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.

I have not a single broccoli recipe in my recipe index. This is criminal, atrocious, and completely unacceptable because:

a) broccoli is delicious.

b) we love broccoli.

c) we eat broccoli fairly frequently.

d) we eat broccoli not frequently enough.

e) there are countless ways to prepare the vegetable.

f) broccoli rocks.

On Saturday, I bought two bushels of gorgeous broccoli from a local farmer because I have learned that it is easier to buy gorgeous, wormless broccoli from a professional than it is to plant it, weed it, cut it, and then pick each and every worm out of it myself. Unless someone can convince me otherwise, I don’t think I’ll ever grow my own broccoli again.

But first, Saturday. Saturday was a weird day. Let me tell you about it.

1. I woke up to a thick blanket of snow covering my potted plants and tomato cages. The sprinkling of yellow, red, and orange leaves on top of the snow made the early snowfall that much more wronger. And then I got grumpy.

2. Of course, I hadn’t yet gone through the kids’ winter duds BECAUSE IT WAS STILL FREAKING OCTOBER, so my husband climbed up into the attic and handed down all the garbage bags which promptly exploded, spewing boots and woolens and snowpants in all directions.

3. So I went to town for a meeting and left them to sort things out.

4. On my way to my meeting, I stopped at the farmers’ market for my bushels of snow-covered broccoli. I dumped them into two wash baskets I had brought along for the express purpose of broccoli carting.

5. When I got home (after a second meeting, grocery shopping, and errand running), the family (plus two kids who were staying the night) was all at my brother’s house and the power was out. So much for my afternoon plans of blanching and freezing two wash basket loads of broccoli.

6. The kids came home and threw six sets of soaking wet snow clothes hither and yon.

7. We ate stale crackers, peanut butter, apples, and cheese for supper. The kids said they were still hungry. I said tough.

8. The boys did a power dance around the kitchen, but the lights stayed off.

9. I played piano by the light of the flashlight.

10. The boys drug the outdoor cookstove from the barn to the porch and popped popcorn.

11. We sat around by the fire and talked about the sort of things 12-year-old boys like to talk about. (The girls were hiding in their lair.) My husband and I drank Root Beer in mugs without the kids knowing, one of the pluses of life in the dark. (Hm, I wonder what else we could get away with in the dark, on a lark?)

12. The power came on and we screamed and yelled and jumped up and down and then wildly ran around flushing toilets, washing dishes, getting baths, and vacuuming the floors.

So. All that to say, it wasn’t until Sunday afternoon that I got around to blanching and freezing the broccoli.

We froze all of it except for what we ate, plus a large container that I stashed in the fridge to combat the upcoming candy overload. Some of it I tossed into a stir fry and the rest went into a broccoli potato soup.

I love broccoli soup, but I often have problems with it curdling. This is probably because I don’t really follow a recipe, instead just throwing in the ingredients every which way. This time, however, I took care to follow a process—one that I made up in my head—and the soup turned out deliciously creamy and smooth.

My kids aren’t thrilled by it (but they eat it anyway, and with minimal complaining). They declare my friend’s broccoli soup to be the best ever (hers is basically broccoli in a cheese sauce, yum), but I like to add other stuff to my soup, stuff like potatoes and onions. Plus, I use a light hand when it comes to the cheese.

This soup is plenty creamy and rich even without tons of cheese and cream, and it has a hefty dose of nutrition, thanks to the vegetables and several cups of homemade chicken broth. I just had a bowl of it for lunch and it made me very happy.

How do you like your broccoli soup? Do you puree your soup into a creamy green smoothness, or do you keep it chunky? Do you drown it in cheese? Do you add other vegetables or fancy spices? 

 Cheesy Broccoli Potato Soup

Proportions are flexible: it’s the method that’s key.

3 cups chicken broth
4-6 cups chopped, peeled potatoes
4-6 cups chopped, blanched broccoli
1 large onion, chopped
1 bay leaf
5 tablespoons butter, divided
½ scant cup flour
2 cups milk
1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
1-2 cups good melting cheese (I used Provolone)
2 teaspoons salt, plus more to taste

Saute the onion in 1 tablespoon butter till translucent. Add the potatoes, broth, and bay leaf and simmer until fork tender. Add the broccoli and heat through. (If you want the broccoli to be super-soft, add it sooner to the potato-broth mixture sooner so it can cook along with the potatoes.) Remove the bay leaf and stir in the salt.

Melt the remaining 4 tablespoons butter in a separate saucepan. Whisk in the flour and then beat in the milk. Heat till hot and bubbly. Remove from heat and stir in the cheeses. Stir several scoops of the broccoli-potato mixture into the cheese sauce to thin it out before adding the cheese sauce to the pot of vegetables. Stir well (do not let boil), taste to correct seasonings, and serve.

This same time, years previous: sweet and sour lentils, lemon squares, blessing hearts