Here

Sigh. I started thinking about how important community is during Sunday School today. Our group was discussing a willingness to drop everything to serve where we are called. In the book we were reading, there were lots of references to people leaving their local lives to go live someplace desperate - "doing God's work."

A young guy in our midst - someone who is artistic and passionate by nature - who is single and can't decide on a college major so is working two jobs for which he is overqualified - said he was feeling really convicted. He works 'round the clock and "doesn't really DO anything." Never mind that he led worship that morning, chose music for the service and executed it fantastically. Never mind that he is home next to his mother who is battling cancer or that he is standing next to his dad who is strained and afraid.

I felt mad.

What is it about modern culture that trains us to despise our roots? That teaches us that if we've stayed in the county in which we were born, we haven't ACCOMPLISHED anything? Screw that. So if there is any hint of the Arrogance of Youth - thinking we're too big for this small town - I will not listen passively. I tried pointing out what he does for so many so that he would take seriously the ministry he already offers, but I fear it just came across as a way to let oneself off the hook from a true "calling."

Now, I believe that people CAN be called away from the familiar. I've told my kids that we would be happy for them and encourage them in whatever path they might be called to. But I've also let them know that they should not feel pressured to believe that their responsibility is to get as far from home as possible in order to feel successful. I've let them know that it can be a smart person's faithful choice to serve mightily in the home, community and family which made them who they are.

I stewed on this topic on the five minute drive home. I stewed about it while I cut up the butternut squash for our lunch's soup. The squash and I stewed alongside each other while I cruised Facebook and pieced together the story just unfolding of a family in my town reeling from a violent incident that occurred during the night.

A couple was waiting up for their two high school aged children to come home from a school trip. Their home was invaded and both husband and wife were attacked. The wife was able to call the police but by the time they arrived, her husband was dead. He had been a respected employee of a beloved institution in our town. His wife attends a prayer group that I'm in. She was also Sophia's chess club leader in elementary school and their son is a classmate of Brooks'. We are by no means close friends, but this is a small town and they have been in our lives. I still feel stricken and heavy with the news.

That prayer group had our regularly scheduled meeting this morning. Our leader had arranged for a pastor from the host church to meet with us and help us pray. We pieced together some more information about our friend's injuries and the surgery she had the previous morning. We learned who was caring for the kids and nodded knowingly as someone mentioned how tightly-knit their neighborhood is. We all expressed the lame but very intense desire to leap to our feet and bake casseroles for them.

I wait to discern how I can best support these people appropriately. I anticipate this man's memorial service, which I know will be flooded with the people of the community, who know how to come together in a crisis. I'm eager to hear from Brooks when he gets home from his day's activities how the school acknowledged the grief in its midst.

I know I can't articulate this quite right, but maybe you can absorb my meaning when I say that this episode of violence - leading to loss and grief and a season of healing - makes me all the more stubborn on this topic. I better hear no one say that the needs Here, the community Here and what I have to offer Here, isn't important.

Caramel French Toast

I did not have one healthfully redeeming meal on Easter Sunday. I helped to serve the breakfast meal after Sunrise Service this morning at church. We had a family Easter meal after church. And, finally, we celebrated a couple of birthdays with that same branch of the family at suppertime, complete with homemade ice cream and a cake with an entire pound of butter in the frosting. By the end of the day, I didn't even feel treated by the birthday party.

What a fun-packed weekend, though. On Saturday morning I took Ava to the egg hunt put on by the Lion's Club in the wee village in which I grew up. I'm all the more charmed by it because it is exactly as I left it when I last hunted eggs myself nearly 30 years ago.

Ava's age group lined up at the section of the playground which was designated for them. The kids were thick on the end closest to the door from the gym where they had gathered at 9:00 AM. Not being the pushy type, Ava kept moving further down the line until we reached the very end, where there were no other kids. Interestingly, that left her with the entire east side of a playground full of plastic eggs where she might hunt in relative solitude.


...For about 48 seconds...

...Or until the heavily populated west end was picked clean and the swarms descended upon her.


Sunday brought a day of church and family. When we finally got to the family part, I could sit down for a spell and rest my feet. Lawd, those church shoes were not meant for cooking breakfast. Behold, the Easter toes.


While I like to make things from scratch and experiment with recipes, my friend Tammy is expert at feeding crowds. She has done many funeral dinners and Easter breakfasts at our church. We worked together to plan this year's menu. She made biscuits and yummy gravy and an awesome baked egg I'll have to tell you about later. I made French Toast. For weeks beforehand I wondered, should I make traditional French toast (needed: lots of griddle space and time to spend flipping) or baked (needed: lots of oven space that might be in short supply)?

Twenty hours before we were to serve, I decided to do the baked. Here is the recipe:

Caramel French Toast
In a heavy saucepan, combine the following:
1 c. brown sugar
1/2 c. butter
2 T light corn syrup

Cook over medium heat until thick. Pour into a 9 x 13 pan. Cover with 12 slices of bread. French bread is better and more dignified, but the sandwich bread here was donated by the parishioners, so beggars can't be choosey.


Combine the following and pour over the bread:

6 eggs, beaten
1-1/2 c. milk
1 t. vanilla
1/4 t. salt



Cover and chill overnight. Uncover and bake at 350 until set and golden brown. Serve immediately. Serves 6 generously.

Church Picnic/Fair Parade

One popular event which our county fair offers each year is the Sunday afternoon parade, a 2.6 mile route that runs from a downtown shopping center to the fairgrounds in the country. Our church is a block off of the parade route, so we traditionally have a church picnic after services on that Sunday so people don't have to go home to eat before viewing the parade, which starts at 1:20.

Even on my way to church at 8:00 AM, the sidewalks in the area were dotted with lawn chairs, blankets and canopies where people had staked out their preferred parade-viewing real estate. I didn't have time to nab my own spot. I had to get to the church kitchen to begin work since I was in charge of the picnic.

Fortunately, the church had done a hog roast last month for a kick-off meal for Vacation Bible School, and had frozen enough leftovers to feed the church today. This meant I didn't need to arrange for one of the men of the church to grill during the service, as is often the case for our summertime carry-ins.

After church my committee and I got to work, loading up the table of savories. Along with the pulled pork sandwiches, the people of the church brought green bean casserole, cheesy potatoes, macaroni and cheese, relish trays, deviled eggs, (I had sent out a reminder email about the church meal and gave a winking mention that there never seem to be enough deviled eggs. Today we had five trays of them. But STILL there were only about six eggs halves left.) and all manner of salads: macaroni, taco, fruit, cucumber, jello, lettuce.

We had a nice variety of desserts, too. Fruit cobblers, pies, cakes, cookies and more jello.
People wasted no time in filling their plates. Some of our parishoners were participating in the parade in some way, so a few ate and dashed and a few others skipped the meal altogether.

I love church potlucks.

The kind of tableware we choose to use is sort of controversial. Some people like to use the paper and plastic (which would have been sensible for a picnic) but there are others who scold that we are a church in financial crisis (like many small churches in pre-war, expensive-to-maintain church buildings) and need to not use disposable plates and silverware when we have cabinets full of china, stainless steel and glass. To stay out of the controversy, I'm always willing to wash dishes alongside the other worker bees. It's more environmentally responsible, too.

After the dishes were washed and put away, we walked the block to join church friends for viewing the parade. Ten minutes before the parade steps off, somewhere around 400 runners, joggers and plodders begin racing the route which ends at the fairground grandstand, with a final lap around the track which makes it an even 5K. We waved and screamed at our buddy, Dean, who waved and screamed right back.

We waved and screamed at our buddy Ron, who is leading this pack and means business about the race and isn't going to trifle with a bunch of lunatics on the sidewalk.

The girls and I stayed for about an hour of the parade, which included, reasonably:

Horses,

Marching Bands,

and Chubby Shriners.

It was a good day, even though I got sunburned on my decolletage.

The Church of Each Other, Part Two

When our good church friend, Drema, passed away last month, the whole of the church body stationed themselves at the beck and call of her husband and two teenaged daughters. We visited, we baked, we helped throw the party for the graduating daughter.... not because it eased their sadness, but we all felt the need to love them "right" and that's what it seemed like we could do.

Several women (and one man) of the church had, in recent years, contributed to Fill the Freezer events, whereby we all helped one another out with quick, healthful meals - mostly casseroles and one dish meals - that we could pull out of our freezers at home and prepare for our families with very little fuss. Here's how it works: We had a sign up sheet in the lobby where we could sign up if we wanted to be involved. We'd also sign the name of the dish we were planning to prepare, just so that everyone wouldn't make lasagne. If 15 people signed up, then one would make 15 of one's choice of dish, like Tater Tot Casserole, or Chicken and Rice. On the designated day, we'd bring our 15 casseroles (in disposable pans) and everyone would take home one of every kind of casserole for their own freezers, their family's nourishment, and our leisurely meal prep time.

It was suggested that we put together a Fill the Freezer strictly to benefit Drema's family, with the cooks bringing just one meal to the church, all of which would go home with Roy and the girls. The drop off day was this past Sunday and, over the course of the morning, the church freezer spilled over with gestures of love wrapped in tin foil.


The point of this blog entry is threefold, I guess. One is to record how the people of my community can, and do, rally together to care for one another when there is a need. Another point is to record the church's Fill the Freezer days, which has given many of us new dishes to taste, and new recipes to track down. And I finally wanted to share what I've learned about freezer baking...

What the FtF'ers and I have routinely done is put our casseroles in disposable aluminum pans, which come in either 8x8 or 9x13 sizes. Once we've filled them, we cover them in foil, and slide them into zip sealed freezer bags. The 8x8 pans can easily fit into a one gallon freezer bag and the 9x13 pans need the two gallon size. The heating instructions can either be included on paper between the foil and the freezer bag, or written directly on the bag with a permenant marker.

Some of my "Green"-minded friends have suggested alternatives to avoid the disposable/wasteful scene. One could make a soup and freeze it in a glass jar. If you were just making in advance and freezing your own meals yourself, you could just use only your own real casserole dishes. That's what I did this spring, when I made several meals in advance of our crazy-busy Little League season.

Speaking of Little League, our last games were this past Saturday. That means more time at home and less meals from the concession stand.

Above: The walking taco - over-priced, disgusting, and seriously delicious.

The Church of Each Other, Part One

I've been working on this post for a week. By working, I mean writing one lame opening sentence, deleting it and closing it up until the next day. I want my words to accurately express what myself and some of the people around me have been feeling recently. Since they can't, I just need to record SOMETHING of it. Over the last two weeks, in our small church in Indiana, we first worried over a nine-year-old boy who fell off the monkey bars and was badly hurt. We were given assurance a few days later that he would be fine, so we breathed a sigh of relief. Then we were punched in the gut when a favorite woman of the church fell victim to a heart attack and did not recover. We are all very sad.

Drema was a gentle woman from the hills of West Virginia who made everyone feel like family. She greeted me every Sunday with a hug and "How are you, Sweetie?" She remembered if a child had been sick recently and asked about them. Anytime a group worked to serve the church or people in need, she and her husband were the first to come, the last to leave and the hardest workers of the day. She was uncomplicated but not simple. She had little and shared everything. We all felt like we had something special with her. She leaves a loving husband and two teenaged daughters, one who is having her high school graduation next week.

I've been thinking about a phrase I read recently and it seems to describe the attitude in our church. Mary Jane Butters is seamstress, carpenter, community organizer, milkmaid, writer and farmgirl. She was raised in a devout Mormon family and her parents were in high standing in their small but tight Church community. While she doesn't practice any organized religion now, she talks with fondness about the intimate Community formed by the people of the church - by Being There for each other in good times, in bad times, in unthinkably tragic times. Today, when asked what church she attends, she says she belongs to the Church of Each Other. Without theology, she carries on the practice of Being There with her employees, her neighbors, her shareholders.

An excerpt from Mary Jane's Ideabook, Cookbook, Lifebook:

"The 'other' part of 'each other' is easier if you decide that people matter, no matter what. For behold, are we not all beggars? For me, then, it's the wheel, work, and a heart full of song - it's the church of Each Other, the church of Lend a Hand, and the church called Gathered Up. The stuff of belief in providing relief to each other is a mighty defense against the passionlessness of modern life. Anyone can attend. And anyone can join."

A mere day and a half after dear Drema's sudden death was our Sabbath, with a scheduled carry-in dinner after services in order to honor our graduating young students, Drema's daughter among them. I am the Chair of the Fellowship committee, which hosted the event. A very large portion of the church turned out in order to Be Together. There had to be some crying together, too. But also laughing together, encouraging together, helping together and certainly eating together.

When the eating part was mostly done came the real work of the event, which also happens to be some of my favorite stuff. My committee consisted of four other women, ranging in age from about 15 years older than me to about 75 years old. "How awkward," some might say, "of course you have nothing in common!" Not so. We have our work in common, and the feeling that the work is important. The people we care about bond us, too, as do the joys and sorrows of the Community. Right now our people are sorrowing and what we know to do really well is serve them from the kitchen.

Aprons were donned, hands got pruney from the dishwater and only two glasses were broken. All the church members bussed their own tables and sorted their plates, glasses and silverware in order to be helpful. Barb didn't want to take all that leftover cake home, so could she send it home with me, you know, for the kids? I didn't know where everything went in the kitchen, but Carol did. Carol knows everything about the church kitchen. We wondered if a certain dish belonged to the church or to one of it's members, but Ruby recognized it as being one of Wendy's bowls. And Sharon, bless her, who laughs at herself for managing to break a sweat when she folds socks, stood melting over the hot dishwater for an hour or more, hair sticking damply to every part of her face and neck, but did not stop until the work was done.

Look again, and I noticed Joann was washing a sinkful of dishes, too. And Darcey was in the Fellowship Hall, wiping down tables and vacuuming the floor. That's not unusual; they're always there when work needs to be done, but neither was on my committee... the work wasn't theirs to be done. No matter, they would pitch in anyway.

A month ago, Drema would have been a part of that crew. A month from now, the cast may change again. But what is evolving stays the same. There will always be people to hold your hand, bring you a casserole, wash up afterwards. The food tastes better in the church basement. The work is more meaningful when the one doing it chose it, was not assigned to it. We are more Family than family.

Soul Food

Last Sunday, we were invited to an African-American church to hear a new friend speak as they celebrated Black History Month. The whole experience was so positive... from the warm reception we received to the amazing singing... the earnest message to the Soul Food Feast we enjoyed afterward... All were completely delightful standing alone and made all the more wonderful for the glimpse it offered into a culture different from (and somehow the same as)ours.

Now, I could write whole blog entries about many aspects of the service, but as this is a food blog I'll write a smidge on the soul food meal.

Allow me to be your eyes and ears (or maybe nose and tongue, in this case). It was a small church and it was quite tight in the Social Hall. We snaked in a line to the back of the room where the food serving tables were set up. We took our plastic plates and cutlery and with mouths watering pretended to patiently wait our turn. First there was a table of desserts, already dished out on their own plates. There was angel food cake, pound cake, and I sampled my first ever sweet potato pie. Next we dished out from bowls of lettuce salad and potato salad, then rolls and cornbread.

Before we move on to the hot food, I'm reminded of a time when Oprah mentioned on her show that black people put paprika on their potato salad. Paprika-wielding white ladies were indignant and bombarded the talk show host with bowls of their own potato salads garnished with the spice. All this to say, the potato salad on Sunday was, in fact, topped with paprika.

The biggest difference I saw between my friend's church meal and my church's meals was in the handling of the hot food. At our potlucks, everyone helps themselves from the dishes, but some of the women of this church donned aprons, hairnets and plastic gloves to serve us from big chafing dishes of yams, macaroni and cheese, green beans cooked with potatoes, fried chicken, turkey and dressing.

We balanced dinner plates, dessert plates and silverware, fussed over the children's food-carrying techniques and tried to make ourselves skinny enough to sqeeze through the aisles to empty seats. We sat at folding chairs at long tables, where styrofoam cups of fruit punch waited to wash down the feast. The next 45 minutes were all about delicious food, warm company and friendly conversation. While I certainly felt like a welcome guest peeking into a New and Wonderful church/food/ethnic culture, ultimately I decided that it wasn't so different from my Familiar and Wonderful church/food/ethnic culture.

I'm glad for my old friend Anne, and my new friend Lawrence, who reached out to Me and Mine and welcomed us into Theirs for the day.