I’m in a cooking rut. Zero inspiration, no happy kitchen feelings, nothing. And I miss it. Because turning out pots of beans, baked potatoes, granola, chef salads, and bread, over and over again, is delicious, but boring. I need my cooking mojo back asap.

I have a hunch that my bah humbug cooking slump is a result of other busyness. There have been lots of writing projects (does this mean I prefer writing to cooking? I’ll have to ponder this) (oh, and last night when I was in bed, my mind racing with lots of writing energy, I said to my man, “I just have so many ideas and things I want to say and not nearly enough time to do it, know what I mean?” “Um, no,” he said), church meetings, homeschooling, cleaning, and celebrating. As a result, I end up cooking the fastest and easiest foods possible, not wanting to waste extra minutes and mental energy on recipe research and food play.

I did, though, come up with a new brownie recipe. It goes something like this.

1. Be appalled at the insane amount of candy your kids hauled in on October 31st.
2. Make lots of disparaging remarks about childhood obesity and rotting teeth, all the while giggling hysterically and shoveling as much candy into your mouth as you possibly can.
3. Sometime in the next 48 hours when you emerge from your candy coma, stuff the majority of the candy in a hide-y hole and try to forget about it. But first, fill a bowl with mini chocolate bars (sadly, or happily, depending on how bad your hangover headache is, this is just a fraction of the chocolate haul).
4. Mix up a batch of brownies.
5. Unwrap (important step alert!) the chocolates—Butterfingers, Kit-Kats, Snickers, Milky Ways, Mars, Reese’s, etc.—chop them up, and stir them into the brownie batter.
6. Bake the brownies, taking care to under bake them by a good 5 to 10 minutes.
7. Once cooled, cut and freeze. Because there is no way (in ha-a-ill) you’ll be able to stop your fingers from shoveling these babies into your mouth.
8. Every time you eat a brownie, ponder these two amazing facts: a) the candy bars do not give the brownies a chemical flavor (and you were sure they would), and b) chocolates are good on their own, yes, but they are so much better when encased in gooey, chewy, rich, chocolate-y brownies.

Halloween Candy-Infused Brownies

Brownie batter (I made a double batch)
Assorted Halloween chocolates, chopped (2-3 cups)

Combine, (under) bake, and eat. Brilliant.

This same time, years previous: a teacher’s lesson

Well lovies, the pie party happened. There were people and there were pies, and the people ate the pies, the end.

Just kidding. Like I could ever be that concise, ha.

Really though, I don’t exactly know what to say about it. It was fun, a lot of fun, and sweet and simple, and surreal and special. I had no expectations—because how could I?—and then after it was over, I didn’t know how to process it because I didn’t have any expectations in the first place. It was weird. And a little sad. I felt kind of weepy the next morning, partly due to exhaustion and partly because my mind and insides were all scrambled up.

Let me ‘splain.

No, there is too much. Let me sum up. (Name that movie.)

We cleaned house for forever. We tacked on some fall cleaning (like taking out window screens and putting the garden to bed), some heavier cleaning (like wall and window washing), and some fix-it jobs (like replacing the toilet seat) so it really did take forever.

It was a little insane, and what made it all the insaner was that the house still looked raggedy when we were done. So I gave up and made pies instead.

People came. This little fact never fails to amaze me. Because I can clean and bake pies till the cows come home, but it ain’t a party if there ain’t no people, right? And it’s a little miracle that people read some words on a computer screen and then carve time out of their day to visit with a bunch of random people. It’s rather nifty miracle, if you ask me.

And here’s where the surreal part comes in: one of the guests flew in from Washington state for the party, I kid you not.

She was at our house when we got home from church and as soon as the kids spied her red rental parked in the driveway, they forgot all their normal inhibitions and tore into the house ahead of us. Because MAVIS WAS AT OUR HOUSE! And there she was, sitting at the table in the downstairs bedroom that’s not a bedroom, working on the computer and drinking tea.

This was my first time meeting a blog friend—we have been reading each other’s blogs for years—and it was simultaneously an intoxicating thrill and a total comfort. And surreal. Have I mentioned it was surreal?

The kids immediately took to her, and no wonder—she had brought all the supplies needed for making party hats and right away set up shop. While I fixed the salad for lunch (no waffles when a pie feast is in the works), she instructed the kids in the fine art of handling feather boas and glue guns and fabric. She had them eating out of the palm of her hand.

Mid-afternoon, people started trickling in.

We visited on the porch for awhile before getting down to the business of eating pie. There were all sorts of pie, but Katie-from-West Virginia’s kale-akopita was the only savory pie in the bunch.

It was good, too, and I now have the recipe in my possession. Stay tuned.

Also present: peanut butter pie, two pumpkin (one with pecans and one without), red raspberry, sour cherry lattice, pineapple buttermilk tarts, gluten-free grape, my mother’s stovetop grape crumb, shoofly, green tomato and apple mince, whoopie pies, and sour cherry crumb. Not a single apple, can you believe it?

We ate and visited (and the babies played) and ate some more and still there were leftovers.

After awhile the majority of folks headed home and just a handful of us were left. We curled up on the sofa, pulled up rockers and chairs, and settled into a leisurely visit while the kids played and the candles burned low.

Then everyone was gone but Mavis. My husband and I tucked the kids into bed, made tea, and settled down by the fire for another long chat. Mavis left in the middle of the night—I got up to give her a hug goodbye—but back in bed, I couldn’t fall asleep. There’s something lonesome and sad about a newly-acquired friend driving away in the frosty dead of night, on her way to a plane that will take her thousands of miles away.

I caught up on my sleep last night and ate the last of the kale-akopita for my lunch today. The kids divided out the one remaining tart (I snuck snitches). The stack of party hats on the hutch and the shiny-clean windows are the only signs of the weekend festivities.

This same time, years previous: laid flat, crispy cinnamon cookies, lessons from West Virginia, brown sugar icing, no zip, sausage quiche with potato crust

On two separate occasions now, my son has played piano in church. There are many lessons to be gleaned from the experience, and not all of them have to do with piano playing.

I choose the pieces (with his approval, usually) a month ahead of time, and then I drill him batty, nitpicking the dynamics, demanding perfection, calling him on his tense shoulders or hanging-open mouth. I yell all sorts of nonsense at him, things that would probably make a real piano teacher cringe. “Curl the notes! The top ones, slow them down! Even! Steady! Feel the music! Sit up straight! Don’t hit that note again! It’s not in the song! YOU’RE GOING TOO FAST. ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR-STAY-WITH-ME!”

At least two times before the actual event, I have him practice the songs on the church piano. The day before he plays, I help him trim and clean his nails (whoever heard of playing piano with dirty nails, gross, I mutter), and the day of, we arrive at church early so he can play through the songs several more times.

Fifteen minutes before the service starts, I go completely OCD: go to the bathroom; get a drink; blow your nose; put chapstick on; sit on your hands so your fingers stay warm. I pump him up with lots of positive stuff, too: you’re handsome; you know this music inside and out; you’ll be awesome; smile. He pretty much takes my heckling in stride, only occasionally brushing me off or muttering an annoyed Mom!

It’s a little insane, but then again, not really. It takes that much work to do your best, and the work he does is pittance when compared to what professionals go through. Just ask your resident painter, writer, photographer, chef, builder, etc. (Or Amy Chua, for that matter. Thanks to her, I’ve upped my expectations of my children, roar.)

Funny thing is, my son doesn’t get nervous till the last minute, and the only way I can tell is because he keeps checking the bulletin. Once up front, he plays with complete confidence. At least that’s what it sounds like—I only listen, too nervous to even look his direction.

(Disclaimer: I know nothing about teaching the piano. When my piano teacher friend was visiting the other week, I asked her to please listen to my son play through one of his pieces, just to listen and look for any red flags. When he finished, she said, “That was great, but one question. How do you teach the pedal?”

I looked at her blankly. “I don’t.”

So she explained the pedal, and after she left, I had him play through the song several more times, this time with me crouched on the floor beside him yelling, UP DOWN! UP DOWN! UP DOWN! until he got the hang of it and we both had the giggles.)

Back in the spring, my son did a piece for the offertory that was light and lively. It ended with a playful flourish that caught people off guard which led to laughter and applause. And then my ever-the-ham son, who was caught off guard himself by their reaction, gave a couple little vigorous bows. Not wanting to squelch his pride and happiness right then, I decided to save my comments for the next time he played.

So on our way to church this past Sunday morning, just the two of us chugging along in my husband’s pick-up, our eyes nervously watching the near-empty gas tank’s needle (as though staring at it would make the gas last longer), I explained what it means to create a space of worship.

“It’s an important job,” I said. “People come to church with all sorts of experiences and feelings and it’s the job of the worship leaders and musicians and speakers to create a place that invites people in and allows them to connect to something bigger and deeper. Worship leaders that tell rambly stories and crack jokes are drawing attention to themselves which is not the point of worship. Your job as piano player is to do the best you can while trying to be invisible.”

“So I shouldn’t have bowed last time?” He sure didn’t waste any time making the connection, darn it.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, stalling for time, choosing my words carefully. “Pianists are taught to bow after they give a recital, so in some situations it’s quite appropriate. But for church, it’s probably best not to. If people clap for you, just smile at them and go sit down.”

This time around, no one clapped. “It’s not because you didn’t do well,” I assured him. “In fact, it’s the opposite. It’s a sign that your playing fit into the service. Your playing is growing up.”

The first time my son played in church and someone thanked him, he mumbled a hurried thanks and turned away, flustered and embarrassed.

I immediately pulled him aside. “Listen here,” I said. “When someone gives you a compliment, you stop whatever you’re doing, look them in the eyes, smile, and say thank you. Look them in the eyes, do you hear me?”

Not a minute later, another person approached with compliments. My son looked the person directly in the eyes, smiled, and said “Thank you.” My eyes bugged.

I was surprised on two accounts:

1. That my son was so receptive to my coaching.
2. That I was surprised that my son was receptive.

Of course kids want to act mature! Of course they want to know how to handle themselves! Why would I think otherwise?

Sometimes I fall prey to the thinking that kids figure everything out on their own. They do figure out an awful lot, it’s true, but sometimes a well-placed pointer can make a world of difference.

Give your gifts to the church!

That’s the mantra I’ve heard all my life, but I see it the other way round. The church gives us gifts, gifts of community, support, and opportunity. Where else do people of all ages get to try their hand at such a variety of skills—singing, speaking, acting, teaching, leading, mentoring—almost all of them in a public setting, too?

On Sunday, my son busted his tail doing the best he could and in return he received affirmation and encouragement via shoulder punches, high-fives, requests to play again, and even a note of thanks from the lead pastor.

What a gift.