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Halloween Chili

In an attempt to encourage a little nutrition on Halloween, I always make a big pot of chili for dinner. I let it simmer in the slow cooker, and everyone can help themselves to a bowl in between Trick-or-Treating or scary movie viewing. It’s been our tradition for years. I adore making our Halloween chili.

In a perfect storm of reasons that included a 36 hour trip to OH and back, a monster of a cold, and simple forgetfulness, I neglected to buy ingredients for my chili. I lamented this matter from a horizontal position on my couch the day before Halloween, as I nursed a wicked virus. What would I serve for Halloween dinner? My kids would be disappointed. Forgetting to make the Halloween chili was almost as bad as not serving turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. I hated to break tradition, but I had no energy to shop for ingredients or cook. Oh, well, I thought, we’ll just have “whatever.” I’d try to muster up the energy to make one of my go-to meals, like grilled cheese sandwiches. Or I’d just open a can of soup. Whatever. But still, I felt like I’d be letting everyone down.

An out-of-the-blue phone call came later that evening from a friend I hadn’t spoken to in a while. “I saw on Facebook that you’re not feeling well,” she said. “I’m going to drop off some food. You can eat it tomorrow for dinner.” It was pot of chili!

Later, she told me that while she had been making the chili, God whispered to her to bring some to our family. So we had chili after all for Halloween dinner, lovingly made by a dear friend, along with her homemade chocolate chip cookies!

That chili meal from my friend was no coincidence. It was a sweet, tender gift from a loving Father who showed me once again that He sees my needs, cares about them, and is so intimately involved in my life that He made the chili dinner happen for me. He covered all the details! From His heart through an obedient godly friend’s hands, He fed us our traditional Halloween meal, because He’s good like that. And candidly, it tasted way better than mine.

Denim Jumpers Are Not My Style

I cannot believe how fast this summer has flown! This, the last week before school begins, always brings me to a place of wistfulness, and grieving the end of leisurely beach days, sleeping a bit later, etc. But I am gearing up to begin homeschooling my third-grader next week. And because I’ve been getting the usual looks askance and questions about why I am, once again, embarking on this journey, I thought I’d format this post into a Q & A based on some of the most popular questions I’ve been asked about homeschooling. Sound good?

1) Why, for the love of God, would you want to go back to having your most active child home with you every single day, when you could, in contrast, have six straight hours of freedom Monday through Friday?

Simply put, I want to soak up every precious minute with my youngest. I have a 20yo who is on the brink of moving out into her own life, and so I know how very fast these parenting years go by. Little Squirt is a joy to be around (on most days), and he is a “sponge.” Everything interests him. I want to treasure this year of teaching him, especially because he wants me to. Soon enough, he’ll be into girls, and I’ll be relegated to the “uncool.” At present, he still thinks I’m awesome.

2) Do you think the school system is the devil?

Absolutely not! I adored both Little Squirt’s kindergarten and first/second grade teachers. I loved the principal and the school. There wasn’t a thing I disliked about the system. He may go back for fourth grade. This is a personal decision, and one I feel called to by God. We're taking this year by year.

3)Do you think I'm an awful parent for wanting to send my children to school?

No. I’ve sent all three of my children to school at one time or another. And the big kids chose to attend public high school. Homeschooling is not for everyone. I would never judge anyone’s choice of how they choose to educate their children. It’s a very personal decision, and each child is unique.

4) Are you really the "homeschooling type"?

Um....I'm not sure I understand the question. Is there a stereotype of homeschooling mothers? I was my child’s first teacher, and I love him and know him more than anyone else does. I’ve homeschooled for seven years in the past. I know I can manage third grade with my youngest. Does that answer your question?

5) I guess what I was really asking is will you now wear denim jumpers and grow your own food organically?

No and no. I’ll continue to dress in my sporty/classic style, and wear my favorite Gap jeans. Or sweats on my bloated days. And I abhor gardening. I’ll still shop at the grocery store, especially Joseph’s for my favorite guacamole, and Trader Joe's for the jasmine green tea that I love. I wish I could raise a few chickens, though, since they’re so cute. But the chicken ordinance did not pass in my town, sadly. I’m sometimes lazy and make boxed stuffing and put out a bowl of grapes for dinner and call it the "vegetable." So,in other words, I will still be the same ME with all my usual qualities and quirkiness. I just will be adding homeschooling as an addition to the quirkiness.


And, last but not least, the most popular question of all:

6) Will your child be socialized?

Have you met my youngest?? The child is such an extrovert, he will talk to a brick wall! (True story.) I don’t believe that socialization best takes place during the school day in a group of his peers. Have you ever mingled in the schoolyard during recess? It's not always a pretty picture. Living real life and the interaction with people of various ages is socialization. But just so you’re not concerned about him, I'll let you know that we've joined a homeschooling group where we’ll do field trips with the other moms and kids. And I’ve signed him up for a homeschool swimming class, a martial arts class, and an Adventure Club. Plus he’s in a small group at church. He also has several homeschooling friends, and other buddies that attend school. No worries, people. He won't be raised by wolves.

So, there you have it. Here’s to a great school year for us all!

Palm Trees And Sunsets

I’m thoroughly enjoying this vacation and soaking up every bit of it, especially with the realization that we will be heading back to home and reality this weekend. The past two weeks have been the perfect mix of rest and play. Super Hubs and I agree on that balance for vacations, which is one of the many ways that we fit together so well. We like to do some adventuring and exploring, but we also relish our down-time. I’ve read 6 books, and I’m guessing my husband has read twice as many. We’ve meandered along the shore, leisurely kicking the waves and gathering shells. We’ve enjoyed a date night almost every other evening, which often was just a glass of wine under the palm trees.

We do, however, have an active nine-year-old who is not content to sit for hours on the beach with a novel. Little Squirt has been up at dawn every day, asking for the agenda. I took him on a horseback trail ride, in which he proudly road his horse, Casey, up in the front behind the guide and talked her ear off for the hour. He was a bit disappointed, though, because he expected lassos and Indians. He inquired if he could take Casey home with us, reassuring the guide that he had “lots of carrots.” He felt insulted that she wouldn’t allow him to.

We’ve taken numerous bike rides on the beautiful trails, sometimes stopping to feed horses or visiting the petting zoo. We’ve gone cruising on the Vagabond, spotting dolphins frolicking in the water. Little Squirt was baffled that they didn’t jump through hoops and wave like they do at Sea World.

Rock Star has set his own pace on this vacation, sleeping in, working out, and watching sports. But he’s joined us for dinners out, walks to Harbour Town for ice cream, and the occasional beach day.

It’s been a good two weeks. For all the sunny days, starfish sightings, fabulous cuisine, palm trees and sunsets, I am grateful.

Dancing With Danger

Today was apparently Sea Life Petting Zoo Day at the ocean. On my morning walk down the shore, I nearly stepped on a jelly fish. And then I ran into a beached baby sting ray. Under normal circumstances, like watching him backstroke in an aquarium, I’d find the sting ray kind of adorable. He was all flappy and scared on the sand, and trying to get in the water. But he had a stinger poking midway down his tail. And I knew that stinger could sting. That stinger could maim, even. Or kill. His cute-and-adorable act did not fool me. I wanted him incarcerated. However, a gentleman with a bigger heart for sea life than I have used a beach chair to flip him back into the water. So off he swam, in search of human prey to sting, I am certain.

Later, I was relaxing in my beach chair, reading a book with my toes in the water. Suddenly, a lifeguard down the beach madly blew his whistle, signaling beachers to get out of the water. I made sure my husband and son were safely on sand before making a bee-line to the lifeguard to find out what was what. Apparently, a sand shark was spotted by a fisherman. Sand sharks are not friendly. In fact, tangoing with one can lead to a painful death.

I ran back to my family to tell them about the sand shark, when I noticed a large crowd had formed around my beach chair. Apparently, according to my husband, a rogue eel had taken a liking to my beach chair and was swimming happily around it, when it was noticed by a some bystanders who screamed, which caused the eel to begin racing all over the sand. The lifeguard again blew his whistle, and shouted for all swimmers to come ashore while the renegade eel darted between feet. (At that point, the ocean was probably safer than the beach, but that wasn’t written in the lifeguard’s handbook.) The killer eel was eventually picked up by the tail by a very brave or very stupid vacationer, and flung into the ocean. I gathered my beach things and told my family it was time to go home.

The point of my post is that the sand shark saved my life. If I hadn’t run down the beach to hear about the sand shark, I would have been sitting in my beach chair when the eel came visiting, and that would have been the end of me. If the eel hadn’t done me in with its electric shock or however it murders human beings, I would have died of a heart attack. So I owe one to the sand shark. But that doesn't mean I want to be friends.

Actually, I’d enjoy the ocean so much more if it didn’t have all the sea life swimming in it. I’d allow the dolphins to stay because I view them as dogs with fins. But everything else can go. Except for the harmless starfish and sand dollars.

In any case, I made an executive decision that tomorrow will be a Pool Day.

Vacationing

It’s Day #2 of our Hilton Head Island vacation and I am about one-third relaxed. It always takes us high-strung types a few days of down-time to fully unwind. This vacation comes after a few intense weeks. A son in a bad car accident (but okay, thank you, Lord) which led to the totaling of my little Toyota and the purchase of my new Sorrento, left us drained. And the Casey Anthony trial, which I felt an intense connection to and my subsequent deep disappointment over the verdict of acquittal (more about my feelings on that later) has made my head spin. God is always sovereign, and I am feeling grateful to Him for our perfectly-timed getaway to the ocean.

We’ve spent two days at the beach, swimming and sunning, and my corpse-white shade of skin is beginning to tan. I’ve devoured two novels, watched golfers from our master suite deck, and refereed several arguments between my sons. I watched an osprey eat a squirrel, and made friends with a little blue salamander by the pool.

I love these days, when my biggest decision is what to do for dinner. Ahhh....now for a nap.

Guilty As Charged

Breaking News: I have momentarily interrupted this blog due to the Casey Anthony Trial.

I seriously need an intervention. I have been obsessed with this case for the past three years. I even drove to see The Anthonys home on a trip to Orlando last year with a friend, much to her mortification. My family is going to Orlando in November, so guess where I’m going to drag them?

In between entertaining Little Squirt with movies, beach days and trips to the library, I have been glued to my computer to watch the trial live stream. And when I’m not watching the trial, I am reading blogs about the trial or observing talking heads discuss the trial or viewing the HLN evening lineup of shows that review the trial. I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself when this is all over. Big sigh.

I now know so much about trial law that I believe I could pass the Bar. I could be an alternate to the alternate jurors. I am peppering my conversations with legalese like, “Objection!” and “What says the defense?” People are beginning to think I’m weird.

I have always been interested in the mystery genre of reading and tv watching. This bizarre, real life case of a FL mother accused of murdering her 2yo has pulled on my heartstrings. I am thirsty for justice!

So, I’ll be back. I’m just a woman consumed at present.

Them's Fightin' Words!

Little Squirt is a peacemaker by nature. He has no fightin’ bones in his body. One day he told his older brother about some boys on the playground that were lying on top of him and wouldn’t let him get up. His tougher, wrestler older brother offered words of counsel on how to manhandle these schoolyard hooligans. He had a long conversation with Little Squirt, complete with demonstrations, using terms like, “Sucker punch” and “Forearm smash.” After a moment, eyes wide with horror, my little boy said, “But that’s not the kind of guy I am! I don’t hurt people!”

It’s so true. Little Squirt is about as sweet as they come. His heart bled to find a lonely ant in the house, and he hurried to find him a snack. He won’t step on bugs. He gets weepy during sad Pixar films. His teacher says he’s the tender-hearted child who comforts the crying in his classroom. He’s kind and sensitive to the core.

That is why I was quite surprised to find his writing assignment on “My Life As An Ant.”
“It would be cool if I was an ant because I could kill enemies and take their heads off.”

Apparently, my sweet boy has an Ant Alter Ego. Who knew??

Fainting and Trust

Last night I had one of those vivid, horror dreams. In my dream, evil alien creatures were taking over the world and rounding up humans and putting them in prisons. Think Stephen King meets The Holocaust. My family was taken captive, but then they let my husband and children go free, and kept me captive. The goal of the aliens was to take over my mind and body. There were some other frightened humans wandering about along with me.

Suddenly, I saw this big, strong, handsome man. He seemed to be working at the prison. I looked him in the eyes and begged him to save me from the evil. He said he would. Suddenly, we could hear the aliens approaching. The big, strong, handsome man said to me, “Pretend to faint in my arms. It’s protection. Then the evil ones will leave.” Sounds very sexist and Harlequin-Romancey, yes? But it worked. The evil aliens couldn’t touch me when I fainted away in the arms of my protector. Then I was able to escape from the prison, and go back safely to my family. That was my dream last night.

Then this very morning, my daily devotion from Streams in the Desert was all about fainting.
“What do you do when you are about to faint physically? You cannot do anything. You cease from your own doings. In your faintness, you fall upon the shoulder of some strong loved one. You lean hard. You rest. You lie still and trust........And that is all God asks of you, His dear child, when you grow faint in the fierce fires of affliction. Do not try to be strong. Just be still and know that He is God, and He will sustain you, and bring you through.”

Thanks for the dream and the next-day affirmation, God. I love it when you speak clearly.

Keeping The Nest

My daughter told me today that I need to blog more so she has something to read over the summer. I’ve been quite MIA on the writing front lately. I’ve been camping in a season of dryness, feeling uncreative and wordless. But since my daughter asked, I will write about her.

Butterfly just officially finished her last class of her sophomore year of college today. This marks the halfway point of her undergrad career. How is that possible? It seems like yesterday I was dropping her off for her first semester, and crying a bucket of tears on the six hour drive home. I seriously did. I cried for much of the semester, come to think of it. With my firstborn so far from home and my youngest finally in school full-time after years of homeschooling, it was a lonely season. I had full days to myself for the first time in 18 years and I hated it.

“Dude!” I can hear you exclaiming. “What the heck is wrong with you? Nobody hates having full days to themselves!” Well, I did. And it wasn’t as if I lied around eating bonbons. I did loads of volunteer work, wrote, took a yoga class and hung out with friends. But here’s the odd little fact about me: I love being a mother. I'd wanted to be a mother since I was five years old. And before I was a real mother I mothered plants, pets and my baby brother. After my kids grow up I’m certain I'll be mothering my grandchildren, my friends and the odd stray cat that ventures on my front porch. If I could be a Professional Mother, I would be. Call it retro or passe or Donna Reed Days Gone By. I don’t care. It’s who I am.

Back to Butterfly. She isn’t coming home this summer. She was blessed to get a great job at an amusement park in OH where she’ll be working with her friends and boyfriend. She’ll be paid well and will stay on campus. I’m happy for her, because I know it’s going to be a one-of-a-kind experience. Do I feel an emptiness in my heart that she won’t be with us this summer? Absolutely! I enjoy our girl-talks, movie nights and lunches out for hot wings. But the half-way mark of her college career means she’s moving closer to that day when she moves out forever. And so I need to begin letting go now.

Dang it! Before I had children, when I imagined motherhood, I pictured snuggling with baby lotion-scented infants, wiping runny noses, and kindergarten art work hanging on the fridge. I didn’t imagine the good-byes. However do the mother birdies do it?

Happy Easter!

Oh, give thanks to the Lord, for he is good;
His steadfast love endures forever.
The Lord is my strength and my song
And he has become my salvation.

The right hand of the Lord has triumphed,
The right hand of the Lord is exalted!
The stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone; This is the Lord’s doing and it is marvelous in our eyes.

This very day the Lord has acted:
Let us rejoice!
God’s name be praised!

From Psalm 118

Birthday Eve Musings

Here I am again. The sun will soon set, the night will come, and at 8:30am tomorrow morning, I will officially add another year to my age.

I never wanted to be one of Those Women who fall into a depression with each approaching birthday; counting every wrinkle, complaining about their added poundage and creaky bones. But candidly, I’ve become one of Those Women this past year. I am feeling convicted that one of my most commonly used phrases has been, “I’m getting old” (said with a dramatic sigh of disgust).

But beginning with this year, I want to celebrate each day in a deeper way. No more negative self talk about aging. I want to embrace this next age as a gift, because, in reality, it’s better than the alternative. I feel fit and youthful and excited about the future. The past few years have been the most creative of my life. I am wiser and more comfortable in my skin than ever in the past. I know who I am, what I like and why, what doesn’t work for me, how to choose friends wisely, how to dress best for my body type. I know my passions, my goals, my worldview. The first half of my life was a lot of guess work, but now I have things better figured out. Would I want to go backward? No. I like being where I am in life, and I am (on most days) proud of who God has grown me to be. Maturity is one of the gifts that we only receive with time. I’ll take that over youth.

If I had to pick one area I’ve grown in since my last birthday, it’s been in my ability to be honest. I have had more honest conversations with God, others and myself than ever in my life. It’s been freeing to let go of the people-pleasing and discover a more authentic and healthier way to live.

God has been good. He has given me so many moments-as-gifts since my last birthday. These are a few of my favorites:

~Weekly date nights with my favorite guy
~Gathering for prayer with my Intercessory team, in whatever “closet” we can find
~Long discussions about books over wine with my Chocolate Pie Book Club
~Watching my youngest dance with my niece and nephew
~Lazy days spent reading by the ocean in Hilton Head
~Late night talks with my teens hanging out on my bed
~Fabulous sunset dinners in Cabo San Lucas with my family, Chris & Cintia
~Cooking and laughing side by side with my Cool Chicks Cooking Club
~Drinks and heart-to-heart talks with my closest girlfriends
~Every retreat with my Transforming Community
~Prayer walking with my youngest at a crisis shelter
~Kisses from my sweet little Murphy nieces
~Monday morning writing dates with a friend
~Receiving a surprise diamond ring from my husband at a silent auction
~Dancing with my brother to “We Are Family.”

What else? I’m probably forgetting a whole bunch of great moments, since I’m getting older. (Oops. There I go again.) It’s time to pop my evening fish oil capsule, and be on my way. Thank you God, for giving me life!

Spring Break

Spring Break. Oh, really? I’m struggling to figure out where the spring is hiding, and definitely needing a break after being a one-woman entertainment committee for the past week. I’ve provided my youngest with lots of friend time, movie dates, and even an afternoon at Chuck E. Cheese. That’s love for you. And I’ve got witnesses, just in case he ever has a memory lapse down the road, and questions my motherly devotion in therapy.

Then we went east for a few days. Not south where the sun shines and the ocean beckons, but east to OH where it actually began snowing at the exact moment we arrived at our hotel. Uh, Spring Break?

We were there to visit Butterfly at her college, and I’d weather anything to see my kid. (Pun not intended, but clever nonetheless.) We enjoyed a hibachi dinner with the family, Butterfly’s boyfriend and her two roommates while the snow fell. Little Squirt logged in lots of swim time at the hotel pool, and Rock Star sat through three criminal justice classes, giving him a taste of college in a year and a half. He loved it.

Too quickly, we were on the road again, driving back home, the standard “Good-bye, Daughter” lump in my throat. It’s an odd thing, this life transition. It’s nearing the end of Butterfly’s sophomore year in college, yet each separation feels fresh and raw, like an old wound that begins bleeding again after the scab is torn off. Rock Star will be leaving the nest as well, soon enough. Saying good-bye to my children feels so wrong.

I don’t like this kids-growing-up thing, I want a Life Rewind Button for my birthday. I’ll take the year ‘03 back; homeschooling the first two with the baby in my arms. That was a good year for this mommy.

I’m reading Joyce Rupp’s Praying Your Goodbyes, and I quote, “Goodbyes will always be with us. So will hellos. Praying a goodbye can bring us to the doorway of new beginnings. The seed of resurrection in our souls will grow again.”

Easter season is a good time for me to remember this.

Butter Me Up

I’ve gotten bitten by the Spring Cleaning bug in a beastie way. I’m tackling drawers, closets and rooms that have evaded my purgation all winter long. I’m being ruthless in my disposal. It’s all going, going, gone. Bwa-ha-ha.

I am not a hoarder by any means. I prefer to go lightly through life tossing the old, the outgrown, the no-longer-useful. But with a family of five, you collect quite a few of the olds, the outgrowns, and the no-longer-usefuls over the winter months. Now that I have a bit of time and inclination, I’m sorting and stacking like a preschooler on caffeine.

Yesterday I attacked my Cookbook Cabinet with relish and gusto, prepared to part with at half of the forty-odd cookbooks I’ve collected over the years. But in the end, I could only say good-bye to six, and even that just about killed me. I have a great emotional attachment to my cookbooks. Each comes with stories, a piece of our family’s history, and an ample amount of food stains. I find many of my recipes on-line, yet I still use about ten of my cookbooks regularly. But the rest are too precious to part with. They would probably only net a few dollars in a garage sale, but they are priceless to me.

The ones that didn’t make the cut still haunt me. One was a cooking-for-one book that I purchased when I moved out from my parents’ house and into my own apartment at 22. Determined to begin living as a responsible adult, I came home from my nursing job at Children’s every night to cook a hot meal. I cooked through the entire book, sometimes sharing a meal with a friend or a date. That book was my teacher.

There was a basic cookbook that came into my marriage with Super Hubs. He cooked for me for the first time on our fourth date, which coincided with Valentine’s Day. He made such a wonderful veal piccata that I was intimidated by his mad culinary skills. I had no idea his mother had talked him through each step by phone.

I parted with a vegetarian cookbook, when I went through my brief Earth Muffin stage in the 90s. I served my husband and toddler a form of tofu almost every night until Super Hubs put a stop to it. I haven’t opened the book since.

I gave away a couple of Martha Stewart’s because I don’t care for her cooking style. (Sorry, Martha.) And remember Oprah’s cook, Rosie, who was launched into 15 minutes of fame and came out with her own cookbook? I never actually tried anything in it, so out it went.

Every other cookbook will remain safely in the cabinet, until either we move or I die and my offspring decide to purge my non-valuables. I guess I won’t need them at that point.

Keep Watch, Dear Lord

Sometimes, I have no words, even in prayer. My heart simply bleeds for the people of Japan, beloved children of God, as events go from bad to worse. Earthquakes, tsunamis, nuclear power plant meltdowns.

I offer to the injured, the grieving, the homeless, the frightened, the workers, the caregivers, this classic prayer. To all who suffer:

Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep.

Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love's sake. Amen.

(From the night service of Compline, The Book of Common Prayer)

Hello, Gorgeous!

I’ve got spring fever, my friends. Yep, I’ve got it bad. The snow has melted, the days are lengthening, and yesterday I saw my first crocus popping out of the earth. It’s always a big day for me when I spy my first crocus. It gives me hope and makes me long to grab my flip flops.

I happened upon a sweet little poem that describes my sentiments perfectly.


First a howling blizzard woke us,
Then the rain came down to soak us,
And now before the eye can focus -
Crocus.  ~Lilja Rogers

The Bright Sadness

I just returned from a three day retreat for my Spiritual Formation program. This fourth retreat marks the half-way point. It’s been a full year since I began the journey with these fellow sojourners, and I have another year to go. The little book case in my library is filled with the twenty books I’ve purchased and read so far as part of this program. Some have been required reading, and some of the books I’ve been drawn to and subsequently devoured vocaciously. They’ve challenged me, filled me up, and acted as spiritual companions; authors who have been seasoned in soul formation and will “walk alongside me” whenever I pick up their books.

My other spiritual companions are the fellow retreatants whom I see at the quarterly retreats. I’ve grown to truly love some of them. We’ve quickly gotten beyond the surfacey talk to deep soul matters, and they are closer to me than family. Each time we meet, though, is bittersweet. I’m thrilled to see them, catch up, and hear how God is working in their lives. But each retreat flies by so quickly. My heart feels heavy during the Leaving Service on the last day, knowing we’ll soon say good-bye; someday for the last time. But then again, I have hope that I’ll see them all in Heaven.

Today is Ash Wednesday, the day that ushers us into the Lenten Season. It is filled with the bittersweet knowledge of our mortality and sinfulness, yet with the hope of redemption.

“A journey, a pilgrimage! Yet, as we begin it, as we make the first step into the “bright sadness” of Lent, we see~ far, far away~ the destination. It is the joy of Easter, it is the entrance into the glory of the kingdom.” (Alexander Schmemann)

A wise mentor has suggested that the Lenten season is a time to seek God with all of your heart. Is there a way that you are holding back from God? What is one step you can make to begin to return to Him? I am using this season to fast from something personal that has been “cluttering” my soul. My hope is to create more space for God’s presence, so I can love Him with all of my heart, soul, mind and strength.

May God fill you with hope, my friends.

Book or Nook?

Super Hubs loves his Nook, and he’s been trying to get me to change teams. But I won’t budge. Reading the Nook makes me feel like I’m cheating on the library. I understand all the benefits. It’s light and portable and can fit in my purse. I can upload it with e-books and take it on our annual beach vaca, instead of packing the usual eleven hardcovers that weight down our car. It’s current and trendy. I get all that. I really do. But can you read it in the bathtub? I think not.

The Nook reminds me of Rosie, The Jetson’s robotic housekeeper. She was able-bodied and efficient, and got the job done. But Rosie had no soul. That’s what an E-reader lacks for me.

Real books have souls. They have artful covers which attract me, and a comfortable, musty smell like a grandmother’s attic. They become soft and and worn with time and love. They exude a sense of history; the gift inscription from a mentor, the pencil scribbling on p.36 from my eighteen-month old, the water stains from an accidental dunking. They fill my book shelves, adding a colorful, homey coziness to my house and giving people a sense of who we are by what we read. They are friendly for a snuggle under the covers.

My first book collection ever was my Nancy Drew mysteries. I shelved with pride every new yellow-spined addition to my collection from the time I was eight years old. I still have that collection sitting on the top shelf of my current bookcase. It’s “priceless” to me. I feel an an emotional connection to a real book, and that’s the key difference.I feel no emotional connection whatsoever to the Nook. We can’t ever be friends.

Don’t get me wrong. I think Kindles and Nooks are incredible inventions. If only I’d thought of them first I’d be blogging their praises from my beach house in Maui. They have their place in current culture for sure. I will use one when I travel. But there’s no contest between a Nook and a Book. It’s like choosing between a digital pet and my sweet cat, Peppermint.

I’d love to pontificate some more, but I’m off. I have a yummy hard-covered mystery I’m dying to finish. Pardon me while I grab a cup of Earl Grey and dive in.

Love Is....

It’s been a week of L-O-V-E, and these are the highlights.

Last Friday, I went with my Valentine for some OUTREACH LOVE to a Fundraiser Dinner at my Jesuit priest bro’s school. He is the founder and president of this college-prep school for inner city high school students in the south side of Chicago. What a gracious display of love to see over 500 people gathered together to support these kids! The event coordination was astounding, as this school was transformed into a banquet hall of beauty. Everything was top-notch, from the valet parking to the beautifully decorated gym, transformed into an elegant dining room, complete with gorgeous centerpieces and place settings. The cafeteria became a quaint lounge, with an entertaining jazz band and drinks donated by the Wirtz family, owners of the Black Hawks.

We sat for dinner with my parents, dined on beef medallions, and browsed the items for auction. We met some amazing people, danced, bid, laughed, and had an incredible time. In the end, over $300,000 was raised for the school on this evening. My bro was overwhelmed by the generous support. That’s him in the pic, dancing with his (slightly older) sis.

The next evening was a night of FOOD LOVE. My new cooking club and I gathered together and chopped, sauteed and baked away to some jazzy tunes and lots of laughter. We shared delicious hummus, soups, popovers, caprese, brownies and bread pudding. I made some new friends and look forward to our event next month. There’s nothing finer than Girlfriend Time, when accompanied by good food and wine and uncensored conversation.

But nothing beats FAMILY LOVE. Since we had a full weekend, we stayed in for Valentine’s Day, and shared a “red” meal with the boys. I go a little crazy on the holiday, sprinkling candy hearts and pink confetti on every available table top. My oldest son gave me a pound of my favorite Junior Mints. My youngest proudly presented me with the tiny heart pillow he sewed with the help of my mother. And my husband........I’ll just say that he was overly generous and upstaged my gift-giving by leaps and bounds, as is usual.

Wishing you lots of love in your life, my friends!

What?? I Swear I'm Behaving!

Super Hubs and I have season tickets to the theater. The first show of the year happened to fall on Super Bowl night, which we didn’t realize until several days before. I got a lot of razzing from friends for “dragging” my husband away from the game, but here’s the reality: He didn’t mind because the Bears weren’t playing. And Super Hubs is a rarity in that he’s a straight man who loves musical theater. In particular, he loves "Guys and Dolls." He’s is my kind of guy, and I’m his doll, and I love being married to a man that sits beside me at the theater while everyone else is in front of the tube.

My parents also have season tickets to the same shows on the same evenings. We requested the same night as they, thinking it would be a fun date night out together. And it was. My parents’ reserved seats were exactly two rows behind ours. We met beforehand and chatted, and then Super Hubs and I had our alone time and space in our seats, and they had theirs.

What I didn’t anticipate, however, is how having my parents sit two rows behind me made me behave better than I normally would. It wasn't their issue; they are very nice people. But I mentally morphed into an 8yo, feeling self-conscious when I stretched out in my seat or whispered to my husband. And then there was the glass of wine I had at Intermission during "Guys and Dolls." My parents ended up staying in their seats during the break. But Super Hubs and I sipped our wine surreptitiously behind a pole near the bar, anxious that my parents would see us and judge us as sinful for drinking on a Sunday. Again, it’s not my parents’ fault. In fact, my dad would probably order a beer and join us. It was just an example that I am completely neurotic.

Super Hubs and I went to a movie a few years back that was rated R. Our former pastor and his wife happened to sit directly behind us. I kept fearing I'd suddenly develop Turrets or have an epic popcorn spill. And during the “intimate” love scene, I wanted to hide under my seat. It felt as if God was sitting behind us with furrowed brow.

In any case, I absolutely love having season tickets to a theater! It's great fun, and I look forward to the next performance. But I’m pondering if I should offer my parents our seats next time, and we’ll sit behind them. That might cure at least a bit of my self-consciousness.

Snowpocalyse

I’m battening down the hatches and doing a lil Blizzard Baking today. We’re expecting a Snowpocalyse in Chicago, and that’s snow joke!

I usually don’t do a whole lot of weather-fretting. I don’t even remember the legendary blizzard of ‘99. I have absolutely no recollection of it at all, so it must not have been more than a blip in my week that year. Our power lines are underground so they are rarely impacted by the weather. But I’m thinking today, what if the power goes out? What will we eat? And that thought led me to drag out the bread machine and make peasant bread.....which inspired me to make two dozen corn muffins....which gave me a yen to bake brownies....and then I experimented with a new beignet recipe, frying up 32 little fritters (minus the four that I ate with my coffee). One baking idea just snowballed into another.

Today would have been my grocery shopping day, so I don’t have tons of food items in the house. But if worse comes to worse, we can always survive on my baked goods and peanut butter for a week. Plus we have cereal. And some garlic croutons. Then there’s the pet food......in other words, we have quite a few edible options before we resort to cannibalism.

My boys are hoping for a Snow Day tomorrow, and I am assuming they’ll be off. Super Hubs thinks his place of work will shut down at noon, bringing him home by train from the city around 3ish. We may have a cozy couple’a days with a fire on the hearth and some lovely family time.

The pets are already prepping. The cats are cozying up in the afghan, and Rex is sunbathing on his rock, the lucky dude. And the dog....he’s just happy snuggled at my feet.

Snowmaggedon away. I'm ready!

Buon Apetito!

I found a recipe book I’d forgotten I had. Super Hubs’ grandmother had written a cookbook for her adult children of their favorite family recipes, and I received a copy, shortly after we’d married. It is simple in its form; handwritten on plain white paper, in the beautiful loopy cursive that girls born in the beginning of the 20th century were taught.

Admittedly, I’ve tried very few of the recipes in the 22 years we’ve been married. Grandma was a 1st generation Italian, and I would be reluctant to put some of the dishes in front of my picky children. Like Squash & Eggs. Or Squid in Tomato Sauce. And some of the ingredients I am not quite clear on. Like Ceci. (Chickpeas?) Or 1/2 lb. Perciatelli in 11/2 lengths. (Do I bring a ruler to the grocery store?) Cicoria. (Dandelions. Do I pluck them from a field?)

But I absolutely love the historical significance of this cookbook! Grandma wrote an interesting little blurb underneath many of the recipes. “...I must remind you that it is a tradition (underlined once) to eat lasagna on Easter (underlined thrice). The variety of meat in the sauce is always served as a second course.”

Grandma was an amazing cook, filling the stomachs of her six children several times a day. My mother-in-law cooks very similarly, and I’ve been the blessed beneficiary of many of her meals over the years. I’ve made several of Grandma’s dishes, such as her Cauliflower & Macaroni, and Chicken Cacciatore. Surprisingly, they were fairly simple, using a simple base of tomato paste and browned garlic.

I recently acquired a new (old) recipe of Grandma’s, not present in her cookbook, sent to me by Super Hub’s cousin. Steak Pizzaiola. I followed the recipe exactly, and it was to die for.

Thanks, Grandma! Buon Apetito to us!

Date With The Dean

After a week of nursing my back, nursing my sick Little Squirt, and nursing a kitty with conjunctivitis, I was treated to an evening out on Thursday, by the former Dean of the college where Super Hubs works.

It wouldn’t be a January evening in Chicago without record cold temps. It was -8*, the coldest night of the year so far. I would venture to guess that next December 31st we will still be referring to that evening as the year’s coldest. Even for Chicago, it was phenomenally, ridiculously frigid. I layered clothing upon clothing, and packed the backseat of our car with blankets, preparing for the worst. (I feared an Epic Car Fail on the freeway, with AAA ignoring our calls. Super Hubs and I would be stranded and shivering all night, our frozen bodies not discovered until the morning. It was not a way I intended to spend our Date Night.)

But we arrived in the city without incident, other than when all the traffic on the Kennedy came to a complete halt. Apparently the President of China had just arrived, and we all needed to sit in our cars for 15 minutes without moving while his motorcade drove through.

We met a few of Super Hub’s co-workers at Tavern at the Park for drinks, first. It’s always interesting for me when I am around the co-workers. They are brilliant academics with all sorts of degrees and opinions and interesting travel experiences. I find them fascinating and intense, and occasionally intimidating, as they discuss something like their experiences of teaching a class in Uganda, and I’m all, “Well, that sounds like fun! I’ve been busy taking my cat to the vet.” I spent a big part of the hour enjoying my appetizer. (Flatbread with prosciutto, figs and gorgonzola, sprinkled with truffle oil. Oh. My. Gosh.)

Our little party than headed to the Harris Theater to join the rest of the party for a jazz concert. If jazz was a food, it’d be melted butter. Mmmm...so yummy, smooth, comforting! I am completely enamored with jazz, and thoroughly enjoyed the concert, after I silenced my phone alarm. It goes off every 12 hours at 8 and 8 without fail to remind me to take my asthma med. It’s a responsible little thing, even ringing persistently if my phone is off. So, because I have no idea how turn the alarm function off my phone, I sat through the first half hour of the concert anxiously awaiting for the sound of my alarm so I could rapidly silence it. My quick-fire finger managed to quiet the alarm as soon as it rang. No one was the wiser, except for Super Hubs, who glared at me.

For the final fun of the evening, we made our way over to the former Dean’s beautiful home. It was breathtakingly cold as we parked on a side street and walked the block to the condo. The doorman directed us up the elevator, and we entered the unit to an intimate party. We were here specifically to help entertain the Hong Kong program people. We spent a month in Hong Kong with the kids back in ‘01, and I can talk Hong Kong with the best of them. We shared delicious stew, corn bread and salad overlooking the sparkling winter sky through the bay window. It was magical.

Splat!

My back went out on Thursday night, which wasn’t a huge surprise. I had the typical warning signs: Odd, random muscle pains shooting up my back and down my leg, and an inability to put on my boots. Seriously, I realize that I am slowly getting up there in years, but I workout and do yoga and should be able to bend over and put my shoes on my own middle-aged self. So, when my muscles are too tight to allow me to do something less successfully than the average 2yo, I might as well see a billboard flashing: “Warning! I Can See Your Future And It Looks Sedentary. Prepare To Infirm.”

My back issues usually arise after I have been A) Lifting something Wonder Woman would have been better equipped to carry or B) Not processing stress in a healthy way. I’ve had all sorts of advice regarding chiropractors, exercises, ice vs. heat and yada yada yada. But I know myself well. I’ve had issues with my back since I was 16, and it just takes two days of rest with drugs and a heating pad and I’m good as new.

Being the high-energy sort, it just kills me to lie on the couch for two days straight. But I try to receive it as a gentle time-out from God, putting a little pause on the pace of my life. I attempt to stay peaceful, respect my limitations, and let the unimportant things go. If I need to disappoint someone, life will still go on.

In the midst of my endeavors to be all Zen-like and gentle with myself, my Type A self still managed to accomplish a few things. I......
....finished this month’s Book Club read.
....finished this week’s People magazine.
....nagged and threatened the boys into writing their Christmas thank you notes.
....skyped with my college daughter.
....updated my address file.
....set the dvr to record some movies for my youngest.
....fretted about several incomplete projects, and came to no worthwhile conclusions.

But tonight I am done with the infirming. I will drag my gimpy self off of the couch and into a lovely restaurant to have dinner with friends, hobbling all the way. But it will be worth it. I need my people back.

Creating New Space

Without spending gobs of money, I’ve made a few decorating adjustments here and there to the room formerly know as The Library. It’s currently being called Mom’s Prayer Room, or Dad’s Office When Mom Lets Him In. I’m attempting to make it more homey and zen-like. But giving me the go-ahead to decorate is like giving the Mouse the Cookie. One purchase snowballs into another purchase and a bunch of ideas, and I’m never done.

My quest to decorate this room began when a friend, who was moving out of state, gave me one of her beautiful pictures to hang on my wall. With the pretty new art work in place, I began to loathe the sofa. Its throw pillows irritated me because their color was now all wrong. So I bought some new throw pillows whose style made me feel peaceful. So then the sofa looked good, but that made me hate the chair. We can’t buy a new one right now, so I found a cozy white throw to hang over it. That made the chair more tolerable to me. So then the sofa and the chair looked good, but I began to abhor the lamp. I’ve lived with the lamp in this room for the past four years, but suddenly it revolted me to an insane level. It became an eyesore, completely draining my energy every time I entered the room or even thought about it.

Yesterday I headed out to Home Goods, an establishment that is an enemy to our retirement plans. (Whenever I enter that store, I find at least thirty-two items I absolutely have to have that I never knew I needed until that moment. It has all kinds of adorable home accessories in all kinds of colors, and I could stroll around there for hours just looking.) I found a lamp that was perfectly my French Country/Eclectic taste, and I brought it home. It makes my room look so much better. I love it! But now I’m bothered by the side table.....

Spiritual Formation is similar to Interior Design, I’m learning. A sinful pattern I’ve lived with for years suddenly begins to repulse me. It doesn’t feel comfortable anymore with the Me that I want to be. I see it glaring and want it rooted out and replaced with something lovely. So God and I work on that. And then something else begins to nag at me; I recognize that a certain relationship is not a positive influence on me. Or I could make better use of a particular block of time. Or........the list goes on.

The spiritual practices of Silence, Solitude and Prayer, specifically, breathe new life into my soul. God is doing a little interior designing in me, and He has an unlimited budget. I am all for that!

A Lizard Tale

A crisis of magnificent proportions was averted last night. Whew! I barely survived the stress!

Little Squirt had had a friend over to play in the afternoon, and was quite zealous in showing him his bedroom and Beardie. Later, after dinner, when I went up to the bedroom to feed Rex, I noticed a weird odor. It turned out that Little Squirt had left a glow-in-the-dark dinosaur under the hot bulb on Rex’s terrarium, and the rubber dinosaur was melting. Rex was curled up in the corner of his tank, not looking good at all. Oh no, was he dead?! My heart dropped.

I called Super Hubs to come quickly and help me assess the Beardie. He poked at him gently. Rex opened one eye but wasn’t moving. Usually he runs over excitedly to eat the greens that I prepare for him, and at least watch the crickets jump by. But not last night. He continued to lie curled up in the corner, ignoring all the going’s on around him. This couldn’t be good! Was he slowly dying from the noxious melted dinosaur fumes? He rarely eats the crickets, preferring to stay skinny with the Beverly Hills salad diet. Could he be starving himself to death? Did Beardies develop anorexia nervosa?? My mind raced.

I left Super Hubs upstairs to tend to the Beardie, feeling heartsick. When it comes to pets, my husband and I have particular, unspoken roles. I buy and care for the pets, while he disposes of the dead ones, and finds new homes for the unruly. It works for us. I’m too tenderhearted to deal with dying or wayward creatures.

I went downstairs and prayed for Rex. Prayer is my thing, my gift, my passion. So I prayed Lazarus prayers, that God would raise him up out of his “sick bed.” I didn’t see any reason why God would have a problem with that. This little lizard has slowly won my heart, in curious ways. I pleaded to God for the sake of Little Squirt’s Beardie, as I know how brokenhearted my son would be without his beloved pet. I didn’t even want to imagine telling him.

About fifteen minutes later, Super Hubs called me from upstairs. Rex was totally back to himself! He was happily munching on salad in the corner of his tank, looking fit as a fiddle. Super Hubs thought that maybe he hadn’t been dying after all. He thought perhaps the Beardie had been catching an odd evening nap, or possibly had curled up because he’d been cold.

I don’t know. I prefer to think of Rex as having had a miraculous healing by God. I now look at him with tiny bit of awe, wondering what it’d been like to hang close to the edge of the Other Side. Had he heard harp music, seen a light, been beckoned by an angel? Hmmm. We’ll never know. I’m just so grateful he’s okay. And Little Squirt has no idea of any of the events of the evening. He’d been innocently playing wii in the basement the whole time.

Squeamish No More

I’ve been Director of Operations to Project Bearded Dragon now for about three weeks, and I’d call it a successful career so far. In other words, he ain’t dead yet. Little Squirt is the Hospitality and Activities Director and BFF to the Beardie, while I come alongside, providing financial support and overseeing clean-up and provisions.

The little reptile guy is growing me as a person. For example, I now run a cricket motel, dishing up yellow cricket food once a day to keep them alive.......so they can be eaten by the Beardie. And I actually cheer for the Beardie when he catches them. Who knew I’d have a taste for blood? I used to be an Insect Pacifist, carrying bugs from the house to be set free outside. It ruined my day if I stepped on an ant. I’d agonize that the little ant parents would grieve forever that their little ant child never came home. But now here I am, happily raising crickets for lizard food.

I’m also keeping meal worms in my fridge, right next to the salad dressing. I’m not even bothered by it in the least. That’s right, Me The Germaphobe, who’d rather forget her wallet than her hand sanitizer.

I don’t know if any of this is good or bad. What I do know, though, is that Little Squirt is deliriously, head-over-heels in love with his new pet. And sometimes your love for your kids overrides your phobic stuff.

Living, learning and growing, one day at a time.

Salsa On A White Shirt

It’s the first day of the New Year, and I’ve already spilled salsa on my white shirt. In past years, my Perfectionistic Younger Self might have received that spillage with dismay, perhaps fretting that it was a prediction of Mess and Frustration in this New Year. But not my Wiser Sightly-Older Self. With a quick whoosh of my stocking-stuffered Tide-To-Go stick, my shirt looks laundry-fresh. And I like to think, if I believed in omens, that the salsa-on-white predicts Spontaneity and Creativity in the months to come. Possibly even Passion and Zeal!

There are a few more tips I would give to my Perfectionistic Younger Self, if I could scrounge up a time machine and give her a few bullet-points to focus on this year. I would tell her:

~Don’t wish the winter away in your longing for spring. Enjoy the sun sparkling on snowflakes, the warmth of the cozy comforter, the marshmallows in the cocoa. Each day has it’s gifts. Slow down, notice, and appreciate.

~Don’t stress about unimportant things, like the drawer that’s untidy or the shabbiness of the chair you are hoping to replace. Your kids don’t care and God won’t ask you about those things. You can have a more perfect home when they move out. Look them in the eyes and enjoy them now. They’ll be grown and out before you know it. One of them almost is.

~Family dinners are sacred. Guard them jealously and make them happen. They matter more than a flurry of scheduled activities. The shared stories, laughter and prayer time is crucial for your childrens' sense of belonging. You’ll see lasting fruit in their lives from those dinners. Trust me.

~If you don’t like a group, then quit. It’s not for you, and that’s okay. Most things are less important than they seem at the time. Life is too short to agonize about what people think. And on that note; only take advice from the prayerfully wise. You’ll recognize them as the ones with your best interests at heart.

~Guard your tongue. You don’t have to have the last word, quickest wit, most impressive story. Just shhhhhhh more often.

~Remember and pursue your childhood first loves, like art and theater, writing and friendships. You’ll stay a more interesting person.

~One day last summer, my yoga class took our mats outside. As we lay on the grass on our backs, I watched the puffy cloud formations in the sky. I realized I hadn’t done that since I was a child. Do more of that this year. A lot more, my Perfectionistic Younger Self.

I'm hoping my Wiser Slightly-Older Self heeds this counsel as well, and has a Creatively Passionate, Sparkly Snowflake, Untidy Drawer, Casserole-Eating, Wise, Quiet, Child-like, Puffy-Cloud 2011. Happy New Year, my friends!