Four: There’s Flour on the Floor–Again

December 4th, 2011 § 1

 

 

“Let them eat cake.” ~ Marie Antoinette (reportedly)

Mom’s a master baker, and so was her mom. I love it too, the chemistry of butter and eggs and flour and sugar and leavening agent producing reliably gorgeous results. I guess you could say baking is one of our primary Love Languages.

Grandma Protzmann was old school and never sampled raw batter or dough. She stored cookies in tin coffee cans lined with wax paper, insisting the contents were best a few days old. With reckless abandon, Mom and I take our chances with salmonella or burning our mouths on chocolate chips.

I get to see my mom, who lives three hours away, at Christmas, but I don’t get to spend time with her pre-Christmas. Those days leading up to the 25th are what my childhood holiday memories are made of, and many of them happened in a yellow kitchen with linoleum floors. I miss mom when I’m baking this time of year.

My father’s mom was quite the baker as well. An early riser, I think she did most of hers at 6 in the morning.   (There’s no such activity in my kitchen at that hour, except for grunting “Grab a bowl of cereal, child.”) The post office loved my Nana in December. An enormous box of carefully wrapped cookies arrived before her plane. We especially had a hard time keeping our paws out of the tin of gingersnaps.

When I make a batch, I’m often asked for her recipe.  I thought I’d share.

Nanny’s Gingersnaps

2  cups flour
2 tsp. baking soda
¼ tsp. salt
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. ginger
¾ cup butter  (room temperature)
1 cup sugar
1 egg
¼ cup molasses
Additional ¼ cup sugar for sprinkling

Mix flour, soda, salt, and spices.

In a separate bowl, cream butter with mixer. Add 1 cup sugar and cream until fluffy. Add egg and molasses. Add dry ingredients.

Chill at least 30 minutes. Take 1 Tb. or so of batter and mold into balls with hands. (Little hands can help. My kids love the mess.) Roll balls in the ¼ cup sugar. Place the balls at least 1 inch apart on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake at 350 for 15 minutes.

p.s. I almost forgot. I’ve got two words for you: parchment paper. It’s life changing.

Three: Oh, Tannenbaum!

December 3rd, 2011 § 6

It is day three of December, and already I bring you a re-post, and a guest one at that. (I’m tuckered out.) Today we put up our tree. It’s one of my favorite days of the year, despite the brief tantrum The Spouse throws every time. In the middle of the angst of Luke getting the tree in and up and such, we ended up laughing our heads off. Here are his thoughts on the annual ordeal from several years back, which were published in a local magazine, shared by The Spouse in a Georgia Public Radio commentary, and first posted here in 2010. 

This holiday season, millions of American men will face the ultimate Yuletide challenge, a task far more difficult than buying for the wife at the last minute or putting together maddeningly complicated toys in the wee hours of Christmas morning.

I’m referring, of course, to the very tricky business of handling the oversized Christmas tree. Picking it out. Bringing it home. Putting it up. Taking it down. Getting it out. Oh, Tannenbaum, indeed!

Don’t panic, though: I’m here to help. And not as some sort of puffed-up fix-it guru. No, I’m just a regular guy, looking to help you take care of a perennial holiday headache with as little pain as possible.

Clearly, the best way to handle the plus-sized Christmas tree is to avoid one altogether. This is neatly accomplished by offering to pick up (and pick out) the tree by yourself, as a seemingly thoughtful gesture to the woman in your life. This allows you to score a smallish tree without looking like a wimp.

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Two: The Advent Wreath

December 2nd, 2011 § 0

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The darling of the world is come,
And fit it is we find a room
To welcome him.

The nobler part
Of all the house here is the heart,
Which we will give him; and bequeath
This holly and this ivy wreath,
To do him honour; who’s our King
And Lord of all this revelling.

~ Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

You are not cool unless you have one.

I’m not serious about that. In fact, the last thing I want to do with this list of ways I love Christmas is make anyone feel like they need to nard things up in the same fashion. As they say, scent is a very personal choice.

And let’s not forget those Whos down in Whoville. They made a joyful noise despite their utter lack of ribbons or tags, packages, boxes, or bags. The Whos were nothing short of awesome.

But I find it a little bit awesome and cool to have an Advent wreath hanging in the room where we gather for meals. As we light the candles before dinner (when dinner isn’t from a drive-through on the way to somewhere), I’m reminded of the quiet holiness of the season, and the mystery, and the light coming in the dark.

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Let Me Count the Ways

December 1st, 2011 § 7

Sometimes I think I annoy people with my passion for all things Christmas. And I’m shocked when I come across someone who doesn’t share my (mere) enthusiasm.

A friend wondered out loud yesterday about all the expense and man hours put into decorating for the holiday. Why, even churches deck the halls, she said, when we could be out serving the poor.

I had one word for her: perfume.

Remember the pricey eau de toilette Mary (Lazarus’ sister) poured on Jesus’ feet—and how he defended her seemingly impulsive and wasteful action? I’m here now, said Emmanuel. In other words, bring it on.

Celebrating with all one’s heart is an outpouring, too. He’s coming! The prince who left his palace for a stable, who put on humility for love’s sake—how could this not hold hostage our imaginations? My father always informed merry little me that Easter is the pinnacle of the Christian year, the true ultimate holiday. I remember scooting around under the tree shaking the shiny boxes and smelling Frasier fir, the very odor of anticipation, and him issuing his annual reminder. Love you Dad, but what a buzz-kill.

The mystery and wonder and joy and pathos of the Incarnation is what tickles my look-what-God-did funny bone. The Word broke the silence. He came!

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Way Number One: Tomorrow is Another Day

December 1st, 2011 § 0

The first of a few of My Favorite Things is a not a thing, like brown paper packages tied up with strings—although I really like those. Packages are good. No, it’s an attempt at science fiction: the quest for more hours in a day.

 In an effort to freeze time during this golden, glittering month (I told you I annoyed some people), I don’t do anything I don’t have to. Or want to.

I don’t mean I opt out of chores or duties or responsibilities. And I certainly don’t stop washing my hair or putting on make-up. But December teaches me that some things—well, lots of things— can wait.

Like the dentist. My last appointment was in June, but my teeth can go seven months between cleanings, can’t they? And January seems a fine time to visit the vet or the pediatrician or the shoe repair lady. Unpaid traffic tickets, recipes dog-eared to be clipped and filed, and receipts that need to be tossed pile up until the kids go back to school after New Year’s. Switching phone service, changing oil, shopping around for cheaper insurance—these just don’t say to me Let Earth Receive Her King.

I say bah-humbug to unnecessary trips to the store or any trips to the mall. To movies or television shows that don’t warm like a cup of cocoa. (The Spouse is in charge of the Netlix queue. Today a three-hour Nazi thriller arrived in the mail. It’s already back in the box, unwatched.)  And there’s nothing more depressing  than next month’s clean-out-the-clutter, healthy meals magazine covers while I’m in the midst of making messes and batches of fudge.

Of course, this can lead to one glorious muddle come 2012. But it’s good for me to get behind on things, at least once a year. Besides, the December 26 thud is coming no matter what. (More on the thud later. Later is the key!)

After all, you can always think about that tomorrow.

Getting Low—Up High

November 26th, 2011 § 5

While at my parents’ house, I’m a kid again—sleeping as late as possible and hoping my dad makes pancakes. South Carolina’s Glassy Mountain, where Mom and Dad live, is probably at its best in the early morning—although I wouldn’t know much about that (because of the sleeping). But I got a taste when two wet noses poked me out of bed and out of doors before anyone had even brewed a cup of coffee.

I tuck my pajama pants into boots, pull on a jacket, and escape the early morning preparations— the stuffing of a bird and the mixing of pumpkin goo for pie. The house has smelled like sautéed onions since before dawn, but outside I breathe crisp air and watch the sun creeping orange over mountains. What’s that I see shining like glass so far away, low-lying wisps of clouds or mist-covered bodies of water?

I decide on water, not clouds, and leave the road, following a path into the woods. The hounds are in their sniffing glory, and I’m all tangled in leashes. I find a big rock and sit.

The view from up here is—well, there are no words, so I don’t try but instead imagine Son saying to Father, Look—over here—at what I’ve made. Did Christ know light and shadow on mountains would sing of His very Self? That on a chilly Thanksgiving morning a girl with two dogs would slip out before the day got too crazy-full with faces and kitchen duty and kid duty, and that she’d wonder at the Person who breathed all this into being? Of course He did.

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From my Inbox: A Friend’s Thoughts on Hosea

October 30th, 2011 § 1

Hosea is a funny (peculiar) book. It could be subtitled Since You Put it That Way. Our tendency to wander, to elevate our idols, to trade the grand prize for trinkets is compared to harlotry. Ouch. Hosea himself has an adulterous wife, whom he forgives again and again, counter to his culture. My little Bible study group has been bouncing e-mails back and forth all week about Hosea.

My friend Laura S., divorced and doing the single mom thing with incredible grace, realizes healing doesn’t come through hiding. (With her kind permission,) Laura’s thoughts about Hosea were begging to be shared…

I start with the verse that most made me think of Laura B., for no other reason than its poetic value: “They are all adulterers, burning like an oven whose fire the baker need not stir from the kneading of the dough till it rises.” (Hosea 7:4) It seems like something I would read on her blog.

(note from Laura B.: I’m glad it was only the ‘poetic value,’ not the content, of this verse that brought yours truly to mind.)

There are many other verses that prompt me to take note as well. 

 ”When they go, I will throw my net over them; I will pull them down like birds of the air.”  (Hosea 7:12) We simply cannot escape His sovereignty. Who dare try, but someone who knows not His Word?

 ”Israel is swallowed up; now she is among the nations like a worthless thing.” (Hosea 7:8) This verse makes me think of gossip, and how it leads to improper assessment, invalid judgments and a false permission to exclude and belittle, alienate and isolate—how it swallows up reality and renders worthless the soundness of the perpetrator(s). 

“For I will be like a lion to Ephraim, like a great lion to Judah.  I will tear them to pieces and go away; I will carry them off, with no one to rescue them. Then I will go back to my place until they admit their guilt. And they will seek my face; in their misery they will earnestly seek me.”  (Hosea 5:14-15)  When I read this verse, I think of the Lord pulling His people back to Him from their harlotry, sometimes through catastrophic circumstances. And when I hear of such disasters, I think of the Lord’s judgment—and love.

 This book, Hosea, also mirrors my life over the past several years, particularly, the last few months. It is so personal to me.

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What I Unearthed in my Teenage Daughter’s Room

October 19th, 2011 § 2

 

“The Gospels contain a fairy-story, or a story of a larger kind which embraces all the essence of fairy-stories. They contain many marvels—peculiarly artistic, beautiful, and moving, ‘mythical’ in their perfect, self-contained significance; and among the marvels is the greatest and most complete conceivable eucatastrophe…There is no tale ever told that men would rather find was true…” – J.R.R.  Tolkien , ‘On Fairy Stories’

I was huffing and puffing my way through a whirlwind cleaning of the twins’ bedroom, not particularly pleased with the books and dirty socks and ballet bags on the floor—or their owners. Just when I was sure the purpose of my thirteen-year-old daughters’ existence was to make messes expressly for me, I stumbled across a spiral notebook, sitting open on Maggie’s nightstand. I dropped my armful of stuff and sat and read her words, apparently written late one night after we watched Pirates of the Caribbean. What a sweet way for God to pierce through my martyr-of-the-moment syndrome…

Dear Jesus,

I’ve figured it out! Thank the makers of Pirates of the Caribbean.

This life is a real action story about princesses and a Prince, sons and a Father—and the best part is,  it’s absolutely, 100 percent true. I’m living in a fairy tale, devoted to my True Love.

My name is Princess Margaret. My goal is to bring honor and fame to the One who rescued me. The King came to this faraway land with a purpose, which was to save the ones He loved, even if that meant He would be killed. The Rescuer would have still let those (whom He made) abandon Him on the island (which He created) if it could save their souls. He still would have done it if it were only me. That bring tears to my eyes at this very moment, knowing someone out there loves me that much. He is so humble and gracious.

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A Breath of (Deliciously Salty) Air

October 18th, 2011 § 3

 This morning offered a welcome pause in the middle of days bursting with too much To Do. After a breakfast with friends old and new, I was ruined for bills and phone calls and my inbox for the rest of the afternoon. Instead, I’ve been reading and writing and listening to acorns falling crack! on the roof. When he’s not barking at the falling nuts, the dog keeps tilting his head at me, wondering why I’m sitting still.

The Ladies of our Literary Society (we aspire to say “literary society,” but we always end up saying “book club”) play pretend like little girls not grown-up. Depending on what we’ve been reading, we’re characters in Alice’s Wonderland or dressed in the style of P.J. Woodhouse’s 20s. Sometimes we simply spin a web of other-ness through our talk.

One third Thursday of the month, the six of us sat at luncheon and discussed one of our favorite subjects: days gone by. A spell was cast while we talked of our grandmothers’ first dates or proposals, how dress sizes have shrunk to make modern folk feel less fat and what teenagers must have done for fun a hundred years ago.

As enchanting as that was, there was something missing: old people, in the flesh.

Now, I don’t like to call any lady old, so I won’t. But a couple real live representatives of yesteryear, of the generation who fought for and saved civilization, sat at my dining room table this morning and wove a spell of their own.

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Oh! I Could Have Gone…

October 7th, 2011 § 5

 I’ve never been good at hesitating, except when it comes to driving.

“What are you waiting for—traffic?” my dad would say to 16-year-old me waiting endlessly to pull out of the drive.

Yesterday a car beeping behind me brought back the old familiar, Oh! I could have gone. I sped off and wondered why I drive like a ninny sometimes. It came, that one word lately being revealed to me as the answer to lots of questions, frustrations, stumbling blocks: fear.

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