For a long time now, I’ve been wanting to improve my children’s knowledge of geography. Years ago, I tacked a world map to the wall in the hopes that it’d help them get their bearings (not sure how, really — through osmosis maybe?). We used to play the Ten Days in the USA game. At one point I let them play computer geography games. And there was a bit of real-life exploring: Guatemala, Puerto Rico, Peru.

But none of it seemed to help. They were still relentlessly (and embarrassingly) clueless. 

This spring, I’d decided I’d had enough. They ought to be able to at least identify the continents, for crying out loud, and knowing the names and locations of a few of the countries might prove useful. There was no need to memorize stuff, just the ability to navigate a map would be enough.

So I started researching — first geography books and then, when I realized that wasn’t exactly what I was after, atlases. I wanted something that was easy to read, informative, interesting to look at, and not overly juvenile.

I picked out a few atlases on Amazon and then, because of the higher-than-usual price tags and my own uncertainty about what would actually be useful (I’m no whiz at geography either, shhh), I made my husband sit down with me and wade through the descriptions and reviews.

After much deliberation, I finally made my choice. Not too scholarly and not too elementary, not too clunky big and not too eensy small, not too boring drab and not too gaudy colorful, this one, I hoped, would be just right.

And it is! It’s an absolute delight.

We frequently use the atlas to look up places that we’re discussing, reading about, listening to in the news, and once we even used it to look up the address of a blog commenter’s strange-sounding address to make sure it was real and not spam.

Most days, the kids take turns sitting down with me to read and discuss different sections. We spend a lot of time just looking at the different maps and comparing them to each other. For example, we study the global maps on cloud cover and then relate what we’re learning to the previous maps about land cover and and climate change and water sources and income levels and so on.

The more we read and examine, the more connections we begin to make. Why are places more populated along the coast lines? Why is this country so wealthy even though its climate is so inhospitable? What’s with all the lakes in our northern states? Why are there barren strips to the east of the mountains in the north and to the west of the mountains in the south? Cyclones are counterclockwise in the northern hemisphere, and — Hey! Water goes down the drain counterclockwise here, too!

And it’s a great tool for story-telling. Here, I say, pointing to Qatar, is where your uncle met your aunt. Here — pointing to Hong Kong, Las Vegas, etc — is where your cousins live. Here is where Pip lives (we’re reading Great Expectations, remember). Here — pointing to Thailand — is where your dad hung out on the beaches for a month after hiking here — pointing to the Himalayas. Here, here, here….

It’s a lovely book, is what I’m saying.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (4.6.19), Thursday snippets, the quotidian (5.8.17), moroccan carrot and chickepea salad, rhubarb crunch vanilla ice cream, how it is, so far today, the family reunion of 2012.

Last week, one of our pastors included this image in one of his check-in emails. It’s the same image that we studied in our MDS orientation for disaster management.

I’m not sure where I am, exactly. Unlike a single-hit disaster like a tornado or hurricane, this disaster is on-going. It’s world-wide. It’s happening in different locations at different times, and in fits and starts which are often the direct result of how it’s being managed (or not managed).

Emotionally, I feel like I’m in the pit of the disillusionment phase. I’m skeptical and dismayed, frustrated and angry, disappointed and anxious. Yet I suspect I’m actually only a partway down — as this drags on, I’m bound to dip lower.

How about you?

The mixed messages make me want to pull my hair out.

It is safe to buy take-out, they say, yet our church is no longer encouraging people to bring meals to new parents. We’re not supposed to step inside each other’s houses, and yet there’s talk of opening schools. The numbers of infected people are continuing to rise and yet they’re dismantling the coronavirus task force. (Oh hang on, now they’re keeping the task force.)

And if you’re looking for any continuity regarding masks, forget about it.

On Friday, I popped into the grocery store for milk and apples. None of the store employees were wearing masks. NONE. When I later mentioned this to my sister-in-law, she said that when she’d stopped in at the same store just two days before, she was impressed to see that nearly every employee was wearing a mask.

Did the store have different managers with different approaches? we wondered. Did this have anything to do with some states opening up? What was going on?

With no clear national response to the pandemic (it appears that Trump’s plan is to have no plan), I’m constantly sifting through the information, creating a plan of action, rationalizing my choices, and then, as new information unfolds, tweaking my actions accordingly. It’s exhausting.

And terribly confusing. If everyone’s doing whatever they want, then does it even matter what I do? 

My choices, no matter how conscientious and thoughtful, are, ultimately, dictated (or at least influenced) by my wants, my personality, my social circles, my bank account. Take my confusion — the confusion of an educated, adequately-informed adult living a secure, mostly unthreatened, existence — and multiply it by a couple million and: holy crap we’re screwed.

I hear people saying this pandemic will make us better. Heck, I said it — or quoted it — last week. But truth is, I don’t know if I believe that.

After the last election, we said, “Oh wow. What a wake-up call; we need this. We have problems. Now we see. Now we can do better.”

But are we? Humans have infinite capacity for evil, and atrocities seen but not addressed are still atrocities. Falling to new lows isn’t a sign that we’ll turn around — it’s a sign that we’re falling.

Even if our eyes are open.

I considered skipping this post last week. And again this week I wondered, Why write? There’s nothing new to say about this pandemic.

And yet I know that when I force myself to write, even when — especially when — there’s nothing to say, I usually feel better. Forcing my thoughts into words, teasing out my underlying feelings and questions, helps give shape to this giant swirl of Strange.

Our older son decided to move out to the clubhouse. He built a bed and moved out some shelves, a chair, and lamps. And then he said he wasn’t sure he wanted to sleep out there after all.

“Well then don’t,” I said. “Just, please decide where you’re going to be and then stay there. I don’t want your stuff taking over the whole house.”

“But you guys want me out of the house,” he said.

WHAT???? I stared at him, slack-jawed.

“I keep getting mixed messages,” he explained. “You say you want me to live at home and save money, but you also say you don’t want me to live at home. I don’t get it!”

“Oh, good heavens,” I cried. “No, no, no, no, no. We want you at home, absolutely! We don’t want you to be here because you’re not supposed to be here — you’re supposed to be in college living with friend and doing all sorts of cool stuff — but if there’s a pandemic, then there’s no place I’d rather have you be than here!”

He’s decided he’ll stay in the clubhouse anyway.

*Friday night, we watched National Theatre’s Frankenstein with Benedict Cumberbatch as the monster. The acting was phenomenal, and the story — I’d never heard it before — was much more thought-provoking and philosophical than I expected. Tonight’s the last chance to watch, DON’T MISS IT! And even if you don’t have time for the whole thing, just watch the first twenty minutes: the monster on stage, alone, being born. (How is he not covered in bruises?)

*Have you read Girls Like Us? It’s young adult lit, and one of the best books I’ve read in a long while. Now, at my older son’s urging, I’m reading On Being Mortal.

*We watched Big Night for our family night movie. The last scene is my favorite; my kids were like, That’s it?

*Coronavirus School Closures: An Educational Opportunity. This article was posted back in March, but for those of you with schooled-now-at home kids, how’s it going?

From one of the article’s commenters, a homeschooler: “For us, the social distancing mandates have brought a strange sort of relief, even from the busy-ness of our regular, unschooly life. I realized how much pressure I still put on myself, and how I must certainly be communicating that to my kiddo.”

That, right there, yes.

*And finally, for a bit of (much-needed) levity, here’s Adley again…

xo!

This same time, years previous: with my children, settling in, a simulation, stages of acting, fence, not what we’re used to, the quotidian (5.6.13), rhubarb diaquiri.

Recently, David posted a recipe for cranzac cookies — they’re a riff on anzac biscuits, he said. I’d never heard of anzac biscuits, so I looked them up. Apparently, they are a thin crunchy oatmeal cookie that originated in Australia during WWI. The women would send them to the soldiers in the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps — ANZAC.

Curious, I made them for myself, except I followed a pared-down, basic recipe from King Arthur Flour. I figured I ought to know what authentic Anzac biscuits were supposed to be like before I started messing around with them.

The biscuits remind me a lot of lace wafers, an oatmeal cookie that I used to make as a child. The difference is that lace wafers, in the oven, spread out until they are thin and crispy, almost like caramel. Anzac biscuits, though, have more umph. They are still crispy and caramel-y, but less delicate. They have an ever-so-slight chew and a snap that is not unsimilar to the tacky-snap of toffee.

Dry and crunchy, I think of them as the Australian version of biscotti. They’re made to be eaten with a cup of coffee or tea, or, come hot weather, with iced tea or lemonade.

Anzac Biscuits 
Adapted from a recipe from King Arthur Flour.

Now that I know what Anzac biscuits are, I think David was on to something with the craisins. These cookies are built for add-ins. A little vanilla, maybe? Some chopped pecans and coconut? A drizzled cap of chocolate?

Also, these work well as a gluten-free version — just use a gluten-free all-purpose substitute in place of the regular flour. The dough will be more crumbly and dry, but it bakes up fine.

1 cup each rolled oats and flour
¾ cup each sugar and coconut
⅛ teaspoon salt
1 stick butter
2 tablespoons dark corn syrup
1½ teaspoons baking soda
2 tablespoons boiling water

Stir together the oats, flour, sugar, coconut, and salt. Melt the butter with the corn syrup (microwave or stove top, your choice). Combine the baking soda and boiling water in a small bowl and add to the melted butter. Combine the wet and dry ingredients.

Spoon the dough onto greased baking trays and bake at 350 degrees for 12-15 minutes, or until they are a nice golden brown. Let them rest for several minutes on the baking tray before transferring to a rack to cool.

This same time, years previous: freezer coffee cake, Marta’s picadillo, quotidian (5.2.16), the quotidian (5.4.15), the quotidian (5.5.14), creamy avocado macaroni and cheese, the definition of insanity, burning the burn pile, how to get your bedding/house/kids clean all in one day.