Our church joins with another local church to produce a lenten devotional—different people reflect on different passages and then all the reflections are published together, each one prefaced by its scripture.

I mentioned before that I had been asked to write one of the devotionals for that packet. I tweeted that it was killing me. I may have tweeted that more than once.

Seriously, writing the little 300-350 word reflection was pure agony. I spent hours on it, and I have four word documents to prove it. I was a mess. I first wrote too expansively, then I wrote too narrowly, and then I realized that I had no idea what the scripture meant anyway. I called my friend and forced her to argue out the passage with me. I went on a walk with my sister-in-law and we talked it out from different angles. I called my mother, repeatedly.

My mother, the Cut-n-Slash Queen, and I struck a deal: she would not look at anything written until the devotional was completed, at which point she would just do a quick edit. That way she wouldn’t get all caught up in my ever-shifting verbosity. Even without any written words between us, our phone conversations were painful. She would, more likely than not, strip my carefully constructed ideas down to nothingness, except, maybe, for one little idea that she thought might have potential. “Write about that,” she’d say. “You might have something there.”

I talked about my failed attempts at service. I talked about how the most effective service springs from my desires and interests. I questioned the basics—like whether or not there is any point in helping poor people at all. I talked about love feasts versus fasting and sweet rolls versus brown bread. I talked about Zoloft, foster kids, relief kits, my mild eating disorder, and my Fabric Phobia. I started to wonder if I was missing Isaiah’s point all together.

And it was then that my idea was born: I would write a letter to Isaiah and ask him my questions! Who said I had to have the answers, anyway?

I’m including the letter here. If you want, you can pretend you’re Isaiah and answer my questions yourself. I would enjoy that. (For background, read Isaiah 58:1-12.)

Dear Isaiah,

With all due respect, this scripture doesn’t make much sense to me. I’ve never dressed in sackcloth, I hate fasting, and praying out loud just isn’t my style. Despite the occasional well-planned good deed, I consider myself to be rather selfish. I help other people because I want them to appreciate me.

Just this past December I made dinner for a local homeless shelter. It was to be our Family Christmas Present For Jesus. My kids helped plan the menu and came along to the shelter to cut the cake and wash the dishes, but I did most of the grunt work. Despite the stress and messy kitchen, I had fun. I even got a little giddy watching the guests scarf down my food.

Now according to you, our little feed-the-poor event was true worship, but I don’t know about that. I had ulterior motives: I wanted to introduce my children to another sector of our community, and cooking is something that energizes me. And guess what? I got my ego stroked and felt rather proud of myself (in a humble sort of way).

I’m wondering, Isaiah. In some circumstances, might our good deeds become false worship? Or does the fact that we are helping others negate such wickedness?

And one more thing: are you saying that community service counts more than one’s everyday moil and toil? If so, I’m in serious trouble because most of my life revolves around hanging up the laundry, teaching my children how to put their shoes away, and resolving innumerable spats with my husband. Isn’t every part of life supposed to be worship?

So anyway, Isaiah, I’m not sure I catch your drift. But I do know that cooking that dinner was such a blast that I just might have to do it again sometime soon.

Cheerio!
Jennifer

I had a novel idea: I could, if I wanted, cook food that my whole family actually finds enjoyable.

I ran this revolutionary idea past a couple other moms and they both stared at me like I was looney, a giant Duh-Lumpus. Other moms, it turns out, make it a point to cook meals that they know their family will like. They think it’s the logical thing to do.

This never occurred to me. Apparently I’m not logical.

Let me start from the beginning, three long weeks ago when I made breakfast for supper. We had Farmer Boy Pancakes, a dozen scrambled eggs, vanilla pudding, frozen (and thawed) strawberries, and grape juice. When I called my family to supper (or rather, finally gave them permission to sit down—they had been hovering anxiously while the pannycakes were frying), they came running, each and every one of them wearing a happy face. After the prayer, they attacked the food like they hadn’t eaten in weeks. They ate firsts, seconds, thirds, and fourths and then asked for more! When the food ran out, they rose groaning from their chairs and waddled off, completely sated.

It got me to thinking: wouldn’t it be nifty if every supper were as pleasant as this one? Instead of the groans and moans and do-I-have-to-eat-this-es and I-don’t-want-this-es and this-makes-me-throw-up-es, the kids would cheer and dig in. It would be so easy!

If I did decide to cook only family-pleasing foods, I would do it for an extended period of time, like say for a week or two. I could do it, too, you know. My kids are not picky eaters (it’s just that their mother is an excessively creative cook). I could make them macaroni and cheese, pizza, spaghetti and meatballs, baked potatoes with veggies, honey-baked chicken and rice, beans and rice, grilled cheese and tomato soup, roast chicken, pesto, potato soup, hamburgers and oven fries, chef salads, etc. Cooking kid-approved food would sure make mealtimes a lot less stressful.

Or would it? I made egg salad for lunch yesterday. I thought I was being a good mommy, making my kids a treat that they all adored, but wouldn’t you know, Sweetsie insisted that egg salad made her feel like puke. Well.

And then I remembered that this is the reason that I don’t cook according to my family’s likes and dislikes—with four little(ish) ones with evolving tastebuds, their lists of acceptable foods are forever changing. I have tried to cook to please everyone (see previous paragraph), but it seems I always end up failing. As a result, I’ve decided it’s easier to assume that no one will like the food and cook food that I find interesting. If they like it, good. If not, too bad, so sad. This is how my logic works.

(I do cook food that everyone likes … sometimes. I get on all sorts of weird food kicks, but when I notice that my kids’ chubby cheeks look a little hollow, that they have bags under their eyes, their mouths are pinched and their eyes dull, I change my pace and make a big ol’ down-home meal. After they have been sufficiently revived, I strike off on yet another cooking venture.)

Still, the pancake supper inspired me to try to increase my family-approved cooking repertoire—the goal would be to make new meals that are just variations on their established favorites—so when I spied a recipe for chicken and biscuits on Julie’s blog, I dove in headfirst.

Except for Mr. Handsome (who loved it, and that was gratifying), the response was mediocre at best, and it was a perfectly delectable meal, too.

Cooking to please is entirely over-rated, I’ve determined. It’s discouraging and frustrating and a dead-end street. So here’s the deal: I will cook to keep my family healthy and well-nourished and to broaden their tastebud horizons (and to entertain myself), but I will not cook to please everyone (on a regular basis). It’s the same as my parenting philosophy: I do not strive to make my children happy—I strive to love, teach, and nurture them. While their happiness is a pleasant bonus (three cheers for warm fuzzy feelings!), it is not my goal.

I made the chicken and biscuits again for supper last night, adapting and jotting notes as I went. Everyone ate it, though when I was snuggling with Sweetsie before bed and I asked her what the worst part of her day was, she said “supper.” The best part was playing outside in the snow.

You know, she didn’t used to like playing in the snow all that much. There’s still hope…

Creamed Chicken with Cheese Biscuits
Adapted from Julie of Dinner with Julie

This recipe is highly adaptable. I’ve made a lot of changes from Julie’s original recipe, and you can make lots of changes from mine. Add more veggies (cauliflower, zucchini, etc), omit the meat, add mushrooms, use a different biscuit recipe, cut out the dairy, play with the spices, etc.

This last time around, I used provolone and Gruyere cheese (because that is what I had), but I would’ve preferred cheddar.

This recipe looks complicated, what with its three parts and all, but it’s not really. You can make the creamed chicken ahead of time and store it in the refrigerator till you are ready to assemble the casserole—just increase the baking time by about five minutes if the sauce is cold when you put it in the oven.

For the vegetables:
2 tablespoons butter
1 onion, diced
2 carrots, diced
2 stalks of celery, diced
½ teaspoon dried thyme
dash of smoked salt (optional)
1/8 teaspoon smoked paprika
2 tablespoons sherry
1 cup peas, fresh or frozen
2-4 cups chopped cooked chicken

Melt the butter in a soup pot and add the onion, carrots, and celery and saute for about five minutes. Add the rest of the ingredients and cook for another minute or two. Set aside.

For the cream sauce:
2 tablespoons butter
1/4 cup flour
2 cups chicken broth
1 cup milk
1 ½ teaspoons salt
½ teaspoon black pepper
1-2 cups cheddar cheese, grated (optional)

In a heavy-bottomed kettle, melt the butter. Whisk in the flour and gradually add the milk, stirring steadily. Add the broth and continue stirring till hot and bubbly. Remove the kettle from the heat and stir in the seasonings and cheese.

Add the cream sauce to the vegetable mixture and stir to combine. Taste to check seasonings. (At this point, the creamed chicken can be refrigerated till you are ready to assemble and bake the casserole.)

Pour the creamed chicken into a greased 9 x 12 pan.

For the biscuits:
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 tablespoon sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup canola oil
3/4 cup milk
1 ½ cups grated cheddar cheese, divided
2 tablespoons butter, melted

Combine the first five ingredients. Stir in the oil and milk. Turn the dough (it will still be quite sticky) out onto a well-floured surface and roll into a rectangle, roughly 10 x 15 inches. Spread the dough with the melted butter and sprinkle with one cup of the cheese. Roll the dough up as you would sweet rolls, and cut it into 8-10 pieces. Arrange the rolls, cut side up, on the creamed chicken.

Bake the chicken and biscuits at 400 degrees for thirty minutes. Take the casserole out of the oven, sprinkle the remaining half cup of cheese over the biscuits, and bake the casserole for another five to ten minutes.

Let the chicken and biscuits rest for ten minutes before serving.

About one year ago: Bits of daily life.

And I’m not talking about weird butts, either. I’m talking about odds and ends—I just abbreviated it.

Odd End Number One: Neck Stretching
The Baby Nickel is trying to elongate his neck … using a bit of brown paper bag. (Mom, you might want to add this to your Uses-For-A-Brown-Bag list.) He thinks it’s sexy.

Actually, I have no idea why he was doing this and I don’t think he did either.

But I did think it was camera-worthy.

Odd End Number Three: The Basket Head
Miss Beccaboo has taken to sporting a basket on her head.

She’s sewn bits of cloth together and loops one end over the upside-down basket and the other end under her chin and then walks around, all lady-like, pretending she’s Eliza Doolittle.

We’ve just finished watching that movie for the second time this winter. The language and fashion have become a part of our daily life. I’ve taken to calling my children “squashed cabbage leaves,” and any one of us might, at any given moment, start trilling about the rain in Spain.

Odd End Number Five: A Lightbulb Moment
Were you, like me, under the impression that Robert Frost wrote only pastoral poems about forked paths and stacked wood and stone fences? Well he didn’t. He wrote a poem about a boy who was cutting wood and sawed his hand off and died. Yep. I read it to the kids, did a double-take, snorted, and then read it again.

The last line in the poem is “And they, since they were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.” We discussed the poem (Yo-Yo views poems as long, complicated riddles and often comes up with some pretty haywire interpretations), and I gave a little speech about how our lives aren’t really that important and that when someone dies life goes on because there isn’t any other option (there’s probably a name for mothers like me). And it was at that moment that Yo-Yo burst into song, “There’ll be crumpets and tea without you! Art and music will thrive without you!”

Eliza Doolittle and Robert Frost, each in their own way, hit upon a universal theme, and my kid made the connection. Bingo.

Odd End Number Seven: J.K. Rowling
Mom emailed me the link for the speech that J.K. Rowling gave at the 2008 Harvard Commencement. I was quite impressed. Not only is Rowling a good writer (can I hear an amen?), she’s a fantastic sermon (or speech—is there a difference?) deliverer. I love the British accent, and the points she makes are right on.

As a side note, did you know that she is the 1062 richest person in the world, as well as the only person to become a billionaire from writing books?

Odd End Number Nine: Orders
My coffee order came in.

Coffee was on the things-that-are-acceptable-to-buy list, if you will remember, and truth be told, that box held orders for more than my household—I just ordered so much that we got to use the box to lug mine home in.

I also just received an order from Mountain Rose Herbs. These items are completely taboo, but I made this order before we went on the spending freeze and the person I was ordering through didn’t get around to placing the order till much later. Honest.

I am so excited about my new food toys. The chipotle powder is hot hot HOT and quite delicious (I just may chuck my box of very stale cayenne that I’ve been using for the last decade), the cocoa nibs are excitement waiting to happen, and the salt is smokey and salty, the perfect compliment to meaty soups like this one.

As for the vanilla beans? They made me happier than happy. If I were Jewish, I would wear the beans as phylacteries, but since I’m not, I won’t. These black, glossy beans are soft and plumb and oh-so-squishable; I want to chew them, but they really don’t taste too good plain. So I did the next best thing, I cut several of them open and stuffed them in jars and topped off the jars with liquor, one jar with rum and the other with vodka. In two months I’ll have my very own extract. I’m so excited! I can hardly stand it! And I still have about ten beans left over—my joy overflows.

Odd End Number Eleven: The Gospel of Luke
For the first time this year, our church planned an evening when people could gather to read the gospel of Luke. When I spied the announcement in the bulletin, I immediately wrote it down on my calendar. It would be the perfect opportunity for Yo-Yo and Miss Beccaboo, I thought. They could sit in the presence of the adults and listen quietly as the stories washed over them. Free Bible education was how I saw it.

So come Thursday evening, we all got showers and ate supper, and the kids grabbed their sleeping bags. I also brought along some Bibles and notepads and pencils, just in case they wanted to doodle while they listened.

At the house (our church owns a house next door—we use it for Sunday school classes and an occasional homeless shelter and numerous other things), the kids fixed themselves some hot chocolate and then curled up in their sleeping bags on the floor. Yo-Yo fell asleep around the time that Jesus healed a centurion’s servant, and Miss Beccaboo drifted off in the middle of some parables. It was nearly ten o’clock by the time we finished reading the whole gospel, and I had to wrestle them awake and out to the car.

They wondered later what the point was, since they fell asleep, and I explained that the Bible stories infiltrated their minds while they were sleeping and so that now they fully comprehend Luke, even though they don’t know it yet.

I believe they rolled their eyes at me.

But seriously, what could be better than being lulled to sleep by the drone of voices recounting the age-old stories? Reading the Bible for two-and-a-half hours sounds so ordinary, so boring and dull, but yet it felt like a precious gift, a gift to both my children and myself.

Odd End Number Thirteen: Snow
I’m sick of it, but as Mr. Handsome so rudely points out to me, there is no point complaining about it. So I won’t.

But I will say this: I miss seeing the ground. A glimpse of brown dirt would be so refreshing. The whitened landscape is making me lose my mind. Proof? Picking potato bugs sounds romantic. Smacking the dirt with a hoe sounds energizing. I told you—I’m losing it.

In the meantime, I bundle up and shovel snow.

While shoveling, I rest a lot.

Help me, honey! I can’t get up!

I can see how people might just lay down in the snow and die. I thought about it.

But then I got back up and carved some out some stairs. Shoveling snow is so boring.

The kids have done a fair bit of sledding.

They come flying down the neighbor’s icy drive and thwack-thwack-thwack into the snowbank on the opposite side of the road.

Once Yo-Yo went up the bank and flipped over the fence into the cow pasture. I wish I’d been there to see it.

The kids have also taken to jumping out of windows and off of things.

This jumping-out-of-windows-into-snow is an actual gene (Gene 296) that gets passed from parent to child. I know this because while in college, Mr. Handsome got a bunch of the guys on his third-floor dorm to jump out their windows into the deep snow. He said his roommate went first and then everyone started leaving the building via the windows. He had to do community service as punishment (though he somehow weaseled out of most of it).

And that ends my odd numbered list. Maybe next time I’ll do an even-numbered list.

About one year ago: Tortilla Pie.