easter part one: tradition, food and family

Part one of my Easter celebration occurred a week early, on Palm Sunday weekend, when Ben and I visited Midland to celebrate with my parents. We made the traditional croissants and a lovely savory tart--now an official tradition as well, I imagine, as it's in its second year (this is the vegetarian substitute for the ham of my childhood, and let me note that my omnivorous parents welcomed the switch and suggested this year's repeat...either it's that fabulous or they love me that much. Perhaps both.)

We are big on food traditions in my family, a fact I am only now beginning to realize. Along with recognizing the reason for the holiday itself, our celebrations primarily involve (1) good conversation and (2) food.

When I read food writers I admire, I sometimes think that I just don't fit the mold: I love food; I think about it all the time and wrap stories around meals in my mind. But I don't have a background characterized by the interweaving of cultural heritages, my mother's family is not Italian with a signature red sauce for proof and my father didn't have any kind of culinary identification with a place so romantic as Paris.

But my parents are both excellent cooks. My childhood was marked by my mother's muffins, loaves of honey-wheat bread, macaroni and cheese, strawberry freezer jam and summer fruit crisps, all from scratch. Her incredible birthday cakes reflected my interest of the moment, be it Minnie Mouse, butterflies or basketball.

In our household, refried beans were made from scratch, though I don't think I realized that the alternative to the beans simmering on the stovetop was encased in a can. My dad specializes in Mexican food and throws down a fabulous pizza. Though more a cook than a baker, he makes an oatmeal bar layered with chocolate that is absolutely divine.

As I was growing up, we ate dinner together, at home, nearly every night. My sister and I delighted even in simple foods, like crackers topped with cheese melted under the broiler. (And I had no idea how blissfully inexpensive the meal was for our young parents.)

My mom occasionally threw tea parties for us. We wore hats, and she made scones with clotted cream and cucumber sandwiches. I loved the perfect lines of the sugar cubes stacked in their tiny white bowl, and we sipped our tea from the beautiful and fragile teacups of my grandmother's collection.

On our birthdays, we got to choose the menu for dinner (my longest-running choice was my mother's famed chicken and broccoli casserole accompanied by homemade rolls), and each holiday was associated with particular meals and desserts. Unconsciously, I spun these traditions together in my mind. My dad made fudge and party mix only at Christmas and cracked hazelnuts with us for his family's signature holiday cookie; my mom took charge of the intricate Santa cookies and the spritz and the Christmas morning cinnamon roll wreath. On Valentine's Day, she made heart-shaped sugar cookies, decorating them for our school parties with designs in pink and white and light purple frosting. We froze red Kool-Aid to make heart-shaped ice cubes and dropped them in Sprite.

Springtime brought thumbprint cookies with frosting in pale shades of yellow, pink and green. And on Easter, we ate ham with canned cherries atop, twice-baked potatoes, homemade croissants with jam and a bunny-shaped carrot cake for dessert. My sister's blog confirms that both offspring of this family still equate thumbprint cookies, those buttery croissants, asparagus and carrot cake topped with cream cheese frosting with the celebration of springtime and Easter.

In my love of stories, I sometimes miss or discredit my own. And perhaps we have to be adults to truly reflect the influence of our pasts; we have to live long enough to see the story begin to unfold. But these days, as I make my own choices and actually pay attention to them, I am realizing that a significant part of what defines my sense of family, tradition and celebration is food, and this isn't something new to this season of my life. Instead, it's woven throughout my past, just as it is for the aforementioned writers I admire.

I found peace in the food traditions that remained constant for our displaced celebration of Easter. And there is something deep that these food traditions communicate--that you celebrate, because life is hard, and celebration helps; that there are things we can rely on, like food and like family; that food not only sustains us but also, blessedly, can be enjoyed communally, in celebration, with the people we love.

And all of this, as it turns out, I learned from my family as well.

where I want to be.

Here in Michigan, we are currently in the strange in-between that brings us from winter into spring. One day, the sun shines brilliantly, and the next, there's, oh you know, an ice storm. Of course.

I sometimes feel like I'm in that strange space in my life as well. There's much that is good, but other things are...not good. In terms of what frustrates, tires and worries me most, I have tremendous hope for a time in the future when things will be different, but that's still far-off.

And really, this is a microcosm of the broader sense of life as already-and-not-yet. We experience some of the wonder and beauty of how things ought to be, how they someday will be, but we're not quite there. Rather, we are perpetually between seasons; life will always be hard and complicated and confusing...though some days more than others.

Last Monday, for example, I was feeling quite sad, and rather inexplicably so. My dearest one listened as I told him all of the small things that were contributing to my melancholy state. I'd been thinking about baking a cake, as that's generally a good cure for sadness, and, because he knows me well, he nudged me gently into the kitchen, and, because he is wonderful, he helped. Not too long after, with the cake in the oven and the scent of orange already wafting through the air, we sat back down, and I was surprised to find that I no longer felt quite so out of sorts.

Let me be honest: I'm fighting the urge to be rather sentimental right now. And I'm going to give in, if just a little bit. It turns out that it's true that sometimes one singular person can make that which is bad better. Having been in the happy-single camp for twenty-three-and-some solid years, this is kind of a revelation to me. I'm certainly not suggesting that a significant other is necessary; singleness is good and lovely, and community can bring all kinds of beauty and depth and companionship.

But for me, right now, when trouble or sadness comes, however small, I know where I want to be: with Ben. And if we happen to be sitting on the chocolate brown futon in my little apartment, the air filled with the aroma of a baking cake bright with the scent of orange...well, all the better.

Now. About this cake.

Oh, this cake, people, this cake! Along with the delightful flavor of orange, it has a delicate yet rustic crumb, is full of wholesome ingredients and requires only one bowl. One! And if you're wondering when would be an appropriate time to bake it, know that the citrus makes it perfect for winter, but it's also so fresh, like springtime. And as for the in-between times, those always necessitate cake.

So anytime, really.

Once you have baked this delightful cake, eat a piece late at night while sitting alone in the calm silence, and be reminded that life really is alright. Or share a piece with a friend or neighbor, who will certainly feel loved.

And if there is one particular fellow or lady who makes your bad days brighter, hold that hand tightly, share a slice (or two or three) and be very thankful. (Yes, I know. I didn't forget I said that.)

Olive Oil Orange Cornmeal Cake
Adapted slightly from Kristen at The Kitchen Sink, who adapted slightly from Martha Stewart.

The original recipe calls for blood oranges for the juice and zest, but on that Monday, I was not about to go out to pick up more ingredients, so we used what I had--plain old oranges--and the results were lovely. (The juice was from concentrate, to be honest, and I'm only slightly ashamed. It was easier, and that mattered. But don't worry, we ate the oranges we zested.)

1/2 cup olive oil, plus more for pan
2 large eggs
1 1/3 cup sugar, divided
1/2 cup orange juice
1 1/4 cups white whole wheat flour, or all-purpose
1/2 cup coarse-ground cornmeal (I used the pretty red one that happened to be in my freezer)
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
Zest of 2 oranges

Preheat oven to 375 F. Lightly oil an 8-inch round cake pan. Line the bottom of the pan with a round of parchment paper, and brush the paper with oil as well.

In a large bowl, whisk together the oil, eggs and juice along with 1 cup of the sugar. When the mixture is smooth, add the flour, cornmeal, baking powder, salt and orange zest. Whisk gently to combine.

Pour batter into the prepared pan, and sprinkle the top evenly with the remaining 1/3 cup of sugar.

Bake until the cake begins to pull away from the sides of the pan and a tester inserted in the center emerges clean, 35 to 40 minutes.

Cool the cake in its pan for 20 minutes. Run a knife around the edge of the cake, invert it gently onto a plate and remove the parchment paper. Turn the cake back, right-side up, onto a rack to cool completely.

Enjoy, with gusto.

not what anyone expected.

During Christmastime, with all its familiarity and the season's flurry of activity, it is easy to drift into our routine of celebration without seeing the source of celebration with new eyes. Last year, though, I was struck afresh by the hope of Advent. So this year, I was searching for something to make it new for me again. I was joyfully waltzing through the season, but I wanted it to be deep and beautiful and newly profound. And by some kind of grace, that newness finally came on Christmas Eve.

At work, I've been updating our Survey of the Bible course, and last week, I edited, revised and began skimming through the entire thing. As I followed its tracing of the drama of redemption from the beginning, outlined in the early chapters of Genesis, to the present day, I was reminded of the words of the prophets and the oldest recorded promises of God...promises about the one who would come, the Prince of Peace who would reign and make all things right. I recalled the lineage of Jesus, his family tree full of sinners and marginalized folks and very few that we would choose as precursors to the king of everything.

On Christmas Eve at my parents' church, the church I grew up in, the liturgy included a video of a little white line blazing through a dark screen, accompanied by captivating piano music, tracing a picture of Bethlehem and the star, Mary and Joseph traveling, shepherds, angels...and then, the small baby Jesus in the manger.

And it was so simple. But at moment 1:50 of the video, when that tiny manger and outline of a baby were traced on the screen above me, with the promises of the prophets still on my mind, I thought, This wasn't what anyone expected.

They were waiting for a king. They were waiting for power and grandeur and fanfare. I imagine that they watched the rulers and leaders of the day, wondering, Is he the one? Is he? How about this king? This prince? This priest?

No one was looking at insignificant young girls in Nazareth. No one expecting a king would have been paying attention to the life of a poor carpenter. Who would have connected the census to the most monumental religious event ever to occur? Who would have been watching the births of infant boys in rural villages? Who would have kept an eye on the stables in the countryside?

This wasn't what they expected. This wasn't what I would have expected.

But this was it. This was what every single prophecy pointed toward. The tiny baby conceived by a virgin, born in a stable, placed in a feeding trough, resting on a mattress of hay, comforted by the moans of cattle, gazed on by dirty shepherds, with a lineage marked by prostitutes and sinners and nobodies...this was the Savior.

And frankly, a god who would orchestrate a story as unexpected as that to bring about our salvation is the kind of god I want to follow.

I want to serve an unpredictable, unconventional god. I want to serve a god who would write that kind of narrative, full of adventure and heart and nothing anyone anticipated.

And that's what I have been dwelling on this season. I know that all of this has been said before, in one way or another, but as I step back and think rationally, I am remembering once again that this is one incredible story.

So. Merry Christmas. For me, these past days have been marked by quality time and good food and much laughter, and I hope you've been experiencing the same. I've been enjoying time with my family, all the five of us together, and I still have a few more days to revel in the joy of these dear ones and others close to my heart.

By the way, I know I didn't deliver on my promises of fall summaries and snapshots. Something of the sort might still appear, but this coming year, I'm resolving to keep shorter to do lists and minimize the demands I place on myself. So in the spirit of just living, I shall make no promises!

An now, enjoy these last few days of 2010, my friends.

the thanks giving post.

Though Thanksgiving has come and gone, I want to voice my thanks before continuing on with updates and new reflections and the Christmas-themed posts sure to ensue.

I got out of town and had a wonderful holiday weekend with family and an extension of my family (aka my brother-in-law's family...my family in-law in-law?) and also that boy I'm so fond of. We went to fetch the Christmas tree for my parents' house and decorated it with twinkly lights and cheery ornaments, which means that I will soon begin waxing poetic and becoming wildly excited about any- and everything even remotely related to Christmas. That's right. Be ready.

But first, some giving of thanks.

It's unfortunate that we need a national holiday to remind us to be thankful, but it seems that we do. (We don't need a national holiday to remind us to eat, so I'm going to stick to giving thanks as the primary purpose of the day/this post.) I probably complain more than I give thanks, which is a horribly skewed way of going about things in a life that has been filled with far more goodness than suffering.

And I want to live a life of gratitude.

There is much to be thankful for, after all. On the most elementary level, I am thankful for the material things that I have but don't need or deserve and so many go without--big things like plenty of food for the table and a little apartment all my own; simple and ultimately unnecessary things like cooling racks for hot loaves of bread; the electric blanket and humidifier that, though also unnecessary, make my Michigan winters much more bearable; shoes for my feet to stay warm and my body well, because it could be otherwise.

And of course, there are the good people surrounding me. There's this one girl who has now lovingly listened to a year's worth of joy and heartache and anxiety, who picked much of my summer sustenance with her very own hands, with whom I've never cooked a disappointing meal and whose single-syllable laugh I at some point unconsciously picked up. There's this other lovely lady in my city but from my hometown who absolutely makes my "short list," whose presence seems to ensure an eventful evening out and with whom a bottle of wine, a dessert (two desserts?), a platter of cheeses or a Valentine's day celebration was never unhappily shared. There is an incredible woman who believes in me more than I believe in myself, has a strength and vitality I strive to emulate and is the kind of mother that makes me want to be a mother.

I have a father who is a source of constant joy and offers much-needed guidance for my professional life on a regular basis, and my mom--who is also one of my very best friends--listens to me talk nonstop whenever I need to. (Seriously. My parents are awesome.) My sister and brother-in-law are living in the same country I am living in, which is something to be thankful for in itself, and on top of that, they are great house guests, read even my longest emails without complaining and are full of wisdom and hope.

There are good folks at my workplace; wise mentors from college and church; dear old friends now living in other cities, states and countries far off; kind landlords who fix even little things like broken doorknobs; new, inspiring acquaintances in this city that is my home.

And there is also a boy who makes me laugh until my face hurts, sees the bit of goodness in everything, listens to every last story even from a boring day, runs with me in the dark, cares about the world and appreciates a good meal or a well-made scone just as much as I do.

Along with all of that, I give thanks for the great big things, the things I ought to be expressing gratitude for with every breath: justice in my daily life, freedom, opportunity, health, peace in my neighborhood--and a good and sovereign God who holds everything, even that which is not just or peaceful or right.

Finally, I am thankful for a vast miscellany of other gratitude-inducing aspects of my life, such as my (currently) pest-and-rodent-free apartment, the fact that said apartment is in a house painted purple, my job (for both its good days and its bad ones), my little office with its fake plant, local businesses where they know my name and cardigans and baked goods and music and artwork and poetry and cookbooks and hope.

May I remain thankful all the year 'round.

alive.

The summer thus far has been full, to say the least. A lovely start to these weeks of warmth, of sidewalks and parks filled once again with people, of farmers markets and sundresses, of friends in town to visit and trips to get away, of daylight that lingers until late in the evening and new beauty that overwhelms.

In my little pocket of the world, these early summer days also brought a rather heightened dose of life in all its fullness. I have experienced loss and the resulting heartache, and I have felt some incredible joy and delight and newness.

And of course, such is life.

My grandfather passed away on June 21, peacefully slipping out of a painful last few months and into something much more beautiful. I went back out to South Dakota for the funeral, my second visit of the summer, and it was a hard but good time of coming together with family to remember well, to cry together, to love one another.

This time also provoked a lot of reflection. Death reminds me of the importance of living well, and my grandfather did just that. He was fully present. He worked hard. He loved faithfully. He sacrificed for others. He was steady.

And as my mother said eloquently of her father-in-law, he didn't have a lot of words. I, on the other hand, do have a lot of words. Clearly. I have a blog, for crying out loud, and my friends and family can attest to the fact that sometimes I talk far too much. But I can learn something very significant, I think, from that difference between my grandpa and me. Because even with few words, his life held so much meaning, and it meant something very good indeed.

And so. May all of the words tumbling out of my mouth and off the tips of my fingers be measured and meaningful and intention-filled, and yet may they never distract me from the meaning of my actions. May my life speak, and may it speak of beauty and hope and truth and love.

Oh, living well is no small thing, my friends.

And so the month of June ended, taking with it the life of one I loved. But just as endings come, so come beginnings, and on July 1, my dear friend Nicole and her husband Dickie welcomed a little one into the world. He is beautiful and perfect, tiny and fragile and full of potential. Holding his tiny, swaddled, two-day-old form last weekend reminded me of hope, of possibility and life and mystery.

All of this life is a good thing, and the intensity of what I've felt this early summer simply serves as a reminder that I am alive, just as heat and glistening skin remind us of the nearness of the sun. As a dear friend and I sipped homemade iced chai and nibbled on scones this afternoon at a favorite spot of mine, we talked about the mystery of life, the confusion that threatens to cloud its beauty, the grace that blessedly slips through anyway.

I hope that grace is slipping through into your life. I hope you're feeling alive in each and every moment you're living.

where the pines are so high

Good heavens, it has been more than a month since last I posted! Summer is (unofficially) here, and life continues moving rapidly along. My apologies for my brief hiatus from this space. One reason for my absence was a recent trip out to the beautiful west, first to a wedding in Minnesota and then to see family in South Dakota. And yes, recap follows.

So first things first: the wedding was wonderful. I loved seeing Rita and G at the start of their adventure together. There were many dear folks to catch up with at the wedding, a couple of charming little farm towns to explore, reception tables to decorate and, of course, joy-filled tears to be shed. I love these two so much, and I'm confident that they will make it and, together, offer the world so much wisdom and hospitality and strength and goodness and beauty.

From this weekend of celebration, I journeyed on to South Dakota...

Although I am from Michigan, through and through, I've always felt that some small part of me is from the Black Hills. My parents both grew up in Rapid City, South Dakota, and most of my dad's family still lives there, along with my mother's tall and lovely aunts (seen in one of the pictures below). Every summer of my childhood, my parents, sister and I would vacation out that way, and my memories of growing up are peppered with the moments of those trips. When I walk through the door of my beloved grandparents' house, that peace of home settles into my bones, and I am flooded with the memories of family gathered together and rhubarb pie and card games at the kitchen table, reading books in the living room and falling asleep in the big bed I shared with my sister as the cool summer breeze drifted through the screen of the open door. Life was safe, simple and ever-so-good.

This summer's trip brought meals and ice cream and coffee enjoyed over meaningful conversation with loved ones, long morning runs with my dad, a cousin's graduation party, a bike ride on the Mickelson Trail, a morning of baking with my grandmother, hours spent poring over old photographs while drawing out stories from the past and the simple joy found in the togetherness of family.

And without fail, when I am up in the Hills, surrounded by the deepest browns and greens that nature has to offer, with a herd of buffalo around each corner and elk hiding somewhere in the woods, the sense of home returns. Maybe it's that song my mother used to sing to me, a song, she told me during this trip, that her mother once sang to her: "take me back to the Black Hills, the Black Hills of South Dakota, where the pines are so high that they kiss the sky above." When we were riding our bikes on the Mickelson trail, my dad breathed in deeply and told me that that smell, the smell of the Ponderosa Pines, smelled like the Hills to him. Like home.

And the tiny green leaves of the aspens turn and blink in the light, flickering like candles, clapping like the smallest of hands, welcoming my soul home, urging us to live on in gladness.

with a love like that.

Even

After

All this time

The sun never says to the earth,

"You owe

me."

Look

What happens

With a love like that,

It lights the

Whole

Sky.

-Hafiz

And so I strive for this kind of love, hope for redemption and light and beauty and purpose...

A friend reminded me this weekend that there can be peace in the marriage of discontent and hope. I certainly feel both discontented and filled with hope, but I don't always allow these sentiments to coexist in peace. I have a hard enough time letting this apparent contradiction exist within me, which is far from an actual embrace of it as healthy and good. But I want to reach for the embrace. I want to live in that space of peace.

And I want to do so with a love like that.

Let us light the whole sky, my friends.

to the full.

On Wednesday, I had one of those days in which all of life came upon me at once. My sister and brother-in-law are in Uganda, as many or most of you know, and I had a few DVDs in my possession, a Christmas gift from my parents, that we were in the process of passing through the extended families to eventually get them to someone who was visiting Uganda this spring. (I don't even remember how that was going to happen, to be honest. It was complicated.) But Wednesday morning, my brother-in-law emailed to tell us that a Ugandan friend of theirs from the Seminary here in GR would be visiting Mbale unexpectedly as his sister just passed away. He asked if I could get the DVDs to this friend.

We were figuring out the logistics through emails, and then my sister CALLED MY PHONE. (Remember: she is in Uganda. This is not typical.) However, I missed the call because I was out of my office. When I listened to the voicemail she left and heard her voice, sounding so clear and deceptively close, I nearly burst into tears. My heart hurt. I miss her so much.

At the end of the workday, I scrambled home to get in a run before I lost the last of daylight. I showered and hurried out the door to go out and pick up one more thing that I wanted to send along to Uganda (it isn't every day I don't have to worry about an unreliable mail system when trying to get something to my furthest-off loved ones). It was snowing, big white flakes drifting down slowly from the now-dark sky. I stood in the road next to my car and felt as though the whole screwed-up world was sitting atop my shoulders, weighing a million pounds. I wanted to cry.

After running my errand, I came home and wrote some notes to send along to Uganda, plus one for the family of this kind stranger-turned-postman, and bundled everything up. I drove to this man's house, wondering all the while what I could possibly say to this stranger, whose sister was suddenly and tragically gone, as I handed him some DVDs of comedy shows to tuck in his luggage as he began a bittersweet journey home to mourn. When I got there, his wife invited me in, wearing a green fuzzy robe and slippers shaped like animals. Laughing, she apologized for her clothes and for the state of the (not-that-)messy house. As if it mattered at all. She invited me to sit; her husband was on the phone. I expressed my condolences. She wanted to hear about my life, what I do, where I live, who I am. She was beautiful and joyful. Her husband soon joined us. He hugged me as I told him I was sorry for his loss. The three of us chatted, and they told me about their lives and their children. We talked about the trials of not being Dutch yet living in West Michigan, and I told them how much Sara and Anthony love their country. We discussed the strangeness of country borders and visas, these human-made systems that complicate movement around our globe. We talked about life.

When he talked about going home, the face of my new friend sobered. He told me he was both looking forward to and absolutely dreading the trip. And then he looked at his wife, and in his eyes I could see that he was suddenly far away in a world I don't know, and he wasn't really talking to me anymore. He said, "I just cannot believe that she is gone. I cannot imagine my sister no longer being there." He paused. "She was always so full of life."

I had stepped right into the middle of the tragedy of strangers. Beautiful strangers. It was a surreal experience.

And although I felt slightly uncomfortable giving this man the delivery entrusted to me, which seemed so silly in the face of the loss of a loved one, I realized that all of this is life. Watching a familiar show while in an unfamiliar country, things that bring laughter, a reminder of family... this is important. And all of this, tragedy and simplicity and the seemingly-inconsequential... all of this is life.

I hadn't eaten dinner, and it was after 10 pm. I went home and cooked something and thought about life. I went to bed feeling strange and both upset and comforted by my encounter that evening. The next morning, the sun was shining.

Last night, I went to a new friend's house. When I came in, she told me that her brother had passed away unexpectedly two weeks ago and she was just recovering from a case of shingles that came on after the funeral, but she hadn't told me any of this before because she had still wanted me to come. I stood in the doorway. I didn't know what to do. I think I wanted to bolt and run forever. But instead, I took off my coat. She made lattes for us, and we talked for a long time. As I talked to this trusted friend, she helped me recognize the Holy Spirit in everything that happened this week. She helped me remember how the presence of God comes to us through the complication and mess and weightiness of life.

This morning, I was thinking about the verse in John 10 where Jesus says that he came "that they may have life, and have it to the full." Now, I am sure he was, at least in one sense, talking about eternity and salvation, but I think that maybe he was also talking about life on earth to the full... which is this. Life to the full includes good and bad, exciting and mundane, tragedy and joy, significant and seemingly inconsequential, morning and evening, going and staying, living and dying. Therein is God. And though I feel a bit overwhelmed and frazzled and not-quite-present still today, I also realize that this is real... this is life to the full. And I think that in the end, this is part of what Jesus came for us to have.

jumble.

I don’t have any one specific point to make today, just a few thoughts to offer, and as I haven't posted for so long, I feel quite alright forgoing my usual attempt at a thematic post. I hope you all are well, and many apologies for my brief absence!

Life continues, and it really is good and altogether quite lovely. I recently celebrated a birthday, enjoying the company of my parents and lunch at my favorite restaurant ever (free of charge as a birthday gift from the kind owners of said restaurant!) the weekend before, a peaceful dinner with a few of my dearest friends at another favorite the night of and a small potluck this past weekend, which also served to christen my new home--more on that in a moment. I love potlucks. At this particular potluck, I gave very few specifics when asking people to bring a dish to pass, which resulted in a meal consisting of my big pot of vegetarian chili and batch of Dorie Greenspan's World Peace Cookies and guests' contributions of eight bottles of red wine, five types of bread, two batches of hummus and Dave's promised package of Oreos. As one friend very aptly put it, it looked like a glorified communion. But the 20-or-so of us ate well, laughed much and were happy.

I am feeling somewhat old, in the most positive sense, of course, at what I realize is still quite a young age. As I begin this new year of living, I have once again been thinking about everything I have learned in the past few years, but particularly in the past few months, and how very glad I am to be in this post-collegiate, great big world before me, young single and free, idealistic and hopeful stage of life. Honestly, my friends, the world is glorious! There is so much life to be lived! There is so much hope to be held! It is not always easy or beautiful, I know, especially at first glance, but I am convinced more and more each day that we must indeed choose joy if we are to have it.

In other news, I have been working full-time since the start of the month at a job that most days I like reasonably well, and I recently poached my first egg. Today I am wearing dark pink tights, which, as always, is making me feel a little better about the world, and I wrote/edited up a storm at work today. A storm, people. And finally, most excitingly, I have moved yet again and am now happily settled into a new little place in a big old purple house. I love it. I think it is absolutely perfect. The space, the location, the hardwood floors and brightly colored walls, that amazing little hutch in the kitchen, the fact that the kitchen is so adorably tiny, the pocket door between the two biggest rooms, the footsteps of my upstairs neighbors, the bay window above my bed. With all respect and love to past roommates, I have not been this happy to come home in a very, very long time. Goodness, I haven't felt this at home while home in a very, very long time. Furthermore, when one of my landlords asked me to be sure to regularly take out the trash because they do not have mice in this house and told me that they have all of the paint colors to touch up my walls once I’ve decorated and explained that I could call if it gets too cold and they would come adjust the heat, I wanted to throw my arms around him and embrace him and then burst into tears of pure joy. I didn't. But let me tell you, I was very close. All that to say that I love this new little place of mine. Come visit anytime. I have a fold-out couch. And leftover wine. Just saying.

To close this post, as it is Martin Luther King Jr. day, I offer a few of his own beautiful words, with somber reflection on our soiled human history, recognition of the inexplicable and confounding tragedy that has now fallen upon Haiti, awareness of our brokenness and the brokenness of this world and persistent hope for the future:

“Now let us begin. Now let us rededicate ourselves to the long-but-beautiful-struggle for a new world.”

Amen. Let us begin indeed.

late fall in chicago: community, place, getting dirty, drinking deep

I traveled to Chicago this past weekend with Sarah, Lindsay and Taylor to visit our very dear friends Laura and Jer who married and began settling into a new home in Westmont early this fall.

married.

(Note: Sarah wrote about our travels more promptly than I, so for our shared readership, please forgive the inevitable repetition!) It was wonderful to see Laura and Jer -- we miss them so much back here in GR -- and to establish an accurate image of their new city and apartment in my mind. The six of us wandered together, cooked together and laughed together. Because of shared values, loves and experiences, comfort in this community runs deep, and that is a very beautiful thing. Community itself is a very beautiful thing. Yes, it is hard to establish and to maintain, and it really is kind of a crazy endeavor, but oh! how good and pleasant it is when God's people live together in unity! (Psalm 133:1)

Then, on Sunday, Sarah, Lindsay, Taylor and I journeyed to the Rogers Park neighborhood to visit a wonderful community coffee shop called The Common Cup.

We loved it. Clearly.

As we drove through the city towards the coffee shop in North Chicago, past row houses and old architectural beauty, rundown neighborhoods brightened by community gardens and people on sidewalks under buildings market by graffiti, I was overcome by a desire to go and, once there, to stay, to invest in a place, sinking my feet in deep and being part of it, cultivating hope and making things more beautiful. I hungered for adventure and change and envelopment in something bigger and more powerful than I am. I was drawn not to any specific street in Rogers Park or to any particular place at all, really, but rather to the act of jumping into life completely and without abandon or fear or hesitation, immersing myself fully its enormity and overwhelming complexity.

And as I felt all of this, I wondered where it all came from, these firm beliefs about and desires for community and city and place and intentionality that course so deep and so fiercely within me now.

And then I wondered what to do with all of it.

I was somewhat overwhelmed, to be honest. I want so much from life, and I hadn't realized this before. I want so many experiences; I want such depth of feeling and passion. I want complexity and difficulty and unpredictability, because that is what is real. I want to get dirty, to run as fast as I can straight into the mess of humanity and its intersections with space and environment and God and to live right in the middle of all of it, forever, until I die. I want to reach out with hands cupped together tightly, to fill them with water and to drink deep of life, renegade drops splashing my eyes and soaking the front of my shirt.

But though I want so much, I am so small. It is hard some days to fit my dreams within a world that necessitates money and health insurance, a world of broken structures that complicate the path. And yet, I am hopeful, because although I remain unsure of what my very near future holds, I realize that whatever comes will be beautiful. Staying would be beautiful. Leaving would be beautiful also. Wherever I am and whatever I am doing, I can and will drink deep of life and settle right into its tangled center.

This weekend refreshed my spirit and renewed my vision for life. And if that wasn't enough, there was Ethiopian food, a trip to Trader Joe's, innovation and the casting of dreams, relational problem solving, seeking ways to change the world and giving thanks for grace.

In closing, a reminder to do your part to save the world: recyle.

Ahem... pardon, recycle. Thanks, Sarah.

tranquility, friendship and banana bread

A few Saturdays ago, desiring a bit of tranquility and peace, Sarah, Nick, Taylor and I made plans to gather that evening at Nick and Taylor's house to sink into the couches in the front room of the house with glasses of red wine in our hands, reading and writing by the glow of candles and the dim light of a lamp, classical music swirling about us and brisk fall winds blowing on the other side of the windows.

It really was a fabulous idea.

The only thing that could make the evening more lovely, I felt, would be some kind of baked good. But not just any old baked good. Banana bread. With dark chocolate and bits of crystallized ginger.

I had long ago discovered this recipe both on Molly Wizenberg's blog and in her book, and it seemed it would be a fitting addition to the evening... a bread made dense and sweet with ripe bananas, slivers of chocolate melting in each bite and spicy undertones of ginger throughout. Yes, this would be perfect indeed.

I always have this desire to bake for gatherings with friends. A key element of my food philosophy (more on this another day) is the idea of nourishment. I love preparing food for others because it is an incredibly basic way of showing them I care for them by investing time and energy into something that nourishes their bodies and souls... enabling life to continue. For whatever reason, I find this sense of caring for others through food particularly strong when baking, maybe because we knead bread with our hands or because dessert is an "unnecessary" luxury or because of Christmas cookies and homemade bread with soup on cold days and freshly baked cookies as only mothers make them.

But whatever the reason, I wanted to bake banana bread.

I whipped up the batter for the bread at home, borrowed a pan from those gracious men as I so often do, slid the borrowed pan into the borrowed oven and joined my friends in the living room, pulling a blanket around my toes and writing away in my journal.

An hour later, when our quiet reading/writing endeavors had transitioned into conversation about the environment and saving the world (as per the usual) and the house had filled with the sweet aroma of the baking bread, Taylor and I ventured into the kitchen.

I pulled the bread out of the oven. It looked lovely, the top lightly browned and cracked. I placed it on the stovetop to cool for a few minutes as Taylor and I talked. As we had no cooling rack (and I don't judge; we don't have a cooling rack in my kitchen either!), we decided to tip it out onto those metal grates over the burners on the stovetop instead. Still talking cheerily with Taylor, I tipped the bread.

Although what happened next is still a blur, I do know for certain that it was not pretty nor graceful.

The bottom of the loaf stayed firmly attached to the pan. The middle was goop and oozed around the more solid pieces that had broken off, seeping out of the pan and between the grates of the stovetop.

Remember what I said about nourishment and caring for others through baking? In that moment, my heart dropped. The symbol of my affection for my friends was spreading across the stovetop in a sticky, oozing mess.

I stood frozen, holding the hot pan in its halfway-tipped position and making various noises of helplessness and distress. Taylor was the first to move, and I quickly emerged from my paralysis to join him in awkwardly attempting to salvage the part of the loaf that remained in one piece, to return the goop and solid bits of bread to the pan, to clean the stovetop, to do something. After several unsuccessful attempts at preservation, Taylor grabbed a spoon from the counter.

I stood in front of the oven, mournfully staring at the situation before me. My bread was ruined. And ugly. My friends' stovetop was a mess. I was an awful nourish-er.

And then I noticed that Taylor, done trying to salvage or clean, had begun eating the gooey insides of the bread off of the stovetop with his spoon. He was grinning. I paused for just a moment. Then, laughing, I reached for a spoon and joined him.

We piled the broken and soft pieces of bread back into the pan and returned to the living room with a stack of spoons. Sitting around the low coffee table on our knees, the four of us and David, another of Nick and Taylor's housemates, polished off the entire loaf of bread, the hot, melted chocolate dribbling from our spoons.

Nick told me confidently that it was better this way than it could have possibly been otherwise.

It could have been a disaster. If I had been alone in my house, making something to take with me to a dinner gathering or a party, I would have been depressed and disappointed. But instead, the moment of panic was brief, and as soon as I saw Taylor with spoon in hand, I knew it would be fine. More than fine.

You see, my friends, this is part of the purpose that community serves, to take an event that might otherwise be construed as disaster and make it into beauty.

And my love is messy anyway. This misshapen and unattractive loaf of bread probably offered a more true metaphor than any perfectly textured scone or delicately arched cake ever could.

I knew immediately that I wanted to share this story and this recipe with you here, but I also wanted to attain more conventional success with the recipe before posting it. Various factors may have contributed to the outcome of that first attempt: a very thick pan, the particular combination of flours I used or the amount of time I waited before removing the bread from the pan. In my second attempt, I used a slightly different version of the recipe, a thinner pan and a simpler combination of flours, and I waited a good 10-15 minutes before attempting removal from the pan.

This second attempt produced a (more traditionally) beautiful and equally (?) delicious loaf of bread. Cut into thick slices, seven of us shared it, moaning at its goodness (yet exercising enough restraint this time to even leave a good-sized piece for me to enjoy the following day). But if I'm being completely honest, I may have enjoyed it most in its half-solid, half-gooey form, eaten with spoons and joy in disaster converted...

Either way, this is incredible bread. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Banana Bread with Chocolate and Crystallized Ginger

Adapted from Molly Wizenberg's A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes From My Kitchen Table (Note: My first attempt more closely followed Molly's earlier version of the recipe, posted here on her blog, Orangette.)

6 tablespoons unsalted butter

2 cups flour (I used white whole wheat)

3/4 cup sugar

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

3/4 - 1 cup semisweet chocolate chips (or chopped up bar of chocolate)

1/3 cup or more chopped crystallized ginger

2 large eggs

1 1/2 cups (about three large) mashed ripe bananas

1/4 cup plain yogurt (despite a warning in the recipe, I used nonfat, and it worked just fine)

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350°. Grease 9- by 5-inch loaf pan.

Microwave the butter until just melted and set aside.

In a large bowl, sift together flour, sugar, baking soda and salt. Add the chocolate and ginger; mix well to combine. Set aside.

In a separate bowl, lightly beat the eggs with a fork. Add the mashed banana, yogurt, butter and vanilla and mix well. Pour this wet mixture into the dry one, stirring gently with a spatula until just combined. Make sure all flour is incorporated, but don't worry if the batter is lumpy and thick. Pour the batter into the greased pan.

Bake 50 minutes - 1 hour. The bread should be a deep shade of golden brown and a toothpick inserted into the center should come out clean. If loaf is browning too quickly, tent it with tin foil.

Cool the bread in the pan for 5 minutes (or longer, all things considered). Tip it out (preferably onto a wire rack, but make do as necessary). Let it cool, but not for too long, as this bread is wonderful warm!

Bring your friends around, eat and enjoy. And if your bread falls apart or isn't quite done, don't worry. Just get the spoons.

Yield: about 8 servings (that is, if you exercise self-control...)

love is a miracle. seriously, people.

Disclaimer: The following does not relate to any one circumstance in my own life or that of anyone else but rather to the cohesive whole of all of my experiences and observations. Point being, don't read into this or try to figure out who I'm talking about, because I'm telling you now: I'm talking about the whole world. And everyone in it.

Tonight, my friends, I present one of my more brilliant (?) observations of late, something very simple but also true and worth at least a moment or two of pondering. Here it is:

For two people to (1) fall in love (2) with each other (3) at the same time (4) to even somewhere near the same degree... this is pretty near to a miracle.

This is like magic.

Really, though, how likely is that to actually happen??? All of these things, all at the same time? Not likely. Not likely at all. And I'm a realist in my (still persistent) romantic sensibilities; I am not talking about perfection, and I know well that any relationship necessitates significant work. But still. We should be shocked that it EVER happens.

Now on the one hand, this observation makes genuine love coursing back and forth between two people stop me in my tracks with its beauty. But the whole thing also just makes my heart ache. I know what it feels like to be in those other, more typical situations, in the more likely event that only one person has fallen, the timing is off or the levels of attachment are entirely unequal. I have been the person offering unrequited affection and the person not requiting the affection of another, and, as most of us know well, neither one is pleasant. And this is happening all the time, all around me, and people ache and hurt just for this crazy, inexplicable thing that is love.

I'm not trying to be cynical; I just want to keep things in perspective. For me personally, at this moment in my life, I cannot even imagine tumbling into a relationship in which the aforementioned points (even mostly) line up, and I don't want to forget feeling this way. If ever this kind of loving happens in my life, I do not want to take it for granted.

So we cannot expect this sensical, non-chaotic relationality as we so readily tend to... but let’s please be thankful and in awe when it happens. Hear that, all you folks in (even relatively) happy, committed relationships? Remember what a crazy, beautiful, unlikely thing it is that you are where you are, with that person you are with. How ever did this happen when all the cards seem stacked against? I know it's not perfect; of course it isn't perfect. Nothing is without its degree of brokenness. But even so... what magic!

Love. Really. Oh, what a world we live in.