier, and enough cookies to make a young child’s mind pop like a piece of popcorn.
which we set off before it was even really dark, because we are old and tired and halfway dead. We read the Declaration of Independence, we drank beer, we jumped on the trampoline, played in the stream, poured sand on our heads, and laughed and chatted and had a magnificent time.
***
TUESDAY Leftovers to end all leftovers!
Actually there wasn’t all that much left over. There was my mother-in-law’s mixed bean salad, though, which I ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
I don’t have the recipe yet, but my best guess is:
Chick peas
Black beans
Kidney beans
Jalapenos
Roasted red pepper
Roasted corn
Cilantro
Red pepper flakes?
Lime juice?
***
WEDNESDAY Hostages; harsh browns
The kids made this while I died. I don’t even remember Wednesday. It was so hot.
***
THURSDAY Chicken fajitas with radish relish; corn chips; Flushies
Chicken, pepper, and onions with generic Mexicanish spices and sour cream on tortillas. This is the same dish I was unimpressed with last week; but I made it again because I was dying to try the pickled radish thing a few readers suggested.
We have a bumper crop of radishes in our pathetic little garden this year. It goes so nicely with our bumper crop of dislike for radishes. But they are so byoootiful, I love them anyway.
Gorgeous! I could just eat them up, if they didn’t taste so much like radishes.
I misplaced the actual recipe, so I just sliced a bunch of radishes up and mixed them with fresh lime juice, a little white vinegar, a little sugar, some chopped jalapenos, and some chopped cilantro, and then let it all sit for about half an hour. Kicky! Snappy! And most of all, byoootiful:
They really were pretty good along with the chicken. Hot meat with cool, crunchy veggies is so nice in summer.
[img attachment=”111121″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”chicken and radishes” /]
Oh, so the Flushies. I had a little temper tantrum at supper (something about how I have to beg and plead people to come sit down so they can do me the gracious favor of eating the food I’ve prepared for them), so my husband had me go lie down while he took all (all!) the kids out for those chipped ice drinks with red syrup in them that you get from the 7-11. You know, Flushies.
***
FRIDAY
There’s some basil languishing in the garden. I think I’ll gather it up, mix it with pasta, and call it a week.
Police arrived, assessed the situation, and wrestled the gun away from him. During the struggle, Ray brought out a handgun and fired it. Police eventually got Ray under control and took him into custody.
He had two guns.
He was openly threatening the lives of passers by.
Horrible things happen. Incredible things happen. Other people exert their influence. People die. Events that bond one group of siblings will fracture and alienate another. There are simply too many variables in life for anyone with a conscience to claim, “Just do such-and-such, and your kids will turn out thus-and-so!” Beware such dangerous nonsense.
However, according to an extremely unscientific poll I conducted, parents can do some things — and avoid some things — to help influence their children so they will be more likely to remain friends with their siblings when they are adults.
What a joy to discover a new (to me) singer. I stumbled across Michael Kiwanuka last weekend while mucking out my little girls’ room and listening to whatever YouTube suggested. This is a nearly perfect song, so tender, simple, and true. Enjoy!
Little bit of Otis Redding, maybe a little bit of Van Morrison, little bit of The Band, little bit of something very, very old in every human heart. This is a good year for music! I think people are getting tired of trick voices and precious, twee gimmicks, and the singers with souls are stepping up.
Here’s another gorgeous, heart-rending one from Kiwanuka, who was raised in London by parents who escaped the Idi Amin regime in Uganda.
In a completely different vein! “Without you, I’m just bones.” Love it.
There is nothing I like better to read than plans, tips, and strategies for keeping the house clean and orderly. A large household in a relatively small living space quickly degenerates into chaos and disorder without constant vigilance and persistent rectification of why is this sticky. Can I not just once in my life sit down without getting all sticky.
So that’s why I like to sit there with my feet up, reading about how to clean.
I especially like the schedules that tell you exactly what to do, how often. You’ve seen these: mop up spills immediately, tidy living areas daily, deep-clean bathrooms weekly, scrub baseboards monthly, douse upholstery with kerosene, strike a match, and delight in the glorious inferno of the final answer to domesticity quarterly. I mean, “never.” Never even think of that. What is the matter with you?
The one thing I haven’t found anywhere is a guide for what kind of cleaning to do depending on what kind of guest you’re expecting. It does make a difference, n’est-ce pas, you animal? From my Tohu wa-bohu to yours:
Female guests age 11 and up: Scrub shower curtain, because women are insane and are going to judge you on your shower curtain, even if they aren’t taking a shower. Decades from now, the master of ceremonies at your funeral is going to ask, “Does anyone have a memory to share of our extraordinary friend Simcha, who lived to be 106 years old, won the Nobel Peace Prize twice, and figured out how to desalinate ocean water with a simple wooden spool and a paper clip?” and that woman who stopped by to pick up a free typewriter you listed on Craigslist, and who asked if she could use your bathroom, will stand up and she will say, “Her shower curtain had mildew.”
Did you know you can just put the whole shower curtain in the washing machine? Don’t actually run the machine with a shower curtain in it, stupid; you’ll tear it to shreds. I’m just saying, you can put it in there.
Nice French Canadian ladies named Enid and Célestin who are bringing over a casserole because you just had a baby: Just have the baby waiting by the door. They are there for the baby, and the casserole is their ticket inside. If you want to make them extra happy, hang up some gooey picture of Our Lady of Maybelline. Note: Do not let them leave with the baby. Check their bags. Nice try, Célestin.
Any kids age 7 and under; and boys age 12 and under: Just clear a pathway, practice those breathing exercises for when they start tracking unspeakable things through the hallway, and make sure at least one toilet works and/or you know where the shovel is.
Priest in the house: Buy extra beer and extra meat, and crate the dog. Other than that, do nothing. He really needs to know what goes on.
Husband’s work friend: Meet him in the driveway and shunt him directly into the backyard where the beer is. He definitely doesn’t need to know what goes on.
College friends who always thought you were fairly dim, because you fairly were: Upgrade bathroom reading material. Aim for Lexile score of 1400 or higher. National Geographic is acceptable, as long as it’s not too wet and nobody has written “ha ha boobie” on the African parts. If you went liberal arts, poetry anthologies are a solid choice. No Magic Tree House or Animorphs. They wouldn’t understand.
Anybody: No NFP charts on the fridge. Come on. And yes, everybody knows what “I” or “*” or “:)” or “ha cha cha” notations mean, especially if they’re clustered around the end of the month. No visible cups of pee, even if there is a good and holy reason for having cups of pee hanging around. No boxes of test strips that say “HELPS YOU GET SUPER EXTRA PREGNANT MUCH MUCH FASTER!” Even people who love you, love your kids, and are totally on board with the whole “culture of life” thing are going to stand there, transfixed, their eyes darting back and forth between the forty-six toothbrushes you somehow have, and the toilet paper you’re forced to buy in bulk sizes that would shame an army barracks, and those words “PREGNANT FASTER,” and they’re going to think, “I need to leave before these people try to hide a spare baby in my purse.”
Hey, come on back. There’s plenty of beer in the back yard.
I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. It ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance by solemn Acts of Devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more. You will think me transported with Enthusiasm but I am not. I am well aware of the Toil and Blood and Treasure, that it will cost Us to maintain this Declaration, and support and defend these States. Yet through all the Gloom I can see the Rays of ravishing Light and Glory. I can see that the End is more than worth all the Means. And that Posterity will tryumph in that Days Transaction, even altho We should rue it, which I trust in God We shall not.
That’s good enough for me. We’ll read the Declaration of Independence, grill three kinds of meat, hand sparklers to children who have no business wielding sparklers, and set off all the gloriously-named fireworks we can afford.
We’ll serve frozen ham balls to all our doggy guests. We’ll secretly be relieved that the grass is way too dry to even consider lighting Brillo pad fire wheels of spectacular death.We’ll open up that lovely, heavy carton from the liquor store.
We’ll spend the other 364 days of the year reflecting, brooding, maybe mourning what we’ve lost, maybe strategizing about how to regain what we once fought to win.
But today? Ring a bell! Light a bonfire! Run around, make a fuss, live it up! John Adams says so. We spend a lot of time discussing what our founding fathers intended for our country, and what they would say if they were alive today. And here it is: have a damn party. It’s good to be an American.
Do you know about frozen grapes? Such an excellent summer snack. I thought I had more to say about it, but that’s really it.
Here’s what we had this week. And now that I upload all the pictures, I see that we ate a lot of fruit this week. Well, good.
***
SATURDAY Birthday cookout!
There were three extra people over for dinner, and I succumbed to Guest Hysteria. Instead of our usual thirteen burgers, I made thirty-four. And twenty-four hot dogs. And fifteen ears of corn on the cob, and six bags of chips, and salad, and cake, and ice cream, and one of those pinata-sized bags of candy. And dip. And a watermelon.
Birthday boy is a Go fan, so this was his cake, before I prettied up the edges:
The game pieces are Mentos and Junior Mints. The burnt sugar frosting was the perfect color for the wooden board, and I loved the caramel flavor, but the recipe I used was dreadful, so confusing. It was hot. I get confused easily. Waiting for the soft ball stage always makes me question my priorities, so I always reassure myself by eating gobs and gobs of hot sugar slurry, and then I have a brain-squeezing headache for 48 hours. I told my doctor about this, and he laughed and said that he wished all his patients got terrible headaches whenever they ate sugar. Then I paid him a bunch of money.
and don’t appreciate things with a silent “s” at the end, unless it’s “corps,” because they like to say “corpse.” Hurr hurr.
So no clafoutis. Here is what the barbarians did enjoy: mixed fruit sauce over French vanilla ice cream. I sliced up the fruit, put it in a pot with a little sugar and homemade vanilla extract, and let it cook for about ten minutes.
In my head, I made a little joke about how scandalous it was that those berries were all openly macerating, with little children around. Someone needs a little theology of the body! Theology of the berry. It was hot, I was confused.
Oh, do you know how to pit cherries quickly? Pull off the stem, put the cherry right-side-up on top of an empty beer bottle, and poke straight down with a chopstick. The pit falls into the bottle and you have a neatly-pitted cherry.
***
MONDAY Chicken fajitas
These were pretty lackluster. Just strips of chicken, peppers, and onions rolled up in tortillas with not enough spices and some chopped tomatoes. I forgot to buy cheese and I forgot to put out the sour cream and I forgot to add the cilantro. Not terrible, just not . . . luster. There was a lot of it, though.
The pasta salad was unexpectedly tasty. Farfalle with bottled Italian dressing from Aldi, the cilantro I suddenly remembered, a ton of black olives, and chopped red onions.
***
WEDNESDAY Gochujang bulgoki with seaweed and rice; sesame string beans
Still the greatest recipe I’ve found in many a year. I bought Sempio brand gochujang online. I prepped the meat and veggies and started marinating them the night before, so all I had to do was cook it up.
Basic recipe:
1.5 pounds sliced pork 1 bag matchstick carrots 1 white onions sliced thin
Mix everything together and let it marinate at least five hours. Cook it up in a pan without oil. Devour. You can wrap up the pork in little bundles of lettuce leaves with a little rice. I used seaweed wraps instead of lettuce.
The string beans, I mixed up with some sesame oil, soy sauce, and sesame seeds, and just sauteed them quickly. Veddy good.
***
THURSDAY Meatball subs; fruit salad
[img attachment=”110189″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”meatball sub fruit salad” /]
Kind of a weird meal, but well-received. What makes it weirder is that I deliberately planned this particular meal six weeks ago, when I signed up for a Meal Train. My husband made 100+ meatballs the day before. The lucky other family also got store-bought cookies.
***
FRIDAY Eggs and harsh browns
#1 son is working on a farm this summer, and just walked in the door with a few dozen fresh eggs. Fresh, local, organic food is usually a lot like regular food, except way more expensive and way dirtier. BUT FRESH EGGS ARE DIFFERENT. The yolks are a fervent golden, the flavor is so much richer, and they even cook up more fluffily. If you have a source of fresh eggs, treat yourself. It’s totally worth it.
For almost twenty years, we’ve been battling the idea of keeping chickens and ducks. I even insisted that we save the old trampoline frame so we can turn it into a coop-in-the-round. This year, we came to a decision: we will have chickens when we are grandparents. That way, we can raise chickens when we don’t also have to raise kids, and our grandchildren can enjoy chickens without our kids having to raise chickens when they’re also raising kids.
***
Oh! We finally found our copy of An Unexpected Cookbook: The Unofficial Book of Hobbit Cookery and my daughter has been working her way through the recipes. This week, she made blueberry scones and mini apple pies. I’m trying to make myself push her to find a summer job, but if she ends up staying home and making Hobbit food, well . . .
And another thing! Summer vacation means more hot lunches. One day, we made a couple of batches of what I prosaically call “egg in toast.”
[img attachment=”110203″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”egg in toast” /]
Pretty self-explanatory, but since this is a recipe post: rip a hole out of a slice of bread, and fry it up in plenty of butter. Carefully crack an egg into the hole. After a few minutes, flip it over and let it fry a little more.
It turns out everyone has a different name for this pleasant little dish: toady holeys, toad in a hole, egg in a hole, egg in a nest, frog in a puddle, one-eyed jacks, eggs in a basket, popeyed eggs, pirate eyes, nest eggs, egg in a frame, man on a raft, and dipsy doodle eggs. Do you call it something else? Will you come over and make me some?
![“I Saw the Figure Five In Gold” by Charles Demuth [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3ANY_Met_demuth_figure_5_gold.JPG){kind=link}
