My mother decorated the Christmas tree alone this year. That felt wrong, somehow; for years, she would drag us children from our solitary winter afternoon pursuits to dig out boxes upon boxes of ornaments, initiating decorating chaos that always resulted in trips down memory lane and not a little bickering. The presents are stacked under the much-less-cluttered tree; as we age, it seems not only the tree but the boxes get smaller. That stash of gifts under the tree looks lean in comparison to our grainy Christmas photographs from the mid-80’s, where the emptied boxes served as spaceships and castles after the dolls and toys and other goodies were forgotten.
The goodies, strictly speaking, shouldn’t actually be attached to Christmas traditions. Celebrating the birth of Jesus should include more animals, straw, and sticky rags; caroling under a starry sky; maybe taking some shepherds or garbage collectors out to dinner. The magi with their gifts probably didn’t arrive on the scene until much later. The Matthew text reads “on coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother,” indicating that Mary and Joseph had already left their squalid birthing stable and had found more suitable quarters for the newborn and his teenage mother.
But it isn’t particularly surprising that Christmas turned into such a commercialized, even pagan, holiday. Vulgarly extravagant light displays (and equally vulgar electricity bills), bizarre plastic lawn figures, reindeer that fly and a breaking-and-entering portly elf in a red suit are just about as believable as a god who becomes a human. One who chooses to become a human baby born to rather poor parents of an oppressed race, in a no-name town somewhere in the 1st century Roman Empire. (Not to mention the rumors that must have been swirling about the still-single Mary’s growing belly.) It’s no wonder people don’t feel too guilty about spreading tales of levitating sleds, time warps and naughty-or-nice lists. This isn’t the sort of story adults would dream up.
Yet Christmas is for the grown up and the grown weary, those who have lost some of the sparkle of hope in the humdrum of their lives. Shepherds, innkeepers, mailmen and policewomen, people whose routines are humdrum and predictable. Then, just like the shepherds, we’re stunned into open-mouthed wonder at the angel’s announcement: “Don’t be afraid! I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord.”
And like those stumbling shepherds, we go searching for this Savior, wherever that might lead us, to find our Savior. To discover what the good news is for this falling-apart world. To learn about this God who came to take part, personally, in the chaos of human life, to stub his toes, burn his porridge, play with laughing babies, cry at a friend's funeral, burn with anger but mostly with love.
And that's what Christmas is about, really. Unfathomable love.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Long time no post
That's because I am currently braving a 100 degree F temperature difference from a few weeks ago.
That's right.
Summer in Brazil, winter in the Midwest.
It's wonderful to be with family!
That's right.
Summer in Brazil, winter in the Midwest.
It's wonderful to be with family!
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Reflection in a rambling way
When one gets back into the swing of a familiar routine, it becomes harder to stop, contemplate, breathe deeply and remember. That's my apology and excuse for why these last posts have been mostly about food. I'm sitting here in my office/living room, looking at a kitchen table dusted with flour and 5 dozen Christmas cookies waiting to be frozen for an upcoming children's party. It's been a busy day. I've watched 4 episodes of the second season of Dr. Who (what fantastic, wonderful fun, especially while beating pounds of butter and sugar by hand). My desk is littered with papers, books, journals and dishtowels. There seem to be a million things to do before I leave for Christmas. There's money to be changed; the dollar is up to 2.40, which seems too good to be true. The morning's heavy rain has turned into a gentle breeze that is helping cool down my home; the gas oven was hard at work for over two hours, making for a sticky environment. I need to open my Bible, write in my new Moleskine journal with my recently re-discovered fountain pen. (Striated like some silvery worm, it makes writing by hand even more of a joy.)
And somewhere in that stack of papers and jumble of notebooks are asides, half-thoughts, comments on articles I wanted to write, stories that needed telling, reflections on Peru, Ilha Grande and the last few weeks. But I'm over-sugared and feeling rather sluggish. There's a pan of leftover spicy ginger chicken stir-fry in the refrigerator that will do nicely for dinner. Maybe this writer's block is simply a protein deficiency, easily cured.
On the subway late last night, returning from our Bible study, I was thinking about aliens, Nephilim, callings and careers, illness. A friend recently returned my copy of Bill Williams' "Naked Before God" which is out of print but shouldn't be. On my trip home, I was re-reading the section where he shares about his experiences as a hospital chaplain.
He quotes Deuteronomy 34:4-5, which has always been a sad verse for me to read:
"The Lord said to Moses, "This is the land which I promised I would give to Abraham, Issac and Jacob's descendants. I have let you see it with your own eyes. Yet you shall not cross over into it..."
Moses was one of those descendants. Didn't he ache to be in that land? Wasn't it cruel of God to show him what he was missing, like a parent giving a child brand-new Christmas presents before returning them to the store, saying, "be content with what you have?"
Instead of following my bitter train of thought, Williams relates his experiences as a chaplain to this verse; those few months were like gazing into the promised land. Another's promised land, another's calling. Not his. Sometimes it feels like failure, to stand on the outside, on the other side of the river gazing at new horizons. But when we come to the place where we realize that "failure" is actually a victory, knowing our limitations, knowing that that so-called promised land would have made us very unhappy...well, that's a beautiful realization. I'm paraphrasing, but maybe you understand?
And so as I walked home last night, those words echoed in my mind. This last year has been preparation for change. I feel it in my bones and mitochondria and all sorts of cells I don't have names for. I'm not sure where my promised land is, or what it is. I couldn't even tell you what it is that I "want to do with my life." But I know what my calling is, at least in part. Because ever since I was old enough to pick up a book, I've burnt with the need to write. And under the night sky, where Venus and Jupiter glowed bright, I thought about one of the things I'm sure of: God is happy when I am writing. And so am I. Maybe some of the promised lands I've been gazing at aren't for me; I've always had difficulty imagining myself locked up in an office for 8 hours a day. I'm not sure whether missions will be a permanent future for me. But there is no conceivable future in which I am not creating, playing with words until they shine, weaving stories together to share with others. And I believe that God is going to start opening the doors, the right doors, to the promised land I'm meant to step into. Soon. And that puts a smile on my face. About as big as the rainbow that should be in the sky right now...
And somewhere in that stack of papers and jumble of notebooks are asides, half-thoughts, comments on articles I wanted to write, stories that needed telling, reflections on Peru, Ilha Grande and the last few weeks. But I'm over-sugared and feeling rather sluggish. There's a pan of leftover spicy ginger chicken stir-fry in the refrigerator that will do nicely for dinner. Maybe this writer's block is simply a protein deficiency, easily cured.
On the subway late last night, returning from our Bible study, I was thinking about aliens, Nephilim, callings and careers, illness. A friend recently returned my copy of Bill Williams' "Naked Before God" which is out of print but shouldn't be. On my trip home, I was re-reading the section where he shares about his experiences as a hospital chaplain.
He quotes Deuteronomy 34:4-5, which has always been a sad verse for me to read:
"The Lord said to Moses, "This is the land which I promised I would give to Abraham, Issac and Jacob's descendants. I have let you see it with your own eyes. Yet you shall not cross over into it..."
Moses was one of those descendants. Didn't he ache to be in that land? Wasn't it cruel of God to show him what he was missing, like a parent giving a child brand-new Christmas presents before returning them to the store, saying, "be content with what you have?"
Instead of following my bitter train of thought, Williams relates his experiences as a chaplain to this verse; those few months were like gazing into the promised land. Another's promised land, another's calling. Not his. Sometimes it feels like failure, to stand on the outside, on the other side of the river gazing at new horizons. But when we come to the place where we realize that "failure" is actually a victory, knowing our limitations, knowing that that so-called promised land would have made us very unhappy...well, that's a beautiful realization. I'm paraphrasing, but maybe you understand?
And so as I walked home last night, those words echoed in my mind. This last year has been preparation for change. I feel it in my bones and mitochondria and all sorts of cells I don't have names for. I'm not sure where my promised land is, or what it is. I couldn't even tell you what it is that I "want to do with my life." But I know what my calling is, at least in part. Because ever since I was old enough to pick up a book, I've burnt with the need to write. And under the night sky, where Venus and Jupiter glowed bright, I thought about one of the things I'm sure of: God is happy when I am writing. And so am I. Maybe some of the promised lands I've been gazing at aren't for me; I've always had difficulty imagining myself locked up in an office for 8 hours a day. I'm not sure whether missions will be a permanent future for me. But there is no conceivable future in which I am not creating, playing with words until they shine, weaving stories together to share with others. And I believe that God is going to start opening the doors, the right doors, to the promised land I'm meant to step into. Soon. And that puts a smile on my face. About as big as the rainbow that should be in the sky right now...
Holiday Recipes
Thanksgiving in Rio this year was quite the event...with green bean casserole, black-bread stuffing, sweet potato bake with pumpkin and apples, and a brined, rosemary rubbed turkey, among other things.
My contribution to the feast was this pie, a Jenna invention: Walnut-Amarula Pie.
The bulk foods store where we always go to find nuts and odd ingredients didn’t have pecans when I went shopping, so I went for the second best option: whole walnuts. They looked pretty, but ever since I was a child, I’ve had a bit of an aversion to nuts. I was fond of saying that they tasted like “old shoes.” (Lamb, too, was out of bounds. It tasted like dirty socks. How I knew the flavor of these things is a mystery...)
And yet my favorite Thanksgiving dessert has always been pecan pie. As a child, I would beg my mother not to put the pecans in, but she seemed to think that was sacrilege. So each and every Thanksgiving, I would get my huge slice of pie and meticulously pull out the pecans, suck every bit of filling off them, and slip the nuts to the side of my plate, where my mother or some other family member would lament the waste and eat them for me. Kind souls.
I’ve recently found ways to appreciate most forms of tree nuts, though they’re still on the list of foods that I am learning to love. But this pie might just make me forget all about those dirty shoe days…
Wanting to make something a bit more exotic than the classic pecan pie, I searched my cupboards for a flavor that would blend nicely with the golden, woody flavor of toasted, caramelized walnuts. Tucked back on the last shelf of the refrigerator was a Christmas or birthday gift from years past, a bottle of Amarula, that lovely South African liqueur, made from the fruit of the marula tree. Just the thing. I'd used Amarula in baking before but those cakes and brownies had barely a hint of the taste I was looking for. Unsure if the flavor would come out better in a pie, I dumped a quarter cup of the liquid into the pie filling.
Wow. You will not want to share this with others. But for the health of your waistline (and to prevent early diabetes) please, please, share. I take no responsibility for overeager or selfish eaters!
(p.s. This is the same recipe as on the back of a Karo syrup bottle. Use a pie crust that is fairly salty. You need the contrast of flavors or this is just too sweet.)
Walnut-Amarula Pie
* 1 cup light corn syrup
* 3 eggs
* 1 cup sugar
* 2 tablespoons butter, melted
* 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
* 1-1/2 cups (6 ounces) whole walnuts
* 2-4 tablespoons Amarula
* 1 (9-inch) unbaked deep-dish pie crust
1. Preheat oven to 350°F.
2. Mix corn syrup, eggs, sugar, butter, Amarula and vanilla using a spoon. Stir in walnuts. Pour filling into pie crust.
3. Bake on center rack of oven for 55 to 60 minutes. Cool for 2 hours on wire rack before serving.
Cardamom-Almond Biscotti
I fumbled this recipe so badly, but so badly, I’m not sure I can even re-create it for you well here. That’s what happens when you transfer an internet recipe to an index card without reading all the directions all the way through. Thankfully…my sweet friend N- was over helping with the cookie experimentation and we salvaged the recipe. Cutting the bar cookies into strips and baking again resulted in not-half-bad biscotti that are great for dunking in a morning (or afternoon) coffee. Please, please don’t ask me what I’ve been eating for the last two days. I have been quite unhealthy…but very happy!
* 2 cups flour (more if necessary)
* 3/4 cup salted butter, room temperature
* 1/2 cup sugar and 1/4 cup powdered sugar
* 5 1/2 teaspoons ground cardamom
* 1/2 cup almonds, sliced
* 1 teaspoon almond extract
* 1 egg
* 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
Cream butter and sugars together. Add egg and extract. Mix together dry ingredients and almonds and add to butter mixture. It should have the texture of cookie dough; if too dry, add a little water, if too wet, more flour.
Pat into an ungreased baking pan to make bar cookies and bake in a medium oven until done in the middle. Let cool, cut into 1 inch thick biscotti bars and bake again until browned and crunchy.
My contribution to the feast was this pie, a Jenna invention: Walnut-Amarula Pie.
The bulk foods store where we always go to find nuts and odd ingredients didn’t have pecans when I went shopping, so I went for the second best option: whole walnuts. They looked pretty, but ever since I was a child, I’ve had a bit of an aversion to nuts. I was fond of saying that they tasted like “old shoes.” (Lamb, too, was out of bounds. It tasted like dirty socks. How I knew the flavor of these things is a mystery...)
And yet my favorite Thanksgiving dessert has always been pecan pie. As a child, I would beg my mother not to put the pecans in, but she seemed to think that was sacrilege. So each and every Thanksgiving, I would get my huge slice of pie and meticulously pull out the pecans, suck every bit of filling off them, and slip the nuts to the side of my plate, where my mother or some other family member would lament the waste and eat them for me. Kind souls.
I’ve recently found ways to appreciate most forms of tree nuts, though they’re still on the list of foods that I am learning to love. But this pie might just make me forget all about those dirty shoe days…
Wanting to make something a bit more exotic than the classic pecan pie, I searched my cupboards for a flavor that would blend nicely with the golden, woody flavor of toasted, caramelized walnuts. Tucked back on the last shelf of the refrigerator was a Christmas or birthday gift from years past, a bottle of Amarula, that lovely South African liqueur, made from the fruit of the marula tree. Just the thing. I'd used Amarula in baking before but those cakes and brownies had barely a hint of the taste I was looking for. Unsure if the flavor would come out better in a pie, I dumped a quarter cup of the liquid into the pie filling.
Wow. You will not want to share this with others. But for the health of your waistline (and to prevent early diabetes) please, please, share. I take no responsibility for overeager or selfish eaters!
(p.s. This is the same recipe as on the back of a Karo syrup bottle. Use a pie crust that is fairly salty. You need the contrast of flavors or this is just too sweet.)
Walnut-Amarula Pie
* 1 cup light corn syrup
* 3 eggs
* 1 cup sugar
* 2 tablespoons butter, melted
* 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
* 1-1/2 cups (6 ounces) whole walnuts
* 2-4 tablespoons Amarula
* 1 (9-inch) unbaked deep-dish pie crust
1. Preheat oven to 350°F.
2. Mix corn syrup, eggs, sugar, butter, Amarula and vanilla using a spoon. Stir in walnuts. Pour filling into pie crust.
3. Bake on center rack of oven for 55 to 60 minutes. Cool for 2 hours on wire rack before serving.
Cardamom-Almond Biscotti
I fumbled this recipe so badly, but so badly, I’m not sure I can even re-create it for you well here. That’s what happens when you transfer an internet recipe to an index card without reading all the directions all the way through. Thankfully…my sweet friend N- was over helping with the cookie experimentation and we salvaged the recipe. Cutting the bar cookies into strips and baking again resulted in not-half-bad biscotti that are great for dunking in a morning (or afternoon) coffee. Please, please don’t ask me what I’ve been eating for the last two days. I have been quite unhealthy…but very happy!
* 2 cups flour (more if necessary)
* 3/4 cup salted butter, room temperature
* 1/2 cup sugar and 1/4 cup powdered sugar
* 5 1/2 teaspoons ground cardamom
* 1/2 cup almonds, sliced
* 1 teaspoon almond extract
* 1 egg
* 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
Cream butter and sugars together. Add egg and extract. Mix together dry ingredients and almonds and add to butter mixture. It should have the texture of cookie dough; if too dry, add a little water, if too wet, more flour.
Pat into an ungreased baking pan to make bar cookies and bake in a medium oven until done in the middle. Let cool, cut into 1 inch thick biscotti bars and bake again until browned and crunchy.
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