Sunday evening, one of my YouTube subscribers let me know that, as a result of the US’s tariffs on Canada, he was boycotting all things related to the US including his donation to US-based YouTube creators. 

At first I didn’t know what to make of the comment. Part of me was hurt, like this was all a misunderstanding: I didn’t want these tariffs anymore than he did. What power did I have? And how would withholding a financial donation to me help anything? Wasn’t that just making the problem worse?

And yet, I wasn’t really upset with him. I was bothered, sure, but in a way I couldn’t really express. I felt unsettled and twisted up inside. I felt like we were being manipulated into being enemies. 

After stewing for a bit, I responded that I understood, and that I appreciated that he’d shared his decision, and then I went to bed. 

***

“What are we going to do?” I asked my husband the next morning. We were sitting on the hearth in front of the fire, sipping from our oversized mugs of coffee. 

“What can we do?” my husband countered.

“I don’t know, but we can’t afford to do nothing, right? They’ve literally handed us the book on what they want to do,” I said, “and just because we don’t know what to do, it doesn’t mean we don’t have a responsibility to figure out something.”

***

All that day, I felt sad. I knew the barrage of executive orders would ebb and flow, from day to day and minute to minute. I didn’t want to get unnecessarily caught up in the chaos — I definitely didn’t want to give the prez that much sway over my moods — but that emotional roller coaster (the one I could, more or less, opt out of) was a whole other experience for those who were being forced to ride it. Those people, their livelihoods and relationships and communities, were at stake. Unlike me, they didn’t have the luxury of simply watching The Crazy unspool.  

***

That afternoon, a friend posted on Facebook: This website is golden! It is so helpful in figuring out which representative to call and what to say. DO IT! Call now. Today. Tomorrow. Maybe every day for 4 years. But this is our duty. Use your voice.

It took about three minutes for me to figure out how the website worked (it really is a breeze), and then I picked a topic (Musk) and called all three of my reps, bang, bang, bang. Today I picked another topic (tariffs) and again called all three.

In some ways, making phone calls feels as stupid and pointless as tossing a penny in a wishing well. Expressing my frustration and concern makes me feel like a whining middle-aged white woman. And maybe I am. 

But there’s another way to look at it: speaking up takes practice, which is what these phone calls are — practice. And you know what? Even though the talking points are scripted, after only a couple calls, I began to use my own words. I said what I wanted to. What I needed to. It’s important, I think to take up space, clog the phone lines, verbalize the problem, make requests, and put my name on the record.

Maybe it’s a fool’s errand, and maybe it’s not. Either way, once again tomorrow, “call reps” will be on my to-do list. 

***

All day yesterday, that YouTube subscriber’s comment ate at me. The prez, in a circuitous way, was impacting my relationships, my economic stability, and my integrity. It felt like a surprise attack.

And then I realized what my response to that commenter should’ve been. It should’ve been, simply, thank you.

Thank you…
…for taking a stance against what is happening in the US right now. 
…for inconveniencing yourself in order to take a stand. 
…for writing to me and explaining your actions. 
…for unsettling me. 

***

If you, too, are searching for things to do, here are a few ideas I’ve been considering.

• Order a yard sign. No matter where you are from, we’re glad you’re our neighbor.
• Invite friends for supper and brainstorm ideas together.
• Invite your church community to take action: God’s Love Knows No Borders (via Mennonite Action).
• Call, call, call. This is gonna be a marathon; pace yourself.
• To fellow white people: When you’re waiting to be served (at a coffee shop, say), and a Black or brown person arrives at the same time, let them be served first.
• Donate to Church World Service. 
• Turn off the news for a day. Go for a walk. Go to bed early — not just tonight, but every night.
• Read this list of immigrant rights. Memorize it. Share it. 
• Stay open. It’s okay to be uncomfortable.

What else would you add?

***

Photo credit: my older daughter. New neighbors moved in and brought their camels, and now I do a double-take everytime I drive past.

This same time, years previous: labor pains, a family milk cow, the quotidian (2.4.19), chicken and sausage gumbo, baked brie with cranberries and walnuts, object of terror, loss, a Wednesday list.

Slightly sweet and lightly crunchy, rusks are South Africa’s version of biscotti.

What’s the difference between the two versions, you ask? I’m not exactly sure, but I think rusks are more tender, and less blatantly sweet, than biscotti.

When we were staying at St. Benedict’s in Johannesburg, we sometimes (ie, not often enough) had rusks for breakfast. They were heaven with my morning coffee, but I could’ve eaten them all day long. Something about that subtle sweetness and starchy crunch, mmm.

When my plan to buy a whole bunch of rusks before heading back to the states was foiled by my lack of planning, I consoled myself by promising to learn to make them myself.

Which I did, of course. You know me.

So far I’ve made two kinds — muesli and buttermilk — and while both are fantastic, we’ve taken a particular liking to the muesli version. I keep thinking I’ll branch out and try other variations, but then I never do. Why mess with a good thing?

My husband has recently figured out that eating a little somethin-somethin with his morning coffee eliminates his caffeine jitters, and it turns out that these muesli rusks are just the thing. Most mornings after pouring his cuppa, he reaches for the jar of rusks atop the fridge. They are light yet satisfying, and not too sweet. 

Actually, though, these are a fantastic anytime of day. They store well at room temp, are an easy, portable treat, make a good stand-in for cookies, and please the masses. 

One thing: I don’t like the word rusk. It sounds harsh like a dog’s bark, or raspy and rough like a hacking cough. Though I guess the name is actually fitting, considering the texture of the rusk and all.

And now that I’m thinking about it, the word is actually onomatopoeic: “rusk” is the sound a knife makes when it’s drug across one. 

Muesli Rusks
Adapted from the blog Wander Cape Town.

I use rolled oats, but quick are fine, too. I’m sure you could sub in a bit of whole wheat pastry flour for some of the all-purpose flour, if you want. If you don’t have buttermilk, substitute some plain yogurt thinned with a bit of milk. 

Any kind of dried fruit is fine, but I’m partial to craisins or dried sour cherries. For the seeds or nuts, you can use anything: sesame, pumpkin, or sunflower seeds, or almonds, pecans, walnuts, etc. (In this batch, I used almonds.) To help minimize the inevitable crumbling, I chop my fruit and nuts.

4 cups flour
1½ cups oats
1 cup brown sugar
4 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup dried fruit, chopped
1 cup seeds or chopped nuts
1 cup coconut
¼ cup honey
250 grams buttermilk
125 grams butter, melted
70 grams oil
2 eggs
3 tablespoons demerara sugar, optional

Mix together the dry ingredients in one bowl and the wet ingredients in another. Combine the two. The dough will be stiff and spoonable. Spread the dough in a parchment-lined 9×12 baking sheet. Sprinkle the top with the demerara sugar. Bake at 350 degrees for about 45 minutes, or until golden brown and an inserted toothpick comes out clean.

After cooling for about 20 minutes, lift the cake from the pan and place it on a cutting board. Using a serrated knife, cut the cake into fingers — I cut it into thirds longways, and then into thin fingers. (If cut too thick, they are hard to eat.) These rusks are very crumbly, so work carefully and firmly, and plan on making a mess. I waited too long to cut the rusks in the photo above (had to go jump in a frozen pond, whee!), so I think the cooled cake made a bigger mess than normal. (Don’t throw out the crumbs! They’re delicious eaten like a dry cereal, or get fancy and put them on top of yogurt.)

Place the rusks on their sides on a baking sheet, cut-side touching the pan. Bake at 200-250 degrees for 1-3 hours, carefully flipping each of the rusks partway through. The finished rusks should be lightly golden and crunchy all the way through. Store in an airtight container.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (1.30.23), eight fun things, butter dumplings, omeletty egg bake, the quotidian (1.30.17), crispy pan pizzas, sour cream and berry baked oatmeal, about a picture.

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
everyday; ordinary; commonplace

Eat the rainbow.

These crackers elicit strong opinions, from “salty wood chips” to “literally addictive.”

Teriyaki something-or-other in the making.

King cake in a bundt pan: negative 5 stars. (All the edges = painfully dry.)

So glad I stockpiled my ice cream base.

They say US folks consume 6.5# of butter/year: anyone else think that’s absurdly low?

Fozen sunshine.

He won’t make eye contact when he’s where he’s not supposed to be.

Hello, Pittsburgh!
^{photo credit: my sister-in-law}

Watercolor lessons from my aunt, and now I’m even more in awe of her skill.

Winter break workteam.

Imogene. (Catch the drama here.)

Again.
^{photo credit: my husband}

This same time, years previous: one drunk pig, banoffee pie, ricotta pancakes, I need new slippers – help!, launching, the quotidian (1.27.20), overnight baked oatmeal, vindication, women’s march on washington, through my lens: a wedding, the quotidian (1.27.14), and then we moved into a barn.