someone else's battle

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle. -Philo of Alexandria

Yesterday I made dinner for a family from church that I don't know. The woman, who has attended our church since childhood, has been caring for her grandmother who is in the last days of her life. Because I had overfilled my day, I had to call this woman and let her know I would have the meal to her house a half hour later than anticipated. I was a little taken aback by how short and unfriendly the woman sounded on the phone. I was making her a meal, afterall. I expected a little graditude or at least a friendlier tone.

After I mapped the address online, I put the meal in the car and took off. The family lived just 10 minutes south, but a world away. Every small house on the street was a duplex, nearly all badly neglected and needing repair. Windows were propped open with fans; beat-up cars lined the street; not a flower was in sight. I found the address and hustled up to the door. As I handed over the meal to a tired, sweaty, uncomfortable yet grateful woman, I wished I had done more. I wished that I had brought a better meal - the meal that I would have brought a beloved friend - and flowers, too. But more than anything, I wished I hadn't been so quick to judge. C.S. Lewis once postulated that the reason God called us not to judge is because we have no idea how far a person has come to be who they are. Only God knows the heart - and the circumstance and the history and the battles.

My cousin, whose husband is fighting cancer, recently told me how much differently she thinks about what people are going through. She'll be holding her one-year-old daughter in a store or on a soccer field and someone will comment on how cute she is and my cousin will think, "You have no idea. My husband has cancer. My life is not this perfect picture. You just don't know." None of us do.

And so I reconsider: The girl behind the register who isn't moving fast enough for me. The acquintance who's never satisfied with anything but seems to have everything. The woman who could have been just a little nicer on the phone. I can't begin to guess what anyone else's life is like, what their stuggles are, what crosses they bear. But, as I realized driving home from delivering my meal, tears falling, I can help make the burdens lighter. Not by withholding or judging or condeming. But by truly loving my neighbor, wherever, whoever and however they happen to be.

two-headed monster and a firefly

Several weeks ago when I was cleaning out Liam's closet, I started making a small pile of t-shirts that were stained beyond my ability to clean them. One was a soft, deep blue shirt that looks so good on Liam and I hated to toss it or donate it, but the stain smack in the center just wouldn't budge. As it lay next to a chartruse tank, also permanently dirtied, I had an idea. Inspired by both my friend Liita, The Picky Peasant, who has recently started a side business re-fabricating castoffs and thrift store finds, and a cute t-shirt applique idea on found on the blog what's that gonna be, I thought of a way that Liam and I could recycle his t-shirts together.

First, I had Liam come up with an idea for the t-shirt design. This is the drawing he presented to me, the two-headed monster.


Next we ironed the chartruse tank and traced the drawing onto a sheet of double-stick lite fusible web. After sticking the traced drawing onto the wrong side of the tank fabric, I cut it out and then positioned the pieces onto the blue t-shirt (hiding the obnoxious stain) and ironed. I let Liam have at it with the fabric paints, filling in the details on his monster and then guided his hand as we traced the outline. As a final touch, he picked out "eyes" for me to sew on. And, voila!



Creating the shirt was such a blast, we designed another one today for his friend Eden who will be celebrating her birthday tomorrow. For inspiration, we drew from the cover of the Eric Carle book The Very Lonely Firefly.


This time we purchased a clean, stain-free shirt, but we cut the dragonfly out of an old tie-dye t-shirt I found at a rummage sale this spring. (I plan to spend a lot more time at resale store and garage sales searching for plain kids' t-shirts because it feels so good to recycle!)


Being that this one is a gift, I did a little more guiding on the outlines, but Liam still feels very proud of having "made" Eden's shirt. I think both shirts are pretty adorable!

need more rhubarb

I couldn't leave rhubarb season without at least one more recipe. Tonight, for my book club, I made the Strawberry Rhubarb Crisp from Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. It seemed only fitting since that was the book we discussed. Of all the crisps I have made in my love affair with rhubarb, this is my favorite one. I appreciate that it's mostly sweetened with honey and that it doesn't suggest dragging out the food processor to "pulse" the topping. Whatever happened to using a little elbow grease? Plus, the oats get all powdery. What good is that?

Assembling this crisp took less than 15 minutes from start to finish. I will definitely be commenting on this book further on a different day, at a more godly hour, but one big thing I was reminded of while reading: It really isn't that difficult or time consuming to make good, wholesome food from scratch. And nothing that comes from the freezer section or the bakery counter or even the dessert menu tastes half as delicious. (Next up on my rhubarb roster: Cami's Rhubarb Custard Pie. And then SouleMama's Strawberry Rhubarb Jam. Oh, yes, I really do love this odd fruit. I just hope the season doesn't end before I get my fill.)

Strawberry Rhubarb Crisp

3 cups strawberries, halved
3 cups rhubarb, chopped
½ cup honey
Mix together thoroughly and place in an 8”x8” ungreased pan

½ cup flour
½ cup rolled oats
½ cup brown sugar (or a bit more, to taste)
¾ tsp. cinnamon
½ tsp allspice
1/3 cup butter
Mix until crumbly, sprinkle over fruit mixture and bake at 350° for 40 to 50 minutes, until golden.

p.s. I just looked at this post the morning after posting it and realize that I misread the recipe when I made it last night. I used 1/2 cup of butter instead of 1/3 cup. No wonder it was so awesome!

oh yeah, this is summer

Today was one of those days. One of those glorious, loving-every-minute summer days, with bike rides (dad pulling the bike trailer), swimming lessons, a little weeding and planting and napping, Gramps' frozen custard, more bike rides (mom pulling the bike trailer), and swinging at the park.


However, lest anyone think we are that perfect blogging family with the idyllic life... a little reality: In the park, Elliott regurgitated half the ice cream he ate 20 minutes before (although, the goofball didn't even seem to notice) and, on the bike ride home I was treated to a chorus of Elliott bellowing and Liam saying things like, "Mom, Elliott's putting his feet on me." "Mom, Elliott's chewing my seatbelt." "Mom, Elliott smells gross!" Although I washed my hands and changed my clothes, seven hours later I still smell faintly of sour milk.

too easy to be true

I guess I'm a purist. I don't think of myself that way but then I'll be at this crossroads and think, okay, I can take the long way, the way my grandma walked and her grandma walked, or I can take the shortcut and cheat a little, modernize. When I get there, though, I realize I am too much of a purist to take the shortcut and too busy and tired and short on time to do it the old fashioned way. So I do neither.

Take bread, for example. I have made bread, kneading by hand -- the long, somewhat tedious process (stress on long) -- with satisfying results. I have also made bread by bread machine (borrowed), which was infinitely easier but not nearly as satisfying or tasty. But when was the last time I made bread by hand? At least if I had a bread machine, we'd be enjoying something fresh baked every few days. But I just can't do it. It feels like cheating.

Last week I was a friend's house for an impromtu lunch with our kids and she had the most delicious flax seed rolls. They tasted homemade, but this was a busy part-time pediatrician, mom of two young children and I knew she couldn't have the time for breadmaking. I was wrong! She confirmed that they were homemade. In fact, she makes bread a couple times a week! Then, as I was getting on my knees to bow to her, she told me her secret. She uses the bread hook on her Kitchen Aid mixer.

Ack! Could I do this? I mean, it's not the old fashioned way. It's not what my grandma did. But (and this is a big but) those rolls were incredibly good. You could not buy them in any store. Right then and there, I decided that for the first time in the life of my Kitchen Aid mixer, I was going to use that bread hook. And today I did just that.

I made the flax seed rolls and they were every bit as incredible as the ones my friend made. They took about the same effort as making a brownie mix. While the rolls were magically kneading in the mixer, I tidied the kitchen. And, voila, delicious, chewy, fresh-baked rolls! So, if you have a Kitchen Aid mixer (the obligitory wedding registry item), dig out the bread hook. You will be SO glad you did.

Flax Seed Rolls (or bread)

4 1/2 tsp yeast (or 2 packets)
2 cups warm water (around 110 degrees)
2 tsp salt
2/3 cup sugar
2/3 cup canola oil
Approximately 6 cups flour (I used 3-4 cups white, 2 cups wheat and 1 cup of flax seeds)

Dissolve yeast in warm water and add the rest of the ingredients. Start kneading as you add the ingredients. Stop adding the last cup of white flour when the dough pulls away cleanly from the side of the bowl. (Total kneading time should be 5-7 minutes.) Let rise in bowl until about double; punch down and place in two greased large/medium bread pans or make rolls (about 20) and put on greased cookie sheets. Let sit 10-15 minutes. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes.

when I grow up

After Farm Camp today we took a little friend of Liam's to his "school" because his mom, a part-time pediatrician, was working. On the way home, Liam asked me why Will went to school. I told him Will's mom is a doctor and she had to work today.

"Why is Will's mom a doctor?" Liam asked.

"That's her job," I said.

"Where did she get the doctor stuff?"

"Well, she went to school for a long time and learned to be a doctor," I said. "You can go to school, too, and become anything you want to be."

"I want to be a driver," he said.

"That sounds fun," I said.

"And a doctor, too."

Then, with great enthusiasm, he added, "And a worker at Target!"

vive la france

Our high school neighbor/occasional babysitter is going to France for a year on a student exchange program. I see her enthusiasm and excitement and envy that free-floating, seize-the-day joie de vivre. My memories of living in France while in college are so vivid, I am sure that if I could transport to any street in Paris, I would know exactly where I was. I spent five to six hours a day walking, aimlessly, purposely, for every reason, for no reason. I breathed that city. I became part of Paris like I've never been part of anything before or since. I lived with such an intensity, I was sure people I passed in the street could see me glowing. Actually, I'm sure no one in Paris noticed me at all. This is France I'm talking about afterall. But I was happy. Even in my homesickness (which struck during subtitled American films when the credits rolled on the New York City skyline or weekly ten-minute calls home), I was still intensely happy. It's not that I'm not happy now (although I'm sure Andrew would say that I seem serious and irritated more than happy and glowing). Life is just different -- full of responsibilities and ever-changing priorities, unfinished projects and unattainable plans, things to clean up and things to put away. I used to think I would feel like I felt when I was in France if I were French. If I lived in Paris, I would sip un cafe en plein air for hours people watching; I would eat baguette stuffed with Belgian chocolate everyday for lunch and never tire of it; I would catch my breath each and every time I stepped out of the Metro in the Latin Quarter and caught sight of Notre Dame. But I'm sure the French would finally begin to get on my nerves and my feet would start to ache. Still, I'm grateful for the memories. They remind me that once upon a time there was a girl who smiled at everyone and everything for absolutely no reason at all, even though not a single one ever smiled back. Vive la France.

So Say the French
I prefer kisses to handshakes.
I prefer to pretend I don’t understand.
I prefer those I know to those I don’t.
I prefer fresh to frozen.
I prefer wine to water.
I prefer no ice.
I prefer to ignore those who speak to me in English.
I prefer a cigarette for breakfast.
I prefer Camembert.
I prefer not to speak to Americans.
I prefer American music.
I prefer to wear an outfit everyday until it’s dirty.
I prefer to let my children pout.
I prefer serving café au lait to small dogs in fur coats to serving snobby tourists with money.
I prefer fewer choices.
I prefer to shout when I don’t agree.
I prefer public displays of affection.
I prefer not to smile.