My father has set a goal to write one hundred 100-word essays. He usually writes them in the morning, sitting at his desk in the study. The other evening when we were at their house for supper, he let me read some of them. (Actually, I didn’t know about this little practice of his until that evening—and he’s been working on them off and on for a couple years—and only because Mom mentioned it.)

Here’s one of my favorites:

So, is a suitable shoe at Bon-Ton? We’ve been here two hours. Do shoes create self-image?  

Never mind that last night’s temperature, 15°F, portends the winter to come. Only slip-on shoes with low sides or no backs will do. At least the toes are pocketed! Whatever she chooses, she’ll be graceful, herself.  After a snow, I’ll shovel a path to the car, an elegant path for elegant legs ending in elegant shoes. 

She’ll shiver and fiddle impatiently with the heater’s knobs, but when we enter the theater, she’ll be queen, having defied the elements in her wonderful shoes.

I struggle to teach writing. Aside from, “Do it a lot and you’ll get better,” I don’t know what else to say. One of the guys in our small group is a high school English teacher. Sometimes he tells us about a lesson he taught and I’m invariably amazed and fascinated and inspired. Such creative explanations! Such perfect metaphors! Such probing questions!

But at our house we’re back at square one, battling the run-on sentence and possessives. I don’t have the terminology—the facts—to explain the stuff clearly. I don’t know the rules. Prepositions? Ha! I hardly even know what they are, let alone why they matter. So we (meaning, my older son) did a grammar workbook and some spelling stuff. Handwriting, too. It all helped, but only marginally.

Several months ago, I settled on the most basic thing possible: daily writing. I give my son a topic, set the timer for 30 minutes, and set him loose. The only rules: solid sentences and be logical. When the timer bings, I read over his writing and we correct it together. I’ll say things like, “There are three run-ons. Find them.” Or, “Do you know the rule for when to spell out numbers?” And then we discuss and correct. Sometimes he spends another 15 minutes rewriting or fine tuning. Other times, we save an underdeveloped idea for the next day’s writing.

As for topics, I sometimes ask questions based on what’s been going on; for example, “What did you do over Christmas break?” Sometimes he writes a letter or email. Other times I use this page as a springboard for thought-provoking questions. I try to strike a balance between narrative (easy), comparison-contrast (super hard, logic-wise), persuasive, etc. Bit by tiny bit, he’s improving.

He wrote this one last week. It made me laugh out loud.

How do male and female roles differ in your family? 

The mother does the cooking, financial work, shopping, school work, and the yelling at the kids and the father. The father does the equally hard work of bringing in the money for the selfish kids and greedy mother. The father also built the house with his own two hands, while the mother kept the bratty kids out from under the father’s feet. The father does all the outside work while the mother is inside on her DELL INSPIRON 2006 that’s running on duct tape and salt, a term the eldest son uses for saying the father and the mother need a new computer.

The kids sometime think that the mother is cruel to the father, but then the father yells at the kids and they change their minds in an insistent. The mother’s never persuaded to do what she doesn’t want to do. She rules with a staff of thunderous might, always telling the children or the husband that they need a move on in life, or that they are being lazy, or come say ‘what next.’ The father, on the other hand, is a mighty man who, even though he stands close to six feet tall, can never stand up to the mistress of the house. When the mother leaves, the selfish children are excited because they get to stay with the father, and because he might let them watch a movie. The father never really does all the chores the mother tells him to do, because he always stumbles on to a good article or the selfish children throw a hellish fight. During the fight the father yells at the mouthy children and says, “THERE IS NO MOVIE FOR YOU NOW.” Naturally then, the children fall apart and that’s the end of a good evening.

Recently, I had to write a 100-word essay. Actually, it wasn’t an essay, per se. More of a description of a seminar I’ll be giving. I spent an afternoon mulling over the topic at hand, re-reading old posts I’d written, and watching a TED talk on the art of giving presentations. And then I sent a couple rough drafts to my mother and we spent another good while hashing out the finer points over the phone. All for 100 (less, actually) words. HOW DOES ANYONE EVER WRITE A BOOK?

Here it is:

Skipping School: Doing Education Differently 

What is learning? How does it happen? This often-fraught homeschooling mother of four will share her stories. This seminar is for a) anyone who has children or plans to have children, b) educators, and c) both homeschoolers and people who are appalled at the mere idea of homeschooling. Myths will be debunked, the status quo challenged, and horizons broadened. Everyone welcome! 

(This seminar will be one of the many offerings at our church’s biannual convention in Kansas City this summer. More information forthcoming.)

(Title inspiration courtesy of Kate Fridkis’ blog, Skipping School.)

This same time, years previous: when a scholar marries a hunk of reality, on being burned at the stake (or not), day one, the quotidian (1.16.12), snapshots, Julia’s chocolate almond cake, and five-minute bread.  

On Sunday, Pastor Jennifer said that the definition of kindness is to enjoy people.

Want to be kinder? Actively enjoy people more. 

I’ve always thought “being kind” meant bestowing niceness on someone. Pastor Jennifer’s definition, I think, is much meatier and way more fun. Kindness is delighting—honestly delighting—in other people.

How crazy-neat is that?

I recently read a blog post on parenting tips in which one of the pieces of advice was: “Ignore your mother-in-law. She knows nothing.”

The suggestion was tongue-in-cheek, meant to be funny and all. But still, it felt like a slap. Ha, ha! Those stupid mothers-in-law—


And then, Oh CRAP! Where does this leave ME? I have four kids! At least a couple of them are bound to get married! 

So I left a comment: “Lucky me, my children aren’t married yet. I’m still relevant.”

Writing people off is the opposite of enjoying them. It is unkind.

In contrast! …

Back at our annual soiree, my sister-in-law and my mother were recounting their adventures from last spring when they were in Japan. Among other things, they had gone to a bathhouse—you know, the kind where all the women (men in another section) sit around naked in hot water. This was a bit stretching for my mother, but she was game. And my sister-in-law, in telling it to us women, exclaimed about my mother, “And her body is so beautiful!”

We all kind of stared at my sister-in-law. It’s not every day that young women see grandmas naked and rave about their bodies.

“I’m serious!” she said. “Her skin is gorgeous!”

Her words pierced. So sharp and bold, unflinching in their extravagance. So warm.

My PMS has been pretty bad this time around. Off and on, my moodiness overwhelms and I can’t stand anything, especially myself.

Two days ago my younger daughter locked the keys in the car and I had a the-world-is-ending meltdown. My daughter apologized—it was an accident—but I couldn’t hear her. I couldn’t see her. All I could see was my own misery and misfortune. I carried on like someone had chopped my foot off.

I do not fall apart like that very often, thank goodness. But what made the situation worse was that I felt helpless against my irrational emotions, hijacked by hormones. I could not, simply could not, cope.

Which makes me wonder about the link between depression and kindness. If depression is the absence of the ability to enjoy things, are depressed people destined to be unkind?

One recent evening, in the throes of riotous grumpiness—snapping at my husband, fussing about life, whining and bitching and generally being the most pitiful, rotten, unlovable soul in the world—I finally collapsed in a heap of despondent despair on the sofa to watch an episode of The Gilmore Girls.

My husband scoffs at my silly Netflix shows (preferring instead to read a book), but this particular evening he walked boldly over and snuggled up next to my toxic self. It was the sweetest thing he could’ve done. I was at my lowest—I had nothing to offer him—and yet he was choosing to enjoy being with me.

His kindness didn’t change me much, but I sure felt it. Him sitting beside me was exactly what I needed. His presence was a balm. (And I don’t normally describe his presence as “a balm.”)

Back to that mother-in-law joke. Maybe I couldn’t enjoy it because I’m pmsing and therefore unable to enjoy things. Maybe, if I was totally even-keel, it would strike me as spot-on hilarious.

Which makes me ask: are depressed people more likely to be critical? Are kind, hormonally-balanced people less likely to shake up the status quo?

And so ramble on my thoughts.

The end.

This same time, years previous: through the kitchen window, GUATEMALA!, vanilla cream cheese braids, quick fruit cobbler, cranberry relish, starting today…, ants on a log, spots of pretty, and inner voices.  

I’ve been meaning to share this cranberry bread recipe since, oh, back around Thanksgiving. That I’m actually doing so after such a long wait only proves how good the recipe really is. If it were mediocre, it would’ve faded from memory and never seen the bloggy light.

Or I suppose the long time lapse might prove that I’m lazy.

Or that I forgot.

Or that I didn’t really like it but have nothing else to write about so now cranberry bread it is.

That last one is not definitely not true. Well, at least the “not liking it” part is not true. Having nothing else to write about kinda is. I kept having other things to write about and so the bread kept getting scooched back. But not today! Today’s the day the bread’s gonna shine!

I have two proofs that this bread is good.

1. Thanksgiving evening when we all gathered at my parents’ place for dessert, the options were excessive: chocolate-orange bread, cranberry pie, pecan pie, pumpkin bars, apple pie, vanilla ice cream, cheesecake, and cranberry bread. The little humble cranberry loaf not only held its own, it stood out. Everyone said so.

2. At our family Christmas gathering, there was a meal of desserts (it appears we have a thing for dessert suppers)—well over a dozen exotic cookies, as well as an apple crisp and, again, that unassuming cranberry bread. And just as before, the cranberry bread got raves.

I made the bread myself somewhere between numbers one and two. In fact, if my memory serves me right, I think I made it the day after Thanksgiving. It was so good I had to have it all to myself as soon as possible. My husband ate a whole loaf (they were minis) in one sitting.

This recipe happens to be similar to a recipe I already have on this blog. But this bread uses more sugar and less butter, as well as dried cranberries instead of golden raisins. As a result, it’s more moist and a little sweeter, and it packs a satisfying cranberry punch. So good!

Cranberry Bread
Adapted from Cranberry Thanksgiving, by Wende Devlin and Harry Devlin.

2 cups flour
1 cup sugar
1½ teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
¼ cup butter
1 egg
1 tablespoon orange zest
¾ cup orange juice
1½ cups dried cranberries
1½ cups fresh cranberries, chopped

Stir together the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Cut in the butter with your fingers. Whisk in the egg, zest, and juice. Fold in the dried and fresh cranberries.

Divide the batter between four, greased mini loaf pans (or a couple larger pans). Bake at 350 degrees for about 40-70 minutes, depending on the size of your loaf pans. When the loaves are golden brown and an inserted toothpick comes out clean, they’re done.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (1.13.14).