food rules

One of the best take-aways this past weekend was my grandma's recipe box. Because it is such a treasure, I will be scanning all of her handwritten recipes and making a book for all of my cousins, siblings and aunts and uncles. It's only fair, since many of her recipes, like brunswick stew, tijiana torte and shredded wheat bars, are legendary in my family. It wasn't that my grandma was a gourmet cook, but she was a comfort cook, and a healthy one. And she made healthy delicious.

Yesterday I read Michael Pollan's newest book, Food Rules. It's an easy 30 minute read, as it's just 65 brief rules, or policies, on eating. Other than drinking a glass of wine with dinner, I'd say my grandma followed them all. For a frugal, sugar-loathing farm girl who was eco-saavy long before the term was coined, this woman, with her arsenal of wholesome favorites and fridge full of leafy greens, was ahead of her time.

Eat what grows as a plant and not what's made in a plant. Check. Stay away from refined flour. Check. Don't eat anything with ingredients your great-grandmother couldn't identify. Check. Only eat at a table. Check.

As I read this excellent little book that I believe every American should read - and take to heart - I thought about how incredibly healthy and vital my grandma always was, and how she cooked and ate. As Pollan simply says: Eat food. Mostly plants. Not too much. That was my grandma's diet and way of feeding her family in a nutshell.

I think it's time to get back to that simple, whole foods diet. Considering the general state of health in America today, I'd say it's long overdue.

Read the book. Then go look for your grandma's recipe box - when dinner wasn't prepared in a factory, encased in plastic or served out of a window. You know, the good old days. It''s not too late to get them back.

my tribute

This past Friday I had the honor of giving a tribute at my grandma's funeral. Summing up her life, influence, character and gift to her family and a very large world of friends is a nearly impossible task, especially when you are allocated three minutes. But my tribute in concert with the other 11 family tributes offered on Friday morning created a beautiful mosaic of this one very precious woman. I am posting mine here in case anyone wants to read it and so that I will always have and remember it.

::

Some of my earliest memories of my grandma Gaye took place at her and my papa’s townhouse in Emerald Green. I remember everything about that home – the floorplan, the furniture, the bumper pool table, the bread dough rising on the counter, the flower-strewn patio overlooking the river. That home was one of my favorite places on earth. On one visit in particular, I remember a duckling. In my child’s eye, the story went like this:

It was early spring. My grandma relished spring. An absolutely avid nature lover, my grandma, this particular spring, was keeping close tabs on a duck who had chosen to make a nest in a bush outside her door. Soon the ducklings hatched and a few days later the mama duck led her brood in a little parade to the river. All but one. For hours my grandma fretted and fussed over this duckling that had been left behind. Night was falling. The temperature was dropping. So Gaye did what only my incredibly loving and compassionate grandma would do. She slipped outside, gathered the duckling into her nightgown and took it into bed with her. (Now, I am sure many of you are wondering where my papa is in this story, as it would be hard to imagine him agreeing to a duck in his bed. But this is my memory.)

I tell you this story because for me it creates a tiny picture of what my grandma’s love was like. She didn’t think twice about showering it. She didn’t worry that she would love one too much and another not enough. She didn’t care what the neighbors thought – because she loved them, too. She never grew tired and weary. She just loved. Big love.

Her husband knew it. Her siblings knew it. Her children knew it. Her YFC family knew it. Her church family knew it. Her friends knew it. Her neighbors knew it. Many times, even strangers – and ducklings – knew it. But, best of all, for me, her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren knew the fullness of her love.

In all my life, I will never forget listening in week after week while Gaye taught my son Liam (number 18 of 27 great-grandchildren) his ABC Bible verses. Often with tears in my eyes, I would sit in the other room and listen to her tell my son, in the most tender voice imaginable, “I’m so proud of you.” “It’s great.” “What a good job you’re doing.” And, as though it burst right from her heart, “I love you, honey.”

The day she passed away, I walked Liam to Kindergarten and asked him if he understood what it meant that Gaye had died. Quite matter-of-factly he told me that Gaye was very old and her body was very tired and she had gone to heaven. “Don’t worry, mom,” this five year old said. “She is so happy to see Jesus, and Jesus is so happy to see her.”

This statement from my son has made me wonder how often Jesus welcomes someone home who loves like our Gaye did. We are sad, so sad, to lose the woman who loved us each so tenderly, so individually and so completely. But like Liam said, we can be sure that she is so happy to see Jesus, and Jesus is so happy to see her.

spring

I have to write a poem on Spring,
Of trees that bloom and birds that sing.
I like the birds the trees and Spring,
But hate the poem I have to bring.
I like to hear the birds sweet song,
But hate to study all day long.
I love to roam among the trees
And study Botany as I please.
If I could do just as I wish,
If I could hike and hunt and fish,
The Spring would then most truly be
The season best designed for me.
The School would be my last retreat;
You'd never see me in my seat.
I'd have the time of my young life
With bat and ball and gun and knife.
I'd never try to write on Spring
Or trees or flowers or anything;
I'd just have fun the whole day long
And feel within my heart the song.

This poem was written for a school assignment 90 years ago by my grandpa George Olson who would be 101 tomorrow. How much he would have loved his great grandson who just happened to title his kindergarten chalk art assignment "Spring." Considering that tomorrow will also be the celebration of my grandma Gaye's 93 amazing years, Spring will forever be our season for remembering the poetry of two beautiful lives.

what i am thinking of

I am thinking of my grandma. It is still so strange to imagine that she is gone from this earth. After 42 years of her very significant and loving presence in my life, her total absence if nearly impossible to comprehend. And so, I am thinking of her. Specifically . . .

:: I am thinking of her long, elegant fingers cutting fabric on a big board laid over the bumper pool table in her basement. And those fingers kneading bread dough on her floured countertop, and expertly french braiding my hair into a crown around my head.

:: I am thinking of the great spread of food she would lay out on the table for any meal - whether it was just lunch for her and my papa and me or dinner for 25 family members. Always healthy and homemade and special.

:: I am thinking of her shredded wheat bars, bread and applesauce, brunswick stew, spinach souffle, and corn soup.

:: I am thinking about the way she belly laughed when we read the letters my papa's insanely conservative mother sent him at college, warning of the evils of candy and jazz music. Although she had every reason to, she never spoke ill of or sarcastically about this woman who often made her life very difficult.

:: I am thinking that she never spoke ill of or sarcastically about anything.

:: I am thinking of the birthday calendar that hung on the back of her powder room door and how happy I always was to see my name penned on it. And how she always remembered my birthday.

:: I am thinking of all the times I slept over at her house and how she sang to me in the darkened bedroom and rubbed my back and her sheets smelled so fresh and in the morning she was always in the kitchen making breakfast when I woke up. And when she saw me she would throw her arms around me like she hadn't seen me for a year.

:: I am thinking about how she loved beautiful things like a tree peony, a golden finch and a pretty-smelling lotion. And how her life was never about accumulating pretty things but always about seeing God's handiwork in everything.

:: I am thinking of how lovingly she spoke to my children and the incredible way she would swoop them into her arms. Even in her last days here, she squeezed them.

:: I am thinking about how earnestly, specifically and regularly she prayed.

:: I am thinking of her radiant smile.

:: I am thinking about the way she bubbled with joy and awe at the sight of her 27th great grandchild, so new and tiny. How holy that little visit seemed and how lucky I felt to happen to be there. How she couldn't take her eyes off that baby.

:: I am thinking of the amazing greeting I received at the door of her and my papa's hotel room in Nairobi. Never a hug so big in all the world.

:: I am thinking that my grandma made an astounding choice to leave a plain mennonite life, sell her house and possessions and to go to Japan with her husband and four small children. She had no idea what was in store. She just knew that God was calling them there. Before comfort or security, she heeded God's call.

:: I am thinking she was as brave as she was beautiful.

:: I am thinking that staying tethered to God was her secret.

:: I am thinking that being known and loved by this extraordinary woman for the last 42 years is just about one of the best gifts I've had in this life.

:: I am thinking that losing someone who loved you this much is something you never really get over.

strange but true

My son can't get enough of the spray bottle - when it's pointed at his face. On this particular occasion, I let him spray and spray until he was soaked, and he still cried when I took the bottle away. Based on his current skill sell, we have determined that he is either going to be a deep sea diver, a synchronized swimmer, a clown, a contortionist, a siren or a comedian. As you might imagine, he's pretty fun to have around.

amazing grace

Grace Dourte Wolgemuth
August 30, 1916 - March 17, 2010

My beautiful grandma died today and for once I am at a loss for words. I will miss her hugs, her singing, her friendship, her kindness, her applesauce, her hands, her smell, her shredded wheat bars, her compassion, her prayers, her laughter, her meals, her questions, her voice, and her beaming smile. She was truly amazing and I feel tremendously lucky to have been loved by her all these years. I will miss her so, so much. But I'm happy because she's whole now, and finally home.

unseasonably mild with scattered showers

This has been a tough week for me. Long on work. Short on patience. Really it's the lack of time to expend any creative energy that's gotten me down. Working on boring projects to pay the bills; constantly tidying; doing load after load of laundry; rushing from here to there and back again; never picking up needles and yarn, a book, a pen or a pile of fabric. It takes its toll on a girl, and the girl's family. So, thank the Lord for the weather. Oh, blessed spring-like weather. The squish of the mud, the sight of the tender green tips poking through the earth, the heady smell of rain, it's nearly enough to make this girl cry.

Here are some other bright spots this week:


:: a blooming pussy willow tree! Every year the sight of these tender little buds popping open gives me hope that spring really is coming soon.


:: a pile of the most amazing and lovely vintage fabrics that my friend Sabine offered me this morning. I am swooning. All I had to do was look at these and imagine the possibilities to feel my creative energy returning. This weekend I am definitely sewing.


:: our daring aquatic boy. who, I ask you, could resist him? nothing, nothing is as wonderful for this child as submerging himself in the bathtub. pool pass? check.

What's been keeping you going this week?