Teddy Bear in the Wild

Thriftiness

OK, I admit it. I can occasionally be a complete cheapskate. Having a husband in college has taught me to be creative about meals, shopping, and home decor. And frankly, often I find this to be more fun than spending lots of money. I'm not saying that spending is bad in and of itself. But we all have a limited amount of money, so why not save it for more important things than weekly groceries and monthly heating bills? With this thought, here are some of my favorite tricks for spending less.

1) Instead of buying a scented candle to give your home that fresh scent, mix a 1:2 solution of lemon juice and water and microwave on high for several minutes. Not only will your apartment smell beautiful, but any caked on food in the microwave can now be wiped off easily.

2) During the summer, buy lots of those cheap fruits and veggies and freeze them. Most will keep for months in the freezer, and you will save lots of time when making soup, smoothies, etc. Stir-fry is amazingly quick this way. Also, chop up that whole head of celery and freeze it. You will never have to throw out limp celery.

3) No money for books? Go through your bookshelves and find those books that you have neve read or will never read again. Take them down to your local used bookstore and turn them in for store credit. This can be a great source of books for gifts to friends (lots of used books are still in excellent condition) or simply a fun weekend outing to get more books.

4) Forget those expensive scrubbing cleaners. Use plain old baking soda to clean faucets, sinks, and tubs. Works on everything except dark mineral stains.

5) Buy tissue paper at the dollar store. You can get a huge stack for a dollar. Spend a fun half hour at the fabric store gettting 1 yard lengths of several fun ribbons. Personalize your presents by taping ribbon initials on your wrapped gifts, matching colors and styles to the recipients.

Christmas Preparations

Celebrating the four Sundays of Advent has been a yearly tradition in my family. In addition to lighting successive candles each Sunday, Andrew and I decided to add a few more traditions. The First Sunday of Advent, we picked out a tree and decorated it. The glass rectangular containers with the red bows (there are more than are shown here) have now become our Advent 'wreath'.















My sweet husband noticed my slightly glazed look when I was finishing the last of these packages, and hid my duck Pato in the top of one. He was rescued before the trip to the post office.














As my office always gets rather insane around the end of the year, Andrew welcomed me home one day with this surprise.




















What to do when a friend sends you a massive box of fruit? Redecorate, with lots of fruit bowls.


Last week, for the Second Sunday of Advent, I tried out the Rosemary-Dill Potato Soup recipe from Hot Providence. Delicious! Very easy to make. too. For those interested, here's the recipe, with a few of my own tweaks:

Rosemary-Dill Potato Soup

2 stalks celery, finely chopped
2 heads garlic, finely chopped
2-4 Tbsp. butter.
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp pepper
1/4 tsp each rosemary, dill, nutmeg, basil
8 red or Yukon gold potatoes, scrubbed and chopped into 1" cubes
4 cups low-sodium chicken broth
1 Tbsp. sugar
1 cup milk
1/2 cup sour cream

Saute the celery and garlic in butter. Add salt, pepper, spices, potatoes, broth. Bring to boil, simmer 20 minutes. Add sugar, milk, sour cream, cook until soup is heated throughout. Serve with a garnish of green onions, bacon, cheese, and/ or a dollop of sour cream. Enjoy!

Our Hearts Were Young and Gay, by Cornelia Otis Skinner and Emily Kimbrough

A friend lent me this book to read over the weekend, and I laughed through each chapter of traveling adventures. This is the work of two mothers recounting a hilarious trip to England and France when both were nineteen, naive, and feeling quite grown-up. The book is written from Cornelia's point of view, as she seems to have been the one to loyally rescue her friend Emily from a constant stream of adventures. Whether it is tossing a deck chair to the man overboard (and knocking him unconscious) to contracting measles and narrowly escaping months of quarantine, these two debutantes made the most of their summer abroad. I highly recommend this European travelogue

A Good Marriage

An excellent exploration by Lauren Winner of the effect of community on a marriage, and vice versa.

Butchart Gardens, Victoria, B.C.

Reading the Psalms

... And in prayer, transcending distance, seek the God of my existence...

The first time I sang these words, the phrase 'God of my existence' fascinated me. The God in Whom and through Whom I exist. The God whose existence gives meaning and purpose to my life. The God upon Whom I depend to carry me through the waves and billows of life.
This past year I have clung to these words. I have been the one broken. I have felt at times as one whose anchor has broken loose. I have been comforted by the fact that so many Psalms are written not after but in the midst of trials. While under attack, or stricken with sorrow, David (or Asaph, or others) reminds himself that God is faithful, that He will show His favor eventually. God does not hide His face forever. Moreover, David pleads with God to show grace so that David can tell of His works. In other words, we suffer not just for our own sanctification, not just so that God can refine us further, but also so that we can tell of His hand in our lives. We are brought through the valleys so that we can show others the way.
When I realized this, I saw that is partly what 'walking in the light' means. It involves the courage to be open about what God has shown you in the dark times. It means resisting the easy path of closing up for fear of being judged, or worse, misunderstood.
I know now, in a deeper way, that God is there. That He is silent at times. That I must trust Him even when I can only see one step ahead. That my strength lies not in understanding the trial I am facing but in clinging to His faithfulness, his unchanging Presence. Lead me, O Lord, to the Rock that is higher than I.

Color, Shape, Texture

I went on a photoshoot this weekend...












Our decorative mantelpiece





















A fun journal from Ball and Cross Books





















Star Anise, from our lovely Co-op

Adventures on Sunday Morning

I had my eye on this kid. His pen had found its way into our aisle twice already. A toy had fallen through the crack in the chair sometime between the second hymn and the Creed. It was during the final prayer that I felt the whistle of a projectile, then the smack of a toy train car hitting my collarbone. Fortunately the prayer was short.
I sometimes believe the kids outnumber the adults at my church. If this isn't already the case, it will be soon. The second section of seats is known as the kids area, and most families with small kids elect to sit near other friendly parents, who are used to the challenges of listening to a sermon while keeping a semblance of order in their family's row. For various reasons, Andrew and I end up in this area also, and have found an absorbing drama enacted every Sunday. There was the Sunday when, during the procession of the pastor and elders toward the back of the church, a small toddler managed to toss her toy at the feet of one elder and nearly caused a pile-up. Or take the Sunday a month ago when the four foot tall potted plant fell on me. (I believe one too many kids had run into it and destroyed its internal balance). Or, my favorite, the three year old who said the Amen late and with the accent of a hip cowgirl, if such a thing exists. Andrew and I have learned from experience that the less we look towards one another at times like this, the sooner we can stop laughing.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not arguing for an adults-only service. While I believe order and liturgy are a high calling to strive for, I also firmly believe that kids of all ages should be included in the service. And this requires some working out. After all, Christ welcomed the little kids. And I'm sure they said some wacky things to him, or asked some theological conundrums. Perhaps he'd watched some of them mess up their lines during the Passover, or use that opportunity to demand more bread instead of grasping the significance of the questions they were surely taught to ask each year.
The fact is that the presence of kids will change a worship service. And from my own experience in watching the families who sit by us, I believe this is a change for the better. I've watched kids throw their hands up in the air, singing joyfully off tune, thrilled to be a part of the service. I've heard kids loudly say 'Amen', savoring each letter because this word is still new and glorious to them. As long as I have this reminder, I cannot grow mechanical in my recitation of the Creed. Surrounded (literally) by kids, I have a living, breathing example of how to sing, how to listen, how to lift my hands in worship. They are learning to sing in tune. I am learning to keep my heart and head attuned to God as I worship.

Farmer's Market

The air was crisp and chilled this morning as I walked down to the Farmer's Market, the kind of chill that causes a tingle as one takes the first breath. The leaves have started their annual changing of the colors, and Third Street is a study in yellows and burnt reds. The market is slowly waking up as I arrive at opening time to unlock the NSA doors and put out the open signs. Crates and cartons being unloaded from the backs of farm trucks, the Red Finn coffee stall selling its first cups of Idaho Eye-Opener blend to still-sleepy stallholders. I sip my morning americano, cradling its warmth in my hands and breathing its fragrant steam. I wander among the stalls, following the scent of bread and spices to the Wheatberries stall, which displays large artisan breads, bagels, and pastries. This stall is surrounded by a constant crowd of shoppers, eager to select Sabbath breads for guests the next day, or to pick a morning pastry to go with their coffee. Bagel in bag, I head off for the produce stall. Vine-ripened tomatoes will become quick sandwiches for my husband this week. A few apples, a pear, and then the gift of a honeydew melon. It's rough, lined texture is intriguing, and I look forward to tasting the juicy-sweet fruit inside. Shopping finished, I head home to the aroma of soup and baking bread. A stack of new books awaits me, and I curl up on the couch with a bowl of soup and a slice of fresh-baked bread.

Light Thickens, by Ngaio Marsh

Ngaio Marsh is a contemporary of Dorothy Sayers and Agatha Christie, and as a loyal fan of British mysteries I decided to see how she compared. Her plots are creative, centering often around a theatre (she was a theatre director for many years), and include Maori and other New Zealand characters, as she herself was raised in New Zealand.
I puzzled over the pronunciation of her first name, and finally turned to Wikipedia, which informs me that it is pronounced Nah'-ere-oo.
I found Chief Superintendent Alleyn a trifle bland, compared to the ostentatiousness of the great Hercule Poirot, but perhaps he improves on acquaintance.
Her thorough knowledge of the theatre, and understanding of the challenges and temperaments of actors and actresses adds depth to her mysteries. One is offered a glimpse backstage, into the inner workings of a show.

West of Kabul, East of New York, by Tamim Ansary

I have to confess that the cover picture of a boy with a pidgeon on his turban captured my attention. This book was recommended to me by a friend, and I found it intriguing. It was a glimpse inside of a culture completely foreign to me. Mr. Ansary is a true Afghani- American, as his father was the first Afghani to marry an American wife. The first part of the book details his childhood in an Afghani traditional home, his coming of age, and decision to attend the last years of high school in Colorado.
Mr. Ansary is uniquely placed to help others understand the true nature of traditional Afghani culture, the effect of the Taliban on it, and the background to some of the terrorist attacks that our country has experienced. I recommend it to anyone seeking to understand why America has become a target for Muslim extremists.

Stolen Lives
Malika Oufkir

Imagine that your father was a close friend and advisor of the king. Your mother came from a wealthy family and thought little of selling off an apartment block in order to finance an afternoon's shopping. You had been taken from your family at the age of five to become a playmate and companion to the princess of the royal family, and had only recently returned to your family at the age of sixteen to complete your education. Such was the life of Malika, daughter of General Oufkir. She was raised in Morocco, in an Islamic culture heavily influenced by the French. She traveled widely, was known among the jet set of her day, and planned to attend college. Unknown to her, her father had planned a desperate coup against the man who had taken her in as a daughter: the king of Morocco. When the coup failed, the entire family was sent to a desert jail as punishment.
This was an inside look into the elite circles of Moroccan culture. It was more than I wanted to see. Women existed to please men. Widows were condemned to solitude after their husband's death. The rich and powerful lived lives of desperate unhappiness. Though the worship of Allah shaped the daily lives of the Moroccans in a hundred ways, this did not offer a solution to the daily problems of life. At one point, Malika mentions the letters of friends and relatives that she received while in jail. Most told of holiday celebrations or gave news of the outside world. But not one gave her encouragement. Her family and friends had no wisdom, no hope to offer her in her tragedy. This spoke volumes about the nature of Islam. There were no answers. There was no hope. Allah was great and good and powerful, but never answered when you called on him. To live and believe that ultimately there are no reasons for the events in our lives, that we are mere pawns in the hands of fate- this is the worst prison of all.
This book left me quietly processing all that I had read. This was really the story of a loss of faith. It showed me the riches that I have, in knowing a God who orchestrates all the events of my life for His glory and my good. I can look back on hard years and know that it was indeed good. I can rejoice in blessings and not fear the days to come. I am indeed blessed to know the True God.

The Power of One

I watched this movie last weekend on the recommendation of a friend, and found this to be a moving and well-written account of WWII in South Africe. P.K., an English boy, is left an orphan at the age of seven. He is sent to an Afrikaner (Germans, French, etc. ) school where he endures the taunts of his schoolmates, who support Hitler and the Third Reich. Through his own courage and the friendship of two important mentors (one of whom is played by Morgan Freeman), he learns to form his own beliefs in regard to race relations and political alliances. The story is narrated by P.K., a gifted storyteller who uses wonderful imagery to recreate his own sadness at the loss of his family and the anger he feels at the way blacks were treated under Apartheid.

Check out the new Christ Church cookbook hot off the press! Full of scrumptious recipes, Sabbath celebration tips, and ideas for entertaining.

I've recently learned how to upload pictures (yes, I know, it took me awhile...:). So! Here are some snapshots of our recent vacation to Michigan this past June. Enjoy!



















The long-spanning Mackinac Bridge linking the upper and lower peninsulas of Michigan. I learned that the inhabitants of the upper peninsula are called Yoopers (creative pronunciation of 'upper'), while those who live in the lower peninsula are called Trolls, b/c they live below a bridge.















A picturesque view of Mackinac Island, taken from Fort Mackinac which rests strategically on the highest hill on the island.
















Mackinac Island has banned all motor vehicles, so semi trucks are loaded onto barges, ferried across the harbor, and unloaded at the dock. A battalion of horse drawn carts make deliveries to all the B&Bs, restaurants, etc.

















The Grand Hotel- the largest wooden resort hotel in the world.
Built of virgin white pine, which is now very rare.


















Topiary horses and carriage in the gardens of the Grand Hotel


















A picturesque window, a Hobbit Gate, and a UPS cart (so incongruous I had to snap a photo!)

A Tribute to E.B White

I've just finished The Points of My Compass, as collection of White's essays originally published in The New Yorker and other periodicals. Many of you know this author as the creator of Charlotte's Web, or as the White in Strunk and White's Elements of Style. In my opinion, his essays take the prize. He writes with clarity, honesty, and a welcoming wave of the hand, inviting us to see the humor and mystery in the simple routines in life. One essay is written during an epic battle with a marauding fox, intent on stealing Bantam hens from the Whites' henhouse. Another whimsically captures his adventures aboard a ship traveling the length of Alaska in the 1920's. He saw with uncanny foresight the profound effect that TV would have on our culture. He gives the reader an important glimpse into life in America in the earlier part of this century. I also recommend a further book of his essays, entitled Second Tree from the Corner.