A Taste of Home

Every so often, during family dinners of my childhood, my dad would wad up his used tea bag and throw it at one of my siblings or me. We were usually laughing and goofing off and, when Dad decided we’d reached our full measure of silliness, he’d assert his authority by flinging a soggy teabag toward one of us. Looking back, I think the silliness encoded into our genetics may have come from my dad’s side of the family.

So many things happen around a dinner table, more than mere consumption for the sake of meeting biological needs. Parents teach and correct behaviors. Laughter and conversation flow. People tell and re-tell stories, sometimes accompanied by agonizing groans or an embarrassed eye roll. Sometimes angry words erupt or a chair sits vacant.

The Passover was a family meal instituted by God on the night He delivered His people from slavery in Egypt. He required them to celebrate this meal every year by eating particular foods, celebrating certain traditions, and telling and re-telling the story of their deliverance. While preaching about the Passover, my pastor pointed out that when God wanted His people to memorialize their deliverance He didn’t lecture them or preach them a sermon.

He invited them to a meal.

He invited them to a meal where someone might have placed his elbows on the table; where someone might have overcooked the lamb or knocked over a glass of wine. He invited them to a table to laugh and tell stories and enjoy each another’s company.  Perhaps Jewish fathers became so exasperated with their children that they flung unleavened bread in their general direction. Flawed people who sinned against God and one another were called to gather around a meal to be reminded of their desperate need for deliverance.

Jesus celebrated the Passover with his disciples, telling them that He had eagerly longed to eat with them on the night He was betrayed. He told them He wouldn’t celebrate with them again until the Passover was fulfilled in the kingdom of God. In heaven, Christ waits to eat with them again. He waits for all His disciples to join Him; eagerly longing to sit at the table, laughing and enjoying the company of those He loves.

My son and many of his friends have been home from college for the past few weeks, celebrating Christmas vacation. Many of them compared notes about the food served in dining halls on their campuses. All seemed to be grateful for the opportunity to enjoy family meals, familiar tastes of home-cooking prepared with love.

So many things are happening when God’s people gather around the Lord’s Table, something He told His people to do until He returns. We remember our stories. We sit next to flawed people who sin against God and one another. We are reminded of the great cost of our deliverance. We eat familiar food prepared in love.

And the Lord’s Supper is a meal which tastes like home.

Many gathered around tables during the holidays, preparing and eating traditional foods. Every good thing which happened at those tables points to a better meal, one where no one burns the turkey, no one speaks in anger, and no chairs sit empty. There Christ waits; eagerly longing to share a meal with those He loves.

My dad will be at that meal. I wonder if there will be teabags in heaven.

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Laura @ The Wellspring:

Christmas is Coming, The Goose is Getting . . . Flat?

Thoughts of Christmas dinner probably call to mind traditional foods: a stuffed, roasted turkey with all the trimmings; a pineapple glazed ham, studded with cloves; a festive crown roast of pork wreathed in a string of fresh cranberries. Few people, I imagine, picture themselves either serving or eating Christmas road kill.

Several years ago the beloved Swede and I lived near a friend whose husband traveled frequently for work. It seemed she often found herself in the most unlikely predicaments when he was out of town, leaving her alone with the kids. Once she called, asking my husband to come over and rescue her dog which had gotten trapped under the porch, behind a snow bank. Another time her kids were pretending to be horses, jumping over hurdles they had built in the living room, when her son fell and broke his arm causing it to dangle at unnatural angles. She asked if I would come over and stay with her other kids while she took him to the emergency room.

So it came as little surprise when our friend called one day, near Christmas, to say her husband was out of town and she needed some help. She had accidentally run over one of her pet geese in the driveway with her minivan.

My friend lived on a lovely, country horse property with a small, idyllic pond in front of the house. She’d purchased several geese from friends who raised them for food, thinking their presence would add a touch of charm to the little pond. Each time she pulled in the driveway toward her house, however, the geese would charge toward her van, attempting to bite the tires. One day, one of the geese made a fatal miscalculation when charging toward the van and my friend found herself with a freshly killed goose in her driveway.

Not knowing the proper way to dispose of a dead goose, my friend thought about putting it in the freezer so her husband could take care of it when he got home. Instead she called my husband, the mighty hunter, and asked what he would do. Realizing the goose had been freshly killed, and bred for food in the first place, the Swede said, “We’ll take it.”

He brought it home, plucked that bird, and put it in the freezer. And on Christmas day we enjoyed roast goose with apricot and cornbread stuffing. It was delicious.

Years later, our friends introduced us to several of their acquaintances. It didn’t take long for them to make the connection, “Oh! You’re the ones who ate the pet goose for Christmas!”

“Yes,” we responded. “Yes. We are those hillbillies.”

Our story of the road-kill Christmas goose has been told and re-told, and we continue to meet folks who have heard it second-hand. And I’m convinced that, one day, the husband found himself on a business trip, seated on a plane next to a writer who worked our story into an episode of The Office. Watch the clip, decide for yourself, and then tell me, “Do you think our little story was the inspiration for Dwight Schrute?”

So, what will you be serving for Christmas dinner this year?

Chili Madness (Or, How to Get a New England Presbyterian To Shout, "Yee-Haw!")

You want us to do what?

My church had begun partnering with a ministry at the nearby university, and the campus minister was looking for someone to organize a lunch to welcome students at the beginning of the school year. My family and I had traveled out West not long before, and had visited a church on the Sunday of their annual Chili Cook-Off. The event was more fun than any church potluck we’d ever attended. My husband and I knew we needed to introduce to this little slice of Wild West fun to our congregation back home so, when it came time to organize the welcome back event, I pitched the idea.

As I began describing the concept to folks in my church I was met, almost universally, with quizzical looks and blank stares. Without a single word, the expressions on my fellow church members’ faces betrayed unspoken heartfelt objections:

“We’re New Englanders. We eat clam chowder.”

“And we’re Presbyterians. Why would we do that?”

“Trust me,” I told them. “It’ll be fun.”

And I don’t even like chili.

One of the moms said she didn’t think the idea would work because her family didn’t like chili. She asked if she could bring a crockpot full of macaroni and cheese instead. I said, “Sure. As long as you give it some kind of chili name, you can bring anything you want.”

She called her entry, Meatless, Beanless, Cheesy, Noodle Chili.

One of the perks of being the instigator for events at my church is that I get to make up rules as I go. And, of all the events I’ve ever organized for the church, Chili Cook-Off is by far the easiest. (Just don’t tell them that. They think I work really hard at it.) I buy a whole bunch of cornbread from the bakery at the local supermarket, some really big bags of salad and some dressing; and sour cream, cheddar cheese, chips, and salsa. I ask folks from the congregation to sign up to bring salad ingredients (whatever vegetables are threatening to overrun their gardens) and twelve packs of soda, juice, or water. I either order a cake for dessert or have someone pick up ingredients to make ice cream sundaes.

Chili, obviously, is the main dish on the menu. Each year I get roughly two dozen people to enter, competing for top honors in the categories, of hottest, most unusual, and best overall chili. I ask folks to bring their chili in crockpots which are then placed on tables lining the walls in the fellowship hall. The first year we tried this event, I was a little afraid that plugging them all in at the same time might cause the power grid on the eastern seaboard to shut down.

For some reason, the men in my church always seem to be the first to sign up for Chili Cook-Off. Perhaps it’s because competition is hard-wired into their DNA, or maybe it’s because they think playing with hot, spicy chili peppers is manly, the men seem eager to show off their culinary chops. Those who attend Chili Cook-Off have the opportunity to sample a wide variety of offerings. There are spicy chilies and mild ones; vegetarian and venison and wild turkey chilies; ones made with beans, and ones made without. We’ve had Texas-style, Cincinnati-style, and sweet, southern chili. One year we even had a gumbo-style oyster chili.

Naming one’s chili seems to have turned into its own form of competition. Recent titles have included: Cry Twice Chili, Dragon’s Breath, The Heat of the Moment, Poultry Gone Wild, Deacon Harmon’s Hellfire and Brimstone Chili, and Jazzy Giraffe Chili. I was assured no giraffes were harmed in the making of that last one. This year, I awarded a special judge’s discretion honor to our church’s new campus minister for his entry, The Reflux Capacitor.

Because we are a congregation of Presbyterians we like to do things decently and in order, except on Chili Cook-Off Sunday. Although the names of the chili makers are kept confidential, quite a bit of lobbying, bribery, and arm-twisting takes place during the event. Some folks decorate their chili display areas, trying to entice people to sample their chili.

I hear tales of ballot-stuffing, toward which I turn a blind eye. The award for best overall chili always seems to go to the chili maker having the largest family in the congregation. The past couple of years, however, I decided to exercise sovereign rule over the contest, awarding “The Clean Spoon” recognition to the chili maker whose crockpot was cleaned out first. The objective, as I remind everyone, is to have fun and feed as many college students and fellow church members as simply as possible.

We have been doing Chili Cook-Off for five years now and, unless I decide to hightail it to the Wild West hill country, I may be organizing this event for years yet to come. Folks have started dressing up in Stetsons, bandanas, and cowboy boots. I wander around in and my flashing chili pepper necklace making sure folks are getting enough to eat, introducing themselves to the students, and periodically shouting, “Yee-Haw!” We listen to cheesy cowboy music, give away prizes like bottles of sarsaparilla and rolls of antacids, and laugh ourselves silly.  This past year, I made the elders wear sheriff badges so the students would be able to identify those in church leadership. Actually I asked them and they agreed, because I’m sort of big and scary, and they’ve pretty much given up on getting me to run off and join the Methodists.

And while I may make jokes about being a Presbyterian, and do ridiculous things like making the elders wear sheriff badges, I'm quite serious about my love for my church. There my soul has been nourished throughout my adult life by the thoughtful and careful exposition of God’s word. The men behind those silly badges are serious ones who love Christ and His church, and who are committed to her peace and purity. It is my privilege to introduce college students to this body of fellow believers, whether I like chili or not.

Can somebody out there give me a “Yee-Haw"?

(Chili banner and cheesy cowboy music, provided by my two-headed brother Chaz)

Joining Laura at The Wellspring:

On the Eve of a Hunt

When I was a child, I often came home in the fall to find dead deer hanging from my swing set. Western Pennsylvania, where I grew up, is hunting country and my father was a meat cutter. He used to process deer for local hunters, and many gave him packages of venison in return. Venison burger, steak, and bologna were staples of my childhood diet.

I always assumed the first day of hunting season was a national holiday as all the schools and many local businesses were closed. I didn’t know there were people who didn’t hunt. As I grew into my cynical teen years, however, I began to announce my distaste for deer meat.  I started regarding hunters as camouflage-wearing rednecks and hillbillies.

So of course I grew up and married one.

New Englanders, in general, cast a cool eye toward hunters and hunting. Most seem to prefer the dignity and civility of buying meat at the local Stop and Shop, that which has been processed in mass slaughterhouses and packaged in Styrofoam. Many in the Northeast are proud to trace their ancestry to the landing of the Mayflower. Yet these same folks seem to forget how Squanto and his merry band of Wampanoag saved their forefathers’ puritanical butts from starvation by teaching them how to roast a loin of venison over an open fire. In our quiet New England neighborhood, my husband and I keep his hunting activities to ourselves.

My husband is a hunter in the same way he is both an engineer and a Scandinavian. It would be easier to stop a mariner from going to sea or separate a teenager from his cell phone than it would be to keep my husband from the woods in the fall. Hunting is not merely something my husband does; the need to hunt seems encoded in his DNA.

I recognize it in him as the summer starts drawing to a close, the far-off look he gets as though hearing a siren call from the local Cabela’s. He begins disappearing into the woods after dinner, stealing away with his mistress, his Matthews hunting bow. Packages begin arriving filled with things like skin care products designed to mask human scent. The garage becomes a staging area for sorting, testing, and organizing all manner of hunting equipment, some of which defies description and my ability to comprehend.

My husband brings to the sport of hunting the same level of planning, care, discipline he does in every area of his life. Not only does he want to increase his chance of success and fill our freezer for the winter, he recognizes there is something of the sacred in taking the life of an animal for food. The idea of shedding blood that others might live has been offensive since Adam and Eve were first clothed in animal skins. Few things torment my husband like the knowledge that an animal died slowly and painfully because a hunter made a careless shot. He is committed to ethical hunting and to mastering his sport, working to make shots which are efficient and swift.

My husband enjoys every aspect of hunting, from the planning stage to the hours of sitting still in a tree stand to the preparation of gourmet venison dishes. He butchers his deer with my father’s knife, the one he used back in his days at meat cutting school in Toledo, Ohio. In so doing, my husband both carries on a family tradition and honors my father’s memory.  He prepares cuts of meat with the kind of care which optimizes flavor and minimizes waste. Though I claimed as a teenager not to like deer meat, what that man can do with some olive oil, garlic, homemade peach chutney, and tenderloin of venison is pure magic. Because my husband, like Nimrod of old, is a mighty hunter, I eat local, organic, and well.

So on the eve of a new archery season, I want to wish my husband an enjoyable, safe, and successful hunt. After all, he’s the best-looking redneck hillbilly I know.

How I Stopped Being a Food Snob and Learned to Embrace The Message

“Why would you settle for hamburger when you could have steak?”

I had asked a good friend his opinion of Eugene Peterson's The Message, and received the above response. My time in Scripture seemed to have grown dry and stale. Others had recommended trying a new paraphrase or translation to keep God's word fresh. I had grown up in a church, however, which considered any other version than the King James to be a per-version, so I was wary of trying something which seemed so conversational, casual, and hip.

Jen Ferguson @ Finding Heaven has invited others to write about how they find nourishment for their souls. To continue reading, click here to head over to Jen's place.

Mangia!

I love good food.  Cooking, eating, and sharing good food are some of my favorite ways of glorifying God who "...makes grass grow for the cattle, and plants for man to cultivate--bringing forth food from the earth:  wine that gladdens the heart of man, oil to make his face shine, and bread that sustains his heart."  Psalm 104.

Sadly, in my house, cooking is often limited to opening a jar of Prego and boiling some spaghetti noodles.  The beloved Swede does most of the "show cooking" in our home, creating meals and experiences that we enjoy sharing with others.  What that man can do with a venison tenderloin could drive me to fall more deeply in love with him, if that were humanly possible.

So when a friend of mine invited me to come to an Italian cooking class she was teaching, I had my apron on and was out the door before she could say, "Buon appetito!"

(Okay, that's not really true.  I don't even own an apron.)

Nonetheless, I did sign up for the class, and I did learn how to make some really, really good Italian food like: 

Saltimbocca

Insalata Rustica With Candied Walnuts (Yum!)

Bucatini all"Amatriciana with Chicken Parmesan

We also made Cappuccino Panna Cotta with Chocolate Whipped Cream.  I don't have a picture of it, but trust me--anytime you steep espresso beans and add heavy cream, sugar, and cocoa powder, only good things can happen.

This is chef Becky teaching us the proper method for determining whether or not pasta is done:

And me, looking like I know what I'm doing.  Told you I didn't have an apron.

The afternoon I spent at this class will most certainly rank as one of my favorites of this summer.  The food was delicious, and I had a great time both making and eating it.  Becky taught us that true Italian cooking was about honoring the authenticity of the ingredients.  Most of the recipes were simple, requiring very few spices--so unlike my handy jar of Prego.

What I enjoyed most, however, was the time spent with my friend learning about her time in Italy and what motivated her to go there to learn to cook.  I was reminded of the exchange between Julia Child and her husband in the Julie/Julia movie when Julia was trying to figure out what to do with herself in Paris.  Her husband asked her,

What do you love?

May we all find the things that we love and do them to the glory of God.  Buon appetito!