First off, recommendations:
www.tastebook.com
my dearest friend Erin gave me a tastebook for Christmas. It's a cookbook that you customize online with recipes from sources like Food network, Epicurious, Gourmet, and Bon Appetit along with your OWN recipes. You can pick the cover, make notes, upload pictures and then have it shipped to you, or sent to a friend as Erin did for me.
Secondly, victories:
My wonderful husband turned 25 and graduated from college this past spring. I arranged with his parents and picked the first Saturday in July, when they could make the trip down, to throw him a big party just celebrating him :) My husband and I have wonderful friends and my parents were terribly gracious to let us use their home because our apartment just isn't "grad party" material. The victory comes from my husband's hard work and success, but also my food. I began shopping and planning months ago, began cooking the day before, and on Saturday I had my sister, mother, mother-in-law all working for me and this is what we created:
--mixed salad with olive garden dressing
--sliced french bread
--procuitto and other italian meat tray
--mixed marinated olives and roasted red pepper and artichoke tappenade w/pita chips
--gorgonzolla-stuffed strawberries
--Smittenkitchen's peach shortbread
--lemon spaghetti with grilled chicken and a batch without chicken
--Tirimisu that was declared by friends as "better than pizza luce's"
--watermelon mojitos (totally homemade)
--beer and soda
--cold press
It was the most food I have ever presented at a singe time before. Even more than my sister's welcome home party over a year ago. I couldn't have done it without my family's help for sure. It was a spectacular time and I just wanted to share.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
foodz
On and off spurts of cooking lately. It's been busy! With speech coaching, preparing for Erin's wedding, husband's internship, grad school, and teachings...I've only had time to cook here and there. But I did make threadedbasil's Basil-Lemon-Mushroom soup, which was more than delicious, a new batch of vodka sauce roasted onion-asparagus-cherry tomato risotto vegan cherry-almond scones peach puff pancake fake chicken with stewed lentils-corn-tomato-onion several batches of potato-anything in the fridge mash Though I am excited to try some new recipes as soon as the Farmer's market re-opens their summer season! I can't wait!
Monday, December 20, 2010
A break from cooking
Friends,
Upon request, the four blog posts that follow this one are each a poem I wrote recently. The most recent being the one I wrote for and read at the Sojourn Christmas service on 12/19.
I hope you enjoy what I've written and find it, if nothing else, pleasantly sounding. Words are my flower arrangements, my decorated home, my centerpiece--mostly because I'm not good at any of that other stuff :) So I just arrange words.
please feel free to link to, copy, or share what I've written--especially the Christmas poem. As I was writing I had the deepest sense that there was a gap between those in love with christmas, and those who felt even more wounded and lost during the season and I wanted to convey this idea that sorrow and Joy can be concurrent, that we can sing in sadness and we can be sad even when enjoying happy things. Because even Jesus felt that--how could one not feel joy at performing miracles and serving the father, yet feel such sorrow at the loss and pain in this world? And so if we feel that, too, I think it's ok.
So, at any rate, enjoy and be blessed.
Jaci
Upon request, the four blog posts that follow this one are each a poem I wrote recently. The most recent being the one I wrote for and read at the Sojourn Christmas service on 12/19.
I hope you enjoy what I've written and find it, if nothing else, pleasantly sounding. Words are my flower arrangements, my decorated home, my centerpiece--mostly because I'm not good at any of that other stuff :) So I just arrange words.
please feel free to link to, copy, or share what I've written--especially the Christmas poem. As I was writing I had the deepest sense that there was a gap between those in love with christmas, and those who felt even more wounded and lost during the season and I wanted to convey this idea that sorrow and Joy can be concurrent, that we can sing in sadness and we can be sad even when enjoying happy things. Because even Jesus felt that--how could one not feel joy at performing miracles and serving the father, yet feel such sorrow at the loss and pain in this world? And so if we feel that, too, I think it's ok.
So, at any rate, enjoy and be blessed.
Jaci
Making it Make Sense
The idea of a star,
Guiding and leading the way,
Only works if a person can see through the clouds and realize
It’s always there,
Regardless if we see it or not—
That there will always be something of beauty and holiness
Above any cloud or rainstorm.
The idea of healing,
A restorative touch from above,
Only works if we can define wholeness in order to ask for it.
Not just guessing, but remembering
All that God meant us to be:
The carriers of light
The voices of Love
Faithful hearts who walk on the waters of this world.
The idea of salvation—
Not just of new life but eternal life,
Only works if we see something in ourselves worth saving,
Worth fighting for—
Knowing that even if we can’t feel it,
The father places part of himself in every soul,
Making every beating heart the single most precious thing on this earth.
The idea of a miracle,
Only makes sense if we can remove God
From the depth of our definition of impossible
And define impossible as only the things we aren’t able to dream—
Trusting that the power that created Heaven and earth,
Butterflies and true love,
Could seek to create new and beautiful things in us still toda.
The idea of a baby,
Born in less than ideal circumstances,
Only makes sense if we understand that the hardest battles
Are not won with strength
Or steel,
But with love—
The love that would give up the power of stars and galaxies,
The love that would submit,
That would serve,
And ask just that we would do the same.
The idea of Christmas,
Only makes sense if we can define Home
Not as a place
But as our belonging to Him.
And if we understand that Joy is not an emotion,
But a verb.
A choice to actively Be that small child,
In love with God,
Without expectation of perfection
Or a promise of an easy life.
Because to Him,
Joy and sorrow are not mutually exclusive,
But are both powerful testimonies of Love.
In the end, Christmas only makes sense if it is a sunrise—
A new day to seek stars,
To ask for healing,
To see miracles,
To believe in Love,
And repeat each sunrise,
For as many sunrises as we see.
Guiding and leading the way,
Only works if a person can see through the clouds and realize
It’s always there,
Regardless if we see it or not—
That there will always be something of beauty and holiness
Above any cloud or rainstorm.
The idea of healing,
A restorative touch from above,
Only works if we can define wholeness in order to ask for it.
Not just guessing, but remembering
All that God meant us to be:
The carriers of light
The voices of Love
Faithful hearts who walk on the waters of this world.
The idea of salvation—
Not just of new life but eternal life,
Only works if we see something in ourselves worth saving,
Worth fighting for—
Knowing that even if we can’t feel it,
The father places part of himself in every soul,
Making every beating heart the single most precious thing on this earth.
The idea of a miracle,
Only makes sense if we can remove God
From the depth of our definition of impossible
And define impossible as only the things we aren’t able to dream—
Trusting that the power that created Heaven and earth,
Butterflies and true love,
Could seek to create new and beautiful things in us still toda.
The idea of a baby,
Born in less than ideal circumstances,
Only makes sense if we understand that the hardest battles
Are not won with strength
Or steel,
But with love—
The love that would give up the power of stars and galaxies,
The love that would submit,
That would serve,
And ask just that we would do the same.
The idea of Christmas,
Only makes sense if we can define Home
Not as a place
But as our belonging to Him.
And if we understand that Joy is not an emotion,
But a verb.
A choice to actively Be that small child,
In love with God,
Without expectation of perfection
Or a promise of an easy life.
Because to Him,
Joy and sorrow are not mutually exclusive,
But are both powerful testimonies of Love.
In the end, Christmas only makes sense if it is a sunrise—
A new day to seek stars,
To ask for healing,
To see miracles,
To believe in Love,
And repeat each sunrise,
For as many sunrises as we see.
Like a Child
In discussing what it means to have a child-like faith in church today, and in praying about how God would have me carry him, show him, and interact with him....I got this lovely picture of a necklace. Not just any necklace, but a necklace given by a father to a daughter. I have an incredible dad, just truly one of the kindest, funniest, caring, smart men I have ever seen. And he's my dad. he's my dad and the fact that he loves me no matter what, protects me, and goes out of his way to make my life happier is just so overwhelming. So, as a result, a present from dad is a terribly meaningful thing. I treasured postcards, books, toys, dolls, dresses, events, and anything that could be considered a present from this man who loved me so completely. And so as I was praying, I got this picture of my dad giving me a necklace--a token really, but the little girl in my mind's eye just melted at it's meaning. And it wasn't my dad dad, it was God. And just like my dad loves me so much, God was showing the same "father love" to me and giving me this gift. And I focused on the necklace and realized that it was't a normal necklace. It was made out of something strange--it shined strangely and felt different than anything I pictured as being necklace material. And then I realized--it was made from sorrows and hurts. I had given them to God and asked him to heal them and he had taken them from me and transformed them from something painful and hurtful into something beautiful and precious. It was as if God had taken the sorrows and melted them down, lovingly changing them into something new so they couldn't hurt me anymore. The memory of what they used to be was still there, but the hurt was gone. And like I treasured gifts from my dad as a little girl, that same joy filled me.
So, here it goes, and not terribly edited:
Thank you that your patience is so complete,
so that as I cry, and scream,
and throw my arms against you,
crying, "it's not fair!"
You wait, in love, not indifference,
holding my hands,
my head,
my heart,
whispering, "I know,"
"Baby, I know."
Until, exhausted and empty,
I can collapse in your arms, relinquishing all my little pieces,
all my collected sorrows
and tearfully hand them to you,
trusting that your infinite love,
your protecting arms, will restore all that has been lost--
taking the bits and pieces and forging and molding them
into something new and beautiful
for your little girl to have
to hold
to keep--
a memento of the past
and a reminder of the process
that this is how we become real,
real love
real hope
real children.
So, here it goes, and not terribly edited:
Thank you that your patience is so complete,
so that as I cry, and scream,
and throw my arms against you,
crying, "it's not fair!"
You wait, in love, not indifference,
holding my hands,
my head,
my heart,
whispering, "I know,"
"Baby, I know."
Until, exhausted and empty,
I can collapse in your arms, relinquishing all my little pieces,
all my collected sorrows
and tearfully hand them to you,
trusting that your infinite love,
your protecting arms, will restore all that has been lost--
taking the bits and pieces and forging and molding them
into something new and beautiful
for your little girl to have
to hold
to keep--
a memento of the past
and a reminder of the process
that this is how we become real,
real love
real hope
real children.
Arguing
When the divine seems broken and fallen as the rest of us,
When it seems God no more power than the homeless man
on the side of the highway with a sign that reads,
"Anything Helps"
It's hard to trust in miracles
It's hard to find hope beyond the gathering water,
swirling about our feet,
Threatening to swell and wash away everything in a gale-breathed moment.
The promise of the rainbow seems obsolete, pointless,
When life seems more painful and hellish than the end a second flood would bring.
So the faithful become defined
not by their perfect, happy lives,
but by the depth of their heels dug into the ground,
The worn down fingernails and calloused hands,
holding on for dear life.
They are no longer defined as people who chose the church pews
over the comfort of their homes,
but people who have no home left,
no choice but the fellowship of others, similarly with no recourse
but to say, "I'll hold on to you, if you hold on to me."
No other recourse than to stand together and pray for a new promise
along with others who yearn for more than the rainbow,
And for a new revelation.
and in response to my own desire to say, take this cup from us and choose someone else.....
It would be easier to be ignorant,
it would be simpler to just never see past the fog--
for the details, the pain, the reality, the suffering to never become clear.
It would be comforting to say, "Choose another, God,"
and know that the cup would be passed to another.
but then there is the lost lamb....
but then there is the truth of the light--blindingly more beautiful than the fog....
And there is the word "confess,"
a word used connotatively with pressure
with angst
with sin
But, like the reality of sunlight filtering through spring leaves,
casting a pale green promise across the earth,
The truth about confession
is that it only means professing that which costs
That which burns
and consumes,
Claiming what is true, even if it hurts.
So while it would be beyond comprehensibly easy
to deny
title
land
destiny
truth,
I will profess that which hurts,
I will confess the truth even when it's hard:
I confess your goodness
I confess your faithfulness
I confess your presence
I confess that I am still yours
When it seems God no more power than the homeless man
on the side of the highway with a sign that reads,
"Anything Helps"
It's hard to trust in miracles
It's hard to find hope beyond the gathering water,
swirling about our feet,
Threatening to swell and wash away everything in a gale-breathed moment.
The promise of the rainbow seems obsolete, pointless,
When life seems more painful and hellish than the end a second flood would bring.
So the faithful become defined
not by their perfect, happy lives,
but by the depth of their heels dug into the ground,
The worn down fingernails and calloused hands,
holding on for dear life.
They are no longer defined as people who chose the church pews
over the comfort of their homes,
but people who have no home left,
no choice but the fellowship of others, similarly with no recourse
but to say, "I'll hold on to you, if you hold on to me."
No other recourse than to stand together and pray for a new promise
along with others who yearn for more than the rainbow,
And for a new revelation.
and in response to my own desire to say, take this cup from us and choose someone else.....
It would be easier to be ignorant,
it would be simpler to just never see past the fog--
for the details, the pain, the reality, the suffering to never become clear.
It would be comforting to say, "Choose another, God,"
and know that the cup would be passed to another.
but then there is the lost lamb....
but then there is the truth of the light--blindingly more beautiful than the fog....
And there is the word "confess,"
a word used connotatively with pressure
with angst
with sin
But, like the reality of sunlight filtering through spring leaves,
casting a pale green promise across the earth,
The truth about confession
is that it only means professing that which costs
That which burns
and consumes,
Claiming what is true, even if it hurts.
So while it would be beyond comprehensibly easy
to deny
title
land
destiny
truth,
I will profess that which hurts,
I will confess the truth even when it's hard:
I confess your goodness
I confess your faithfulness
I confess your presence
I confess that I am still yours
Spaces and Fillings
(edited from a performed version, August 2009)
My heart longs for the filling of absences that lie unrealized and unnamed
My eyes see the gaps, the spaces like spirits among the living—feeling but not grasping their significance.
And slowly the pieces fall into place
Across years and experiences, prayer and love
The absences become named
And become painfully real
And I find I am only able to continue in the hope that their reality tells of their ability to be filled
that their existence, their reality--and the hurt that courses through my hands as a result--is not a permanent state.
And this is what I have come to believe in: west-winded nights that paint the moon orange and speak to restless hearts
The comforts are innumerable in the face of all that would seek to disturb the calm of the spirit
My husband's hand against my cheek is the constant touch I long for
A soothing voice can cut like a razor through anxiety, carving a space for sleep to fill and grow,
deep and strong, like a well-tended plant, prepared to bloom with the sun.
The earth will hold her own, and comfort those who breathe her in
The trembling hearts and shaking hands do not alter her resolve--she promises: I will hold you firmly in place.
The strength of an outstretched hand far surpasses the human strength of the extender
(For I have been the extender, and been the one pulled out)
The mountains may not have to be moved or reduced to rubble, only loved for their view of the valleys and lights below
The simplest of things—potatoes that smell like earth and not the floor cleaner of the supermarket, the bright green flavor of the garden's offerings, and the breeze that moves the drapes like a dancer can restore the spirit
And in all of this—slowly, the spaces that become named and realized, the cuts that once ran deep, are filled and healed.
the rivets that exist, the lines that cross the earth, the marks of time and hurt from others tell a story
one that promises a new chapter,
and in naming the spaces, the breaths I take as I walk into the next page, fill them like a potter's clay.
and this is what I must believe. And trust the potter to do his work.
My heart longs for the filling of absences that lie unrealized and unnamed
My eyes see the gaps, the spaces like spirits among the living—feeling but not grasping their significance.
And slowly the pieces fall into place
Across years and experiences, prayer and love
The absences become named
And become painfully real
And I find I am only able to continue in the hope that their reality tells of their ability to be filled
that their existence, their reality--and the hurt that courses through my hands as a result--is not a permanent state.
And this is what I have come to believe in: west-winded nights that paint the moon orange and speak to restless hearts
The comforts are innumerable in the face of all that would seek to disturb the calm of the spirit
My husband's hand against my cheek is the constant touch I long for
A soothing voice can cut like a razor through anxiety, carving a space for sleep to fill and grow,
deep and strong, like a well-tended plant, prepared to bloom with the sun.
The earth will hold her own, and comfort those who breathe her in
The trembling hearts and shaking hands do not alter her resolve--she promises: I will hold you firmly in place.
The strength of an outstretched hand far surpasses the human strength of the extender
(For I have been the extender, and been the one pulled out)
The mountains may not have to be moved or reduced to rubble, only loved for their view of the valleys and lights below
The simplest of things—potatoes that smell like earth and not the floor cleaner of the supermarket, the bright green flavor of the garden's offerings, and the breeze that moves the drapes like a dancer can restore the spirit
And in all of this—slowly, the spaces that become named and realized, the cuts that once ran deep, are filled and healed.
the rivets that exist, the lines that cross the earth, the marks of time and hurt from others tell a story
one that promises a new chapter,
and in naming the spaces, the breaths I take as I walk into the next page, fill them like a potter's clay.
and this is what I must believe. And trust the potter to do his work.
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