One early Easter morning

 

 

Recreating an annual picture.

I had a lovely start to Easter this morning. You know how girls talk about the BFF? Mine really is—Barbara Ashcraft has been my BFF probably for over seventy years. This morning, I wakened to her email which was a quote from music we sang in choir when we were about ten or twelve: “One early Easter morning, I wakened with the birds.” I answered with the next line: “And all around lay silence/Too deep for earthly words.” No need to say anymore.

Easter is a glorious day of hope—but it can also be exhausting. By mid-afternoon, I was exhausted and felt the day was over. But such a wonderful day. We went to the nine o’clock service—more crowded than usual but not bad. The music was glorious. I said I’d go to church just for the processional, “Jesus Christ is Risen, Alleluia!” and the benediction, which was the “Hallelujah Chorus.” But it was good to be there in person and hear the inspiration of the service and sense the fellowship. At one point Christian and I thought we heard a dog panting, but no one else believes us.

I really noticed some differences between being present and attending through Zoom. It is impressive and comforting to be in that gorgeous sanctuary and nothing can compare with hearing the music live—they had brass as well as our terrific choir. I hold my breath at the high notes of the “Hallelujah Chorus” every time, but they made them. But you don’t get that up-close view—I couldn’t see the brass at all, not could I see the expressions on faces. I like in-person better, but I feel so fortunate to have the alternative on “ordinary” Sundays.

Girls version
I felt like the queen bee, because everyone
came to have their picture taken with me.

Back at the house, Jordan put together an incredible brunch for twelve and set a beautiful table with the gold-and-white Royal Doulton my mom got me when I was a teen, along with gold-washed flatware. It was potluck, and we had ham, “funeral potatoes” (that wonderful rich casserole) broccoli salad, fruit, and of course deviled eggs. My contribution was hot cross buns, but I note no one else likes them as much as I do. And wine. Of course we had wine. It was a noisy, happy laughter-filled event, everything Easter should be.

Jordan's table

Now I am marooned in the cottage, having left my phone in the house by mistake. I can’t ask for leftovers for my supper, can’t even adjust my hearing aids. Can’t check to see if my other kids are at their homes, let alone call them. I’ve emailed a bunch of friends asking them to call Jordan, but not many read their email on a holiday Sunday night. One friend reports she called and got voice mail, so I gave her Christian’s phone number. But I imagine they are both napping (which I did earlier), so I hope they check their messages when they wake up. And I’m watching like a hawk for Jacob to come home or for Jordan and Christian to bring the dog out to potty.

I started this post with a quote and will leave you with another that I really like. This is from John Roedel, who I’ve never heard of but now I intend to investigate—he has apparently published books about his conversations with God as he tries to figure out life, his faith, raising children, and so on. “A dozen angels have started living in the holes in my heart. They have put up hammocks and started growing roses—” There’s more, but now I can’t find it. I particularly like that opening image.

Does this look like mischief afoot?

Holiday Blessings to all

 

Blessings to all on this very special weekend,

when the spring faith celebrations 

of the world's three major religions coincide.

The stars are in alignment.

Counting my blessings on Easter Sunday

 

Jacob and Eva today

For complicated reasons, I did not go to church this morning but watched online. The rest of the family went to the nine o’clock service and sat in the very front row with two couples who are their good friends and to whom I feel close. And one couple had their daughter, Eva, with them. Jacob and Eva have known each other all their lives—born two months apart—but
rarely see each other these days. For several years, we had an Easter tradition of brunch at the house following the nine o’clock service (a couple of years it was the sunrise service!). Covid called a two-year halt to that, so it was fun to see the two of them together again. And to

Jacob and Eva
2014

be with the adults.

Some year in between

I admit I got a little teary, the good kind of tears, seeing them all sitting in the front row. The Burtons have not been back to church in person since pandemic, so it was an occasion. They had worried about getting seats—the Easter services are always overflowing—so I laughed that they were in the front row. Hope our minister friend noticed. Even online, the service was lovely, the sermon good (“the worst is never the last” which sounds like a more intellectual way of saying what a physical therapist said to me not too long ago: “God’s got you!”).

The music was glorious (and would have been more so had I been sitting in church in person). The melody and words to so many old hymns are firmly fixed in my mind from childhood. I was never much of a singer (neither my dad nor I could carry a tune, but we sang heartily, making up for melody with volume) and now, with age, my singing voice is weak. But watching at home, I could sing along—and I did. They sang “Jesus Christ is Risen, Alleluia!” and another familiar one—my mind just went blank—and then the Hallelujah Chorus. I did not sing along with that but I was much impressed by a soprano in the choir who closed her music and sang from memory. She had a strong voice and pretty much carried those extremely high parts.

Everybody adjourned for brunch—a noisy, happy affair with several conversations going at once, but lots of fun. It was potluck and very good, though we repeated some of the dishes at a traditional mid-day dinner with Christian’s family. Different folks, but still lots of laughter.

There was some picture taking, and it provided, for me, the only sour note. Five or so years ago we had taken a picture of me with the girls who went to church this morning, so nothing would do but we duplicate it. Then there was a picture of me with the guys (including Jacob) and finally, one of me with one of the guys which again duplicated one from several years ago. I had taken care with my hair, fresh and clean, and I had on my new sunflower shirt (a tribute to Ukraine), so I smiled my way through the pictures. I have to say, defensively, I have never been photogenic: my grandfather used to tell my mom the only place he would hang her picture was in the barn because she took such a poor picture (parenting has changed, thank goodness). I think I inherited that mindset from my mom. For several years Bobbi Simms was half mother/half friend to me. She also as the kids said, “Told it like it is,” and she used to worry about why I never look as good in a picture as in real life.

Today’s pictures were pretty bad. I look like a pale but puffy old lady with wispy thin hair. Not at all how I feel or think of myself. I will only share one, but you’ll see the contrast between me and those vital women in the forties. Two resolves: I’m going to put on make-up more often, and I emailing my haircut person tonight.

I hope, if you celebrate, that your Easter was as full of blessings as mine. Remember, the worst is not the last. The ending is up to God.

#Cook for Ukraine

 

Traditional Borscht

Our country and the entire world—well, most of it—is reeling in horror at pictures coming out of Bucha, the suburb of Kyiv recently retaken by Ukrainian forces and abandoned by would-be Russian conquerors, who left behind a trail of atrocities—a mass grave, bodies lying in the street, many with their hands tied behind their backs and a gunshot to the head. If you have any memories of the Holocaust, the pictures take you back to the end of WWII when Nazi atrocities were revealed.

Americans are quick to support some oppressed (not so much Central Americans at our southern border, but that’s another subject), and so we have been with Ukraine. No, I’m not talking about President Biden’s amazing success at uniting much of the civilized world to sanction Russia while avoiding WWIII. I’m talking about the kind of bandwagon cheering at which we are so good. I’m back in my pajamas by now, but this picture is the shirt I wore all day—I bought it because I love the brightness and the colors. But mostly I bought it because I too want to support Ukraine.

There are so many charities asking for funds to do good work in Ukraine that it can be a bit misleading, and there are scams out there. Several sites profess to protect domestic animals left behind, but one I saw the other day was highly suspicious—all the dogs looked like. One that I trust is the World Central Kitchen which has been feeding Ukrainian refugees who cross the border into Poland. Chef José Andres has now taken his kitchens, under protection, to Bucha to feed survivors. Docs Without Borders is reliable—those people go into the thick of the fighting to provide medical care. Still another charity in  which I have faith is UNICEF, and I read a fascinating article today about two London women—one Ukrainian, one Russian—who have combined their skills to create #Cook for Ukraine to support UNICEF. Here’s the link to an article about them, if you can get beyond the paywall, The Ukrainian and Russian Chefs Cooking for Ukraine | The New Yorker, and here’s their website: Cook For Ukraine is fundraising for Unicef UK (justgiving.com). All proceeds go to the UNICEF Ukraine appeal to support women and children.  

Alissa Timoshkina, originally from Russia, and Olia Hercules, raised in southern Ukraine with her family still there, suggest that those who want to help can host supper clubs or bake sales featuring Ukrainian foods with donations suggested. Share recipes and pictures online with the hashtag, #CookforUkraine. There’s an online form for registering your event and an online link to donate.

Cooking Ukrainian recipes is especially meaningful as we approach Easter, because the country is known for its delicately decorated eggs. There’s a special Easter egg cheese—hrudka—and Easter bread--paska. Search CookforUkraine and you’ll find a wealth of recipes. Maybe the first thing that comes to your mind is borscht--you’ll find several recipes. I have always wanted to make pierogi because I am fascinated with the small hand pies from several cultures. Pierogi are the Ukrainian/Russian version, often stuffed with seasoned cheese but sometimes with meat or mushrooms. Another dish traditionally associated with Ukraine is stuffed cabbage—it’s not as hard as you might think and is delicious. And desserts—oh my, do the Ukrainians know how to cater to a sweet tooth. Cakes of all kinds, napoleons, babka, honey cake. 

Honey cake

If I weren’t cooking for strict traditionalists, I think I’d do a Ukrainian Easter dinner. Pierogi for an appetizer, borscht for a soup course stuffed cabbage as the entrée, accompanied by kapusta (sauerkraut and peas) and a grand dessert of a honey cake built like a napoleon—lots of thin layers. Of course, it would take me a kitchen staff to prepare this.

I’m sure Ukraine offers recipes for Passover too, because there is a substantial Jewish population. And if you’re thinking, wait a minute! Borscht is Russian, you’re right. There is a big cultural overlap between Russia and Ukraine, and it includes food. Of the two cooks sponsoring #CookforUkraine, the Russian one has a Ukrainian grandmother, and the Ukrainian native has a Russian grandmother. So sad to see two countries, who share so much, at war with each other—or really the bigger one bullying the smaller, at a horrible cost of life. Let alone the massive destruction of structures, fields and farms.

Golumpki - stuffed cabbage

We are all going to feel the effects of the destruction in that country—higher prices on grain, for just one example. So cheer for the people of Ukraine and pray for them. And cook for them!

 

A familiar anthem—so welcome!

 

This morning Sophie got me up early (like 5:30) with one of her snophalophagus attacks. I got up to give her a Benadryl, went to the bathroom, and saw an email from my high school BFF—she quoted these lines to me:

One early Easter morning,

I wakened with the birds,

And all around me lay silence,

Too deep for earthly words.

She didn’t have to say any more. I knew it meant she was thinking of me, and that in our faith, He is Risen, indeed! Long ago—really long ago—she and I were in a youth choir that sang that music on Easter morning, and it has stayed with both of us. So today, I went through the day with that melody playing in my head. One year, for a sunrise service, my church included it in the program—at my request. I was thrilled.

Good intentions gone awry—we were going to attend virtual nine o’clock church this morning but instead had Easter breakfast/brunch about 10:30 and then were ready for the eleven o’clock service (I think it was the same service, played over again). Brunch was a tater tot casserole that Jordan and Christian fiddled with—who really needs six cups of grated cheese? They cut it in half, substituted sausage for bacon, added eggs—and the result was so good.

Tater Tot casserole

Our church, Fort Worth’s University Christian, has really learned some innovative things about presenting virtual services, and this morning was a triumph. Easter services usually conclude with Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus—this morning various members of the congregation popped up from unlikely spots spelling out the lyrics to accompany the music. It was good-hearted, good fun, and wonderful. The sermon struck a chord with me too because I hear on Facebook from acquaintances who sing of doom because Biden is president—I can’t believe I am patient with them, but I am for various reasons. The gist of what I took away this morning is to never believe that the moment of gloom is the last word. God always gets the last word, and it is “Life,” though I might suggest that it is “Love.”

The Burtons went off to Denton to celebrate with Christian’s family, and I, after a nap, welcomed Subie and Phil. We had gravlax that I had cured—absolutely delicious, with a perfect sauce of yogurt, mayo, balsamic vinegar, lemon, and dill. I will definitely do that again. Russian salad, also new to me, was great—sort of a version of potato salad, but you dice everything fine, aiming for the size of green peas because it has peas, along with potatoes, carrots, cornichons, ham. Dressing is simply mayo mixed with cornichon brine. I think I was a bit timid about the brine, but I will use it with a freer hand next time. Subie brought egg butter, which she had learned to make in Finland—like deviled eggs but without the devil. The perfect accompaniment for gravlax. And dessert? In the interests of being ecumenical, it was matzoh crack.

Matzoh crack
So rich, so good

I have to say, for all I worried about the gravlax, the matzoh crack was the thing I struggled with the most—trying to avoid burning myself with the hot sugar mixture, juggling pans, quick spreading first toffee and then chocolate before it hardened past the point of spreading. Plus I had to do it in my small toaster oven, instead of a traditional one where I could have done more pieces of matzoh at one time. I made two batches—and I have a whole lot of matzoh left over, so I’ve been singing to Christian about the virtues of matzoh brie—just like the migas he loves. Funny how so many cultures have the same dish by different names.

All in all, it was not the traditional Easter I always long for—I still wish I’d been in church and then had a leg of lamb—but it was a great, non-traditional alternative, and I am counting my blessings tonight.

Two days ago, I looked at a tree that is always so slow to leaf out that each spring I am convinced it is dead—and I thought that after our terrible snowmageddon. But tonight I just happened to look—and it has leafed out in two days.

He is Risen, Indeed!

The great tuna casserole dinner

 

Gary's tuna casserole

Over a year ago the subject of tuna casserole came up, I guess in my blog and probably because I mentioned I love it and none of the rest of my local family will eat it. (Jacob loved tuna salad as a toddler but won’t touch it now, Christian won’t touch tuna at all, and Jordan does not want it cooked—go figure). Christian’s college classmate from Dallas, Gary, jumped on it, said he loves tuna casserole, and when could he come for supper. Of course, covid dictated the answer to that—we were all quarantining, entertaining on the patio if at all, and certainly not serving food.

But last night was the night. We are all vaccinated, Gary just had his second vaccination, and I made tuna casserole. As he said, it was a meal a year in the planning. I did suffer some performance anxiety because we had talked about it so much: what if it didn’t turn out like his mother’s?

And I ran into one real problem: I was going to make it with cream of mushroom soup rather than trying for my own white sauce, because I wanted the authentic Sixties feel. But when I opened the can of soup and dumped it on the tuna, it was the consistency of chicken broth, not jellied at all as canned cream soups are. The can made me suspicious because it was not a pop-top but an “old-fashioned” one requiring a can opener. I checked the date: 2022. The only other possible explanation was that it was low sodium (bought by mistake by my resident grocery shopper). I debated, Jordan came out and looked at it, and ultimately, I threw out the soup and the wasted can of tuna. New problem: we did not have any more cream of mushroom soup, and Jordan really did not want to go to the store. I used cream of chicken, and we couldn’t tell the difference.

I think it was good. Maybe a bit drier than it should have been, but good. Gary said he liked it. I liked it. Amye, who joined us, liked it.

Gary spent the night, and he and Christian thought they were in college again and stayed up until the wee hours catching up with each other. This meant everyone slept late, and breakfast became a late brunch. But Gary was treated to the best of our cooking—leftover spanakopita, fruit salad, sausage patties, scrambled eggs, and hot cross buns I’d bought from Central Market. I suppose he thinks we eat that way all the time. As he left, I promised him the next meal he wants: chicken divan.

I did post the ugly picture of my spanakopita on the New York Times Cooking Community Facebook page (no, it hasn’t disappeared yet) and so far have over 150 responses, most of them raves about how delicious it looks. One cook suggested serving it topped with an easy-over egg. And I responded to a query about what everyone is cooking for Easter dinner—my matzoh crack got some comments and requests for a recipe. It is on the agenda for tomorrow, along with a Russian salad for which I cooked the ingredients today. Now I have to chop carrots, potatoes, ham, hard-boiled eggs, cornichons, and add peas. Dressing is simply a mix of cornichon brine and mayo. Another experiment.

I cannot rid myself of the notion that today is Saturday. I am all ready to go to church in the morning. The weather forecast for not only Easter but all week is almost too summer-like for early April—mid-eighties all week. I remember Easter in Chicago when I was a kid—we never knew what the weather would be, but cold and wet was a good bet. I’d get lovely frilly dresses and have to cover them with my old winter coat which by then was ratty and tired. But my memory is that we hunted eggs outside, no matter the weather. I’m a bit sad that all my grandchildren are too old and sophisticated (the youngest is fourteen) now to hunt for eggs.

Tonight I pray for the families of the capitol police officer killed today and that of the attacker whose people also must be devastated. Too much crazy has been unleashed in our society, and I’m not sure our government has a firm idea how to deal with it. Some days I’m so hopeful about the way things are going….and some days I despair. Today, with the attack at the capitol, the shooting in California, the Texas voter suppression law, I’m afraid despair is uppermost. But as my faith reminds me, the dark (which is today, Good Friday) must come before the light and joy of Easter.

A cooking milestone

 

Obviously not a professional job
but, hey!, it was so good!

Color me proud. This is my first attempt at working with phyllo. It is not, I don’t think, my first attempt at spanakopita—I remember making it for Jordan and me (the boys in the household won’t eat cooked spinach), but I think I used puff pastry (I just found a picture and, yes, I did use puff pastry before--and may again). This was a lot more work, and obviously it’s not as pretty as the original—a New York Times recipe. But it tasted delicious.

I told Jordan this morning she’d better enjoy it, and before I could finish the sentence, she did: “Because we’re never ever having it again because it’s too much work.” Almost true—it will be a while before I make it again. Last night I dreamt about making the dish, and this morning I got up and did it, so you know it’s filled my day. And there were roadblocks—I put 1.5 lbs spinach on the shopping list, and Jordan brought home 5 oz. So I had to add to my open order at Central Market and wait till late afternoon for Jordan to pick it up Then I incorporated the seasoned spinach, which had been cooked with leeks (yes, leeks—I did not, as is my habit, substitute green onions) and garlic, etc. with the newly cooked spinach, while trying to preserve the large chunks of feta—cooking is not always easy!

I really wanted moral support when I tried to “work quickly,” as the directions said, with the phyllo—but Jordan had gone to a neighbor’s for happy hour. And despite her promise to be home at six, it was almost seven before she got here. Meanwhile, I was fighting (well, almost literally) with the phyllo—and once I got it put together, I realized it’s a time-sensitive dish. So there are all my excuses, but clearly I need more practice with the dough. And I have at least half a box left—so I’m watching for other recipes. Suggestions welcome. Still it was delicious—we will have company for breakfast on Friday, and leftover spanakopita just got added to the menu.

The TV was on while I puttered in the kitchen most of the morning—and did my PT exercises. I find it agonizing to hear the witnesses at the trial of Derek Chauvin for killing George Floyd, to hear people describe watching a man die, hearing him call for his mother and plead, “I can’t breathe.” I’m glad I’m not on that jury, because I could not be impartial.

Another thing that distresses me—there was a Facebook picture today of a big game hunter with a high-powered rifle who had killed an elephant in the wild. I am so angered by these “brave” hunters that I share the pictures on Facebook to spread their shame (doubt they feel it, but still…..) Trouble is, when I share it, other people share it and each time they do it shows up again on my timeline. And I can hardly bear to see that damn picture again. I’m afraid I have a not-good fate in mind for that hunter.

Splurge for the day—a bunch of tulips for my coffee table, which is the only table in the cottage. My friend Phil was having trouble eating on a tray table the other night and said maybe he should eat at the table. Phil is visually challenged and didn’t realize there is no dining table out here, but I will say it is one thing I miss. I’d love to once again give a dinner party at a real table. Meantime, tray tables are a better solution than hunching over the coffee table. I generally eat at my desk, even when there’s company, which doesn’t do a lot for ambiance. Tomorrow, for the great tuna casserole dinner, we will dine on tray tables on the patio, providing it’s warm enough.

But I do think my Easter table looks pretty, and I love having flowers in the cottage. I talked to the lawn guy today, and he is going to cut back the rosemary (dead at the tips but green near the ground), cut back the iron plants (same problem), and pull out the fountain grass, which has been a sort of lovely tan arrangement all winter. It’s time to repace it with living grass, and I prefer the purple. The oak-leaf hydrangea have come back nicely, but the Turk’s cap is iffy (gone, I think) and I need to have someone check the lantana. But the redbud is blooming—that’s an essential part of spring for me.

Easter and rebirth and the greening of the world—it makes me cheerful. Even as I fight with phyllo.

In its own way, a glorious Easter

Easter happy hour on the patio

If you can get past to comparisons to “how it should be,” this was really a glorious Easter, at least here in North Texas. Rolling thunder woke me sometime in the early morning, and I got up to release Sophie from her crate because I knew she be frightened and want to be close to me. But by the time I got up for good, it was a glorious sunny day, the kind of day you think Easter should be.

My strongest memory of Easter in the Chicago of my childhood has to do with heavy winter coats. I would get a fancy Easter dress, often organdy or some sheer fabric, with petticoats beneath—and then the weather would force me to top it with my drab, old winter coat. No such problems here.

Another of my earliest memories is the anthem we learned in choir: One Early Easter Morning. This morning, when I turned on my computer, the first thing I saw was an email from my lifelong dear friend Barbara. Nothing except the first lines of that anthem. Brought happy tears of memory to my eyes.

Jordan, Jacob, and I “went” to eleven o’clock church online, while Christian attended inside the house. The music was glorious—brass, timpani, wind—and a vocal quartet that were superb. The message, inspiring and nicely linking the resurrection to the difficult period we now find ourselves in. I am so grateful to my church as the staff continues to explore ways to keep us together and create meaningful worship in the midst of physical distancing.

Jordan dressed for church. Unfortunately, neither Jacob nor I did. And I didn’t realize that we were all having brunch together. Just as I finished my tuna and cottage cheese, there they came, bearing bacon and eggs and potatoes. We had a grand time, mostly talking with Jacob about colleges because he’s suddenly decided, after years of devotion, he may not want to go to Baylor.

A nap for me, while the Burtons went to do a birthday drive-by for a good friend. I am amused that these have become common across the nation. The first I heard of—for the 14^th birthday of a friend’s daughter—seemed original to me, but I soon learned it is a “thing.” Just as I woke from my nap, thunder was rumbling again but it did little more than make Sophie nervous.

Our Easter table

with Jordan's cake

Easter dinner

After that the focus was on dinner which, as always, was late. I made scalloped potatoes—I have always had trouble getting them right, but I nailed it this time. I used to try for Colin, because he loved them, but they were always mushy. Christian cooked a brisket, following directions I remembered from my Jewish mother-in-law—it was delicious, though he wasn’t happy with the gravy. Jordan made deviled eggs, cucumber salad, and a cake. And set an elegant table on my coffee table. It was al delicious, and we lingered over Jordan’s cake—a memory from her childhood: yellow cake with chocolate frosting.

So different from other Easter tables with lots of family and friends, but we are together and healthy and beyond grateful. I come away from this holiest of days with the sure knowledge that we will get through this.

Tonight, the wind is blowing, and the temperature has dropped dramatically. I’ve heard predictions as low as the thirties in the night. Crazy weather.

Cooking up a holiday storm

Chicken Stroganoff

Easter and Passover are holidays I associate with a lot of cooking. When I was married, I hosted a few seders, but I don’t remember much about what I cooked. I remember the seder plate with its symbolic foods and how I struggled to sip Manischewitz. I found a recipe for Manischewitz ice cream the other day and a friend, who had also been married to a Jewish man, agreed with me it might be really good and was probably the best way to serve that wine. Probably I cooked a brisket, a la my mother-in-law who called it first-cut breast and could make it delicious. Mine was a pale imitation. For Easter I always think of ham and either scalloped potatoes or potato salad, though I long each year to cook a leg of lamb. Some year the circumstances will be right, but not this year.

We are having ten for brunch, one a vegetarian and one who will not eat anything with onions in it. Limits your menu choices. I am fixing sausages for the meat eaters and a leek/ricotta/pesto pie for all but the onion-hater. Christian will fix a Spanish tortilla with potatoes and eggs, and we’ll have fruit salad, hot cross buns, and bloody Marys. Should be fun.

Meantime I’m cooking. You know if you order chicken Caesar salad these days, you get Caesar salad with rotisserie chicken slices? Most of the time I want old-fashioned chicken salad with mayonnaise, so I was delighted to find a recipe for Caesar chicken salad that called for cut up chicken and a Caesar salad-like dressing. But when I made it tonight, it didn’t seem to have anything to bind it together. It’s going to be liked marinated chicken bites. I’ll assess tomorrow, but I suspect I’ll add a bit of mayo for tomorrow night’s company supper.

Meantime, I’ve had the same thing for supper, lunch, and supper—and probably will have it for lunch tomorrow. I invented a quick way of doing chicken stroganoff, mostly because I had a large piece of chicken that really needed to get out of the freezer. Here’s my rough approximation of how I made what I thought was enough for one and turned out to be one and between a half and three-quarters.

Make a cup of beef bouillon or use a cup of refrigerated broth.

Pre-cook some pasta, about a cup of whatever you have on hand. I used rigatoni because that’s what I had.

Sauté a generous cup of cubed chicken in a mixture of butter and olive oil. Dump in baby green peas to taste—or omit. When chicken is heated and beginning to brown, stir in one Tbsp. flour. Mix thoroughly.

Stir in the broth in about two batches, waiting until it thickens enough to make a sauce. Add pasta. At the last minute, dump in a Tbsp. of sour cream. Stir and serve.

Your instinct may be to use chicken broth, but trust me, the beef gives it a more robust flavor.

What are you cooking this weekend?

Hope in dark times

Is it just me or are more people aware of the Easter message this year. Perhaps it is me, with my world often consisting of church folk. But I thought they were more messages of hope on Facebook today too. It seems to me in these troubled and often scary times people are turning to the hope of the holidays—in my case, the risen Lord. At church this morning, for his benediction, the minister threw open his arms and proclaimed loudly, “Christ is Risen.” The congregation spontaneously and loudly replied, “Christ is Risen indeed!”

We had a memorable service with majestic music, ending with Handel’s “Messiah,” an Easter tradition in my church. We made it to the nine o’clock service with time to spare, in itself a minor miracle. Friends joined us, and we exchanged greetings with many In the congregation, including most of our happy hour guests from last night.

Then home for brunch. Kudos to Jordan, who set a lovely table and served a terrific brunch—meatballs, potato casserole, corn dip. Thanks to Amy for the great deviled eggs—what is Easter without deviled eggs? And to Marj for fruit in appropriate dishes that looked like little Easter baskets. Conversation around the table was lively and occasionally descended into gossip. At one point, I looked at Marj’s husband and said, “It’s time for you to repeat, ‘Christ is Risen!’” He did, and the table echoed the response. It wasn’t sacrilegious—it was a way of drawing us back to the reason we were all gathered.

Give me a glass of wine at noon, and I’m done for the afternoon. Had a lovely nap, except that some kid—wonder who?—was practicing pitches. He’d occasionally miss the target and the ball would whack into my bedroom wall with a resounding “Thwack!”

Now I’ve been trying to straighten up—not easy to do from a walker. I cannot reach the upper hanging level in my closet, so I couldn’t get everything hung up. Looks like an evening for reading to me.

Christ is Risen! He is Risen indeed!

Easter reflections, hysteria—and a bit of matzo

Tonight we hosted happy hour for neighbors. Susan’s sisters were still here, after their father’s funeral, and I wanted a chance to visit with them. My patio is so inviting and comfortable on these spring evenings—temperature just right and, knock on wood, no bugs. We had leftover appetizers—shh! They’ll never know—and a jolly good time.

There is something wrong either with Fort Worth groceries or my children, but after two trips, one to three stores, they could not find matzo. Isn’t is still Passover or has everyone already bought all they’ll need? I wanted it for an Easter dessert—topped with butterscotch sauce, melted chocolate bits, chopped pecans, and coarse salt. In extremis, I suggested graham crackers. So that’s our dessert for tomorrow. But I plan a lesson in Jewish food—my children’s father was Jewish, but he left home when Jordan was six, and I guess she doesn’t remember Seders, Hanukah, or the traditional foods. She needs to know.

Now preparing for early church. Yes, I have my clothes picked out—not the frilly Easter outfit of my childhood, but a chiffon vest that as Jordan says “screams Easter.” And we’ll have guests for brunch—pleasant to look forward to.

Not everyone has the Easter message today. This morning, the first thing I saw on Facebook was a post on nuclear war and did we have our hazmat suits and anti-radiation medicine (is there such a thing? I foresee a run on the market). Had we protected our pets? How do we do that? Tiny gas masks over their faces? The post went on about not wanting animals to die that gruesome death. Then a sensible friend of mine asked, “Will we see Easter or will be wiped out?”

I was somewhat comforted to read in a Washington Post article that China had strongly warned both the United States and North Korea to back off, advising that war costs everybody and does no one any good. Who ever thought that China would be the peacemaker? I hope both parties take the advice seriously, though I realize that our two governments are run by hotheads—a scary thought. And tonight I saw an unsubstantiated post that North Korea’s missiles proved to be duds. “We live!” wrote whoever posted that.

Still I remember the ‘60s and ‘70s when we thought nuclear attacks were imminent—all those school drills in the hall or hiding under your desk, for all the good that would do. The Bay of Pigs showdown when I urged my parents to leave Chicago and come to small-town Missouri to avoid missiles that were surely headed our way. They weren’t, and I have come to take seriously William Faulkner’s words when he declined to accept the end of man, “I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail.”

And that folks, is part of the message of Easter—redemption, salvation, faith in God. Yes, we live in scary times, and there are lots of rants in my mind—about Congress, about Republicans, about Trump—but I believe not only in God but in the resilience of the American spirit. We will survive and prosper.

While I’m at it, I’d like to add a word about Melanie Trump. I certainly hold no candle for her, and I believe she’s made some really bad choices, but she’s paying for them in spades. I suspect she’s one miserable, trapped woman, trapped by the man she married and by her love for her son. But posts blaming her for ruining the White House Easter miss the point.  There’s a whole staff there that could have planned the event, especially if they’d consulted Michelle Obama’s staff, but they didn’t. That’s the folly of the Trump White House, consumed by hatred of all things tainted with Obama. But to call Melanie a soulless commie hooker is uselessly mean.

Many American children, those of servicemen, the underprivileged, and others, will miss the extravaganza on the White House lawn, but hey! This is only one year. As I said above, the American spirit lives on, and there is always next year.

Be of good faith.

Spring blessings

For Christians, Easter marks a season of hope and renewal. For many other faiths, holiday or holy day celebrations round the spring equinox provide the same kind of hope. So for all my friends, I wish you hope, joy, renewal and all the wonders of the season.

Blessings on each and every one of you.

Hallelujah!

Easter morning, 2:00 a.m. - pouring rain, thunder in the distance; Easter morning, 5:30 a.m., alarm clock goes off, drawing me out of a funky dream about returning to the small Missouri town where I went to graduate school; still pouring rain. Sophie does NOT want to go outside but I insist. Easter morning, 6:40, just as friends come to pick me up for sunrise service, which will obviously not see a sunrise, it stops pouring and downgrades to a sprinkle.

Top picture 2015
bottom 2014

The morning service is inside the chapel, and it still has the small feeling of intimacy, of sharing with a few select others the joyous news of Jesus having risen. But I miss the garden setting and the sense of watching daylight arrive to announce the good news. The music is beautiful--they're singing "Jesus Christ is Risen today" as we arrive--a bit late--and I find my family, with seats saved for all of us. The sermon is inspiring, and the final hymn, "In the Garden," has special meaning for me--it always made my mom cry because she had a brother who died at 20 or 22 or something (long before my birth) and they sang it at his funeral. So the chorus is one I know by heart and love. Communion requires a trip to the altar, and because my balance is so shaky I don't go, but then I am shamed by a woman who arrived in a wheelchair and abandoned it to walk, with difficulty, from pew to pew to partake of the holy feast. Jordan brings me a bit of the bread, so I feel I have taken communion.
Following this joyful yet restrained service, joy reigns as Jacob and Eva, both eight and best of friends, search for eggs at my house. I am nursing my back, and Jordan and Christian do most of the cooking; Marj cuts up fruit. Christian has made a scrumptious potato casserole, and while I planned to scramble the eggs,  he took it on and did a fine job. I had gotten hot cross buns which I adore--Coleman ate one, Jacob had one on his plate though I'm not sure he ate it, and I had a half. They not only bring back Easter memories but they remind me of the Christmas cakes my mom made, I adored, and none of my children will eat.
By ten, dishes are soaking and everyone is gone; by eleven, I've loaded and started the dishwasher, though somewhere along there my persistent chronic back pain settled in one hip and made each step painful. I go to bed with the heating pad, then back up to answer emails, read Facebook and the Sunday paper, and begin this blog which is already too long.
From there, the day was one of sleep, which I guess does knit the raveled sleeve of care. Back to bed, but I rouse myself to make it to Jordan and Christian's by four-thirty, expecting to be just in time for Easter dinner. It was five-thirty before we ate--delicious fajitas (I eat the insides but not the tortilla) and I opt out of dessert. Home, a bit at my computer and back in bed by seven-thirty.
Easter night, almost ten: rouse myself to find a good, devoted dog sleeping by my side. Let her out and give her a treat, make my toilette, and head for bed again. Hip pain which was almost intolerable in the late morning is almost gone. I'm a big advocate of sleep. God works in mysterious ways, just like Mom always told me.
I am so blessed with family and love and church. It's a thankful, worshipful Easter. Hope the same for you each and every one.

Twas the Night before Easter...or the second night of Passover

The night before Easter at my house is sort of like Christmas Eve. Shhh, don't tell Jacob but the Easter Bunny visited just after he left following supper. The house is decorated, and now the problem is to make sure Sophie doesn't think the eggs are for her. The table is set for breakfast, and Christian brought a potato casserole--so rich with sour cream and butter and cheese that I will only allow myself one bite. Everything is laid out and ready, and Jordan left me with great warnings to go to bed early because we're going to sunrise service at 6:45.
She and I were enjoying an after-dinner glass of wine when I startled and said I thought I saw a bolt of lightning. And then we both heard it--thunder. She was out the door and headed home in a flash. I wish our much-needed rain would come Monday instead of Sunday, but I guess we have to believe the Lord knows what he's doing. Sunrise service will be inside, which is a disappointment because I love to see the daylight come while we worship. But the rain will be so significant as part of spring's new start.
Texas has two good seasons--spring and fall, and spring is by far my personal favorite. I love the light green of new leaves, the brightness of my redbud tree, the flowering trees all over town. When my children were young we went to North Carolina for the spring bloom, where redbud and dogwood abound. Redbud does well here, but only a few hardy dogwoods survive to bloom.
Greg, my gardening neighbor, and I are full of plans for my yard, including ferns which I have always loved, oak leaf hydrangeas, which he assures me will disguise the hurricane fence in the back, and coral honeysuckle to brighten the fence between my dog yard and driveway. I don't garden--used to but was never one who felt renewed by mucking in the dirt. These days my back won't let me garden--or sweep or mop floors or any of those things I don't want to do.
I've been fighting back pain and balance issues recently, and I decided tonight I might better quit fighting and go with the flow. Part of it has to do with faith in the physical therapy program, but I think part of it also has to do with my spiritual faith. Perhaps fighting--which means tightening up--actually increases the problems. It may not sound like a big deal, but I walked down to get the newspaper in the middle of the sidewalk today. Then Jordan and I went for a short (very short) walk.
So like trees budding out, I'm going to loosen up, go with the time of renewal, and let the good Lord help me heal.
And so, my friends, I wish you all Happy Easter, Blessed Passover, or if it suits you joy in the new start that springtime brings. Peace.

A day of anticipation

I like Easter Saturday. There’s so much anticipation in that day sandwiched between the grief of Good Friday and the joy of Easter.

For kids, it’s anticipation of Easter egg hunts and treats and…oh, yeah. And church. Jacob went to bed last night wishing that it was already Saturday because then Easter would be the next day and the Easter bunny would come. He did have a good discussion with neighbor Jay about the meaning of Good Friday and Easter. To my surprise, Jay taught Sunday school more than once, and he did a good job of explaining what Christians see as the love of God in sacrificing his son and the reassurance of the resurrection. Jacob took it all in seriously, and he replied intelligently, though by today he was a bit foggy on the details. He’ll be at sunrise service with the rest of us, but I know a big part of his mind will be on the egg hunt. Actually he’ll have two egg hunts, but that’s another story.

For many of us as adults, it’s a day of preparation which heightens the anticipation. Jordan says it’s like Christmas Eve—so much to do, so little time. I know it’s been a cooking day for me—German potato salad for a family gathering tomorrow; sloppy Joe for a working dinner tonight; setting the table for Easter breakfast. Jordan prepared for the Easter bunny, straightened what she thought needed straightening about my house including the bathroom, laid out things for the morning I hadn’t gotten to yet. And then she went home to do the same at her house.

I’ve written about the relationship between food and mysteries but it occurs to me you could do a great article on food and Christianity, from the feeding of the multitudes (Jacob was retelling the story tonight and said Jesus’ mother told him there wasn’t enough wine and to hurry up and make more) right up to today when so many of our holidays center around meals and traditional foods. Turkey at Christmas, ham or lamb for Easter…and in my family, a big breakfast on each of those days.

Tomorrow I’ll host breakfast for between seven and nine adults and two children right after the early service. We’ll have breakfast parfaits (strawberries. yogurt, granola), an egg casserole, link sausages and biscuits or hot cross buns. I love the buns, buy them every year, and I think I’m the only one who eats them.

Tonight Jordan made the egg casserole (I really don’t believe in doing it the night before but she told me “that’s how we young people roll, Mom”—I bit my tongue on several counts) and I finished setting the table. So the sloppy Joe sustained us during this activity. Morning will be hectic with the two young ones hunting eggs and Jordan and me getting breakfast on the table.

A break in the middle of the day—for me, a nap. Then it’s off to Jordan’s for mid-afternoon dinner of ham, beans, potato salad with Christian’s family. Preceded of course by an egg hunt for Jacob and his two cousins.

In the midst of it all, I will try hard to keep in mind that miracle that draws us together, the mystery of the stone rolled away, the glory of the risen Christ. A feeling of awe and grace came over me last year at the sunrise service—it’s magic to go in the dark and, sitting in the garden, watch the sky go from gray to pink to daylight. I’m filled with anticipation of the good news.