paid writing

For nearly fifteen I've been a freelance writer, creating content for anyone who will pay me. Today marks the day that I get paid to write whatever I want. I've never pursued this kind of paid writing because, truthfully, to feed a family you have to pen the words companies will pay for. But writing my own words makes me so much happier. And to earn a bag of groceries for the trouble, well, that's icing on the cake. Here's my first piece on this long journey to "be a writer." And get paid for it. Thanks, Tribune.

friday haiku

twelve minutes to peel
and coax out the tender fruit
twelve seconds to eat

beyond the crudité

For the last several weeks, I've been co-leading a study at church called Just Eating? Practicing Our Faith at the Table. In one of the sessions each participant was given a slip of paper with a small amount of money written on it. Each was instructed to bring food in for the group the next week without spending more than their limit. My amount was 25 cents.

What can be bought for a quarter to feed even a bite to eight people? As I walked down the produce aisle, I had an idea. Grapefruits were 24 cents. I would peel and section it the way my grandma often did and my stepmom still always does.

If you have never peeled and sectioned a grapefruit - where you painstakingly free each section from its bitter membrane, attempting to keep the beautiful, bursting fruit intact - you are missing a rare moment of zen. Grapefruit peeling is an art form. It is meditative and rewarding, not only because the final product is so luscious and delicious but because the act itself feels holy.

I explained to the group that I chose the grapefruit because although the money I had to spend was small, each bite of the shimmering, sweet red fruit on the plate was precious. I couldn't imagine wasting a section because of the effort and care that went into preparing it. How often do we look at our meals this way?

Amazingly, all the items offered up that night, for which we had each spent $1.50 or less, were thoughtfully prepared and presented. And they were all real, whole foods. Nothing preprepared. No sugar. No junk.

One participant brought homemade carrot-apple juice. Another, a savory dish of rice and beans. Another, chopped veggies in a vinegar-oil dressing.

The thing that surprised me most was how we each took such care with our very meager budgets. We wanted to bring the best, most delicious, most wholesome food we could to share, even when we had so little to spend. Or, maybe, because we had so little to spend. The limits required creativity and care. Two aspects to eating that have been lost in our extravagant, convenience culture.

I took home one idea that night and have been making various versions of the chopped veggie salad ever since. A couple carrots, a cucumber, some cauliflower. I have always just cut them into sticks and slices and florets and dipped them in ranch. An okay way to eat raw veggies, but after a while, pretty boring. The salad, however, transforms the crudité. I eat it all day. Sometimes I add tomato or chop a red pepper. It's lovely to prepare, look at and eat. Food becomes holy. The way it should always be.


Chopped Vegetable Salad

3-4 cups of chopped, fresh veggies
4 T olive oil
2 T rice wine vinegar
1 t agave syrup or honey
salt and pepper

Chop. Observe the vivid color of the carrot. Chop. Inhale the clean, subtle fragrance of the cucumber. Chop. Marvel over the odd beauty of the cauliflower. Mix up the dressing. Enjoy knowing that none of these ingredients were created in a laboratory. Toss the vegetables and the dressing together. Add your own variations. Give thanks for the farmers who grew the vitamin-rich vegetables. Take a bite. Say thanks to the God who made them. Take another bite. Eat. Savor. Eat. Smile knowing that you just ate a whole plate of raw veggies and it wasn't boring. It was actually pretty darn good.

what he's loving

:: Valentine's Day. And the anticipation of a party where you get cards and candy. A clever monster valentine box that a boy can get behind (thanks to inspiration found on The Crafty Crow). A strange new shyness about girls and the significance of valentines that will be "sent" and received. We're not in preschool anymore.


:: Performing. The much-anticipated first piano recital. He didn't want to do it. Didn't want to do it. Did it beautifully and actually liked it. So much so he willing gave a private encore for his aunt and uncle who missed his performance by one student. At this point, mom is loving that Indian Song will be retired.


:: Looking like Justin Bieber. Bangs brushing his lashes; ears hiding under the side fringe. I tried and tried to convince Liam a haircut was in order this weekend. I even bribed him. But he pleaded. Apparently a girl in his class told him he looks like Justin Bieber now. And when he came downstairs for school this morning he was sporting a Harley t-shirt and leather jacket his cousin Sam handed down. I felt a tinge of sadness that my window of influence over dress choices (like last year's heart shirt) has closed. But I could tell he felt like a rock star. So I put down my scissors and my inner critic and gave him the thumbs up. Then I acted like a groupie and swooned and tried to hug and kiss him. He pretended to be annoyed by me, but I know he liked it.

friday haiku

breathe in, look closer
don't rush around these moments
breathe out and they're gone

keeping up appearances

Today my cousins who we rarely see or spend time with surprised us by coming to our church to hear Andrew "preach." As we stood chatting after the service I knew we should ask them over. I wanted to ask them over. I loved the thought of having them over. But inside I was cringing. Our house - as per usual when we're not expecting visitors - was a disaster. But I asked them anyway. And they came.

I'm not sure what they really thought about the counters piled with mail and papers (seriously, piled), the dirty dishes in the sink, the floors that clearly needed washing. I'm pretty sure they noticed the bathroom sink that doesn't drain, the garbage cans that needed emptying, the fifteen pairs of boots and shoes piled by the back door. I pray they didn't go upstairs, open the refrigerator, peek behind the shower curtain or look under the couch cushions.

While they were here, I tried not to apologize too much. I was reminded of a gut-wrenching moment in the movie What's Eating Gilbert Grape when the mom, who has become so grossly overweight she can't get out of the house, says to her son's girlfriend, "I wasn't always like this."

Neither was I. In high school, I couldn't go to sleep if I knew that my dirty clothes had missed the laundry basket. I was a housekeeper at summer camp, five years in a row. When I was single, I washed my floors weekly, on my hands and knees.

Somewhere along the way, things changed. I don't like the mess, but cleaning and picking up just isn't a priority anymore. We do it, of course. We keep the main rooms tidy for lessons during the week and the bathroom clean. But keeping a house in order for the unexpected guest...well, I choose to write and work and bake and play with my kids. Right now, in fact, I could be washing the pans from dinner or dusting the piano or vacuuming the stairs. All these things need to be done. But they're not going to happen. I prefer to write about them instead.

Someday I hope to be okay about this. And invite you over anyway. Just please don't go upstairs.

friday haiku

eskimos use one
hundred words, he cries three
no school today!