Last Thursday we had a potluck with the Up With People folks and all the host families. It was a standard North American potluck—pasta, pizza, and donuts and hardly any vegetables or whole grains. I couldn’t complain too much, though, since my two contributions—I took this and this—didn’t help boost the green factor.

The good thing was, most people ate like North Americans (sorry to be so negative, fellow Americans, but when it comes to food, we have A Problem)—this means that even though I was at the end of the line, the salads were mostly untouched. There was also this bland looking casserole dish—a mound of white rice on one half and a mound of dry-looking brown lentils on the other—of which I, expecting the worst but trying to be responsible nonetheless, took a small serving.

Back at my table I tasted the lentils and promptly turned to a stranger lady sitting beside me, jabbed my fork in the air, and exulted mightily, “Oh my word! These lentils!”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “I had some of them and they are good. I want to know who made them.”

As soon as my plate was empty, I went back for seconds of lentils. So did the stranger lady who, I learned, was named Susan. Then we sat back down, elbow to elbow, and began scrutinizing our lentils, taking small bites and murmuring to each other: Vinegar? Yes. Sugar, of course. Fruit juice of some sort? Apple or pineapple? Yeah, I think so. Onions? Yes, we can see those.

We sighed happily, “We have got to get the recipe.”

Our husbands, sitting across from us, shook their heads. Please don’t, they whimpered. Susan’s husband couldn’t eat lentils for health reasons and my husband, well, you know all about how he feels about lentils.

When I went back for thirds, another woman was helping herself to the lentils. “Did you make these?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “But I’d like to know who did.”

It came time to leave. We gathered up our dishes and kids and started moving towards the door, but when we came to the table of food, I stopped. “You go on,” I said to my husband. “I want to see who claims the lentil dish.”

And then I spied my midwife standing off to one side with her family and I knew immediately that she was The One.

Because it’s a common known fact that all midwives live on lentils and herbal tea.

“Melanie!” I called. “Did you make the lentils?”

She nodded and I pounced. “What’s in them?” She rattled off the ingredients: brown sugar, vinegar, apple juice, onion, cloves. “The recipe is from the More-With-Less cookbook,” she added.

I was dumbstruck. I had the recipe for this incredible dish at my fingertips for my whole entire life and didn’t know it? Holy freakin’ cow!

I thanked Melanie, pointed her out to Susan, and then scurried out to the car.

Last night I made the lentils for supper. I asked my husband, in Spanish so the kids wouldn’t understand, what he thought of the lentils. Eyes all shifty and downcast, he mumbled sheepishly, “They’re good.”

Need I say more?

Sweet and Sour Lentils
Adapted from More-With-Less Cookbook

You may use beef broth or water in place of the chicken broth. Also, I suspect that this would be wonderful with maple syrup in place of the brown sugar.

Updated January 2019: to a double batch of lentils I added two dried lemons. Used less of vinegar (a couple splashes) and brown sugar (a couple scoops), and added a scoop of caramelized onions along with the regular ones. Before serving, I stirred in a handful of chopped dates. Served over rice, with kalamata olives and feta. Yum.

1 cup lentils, rinsed
1 bay leaf
2 ½ cups chicken broth
1 small onion, finely chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tablespoon butter
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup apple cider vinegar
1/4 cup apple juice (or pineapple, peach, or pear, etc)
1 teaspoon salt
1 pinch ground cloves

Simmer the lentils and bay leaf in the broth for 20-30 minutes, or until tender. In a separate kettle, saute the onion and garlic in the butter till translucent.

Remove the bay leaf from the lentils and stir in the sauteed onion and the remaining ingredients. Heat through, taste to correct seasonings, and serve over rice.

Yield: 6 servings

This same time, years previous: lemon squares, blessing hearts

I’m feeling spacey today. There are reasons for this absentminded, distract-able stupor which I am slogging through.

Allow me to elaborate.

Reason Number One
It’s Monday. Mondays make me spacey.

Reason Number Two
This morning the two Up With People girls left.

They had been living with us for a week, and after eight days of changing around our schedule to accommodate theirs (morning and evening runs into town, some of which were quite late, and suppers at bedtime), I feel a little off-kilter.

The girls were great though, and we were all a little sad to see them go. Marjo (pronounced “MA-rio,” kind of) was from Finland and Joelle was from San Diego, CA. They were up for anything and everything: tree planting at some friends’ house, trying raw milk, biking, and multiple games of memory with the kiddies. It was fun and totally worth it, but now I’m worn out.

Reason Number Three
Marjo just so happened to be a photographer, so Friday night I sat her down and she explained all sorts of camera-y things to me. We talked about things such as “time value” and “aperture,” concepts that twisted my brain up in knots and made me concentrate super hard.

Having a semi-professional photographer at my fingertips for all sorts of silly little questions was a dream come true.

She was a dear to oblige me.

But there’s no two ways about it: playing with my camera makes me spacey.

Reason Number Four
Speaking of cameras, my new telephoto lens arrived on Saturday and I about went crazy with glee. In fact, I was whooping and hollering so much that Joelle decided I was video-worthy. Now, thanks to me, all the San Diegonians will think that Virginian women are so isolated and deprived that they weep with joy and dance jigs whenever the mail truck stops.

This new lens is guilty of messing up my life in a BIG way. Every time I think I might be able to focus on writing or trimming my fingernails or cleaning up the back hall, I spy my sexy new lens and have to go play.

This lens is making me really, really, reallyreallyreally spacey.

Reason Number Five
Last night we went trick or treating for the first time ever. It was the first time for my kids, and, believe it or not, it was the first time for me.

Since Marjo had never celebrated Halloween and was really excited and curious about it, I figured it’d be a bloomin’ pity for her to travel all the way around the world and not get to do the Halloween thing. It just wouldn’t be right.

For a variety of reasons, I’ve always been opposed to Halloween.

A.) Spiritual reasons. I was raised to believe that Halloween was a celebration of evil and that we, as Christians, were supposed to eschew the dark side and instead fill our heads with happy thoughts about Jesus.

B.) The whole candy thing. I don’t mind candy here or there, but a whole glut of candy in the hands of my children seemed a very unwise decision indeed.

C.) The realest reason: it was just one more thing to do and I didn’t feel up to it.

But then, quite spontaneously, I tossed all my ideas out the window and decided—BOOM!—we’d hit the streets come Sunday night.

And once I decided we’d do Halloween, I was all over it. Ghosts and goblins? Let’s terrorize the little sweeties—the scarier the better! Free candy? Yippee! Bring it all to mama, my sweets!

The kids grabbed clothes from the dress-up box. Nickel was a ragged, safety-pinned together spiderman. Sweetsie went as a we’re-not-sure-what. (Some of our guesses include a wigged out nun, a cleaning lady, and a Christmas tree ornament.) Miss Beccaboo transformed into a queen, complete with an iron curtain rod scepter and a paper crown. Yo-Yo was a clown.

And then we were off. It took The Baby Nickel a few houses to figure out what in the world was going on, but then he was off and running, literally.

After an hour of tromping around in the dark, shivering, and munching on candy, I was hooked. Halloween was a splendid holiday! So community oriented! So neighborly! So fun! In fact, I was so gong-ho that I suggested we hit a second neighborhood, a notion that got vetoed by my more sensible husband.

We arrived home with a boatload of candy and bad attitudes. This morning we’re dealing with the after effects, trying to find a balance between a candy free-for-all and the parental regulatory board.

And it so happens that sugar-induced hangovers and grumpy kids make me spacey.

Reason Number Six
We went to bed at ten o’clock last night, but I was awakened a half hour later by a whimpering Baby Nickel. Hoping that Mr. Handsome would rise to the occasion, I played dead. Turns out, Mr. Handsome can play a fine game of dead himself.

Perhaps Nickel will fall back asleep on his own, I thought, rolling over and squinching my eyes tightly shut.

But Nickel kept up his pathetic whimpering and Mr. Handsome kept making like a possum so I finally tumbled my tired self out of bed and on down the hall. I reached to scoop up my little boy and—eeeeew! I was hit by a wave of stink at the same time my hands touched wet slime.

The child, bless his heart, was whimpering because he had thrown up all over the bed and then face planted—no, body planted—in the stinky filth.

And thus commenced a three-hour puke fest. The poor child worked his way through one bedspread, several blankets, a couple sheets, one mattress pad, two pillowcases, two outfits, two sleeping bags, and multiple wash cloths and towels.

By round five, he was an old pro. A sweet, but weak, little voice would rouse me from my drowsy stupor with a polite, “I’m ready,” and I’d bound out of bed and whip a bowl under his chin. (At one point, Mr. Handsome mumbled something about sharing a bed with the Road Runner.)

Piles (and piles and piles) of puke-soaked laundry on four hours of sleep make me very spacey indeed.

Happy November First!

The end.

The same time, years previous: Greek yogurt, oatmeal bread