Have a listen.

      

Ben Howard is a new favorite of mine. If he is new to you, go find the album "Every Kingdom" and soak in his thoughtful lyrics and soul-satisfying sound.   

Multitude Monday {9.23.13}

Another weary Monday in need of some gratitude.

My multitude: 

The slow and steady coming of fall, and fresh pumpkin pie to hurry the process.

An ongoing group message with some of my long distance dear ones, thanks to my fancy phone.

The truth of Psalm 119:32. Obedience is a delight for a heart enlarged by freedom.

Leaving work at 7:30 means I didn't miss this sky.

Thanks for that, God.

May your weariness be turned to wonder.

Song of the moment.

Loving this one.

Roast Stew, an original recipe.

Here's a secret: I don't know very much about meat. I only recently discovered how to stir fry chicken without drying it out. I sometimes forget what animal becomes pork. I am not entirely sure what red meat looks like when it has spoiled. And I do not know the difference between pot roast and stew meat.


I have been harboring stew meat for some time, waiting for just the right day to transform it into pot roast. With hints of fall in the brief moments of crisp air and sparse fallen leaves, that day arrived earlier this week. I tried to find a recipe for what I had in mind. Something that included potatoes and carrots, broth and beef. Something that would turn out a warm blend of savory flavor. Something that would be ready in less than two hours.

I couldn't find a recipe to fit my whim, so I made it up. It started as a stew and ended roasting in the oven. I would say this batch was a rough draft. Rough, but not too shabby.

My process:

First, simmer the meat in olive oil in a soup pot. Add two cups of water. Or more, if you feel like it.

Second, add some Better than Bouillon (from Costco) until your heart tells you to stop. My heart was happy with a little more than a tablespoon.

Third, cut up potatoes, sweet potatoes, carrots and onion. Spoon the meat into a casserole dish and add the veggies. Add salt, pepper and a clove of fresh garlic. Pour the broth from the soup pot over the top.

Fourth, cover with foil and cook on 350 for about an hour/hour and a half.

Share and eat hearty.

Any tips to help me in my meat adventures?

Multitude Monday

Mondays really can drag. I usually sleep poorly on Sunday nights. Several times last night I sat up in bed and turned on my light, convinced it was morning and I needed to get out of bed. Then I would look at my clock and spend a minute convincing my sleepy self that I do not, in fact, need to get ready for the day at 2:30 a.m.

Because of my psychotic Sunday sleeping habits, a sick feeling that won't go away and the catch-up game at work, today dragged and left me weary.

And yet.

My tired Monday means a full weekend behind me and a full week ahead of me. Both are good; both propel me toward thanksgiving in spite of myself. Mondays are good days to use thankfulness as a discipline to train my heart to be satisfied.

Here's my multitude:

Chubby smiles from a baby who loves to eat. And a fancy new phone that lets me capture the moment.

Rooms overcrowded with people who love and laugh well.

Sweet friends who make food I can eat before I even ask: chocolate avocado mousse and fajita chicken with fresh salsa.

The security of a job and the immense blessing of loving it.

Spontaneous trips to a used book store with brother, sister-in-law and baby.

A home church full of people who ask questions because they care.

Sharing another season of life with a best friend, even as we live in different cities.

Dinner tonight. (Baked oatmeal...it's like dessert except healthy!)

P.S. I stole the title from somebody, but I don't remember who. If it's you, claim that credit!

Dinner, with dirt on it.

In my last post I mentioned I visited the farmer's market last Saturday. Casually mentioning the farmer's market is just a little show-offy and pretentious in an earthy sort of way. I really just threw it in for cool points.

Nevertheless, the farmer's market was a defining experience for the week. It is a different way to do grocery shopping: outside, wandering from stall to stall, touching and tasting before you buy. The process of buying food becomes relational. You look a farmer in the eyes and ask questions, knowing that he or she has tended, handled and labored over the goods they sell to you. The market bustles, not hurried or frantic, but with a meandering commotion of real people moving with unrushed purpose.

And dogs. This place serves a dual purpose as a market for the hard working and a showcase for the adorable. People strut around, flaunting their happy relationship with their pup. My day will come.

Digression, I'm sorry. But not really. Dogs are worthy.

Back to the point. I am coming to value the idea of process in the context of food. The relational, unpredictable nature of buying what the farmers were able to bring to town that day, and the slow, exploratory process of cooking that food.

I wish I could show you what is on my plate tonight (I could, but life is too short for pictures when the food is steaming hot). I'm looking at boiled red potatoes tossed in olive oil, garlic salt, pepper and oregano. Kale sauteed in olive oil and garlic and splashed with fresh lemon. Slices of ham warmed up in the skillet.

This meal is beautiful, but not because it is perfect. The kale has too much lemon. The slices of ham are just sandwich meat from Kroger. Yet, this meal is beautiful, because it is real. It came from the earth. I know because I had to wash some of the earth off before I could cook it. The rough dirt and cool water, the sizzle and pop, the zest and salt are all a reminder of the richness of this real, physical world.

Tangible, flavorful grace.

If you want to give the flavor of grace from my kitchen a go, follow my very meticulous recipe. I think the technical term for this is wilted kale.

Pour some olive oil in a skillet.
Throw in a clove of garlic. The key to cutting up garlic is using an absurdly large knife. Smash it with the flat side of the blade and the skin will slide right off. Then chop, chop, chop. 
Tear up a bunch of kale and add it to the skillet.
Saute until it looks like something you want to eat.
Squeeze a little lemon juice over it, but not too much.

Eat and be thankful.

Home, little by little.

Today was a victory. A significant win. A gap was filled, a wrong righted.

Today, I bought a couch.

I'll start at the beginning, because you don't skimp on the details of a story like this. I started my day meandering around the farmer's market with a friend, sipping coffee, chatting about life, stocking up on healthy stuff. As a side note, I bought kale and Asian eggplants. I've never cooked with either, and I told my friend that those were my daring experiments for the weeks.

Life's a thrill, out here on the edge.

After the farmer's market, we hit up some thrift stores. I have been wanting a couch for my sitting room since I moved in a little over a month ago. (Sitting room? Yes, that's what I call it. Because I am the same age as your grandma.) I guess what I found is technically a love seat, but I bought this gem for $30! That's roughly the amount I spent at the farmer's market and slightly less than what I spent on new pillows. I replaced the heinous gold-trimmed pillows that came with the love seat with new ones from T. J. Maxx. I'm in love.

Maybe not a huge win in the grand scheme of things, but this space feels more like my own. Our physical space matters and cultivating home within it is good, meaningful work.

Here's to gaps being filled, even if the gap was only in my sitting room.

Roll it on out.

After much time (crudely dubbed procrastination) and strenuous effort (all in my noggin), the blog has arrived. But, blogs about blogs are trite and, according to some reliable forgotten source, bad form. So I'll cut it short.

I am starting this blog as a creative space to stretch and grow.  And also because I am a twenty-something: it's what we do.

And here's my heart. I love my age and the people close to it. This is a time of newness, freedom, expression and adventure. At the same time, I see in others and feel in myself a tendency to allow disappointed expectations shrivel those lovely words. They become a fear-filled void, and we cope with cynicism. We speak in satire and attempt to bedazzle the gloom with lifestyles that fail to nurture.

I want more for myself and for the ones I love. I want to pursue the fresh, sweet, simple present. And I want to do so in a spirit of discovery.

My discoveries truly will be ordinary. I am focusing on life from one day to the next: working as a teacher, eating nourishing foods, reading good books, growing in friendship.

Care to join?