I went a little crazy when I planted zucchini. Eight plants—or is it nine?—might be considered going overboard, yes? But I had a rationale, I promise! I like to do all my work in one fell swoop. None of this a-couple-pints-here-four-quarts-there manner of preserving. If I’m going to be miserable standing over a boiling hot stove all day long, then I want it to be worth my while. As in, then I’m done and I don’t need to do that again for another year. Also, sometimes my zucchini plants commit random mass suicide. I can never be sure how long they’ll produce, so I figure a lot of plants guarantees at least a few days of pickings.

Well. It’s been at least two weeks since the first picking and the plants still have not died. This means we are officially weathering an epic zucchini attack. So far, we’re handling it pretty well. I made a double batch of my family’s beloved zucchini relish and the whole wheat zucchini bread. I’ve grilled it a couple times. I’ve handed out large bags of zucchinis to various appreciative family members. The one who is suffering most from this onslaught is my older daughter since she’s the one most frequently tasked with the daily pickings. “You want me to pick the patch again, Mom? Are you serious?”

Unfortunately, my family is not overly fond of zucchini. If I had my druthers, I’d pop it in all sorts of dishes—stir-fries, soups, spaghetti sauce—but knowing that my efforts will be unappreciated puts the breaks on my enthusiasm. I do think I’ve been a little lax, though. I should probably up my game, really dedicate myself to winning over the masses.

The other night I made zucchini fritters for supper. Half the family was not impressed, but the other half raved. Raved, I tell you! This, my friends, signifies a huge success. See, the fritter lovers didn’t just compliantly masticate their food like obedient (and slightly traumatized because they are terrified of incurring my wrath) people. Oh no. Instead they prolifically praised my efforts and vigorously vied with each other to get their fair portion.

These fritters are a snap to make. The only slow(-ish) steps are the salting and draining of the zucchini (getting out all the moisture makes crispier fritters) and the frying process, but they’re really no more complicated than basic pancakes. They’d make an excellent snack or hors d’oeuvres, but I served them as the main course, along with other veggies and applesauce.

Zucchini Fritters
Adapted from Simply Recipes.

The sour cream dipping sauce is an absolute must.

The fritters were a bit on the salty side, so I dialed back the salt a little (my changes are reflected in the recipe).

I used the herbs I had on hand—feel free to swap them for whatever you have. Fresh dill, with some feta thrown in, would be nice, I’m sure.

A double batch fed three hungry big people, plus three small and hesitant tasters.

1 pound zucchini, grated
2 teaspoons salt, divided
1 egg, beaten
½ cup flour
2-3 tablespoons finely minced onion
1 tablespoon fresh basil, chopped
1 tablespoon fresh parsley, chopped
1 tablespoon chives, chopped
½ teaspoon lemon zest
¼ teaspoon black pepper
several generous glugs of olive oil
lemon sour cream dipping sauce (see below)

Put the grated zucchini in a colander over a bowl and sprinkle it with 1 teaspoon salt. Let rest for 20 minutes. Dump the zucchini into an old cheesecloth and squeeze out all the liquid.

Mix the drained zucchini with the remaining ingredients (but not the oil and dipping sauce).

Pour the olive oil into a sided pan and set over medium high heat. When the oil is hot, drop in a scoop of batter and then press in flat with the back of the spoon. Repeat, fitting in as many fritters as you can. Let the fritters fry until golden brown on one side—about three minutes maybe—before flipping to fry on the second side. Place the fritters on a napkin-lined (or, old towel-lined) plate to drain. Serve warm with generous dollops of dipping sauce.

lemon sour cream dipping sauce:
½ cup sour cream
1 clove garlic, minced
½ teaspoon lemon zest
1 teaspoon lemon juice
pinch of salt

Mix together all the ingredients and serve with the fritters.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (7.14.14), Saturday nights, in the woods, zucchini skillet with tomatoes and feta, soft and chewy breadsticks, roasted cherry vanilla ice cream with dark chocolate, peas with prosciutto, and tempero.  

This same time, years previous: the puppy post, let’s talk, a tale, er, tail, roasted carrot and beet salad with avocado, and what my refrigerator told me.

I returned from Kansas City on Sunday evening and am just now beginning to get my bearings. Which is good (!) and necessary (!) especially considering that the fridge is obscenely stuffed with cucumbers and zucchinis, the raspberries are demanding daily pickings, and there is a bucket of apricots sitting smack dab in the middle of the floor.

It doesn’t help that the week away was intense—I went as a delegate for our church—leaving me feeling unmoored and raw. (For those of you unfamiliar with the Mennonite church, we, like many churches, are in the process of figuring out how to deal with the issue of homosexuality.) While the church is, I believe, moving toward inclusion, there are many sincere and caring people who believe this is wrong. I have relationships with people from both sides, and trying to treat each perspective with integrity and compassion was much harder than I expected (silly me). There was (is!) so much pain, hurt, and anger!

And love. There was lots of that, too.

When it comes to big institutional decisions, I am usually on the fringes where it’s—I can now see very clearly—all too easy to pass snap judgments and dole out condemnation on people of other persuasions. This time, I had ringside seats at the table of power and a vote. After the day with the votes, I went back to my hotel and (foolishly) clicked onto Facebook. My feed was roiling with indignation and righteous rage. I immediately felt sickened.

Actually, it wasn’t the rage that surprised me, but the onesidedness of it. I had just come from meetings in which many people from all sides felt unsure and tormented, and for a whole variety of reasons. To see that agony reduced to one-liners was a slap in the face.

Maybe it was a deserved slap? Part of me thinks so, absolutely so. It was certainly to be expected, once I stepped back and thought about it. (One’s brain gets a little foggy under all that florescent lighting and with only chilly, conditioned air with which to oxygenate the brain cells.) Another part of me felt angry. It’s unwieldy to do church business with 800 very different life experiences. Give us a little grace, please.

But what does it all matter, anyway? It’s just words. People will move forward, or away, and life will go on. As one person noted, when people leave the Mennonite church (and, from all the leaving that goes on, this practice would appear to be one of our most beloved traditions), it doesn’t remove them from God—it’s not like we have the monopoly on faith. Viewed from a certain angle, all the turmoil seems kind of ridiculous, like a toddler crying for some tape to fix a broken pretzel. There are more pretzels than you can even imagine. Just eat your snack and go play already. Yet, how we deal with each other in our crisis make all the difference in the world. Really, nothing matters more.

The delegate sessions did not feel good—at times they felt downright terrible—but they were sacred. What a gift to be witness to the struggle. What a gift to experience such self doubt. What a gift to have no answers.

Surrounding these events, I noticed two beautiful things. First, during the last session there was a time of lament for the family and friends of the LGBTQ community. Before they read their laments, they asked everyone who had a loved one who was hurting because of our decision to please stand. More than half the delegates stood, progressives and conservatives both. This issue isn’t going away any time soon, people. Second, a friend, a gay man, posted this on Facebook: We are in this together. I commit myself to all my brothers and sisters as we follow Jesus together. That the church is extended such grace-filled commitment, by the very people we are inflicting pain upon, gives me courage and hope. So much hope.

And now, for those pickles…

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (7.7.14), the summer’s first trip, let’s revolutionize youth group mission trips! please!, creamy cauliflower sauce, French yogurt cake, our 48-hour date, and the big apple.