It's Happening...

Seven

Seven. Seven is the number of birds that have, er, kicked the bucket by flying into our sliding glass door these past two weeks. The story goes like this:

Bird eats berries off the tree in front of our deck. Bird likes berries. Bird gets all his buddies to come eat the berries too. Birds get excited. Maybe a little drunk. Nobody assigned a designated driver. They all decide to leave at once. Some fly left, some fly right, some fly up, some fly down, and some choose to fly right into our door.

A few of them are able to flap and flop themselves back to life (nature's defibrillator), but seven, alas, didn't make it. They become an easy treat for a neighborhood cat. Not our cat. Some other cat.

Speaking of cats, it makes me think about the Mexican cat my brother and I found when we were living in El Paso. Poor lil' girl. She swam across the Rio just for the chance at a better life. I sure hope we gave that to her. Sigh.

Come, Fall

Fall is my favorite season. Though I think I say that about every season. Oh, but fall…

Fall gives us the best of summer without the tyrannous heat. Come, day and light, give us your warm, low sun. Kiss our lips with the last rose of summer.

Fall gives us the best of winter without the fleeting daylight. Come, evening and dark, give us rest in your cool air. Touch our cheeks with wintery fingers.

Fall gives us the heaviness of the harvest. Come, fields, praise God with your worth. Fill our bellies with nourishing comfort.

Fall beckons wool and cashmere out from their summer tomb. Come, sweaters, enfold us in soft pile. We itch to be itching.

Fall wraps its golden thread round the trees and bushes. Come, Lord, wrap a golden thread round me. May I offer a display of your uniqueness and beauty.

Fall feels like the glorious culmination of a successful spring and summer before its wintery end. Come, Lord, place your blessing on me as I move through spring and summer, awaiting culmination. May I have a full harvest.

Pickles, Pickles, Everywhere

Thanks to the canning equipment from my mom-in-law and the 20+ pounds of cucumbers from my friend, I now have 30 jars of pickles in my cupboard.

What shall I do with 30 jars of pickles, you ask? Eat them. Eat them all. Providing they taste good, I just might share some with you. That is, if we can make it past six weeks of curing without popping the lids off and tucking in.

The Life of Missing

I am perpetually missing something. Trying to bake and missing an ingredient (currently: molasses). Coming home from the store only to find I am out of something else (currently: napkins). Trying to use Mod Podge without a foam brush (substitute: q-tips).

It’s a hard life to live, to be always doing without. I’d like to think I have become very resilient and creative because of it. In fact, I used up my molasses because I was halfway through making oatmeal cookies only to find I was out of brown sugar (substitute: white sugar and molasses). And we have fabric napkins, which always serve to add a little elegance to any meal.

But there is something always missing that I can’t substitute or fix myself. Well, I suppose it’s not exactly missing, rather incomplete. Wanting. Partial. Imperfect. It’s that space in between my front teeth. A diastema. Gap teeth.

I thank God that my teeth are straight. Despite my heavy coffee and tea drinking, fairly white (thank you, Oral-B and Crest White Strips). Braces were never an option growing up. And I envy my brothers with their un-braced straight and even teeth. But with my gap teeth, freckles, and hair that some people insist is redish, I feel like I belong with the Beverly Hillbillies. I never felt more like a honky than when we lived in El Paso, Texas. The Hispanic kids with their dark hair, brown skin, and black eyes regularly ridiculed me about my fair skin, skinny legs, freckles, and gap teeth.

Different eras in history thought gap teeth were a sign of beauty. Favor from God. Dare I say it - erotic. But in our era of manufactured beauty it’s easy to feel insufficient. If one doesn’t have a perfect body, perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect teeth, don’t even consider thinking oneself pretty.

My mind is a sea of emotions regarding my teeth. On the wave crest I like the shape of my teeth and don’t mind the distance between them. In the troughs I think I can’t go another day with these holes in my smile.

I insisted to Mr. Wright that once we had bought a house and worked out our new monthly budget that I wanted braces. “Okay,” he says. “But I’ll miss the old you.” Would I miss the old me? Would I fix my missing only to find I have a new missing?

Psalm 139:13-18

¹³ You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body
and knit me together in my mother’s womb.
¹⁴ Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex!
Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.
¹⁵ You watched me as I was being formed in utter seclusion,
as I was woven together in the dark of the womb.
¹⁶ You saw me before I was born.
Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
before a single day had passed.

¹⁷ How precious are your thoughts about me, O God.
They cannot be numbered!
¹⁸ I can’t even count them;
they outnumber the grains of sand!
And when I wake up,
you are still with me!

Thank you, God, for making me. For making me unique and one-of-a-kind. Thank you for purposing me the way you did. I know it is no accident - with you there are no accidents. Help me to love your workmanship, inside and out. You are altogether holy and praiseworthy.

Design Bravery

You may know that a year and a half ago I took up sewing. It has turned into nearly an obsession. I love the entire process - choosing a project, picking out fabric, cutting the fabric, sewing it together, ripping it apart, sewing it again, pricking my fingers a hundred times, crying, sweating, bleeding into a project and finally seeing the results of my labor. Satisfaction, indeed.

I thought about putting together a scrapbook of my works - even bought a notebook for it - but I really hate scrapbooking. Instead I have created a blog to showcase my work. A purely narcissistic venture. Not only will I have a journal of my projects (what it is, when I made it, who it was for), but you can see what I do when Mr. Wright is nose deep in homework. A girl has got to keep busy.

First you'll see projects that you have probably seen before. I have a few others that I need to put up, and even projects that I have not yet taken pictures of. Including the quilt I made last December/January. How's that for procrastination?

Click Here

An Ode to Broccoli

When I saw the purple broccoli at the Farmer's Market, I knew what to do. Two heads made it snuggly into my bag.

Mr. Wright isn't especially fond of broccoli - smells like I'm cooking dirty gym socks for dinner, he says. But don't you know, says I, these dirty gym socks are practically a perfect vegetable? Chock full of vitamins and minerals and goodness for your body.

Try as I might, using logic and sneaking in broccoli when he isn't looking, I just can't get him to like it. Oh, he is a good husband and eats it when I make it, but I am acutely aware that if I tried to make it often he'd start a coup.

Oh broccoli - you who fill me to overflowing with vitamin C and K. You offer me your folate and B6, thiamin and niacin, calcium and iron, potassium and manganese, and little bits of A and E. When the mister is away, how can I resist? For dinner, it's just you and me.

One of the great injustices to vegetables is how we buy and prepare it. Many people only buy frozen vegetables for the convenience. While I agree it is convenient, it is entirely unappetizing. Usually the vegetables are cooked before they are frozen, so the vegetables merely need to be reheated to serve, but it is almost impossible to reheat them without cooking them to oblivion.

I cannot stomach frozen broccoli. I'm sorry if fresh costs more (I don't know - I never buy frozen), but try to work it into your budget. You can still ruin fresh broccoli by overcooking it, but give this a try:

Saute over medium heat some chopped garlic and red pepper flakes in a little olive oil until you start to smell their deliciousness. Add your chopped broccoli florets and peeled stems and saute for about five minutes, or until they reach the tenderness that you so desire.

Bob's your uncle, alright. And, yes, use the stems. Peel off the tough outer skin and inside is glory. If you do happen to find the especially tender purple broccoli at your farmer's market, use the leaves too. Sadly, the purple broccoli loses it's lavender hue while cooking, but you will enjoy it nonetheless. Bon appetit.