Author: simchajfisher

On All Soul’s Day, if we can manage it, we bake soul cakes. Here’s the recipe I use, because it doesn’t include yeast.

These dense, fragrant little cakes are a good way of helping your kids step down from cramming Kit Kats into their faces for several hours a day. They are sweet, but also pleasantly spicy and old-fashioned tasting, and quite easy to make. I’ll make beef stew to go with ours. I didn’t have cider vinegar, so I used regular, and used cloves in place of allspice. You can add currents or raisins or whatever else you like. Medieval recipes are forgiving!

We used to sing “Soul Cakes” as a round when I was little. Sting has recorded a version, but it’s really unbearably Sting-y (and also veers off into Christmas territory), so here’s a more toothsome rendition:

Going “souling” was a kind of ritual begging on All Hallow’s Eve, All Saint’s Day, and All Soul’s Day, when children and the poor would go house to house, singing and collecting cakes and other treats, and offering prayers for the dead in return. We got our begging in on Monday, so we’ll settle for eating some warm spicy cakes after school, and adding some extra prayers for the dead to our evening routine.

And now that I’ve snared you in by talking about food, here’s a reminder: Praying for the dead ought to be a part of our daily life, as members of the Communion of Saints. To make sure you fit it in, why not add it to grace before meals? “May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.” Takes two seconds, frightens guests, and pays into that bank of grace. If you help souls get out of purgatory, you can bet that they’ll help you when it’s your turn. Easy peasy, no yeast necessary.

For all the saints
Who’ve lost their arms and head;
For those whose poor legs
Are now duct tape instead;
For those long gone
Beneath my bad kid’s bed:
Alleluia, Alleluia!

For all the saints
Whose words are super true,
Who labored hard
To preach to me and you:
Please try again,
Until your face is blue:
Alleluia, Alleluia!

For all the saints
Whose names our babies bear,
Please take their hands
(And maybe brush their hair).
We’re working hard,
Not getting anywhere.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

For all the saints
Up on those dusty shelves.
You see the pits
The human spirit delves.
Ask God for mercy.
We can’t save ourselves.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

For all our saints,
This day is just for you.
You’re with God now.
You need something to do?
Then pray for us!
We’re leaning hard on you.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

Are scary Halloween costumes okay for Catholics? Jimmy Akin has answered this common question in a typically thorough and reassuring way. Sexy, offensively disgusting, or occultish stuff is out (gee, what a loss). But everything else, including spooky stuff, is in.

He makes the sensible point that people are attracted to spooky stuff for a reason — that God made us so that we enjoy small doses of peril and tension, because it prepares us to deal with the real thing, which will surely come along sooner or later.  So as long as we don’t spend our lives wallowing in gore and ghoulishness, it’s healthy and normal and perfectly fine to indulge in a little dramatic scaring and screaming from time to time.  Therefore, spooky Halloween stuff?  A-OK.

His argument reminds me of something my sister once pointed out:  that when Daddy tosses the baby up in the air and baby laughs, it’s because there really is a joke there, albeit a very simple one.  The situation says, “You’re in danger!” but the baby knows, “But it’s Daddy!  I’m fine!”  See? Funny stuff right there, if you’re a baby.  And a pretty good analogy for the delightfully childlike question, “If God is for us, who can be against us?” Whee! And so, scary Halloween stuff might not only be psychologically healthy (and therefore spiritually sound), but they might be a minor tribute to our trust in the goodness of God.

There’s another answer to the question of whether creepy, gory costumes and other Halloweeny practices (or scary stuff in general) are appropriate for Catholics to indulge in. Some Catholics argue, “This isn’t just a little holiday from the somber demands of my Faith; it’s actually my way of laughing at the devil!  I’m spitting in ol’ Nick’s eye and reaffirming the truth of the triumph of the Resurrection when I  . . . um. . . buy this rubber mask of a clown with an axe splitting his forehead open.  See?  Ad majorem dei gloriam!  Wooooooooooooooo!”  I used to roll my eyes over these rather contrived arguments, thinking, “Gee whiz, just admit that you want to have fun sometimes, and stop trying to make some big religious deal out of everything.”

But honestly, now I think that even overthinking it can be a perfectly legitimate Catholic approach, if that’s what appeals to you.

And also legitimate is yet another approach:  skipping Halloween altogether, because it just doesn’t seem right. Don’t be a jerk about it (no training your kids to tell their friends that their Hello Kitty costume is a portal to hell, for instance), and for goodness’ sake let your kids have a cupcake or something. But you don’t have to do Halloween. It’s your call.

Because that’s the nice part about being a Catholic:  as long as we’re living our lives in a way that is pleasing to God, we can either be practical and science-based, or we can be analytical and deliberate, or we can be cautious and guarded, or we can be giggling babies.  We can figure out what Thomas Aquinas would say, or we can just check our Baltimore Catechism, or we can just remember what our moms used to do. Assuming mom was a reasonable gal, you can just go with that and be at peace.

The Church, like all good mothers, knows that all of her children have the same basic needs, but that personalities vary so much that the same approach will not work for everyone — and that every child (no matter what age) should be exposed to some variety.  From this method of mothering, we can take our clue about how to behave on confusing secular/quasi pagan holidays like Halloween, which elbow in and threaten to crash the party of holy days like All Saint’s Day and All Soul’s Day:  sometimes the ultra-doctrinal route is the way to go, and other times, you can just put on a Bugs Bunny mask and give glory to God by making your kids laugh.  Just keep checking in with your mother, but don’t compare yourself too much with your brother.  You’re a different person, and your mother appreciates that (even if your brother doesn’t).

This attitude is the basic principle behind liturgical seasons:  some of this, some of that, a time for this, and a time for that.  Some people are better at Lent and some people specialize in Christmas.  And some people honestly only feel at home when it’s Ordinary Time.  The only truly un-Catholic approach is to ignore the seasons altogether.

How delightful it is to be Catholic, when so few things are forbidden — so few things are out of the question.  What a wide, wonderful Church!  Some people think of our Faith as a strict and limited meal plan, which, followed precisely, will yield the best dietary results.  But really, it’s more like a bounteous smorgasbord.  It’s possible to overindulge, and if you stay in one spot, you won’t get a balanced meal.  But do it right, and you’ll end up with all sorts of things on your plate — and your plate will probably look completely different from the one the other guy brought back to the table.

Especially if you’re sitting next to Jimmy Akin.  I mean, the man eats brains.

**
A version of this post first appeared under a different title in the National Catholic Register in 2012.)

I try to make one new recipe every week, and I try not to make anything two weeks in a row. Except for this week. This week, I just tried to get through the week.

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SATURDAY
Spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, salad

If you like meatballs but hate the hassle of frying them up, just do what I do and throw them on a broiler pan. Medium-high oven for 20 minutes or so, and then scoop them back in the pot of sauce. I was rushing a bit and didn’t have enough time to let them meatballs sit and sauce up, but it’s still a swell meal.

[img attachment=”125175″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”spaghetti-and-meatballs” /]

Although some people — pantsless people, no less — must be persuaded to eat even a swell meal like this.

[img attachment=”125176″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”girls-and-meatballs” /]

My daughter made this magnificent garlic bread. Can’t beat real butter, fresh garlic, and a little schprinkle of salt. And the most important ingredient: free labor!

Dessert was Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies (which are now about the size of a quarter. For shame, Little Debbie). It was #2 Son’s turn to pick, and he announced his choice defiantly, kind of like this:

He’s the picker!

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SUNDAY
Beef cabbage stir fry, rice, pomegranates 

This is one of those surprisingly easy, surprisingly delicious recipes from Budget Bytes. Yum. It was spicier than I remembered, so I was glad to have the pomegranates to cool the tongue a bit.

[img attachment=”125174″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”beef-cabbage-stir-fry-2″ /]

I’m still working my way through my trusty jar of ginger paste from Kyra. It’s a million times better than powdered ginger, and at least to my jejune palate, it tastes like fresh. I really hate prepping fresh ginger. I have no idea what the equvalencies are, so I just scoop up a bunch with a free-wrist motion. (See: spicier than I remembered.)

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MONDAY
Mummy hot dogs, cheezy weezies

Oh, I lied. This is a new recipe, I guess. I made about thirty of these for the Girl Scout Halloween party, then dashed home and made a dozen more for the kids at home.

[img attachment=”125173″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”mummy-hot-dogs” /]

They are not hard to make, just annoying. If it’s not obvious, you just take a hot dog and wrap it up with some crescent roll dough that’s cut into strips. I wrapped a few of the hot dogs with slices of cheese first, but ran out of time. You put them in the oven for about 15 minutes at 375. Greased or ungreased pan doesn’t seem to matter, but the pastry does puff up a bit, so give them room. The eyes are mustard.

I notice that some amphetamine-addicted ambitious moms are trying to make this project even more impressive by slicing the hot dog to make arms and legs, and then wrapping it in dough. I would like to point out that these are supposed to be mummy hot dogs, not catastrophic ski accident hot dogs. But clap-clap-clap for you anyway.

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TUESDAY
Waffles and eggs for kids; the finest Aldi delicacies for the adults, who were celebrating their 19th anniversary by locking themselves in the bedroom with food and pretending they were alone. We also had White Russians. I forgot how much fun those are to drink.

Let’s see, we had some kind of steak things wrapped in bacon, cheddar and gouda, scali bread with a little saucer with salted, peppered olive oil for dipping; olives stuffed with cheese, prosciutto, grapes, and smoked almonds.

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WEDNESDAY
Spicy pulled pork, roast potatoes and Brussels sprouts

I used Pioneer Woman’s Dr. Pepper recipe again, using my new slow cookers, which have already justified their existence via pulled pork alone. I used a different, less fatty cut of pork this time, and it still turned out great. But let me tell you, giving it a couple of extra hours (unintentionally. The van died in the drive-thru lane of the bank, and Triple A took its sweet time coming) together with the adobo peppers made it much much spicier.

[img attachment=”125172″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”pulled-pork-and-roast-veg” /]

I cut the Brussels sprouts and potatoes into pieces and mixed them up with olive oil, red wine vinegar, kosher salt and fresh pepper, and put them on shallow pans under the broiler for about 25 minutes. Gosh, I love roasted vegetables.

[img attachment=”125171″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”potatoes-and-brussels-sprouts” /]

Oh, this is fun: Can you spot the carrot? I was rushing around like a maniac as usual, and couldn’t find the carrots I intended to add to this dish. I left the food unattended for a while, and when I got back, Benny proudly told me, “Mama, I found a few carrots! I cut them up with my teef and put them in with the rest of the betchdables!” So I says to myself, I says, “That’s why we use a hot oven.” Benny is my good helper.

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THURSDAY
Taco Thursday

I was wondering if Taco Thursday would be as good as Taco Tuesday. And the answer is: When you forget to buy cheese and salsa and taco seasoning, then no, it is not. (Yes, obviously you can make your own taco seasoning. It’s just hard to unscrew all the little spice bottle lids when your hands are full dragging around your crushed and broken will to live.)

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FRIDAY
Fish sticks, acorn squash, maybe rice pilaf, whatever that is

I have some mushrooms I forgot to use. If I put them in rice, will that make it pilaf?

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I think I managed to sign up for nothing but cider for all the kids’ various parties next week; but if you got suckered into making a treat, here are some I’ve done in the past, and they are totally doable:

Grinning teeth (apple slices for lips, mini marshmallows for teeth, stuck on with peanut butter)

Pretzel rods dipped in candy coating. I think we ended up using different Halloween-y colors of candy coating (orange, purple, green) and sticking candy corn to them, and maybe colored sugar. (We’ve made variations on this for any  number of parties: light sabers, Harry Potter wands, fairy wands, etc.)

Gingerbread skeletons You can even buy pre-made gingerbread cookies, or use teddy bear or dog or cat cookie cutters. You’ll want to use a royal icing and give it enough time to set, so all your hard work doesn’t smear, though.

And yes, one year we brought in the mini jack-o’-lantern puking hummus onto a tray full of purple tortilla chips. These are times when I discover that there’s a reason I’m self-employed.

Got any swell ideas for Halloween food? I secretly love making stupid stuff like this, so share!

Who doesn’t love a good, bracing, honest, personal essay, especially one that tells about awful struggles and times of darkness? We love them, that is, as long as they have a happy ending. I suffered this, we endured that, and now we’ve come out of that dark time and happier, wiser, stronger, and more fulfilled than ever. This is nothing new: In ancient Greece, theater audiences couldn’t get enough of plays that dragged them along with the protagonist through incredible grief, calamity, and pain, only to emerge with them on the other side with . . . something. If not a happy ending, then at least a lesson, or at least justice. We want to come out the other end exhausted but satisfied.

When reviews started to come in for my book about how to navigate the day-to-day reality of natural family planning, many readers were enthusiastic about my honesty — but a few were not. Some thought I was too blunt, even obscene; but some thought all that openness and honesty didn’t go far enough: it didn’t answer all their questions. It didn’t tell them what they really wanted to hear. If they were going to be dragged through a story about the struggles, sorrows, and frustrations that can come along with obeying the Church’s teaching on human sexuality, then they sure as hell wanted to know where their happy ending was. She seems to understand the problem, went the complaint, but offers no real solution. 

And I really didn’t. I talked about insights and strategies and attitudes that can help us love our spouses and God better. But I didn’t “solve” the problem of the difficulty of NFP, and I didn’t explain how to get a free pass out of sorrow and pain.

Instead, I talked a lot about the cross.

I don’t blame people for not wanting to hear it, or for not wanting to understand that this is the unanswerable answer. But oh my friends, any essay that purports to lead you through some great spiritual suffering and doesn’t mention the cross? That is not a Catholic essay. The cross is at the heart of who we are, why we do what we do, where we can turn when there is nowhere else to turn. The cross doesn’t make any sense; but nothing makes sense without the cross. Take it away and we’re truly lost, truly wandering in a howling wilderness of pain, not for 40 years but for eternity.

And if you do turn to the cross and then say, “Yes, yes, but what should I do?” All I can tell you is, turn back. It’s what I tell myself.

This is a tremendously roundabout way of introducing you to an important essay by my friend Ellen, who’s created a blog for one specific purpose: to talk about her marriage, in which she and her husband have never had sex and may never have sex.

Ellen has vaginismus:

a condition where the muscles of the pelvic floor involuntarily contract whenever touched, closing sphincter muscles and preventing intercourse. Sometimes it can be the result of past sexual trauma, sometimes the result of injury in delivering a child, and sometimes, as in my case, it happens for no immediately apparent reason.

No one has been able to solve this problem for them; no one has been able to take it away. There is very little information out there for people who struggle with this rare but not unheard-of condition, and even less information for couples who want to approach their marriage with a Catholic worldview.

Ellen speaks of their struggle and where they are now, a year after they realized something was wrong. She speaks of what they have learned about God and love.

Please do read her essay (there may or may not be more to come), even if you haven’t experienced anything like what they’re dealing with.  Read it not to find out how they triumphed over their difficulties, but to find out how they’re learning to be happy through their difficulties. As with every story about love and marriage, it’s about so much more than sex. Ellen says:

Not everything has to change, and many of our dreams are still the same, and still possible. But the heart and soul of it has had to change substantially. For as long as I can remember, I thought I’d be the mother of a large and healthy family. I thought that that would be the main work of my life, and I was eager and impatient for it to start. Now, realistically, I know that there is very little chance of that happening. The “fruit of our love” will not be in sweet fat faces and sweaty blonde and red curls and utterly dependent, clingy, sticky hands. And it hurts to think that might never happen, and that even if it does, it will surely never be as much as it might have been.

But you want to know something? I see the fruit of our love every day. Love has to produce, you know, or it dies. So when I was realizing that children might not happen, I panicked. What the hell kind of a marriage would that be, anyway? But oh my word, the ways God has let our love bear fruit . . .

This isn’t a “We’ve gone through the darkness, and here’s how we solved it” kind of piece. Not all questions get answered to our liking; but that doesn’t mean there is no answer.

The essay is not only honest about pain and suffering, it’s full of hope and generosity. That, too, is what you will see when you look at a cross: not only true suffering and total, painful giving of self, but a doorway into a new world that we must pass through.

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Image via Pexels

First of all, this is Alex Chilton:

I have heard of him — or I’ve heard this song, anyway, which is very short and nearly perfect. He was barely sixteen when it hit the charts. It was right around this time when the term “blue-eyed soul” was coined, sometimes to refer to white boys who sing soul, but more often to deride white boys who tried their hardest to present themselves as soulful. This . . . is not that. Alex Chilton is the real thing, and I’ve never even heard his name. My loss.

Chilton had a weird on-again, off-again career until his death at age sixty in 2010.  His first band, The Box Tops, had a few hits, including “Cry Like a Baby,” where Chilton displays his endearing penchant for acting out his lyrics

Man, that voice. Normally I shut down when I hear anything that smells like a sitar, but I’ll make an exception.

The band only lasted a few years. Pitchfork says:

In spite of their success, Chilton grew unhappy with the Box Tops and precipitated the band’s breakup by storming offstage in mid-performance in late 1969. After turning down an offer to become the lead singer for Blood, Sweat & Tears– he thought the band was too commercial– Chilton worked to become a better guitarist and began an abortive attempt to record a solo album (the results can be heard on Ardent’s 1996 compilation 1970). Ultimately, he found himself back home in Memphis, where he joined Big Star in 1971.

In Big Star, Chilton dropped the soul-man vocal style he’d made his name on in favor of a reedier, more natural delivery.

Check out “Holocaust” from Sister Lovers (1978). Listen to the spare, meticulous layers in this terrifying song:

Ow. A radically different style from his Box Tops hits, but that arresting directness remains. His weakness for obvious rhymes avoids Paul McCartney-style cutesiness by looking directly at you and saying, ” . . . I know.”

Oh, you need a pick-me-up! Here’s “You Can’t Have Me” from the same album.

Doesn’t this sound familiar? (Okay, except for that bizarro part in the middle with the synth and the drums and the saxophones. I don’t know what kind of music this is.) That’s because everyone was influenced by Big Star. Does it remind you of Cream, The Beatles, REM, and any number of wannabe rough diamond indie bands who try so hard to show up with ready-made mystique? There’s a reason for that. Alex Chilton is in the back of everyone’s head, pouring out his heart and daring you to make a big deal out of it.

Over the next few decades, he produced a jumbled collection of undiscovered brilliance and inaccessible weirdness, both with Big Star and eventually solo, giving concerts and occasionally reuniting with old band members.

Here’s The Replacements, who straight up wrote a song called “Alex Chilton:”

Children by the million sing for Alex Chilton when he comes ’round
They sing “I’m in love. What’s that song? I’m in love with that song.”

And it would have been true, in an alternate universe, where things (and people) aren’t so difficult. But yeah, I’m in love with that song.

One more: “O My Soul” from Big Star’s second album, Radio City (1974):

People forget that this kind of stuff came out of the 70’s, along with so much that was wretched and ridiculous. Great song, right from the heart of rock and roll, but nothing lazy or rote about it.

It’s never too late to add old stuff to your list of new music, especially if you don’t even know you’ve heard it before.

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ImagebBy Marcelo Costa (Big Star @ Hyde Park) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons