ode to granola

I made a big batch of this for our women's retreat last weekend and have had a few requests for the recipe. Here's a post I wrote four years ago on an August morning when I had a hankering:

You start, of course, with a giant bowl of oats.

I don't mean "quick cook" oats, either. Those worthless flakes pose no challenge to teeth; they offer no satisfaction. Regular oats. Giant bowl.

In a just-big-enough pan, you then heat together a bit of oil and honey. The oil--in my opinion--should be olive, because it's so good for you. And as long as I'm being bossy, I suggest you go out and get yourself a bee hive and do the honey right. But if you can't do that ... say, you live on the third floor of an apartment complex with no balcony ... then find yourself some good local honey. It's better all the way around. It's not been cooked to death so as to kill off all the local pollen and antigens.

You then stir those together with your favorite wooden spoon, the one that's been darkened by a hundred batches of brownies, stew, and caramel corn. That spoon knows its way around a pot. While this mixture is heating, you go a little crazy with the spices. You toss in a generous heap of cinnamon, because you know that's the spice that will circle the house first. Clove is good. And naturally, you'll want a good pinch or three of nutmeg, because there's not a spice in the world as mysterious as nutmeg. It's the one that adds interest to the project ... and you know that.

When the whole spicy concoction is just warm enough, you pour it over the mass of oats and stir till every flake is coated. And then you divide the whole pile onto two baking sheets--again, the ugly ones, the stoneware slabs you've seasoned up with a lot of good cooking.

While the oats get a head start in the oven, you pull the nuts down from the cupboard and set to chopping. Not too fine. Maybe on this day you feel like biting into a mixture of hazelnuts, pecans and sunflower seeds. So you chop the choppables and toss in the tiny seeds and when you feel the oats have waited long enough, you open the oven door again and add it all together.

Ten minutes pass. Twelve. The cinnamon finds its way through invisible portals in the oven and rushes past you in a teasing stream. You catch a hint of nutmeg, a whiff of toasting hazelnut. People began appearing from corners of the house, sniffing and looking at you expectantly.

When you all can't stand it anymore, you flip the oven light on and hunker down together to peek in the window. It looks good. It smells unbelievable. And at just the right moment--when the oats and the nuts and the honey and spices have reached the watched-for shade of gold--you don oven mitts and pull those sheets out. And then, because you're making a perfect batch of granola and it wouldn't be perfect without them, you sprinkle handful after handful of dried cranberries and cherries and raisins over those baking sheets. You stir carefully while someone else grabs bowls and yogurt and milk.

And then, while you're tasting that first warm, spicy mouthful of earthy goodness, you turn your back to the east-facing windows, where a sliver of sunshine has fought its way through the clouds, and you look instead out the west windows. You train your eyes on the curtain of gray over the tops of the evergreens, and you convince yourself it's not an August morning, but a cold day in October--with falling leaves, and a warm fire, and a candle on the mantle.

That's the power of granola.
* * * * *

The actual recipe (as close as I can get):

NOTE: When I first wrote this post, I was baking the oats and the honey/oil/spice mixture for a bit before adding the nuts. I've since started baking the oats and the nuts together, and that's how I'm explaining the recipe below. One way might work better for you, depending on the heat of your oven. So experiment with a couple of batches. That's the best approach to cooking anyway. Just keep fiddling with it until you get it the way you like it.

In a giant bowl, mix 6 cups rolled oats (regular) with about 3 cups any kind or mixture of nuts (we like pecans, walnuts, almonds and pine nuts best).

In a small pan, mix about 3/4 cup of oil (I use olive oil) and 1 cup honey. Throw in some spices: about 1 TBSP cinnamon, 1/2 tsp clove, and a bunch of freshly grated nutmeg. Cook just until bubbly. Pour over oats and nuts, mix well, and spread between two jelly roll (rimmed) pans.

Bake 20-30 minutes @300 or until golden brown, stirring at least once during baking. When it looks delicious to you, pull it out of the oven and toss in about a cup or so of dried fruit (I just toss in handfuls of raisins, dried cranberries, and dried cherries). Stir well. Let cook on baking sheets, stirring several times to help it crisp up. Store in an airtight container, but not until it has cooled completely.

Enjoy :)

the farm in july

Here's a snapshot of July from a few years ago ...

"Well, life on the farm is kinda laid baaaaack!"

Really? Let's see now. How has my week gone ...

Two of our goats, Bambi and Jimmy, had a touch of something or other. Dave gave them a wormer and I gave them two doses of penicillin. It occurs to me now that I'm the family injector. Dave doesn't say, "I need to give the goats (insert: cat, dog ... hamster) a shot." He says, "We need to give the goats a shot," and then he waits for me to grab the paraphernalia and meet him in the goat barn, where he wrassles the goat into position and looks at me with patient, innocent expectation. On the second go-round of said medical procedure, the needle bent as I tried to insert it in Jimmy's skin. He's such a tough buzzard he just swung that whiskery head toward me, bared his lips, threw back his head, and laughed.

I saved a duckling, only to lose it later. Quacks-a-lot, the mother, sat on her second batch of eggs all month. When the one lone hatcher emerged from the nest (which Quacks had cleverly hidden against a fallen log and under a bramble of blackberry bushes) and wobbled after the mother to go meet her eight siblings and two fathers, I stood nearby grinning. It was the cutest picture you can imagine. The duckling was so new-on-her-legs that she'd take three flappy steps and topple to the side. Quacks would move a bit further away and urge Little Bit to keep trying. And try she did, though it took her a good seven minutes to waddle/flop her way to the waiting group. And they greeted her, as I'd expected, but not in the way that you welcome new members of the family. Those eight teenager ducklings rushed and pecked the baby, which pulled a fury out of me in about half-a-heartbeat. I swarmed the group, lecturing all the way, and plucked Little Bit off the grass.

Something you may not know about ducklings is that they imprint on you in about ten seconds. We've been through this before--once a trio of ducklings determined I was their mother and used to wait outside whichever window I last poked my head out. I'd see them on the lawn with their heads turned to one side, rolling that one eyeball around to snatch another glimpse of me, Mama Duck. It wasn't until our goose adopted them that they severed their emotional ties to me. So when I stood, earlier this week, holding that little taupe-ish fluff and whispering comfort, I knew I was in danger of stealing Quacks-a-lot's position.

With Tera's help, we cleared the chicken yard of ducks. She brought me three slices of bread and took Little Bit down to the pen. I stood up near the house and called out, in Motherese (you know, the language of mothers everywhere), "Here, Babies!" All eight teenager ducks--who know my voice and understand that those two words mean "bread"--skittered like the almost-able-to-fly critters they are and halted at my feet. If they were startled by my gritted teeth and eruptions of "I do NOT want to bless you," and "You are very mean siblings," they didn't let on. They cleaned me out of three slices of bread and waddled back to the pen, no doubt to further torment the newcomer. But by this time, Tera had shoved an old pillow into one of their fence holes, and an old tin can into the other--and the marauding ducks couldn't find a way into the chicken pen. With baby safe inside with its mother, I breathed easier ... but I shouldn't have. Two hours later, Quacks-a-lot was mysteriously out of the pen with the others, and Little Bit was nowhere to be found. I don't know what happened to her, but I suspect she followed Mama out and the teenagers got her. I'm still sick about it.

I hemmed two shirts for Zac, and played cards with Tera, and taught a friend how to knit.

I picked and ate the first blueberry of the season ... and it was bliss. Picked a bucket more so we can have spicy blueberry butter and blueberry muffins this winter.

I "supervised" as Dave demolished our rock hearth and wood-burning insert. I'll supervise again when he rebuilds the hearth and installs a free-standing woodstove. And come fall, I'll be busy making cocoa to go along with all the "sitting around the stove" we'll need to do.

I harvested my lavender, and brought it in to dry. Soon I'll have tiny bowls of pungent loveliness scattered throughout the house, and little baggies of the stuff tucked in Tera's dresser drawers, and mine.

I pruned the weakest grape vines, and trimmed my comfrey, and replanted the chives and Sweet Annie the chickens uprooted.

I took Dave and Larry for a walk along the trail, and tried my hardest not to scream when Larry found and sniffed a squished snake lying at the edge of the path.

I counted my roses, over and over. Didn't know I could count that high. When I could bear to do so, I cut three and brought them inside to stick in a Mason jar.

I made banana bread, and wheat bread, giant chocolate chip cookies, and eclairs.

I watched the birth of seven kittens, and the hatching of four chicks.

I read.

So the next time you hear, "Well, life on the farm is kinda laid baaaaack!", see it for the fib it is. Nothin' laid back here. But I can't imagine living any other way.

on 'olks and forkheads

"Can you make mine 'olky?" Tera asks.

She's standing behind me, so she doesn't see my smile.

"I like 'olky eggs," she adds, for good measure.

When will I tell her that eggs have yolks, and not 'olks? Never. Someone else will have to spill the beans, because I cannot bring myself to correct that word.

I couldn't correct Zac, either, when he used to refer to his "forkhead." It was just too cute. Sure, I had visions of a future-him pointing to his forehead and mentioning casually, to his teenaged friends, "Man, I ran into the door the other day and banged up my forkhead," and having to endure their snickers, but still, I could not bring myself to correct that word. He didn't discover the truth until he was about ten. And that was way too early for me.

I've always let those words stand. A much younger Tera would sometimes note my tiredness and pat my shoulders or my head. "Does that feel ya better, Mom?" she'd ask. I'd nod, and let the more-interesting sentence stand. Or she'd offer to read Good Night Moon for me, and I'd hear, "Potanonna time, they was three kittens ... and they all is gonna be died. Amen." After the first time I heard that rendition, I never wanted to read Good Night Moon to her again because I didn't want to ruin her version.

At four, she practically taught herself to read, and she learned the truth about Good Night Moon. She learned that the kittens didn't die, and that the book didn't end with an "Amen." And something saddened inside me. But she was still young enough to not realize that "We should get arid of some of these clothes in my room" contained a wrong word. So I let it stand. Everytime she thought we should get "arid" of something, I treasured her mistake.

She makes so few anymore. She's such a smart girl, with such a broad, tangy, impressive vocabulary. So when she asks for 'olky eggs, I crack two into the pan and I don't say a word.

It just feels me better.

recipes

Several of the girls at the Bible College have asked me for recipes this week (and can I just tell you how much that delights me? I love that you all like to cook!). I thought about writing out the recipes and then copying them and cutting them and then trying to track down all the askers ... but then I thought, Why? The internet is so much easier.

So here's a link to my recipe collection. Included on the page you'll find the Cabbage Patch Soup, Snickerdoodles, and Frosted Brownies (among others). And P.S. ... I apologize about the Styx "Sail Away" loop that plays over and over and over. It makes me happy. But if it drives you crazy, turn your volume down while you're copying recipes.

A word about the recipes: Except for baked goods, I seldom follow an actual recipe or measure what I'm putting in, so you'll have to forgive my estimations. But I encourage you to try the "toss in and taste" method. It's really the best way to free yourself from the notion that you have to follow someone else's ideas to the letter. Cooking is very personal. If you like it hotter, throw in some more chili powder or a dash of tabasco. If you want to add a different kind of vegetable, go ahead. The only time this doesn't work well is with baking, because baking is pretty much an exact science. Sometimes, like with the frosted brownies, you can throw in different additions, but you can't change the quantities of baking soda or flour or eggs without causing a noticeable difference in the outcome.

Write if you have questions!

bump: it's amazing i ever finish a thoug ...

I'm planning one last post about my trip to Corpus Christi, but last week was so overpacked with activity that I have a lot of catching up to do on my work-in-progress. No blogging till then. I'll post something new in a day or two. Today, though, here's a post from August 2005. It seemed appropriate in light of the whole left brain/right brain test I did last week.

Here's a peek into my world, and the reason why I have three half-finished knitting projects in my knitting bag, a one-quarter completed portrait on my painting easel, and only two-thirds of my new lavender beds dug and planted.

I'm nearly finished editing a book for my publisher (Watch for Groovy Chicks' Road Trip to Love from Cook Communications some time next year. I have a chapter entitled "Why?" included in this compilation). About three-quarters of the way through the book, I come across a recipe for easy cracker toffee. Now, this happens to be something I make frequently, only I've always called it Poor Man's Almond Roca. I notice, as I'm editing, that the contributor of this recipe says to melt the chocolate chips in the microwave before pouring over the toffee/cracker combo. I don't do it that way. I sprinkle the chocolate chips on top and let the oven melt them for me. So I write a note to that effect to my editor suggesting that they may want to consider simplifying that step in the book. That's where my afternoon begins to spin off-course.

I leave the editing, because suddenly, it seems like a very, very good idea to bring Poor Man's Almond Roca to church tonight. I preheat the oven, pull the jelly roll pan out of the cupboard, and take the brown sugar out of the cupboard. Noticing we barely have enough for this recipe, I decide to make a note to pick up some more. But I don't want to just write it on a tiny square of paper (like I usually do, just before losing it), because I'm turning over a new leaf. I've instituted ... the Fly Lady's Control Journal.

I go into our bedroom to retrieve my binder. Flipping through the pages to find my grocery list, I come across one I made up myself that says, "Pantry: Things to use up; things to replace." Never mind that the paper is titled "Pantry." The first image I have is of our refrigerator. I remember seeing a half-used bag of tortillas in the fridge, so of course I decide to make Enchilada Casserole for dinner. Do we have hamburger? Only a trip out to the freezer will tell.

As I'm kicking off my pink slippers and getting ready to shove my just-pedicured feet (thanks again for the gift certificate, Denise :) into my brown garden clogs, I notice that someone spilled Rice Krispies in the pantry. So of course I grab the broom and sweep up the mess. As I'm pulling out the dust pan from under the sink, I see the large Mason jar I stuck in there after the last batch of cut roses ran their course. Roses would look nice on the table alongside Enchilada Casserole ... so I don the clogs and head out to cut a few.

The clippers are down by the lavender beds. On my way to fetch them, I pass the blueberry bushes and see that the ones I left to ripen when I picked several days ago have gone and done just that. Forgetting the clippers (which is a good thing, because once back inside, I notice the roses my dad brought me yesterday, sitting smack dab in the center of the table. What was I thinking?), I grab a bowl and return to snatch the blue, plump-to-bursting orbs. Only after I've done that and am walking back up toward the house do I remember the hamburger.

I veer left and cross the lawn to the shed, where we keep the chest freezer Dave's parents passed down to us a few years back. I lift the lid and, because the hydrolic spring thingy is broken (why do you think it was passed down to us?) prop it up with my head while I poke around past the burritos and bagels and butter cubes. Near the corn dogs, I find the needed two pounds of hamburger. I dislodge my head, return to the house, and stick the baggie of frozen meat in the microwave to defrost.

Mildly on-task, I stand at the sink and sort the blueberries for freezing. But I leave them in mid-sort when I decide that an iced latte would make the job more fun. It takes me ten minutes to eke four shots out of our seventeen-year old espresso machine, but it's worth it.

Around sip three, for reasons known only to God and my palate, I get a hankering for dinner rolls. And that reminds me that I want to get myself back into the habit of making and freezing extra pizza crust, muffins and cookie dough. I always feel like I've managed a coup when I do that--as if I've cheated my kitchen out of an extra scrubbing. Why not make three batches of cookie dough as long as I'm dirtying the Kitchen Aid? My thoughts return to the dinner rolls. I wonder if I can find a good recipe for wheat dinner rolls on RecipeZaar.com ...

I leave the berries and search RecipeZaar. And in the middle of doing so, it occurs to me that I'm sitting right where I left off forty-five minutes ago, only back then I was doing the only thing I was supposed to do, which was editing. And then I think that I should blog about how easy it is to get sidetracked ... so here I am.

Just as soon as I hit "post," I'll get back on track. As I look at it, no harm was done. Dinner's in the works, the pantry floor is swept, and I rescued four cups of berries from an otherwise inevitable death-by-vine-wrinkle.

I'm just wondering why the jelly roll pan is sitting on the counter.

all's right

My daughter sits at her computer, headphones in place, hands flying over the keyboard as she types in a homeschooling schedule for herself. Tera is most happy when she's in "secretary mode." I couldn't say no when she asked, awhile ago, "Mom, can I please make up my own work schedule for school?"

So she sits there, oblivious to my own flying fingers in my office fifteen feet away. She's oblivious to the sounds of the Seahawk's game drifting from the living room below. She's unaware that I can hear her singing along with her new favorite CD.

Tera's happy.

My son is walking around his Bible College campus, wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and black slippers he bought at the Murrieta Walmart. "I love being able to walk around campus in my slippers, Mom," he told me when he called a half-hour ago. He also told me that he nearly drowned yesterday while surfing in Oceanside--information I could have done without. But I'm reminded that God is in control of my child, and once again, He's done His job well. Zac tells me all the details of his surfing incident, tells me how good it felt to sleep in this morning, tells me there are no classes tomorrow, tells me what he's going to order at Jack in the Box when he runs across the street for a bite.

Zac is happy.

Dave is in our bedroom, prone, watching that Seahawks' game in his usual Sunday afternoon garb--flannel pajama bottoms and his favorite gray robe. "Beautiful!" I hear now and then, when his outburst defies our bedroom door and drifts upstairs. He's full of spaghetti and meatballs, and if that wasn't reason enough for lying around, there's also the fact that he's been up since 4:00. While Tera and I kept sleeping, he rose in the dark and worked a bit more on his sermon notes. After a long and busy morning, he's earned the right to that robe, and those pajama bottoms, and the nap I know he'll fall into soon.

Dave is happy.

My family is safe. My heart is full. My house is warm, and filled with the scent of wood smoke, a hazelnut candle, a fresh pot of coffee, and just a hint of spaghetti sauce. God is in His heaven ... and all is right with my world.

my achy-breaky heart

Oh, my heart.

Or, should I say, my hearts. I'm talking about the heart-shaped meatloaf I had planned for dinner, accompanied by a heart-shaped casserole filled with fluffy, garlicky, cream-cheesy mashed potatoes and a heart-shaped well of buttery corn nestled smack in the center. My salad would have boasted of home-toasted, heart-shaped herby croutons. And for dessert, we would have thrown caution to the wind and indulged in not only heart-shaped chocolate cupcakes, but a giant heart-shaped chocolate chip cookie.

And then ...

Dave and the elders decided, at 6:15 p.m. last night, to embark on a three-day fast. They want to pray for direction about a land purchase our church is about to make.

"But ... but ... tomorrow's Valentine's Day!" I said, feeling instantly small and unspiritual. I knew my protest was silly. How can heart-shaped meatloaf compare with prayer and fasting?

I was still feeling sad when I went into the kitchen early this morning and started dropping marbles into my stoneware muffin pan (my friend Nathan was kind enough to loan me his marbles so I could make heart-shaped cupcakes to bring to church tonight. You just drop a marble between the cupcake paper and the side of the muffin tin and it creates a heartish dent at the top of the cupcake). I'd had the whole day planned, right down to the last pointy, bulbous detail. But now Dave would be left out.

He woke up as I was pulling the first batch of cupcakes out of the oven. I could see by his face that this fast was costing him something. He's got a sweet tooth bigger than even mine.

"Sorry," I said. And I was.

Sometime later, as I was coating the cooled cupcakes with cheery pink frosting and sprinkling each with red, white and pink sprinkles--and feeling very sorry for myself--it occurred to me how blessed I am. I'm still going to make a table full of heart-shaped food for the kids, and Dave will probably stay in our bedroom praying and pretending to not smell all that heart-y deliciousness, and I'll be missing him with every bite.

But how many women have a man like that--a man with such single-hearted devotion to his God?

I will freeze him a cupcake.

2:00 a.m.

I'm one of those people who can't go back to sleep once I've awaken. And so tonight, just 45 minutes after first nodding off, I'm up in my office answering emails and perusing knitting patterns.

What woke me? Zac got home and did three things: he dished up a big bowl of our friend Cindy's fought-over fettucine, he popped in a DVD, and he let Larry out. Just as the microwave dinged, Larry took to howling right outside our bedroom window. Where else would he go to make noise?

I awoke hopeful. I'm optimistic that way. Deep down, though, I knew the truth. I knew my sheets and pillowcase would be long gone cold before I hit them again. But the Pollyanna on the surface said, "You'll just shoot out there, ask Zac nicely to turn down his movie and let the dog back in, and hop right back in bed."

I did all that. And as usual, Pollyanna was wrong. Though I tried, I couldn't shut out the sounds of the night. The clink of Zac's fork against his plate didn't bother me--not even when that clink turned into scraping as he endeavored to collect every last atom of Cindy's sauce. And the murmuring of his movie could have been ignored. What kept my eyes scanning the dark outlines of my bedroom were the sounds of maniacal howling down on the trail below our house.

Those coyotes are running again tonight.

We've been spotting them all week. One ran across the driveway as I was heading out a few nights ago. My headlights bounced off his scrawny torso as he leapt into the bushes. Another watched me with open nonchalance from the neighbor's pasture as I drove back home. When Tera, Dave and I went out for a long walk yesterday, we spotted another skirting the edge of the woods on the trail. And now tonight, the gang has regrouped for a night of mayhem. Their cries are the sounds of a gathering storm.

My opinion of those critters hasn't changed, nor has my reaction to their middle-of-the-night partying. They still make me shiver. But I discovered that the sound of my laptop's fan and the mindlessness of Spider Solitaire helps to drown out the memory of those raucusy cries. I think I'll stay up here just a bit longer ... long enough for the woods to absorb those 2:00 a.m. echoes.

little house in the snowy woods

I am living in a snowglobe. Every handful of minutes, the wind visits the alders and maples and evergreens surrounding our house and sends a shower of white billowing about. Inside this globe, I sit in front of the woodstove and watch the orange glow on the other side of the tempered glass. The sounds of David Lanz's Christmas CD fills the house. To my left, our 15-foot Christmas tree towers. If I had my druthers, the massive fir would be draped head to toe in white lights; for the pleasure of my children, I opted for the green, red, blue and yellow variety.

Fourteen inches of snow presses against the outside walls. Larry is so intrigued with the seldom-seen blanket of white that he keeps insisting I let him go investigate. The dog doesn't own enough dignity to stay on the porch. He doesn't understand that snow is not for lying on--at least not longer than the time it takes to make a snow angel. "Silly pup," I tell him. But he just grins and smacks a trough with his snakey black tail.

If you could enter this snowglobe and sit awhile, I'd offer you a taste of our tradition. Since the year we married, 21 years ago, I've been making homemade cinnamon rolls to celebrate our first snowfall of the season. This year's batch is fresh from the oven (a twin batch just went into the freezer for later baking). The moment I pull the pan from the oven, I slather creamy swirls of cream cheese frosting over the spiraled tops. It melts on contact and drips its sweet, buttery self down between the crevices of cinnamon and sweet dough.

Dave likes a big pat of butter on his, and a glass of ice cold milk on the side. I give him the largest roll; he finishes in a half-dozen bites and heads straight back to the kitchen. From my perch on the couch, I listen for evidence, and when it comes--when I hear the sound of the spatula sliding into my stoneware pan and the clink of the butter dish cover being lifted--I smile. He's waited months for that second helping.

More snow is expected tonight. Maybe we'll have ourselves a repeat of last night. Maybe we'll don our winter gear and walk again along the trail that borders our property. At most any other time, we'd have companions on that trail. Bikers, walkers, rollerbladers, and those on horse-back would share our travels. But last night, we owned the world. In an hour of trekking, with only the brightness of snow at our feet to guide our steps, our only company was the creaking of heavy-bowed trees.

I hear those trees now. Every so often, a white-coated branch gives up the battle and drops to the ground, trailing shivers of dust as it falls. I've spent most of the morning listening, and looking skyward. I'm watching for boughs, but I'm also looking past those massive sentries--and thanking the God who lives beyond. This scene is His gift ... and I'm grateful.

those boys

When the two of them began wrestling (and laughing), I was sitting on the couch working on my laptop. A guitar sat perched against the love seat; a violin lay on the floor at my feet. The wood stove, lining the opposite wall, was stoked … and hot.

“Be careful!” I said.

Father and son ignored me.

“I mean it … someone is going to get hurt!”

To that point, they’d been wrestling standing up, circling each other like wary cats—jabbing, grabbing, retreating, wriggling out of each other’s clutches. But just as I gave my dire prediction, Dave pulled a maneuver any 45-year old man would be proud of. He picked up all 152 pounds of Zac, swung him up and over his shoulders, and began spinning them both like a whirling dervish.

My warnings faded as laughter took over. Despite my fears that they’d both land on the guitar, the violin, the wood stove, or me, I couldn’t speak.

When Dave thought they were both sufficiently dizzy, he dropped him down in a wrestling pin and began playfully and repeatedly poking Zac’s thigh with his knuckles.

“Dad!” Zac managed somewhere in all that laughter, “Stop!”

Dave didn’t. He poked again and again. “Charlie wants to play! Charlie wants to play!”

When he finally ended the torture with one last, I’m-still-the-king-of-this-house jab to Zac’s rear end, and walked away, Zac did what any 17 1/2 year old boy would do. He stood up, punched the air, gave a vicious karate kick toward the wall, and said, “I could have taken him if I wanted.”

I laughed.

“Seriously, Mom. I had him by the wrist. I could have spun him around and put him in a choke hold.” He ran through another karate series, defeating a foe seen only by him. “Next time, that’s what I’m going to do.”

He then sauntered toward the kitchen—where Dave was putting the finishing touches on a batch of beef jerky—and began scrounging through the fridge, though dinner was a mere half-hour memory.

And what was I working on? I was midway through an edit for a friend … on a piece she wrote about sending her last child to college.

I’m grateful tonight that my nest is still full.

i would like a clone, please

There's not time enough to do all I want to do.

This week, I became a homeschooler again. And I have to say, I'm loving it already. We started with a pretty basic schedule yesterday, but by this morning, I was ready to add some fun to those basics. I pulled a Bach CD from the top of a shelf, where it had been collecting dust, and filled the house with music. Rumaged around until I found Along Came Galileo and Andrew Lang's The Blue Fairy Book and The Sign of the Beaver. And then, because we're starting a new venture and new ventures call for new materials, I scrapped the old Book of the Centuries notebook I'd started with Zac ten years ago, and spent the morning printing out bright new sheets for Tera. The girl should have her own fresh BOTC, don't you think?

If I had a clone, she could continue sharing such details. I'd instruct her to tell you about all the "Life Skills" I have planned for Tera -- the knitting, sewing, quilt-making, cooking and baking. My clone would know just how to describe the delicious but unorthodox pumpkin muffins Tera made for her first solo baking adventure this afternoon (she added 1/2 cup of flour instead of 1 1/2 cups ... so we're calling it "delicious pumpkin pudding"). She'd write while I attended to the nineteen other things needing my attention right now.

I don't have another me. But if I did, she'd be busy. I'd set Shannon-b in front of my desk and toss notes at her all day long--bits of description I want her to include in a blog post, or remembered dialogue. Story ideas for a novel I want to start. Email I need to send but have no time for.

She'd tell you about the radio interview I had Friday. She'd tell you I didn't faint, I liked the interviewer, and it actually went well.

She'd then go on to describe the retreat I taught at over the weekend, and how much fun we had, and how nice it was to connect with a half dozen friends I had known in past years but lost touch with.

I can't write all the words I'm hearing in my head, because too many other voices are calling to me. There's the voice that says, "Supervise Tera's flute practice," and the one that says "Start dinner," and the one that says, "Weren't you going to edit another chapter today?"

It's noisy in this head. I would like a clone, please.

sauce

When I grab my one and only Longaberger basket--the one with the frilly blue liner I made myself because I was too frugal to buy theirs, overlaid with the plastic liner I bought from them because I was smart enough to know I'd need it--and head down to the garden, I know I was created to harvest tomatoes. And beans. And whatever else my eyes spy out there. There's something earthly and perfect about hunkering down before a groaning tomato plant, reaching between those curly, pungent leaves, and relieving the branch of a hefty round orb--the scent of which I simply cannot describe. Nor can I quite capture the color. It's almost alive, that ruby hue. Nestled in all that green, those gems practically call your name when you make your appearance through the greenhouse door. "We're here!" And so they are.

So when I'm loading my basket with perfect tomatoes, I know I was created to feel the growing weight of that Longaberger basket slung over my arm.

I'm convinced, too, that I was born to make spaghetti sauce. I feel like a genuine earth mother chopping the peppers, zucchini, garlic and onions that found their way into my basket during the tomato-fetching mission. And when I'm tearing bits of basil from the pot on my patio, I'm quite convinced that God wrote somewhere near my name, a century or two before my birth, "Make this one love to cook." Because I do. I love the tasting and testing that goes with the venture. I love digging through the spices above my stovetop, looking for that one particular something that I'm sure will pull the best flavor out of the pot. I love the warm, lovely smell of just-peeled garlic ... and the patterns made by dancing, jumping herb-flecked splatters ... and the hot sound of burping, burbling, bubbling sauce. And I love that I get to wear -- and wipe my hands on -- my black Starbucks apron.

And though I truly don't want to go all chariots-of-fire on you, the truth is, when I'm cooking, I feel God's pleasure. Maybe it's because He's a parent, and a banquet-setter, and the satisfier of all our hunger. He knows what it is to see upturned, expectant faces, and to watch hope dawn in the eyes of the hungry. So when He looks into my kitchen, and sees me stirring that ugly wooden spoon in my sloppy fashion, I feel the rhythm of His heartbeat.

And sometimes, I feel His smile.

ode to granola

You start, of course, with a giant bowl of oats.

I don't mean "quick cook" oats, either. Those worthless flakes pose no challenge to teeth; they offer no satisfaction. Regular oats. Giant bowl.

In a just-big-enough pan, you then heat together a bit of oil and honey. The oil -- in my opinion -- should be olive, because it's so good for you. And as long as I'm being bossy, I suggest you go out and get yourself a bee hive and do the honey right. But if you can't do that ... say, you live on the third floor of an apartment complex with no balcony ... then find yourself some good local honey. It's better all the way around. It's not been cooked to death so as to kill off all the local pollen and antigens.

You then stir those together with your favorite wooden spoon -- the one that's been darkened by a hundred batches of brownies, stew, and caramel corn. That spoon knows its way around a pot. While this mixture is heating, you go a little crazy with the spices. You toss in a generous heap of cinnamon, because you know that's the spice that will circle the house first. Clove is good. And naturally, you'll want a good pinch or three of nutmeg, because there's not a spice in the world as mysterious as nutmeg. It's the one that adds interest to the project ... and you know that.

When the whole spicy concoction is just warm enough, you pour it over the mass of oats and stir till every flake is coated. And then you divide the whole pile onto two baking sheets -- again, the ugly ones, the stoneware slabs you've seasoned up with a lot of good cooking.

While the oats get a head start in the oven, you pull the nuts down from the cupboard and set to chopping. Not too fine. Maybe on this day you feel like biting into a mixture of hazelnuts, pecans and sunflower seeds. So you chop the choppables and toss in the tiny seeds and when you feel the oats have waited long enough, you open the oven door again and add it all together.

Ten minutes pass. Twelve. The cinnamon finds its way through invisible portals in the oven and rushes past you in a teasing stream. You catch a hint of nutmeg, a whiff of toasting hazelnut. People began appearing from corners of the house, sniffing and looking at you expectantly.

When you all can't stand it anymore, you flip the oven light on and hunker down together to peek in the window. It looks good. It smells unbelievable. And at just the right moment -- when the oats and the nuts and the honey and spices have reached the watched-for shade of gold -- you don oven mitts and pull those sheets out. And then, because you're making a perfect batch of granola and it wouldn't be perfect without them, you sprinkle handful after handful of dried cranberries and raisins over those baking sheets. You stir carefully while someone else grabs bowls and yogurt and milk.

And then, while you're tasting that first warm, spicy mouthful of earthy goodness, you turn your back to the east-facing windows, where a sliver of sunshine has fought its way through the clouds, and you look instead out the west windows. You train your eyes on the curtain of gray over the tops of the evergreens, and you convince yourself it's not an August morning, but a cold day in October -- with falling leaves, and a warm fire, and a candle on the mantle.

That's the power of granola.

surprises

Dave's been gone all week -- off to southern California for the annual Calvary Chapel Pastors' Conference. While he's been gone, I've been busy.

I sewed a bed skirt for our bedroom.

I weeded the rose beds, and the earth between the pavers, and the garden beneath our front window ... and bedroom window ... and under the grape arbor.

I spent an afternoon in the vegetable garden tasting the first strawberries of the season and weeding between the lettuce, onions, cilantro, Brussels sprouts, celery, snap peas, beans and tomatoes.

I planted petunias, impatiens, snapdragons, rosemary, an azalea, and seeds for sweet peas, daisies, a second round of sunflowers, and more nasturtiums than is necessary.

I created a recycling area off the mudroom with four blue plastic bins I found at WalMart, and then, because that back area has always been an eyesore, I swept, hosed and scrubbed the concrete with Pine Sol. Today I may pick up some muriatic acid to finish the job.

I scrubbed the back door and the door to the hot water tank room.

I fixed a window screen that had been hanging down in an annoying and eye-catching manner.

I attached two swinging hook thingies and hung a flower basket on one and a bird feeder on the other.

Today I plan to mix up a batch of home-made, organic weed killer and tackle the weeds on the back patio. Then I'll sweep, scrub the patio set, arrange the umbrella, and cart off the debris still lingering from last fall's wood stove hearth project.

Tomorrow, I'll grind wheat and make three loaves of bread so Dave can have a warm slice with butter and honey when he comes home. If there's time, I'll make cookies.

This is four days' worth of work -- work that was actually fun, because I know Dave will love the surprise when he finally gets back. It makes me think, though: if I can accomplish this mini-mountain of projects in just four days, what has God accomplished in the two thousand years He's been preparing a place for me?

lazy

I caught Lucy taking a nap in the hen house yesterday. She was so snug in that little woodchip-lined box that she could barely budge herself when I entered to snatch a few eggs for the brownies I was about to bake. She didn't even have energy enough to look properly guilty. And she hadn't even changed positions when I returned a few minutes later, camera in hand.

I can relate to that feline. I've got a yawn or two of my own lurking at the edges right now. Outside, the rain is dropping fat pellets upon my skylights. Inside, we're warmed by the woodstove and the heat from a crockpot full of beef bones simmering away. Every once in awhile, the lid burbles and tips slightly, sending a thin wisp of beef-scented steam into the air. Before nightfall, that soup stock will be full of carrots and potatoes, bits of leftover roast, barley and herbs. Can't decide yet if I want to make dumplings, or just butter some thick slices of the wheat bread I baked yesterday (from a combination of just-ground hard red and soft white wheat berries). You can't imagine how good that is with butter alone, or maybe a generous drizzle of the honey I picked up from Jay, the Honey Man, out in Granite Falls.

I'm in thick cozy socks. A single candle flickers on the mantel. Tera is reading, Dave is working on his laptop. He and I spent a morning running errands and an afternoon putting up our greenhouse. So now, I want to do nothing but read, or knit. I'd like to write something thought-provoking, but I don't have enough energy left to say much more than this: Tonight, I'm content, and warm, and feeling lazy.

Tonight, I'm Lucy.

haven

He's home.

I watch him walking toward the house and I can tell immediately what kind of day he's had. It's been a battle. I don't yet know the what's or who's, but I know he's been out there with that shield again, deflecting barbs and blows, trying to block out just a small, safe place where he can catch his breath before the next assault comes.

Though he has a sword, he's loathe to use it. He's not that kind of man. But that just means those who sense those sorts of things know he's unarmed. That vulnerability makes his attackers fight all the harder, using whatever weapons of offense they favor--pebbles of criticism, the sharp thrust of slander, or stinging arrows tipped with accusation. I know my warrior. When those attacks rise up, he doesn't fight back. Instead, he stands his ground--with nothing more than that shield.

He's tired now, and hungry. He's tired of defending himself. He's hungry for a soft word and a quiet space, and maybe a bowl of soup with still-warm bread.

Come inside, husband ... and leave your shield outside. You'll find no battles here.

My beloved put his hand by the latch of the door,
And my heart yearned for him. --Song 5:4 (NKJV)

feed me

Today I am the Provider.

The ruckusy call of seven goats tugs at my ears and walks my feet toward my brown garden clogs. I slip them on and step outside, and though I've seen this same view for a week, I still draw in my breath at the beauty of our white-coated lawn. The snow in town melted days ago, but our farm is insulated by towering pines. We're still white and beautiful.

The goats hear my steps on the porch and whine all the harder. "I'm coming!" I say, which turns the tone of their cries and laces the ruckus with a shiver of anticipation. I pick off a fat tab of hay and balance it on my left arm while I release the latch on the first of two gates. The goats can't see me, but they know the particular slide of that metal latch. They urge me to walk faster.

I do. And as I near the barn, one mama goat pokes her head through a hole in the mesh and welcomes me. Balancing the hay tab as I press in and push back the bar latch on their door, I hear, from the other side, the sound of hooves on straw, dancing the dance of the impatient.

They know the routine. They know that in about twenty seconds, I'll have the hay divided and spread into two slanted bins. But they don't want to wait twenty seconds. Instead, they rush me, trying to pull shreds of hay from my arms. "Hang on there, Jimmy," I suggest, but Jimmy just grins and takes another mouthful. "Back up, Blondie," I order, but Blondie presses in all the tighter. I have to reach over her horned head to toss one-half the bounty into a bin. By the time the second half is spread, hay coats the heads of three goats and clings to my hair and sweater. While they munch, I pick and brush the biggest slivers from myself.

They don't notice when I steal the two water buckets and slip back outside. I follow a well-packed snow trail past the duck yard and around the chicken coop and into the garden, where I raise the pump handle on the faucet. From beneath ground, I hear the water whooshing obediently to the surface. I fill the biggest bucket and bite my lip as I try to ease its weight off the lip of the faucet. While filling the second, a lone snowflake drifts past my vision and captures my hope. I scan the dark backdrop of evergreen branches below our meadow and see another flake, and another. I'm so immersed in my snow patrol, I forget about the water. It's only when a stream burbles over the edge and splashes my clogs that I pull my eyes from those trees and remember my task.

I'm so busy watching for snowflakes that the weight of two full buckets barely registers in my brain, though I'm huffing a bit by the time I reach the barn. When I secure the buckets and step back, I'm rewarded to watch S'More leave her hay long enough to take a long draught of ice cold water.

One more reward awaits me. Brownie, the baby goat, who only just recently learned to eat hay like the big goats, leaves the bin and walks over to me, still nibbling a tender, baby strand. She sniffs my hand and moves closer, then lowers her head and lets me scratch between her not-yet-there horns. In the language of goats, this is 'thank you.'

I leave them, but my task is not finished. The ducks want grain. The chickens want pellets. The dog is watching me from the front door and looking hungry. Six cats will soon be meowing and circling their dish. And in about twenty minutes, a sleepy-eyed girl will be wanting a steaming bowl of oatmeal and raisins.

Today, I am the Provider.

Consider the ravens, for they neither sow nor reap, which have neither storehouse nor barn; and God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds? --Luke 12:24 (NKJV)

making room

This morning, while finishing a book edit, I moved my favorite Christmas decoration aside to make room for my cup of coffee. As I do often, I picked up the jar and shook the straw inside. Then I decided to tell you about it.

Here's an article I wrote for HomeLife magazine about eight years ago.

* * *
I remember–distinctly–how overwhelmed I felt the first time someone suggested an Advent celebration to me.

Four nights. I’d have to set aside four nights during the busiest four weeks of the year. Lighting the candles sounded nice. I liked candles. Prayer was fine. I liked prayer. Sitting around a table asking questions and singing songs–that part I could do without.

“You’d be blessed,” my friend promised.

I didn’t believe her. It sounded like one more activity, one more “have to” in a month already crammed with have to’s. I accepted the paper she handed me, glanced at the suggestions, and thanked her. When she left, I filed the paper in the very back of my filing cabinet.

It probably would have stayed there forever except for a half-hearted prayer I tossed toward God one day soon afterwards.

I’d been out shopping with the masses. Armed with four pounds of toy catalogs and flyers, I elbowed my way through crowds, hissed over parking spaces, stood in lines twenty people deep, and heard enough musical bells and animated Santas to drive a person insane. I spent too much money on things I was certain no one would like or appreciate. Worst of all, on a whim I picked up the newest book by Martha What’s-Her-Name on “How to craft the world’s most memorable Christmas ever using only a glue gun and fresh bay leaves from your own bay tree.” Despite the fact that I didn’t have a bay tree and couldn’t remember when I’d last seen the glue gun, I plopped the book in my cart.

Driving home, I realized that something was way out of whack. My month was as full as it could possibly be. I’d loaded our schedule with every festive event I could find: concerts, parties, cookie exchanges, pageants, tree lighting ceremonies. There wasn’t room for a single thing more. And still I wasn’t happy, or satisfied, or contented. I didn’t feel close to God. I didn’t even like Christmas anymore. In fact, if I could have my way, I would have ripped December right out of my calendar.

I couldn’t pinpoint how it had happened, but somehow Christmas had taken on a life of its own. It drove me, in an endless cycle of haves and wants and musts. I was on the Christmas roller coaster and feeling sick.

“Something has to change,” I said out loud. Not much of a prayer. But God, I’ve learned, can read between the lines and find a prayer hidden in our little outbursts.

I lugged my purchases up to the house and hid them in the bedroom closet. With a cup of tea in hand, I curled up in my favorite chair and opened Martha’s new book. I turned the pages, slowly at first, then more rapidly. One by one I vetoed the projects and recipes. Too big. Too expensive. Too weird. Gold leaf on cookies? Who puts gold leaf on cookies? Who eats gold leaf on cookies?? Most of the projects called for things I’d never owned and probably couldn’t track down if my life depended on it.

Dejected, I tossed the book on the coffee table and wandered outside. Voices drew me to the sheep barn, where I found Dave and Zac, then four, spreading fresh straw.

Dave used the pitchfork, but hands-on Zac was down on his knee scattering straw with his hands.

“How was shopping?” Dave asked.

“Oh, you know. Plastic Santas. Angry people. No parking. Same as always.”

I wasn’t good company. My two men wisely kept working and said nothing. Until Zac, finally, made an announcement.

“That doesn’t feel good,” he said, pulling straw out of his sleeve. “It’s not comfortable on your skin.”

From my perch on a bale of straw, I watched but said nothing.

“Mom?” he pressed.

“What?”

“It doesn’t feel good.”

“Well, then, don’t put it up your sleeve.” Cranky mother.

“Well, it’s just . . . I was thinking. Was Jesus really born in a barn?”

A cave, I thought. It was probably a cave. But I just nodded.

“Why did that happen?”

“They tried to find another place for him to be born, but there just wasn’t room.”

“That’s not good.” Zac shook his head.

He’d heard the Christmas story every Christmas of his young life. I couldn’t understand why this was bothering him now. “It’s just the way it happened,” I said.

“But, Mom,” he said, walking toward me, “feel this.” He laid a handful of straw on my arm and stepped back. “It feels bad.”

I looked at Zac. I looked at the small pile of straw on my arm and felt it prickling my skin. He was right.

His eyes were troubled. “They laid Him in a manger. I know what that is. That’s a thing full of straw. That’s not a place to put a baby.”

No, I thought. That’s no place for a baby.

“They should have made room for Him some place better,” he continued.

They should have made room, my thoughts echoed.

“It was God. He should have been born in the nicest hotel.”

The straw was still sitting on my arm. I collected it in my hand and let myself feel its scratchiness. And I tried to imagine my Savior lying in a bed full of plain, rough, scratchy straw.

Something clicked for me in that moment. Zac’s words pierced my mind and burrowed into my heart. No room. No room for Jesus. The Innkeeper was me, and I had left no room for the Savior.

I saw what was wrong, suddenly. I had pushed the Baby out and let unimportant things take the place that was His. I had banished Him to the far corners of our holiday. Church on Christmas Eve, maybe a prayer or two. A quick read of the Christmas story. Nothing more. All the rest had been reserved for talking Santas and toy catalogs and parties and such. A whole lot of fancy nothing.

In my quest for the perfect Christmas I had lost the meaning of the manger. I had forgotten the simplicity of the straw.

Our Christmas changed after that. I started by bringing that handful of straw up to the house and stuffing it in an old canning jar of my grandmother’s. Then I set it in a place of prominence, where it would remind me, with each glance, of the miracle that happened in a long-ago cave.

Next, I pulled out the Advent paper from the recesses of my filing cabinet. Studying the suggestions, I decided they were a bit too formal for our free-spirited family, so we started from scratch and formed our own Advent celebration. That first year Zac and I fashioned a simple wreath from evergreen branches we found lying in the yard and molded five little balls of clay into candle holders, which we tucked around the wreath. Nothing fancy. And on the fourth Sunday before Christmas, not knowing what to expect, we gathered around our table, dimmed the lights, and lit the first of the five candles. Dave opened with prayer.

“Lord, we ask Your forgiveness for our neglect. We want to honor You. We want You to be the center of all we do this month. More than anything else, Lord, we want Your presence.”

“Dad,” Zac whispered, “it’s not polite to ask for presents.”

* * *

This year, I pray you find your own way to make room for the Baby--the Baby the whole world is desperate to dismiss. May the miracle of the manger become a reality to you again ... or for the very first time.

breathe

The house is cold, and I'm the first one up.

But I know what to do. Dave sat me down in front of our first woodstove, eighteen years ago, and showed me how to arrange the logs and start a blaze.

Then, when we built this new house and I begged him to release me from wood chips and smokey burps and trails of sawdust, he relented ... and showed me how to flip the switch on our new, fake stove.

When the price of propane chased my finger from that "on" switch and made me miss the mess and smell of a real fire, he relented again and fixed my mistake. He laid a moss and amber-flecked slate hearth, cut an arched entrance into the fireplace alcove, overlaid it with river rock, then fitted a brand new, massive, Country woodstove inside. And then he sat me down for a fire-starting refresher course.

This morning, I'm prepared. I kneel before the slate hearth and turn the silver-coiled handle. The glass door squeaks almost indiscernably as I swing it open. Inside, I find slim pickins. On the left, two fat, dead chunks lie cold and useless on a bed of gray. One lone, sliverish log lies on the right, with only the barest of orange glows flickering on the ash side. I've caught it just in time.

I pick up the scooper and begin the gathering. The long, barely alive piece offers no resistence. It's alarmingly light. The two chunks are heftier, but stone cold. I slide those next to the longer piece. Then I arrange two bone dry slabs of wood on either side, and one thin slab on top of it all. Inside the V-shaped cave, the makings of a fire await.

I search the hearth until I find a handful of dry wood slivers. These I prop against the small orange glow. All that's left is a breath. I lean in close, fill my lungs, and send a stream of hope into the dark space. One breath, two, and on the third, a burst of gold flame chases the last of the blackness. In just that fraction of a second, fire is reborn.

Soon, I'll be warm.

Oh, God--make us live again. Gather us close. Make our shoulders touch, and our arms, and our hearts. And then, when you've pulled us in tight and huddled us as one ... breathe.

Our God is a consuming fire. --Hebrews 12:29

this moment

Just on the other side of my window, beyond the sage curtains I hung recently, past the doubled reflection of gold and green and red and blue lights on our 10-foot tree, I see the black and bony outlines of the leafless maples in our backyard, splayed against a weakening, slate blue sky.

Inside, we're warm. Dave is stuffing the stove with tinder dry logs. The heat from two crock pots (one with a roast for tonight; the other containing a slowly disintegrating roast, chunks of which will fill soft hoagies at tomorrow's Christmas potluck) keeps the kitchen toasty and fragrant. Larry lies prone on his green mat, striking a favored "I'm all tuckered out after pulling your sled that last hundred miles, Ma'am" pose, but he's done not a lick of work all day. He's barely budged from that mat. Just short breaks now and then to accept bits of bread and beef from me.

Until I stopped to capture this moment, I was sitting at the kitchen table knitting an icy blue, baby lash scarf. I suppose I needed to rest too. Zac had coaxed me into burning Lulu's To Sir With Love on a CD for him (I've ruined my children with old movies), and you know how physically exhausting it is to hit that "copy" button. He's upstairs jamming to Lulu, Tera is in the living room laughing as Squishy and Mittens cat-wrestle each other on the carpet, and I've got my headphones on and Rascal Flatts blasting as high as my laptop will let me go.

In an hour, our nephew, Christian, has a basketball game. We've been invited. We'll claim our spot on the middle-school gym bleachers, and shout and groan and clap till our hands hurt, and then we'll come home to a fork-tender roast.

If I could bottle this feeling and pass it around, we'd all soon forget the memory of tears.

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of heavenly lights ..." --James 1:17