Living-Deliberately.com

My friend Misty asked this question this week, on her blog.

I’m currently reading The Imitation of Christ, by Thomas A Kempis. Thoughts today, while I mix fritata, change diapers, and vacuum run from: what Luther hoped the Reformation would do for the Church, singular; what have we thrown out that has left our christianity anemic, similar to the refining (stripping) process we do to our grain; the difference of Lord’s Day worship has to our everyday, more casual approach and how the two have mingled and diluted one another.

Last night I made my first trip back to Maryville since the move. Even in a few weeks there are changes: new commercial buildings, signs that have changed, our old landlord kept my flower garden and poured a pretty new sidwalk to frame it. And things that are the same: good friends who give comforting hugs, happy smiles, and fun conversation. Pat gave me a cookbook, Dr. H revealed he does like Nina Simone, Adele let me make a big deal over her beautiful 3rd trimester belly, Sarah and Caroline took time out of setting up to catch up with me; the kids had fun seeing their friends. W and Duncan tore around the playground as if absolutely no time was lost, C’s friends invited her to a full social calendar, and A made a neat stool with in a friend’s woodshop for cub scouts. We drove home amid summer night smells, musky whiffs of skunk, mown grass, distant wood smoke and we arrived home late and happy.

This morning, while doing my “internet run”, I found this little gem, left by a discussion-group buddy. I found it to be a comforting, holistic way to articulate the essense of what I’m considering:

I see reaction to institutions, expectations, and culture, not God or Christ. When I read this, I heard a parched desire for whole-hearted commitment to something that is bigger than yourself, that which is deeper and more valuable that casual or social or cultural expectations.

This morning we’ve had plates heaped with toasty millet, pecans, blackberries, and cream cheese, drizzled with honey. The Giant Baby has played with his little kitten, waddling around in his padded britches, Celia has taken her first roller blading trip around the block, the sun rose late, and my coffee has grown cold.  By all indications it’s another quiet day in the country.

Wheaton (5) was seen taking a toy that sings the alphabet into the bathroom and peeking at me to see if I was watching.

I said, “Wheaton? Why are you in there with that toy? And why did you close the door?”

he “humrph’ed” and said, “well I like to take a toy with me when I go, because I talk to all the fake people and teach them their A, B, C’s.”

“Not so!” cried I. For if my dear hubby ever took over the job of mowing our lawns, he would surely break my heart. So, dear friend, in this house, it’s mine all mine!

Mowing grass is by far my favorite of all household chores. I love the white noise, the time alone to think. I love getting to know the piece of land in question; the best way to learn land is to walk it and the best way to walk it is to mow it. I’ve decided against a riding mower for our yard, and The Big Hill, as well. It’s hard work, a bonefide excersize session manipulating our push mower around curves and up hills, over ruts, in and out of shade. It means I can eat Chunky Monkey, thick burgers, or have a glass of wine, guilt free.

And that’s right where I find my freedom with it too: in the exertion. Sweat dripping, bugs flying into my nose, muscels straining, hours of hot work in the sun. Somewhere in there I let go of my stress. Negative energy is purged.

I remember the first time I really threw myself into yard work. I was about 14 and was in between friends. I’d recently, and quite intentionally left my “bad friend Jenna”, with her seventh-grade abortions and burgeoning drug habit. My friendship with Joy was tumultuous and that weekend we were probably on the “outs”. I knew Ronda and Christi but we were all still in Jr. High and I wasn’t quite close to them yet. It was a sunday afternoon and I did not want to go to church for the evening service, choir practice, and feel that I didn’t quite fit in yet again.

So I went outside and mowed the back yard. Then I noticed the azaela and hydrangea bushes on the back line, with years of piled pine needles underneath. I got a rake and….hours later my mom came out and not too disapointedly said more than asked if I wasn’t going in that night. I’d purged all that dread and awkwardness, found freedom from it in a few hours of hard, sweaty work that was solitary, and for the first time, fell in love with dirt.

When I mow or garden I feel strong. I feel the temptation to obsess about externals fall away. I feel connected to the ground, to how we eat, where we come from and where we’re going. I feel raw and natural and green. It’s hard to be pretentious when covered in yard dust and sweat! One gets in touch with oneself, with one’s essense, and learns to be at ease in one’s own skin. Or else the time of it will be maddening, uncomfortable and confrontational. It needs release; you’re not going to be fit to be seen until you shower so go ahead and give into it. Appearances don’t matter, station in life, finances…it all falls away and reality is found in layered mulch and compost, little green things starting to bloom and give up their secrets, the smell of freshly mown grass, and beautiful rows where you’ve gone before emerge from the tangled mess you started with.

This year I’m learning the highs and lows of our little patch of terrain. Where the sun falls, at what time of day, and what wants to grow where. I”m talking to my little apple tree, struggling with something, and producing only two apples. The kids sang Ring Around the Rosy with baby on the porch while I took my break on The Big Hill, and I wondered when this street heard little voices fall in laughter last. I’m dreaming of the gardens to be, wondering if my neighbors see me and wonder if I’m worth my weight in uncooked grits, still uncertain of how I fit in this town. Someone planted mint where the shed is now and little bits of it’s nearly invasive-self are popping up around the foundation. It’s lemony. A train goes by, no longer whistling for a town without a crossing. Time is standing still as long as I’m in the yard. The cold shower is like the starting gun, shocking me back into life. But for a little while, for a green reverie, I stood behind a mower and listened to what was around me. I gave away my pressures and the ground absorbed it. Freedom smells like grass and heat and gas fumes and the salty sweat on my nose.

Going to church today was not unlike a birth passage. An hours’ drive with 3 hyper and super silly children who vascilated between loud joking and bickering is not exactly what one needs to prepare for an hour of worship. But as we drove through that “transition”, walked up the grassy hill to the door, and then walked through, we were greeted with smiling faces we’ve missed seeing and the opening music to our wonderful liturgy. I let it wash over me and be balm to a reddened soul. How’s that for dramatic? But that’s exactly what it felt like.

Bits and pieces that spoke to me today:

• from Psalm 24: Who shalll ascend the hill of the Lord? And who shall stand in his holy place? He who has clean hands and a pure heart, who does not lift up his soul to what is false….
• fragments from Hebrews 7: Now if perfection had been attainable through the Levitcal priesthood (for under it the people received the law), what further need would there have been for another priest to arise….? for the law made nothing perfect; but on the other hand, a better hope is introduced, through which we draw near to God.

I sat listening today and a little glimpse of clarity came to me. What I miss, what I hunger for, is more importance placed on a life of sacrificial devotion. I think maybe the protestants have missed something while downplaying the kind of separation seen by monk’s, nuns, and other clergy. There is a seriousness, a value, a worth that shows when one dedicates their lives in such a visible way to the pursuit of a holier, closer to Christ, life. If we are not going to all become cloistered away, isn’t there still some level of set apart, obvious importance we should make evident in our lives and lifestyles? I’m sick of casual christianity that focuses on dumping our burdens off and handing God the grocery list we’d like filled. I’m sick of the message that says, “come as you are and stay as you are“. Sure, I like bare feet and t-shirts. But even grocery stores say, “no shirt, no shoes, no service”. Yet, we want a christianity that never gets dressed up, never scrubs behind it’s ears, never sweeps out under the bed and empties the closet? Why bother with that?
No. If this is real (and I’m not really doubting it is, just the way in which I approach it), it has to be bigger. Different. I’ve been saying that I want other people to take me seriously and if they don’t, I pretty much don’t hang around for what they offer. I think it might be the same way with my faith. I need to take it seriously. It can’t just be some kind of lifestyle I”ve adopted because it’s all I’ve known, how I was raised, what keeps those around me happy, or seems to have the fewest bumps and bruises along the way.

As we waited to go up to the table for the Lord’s Supper, we sang Psalm 119 (x)

Before Thee let my cry come near,

O Lord; true to Thy word, teach me.

Before Thee let my pleading come;

True to Thy promise, rescue me.

Since Thou Thy statutes teachest me,

O Let my lips Thy praise confess.

Yea, of Thy word my tongue would sing,

For Thy commands are righteousness.

Be ready with Thy hand to help,

Because Thy precepts are my choice.

I’ve longed for Thy salvation, Lord,

And in Thy holy law rejoice.

O let Thine ordinances help;

My soul shall live and praise Thee yet.

A straying sheep Thy servant, seek,

For Thy commands I ne’er forget.

Bono lets Christianity inform his life as source material for motivating people to care about his causes (which he makes apolitical). He repeatedly flaunts the fact that he’s not a saint, that he can’t live up to his ideals or anyone else’s. He steadily avoids answering doctrinal questions that would pigeonhole him into one camp or another.

He points to Jesus and then to a cause. And he keeps doing his job for U2 really well, which on tour includes a prayer or two, which sometimes means he cites Scripture during the deafening roar of fans that shout his name.

Bono wears his rock star persona on his sleeve, not his faith. His faith is hidden inside his black leather jacket. But it sneaks out to inform his mission and when it does, the world is repeatedly surprised in the best way. It’s like discovering that chocolate tastes good every time you eat it, even though you know it has caffeine and puts on the pounds if you gorge on it.

This, written by my friend Julie, for her weekly column. This week she contrasted Mel Gibson and Bono and the thought occurred to me as I read it that while our “externals” and personal failings may vary, I like the idea that what is on the inside will show itself. It’s a clue to discovering why two people can externally do the same thing and yet one can get a feeling that one is genuine and something’s amiss with the other, like the word or deed is a misfit, out of keeping with that persona.

….my Natasha Benindfield impression….

So today I declare Father’s Day Take Two. Because the guy I married deserves more than one a year, especially this year.

For working 16 hour days, sometimes 3 jobs at one time this year. For saying to me yesterday, “I woke up in the middle of the night and just stared at him for awhile. He’s growing so fast and I’m miss seeing it.” For driving 60 miles back into the city late one night because baby’s Donkey was missing and he couldn’t bear the thought. For taking over the education of our older two children. For teaching us Psalm singing even before we joined a church that valued it. For having the best hairy legs in the world and for not caring when I put my cold feet on them. For listening to all my rants and soapboxes and even taking more than a few of them seriously. For being the first person who seemed to really think I was smart. For not laughing when I said, “so let’s move to Tennessee!” and for bringing us here where we love to live. For ignoring my stupid belief that facial hair was gross and growing a great goatee. For hanging my porch swing and building an awesome clothesline for me right away in this new house. For Andrew David, Celia Christine, Clara Irene, Wheaton Thomas, and Rowan Kenneth. For looking into my eyes and holding me through the birthing of each one. For changing dirty diapers. For making great cheesy eggs for the kids when I was too tired from nursing all night or sick with pregnancy. For all that being Clara’s father meant, including even grief. For missing the kids with me when we’ve only been gone a couple of hours. For always promising and following through on fun things like fires in the backyard, swimming on sunday, or driving to Cades Cove so we could go sledding. For being a man who doesn’t let people down and who will always exceed expectations.

I baked a cake. The kids are making cards. We’ll clean off the porch like he likes to see. Some men are just more than one Father’s Day.

• it takes 26 seconds, taking the railroad overpass, to officially travel through my town, which is becoming a simple neighborhood without any official place of business except for the post office.
• it takes 2.5 minutes to drive through the nearest real town, Wartburg, assuming you get stopped by one of the (3?) red lights.
• getting a hair cut at Connie’s Classic Comb, the pink salon in the middle of the town, cost me a whopping 3 bucks. She couldn’t bear to charge more since she’d only trimmed 2 inches. I tipped her 8, since I couldn’t bear to pay so little! To which she rewarded me with my very favorite expression in all of Tennessee….”I appreciate you”. It’s a common way to say “thank you” and I think it’s one of the nicest things I’ve ever heard strangers bestow on one another.
• there’s a sign on the road that reads, “Moveing sale”. and another, “pew pads for sale”. On the way here from Oak Ridge, we pass “Coward Mill Rd”. Makes me wonder, that one does!
• there’s a whole sherriff’s patrol car designated “Litter Patrol”. Where do you think one must be on the totem pole to get that position?!
• all of the neighbors here think it’s entirely acceptable to have a “town dog”, as long as no one has to admit they feed him more than the others or treat his mange. This grosses me out.
• since nearly drowning Saturday, my toddler has: learned to crawl into the fridge holding onto the shelf and letting the door close behind him, stand and nearly jump out of the grocery cart (3 times), open the door to the bathroom and flush nearly all the magnetic letters Grandma sent him one at a time, covered his head with a produce bag alarming other shoppers in the store, shocked his finger trying to plug in a lamp, and stuck a fork into a toaster. All of these things happened while he was within my arms’ reach; I will now cease to multi-task in hopes of keeping him around as long as possible. I have a new full time job; if blogging suffers, sobeit.

Driving to Knoxville to see my friend Cathy in Fl, to eat totally yummy food at The Tomato Head, and sit and chat in Fort Kid, the thought came to me….

Maybe being a good christian (follower of Christ) is like being pretty. The minute you start thinking you are, you’re not.

Pride, setting ourselves apart or above others…they kind of get in the way of beauty serving and following. Ya know what I mean?

I gotta say I am really crackin’ up and tickled that Mike doesn’t remember me.  So funny; it lends itself to so much commentary.

We were part of a youth group 300 strong. We were constantly told that ours was the tops, the crem de la crem of the church world and that other churches modled their groups after ours. We were “the standard” and we needed to live up to that and keep our reputation, our reflection of the church high.

Our little “circle” was fluid, sometimes big, sometimes small, a fragment of the bigger group at large. Besides the “visitation”, “discipleship” and “choir/orchestra” stuff Mike talked about in his story (linked in yesterday’s post), we also met up at each other’s houses, lake houses, restaurants, and such. It added up to a lot of hours each week spent in close proxemity depsite the fact that most of us went to different schools around the city. We also took 3 ski trips, 3 spring tours, and 3 summer tours, each a week long together, and hours upon hours spent on the same greyhound buses. He’s in my scrapbooked photos; I know what his hair looked like after a night up all night on a bus trip, I know how his foyer was decorated, and what a hockey mask in the middle of the night through his family room window looks like.
I bet the “plan” of such a youth group was that we were creating tight, close friendships that would span years. And each of us probably have a few of those. I know I have a few near and dears. Grand total outcome: the ones who’ve lasted could have been in a youth group of 5 with me and be a strong testimony of love that endures and lasts. The ones I spent so much time with, yet always felt a bit like they were looking past me when I spoke, or not really paying much attention at all, even as I sat in their own houses watching movies have completely forgotten me.

Besides laughing all morning at this fact, this honest hilarity, I also feel a saddness for those parents who brought their kids down to that youth group for it specifically. Quite a few families joined just because they were bringing their kids to the best. And several I knew had parents that sent their kids there without them. I supose it was the christian social scene in town; good insurance we were all engaged in healthy activities. I heard more than once the suggestion that we were the only “real” game in town and that kids were in danger if they weren’t in our group. It was fun most of the time and I’m sure  a lot of those kids wanted to be there and told their parents as much.

It just would have been nice if more of it was authentic. Never again will I spend that many hours with people I mean so little to. What a phony crock.  This is exactly why I’ve skipped every reunion that has come up. What great pretenders we all were. And what a wretched reflection of godly friendship and intimacy.

If I sound jaded, I’m probably not as much as it sounds. Just reminded of how wrong it is to put trust in such man-made contrivances.

It occurred to me today that they call it that because a country mile needs it’s own measurment! Curves…

Miss Mable came over today with a watermelon and okra. She even accepted my invite to sit on the porch for a bit and visit. She told me a few more things about the people who used to live here and the dogs that have come and gone. She thinks Fly eats cats and Red Fox dug up her garden. I’d beleive that about Red Fox; the other day he buried a pancake at the school.

In the two weeks that we’ve been here we’ve seen two semi trucks lose their loads. The first time, a trailer hauling roofing shingles took a curve too fast and lost the whole thing. The road was closed for over six hours cleaning it up. The second time it was a closed trailer with rolls of wire in the back; the doors flew open on a hill and they came rolling out and down. Any car that would have been behind it would have probably been in a very serious accident. Both accidents did little to reassure me that my fear of trucks on the road is unfounded. These both were drivers familiar with the terrain. Trucks simply do not belong on any kind of road other than an interstate; their monster size is not built to accomodate tight turns and neighborhoods. How long have trucks been around? Since the thirties? Earlier than that? There are so few areas of life where we have remained with the same solution with little adaptation or idea for such a legnth of time. Ah…I’ve got a huge soapbox on this and few answers myself. I understand stuff has to get from point A to point B and trucks do that. I think it’s possible that with enough “thinking outside of the box” a less dangerous and more effective solution could be found. And maybe it’s a major gateway into the future. You know Star Wars and Star Trek don’t have semi trucks! And the landscapes are always traffic-less and clutter free too. For now, I’ll continue to keep my distance from the road hogs and hope the next load of farm supply headed up my hill doesn’t take out my picket fence or one of my children!

Lunch today: Black-eyed peas, cornbread, chow chow and fried okra. How southern country is that?

Life is fluid and wave-like and sometimes people fade in and out of our lives. Sometimes two people can have a common experience, have a varying degree of connection over it, but still not really know one another. Sometimes that common experience can lead one to have an openness to what the other has to say, or maybe breed a sort of loyalty where otherwise there’d be none.

Friends of mine had a baby. These were old friends, friends I grew up with and who fade in and out of my life. Another friend had a baby and the first friend directed me to the blog documenting the growth progress of the second friend’s premie. In visiting the little guys’ blog I linked into his ordinary blog. And from there I found another to link, a familiar name, back when we all were friends in the same youth group.

And so a decade plus later I’ve had names on my mind that normally don’t cross my consciousness. I’ve had an interest in what they’ve had to say, how we’ve all developed and grown, and where we are now.

I’ve also had a growing, nagging, spiritual discontent. Maybe surprising as I’m in a thriving, wonderful church community that feeds my soul every week. But I’m finally putting into words a self-loathing and dissatisfaction that I’ve found hard to articulate.

Specifically, I find a disgusting contrast between modern christianity/religion and the Christ of the bible. The disgust starts when I look in the mirror. I”m a pathetic imitation of Christ. I struggle and never seem to grow in sanctification, holiness, or purity. I feel ashamed to approach a “relationship” with Christ in which I’ve done so little to be more like Him. And yet…

very little, nay precious little of what I see around me, is any better.

I know very kind people. Moral people. Compassionate people. Outreaching, friendly, unprejudice people. There are denominations and persuasions galore and every single one thinks they have the corner on truth. Not a single one is without fractiousness and dissention on a schizmatic level.

I’m hungry. And I’m floating. And I’d so love to see an example of someone who vocally is persuing holiness that in some way actually looks something like the savior of the bible and the path He led. So when I found my old aquaintance’s blog entitled “YouCanKnowGod.com” I jumped at the chance to read what he has to say.The title is a bit….bold, but I was hoping to find a pursuit of holiness, a contemplative look at the christian life.

I’ll say right here that I approach this humbly. Mike’s blog does not seem to have comments on it; he may not want a dialog at all. For that reason I’m saying this here rather than in response to his post right on his site. I don’t typically raz other people’s blogs; thier turf is theirs to say what they want. This one though, really struck a nerve.

Mike is a pastor of a church in Georgia. His church is “partnered” with other churches and it’s vision is to “reach out to those disconnected to God”. Feeling my own sense of disconnect, I, justly or not, lumped myself in and read a few posts. You can do the same with this link.

I liked (a lot) what he had to say about culture and the way the church has traditionally viewed it. His is a church plant and as such I expected to hear that “pioneer in the wilderness” gritiness in his voice that would indicate he can retain enough idealism to fuel him through the lean times. It’s there. I thought I picked up on more than a little “church growth movement” hyperbole but I was really interested and didn’t want to pass a quick judgement so I swallowed it down.

Today’s post, though, brought it tumbling back up, like a bit of reflux. He’s apparently been attending some services at a church that is sponsoring them, helping them with lighting, and grand opening day stuff. Mike respects these guys and you can tell it’s not just polite gratitude for their help. He’s admitted they impress him and he called them “the real deal”. Here’s a quote from what he had to say about the meeting:

After the 2 Saturday night services, they had a quick evaluation meeting where they talked through the effectiveness of the whole service. They talked about flow, took a song out of the program, and gave feedback on the message.

Oh my. Brings up images of market analysis. You know, where the soda company (or the theme park) finds out what it’s customers want and then cater the product to please. “Effectiveness” measured by what standard and with whose viewpoint? Are we counting heads? Memberships?
Emotional responses?

I wonder what was wrong with the song. I have the feeling most of what we sing in my church wouldn’t pass these guys’ muster. I have a problem with boring old hymns that do little communicate the message or resonate with a changing culture too. What we sing isn’t very modern or often catchy and we like it that way. (we sing Psalms for the most part and I can’t /imagine/ any pastor having the balls moxy to say a psalm [scripture] didn’t fit the “flow” of his service but I know it happens).

I wonder what the pastor will do with his message feed back. Mike said he wanted that kind of feedback “as a communicator”. I can see that fleshly desire being quite natural. Problem for me is…where is the Holy Spirit in all of this? If the message didn’t “flow” right or didn’t fit the cultural vision, would it have been adapted?

Ultimately I wonder what such a manipulated and manufactured service/church can have to do with the Christ of the bible. How in the world is this anything like how Jesus lived his ministry? I can’t see the Twelve sitting around saying, “Hey Jesus, next time we need to speed things up a bit.” I want my grocer to stock what I’d like to buy and I want my doctor to listen to my desires on how to care for me. I want food manufacturers to listen to the people and stop putting in crap ingredients. But I’d never want a church to cater what it does to I think I want at the moment.

Christianity (I thought) was suposed to be about growing in grace. It is suposed to be a “step up”, a challenge for us to rise. We’re given a model that we were made in the image of; not the other way around.

Sigh. I read Mike’s Story and found much of my own reflected therein. We were indeed discontent, as a group more often than not, with such manufacturing. We were weary with “programs” that distracted more than anything else. Listening to his words I hear the same driven hunger to “know God”, the REAL God, that we knew we often were not being presented with.

I just don’t see where a “vision” like this makes any real difference. I want more.

My apologies to Mike if this seems harsh.

I’m cooking through Nourishing Traditions and hope to take as many people with me as possible (evil laugh )…. so here’s a list review of what I’ve tried so far. “Stars” are equivelent to family members, so you’ll know what the crew thought too.

• Whey and Cream Cheese, page 87: Addicted!! I make the cream cheese with whole milk yogurt. Super simple: put it in cheese cloth and let drain for 7 or so hours. The liquid left over is the whey, for use in porridges, fermenting veggies, and other recipes. The cream cheese is dense and tangy and fabulous. Most often we eat it spread on whole grain toast with jam OR topped with blueberries and toasted almonds and then drizzled with local honey. Shazzam! Six out of six stars.
• Ginger Carrots, page 95: the first fermented veggie I’ve tried. Easy to make but time consuming as I had to grate my carrots by hand since I don’t have a food processor. When we had them a week or so later they were a nice, salty condiment, and nice to have in the fridge when you want a relish of some kind. Three out of six stars.
• Sour cream sauce, page 140: easy, golden, and good. Made it to top Lentil Pecan Patties and found it especially fabulous over braised tomatoes. Great on the patties too. 4 stars.
• Carrot Salad, page 193: a familiar favorite. 5 stars
• Coconut Chicken Soup, page 198: just as promised, warm and soothing. It’s an island flavored broth really and will be great in the months to come served in steamy mugfulls. Filling and comforting. 5 stars.
• Roman Lentil Soup, page 215: FANTASTIC. Should have made a double batch. Hearty and flavorful; every kid had seconds and begged for thirds. 6 stars.
• Carrot Soup, page 221: pretty good. Warm and orange and brightening. Got it a touch too spicy for one of my kiddos or this would have been six stars. As it stands, 5 stars.
• Traditional pot roast, page 340: made it both times without adding the veggies. Good roast; makes good gravy. I shred the beef and serve it in gravy because it’s easier to serve to a crowd that way. Both times I used a chuck roast. 5 stars.
• Potatoes Anna, page 399: made with the roast twice. The kids like the crispier slices. Neither time has it made a “cake” like the recipe suggests. But tasty and Andrew sliced the potatoes for me; anytime he gets time with a knife he’s happy. 5 stars.
• Leek Fritata, page 442: Great! Nice that it has such a generous amount of montery jack cheese. Nice and easy supper though it only gets 4 stars here. And one of those missing stars is quite vocal over his displeasure with this on the menu!
• Breakfast porridge, page 455: done so many ways! Our far and away favorite so far is Steel Cut oats. That one get 6 stars. I think we like it’s familiarity and that it stays someone “toothy” even after soaking all night in water and whey. We’ve also had millet (4 stars) and Amaranth (4 stars). Amaranth tastes exactly like corn on the cob but has a “beady” texture that put one of us off. And the other was just being a booger about trying something new. We serve all of them with butter, maple syrup, crispy pecans, and berries.
• Millet Cakes, page 460: already posted about these. YUM!! We love them here and they are very versatile. Can be a side dish or a main, depending. 5 stars.
• Bulgar Casserole, page 462: I buy mine already sprouted and ground from the health food store because I don’t have a grinder. I love this, though it’s misnamed. I think of “casserole” as something saucy, maybe cheesy, and it definately clumps together on the spoon. Not this. More like rice. But toasty and nutty and really great with salmon. 5 stars.
• Wheat Berry Casserole, page 463: again, misnamed. And a total BOMB. All it did was absorb chicken stock and toast in the oven. It was completely inedible though I probably could have salvaged it nicely if I had a grinder or food processor to make a paste and create some patty recipe. I may not have sprouted them long enough but it was a disappointment for sure. Can’t win ‘em all I guess. no stars
• Mexican Rice Casserole, page 471: topped it with crushed tortilla chips. Really good side for a big salad, fajitas, black beans or the like. 6 stars.
• I’ve done well tweaking my pancake recipe and hers, on page 478. I soak half of the flour, whole wheat, overnight in half of the buttermilk and the morning we have them I add another cup of unbleached white flour and the rest of the buttermilk. More if I want them runnier. I’m doing very well not using white sugar (haven’t had it in the house in a month!) or baking powder (contains aluminum) and my recipes that called for it don’t seem to be affected. 6 stars.
• Banana Bread, page 483: gorss. Heavy and not even close to my paradigm for nana bread. zippo stars.
• Yogurt Dough, page 485: used it for the pizza recipe. Have to wonder why? Regular pizza dough is great, easy, and fits within the book’s nutritional view. This dough was very rich, flat, and not worth the trouble or expense. Might work better for a tart needing a rich background. 1 star.
• Lentil Pecan Patties, page 508: GREAT! I served these to David and he thought at first it was a hamburger patty. I wasn’t able to make the sprouted lentils into paste, nor the almonds, but I chopped the nuts fine and I had a great amount of sprouting in my beans. The patties were a touch on the dry side but like I said above, with the sour cream sauce they were worthy of an entertainment menu. They’d also be good on a whole grain bun with lettuce, tomato and cheese for a high protein/vegetarian sandwich. 6 stars.
• Crispy Pecans (and almonds, pine nuts, and walnuts), page 513: Again, addicted!! It’s so nice to have a jar of toasty nuts on hand at all times. They make a great snack and I toss them into recipes at least twice a day. I totally “buy in” to the idea of pre-digestion with the removal of phytates in nuts through soaking, and also with soaking grains; I can see the results first hand! 6 stars.
• pizza, page 523: will stick to my tried and true, more faithfully italian recipes thankyouverymuch. This didn’t taste authentic in the least. 1 star.
• carob chip cookies, page 531: may carob never ever enter my house!!! Where I will not follow this book is in the total removal of chocolate, wine, and coffee, nor do I forsee a Brain omelet or other organ meat specialties having a chance. ever. So….I made these with dark chocolate chips (high in antioxidants you know!) and Rapadura, the unrefined sugar that I”m so excited about. I also used unbleached flour rather than bulgar flour. And the result was pretty good. Still a bit dry; I may experiment with using coconut oil next time. But a good treat to have around. 6 stars.
• tapioca pudding, page 544: there must be better, “real” tapioca out there but all I could find was minute stuff. And after soaking it, I had a sticky, glue-like mess. Ick. The kids wondered what happened to dessert. 1 star.

We are enjoying whole milk, veggies sauted in coconut oil, no white sugar, and hearty meals that feel nourshing right down to our toes. We’ve all had better digestion, fewer headaches, and we can see a clearly defined sugar high/low anytime we have something like commercial ice cream or soda. In fact, we feel so gross after that, it’s almost like an allergic reaction and it certainly makes us want to eat it less the next time! The kids are in the “notice it” stage and still get googled-eyed at the soda display so there is no unreality around here! But still, I bought a head of cabbage this week at Andrew’s request and he and I have that sauted almost daily. Celia and I eat more than our fill of tomatoes. Andrew begged for goat milk rather than the host of other treats he could have had. W has a fondness for herbal teas. Baby will still eat just about anything put before him. I think we see definite improvement for all of us and there is still so many more neat things to try!! The boys’ reflux is only around when they’ve had a product with corn syrup; David and I are both noticing trimmer bodies, despite the fat in our menus…and it’s all good fat and REAL fat so it’s nice to see the visible proof.

If you haven’t bought or gotten from the library Nourishing Traditions yet, consider this yet another plug for it. It is most certainly on the list of “10 books that changed my life”.

• this morning, in an effort to better get to know this little hamlet we’ve moved to, we attended the Presbyterian church across the street. It’s the quintessential little white country church, with bell tower and gothic windows and wood flooring. The congregation was a mixture of little country church ladies, a couple of middle aged men, and a visiting grandchild or two. They had a well-meaning but distracting little bit of announcements right before the call to worship but otherwise it followed a similar liturgy to what we are used to, which was comforting. Much scripture, the Gloria Patri, the Apostle’s Creed, and a good amount of prayer. They didn’t have the Lord’s Supper and the pastor was a visiting elder from places elsewhere. But they were in a delightful tizzy afterwards to talk to us all, showing us pictures of what the town looked like in the past (like, the 40’s! Neat to see our house with three windows on the second level, not two), offering to bring extra produce from their gardens, and heartily inviting us back. We enjoyed it, and it was very cool just walking right across the road to get home, but we missed our church. The plan is just to visit two churches here in the area now and then for community, fellowship, and gas relief now and then; I’m not sorry at all that next week we will be back again at our much loved Covenant Reformed Pres!
• Celia said today: “Mom? Why do we always sing ‘All-Men’ at the end of every song and prayer? Why not ever ‘All-Ladies’?
• We had a long and wonderful conversation with Karen over the picket fence after church today. The day was cool and breezy and she was happy to see we’d visited. Earlier this week she brought a basket of banana bread and some tourism material to welcome us; she really deserves her own blog post! She (THANK HEAVEN) eats healthfully too and can “speak the language”. She gave us some tips on where to find the good stuff out here from local farmers and of a store in Oak Ridge to try. Most signifigant: I think I found a true friend, or someone who at least seems to have a lot of potential in that direction!
• We took the kids to the Obed Scenic River today, with the idea of swimming. We found an access we’d not been to and tried to find a place where the water was calm. We’ve had tons of rain in the last few days and the river was mostly all rapids in that area. So we headed out to an area on the other side of town that we’d been to before. Yet again, the river was swollen and swift, but around the bend was a calmer area with a rope swing and a few other children playing. Andrew and Celia took turns with some other kids climbing the tree ladder and swinging out into the river in pure country style. Wheaton, ever conservative, wanted to play and practice his swimming down by a little beach area further down. I took the little boys over there while David stayed with the older two. Two men were on rafts a bit later, swimming into the current to raft down a waterfall down stream. I watched them a minute….less than a minute, and glanced down to see the little guys splashing and swimming. For some reason, my first reaction was to see that Rowan was dog paddling and oh how nice. WHAT?! No…why the delay in my realization? He was face down in the water, unable to right himself, drowning. I couldn’t reach him and Wheaton was paralyzed with fear.Screaming,  I jumped toward the baby and grabbed him up by his shorts. He was dark red but trying to spit. He threw up some water and burped and coughed and he started crying. I can’t believe we had such a close, close call. It couldn’t have lasted more than 10-15 seconds but it felt like an eternity. I had that same feeling of “stepping out of myself” that I had the moments before Clara coded, watching it happen from a few feet of myself. I cleaned him up and nursed him and just sat in the car shaking until the rest of them came back.
• On a lighter note, after we got home “Little Bear” stopped by with a couple of bags full of Mary Martha’s garden produce. Mary Martha is an avid gardener that lives on the corner and Little Bear/John is a guy (7/16ths Cherokee he proudly proclaimed) who does odd jobs around town, one of them today to pick and deliver tomatoes okra and corn to us. Little Bear makes indian crafts to sell and said to David, “I once gave that marriage thing a try. Got married in ‘87 and divorced in ‘94. Had to though. Found out she was a Navajo and Cherokee and Navajo just do not mix.”
• That corn he brought was put into a pot within minutes and we sat out on our picnic table feasting buttery cobs and layered mexican casserole. It was almost chilly out once the sun was behind the tree line; unbelievable August weather. Red Fox and Fly weren’t far away wanting any scraps. It’s kind of weird having dogs around. I keep forgetting that I don’t have to clean up what spills because they get to it first!
• Mary Martha and John/Little Bear included a bag of Okra in the mix, still warm from the sunshine. Wheaton had some pickled okra the other day that he enjoyed but he couldn’t remember what it was called. “Hey Mom…I want some…. what’s that? Kudzu?”  me: “you mean Okra?” him: “Yeah, Oprah. Can I have some of that Oprah?”

What happened to our plan? We were going to save up and get a really great dog, a dog we’ve wanted for years, perfectly selected for our family. And I was going to get a hefty, big strong cat and give him a cool, bigger-than-he-was name.

Instead we are adopted by the ragged and ugly. Red Fox woke us with barking at midnight….ugly old Red Fox, who picked his own name and could be called nothing else. If one came upon his decapitated head lying the grass, one could not tell if he was a fox or a dog. It takes that obnoxious chow coat and spiral tail to identify him as canine. He has taken to sleeping on our front porch mat and has even begun to associate more with us than with the ugly dog who called herself “Fly”. She is black with white boots on her front paws and eyes that are teeny tiny. They used to be buds but Fly belongs to someone who actually claims her but will not treat her mange.

Red Fox was barking at a different dog trotting down the street. Even in the middle of the night it was clear he was telling that dog, “Stay Away. This is our house. We’re all Grahams.”

David and I groaned into our pillows. We’ve been claimed by an ugly dog; we are too soft-hearted to turn him away, especially just on looks.

And so there is this motley crew of ugly pets at our house. They picked their own weird names and would have no others. None would win any beauty contest or would make you want to reach down and scratch their ears…until they turn those eyes on you and something inside gives in.

Red Fox, Missy, Baby Grey, Sam, and the Orange-and-Whites. Apparently here to stay.