A Culinary Humdinger

Here’s a close-up of my most recent version of  “alternative spaghetti." It lacks most of the traditional ingredients for “normal spaghetti,” which means no pasta, no pork, and no parmesan cheese. 

“Nice,” you say, rolling your eyes ever-so-slightly.

“Well sure, it is nice for those of us trying to avoid gluten, red meat, and dairy,” I reply, raising one eyebrow just a tad in response.  “Because those foods can create systemic inflammation that underlies most degenerative and chronic disease.”

You smile feebly. I recognize the wary look: too much information, but thanks.

It’s okay - I’ve come to expect suspicion, which is just normal, right? Serious doubters are known to squint their noses big time, bulldog-like.  They know it’s not spaghetti and so can’t taste like spaghetti.  But sometimes they're willing to boldly venture into the conversation anyway: “Just exactly what IS it, then?” 

“Well,” I say to those skeptics, “Scoot yourselves right up to the table and find out for yourselves.  Because this stuff is delicious.”

If you’re one of those, you’re probably also miles from my table and can’t pull up a chair, so I’ll just tell you what it is.  Strings of baked spaghetti squash are topped with thick, seasoned sauce – tomatoes cooked down and studded with sautéed onions, lots of mushrooms, and organic ground turkey. A vegan “cheese” made with nutritional yeast, ground cashews, and garlic powder is sprinkled liberally on top: the crowning glory.

Atypical?  Yes, but also extraordinary in its own right - a delectable way to take one more baby step toward sustenance that counts, way down at the most basic, cellular level of the human body.

By the way, it goes really well with a glass of Pinot Noir.

(More Than) A Work Day

Beauty pressed in softly from all sides, challenging my senses and level of awareness.  Our calm lake mirrored serenity.  Elegant wild swans fed in shallows near the house, tipping their tails skyward to point at wispy, cotton-candy clouds. Surrounding trees stood dressed in the finery of their autumn foliage.

We tackled seasonal chores while unhurried minutes counted down the day.  I pulled dried vines from the vegetable garden, tangled and matted and barren, and threw them into the woods.  By mid-afternoon, heavy wooden pier sections stood stacked high beside the seawall thanks to the use of a winch: my husband’s ingenious, labor-saving invention.

It was good day to celebrate the beauty of sheer effort - to be fully present and open to awe, blessing, and inspiration, and deeply thankful for divine provision.  It was a memorable time to focus on gratitude firmly rooted in the conviction that God’s mercy and goodness prevail in all things in every season of life.

Breaking Through

Above somber clouds

The sun waited -

Concealed as if absent,

Yet aglow with promise.

Then quite unannounced

Through a celestial window,

Glory spilled boldly

Like silvery rain!

The sky turned jubilant

With light piercing dark,

As gloom became radiant:

Hope infusing the world.

Traveling Light

When our kids were young, my purse carried indispensible things like bandaids, hair rubber bands, earplugs (for me), Tic Tacs, safety pins, tea bags (for me, hot water is free just about anywhere), tissues, matchbox cars, crackers (crushed into crumbs), small pads of paper scribbled with drawings of Jessica Rabbit and Star Wars ships, and a sewing kit.  It also held all the normal, expected items like pens, checkbook, wallet, sunglasses, lipstick, mirror, comb, and a fat pack of rewards cards and credit cards securely bound by a thick rubber band that originally held broccoli stems. 

Then those kiddos grew up and exited the nest.  My packrat purse trend continued, minus the matchbox cars and hair rubber bands - and the sketches on the paper pads switched to notes about remembering to water the houseplants or pick up the package at the post office. Later a cell phone was added to the mix.  Much later emergency pharmaceuticals showed up in the inside zip-pocket, just in case - seniors can be paranoid about their pills.  It was supposed to be about preparedness, I think. I learned it way back in Girl Scouts: “Be prepared.”

But my purse was heavy.  I mean really heavy.

Recently I purged it of all non-essentials.  Talk about liberating!  Even the purse itself went to the trash – an all-leather (originally very nice) bag with a worn strap resembling a dog’s battered chew toy.  It was replaced by a tiny black denim thing from Wal-Mart that looks like it should be slung over the skinny shoulder of some pre-teen girl.

As I was reminiscing and typing these thoughts, something hit me.  Oh yeah…this reminds me of ecologically-minded campers who talk about keeping their backpacks light and minimizing their “footprint” on the trail and at camping sites.  The goal is to travel well, without personal encumbrance or intrusion of the landscape - to pass through with a light step, attention, and respect.

I think this applies everywhere and all the time.  Perhaps most profoundly, I'm reminding myself how offloading emotional baggage like fear and anger (Lord have mercy) lightens the load and clears the way to travel light and gently, with compassion, love, and gratitude.

Saying Farewell

Everything changes when I visit a quiet plot of earth back by the woods where tiny seeds miraculously grow into flowers and vegetables. It brings me much joy.

“Isn’t a garden so much work?” a friend asked with empathetic eyes.  Yes, of course – almost daily, from spring through fall, as a labor of love. And yet in some ways, my garden reminds me of a flourishing, well-loved child. My husband, who is neither a gardener nor a poet, and had not heard me speak of this, got it right. 

“I know why the plants in your garden do so well,” he said on a hot day back in July, when tomatoes hung heavy on their vines and everything was lush.

“Oh?  Why?” I replied.

“Because you love them, and they know it.”

Winter squash is now piled in five-gallon buckets in the shed. I recently pulled the last of the beets, and will pick beans, kale, lettuce (a second planting) and swiss chard until a heavy frost disables them. This should be very soon.

It’s almost November, and time to let go of my summer garden - a beautiful cathedral-like sanctuary where God’s presence seems very real. Time to say good-bye to living things that have nourished soul as well as body for months. Time to be grateful for giving it all I had to give, and receiving the most in return.

The Moral Compass

My mother passed away twenty-nine years ago on the 18^th of October.  We buried her body on an overcast, wet and windy day much like today. 

As her time on earth drew to a close, she became frantically lost within herself while struggling (literally, despite physical restraints) to escape a determined captor: Alzheimer’s disease.

Each year in mid-October I look back on her final days and rediscover a moral compass pointing due north to compassion.  

It was as I watched my mother’s laborious passage that I began to learn how life is about beginning again and again with compassion, no matter how deep the darkness of confusion or pain or loss.

Compassion sets us free to love deeply and live well.  It teaches us who we really are: children of God created in His image; children who continue to grow into His likeness, even (perhaps especially) as we journey through challenging-but-redemptive struggles and suffering. Beautiful children, grateful for the Father's love. 

Selah.

 

Much to my delight, just today I discovered the above photos online: my mother (Emily, born 1906) with her father (Dumont).  Father and daughter shared a very close relationship until Dumont’s sudden passing when Emily was in her late 20’s.