We have this one priest who is reverent and hard working and gives good sermons and all, but he just can’t resist doing a little ad libbing at one point. Instead of just saying, “Behold the Lamb of God” — which, for goodness’ sake, is already enough for anyone to say and listen to and think about for the rest of the life of the world, isn’t it? — he says, “Behold, God’s holy gifts to us, God’s holy people. Behold, the Lamb of God . . . ” Why? I have no idea. Obviously it means something to him, and he is reverent and hard working and gives good sermons, so that’s all I’m going to say about that, besides maybe one final “harumph.”
Anyway, nothing does a more efficient job of cranking my attitude 180 degrees away from holiness than being called “God’s holy people.” So now you know whose fault the following is.
Yesterday, I played what I suddenly realized was the first Christmas music of the season in our household:
This does not, to my mind, rise to the level of irreverence, even though it is goats singing “Silent Night.” I do not detect any malicious intent to demean or deride sacred things. It’s just goats, okay? You got a problem with how goats worship? What are you, some kind of fanatic? Just pretend it’s about Laudato Si’ and you’re covered, apparently.
Next up: a song that I find spiritually rich and intensely moving:
Noooooo!
And finally, a fellow who needs to introduction, other than HRRRRNNNNMNMMMMM!!!
I can thank the illustrious John Herreid for bringing Joseph Spence into my world. “He has been called the folk guitarist’s Thelonious Monk.” Heyy, I know that trick. You say something, and then you can honestly say “It has been said . . . ” Well, it has been said that this is the second time in two days that I’ve wanted to quote a British commenter saying something that seemed charming and amusing, but then I looked it up just in case, and it turned out to be shockingly obscene. I mean shockingly. What is with you guys? Can’t you even enjoy a little Christmas music without bringing up . . . that? All I can say is, you better jdd jnnnn, you better yib jrrp, because Sanny Clorr is gammin . . . to us, God’s holy people.
This week I unveil my terrible new logo, which features a barely legible “Aleteia” rather than a barely legible “Patheos.” Ta da! I did the exact same boneheaded thing as last time: Got all the elements in place except for the question mark, and then I was searching for a whimsical font and then accidentally dropped the mouse, and basically dropped the question mark, and I couldn’t undo it. Oh well.
My goal for cooking lately has just been to try one new recipe every week. I accomplished that goal, and we all ate like — I don’t know, what’s the opposite of kings? We all ate like ugly Americans anyway. Here’s how our week in food went:
SATURDAY Reg-lee-ar hot dogs wiv no buns and no kettsup, lemonade chips, spider eggs, Spiderhead strarbrerries, tate, tuptates, tandy, and strarbrerry ice tream
Saturday was Benny’s 4th birthday party, so she chose the menu. I got Aldi’s “chili limon” chips, but I’m still not sure if that’s what she meant by “lemonade chips.” The spider eggs were made thusly:
Hard boil a bunch of eggs, roll them around on the table but keep the shell on, and then let them sit overnight covered in water with a bit of vinegar and tons of red food coloring. Peel them carefully, and the egg underneath should have red “web” designs on them.
[img attachment=”82853″ align=”alignnone” size=”medium” alt=”food blog spider eggs” /]
They turned out as I hoped, and I was left to wonder if that was a good thing or not.
The Spiderman strawberry heads were supposed to be made with candy melts and black icing, like this. I bought candy melts and black icing, I know I did, but I have no idea where they went. Benny was perfectly content to use leftover white icing to make faces on strawberries and then eat them.
[img attachment=”82863″ align=”alignnone” size=”medium” alt=”food blog strawberry faces” /]
So that worked out. She liked her tate, and had leftover tuptates for breakfast.
SUNDAY Ham and cheese omelettes, roasted mushrooms, frozen hash browns
Do you ever have one of those times when you’re driving and suddenly you think, “OH CRAP, I FORGET HOW TO DRIVE!” It just lasts a second, and your body memory covers you until you regain your confidence, and then you’re fine again, and no one’s the wiser? This is what happened while I was making omelettes, except that my body memory also forgot how to make omelettes, so nobody took over and they turned out terrible.
I did, however, take a picture of eggshells, and here it is:
[img attachment=”82848″ align=”alignnone” size=”medium” alt=”food blog eggshells” /]
I also attempted roasted mushrooms, which is a completely fabulous recipe from Deadspin. They turned out pretty good, but I forgot to buy a couple of the ingredients, so they weren’t as savory as they might have been. Still, a wonderful, versatile side dish that goes with any number of foods. Even just mushrooms and a loaf of crusty bread to sop up the juices would make a lovely little lunch. Here’s a picture that hints at the yumminess:
[img attachment=”82858″ align=”alignnone” size=”medium” alt=”food blog roast mushrooms” /]
MONDAY Chicken nuggets; chips
Monday was the day of ten thousand appointments, so aiming low was the right thing to do.
TUESDAY Chicken tacos, tortilla chips
More appointments. Cursing myself for making all these appointments back in the summer, when there was sunshine and light and hope in the world. I also knew I was going to have to take all ten kids to the evening Mass by myself, so a layer of preemptive panic lay like a sulphurous fog over the whole day. We got home after 5, and I threw the food on the table while shrieking, “MAKE YOUR LUNCHES, DO YOUR HOMEWORK, WHY IS SHE CRYING, PUT YOUR JACKETS AWAY, OH LORD, WHY DO WE EVEN HAVE A DOG??” You know, in honor of Our Lady. Then I signed onto the church website to double check which church the 7:00 Mass was at, because last year we went to the wrong one and missed the whole thing.
And . . . it was yesterday.
So we sat down and ate our tacos in peace. Te salut, o Maria.
Oh, so I had been planning regular ground beef tacos, but beef suddenly got really expensive, and chicken was suddenly cheap. I took the two envelopes of taco seasoning, mixed it with oil, and slathered it on the raw chicken, and roasted it, then shredded it. It looked amazing
[img attachment=”82849″ align=”alignnone” size=”medium” alt=”food blog chicken for tacos” /]
but tasted kind of bland. I guess chicken just needs more help.
WEDNESDAY Spaghetti with hidden prize; one-piece salad; non-garlic bread
On Wednesday, I was feeling like I could really use some help, so I had one kid make the spaghetti, and another make the garlic bread, and another make the salad.
What this got me was spaghetti that came out of the pot with a knife in it.
[img attachment=”82850″ align=”alignnone” size=”medium” alt=”food blog spaghetti knife” /]
The salad was made out of lettuce, which is fine. The child had managed to cut it up . . . but not all the way. It was like a salad kit with perforation lines to show you where to separate the vegetables when you were ready, which apparently we were not.
And the garlic bread, well, I bought three loaves of french bread and told the kid to cut it up “like a big, long sandwich, so one piece is all top and one piece is all bottom, know what I mean?” I thought that was pretty clear, and he did it perfectly. But he didn’t realize I meant he should cut all three loaves that way. He did one and then disappeared.
So I finished it up and discovered we were out of garlic anyway. So we had big hunks of buttered toast. Which is fine.
At our house, I buy three loaves of bread and cut each one into four pieces, and each person gets a quarter loaf of garlic bread
[img attachment=”82852″ align=”alignnone” size=”medium” alt=”food blog garlic bread” /]
Or, in our case, a quarter loaf cruton. For some reason, this is much more fun than getting pieces of garlic bread like people do.
THURSDAY Pork and Green Chile stew; cornbread; rice; hypothetical salad
Super disappointed in this recipe from the New York Times, and never mind all the ways I screwed it up. It blame the New York Times! The broth never cooked down like it was supposed to, so it was just a kind of greasy soup that managed to be spicy and boring-tasting at the same time. I did, however, manage to buy chile peppers that didn’t melt our faces off (unlike a few weeks ago).
The cornbread turned out fine. I burned the rice. The salad was in the fridge, left over from yesterday, but after I made the cornbread, I was too tired to open the fridge and take the salad out. When my husband got home at 7, I went to bed, where I dreamed that I was falling slowly into a deep, deep, deep hole, and enjoying it.
As I try to mention every so often, I’ve been seeing a therapist for a few months now. I make a point of mentioning it because a lot of Catholics are resistant to the idea of therapy. I understand much of that resistance, so I thought I’d share my experience so far. Here are some basic observations:
1. Therapy is not a replacement for confession or spiritual direction. You may end up addressing the same behaviors in both therapy and confession or spiritual direction, but you’ll learn different things about where they come from and how to deal with them. If you go to therapy, it doesn’t mean you think you’re not responsible for your actions. It means you’re serious about trying to change them.
2. At the same time, therapy is not incompatible with Catholicism – or it shouldn’t be. Ideally, they should dovetail. In my case, I’d made no progress trying to conquer certain behaviors through prayer and confession, so I turned to therapy to help me learn practical ways to do it.
3. It’s far better to see a good therapist who doesn’t know much about your Faith than it is to see a faithful Catholic who’s a second-rate therapist. I went in with the idea that I’d listen with an open mind to whatever my therapist could offer, and I’d do the job of filtering out whatever was incompatible with my faith, and I’d integrate whatever was compatible. Once I got to know and trust the fellow, I let him know that I felt defensive about my Faith, and that I was afraid that he’d see my religion as something to be cured – that he’d see my big family and my spiritual obligations as the things that were dragging me down.
He said that it’s true that some therapists see religion as an unhealthy thing, and they may or may not be aware that they have this prejudice; but he said that most of the good therapists he knows will want to treat the whole person, and that includes their spiritual life; so he encouraged me to be more open about matters touching on religion. I have done this, and it’s worked out well.
This makes sense, because I have made a deliberate effort to integrate my faith into every aspect of my life, so it’s not as if I can compartmentalize it anyway.
4. Therapy is not for losers. Knowing there’s a problem and not going for help is stupid. Knowing there’s a problem and going for help is what adults do.
5. Of course it’s hard to get started. Important things usually are. It is hard to make the first phone call, especially if you have to make lots and lots of phone calls, and explain over and over again that you need help, until you find someone who is taking new patients and accepts your insurance. Just keep calling. Set a goal per day – say, six phone calls – and just keep plowing through. If possible, if you need it, ask someone to make the phone calls for you. Just get the ball rolling.
6. Don’t assume you can’t possibly afford it. Therapy might be covered by your insurance, or they might offer a sliding scale fee structure, so at least make some calls and find out. If you call an office that does not take your insurance, ask them if they can recommend someone who does.
7. You might not find the right therapist at first. Give it several sessions, and if things seem really off, it’s completely normal and useful to say so and try someone else. The whole point of this is to help you, and if it’s not helping, then what are you doing?
I was set to see a therapist for an introductory visit, and she didn’t return my phone calls, and then left a message saying she would call back, and then didn’t. So I fired her before I even met with her. If I want to get treated like crap, I can just hang out with my teething baby at home for free.
8. Therapy isn’t magic. You have to actually do the things throughout the rest of the week. Just showing up for your appointments isn’t going to help anything.
9. Even when it’s working, it takes a while. And it’s normal to have ups and downs. You should be seeing some progress at some point, but don’t expect to be on a dazzling upward trajectory from day one.
10. Therapy is smarter than you think, smarty. So give it a chance, even if your therapist uses words or ideas that sound goofy at first. If you have a decent therapist who seems intelligent, responsive, and respectful, then keep an open mind.
I had a hard time, for instance, getting over the word “mindfulness.” I was like, “But I am not a bleached blonde yummy mummy, and I do not balance crystals on my forehead when I get overwhelmed by yoga pants shopping, so get away from me with your mindfulness nonsense!” Well, it happens that I went in for help changing some behavior that I do out of habit, that I do without thinking, and that I do when I feel like I’m not in control of my responses. So guess what I’m working on? Mindfulness. La di dah.
***
If you’ve had a good (or a bad) experience with therapy, what would you add? What would you like your fellow Catholics to know?
… is The Little Dress Up Shop. This is not a paid promotion; I’m just a very happy customer who knows a lot about all the ways costumes can go wrong. Here’s why we love The Little Dress-Up Shop:
So far, we’ve bought one Anna and one Elsa dress from them, and both are lovely and machine washable, not itchy, machine washable, not flimsy, machine washable, not skimpy or skanky, and you can put them in the washing machine, because they are machine washable (see Gardening Anna, above). The prices are reasonable, too, and shipping is free in the U.S. They have other costumes besides dresses.
What about customer service? This is actually what prompted me to write this post.
We ordered an Elsa dress for another of my girls for her birthday. The package came a few days later, but it turned out to be another Anna dress! I was so bummed, because they promise an easy exchange, but it would not get there in time for the birthday. Plus, it’s not exactly free shipping if I have to ship it back. So I made an inquiry that night around midnight, and the next morning, I got this email:
Sorry to hear we sent you the wrong dress. We are sending out the Large Elsa out today, Priority mail so you can receive by Sunday.
With the dress will be a white, postage-paid envelope to return the Anna dress back to us.
Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance.
They didn’t ask to see a photo of the dress or the packing slip or anything; they just believed me and fixed the problem. Customer. For. Life. The new dress came right away, and the kid loves it.
We’ve already run it through the wash once, and it came out great: velour still plushy, gemstone and rick rack still attached, shiny parts still shiny, sparkles still sparkly, tulle still tooling along, not all scrumbled up. Little Dress Up Shop, moms. The deadline to order for Christmas is tomorrow, Friday the 11th, so check it out!
We can deal with hard work, we can deal with pain and suffering. But our secret fear is that, if we open ourselves to change, we will become an alien to ourselves. We will turn into something we won’t recognize. And even if that new thing is a good thing — what happens to us? Doesn’t God love us now? Will we be lost?
This fearful idea, the fear that who we are will be lost, is a desperate temptation from the devil, which he throws at people who are on the verge of giving their hearts to God. It’s a temptation, and a temptation is a lie. We will not be lost.
Did you see the headline saying science shows that mothers of boys live shorter, more horrible lives, or something? I didn’t read it. I didn’t have time. I not only have two boys, one of whom is a teenager, but I have three other teenagers, and will soon have a total of five teenagers living under our roof.
Five. When people hear that information, they often wince or groan. Heck, sometimes that wincing, groaning person is me. And sometimes it’s the teenagers, because they have to live with me, me, if you can imagine such a thing.
But sometimes — even most of the time — I truly love having a herd of teenagers under the roof. They are tons of fun to talk to, when they feel like talking. They are (more or less) good to their younger siblings, and do the fun, silly, energetic things I used to do before I turned into a wincing, groaning, enervated laptop-bound hag. They cook (sometimes). They clean (sometimes). They stick up for each other (most of the time). They organize parties, bring weird new music and games into the house, and generally (sometimes) (most of the time) make me feel more hopeful about what kind of world it will be in the next few decades.
And they can be incredibly gracious, in their own weird way. My poor son, who goes to bed one height and wakes up three inches taller, keeps growing out of his clothes. I keep promising him we’ll go shopping, and I keep forgetting.
Some kids would nag or whine or pester, but not at our house! The photo above is what I found on top of the kitchen garbage when I stumbled toward the coffee machine. As you can see, it’s the remains of a funeral. A funeral for pants. The sign says: “HERE LIES MY PANTS. A good and loyal friend. RIP”
Good and loyal friend indeed. Now we need to talk about how lonely the shower feels without the company of a good and loyal friend like him.
“Obligation.” American Catholics get a little itchy around that word. As someone inevitably points out, we don’t have to go to Mass; we get to go to Mass. It shouldn’t feel like an obligation to go to Mass, anymore than it’s an obligation to eat a delicious feast. If we truly understood what was happening at the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, we’d be breaking down the door to get inside, and not hoping we get let off the hook. Maybe, someone always says, we should call them “Holy Days of Opportunity.” Why, there are seminarians in Nigeria who live inside abandoned detergent bottles, and every one of them would walk eleven miles on his knees to get to Mass on a Holy Day, or any day. Tell them about the weight of your “obligation.” Tell them what you “have” to do.
Hard to argue with that. And yet people who say these things are glossing over something central to our existence as children of God: the sweetness of obedience for the sake of obedience.
It would be wonderful if we simply always wanted to go to Mass. It would be Heaven on earth if we enjoyed doing all the things we ought to do. And sometimes it really does work out that way. As we increase in holiness, our desires become more and more aligned with God’s desires, and there is less and less of a struggle between what we want to do and what we ought to do.
But knowing how you ought to be is not the same as being that way. The Church gives us obligations because she knows we need them. This is an idea which sets the Church apart from so many other religions: the much-derided “rules and regulations” that the Church lovingly imposes show that the Church understands human nature. If we were only ever invited or encouraged, we’d hardly ever turn up. I’d like to think I’m different, but I know I’m not.
And so we have our obligations: go to Mass, confess your mortal sins, fast and abstain, and so on. These obligations are in place because they confer grace to us. They force us to do the things that are good for us.
But the obligations are there for another reason, too: they give us a chance to obey. We obey even if we’re crabby, we obey even if we have a headache, we obey even if we feel tired or bored, or if we feel guilty or unworthy. We obey, in short, because we know who we are: we are children of God. We are under His protection, and that means we’re also under His authority. What an uncomfortable concept for the 21st century American! I do what I’m told, because that’s my job — it’s who I am. Obedience for the sake of obedience acknowledges our imperfect natures, and God receives this obedience joyfully.
If obedience for the sake of obedience seems shabby and pathetic to you, think of it this way: Sometimes, I delight in shopping for nutritious food, in preparing it in a delectable and attractive way, and in watching my children happily nourishing themselves. It would feel odd to say I’m feeding them because I’m “obligated” to. I want to! I like it! And that’s how it should be.
But sometimes, when dinner time rolls around, I’d rather just grab a bottle of wine and go hide in my room. But I gotta give them dinner, and I’m really glad I totally understand that it’s my obligation to do so. Now, it would be great if I always had that marvelous feeling of satisfaction and delight when feeding my kids. But I suspect I’m working more time off purgatory when I feel nothing of the kind, but I do it anyway. This is what motherhood means: sometimes being the one who delights in working for your kids, and sometimes being the one who works for kids despite a complete absence of delight. I know I’m a mother, so this is what I do.
It used to be that high born people were bound by a sense of noblesse oblige. Because of their social rank, they felt themselves obligated to behave honorably and responsibility. You could say that modern Catholics ought to cultivate a sense of “humblesse oblige” – the notion that we are obligated to obey because we’re sinners, because we’re fallen, because we’re children. We obey because God is God, because the Church is the Church . . . and because it doesn’t matter if we’re delighted about it or not. We obey because we willingly gave ourselves over to obedience to God the Father and to the Church, our Mother.
I’m grateful for the obligations the Church imposes. And deep down, I wish she would impose more, because I’m lazy. I’d like to see some Holy Days of Obligation moved back to weekdays, and I know that the small trials I endure would be more fruitful if my sacrifices weren’t optional.
All the same, it’s a good idea to remember that I obey, it’s because the thing I’m doing is good for me . . . but also because obeying itself is good for me. Obedience for the sake of obedience isn’t everything, but it isn’t nothing, either. At least it reminds me of who I am. Humblesse oblige!
Christmas presents! Even parents who like to keep Christmas simple have to put some thought into shopping.
Some families buy presents according to a theme, such as “something you want, something you need, something to wear, something to read.” If this works for your family, great! It will help keep the flood of toys at bay, and will make it easier to achieve gift parity between kids.
We choose gifts on a kid-by-kid basis, with no formula. Our kids each get three presents and a stocking stuffer, and we aim for things that will make them happy right away, and at least one thing that will last them a while, even if it doesn’t cause instant thrills. I used to make one handmade present per kid per year, but, as the philosopher said, I only got two hands.
Here’s what we try to avoid:
The “My Kid’s a Genius, So We’ll Just Ignore the Manufacturer’s Suggested Age” toy. A rookie parent mistake that we figured out the hard way. The manufacturers have hired experts to help them sell as much of their product as possible, so you know they’re highly motivated to get it right (and consumer reviews give you even more information). If your kid is above average (and whose kid isn’t?), let him play with age-appropriate toys in an above-average manner. He just won’t have very much fun with toys that are too old for him.
The exception: Books. Good readers are good readers, and it’s great to challenge them. But be aware that reading level has to do with content and tone, not just vocabulary!
And of course, some kids really are especially gifted, and can do things that their peers can’t manage. If you are going to shop above their age level, base it on behaviors that you’ve already seen in your kid, not on a broad idea that your kid is advanced in general.
The thing I would have loved when I was that age. Well-intentioned, but . . . dun-dun-dunnnnnn . . . my kids are not me. I need to make sure I’m considering nothing but their tastes and their desires and their interests when shopping for them, and not subconsciously trying to appease some disappointed ghost of my own childhood. We consult with siblings if we’re not sure about gift ideas — they often have a much clearer idea of what would be well-received.
The exception: Sometimes your kids really are like you. This makes everything easy! Congratulations.
The thing I’m hoping will make up for all the gaps in their cultural education that I’m noticing and fretting over now that it’s the end of the year and night cometh. Okay, so I wish I had taken them to more art museums this year. I wish I had yanked out their earbuds and made them enjoy Schubert lieder while we carpool. I wish I had spent the evenings reciting poetry instead of holed up on Facebook pretending I don’t hear them roller skating on the stairs. But I didn’t, and Christmas morning is supposed to be pleasant, not corrective.
The exception: It’s fine to up the ante in a field the kids already enjoy. You’re really into drawing Manga? Here’s a collection of weird Hokusai art. You like decorating cakes? Here’s a starter fondant set. And so on.
The 45-degrees-off present. If they told me about something specific, it’s because they want that specific thing. We don’t have to get it, of course. We remind our kids repeatedly that wish lists are to help us get ideas, and they are not order forms, and that surprises are fun. But in most cases, if we can’t or won’t get exactly what they asked for, we get something else entirely, not something that sort of resembles what they asked for. That “almost, but not quite” space is really uncomfortable for kids.
The exception: If you’ve done your research and read the reviews and truly think you’ve found a better version than what they want, then trust yourself as an adult consumer. This works best with older kids.
The present that’s so nice, we already bought it eleven times. I was going to calculate how many presents we’ve bought over the last eighteen years, but let’s just say that the labor abuses in China are basically all our fault. Baby sea lions who die because there is too much bubble wrap in the world? That’s on us. I’ll claim global warming, too — that’s how many tea sets our eight daughters have worked their way through. The upshot is that I often find a gift that looks completely perfect, just so right, and don’t realize why it looks so right until, on December 7 of 2015, Amazon helpfully informs me, “You last bought this present on December 7 of 2014.” And then I remember that on Dec. 7 of 2014, it told me the same thing, except it said “2013.”
The exception: Yesterday, my four-year-old had an Elsa/Spiderman birthday party. Today, Facebook showed me “memories from last year,” including photos of my three-year-old’s Elsa/Spiderman birthday party. She got a bigger sparkly dress and a replacement coloring book with more glow-in-the-dark tattoos, because that’s what her little heart desired. Two years in a row.
The thing that makes me slightly ill to buy. Listen to your instincts. You know your kid, and you know what you’re trying to achieve in your family. If the kid wants something desperately, but you know it’s going to end in tears, listen to your instincts. If your kid is yearning for some item, but it just feels contrary to the spirit of Christmas, listen to your instincts. You’re the parent. Listen to your instincts.
The exception: Nah, there is no exception. You’re in charge. Be kind and understanding, but remember that kids need to learn that they’re not going to get everything they want. It’s okay to talk to them about it, if you decided not to get a certain thing.
***
But! All this talk about presents, and shopping, and buying . . . isn’t it kind of materialistic? Isn’t Jesus the reason for the season?
Yes, He is. We do good works, we give alms, we go to Mass, we sing Christmas hymns . . . and we show our love for each, and our joy that Christ has come into the world, by giving each other loving, thoughtful presents. That’s not materialism, that’s just one way to show love. It’s not the only way, but it’s not a bad way, either!
Every Friday, I do a weekly menu round-up, sharing my dinner successes and failures, new recipes, cooking tips, and general chatter about food. I’d love to hear the food news from your household, too, so please share in the comments, or leave a link to your blog with the InLinkz button at the end.
As you can see, this is vol. 14. You can still find the other 13 posts in this series at Patheos (my archives will be here with me at Aleteia eventually. And yes, I know the image still says “Patheos” on it. It’s on my list). Here’s the introduction from the first post:
We’re busy people. I work from home, I have two pre-schoolers and eight other kids in three different schools, my husband works late most nights and has a long commute, the kids all have clubs and activities and jobs, and I spend two hours in the van on an easy driving day. I don’t expect myself to cook like someone who’s home all afternoon, or someone who has leisure in the evening, or someone who cares deeply and intensely about optimal diets. We can’t afford the farmer’s market, and our garden stinks.
I stay within a certain budget, but I no longer have to shop as cheaply as possible. It’s worth it to me to pay a little more for convenience or variety. We now have an Aldi nearby, which means that foods that used to be luxuries are now staples.
I don’t have a crock pot or a microwave, because I’m stubborn and I enjoy suffering.
I started making a weekly menu several years ago, planning and listing and buying only exactly what we needed to eat, because we were super broke and I had to make, say, $30 stretch for seven days. The menu habit stuck after our situation improved, and I’m glad it did. I hate hate hate grinding out the menu on Saturday morning, but I love always knowing what’s for dinner each night, and always having all the ingredients on hand.
General goals:
-I try not to make any main dish more than twice a month.
-I try not to serve chips more than twice a week.
-I try to serve a vegetable with each meal. I am for produce in season, but frozen veggies are still veggies.
-I try to serve three things at dinner, but two happens a lot.
-I try to provide a balanced diet over the course of the week, rather than over the course of a day.
-I try to make sure there’s always yogurt, cheese, pretzels, fresh fruit, and fresh vegetables in the house, so the kids can get themselves healthy snacks. This is especially important for kids who are picky about dinner, because I refuse to stress out about everybody eating dinner.
-I try to serve meals that at least half the family enjoys eating.
-I try to get the kids involved with cooking when possible, even if it’s just peeling carrots or measuring out water for rice.
-I let them have straight-up dessert, plus candy and maybe soda, on weekends, but loosely limit sugar during the week.
-I try to make at least a few actual homemade-from-scratch meals each week, but don’t beat myself up for filling in the rest with semi-homemade or box-and-bag food.
-I fail in each of these things repeatedly, but I try again next week, or next next week. It’s a constant slide and correction, slide and correction.
-I try to remember that it’s just food.
Okay, now for vol. 14.
I took last week off, because it included Thanksgiving, and the internet was already awash with blurry photos of cranberry sauce. But I am happy to report that we had a very lovely day. My parents and two of my brothers and their nice little dog Davy came over. I completely ruined the gravy — really, you couldn’t even pour it, much less eat it — and boiled the artichokes into oblivion, but the rest was great. Even though the door fell off the oven (if this happens, just put it back on).
For a successful Thanksgiving day, I recommend two things: encourage your father and your husband to agree not to talk about Donald Trump; and have three teenage daughters.
Our menu this year:
-Turkey, of course. Ours was 25 pounds, same as the baby. My husband injected the turkey with some kind of tequila mixture, and spent all day basting it with gallons of butter. Succulent and wonderful. And the turkey wasn’t bad, either, ha. -“Gravy”
[img attachment=”81456″ size=”large” caption=”As an adult in the Faith, I exercised moderation and only had one portion of each thing. I think I will wither away.” align=”alignnone”]
Dessert:
[img attachment=”81455″ size=”large” alt=”food blog thanksgiving pies” align=”alignnone”]
-Pumpkin pie from the recipe on the can
–Salted bourbon pecan pie (this recipe has you making pecan pie on top of pumpkin pie, which I thought was -ridiculous, so I just made extra of the pecan layer)
-Apple Pie with pretty crusts
-and vanilla ice cream and whipped cream
This year, I finally tried that trick of freezing the butter and grating it into the flour mixture for pie crust dough (actually I made my daughter do the grating), and it turned out wonderful. It came right together and was soft and pliable but not too fra-gee-lay.
Whew, that’s Thanksgiving. Now for this past week:
SATURDAY
Giant hamburgers, chips
I always called cash “the gift from the heart,” but now I think the best gift of all is five+ pounds of local beef received as a thank-you from a cattle farmer whose granddaughter we’ve been driving to school. Fantastic. Juicy, flavorful, and just . . . I don’t know, extra meaty. Nothing like local granddaughter. HA. Gonna keep telling that joke ’til it’s funny.
SUNDAY
Ham and oven-roasted potatoes
This was the day I spent all day at the top of the stairs turning this
[img attachment=”81449″ size=”large” alt=”food blog landing mess” align=”alignnone”]
into this
[img attachment=”81450″ size=”large” alt=”food blog landing halfway done” align=”alignnone”]
while my husband made supper. I think it was eight pounds of ham and ten pounds of potatoes. He chopped the potatoes (skin on), drizzled them with olive oil, added salt and pepper, and then tossed in a bunch of whole garlic cloves, which turned into little packets of heavenly garlic cream. The kids fished them out of their portions in horror, and I ate them all.
MONDAY
Pulled pork sandwiches, red onions, cole slaw
As you can see, we crept right up to the verge of serving a green vegetable on Monday, but then retreated again, confused by quantities of mayonnaise and barbecue sauce.
For the pulled pork, I just threw the pork on a shallow pan, poured a bottle of hard cider over it, sprinkled it with salt and pepper, covered it with foil, and put it in a low oven for a few hours. I think I’ve been cooking it too high, and this time it really fell apart like it’s supposed to.
TUESDAY
Hot dogs, chips, leftover pie
Tuesday is the days known as “I can’t believe it’s only Tuesday” at our house. It goes straight from “I need a note because we’re running late” to “WHY IS IT DARK ALREADY???” Therefore, hot dogs.
WEDNESDAY
Honey garlic chicken with red potatoes and broccoli
This is one of those one-pan recipes from Damn Delicious, and I would qualify this particular recipe more as “Reasonably Tasty” rather than Damn Delicious. The kids loved it, and my husband and I thought it tasted fine. I did like the charred broccoli, and I thought the sauce was pretty good.
[img attachment=”81451″ size=”large” alt=”food blog honey chicken” align=”alignnone”]
So, we’ve been using a pepper grinder, and it’s fun, and some family members claim they can taste a difference over pre-ground pepper. Fine. So Aldi then started selling pink Himalayan salt in a grinder for $1.99, which I bought because I have been asking for pink Himalayan salt for a birthday present for years, now, and nobody will get it for me. I saw one of those pink salt lamps for sale at the Salvation Army and I almost got it because it looks so cool, but then I was afraid the cashier would think I was falling for those bogus “wellness” claims, where you install this salt lamp by your bedside and in the morning, your joints will be more mindful or something. And I’m too smart for that! So I didn’t get the lamp.
Anyway, I’m telling you this because you may find yourself whipping together a quick honey garlic sauce for your chicken, and you may find yourself absentmindedly grinding and grinding and grinding away while you think about something else, and then suddenly you realize . . . . crap, that was salt, not pepper.
“Where’s your mindfulness now?” she asked derisively, hoping there would be an Edward G. Robinson joke in there somewhere.
This may only be funny if you are my therapist, and probably not even then. That guy needs a raise.
Oh my gosh, that was a long post. They aren’t usually this long! It took me far too long to get the photos to show up, so if the InLinkz code doesn’t work, I’m just going to inject myself with tequila.
By now, my fellow Christians, you will have seen the newspaper headline that screams, GOD ISN’T FIXING THIS.
You mad?
First, please remember that the people who pass that headline around are scared and angry, and feeling helpless makes it worse. Why not blame Christians? If the only Christians I knew were politicians who use God as a tasty bit of voter bait, I’d be angry at them, too. If the only Christians I knew were verse-quoters whose lips constantly moved in prayer as they stockpiled ammo, I’d be angry at them, too. If the only Christians I knew were the ones who say that Starbucks hates Jesus, and who then call for assassination, I’d be angry at Christians, too. If these are God’s true spokesmen, then I’d be disgusted with religious sentiment, too.
Second, let’s acknowledge this one more time: no, prayer doesn’t “fix” things – not directly or obviously, not most of the time, and not right now. When we pray, we don’t expect God to prick His ears up and go, “Yessir! I’ll make the gun violence stop ASAP. Gosh, I thought you’d never ask.” If “God isn’t fixing this,” — well, He never said He would, not yet. He gave us free will, which we may use for good or for ill. He gave us free will, and He Himself personally suffered because of it.
God won’t “fix” gun violence by fiat. If we expected that, we could also reasonably expect that He’d fix AIDS and starvation and weevils in my vegetable garden. But we do tolerate many kinds of evil, large and small, because we understand that it is humans who bring it into the world voluntarily. If we believe that God gave us genuine free will, we have to accept that people are free to abuse it.
But isn’t it true that we shouldn’t be content to just pray? That we should take action of some kind?
Of course it is. “Ora et Labora,” wise St. Benedict told his monks: “Pray and work.” We have the duty to work and we have the duty to pray, neglecting neither one.
What does “work” look like in the face of a massacre, though? That’s the real question. Many of those who are now “prayer shaming” think that the only meaningful work or action at this moment is more gun control. I don’t know enough about current law to express an opinion on legislation. I do see a grotesque fixation on guns in some quarters, and I see an equally grotesque trust in the power of government in other quarters, and both fixations lead to their own kind of murderous disaster. I don’t know what the legislative solution is. Fortunately, that’s not up to me.
So what other kind of work or action can we take, besides legislative action?
When someone asked Mother Teresa what we can do to promote world peace, she said, “Go home and love your family.” This from a woman who left her own home, who emptied herself out for people who had no home. This from a woman who did promote world peace in a tangible way, working with John Paul II to bring down Communism. She was not given to speaking in platitudes.
So how will it help to go home and love our families? How will that prevent gun violence?
Again: not by fiat. It is true that people who were raised with love are less likely to fit the profile of mass murderers, who have in common a burning desire for stability and meaning in their lives. It is true that people from stable, loving families are more likely to have the strength of character and confidence to sacrifice themselves for other people, both victims and perpetrators. People who are fluent in love do sometimes disarm the violent, talking them down from harming anyone, or using their own bodies as shields. These are actions that can only come from love. There is no evolutionary reason to behave this way.
But again: free will. People can come from the stablest, lovingest family in the world and still succumb to mental illness, or they can be perfectly sane and simply choose evil. People do this every day and then some.
Honestly? I don’t even know if I’ve said anything here. I do know that my job is the same as it was yesterday and the same as it will be tomorrow: to go home and love my family. If we go home and love our families, we will be doing what we can in our small, personal worlds, for the sake of the world as a whole. The only sensible way to behave is to go home and teach love. Increase love. Model love for your children. Pray for love. This is the only thing we can do. This is the one thing we must do.
A family praying together is like the marrow deep inside a bone, working away to produce red and white blood cells. It may seem like the hands and the brain and the muscles are doing all the work, but there in the marrow – there is where the necessary work is done.
Prayer gives us the courage to act in the face of panic. Pray gives us the wisdom to stay calm in the face of fear. Prayer gives us the strength to love in the face of evil. Prayer binds us to Christ so that, no matter if we live or die, we will find our way to Him, and to our true home in the end.
This is why we pray in the face of massacre. Never doubt that it is what we must do.
