I feel like I need to stretch after this one. After all, it’s been QUITE awhile since my last recipe post; my photo food styling skills were definitely more than a bit rusty. However, as I managed not to eat all the peanut butter popsicle batter, let’s consider this a success anyway.

The internets seem to be awash with homemade popsicle recipes these days. One look at Pinterest and I am seized with the need to go buy a case of coconut milk, armfuls of every fruit in the produce aisle, and start making popsicles by the dozen. Homemade popsicles are a great way to make something sweet and cool, but still healthy. Puree up some in-season fruit castoffs from your local farmer’s market, add a touch of this or that, and POOF! Instant dreamy summery treats that won’t make you want to hide in sweatpants at the beach.

Okay, so these are not really those kind of popsicles.
Like, the healthy, fruity kind.
These are the kind that involve things like browned butter, heavy cream, and ganache.

I’m sorry and you’re welcome.

While trying to think of something special for Mother’s Day, I kept coming back to the idea of a peanut butter popsicle. And when there is peanut butter, dark chocolate naturally wants to tag along. And then I started imagining a layer of brown buttery graham cracker crumbs sandwiched in there somehow; sort of like a really fancy s’more with no marshmallow. While describing my idea to a friend, his eyes widened and he said, “So, it’s basically peanut butter pie.” And I realized, indeed it is!

Thus was born into the world, Peanut Butter Pie Popsicles. Rich, creamy, chocolatey, crunchy, frozen, decadent, and maybe a little naughty. But really — there’s all the time in the world for healthy popsicles…tomorrow.

For today, let’s lick and gobble our pie and let it dribble down our elbows.
(We’ll make green smoothies for breakfast tomorrow.)

Peanut Butter Pie Popsicles
Makes 10 to 12 popsicles, depending on mold size

1 package (8 oz.) cream cheese, softened
1 cup creamy peanut butter
3/4 cup heavy cream (I imagine half and half would work well too, if you want to trim the decadence)
1/2 cup powdered sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 cup dry roasted peanuts, coarsely chopped (optional)

1 cup coarse graham cracker crumbs (from about 2/3 of a sleeve)
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and browned
1 tablespoon turbinado (raw) sugar

6 oz. chopped dark chocolate, about 70% cacao
3 tablespoons heavy cream

In a large bowl (stand mixer or hand mixer would work well), beat together the cream cheese and peanut butter until well combined. Add the 3/4 cup heavy cream, powdered sugar, and vanilla extract. Beat together on medium low speed until creamy and smooth. Fold in the chopped peanuts, if using.

In a small saucepan over medium low heat, melt and brown your butter. For more detailed instructions on how to brown butter, see this post or this post. In a small bowl, mix together browned butter, graham cracker crumbs, and turbinado sugar until thoroughly combined. Set aside.

In a small, microwave safe bowl, combine chocolate and 3 tablespoons heavy cream. Microwave in short, 30 second bursts, stirring after each, until the chocolate is melted and the ganache is smooth.

In your popsicle mold, fill each mold about halfway full of peanut butter batter, firmly tapping the mold several times on the countertop to release air bubbles. (I found using a medium tip pastry bag to be the easiest way to do this. My molds are rather narrow on the top and a spoon was too big.) Add a generous layer of chocolate ganache on top of each peanut butter layer (again, I used a small pastry bag for ease), tapping the mold again to release air bubbles. With the remaining peanut butter batter (about 1 cup or less), mix in the graham cracker mixture. Spoon this on the top of each mold, pressing firmly to fill in gaps and smoothing the tops with a small rubber spatula. Insert sticks as your mold instructs and freeze for at least 4 hours, or overnight.

Run warm water over each mold and gently unmold each popsicle. Eat and enjoy immediately.

(Sorry there are no photos of the gleaming final products. They, um, pretty much were devoured before a shutter could be clicked. But trust me, they were beautiful!)

Today, I’m spending a morning off with a stack of books, cup of coffee, and OneRepublic’s new album “Native” on repeat. (Though if I’m honest, it’s been on repeat for about two weeks now. Really. I cannot, physically stop pressing ‘play’. It is actually that good.) I have found myself in the midst of a few books that are really just blowing my hat off (if I was wearing a hat) and I wanted to share.

Supper of the Lamb: A Culinary Reflection by Robert Farrar Capon

“To be sure, food keeps us alive, but that is only its smallest and most temporary work. Its eternal purpose is to furnish our sensibilities against the day when we shall sit down at the heavenly banquet and see how gracious the Lord is. Nourishment is necessary only for a while; what we shall need forever is taste. Food is the daily sacrament of unnecessary goodness, ordained for a continual remembrance that the world will always be more delicious than it is useful. Necessity is the mother only of cliches. It takes playfulness to make poetry.”

Evidence by Mary Oliver

“Sometimes I need only
to stand
wherever I am
to be blessed”

Firstlight: The Early Inspirational Writings by Sue Monk Kidd

“Humans, I discovered, need stories the way we need air.”

What are you reading this spring?

But today, in the simple act of hand-writing a few cards to friends far away, I decided to stop and think before just writing words to fill white space. What is it that I’m REALLY saying? How can I reach past cliches or phrases that are losing ground and find a way to say something that truly speaks? How can I be a channel of love and honesty and affirmation, not for my own sake, but for the sake of those for whom I desire love, truth, and affirmation?

And I found myself thinking about this blog.

I thought about the multitude of entries, paragraphs, and words, many of them left in the past quiet of other years. In the last six months, I think I can count my entries here on one hand: a scattering of Instagram photos and a few musings. My words became fewer the more that I thought, “What you write isn’t life-changing. It’s not like anyone is really counting on you, hoping you’ll write, waiting for it.” And I’m sure to a large extent, that is true.

But I had forgotten what well-crafted words do to me and for me. In a medium in which I have become accustomed to hurry and bustle, taking time to sit down and write something more than a text or a 140 character Tweet — it forces me to slow down and honor the words which I give life. It brings about an awareness that there is more going on inside a human mind and heart than I acknowledge; a sacred rhythm which is deep and needs tending to and nurturing, not just expelling. As one who values well-spoken and well-written words, I felt stricken with the responsibility of returning to taking my own seriously.

So in that, I tentatively begin to ask myself if I might consider writing again. Not in order to be thought quick, witty, or quirky. Not in order to further Instagram my entire life, so I might keep a filter over the things that maybe aren’t so cute. But because our stories deserve to be told with intention, depth, and beauty. Because as much as I don’t always believe it, my story is not too unimportant or too small.

There’s a line from a favorite film of mine that seems to often sum up how I feel:

“Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life – well, valuable, but small – and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven’t been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn’t it be the other way around? I don’t really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So good night, dear void.”

Perhaps my life is small. Perhaps it is not so important in the grand scheme of the world. But it is a good, brave life. It is a good, brave story. And it deserves good, brave words. Maybe it’s about time I started writing them again.

…….

Though this may seem like an ironic punch against what I just wrote, but I recently joined the rest of the human race on Twitter. I’d like to connect to new people, so look me up. I’d love to see and hear a little of your story.

“Oh don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll meet someone.”

It has all the intention and wording of encouragement, yet none of the zing or warmth. Instead, what is usually (hopefully) meant to be a kind word of confidence has always sounded unbearably patronizing and left me feeling rather deflated and retroactively pathetic. The defensive part of me wants to shout, “I’m not worried! Seriously! And maybe I will meet someone. And maybe I won’t. But I’m fine! Really! I’M NOT WORRIED. WHY DO YOU THINK I’M SO WORRIED?” Since this is perhaps a slight overreaction, I’ve decided on a better, less verbally aggressive course of action.

I’ve decided the next time some dear, well-meaning person says that to me, I have a simple response.

“Oh I have met someone. Several someones, actually. Mostly women.”

(Cue blank stares and looks of confusion.)

No, I have not reevaluated my sexuality or my stance on polygamy. I haven’t thrown all hope of being romanced by a man to the winds and joined a convent or some kind of progressive lady commune.

But I’ve realized how much I’ve rather fallen in love with my tribe.

“Your tribe?” you ask. “What is a tribe?”

Well, thank you for asking. And I’d love to tell you.

My tribe is simply a term to describe the community of people who I live life alongside every day; the people who so often hold me up; whose texts are never a nuisance and whose requests for prayers or advice are enough of a reason to stop what I’m doing and pray or advise. For me, these are the women who never tire of encouraging me time and time again, as I encounter what seem like the same stumbling blocks on this long, long road; whose affirmations, Postagrams, cards, letters, emails, texts, time, and silly links on Facebook remind me that I am never forgotten, never alone, never “without”, never “the other”. They are those who insist on champagne to celebrate new jobs and new years; those who tell you if that dress actually isn’t flattering on you; those who trespass with you into a park so you can sled down giant hills while holding sparklers in the air; those who let you tell your stories over and over again and you know that they are still listening and caring.

These are women who have sustained great loss but whose spirits glow with the hope and experience of grace, and grace, and grace again. Some are single, some are married, some are divorced or widowed or currently sorting through new relationships that scare and provoke. Some are here and some are there; some are seeing and serving the world, going back to school, learning to build a home, learning to survive a job, learning to be a wife or a mother or alone. Some I have known for years, others I have known for only months.

These women are fighters, wild and fearsome in their love for this tribe; they are wonderfully tender and equally strong; endlessly forgiving, and often the first to cry when I cry (and sometimes when I can’t). They are my truth-tellers and challengers and guardians. We toast one another with fancy, overpriced martinis and pick each other up when our cars break down. We don red lipstick for pure confidence, winking at the guys walking past us from the bar next door as we can’t stop laughing (mostly because we secretly believe no one else is nearly as hilarious as we are). We speak to one another in unfailing honesty, no matter what it costs; honesty of ourselves, of each other, and of the God many of us have collectively chosen to love and serve. We aren’t sugar-coaters or bullshitters, but we speak to one another in love, even when that love requires giving or receiving difficult words.

But most of all, we are are protectors of each others’ stories.

Because it is a sacred and holy thing to trust another person with your story. Not only with your past, but with your present, with your future. We hold that privilege closely, guarding it ferociously like we were mother lions stalking in front of our dens. These stories are gifts we earned; gifts we listened for, cried for, laughed for, road tripped for, walked through months and years of friendship for, and we treat them as such. We hold in reverence that this story we are living together is now a part of everyone’s stories and, most wholly, part of the Great Story. We are ultimately for each other without doubt and it is that that weaves a common thread through the stories of us all; that binds us together, that writes the names of each of these women on my arms and on my heart and I on theirs.

And this tribe is why my loneliness that once felt like a vibrating loudspeaker now seems more like an occasional soft hum. It is why being single no longer feels like being alone. These women are why there is a part of me that isn’t sure I want to meet a man at all, because I can’t imagine giving up time with these amazing people for anyone else. (Though I grant you, if a man extraordinary enough comes along, I would consider it. But oh sister, would he have to be worth it.) These women are why if I do meet a fellow some day, I’m not so worried anymore that my eternal optimism and questionable tendency to believe the best in everyone won’t handicap my ability to judge wisely.

Because they will be there alongside me. Because what I once had to do falteringly and mostly on my own is now something that others have a stake in, for better or worse. Because when I said “yes” to life with these women, I said “yes” to them stepping into my story, to them having a right and a responsibility to speak truth into my relationships and decisions and problems.

So yes, I have met someone.

And they’re absolutely amazing.

(P.S. As a note to all my wonderful, amazing, supportive, and truly loved male friends, I’m sorry if the gender pronouns in this post left you out. Be assured; you are important and necessary and precious to me. I’ve just been feeling a particular surge of lady love for the women in my life recently and wanted to express it.)

Still here!
Hello!

So it turns out that I’ve become irrepressibly lazy in my free time, and watching “New Girl” and eating toast is a more important occupation than keeping up with a blog or doing other things, like vacuuming or taking off my wonky toenail polish from two months ago. I’m learning about the important things in life and sometimes, it includes Netflix and going an extended amount of time without leaving the house…or the couch. It’s tucking my leggings into my socks and wearing crazy reading glasses that make me look like Diane Keaton in “Baby Boom” and devouring new books that make me whoop and cheer. It’s watching four Tom Hanks movies in two days and wondering how Meg Ryan pulls off mom pants and is still cute. It’s eating Thanksgiving dinner and promptly rolling onto the couch and sleeping for two hours while drooling a little, because I worked 27 hours in the two days leading up to Thanksgiving and because I ate too much stuffing.

But as I was sorting through photos from the last few months, trying to find something for my sister, I found a few that made me smile and thought I’d share them. Not that my life is all that interesting, but I think it’s a good and necessary thing to find the little things in life and celebrate the heck out of them.

Small things like PBJ cupcakes for birthdays (strawberry jam! crushed salted peanuts!) and decorating the Christmas tree even when it’s freakishly 60 degrees outside (before it proceeds to snow the next day). Let’s hear it for woodsy walks with gorgeous ladies and finally finishing books you started nearly a year ago; for painting your nails on Skype with friends far away from home, and for building twinkly blanket forts with the friends who are nearby. It’s baking cakes for no reason and making pancakes for every reason; it’s surprise mail and an ever-expanding collection of colored tights. As the rush of the holidays whooshes over the heads of all, let’s just take a minute to cheer for all things merry and bright.

“At its root, perfectionism isn’t really about a deep love of being meticulous. It’s about fear. Fear of making a mistake. Fear of disappointing others. Fear of failure. Fear of success.”
― Michael Law

In my rare free evening tonight, I began digging through my 600+ item Google Reader list, plowing through entry after entry, mostly recipes and creative whatnots that get my brain a-stirring. So here I am, Pinning this and noting that, craving doughnuts and getting the itch to make a big pot of soup and take photos of it.

And then I see this quote on Not Without Salt and I felt the breath constrict in my chest. How did this person know? How did they call me out? Oh crap, this is true, isn’t it. I’m a fear addict with a zesty and compulsive desire to organize and order things; not a thing perfect about it.

I am a perfectionist.
Let’s start with that.
I am a keep-everything-organized, people-pleasing, fear-stricken, I-can-evolve-past-mistakes perfectionist.

The past few weeks, I’ve felt the fear end of that bargain really, really strongly and have been wrestling with it pretty intentionally. There have been days where I win and days where fear does. It’s a push and pull, a give and take, and I know this will be a lifelong routine for me, hard as that is to accept. This will be a constant battle for the rest of my days. It’s the reality I live in and I am learning to sit in that tension without holding it inside.

Last winter, when I visited England with my dear friend, we spent a day in rainy Winchester, wandering around the cobblestone streets, popping in the cathedral to pay our respects to Jane Austen and going bananas when we found cute Union Jack pillows from a local shop to take home. Along with this, we met our friend Chris and his friend Jim for coffee. Jim heads up an organization in Scotland called Cantle and has an uncanny gift to sense and name people’s personalities within seconds of meeting them. I was a bit skeptical of this, but after two minutes in his company, I felt stripped to the barest bones and wasn’t entirely sure I wasn’t in the Twilight Zone. It actually was a bit spooky, truth be told. Among other things (which I honestly can’t remember it all, I was too in shock), he told me that I’m a perfectionist and always fear asking people for anything, for I’m always afraid it’s too much. He noted that when I am able to move past this fear, I am actually able to access a remarkable level of creativity.

I had no idea what to say to that. Not only was it entirely true, but it was something revolutionary and stunning that I had never really pinpointed before. But since then, those concepts have floated around in my head, challenging me to move forward beyond this barrier of fear and live more fully into the creativity that I feel bouncing around within those walls. It seems that only by making mistakes and allowing disappointment, those walls can be dismantled brick by brick.

This week has been one of mistakes. I forgot to note that we needed to order bread enzymes at work and thanks to my mistake, we had to throw out 32 pans of vegan buns that deflated and came out flat as hockey pucks. I couldn’t stop apologizing and felt like the world’s hugest idiot all week. That empty enzyme container taunted me and I felt like crawling under a rock. This mistake wasn’t just a small one; it was one that cost the business money. It’s one that can’t be apologized away or quickly fixed. It’s a mistake I’ve had to sit in and ask for grace in, both to my boss and co-workers, and to myself. I don’t think any of them were nearly as hard on me as I was on myself. It was an experience that taught in a big way, both in specifics for my job and in the larger life sense.

We let go. We move on and learn and let ourselves feel through what we need to feel. And life continues.

So I’m taking small steps, one at a time, to dismantle these fears, so deceptively glazed over with a more attractive perfectionist veneer. I know that as I do this, my appreciation for order and attention to detail will better flourish in an inner environment that isn’t so constrictive and fearful. I pray that as I can call these things out and name them and speak them out loud, the less power the fear will hold and the more I may grow, being open to being a broken person who will always be so, who can never be entirely fixed, and who might allow people to love me as such, without apology, and only with grace.

You’re 28 now! Congratulations, friend; I bet it feels good. When I think about to how you thought 28 would be ten years ago, when you were a tender-faced 18 year old, getting ready to finish high school and dreaming about the big world out there, I have to laugh. I’m pretty sure by 28, you thought life would be like a cleaned-up version of “Sex and the City”. You’d be living in some impossibly cool city, striding around in high heels, going for Cosmos with your inevitably charming and cute husband, and working the day away in some hip office where you’d use your PR skills to save the world.

Oh, how disappointed 18 year old you would be to found out that you’re more akin to some bohemian vagabond, whose life Carrie Bradshaw would never write a column about; who never wears high heels, who prefers craft beer to Cosmos, who works at an organic farm, and whose love life is an occasional blip on the radar instead of the heartbeat by which everything else keeps time.

Actually, the love bit is what I really wanted to speak to in this letter, for it’s been on my mind.

If you recall at 18, you were frozen with insecurities when it came to boys. Your first boyfriend left you for your best friend and you spent months pinpointing all the ways you weren’t enough. You wrecked your brain believing that if you had only been exactly what he wanted, he wouldn’t have left. This set you in a pattern of thinking that has foolishly persisted over the years.

Let us remember your crushed, confused heart at 19. And 20. And 22. And 25.

What I want to say is this: I know there are wounds that will always have that ghost pain; a never-fully-healed quality, where those weaknesses and insecurities build a stronghold that our own humanity will never be able to fully conquer. I know you will spend the rest of your life fighting against those thoughts that speak so pervasively and poisonously, telling you that you will never be enough for anyone unless you become exactly what they want.

But I want to remind you that this is simply a bold-faced lie.
Did you hear me?
That. Is. A. Lie.

You do not have to ever feel like you must change for anyone to love you. Though you didn’t know this ten years ago, I can tell you now that you are, without hesitation, an extraordinary, intelligent, and wholly loved person just as you are, and most importantly, you are finally in a place where you believe that (well, most of the time). You’ve stopped allowing other people write out your worth and speak to you as if your value is for them to decide. This has been the lesson that has cost the most to learn and one you will keep learning over and over again.

In the words of Ezekiel,

“You became mine…You grew more and more beautiful, and became fit for royalty. Your beauty won you fame among the nations, for it was perfected by the splendor which I set upon you, declares the LORD.”

This beauty is something no one can take from you, because it’s nothing that they gave. It’s the kind that was woven into you by your Creator, was written into your skin, your bones, and your very marrow and soul. It’s the kind of beauty that nourishes you with real, honest life, that reminds you who you are on days when you feel small and worthless; the beauty that ripens with time, that has nothing to do with whether or not your thighs feel huge or if your hair looks cute today or if the guy wearing the hipster glasses at the coffee shop notices you or not.

I know the temptation is unbearably strong sometimes to believe that you have to arrange yourself in certain ways for someone to notice and love you. I know that when you consistently fall for those rugged guys whose hands are smeared with dirt and whose adventurous spirit thrills you, you immediately feel embarrassed about your lack of outdoor panache and hemp pants. You want to hide your tangerine nail polish and piles of cute Anthropologie dishes and pretend like, of course I want to sell everything I own and bike across the country and be everything you want me to be because you have a beard and smell like mown grass and clean t-shirts and I’m lonely.

Well, simply put, don’t do that.

Rock your nail polish.
Dig in the dirt anyway, but do it because you like it.
Enjoy your yellow kitchen timer and IKEA bookcases and funky vintage artwork.
Don’t be ashamed of valuing beauty and whimsy. It’s not worthless.
Live in the loneliness when it arrives and don’t fear it. (And maybe go buy some cute underwear.)
Dance to Rihanna and Usher even when indie folk seems cooler (it’s okay to love both).
And remember that if it turns out that you aren’t exactly what this man wants or needs, there’s a fair chance he probably isn’t what you want or need, either.

I’m so proud of where you’re arrived in these last ten years. I know it’s been a rough journey and that it will continue to be as the years press on. But you aren’t alone and never will be.

Thank you for learning to love yourself, exactly as you are, and keep believing with that characteristic, relentless optimism that you will always find people who do, too.

I’ll be seeing you,
C.

[photos from weheartit.com]

I first scoffed, thinking “I don’t need one more thing to keep up with”. Well, that’s true. But heck if I don’t just adore Pinterest. As someone who is constantly thriving on the creative juices that swirl around me, I find it an excellent way to organize my ideas and inspirations for all my creative outlets, be it food, graphic design, photography, home decor, travel, or throwing parties.

I keep coming across so many darling sayings that I want to design artwork around but seeing as eventually, I will run out of time and wall space to do that, I just wanted to share a few on here just because (both in text and image, I’ve linked all to their original sources).

“People who love to eat are always the best people.” //  Julia Child

“If you are lucky enough to find a way of life you love, you have to find the courage to live it.” // John Irving

“When you seek beauty in all people and all things, you not only find it, you become it.” // unknown

“There is no sincerer love than the love of food.” // George Bernard Shaw

“We must be our own before we can be another’s.” // Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Above all, be the heroine in your own life, not the victim.” // Norah Ephron

“I have no special talent. I am just passionately curious.” // Albert Einstein

I don’t like being the center of attention or being singled out in front of a group of people. The idea of being fussed over and celebrated nearly makes me nauseated with fear. I want to hide when people sing me “Happy Birthday” and have the most horrid case of stage fright. I will rarely ask anything of anyone, because it always feels like too much, even though (as an Enneagram Two) I dearly wanted people to acknowledge and appreciate me and my accomplishments, though I will sink in the sand before I ask anyone to.

Growing up in the shadow of two older sisters who definitely stood out (and whom I idolized), I always felt shy and timid at the idea that I would be looked upon with the full force of anyone’s eyes or thoughts. I wasn’t the typical youngest child who put on shows and danced at family reunions; I was the kid hiding under my mom’s skirt or peering out from behind a show curtain, begging my exuberant sister to please, please don’t make me go out in front of all those people. I really believed I was no one special, though I secretly wanted to be. I excelled in school and felt a sense of pride in my accomplishments, yet felt awkward and uncomfortable if anyone pointed it out. I was the girl who was friends with everyone, who didn’t really have a group, because having a group meant I had a specific identity and having a specific identity meant that people would pay attention to me and have expectations and there was a good chance I would disappoint them.

So I wrote for the school newspaper instead of making the news.
I did makeup for school plays instead of acting in them.
I was friends with all the boys instead of dating them.

I never wanted to stand out.

I went into college with the same mentality. I continued on as a social chameleon, changing my spots in each group I was in, so that I might happily blend in. I could find things in common with everyone without being fake, so I could still be genuine without having to be different. I was just so terrified of being really noticed and called out and held responsible for who I really might be; someone who IS a big deal, who DOES stand out, who IS actually someone special.

I went through a few years where practically everything I bought was grey, when I stopped wearing makeup because it felt too flashy, and went nearly mute at the idea of wearing anything remotely snug or saucy, because people might look at me. So I worked in a career that I didn’t like, wore clothes I didn’t feel like myself in, and hid as much as I possibly could, so that no one could be disappointed if I turned out not to be who they wanted me to be. My temperament and attitude was honest and real to who I am, but at the same time, I hid behind it just the same because it was sweet and polite and safe.

Until one Friday afternoon, sitting in a nursery at my church, cleaning a pile of baby toys, I asked myself what I would do if I could do anything, be anything.

“I would bake,” I thought. “I would travel the world and I would bake.”

That was the day I decided to quit my job and go to culinary school. That was the first time I think I ever really made a real decision without worrying about anyone else’s expectations of me; the first decision I ever made that was just for me, in tune with who I really am; a decision not motivated by fear but by honesty and courage.

And I’ve found it to be a catalyst for some of the most radically surprising, challenging, crazy, and fun years of my life. I’ve found that taking chances is addicting and has a ripple effect unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced. When I finally felt as if I had permission to be myself, it shook to life a desire to discover in a true and authentic way who that person might be.

Someone special, someone fun, someone brave, someone bold.
In short, all the things that make a person stand out and all the things that I had been hiding from for my entire life.

I’m not sure where the boldness came from exactly, except to say that I feel it moving inside of me still; a courageous and zesty Spirit stirring up all that scares me, that asks me the hard questions and forces me to confront them. The Spirit opens my eyes to my friends and family who live lives of boldness every day and who inspire me more than anything else. From my amazing father whose persistence and courage astound me every day, to one of my closest friends who leaves in a few weeks to work on behalf of the Peace Corps in Ukraine, to my Anglophile friend whose crazy fashion shakes up my world of gray t-shirts, to dear friends who doggedly pursue a story framed by hope even when theirs has been a story of loss and sorrow.

As I prepare to head into Year #28, I have decided this is the Year of Bold Living. This is the year of doing things I’ve never done simply because I don’t want people paying attention to me or singling me out. I’ve decided I’m going to do them anyway.

So I’ve started with a few things that to others might seem trivial or material but, to me, are things I’ve always wanted to try or do but haven’t out of a fear of looking stupid; symbols of a growing internal change continuing to become external.

I bought bright yellow pants that make my butt look great. There is absolutely no hiding in these pants.

I’m rocking large framed reading glasses that I’ve loved from afar but was sure would look dumb on me.

I switched to a hoop for my nose ring, which is far more noticeable and sassy than my tiny little stud.

And I’m throwing myself a birthday party. An actual, live, in-person, real celebration, full of cupcakes and music, friends and yard games; I’m asking people to celebrate my life, an idea that still nearly makes me break out in hives, but I’m doing it anyway, because it’s a life worth throwing a party for.

It’s a life that is learning to stand out, to take risks, to fail and wander and not know and ask without a guarantee of an answer. And as I learn all of that, I am also learning that in some ways, I will always be the girl who can find something in common with everyone, who will never like being the center of attention and who wants to blend in as much as I want to be noticed.

But I am being her, flawed as she is, with boldness.
And I think that deserves to be celebrated.

Zucchini season is upon us!

I’m up to my elbows in these green monsters, eyes wide, frantically combing through Pinterest for more ways to use them up as these sneaky devils seem to multiply while my back is turned. Our CSA has been flooding us with vegetables all summer and as the squash begins to come in, we’re amping up our consumption: sauteing, slicing for sandwiches, shredding for salads, and of course, for the perennial summer favorite, zucchini bread!

I remember my dad’s zucchini bread; deep brown, shiny with butter and smelling of cinnamon that nearly makes you float with contentment. It’s a dear favorite of mine, sliced in large chunks, eaten with a glass of iced tea, but I was looking to try something a little different this season. Something lighter, with more grain and less grease, and perhaps a touch of cocoa (for what isn’t made better with bittersweet chocolate, I ask you).

I came across this recipe from Seven Spoons and I’ve found it to be a champion amongst zucchini quick breads. I swapped out nuts for millet and pumpkin seeds (mostly because I discovered I was out of any kind of nut) and the crunch is a welcome addition to the moist softness of this bread. Studded with dark chocolate, this bread is sensational with a cup of coffee and also freezes beautifully.

(Just make sure to brush the crumbs off your face before someone realizes you’ve eaten half the loaf. And maybe you can blame it on the cat.)

Chocolate Olive Oil Zucchini Bread
Slightly adapted from Seven Spoons

Softened butter, for pans

1 1/2 cups whole wheat flour
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1/2 cup whole millet
1/2 cup pumpkin seeds, toasted
8 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped
1/2 cup olive oil
1 cup well-shaken buttermilk (I used whole milk with good results also)
2 eggs
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
4 cups shredded zucchini

Preheat an oven to 350°F (175°C). Grease two 9-by-5-by-3-inch loaf pans with softened butter. Use a length of parchment to line the bottom and long sides of the pan, forming a sling, and lightly butter the parchment as well. Set aside.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flours, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Stir in the millet, pumpkin seeds, and chocolate. Set aside.

In another bowl, whisk together the olive oil and buttermilk. Add the eggs, sugar and vanilla, and beat until smooth. Stir in the zucchini.

Pour the wet ingredients into the dry, stir until combined, taking care not over mix. Divide the batter evenly between the two prepared pans and bake, rotating once, until a cake tester inserted into the loaf comes out almost clean, around 50 minutes. Cool loaves in their pans on a rack for 20 minutes, then grasp the edges of the parchment to ease the bread out.

Cool fully before slicing.

Makes two loaves

In the gentle warmth of the morning, enjoying the pause before the heat of the day kicks in, I’m sitting on my front porch, coffee in hand and breeze in my hair, allowing myself some time to simply be with the One whom I love.

I’ve been meditating on a few words this morning, wanting to chew on them slowly, look deeper into their meaning and context, and exploring how that might shape how I view God and His place and presence in the world and in me.

abide (to remain, to dwell, to sustain)

Adonai (Master, Lord of the Lords)

YHVH (the Unutterable Name, the personal name of God, source of all being)

As I’ve been reading more about the Hebrew and Jewish roots of these names and concepts, I came across this blessing that I found stirring and achingly beautiful. As I thought about what it means to truly live in the one that is Adonai Nissi, “the LORD my miracle and banner”, I desire to see all things through an altered lens. A lens, a frame, that speaks to how God is meeting my needs just as they are, even when I feel bereft and confused, I can trust that He can see as I cannot.

I found this blessing, Kol Tzorki (a blessing of gratitude for meeting my needs), fitting and good:

[Source here]

It is hot.

So very, very hot.

I sweat when I blink. It’s that hot.

Admittedly, this makes me want to drink all of my food lately. That might sound a bit lushy, but this mostly means I’ve been drinking a lot of smoothies. Apples, strawberries, pineapple, kale, spinach, oatmeal, peaches; I have been using my blender more than my oven (which, for how much I use the oven, is really saying something).

However, sometimes in life, a lady just needs a cocktail. Specifically, an icy cocktail. More specifically, an icy cocktail with gin. The wonderful Shutterbean recently posted up a recipe for Pineapple Gin Punch, and I knew I’d found a winner. However, instead of using pineapple juice, I thought I’d kick it up by using frozen pineapple to go for a more slushy consistency.

Oh my goodness.
OH. MY. GOODNESS.

Magical, absolutely magical. Be warned: this tastes like heaven and might get you into trouble.

Frozen Pineapple Gin Punch
Slightly adapted from Shutterbean

1 16 oz bag frozen pineapple
1 cup mint leaves
3 tablespoons sugar
1/2 cup fresh lime juice
1/2 cup gin (4 shots total)
lime wedges for garnish

Blend the frozen pineapple in a blender with mint, sugar, lime juice, and gin until the drink is smooth and pourable.

Chill until ready to serve. Fill glasses and garnish with lime wedges & extra mint.

Serves 4

Well, I’ve decided to take hold of this summer and cram as many wonderful memories into it as I possibly can. June has barely begun and already, I have handfuls of wonderful times that give me a good, wiggly feeling in my stomach that this is going to be one epic summer.

We’ve had days lingering at the beach, playing Frisbee in the waves. Gin and tonics in the hot sun, with lots of extra limes. An intimate Bible study with beautiful friends on the best porch in town. A new cropped haircut that makes every summer outfit seem extra cute, paired with a growing affinity for bracelets and mint green nail polish. Mornings spent drinking coffee and Skyping with friends on the front porch, to balance the insanely long work days that summer brings. Wine to toast Sunday evenings, sprawled out on the dock at Reeds Lake. Cakes made, cookies shared, jam preserved, strawberries gobbled, and so many delicious foods savored with wonderful friends and family. Road trips stuffed full of giggles, dancing until we drop at amazing concerts (oh, the Avett Brothers!!!), homeward stops at the best deli ever, and ridiculously huge burgers at 1 a.m. that made us all groan for hours because eating greasy food in the middle of the night is not kind to bodies over 25.

I’m taking back summer, friends.
And it’s oh so good.

When the first pink-tipped stalks of rhubarb show up at the farmer’s market, some little light pings off in my  brain. This little light is persistent, stubborn, and a little crazy. It whispers, prods, and sometimes screams:

“MUST PUT RHUBARB IN EVERYTHING! EVERYTHINGGGGGG!”

(Told you it was a little crazy.)

Simply put, rhubarb is probably my favorite summer fruit to cook and bake with. (See past recipes for this and this; oh yes, and this was delicious, too.) I go weak in the knees at the idea of cobblers, muffins, pies, jams, and cakes, shot through with tender pieces of this gorgeous and (I think) underrated fruit. I just picked up my first rhubarb six days ago and already, I’ve done a compote, a crumble, a batch of muffins, and one pristine jar of this beautiful Rhubarb & Rosewater Syrup.

I came across this recipe on 101 Cookbooks and immediately felt that familiar tingle in my fingers, itching to get in the kitchen and go bonkers. Luckily, I was heading to the Farmer’s Market this very same day to pick up some rhubarb (mostly because it was there and I could; I’m a rhubarb hoarder) and I knew its destiny was now signed, sealed, delivered, to end up as this gorgeous coral-colored syrup. My sisters and I have decided to do a sparkly beverage for our Mother’s Day feast and I think this will be the perfect touch. Elegant and earthy at the same time, plus impossibly beautiful (rather like my own mother; love you, Mom!).

So I opened the screen door in the kitchen, snapped on some Beach Boys, and enjoyed the warm sun and breeze on my bare feet as I got this syrup rolling. As it was, the syrup offers a fair bit of down-time during its preparation and cooking, so I made myself some lunch (and maaaybe a mid-day gin and tonic, like you do) and enjoyed a few chapters of a new book on the porch.

It’s an intense syrup, both in flavor and color. The rosewater is a beautiful, subtle touch; it’s actually one of my favorite flavors to use with rhubarb. Its soft floral notes pair well with the bright tartness of rhubarb and the added lime juice in this syrup sharpens the whole flavor profile.

Serve in club soda, over yogurt, or add to champagne or prosecco for a special treat.

Rhubarb & Rosewater Syrup
From 101 Cookbooks

1 pound rhubarb stalks, chopped
2 cups granulated sugar
2 cups water
2-3 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice, or to taste
scant 2 teaspoons rosewater, or to taste

Combine the rhubarb and sugar in a medium, thick-bottomed saucepan. Stir well, and leave for 45 minutes or so (unheated), stirring now and then.

Add the water and bring to a gentle simmer over medium heat, stirring until the sugar dissolves. Continue to simmer for another 15-20 minutes, until the rhubarb starts to break down. Carefully strain into a bowl through a fine mesh strainer.

Transfer to a clean saucepan, stir in the lime juice, and bring to a simmer. Let simmer over medium heat for another 15 minutes or until the syrup has reduced quite a bit and thickened. Remove from heat and allow to cool completely.

Stir in the rosewater a bit at a time, until it is to your liking. Rose water can be quite an assertive flavor, so be judicious to start. It keeps, refrigerated, for a week or so.

Makes approximately one medium jar

Rarely, with certain books, even as I devour them hardily, I find myself stopping a few chapters shy, and feeling a sense of hesitation to finish the book at all. As I type, my thumbed copy of Wendell Berry’s Jayber Crow sits by my bed, marked near the end, waiting to be finished.

Yet I keep holding off on the end, only because I have loved that book so wholly and I’m not ready to say goodbye to this melancholy barber just yet. I have to imagine that Mr. Berry wrote more books about the town of Port William simply because he couldn’t bear to say good-bye just yet to that lovely little spot in Kentucky and people like Jayber and Mattie and Athey.

It’s no secret that I dearly love Wendell Berry. As I prepare to finish Jayber Crow (which I just can’t recommend enough, it is SO beautiful), I wanted to share a few favorite excerpts:

“We walked always in beauty, it seemed to me. We walked and looked about, or stood and looked. Sometimes, less often, we would sit down. We did not often speak. The place spoke for us and was a kind of speech. We spoke to each other in the things we saw.”

“As I have read the Gospels over the years, the belief has grown in me that Christ did not come to found an organized religion but came instead to found an unorganized one. He seems to have come to carry religion out of the temples into the fields and sheep pastures, onto the roadsides and the banks of the rivers, into the houses of sinners and publicans, into the town and the wilderness, toward the membership of all that is here. Well, you can read and see what you think.”

“There are moments when the heart is generous, and then it knows that for better or worse our lives are woven together here, one with one another and with the place and all the living things.”

“But love, sooner or later, forces us out of time. It does not accept that limit. Of all that we feel and do, all the virtues and all the sins, love alone crowds us at last over the edge of the world. For love is always more than a little strange here. It is not explainable or even justifiable. It is itself the justifier. We do not make it. If it did not happen to us, we could not imagine it. It includes the world and time as a pregnant woman includes her child whose wrongs she will suffer and forgive. It is in the world but is not altogether of it. It is of eternity. It takes us there when it most holds us here.”

Spring, in my mind, calls for refreshing drinks that just sigh of fresh rainstorms and sunny afternoons that hint of the arrival of warm weather. After a long, cold winter, resplendent with hot tea and other warming beverages, all I want is to sip something iced, blended, cool, and maybe a little fruity.

This weekend signaled both the Kentucky Derby and Cinco de Mayo, two of the best holidays for refreshing and cool “M” drinks: mint juleps and margaritas! Last year saw a Derby twist with blackberry mint julep cupcakes, so this year was the year of Mexican beverages instead. (Plus, let’s be real here: any excuse I have to eat Mexican food with friends WILL  be capitalized upon and tequila will probably be involved.)

Last night, we sipped pomegranate-habenero margaritas with our delicious dinner and for dessert, I wanted to do a two-fold treat: chile-spiked Mexican hot chocolate cupcakes and a cooling finish with horchata, an iced, blended rice drink spiked with cinnamon and vanilla. I had never had horchata before but had marked a recipe on Pinterest awhile back, intrigued by its frothy beauty and cinnamon stick garnish. And, if I’m being really, really honest, I wanted to try it also because I love any excuse to pour things in Mason jars and “horchata” is just really fun to say.

I was thrilled to discover not only is it extremely delicious, but it is easy as a breeze to make! With a little night-before prep, it’s only a matter of measuring a few things and turning on a blender. Garnished with a cinnamon stick for a little flair, it is a fun treat to serve and sip with friends. (Preferably around a bonfire, like I did. It tastes better outside is all I’m saying…)

Homemade Horchata
From A Wooden Nest

Finding a pair of crutches makes me cringe as I remember tripping in heels at a best friend’s wedding in Virginia and falling on my face. I would have probably been okay if I wouldn’t have spent most of the night dancing like a maniac with my friend-date and the groom’s hilarious aunt; they had to find me crutches at the day-after brunch the next day because I couldn’t walk thanks to a puffy and sprained ankle. I sat on a chair with my foot up while flustered Southern ladies ran about, bringing me plates of biscuits and gravy and sweet tea.

Wedged in my closet is an old window frame made into a window box, given to me by two guys from a local rehabilitation ministry. I had talked to one of these men, offering space to share his stories; of lifelong drug use, of landing in prison, of finding hope in community and God again, and how this organization was helping give him his life back. I wanted to help tell his story by writing about it for my church and as a thank you, he gave me this window box, made out of scraps from the construction sites he works on. “It’s made out of trash that no one thought was worth anything, kind of like us. Thank you for telling people our story.”

Tucked into a pink folder, I found a pile of papers and ticket stubs, cards and pictures from my college boyfriend back in 2004. He was the first person I ever fell in love with and as I sifted through drawings he made me, blurred self-portraits with closed eyes, scribbled notes, and found the journal I kept the months we dated, it came flooding back to me after so many waning years how much I really did love him and how honestly devastated and heartbroken I was when he left me for someone else.

It’s been almost three years since the last time I moved and my life has changed so much in that time. The tired, seeking person who moved into my apartment is not  the same one who is leaving. So much has happened in those three years and as I begin to pack and look around at this place that has been my haven and my stronghold for so much, I find myself feeling rather emotional at the thought of leaving what has really been my first real home all on my own. There is something very strong in my gene pool when it comes to homes; we are people who live deeply in place. Even though it’s just a little rental, it has been a huge part of my story and I will be sad to leave it.

But I’ll wrap the dishes in newspaper, I’ll delight in my favorite vintage finds as I tuck them in boxes, and I’ll run my hand over the covers of my always-growing collection of books, silently telling them how lovely and good and beautiful they are. I’ll move on to a new home and I will learn to love it in its own ways. But I’ll never drive by the house with the blue paint on the bottom and green paint on the top, with the red front door and the big flowering bush in front, and not touch my hand to my chest and breathe out, Oh, it’s home there, isn’t it. There was my home.

[photo credit here]

My friend Kelly and I combined forces, along with the help of a few other lovely ladies, and threw one heck of a British-themed birthday bash for our darlingest friend, Jettie. And what a party it was! We set up a wacky photo booth, I baked four different kinds of desserts, we sipped Pimm’s Cups and gin & tonics, and danced, danced, danced late into the night.

Here are a few shots of our fabulous decor (I didn’t take that many and the ones I did take were with my phone; I got too distracted by having fun) and a few hilarious favorites from the photo booth. This was just a favorite night all over the place.

“What you promise when you are confirmed…is not that you will believe this forever. What you promise when you are confirmed is that this is the story you will wrestle with forever.”

Frankly, there are so many moments where it’s all I can do to stutter out, “I just don’t understand. I really just don’t know. You’re good, right? Like You’re actually good? Okay…?” My story is riddled with moments of intense thankfulness, of a belief in the truth of who Jesus is that is deeper than anything else I have ever experienced and compels me in a way that nothing else could. Yet alongside those moments are ones of doubt, of brokenness, of not understanding, of shouting at the heavens and shaking my fists; moments where the only thing that makes sense to me is to collapse like a child on the floor, weeping and scraping my forehead on the ground, whispering, “It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.”

But those moments are what have made my faith my own, moments that have been a part of writing a story that is true to who I am. In these recent years when I have learned to allow myself space to doubt, I have found a depth to my love for God, to my faith, as I practice living as one who is saved by grace and is allowed to not understand.

[photo credit here]

I dream of springtime in London. There are days where I dream so deeply of that place that it startles me when I breathe in and it doesn’t smell like damp green woods in the Berkshire countryside, like the oil from Paddington station train tracks, like a brewing cup of Yorkshire tea, and the wet paws of the most handsome poodle on the planet. I imagine wandering through the cobbled streets of Reading, of taking a lazy afternoon to sit outside at Bill’s and watch the blossoms do their part in the quiet business of spring. I crave clotted cream on warm scones and daydream of making pink meringues with Jettie and three giggling little girls. These are the dreams that have bred lifelong aches in me; an ache for something so much bigger than a place or a person; the kind of ache that is a beautiful, CS Lewis-esque longing of which I will never know the end.

I dream of summer evenings, listening to Fleet Foxes and drinking cold beer on the front porch with new roommates. I only have one month left in my tiny studio and then I will be reintroducing myself into co-habitation again. Luckily, I’m starting out with my sister Johanna and her family for the first few months, before living with three beautiful friends. I know my darling sister will be patient with my puttering around, talking to myself, and my wide, stress eyes when I realize that, after three years alone, that much people time is a little overwhelming. But even in the overwhelmingness, I can’t wait to make a home with people again. I can’t wait for the smell of someone making coffee, “Downtown Abbey” marathons, people to come home to and to learn from, throwing porch parties for no reason, laughing until all of us are bent on the floor, crying. I can’t wait to make a home that is beautiful and welcoming, to see stacks of books mixed together, and to do that hard, wonderful work of being in community with each other.

I dream of beards and banjos, and road trips to see the Avett Brothers for the very first time. Next month, a group of friends and I will pack a car full of music, snacks, and the kind of cute sundress that is perfect for an outdoor folk concert and head to Columbus to partake in this most holy musical rite: seeing the Avett Brothers perform live (!). Considering at least three of us are what I like to call “beard connoisseurs”, I think it’s safe to say that we all are in a flutter not only from the amazing, amazing music we will hear, but the fine bearded menfolk we are bound to see and thank the good Lord for creating. And since we’re in Columbus, I really hope a side trip to Jeni’s Splendid Ice Cream will be in order. I truly just cannot, cannot wait.

But in all this dreaming, I also am trying to be conscious of the fact that this is indeed Holy Week and to take time to take that seriously. The series over at Mama:Monk has been helpful in that, especially the poem in today’s post. I treasure the moments where I can see and thank God for what is precious and cherished in my life, yet I hope to be the kind of person who can be silent, be still, be mindful of my own humanity, and be evermore conscious of the reality of the empty tomb.

Hosanna, hosanna.
God save us, God save us.

What are you dreaming of today?

[image credit here, here, and here]

It’s the best kind of crazy.

Invigorated by a truly wonderful teaching this morning (bonus (!): the pastor referenced Downton Abbey and my friend Jettie expressed our dual Anglophilic swooning perfectly: “I think I’m having heart palpitations”), I’m taking full advantage of the spring weather and have walked to my favorite coffee shop. (Sunny or no, I have a few projects to work on…and hopefully some more Jayber Crow to read!) Walking by the flowering trees, face tilted towards the warming sun, I was just overwhelmed by gratitude for today.

Gratitude for
the smell of fresh blossoms
the stretching of my legs
the amazing teaching at Mars Hill today and
the concept of a life narrative defined not by shame but by
hesed; a giving, self-denying love
connecting with friends, old and new
iced coffee with raw milk fresh from the farm
quiet mornings watching the sun peek through my windows
kale salads in Mason jars
and joy in all its forms.

What have you been doing to celebrate the arrival of spring?

“There is no love sincerer than the love of food.” -George Bernard Shaw

I’m sitting in my favorite coffee shop, sun streaming through the windows, sipping iced coffee, surrounded by a stack of books about cooking and food…

…and I’m working. (Well, I just finished working. If I was still working, I wouldn’t be blogging.)

I never imagined two years ago, having just been rejected for what I thought was the job of my dreams and feeling like I had no place to go, that I would be here, doing something I love (like really, really love), getting paid to read about what flavors go best with rhubarb and why cutting it in longer lengths produces better jam. I’m not sure in my wildest dreams I could have imagined this life.

Yet here I am. I’m starting in on the ground floor of research and development of a whole line of jams, chutneys, condiments, pickled vegetables, and spice rubs. Barely three months out of culinary school, this whole project gets to be my baby. My friends/bosses at Lubbers Family Farm believe in and support me enough to let me exercise and stretch my creativity; I cannot possibly, possibly express how much this means to me. If I think about it too hard, I start to cry. So I can’t think too hard or otherwise I’ll have to add “weeping into my cup” as part of what I’m sitting here doing at my favorite coffee shop.

So I’m here, coffee almost gone, wrapping up a brainstorm session. My desktop is cluttered with documents full of notes about possible flavor combinations, a bookmarks folder full of sites that inspire me, and a growing, itching excitement to get in the kitchen and start experimenting. I can’t wait to stick my head over the bubbling kettle, sniffing, tasting, trying, praying, hoping, failing, starting over, succeeding, crying, laughing, clapping.

It just makes me want to buy a whole raft of cute flowered head scarves for my hair, a denim apron, and wear red lipstick. It just makes me so damn happy.

I never could have imagined this life. But I’m so grateful it’s mine.

“Take your everyday, ordinary life – your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life – and place it before God as an offering.  Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for Him.” [Romans 12:1, The Message]

I’ve been connecting during Lent with Saint Laurence Reading, the church my friend Jettie and I visited recently in England; they send out daily thoughts and heavens, have they been welcome. For me, this Lent has been less about giving up something solid and more about shining a bright light into some of my dark places. It’s been confronting my own selfishness, my own weakness, my own stubbornness to maintain I’m right and they’re the ones who should be asking for my forgiveness. In reality, there is forgiveness that needs to be asked but I am most certainly not the only one who should be on the receiving end.

That verse from Romans was included in today’s thought on sacrifice and it encouraged me greatly. When I think about laying down sacrifices in front of God, it often feels like I have nothing worthy to offer. I love my life and cannot expressible how valuable I find my days; yet I’m grateful to Him in such a deep and overwhelming way that my own life seems but a poor shadow to offer my God that loves me more fully and provides more willingly than I could ever possibly imagine or ask for.

Yet it is just that poor shadow He wants; just that ordinary existence, those everyday tasks, those familiar conversations and moments. There is a deep and profound sacredness, a powerful scent of the divine, in offering up those seemingly plain and simple things: the unexpected March sunshine, an afternoon of working with a really good cup of coffee, the impromptu dinner with a dear friend, the making of another birthday cake.

Thinking of this past Sunday, I am still wobbling around from my encounter with this everyday divine. One of my more recent favorite writers, Rachel Held Evans, came to speak at Mars Hill and I was beyond excited (like honestly, embarrassingly, groupie-excited). After her wonderful talk on redefining Biblical womanhood in our series on Ruth, I went up to introduce myself (and bring her cookies I had baked that morning; I told you, groupie-excited). We had a nice chat and much to my surprise, she invited me to lunch with a group of other readers. While waiting for everyone to gather and head out, I unexpectedly ran into a dear friend, who had just moved back to California, but was home very briefly for a family wedding. We’ve known each other since we were nine years old and even our briefest conversations are always an inexpressible balm to me. A recent and tender wound of mine was brought to light during our conversation and he spoke simply and sincerely:

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that. That’s so hurtful.”

That small offering, those plain words, affirmed and healed me in a way I didn’t even realize I needed; I felt its warmth with me for hours afterward.

He left and I headed out with Rachel and the rest of the group to a favorite local spot, Bartertown, and lo and behold, I ended up sitting next to another recent favorite, feminist Christian blogger Dianna. Our table was full of interesting and smart people, and the conversations and food we shared were so uplifting and challenging and wonderful. Dianna did a great job of describing this, so I’ll leave my comments on this brief.

From there, I went to meet my House Church for coffee and was greatly encouraged as we open our arms to new people and are looking to grow together in a sincere and real community. My day kept spinning as I headed to another family birthday dinner and spent some blessed time around the table with my crazy and wonderful family. From there, I arrived at my last stop; a quiet game night in with my beloved friend Cassie, who was returning to Spain the next day, and her friends, Kate and Jason. What began as a few rounds of games and a glass of sangria turned into a real and affirming conversation on the chaos and difficulty of real community and what it is to redefine what relationships look like.

I cannot even begin to express how fully soaked that day felt in divine energy. When offered in front of God, it became something more wholly sacred in its everyday-ness than I could have asked for. In those days, when I am truly in awe of how present His divinity is in my small, simple life, the words of Wendell Berry roll around in my head over and over. He originally wrote these about marriage, but I find that they find a home in so many areas of my life:

“More blessed in you than I know…”

What I crave is a constant reflection of what is going on outside my window. As spring begins to tentatively peek out from behind the bare trees, the sky is still a steely gray and the wind, though not as cold as it could be, is still gusty enough to make me walk with my arms clamped down on my sides, to keep my second-favorite flowered dress from flying up a la Marilyn Monroe. (Though today I am wearing my first-favorite tights, so I suppose if it had to happen, there could be worse times…)

The sky swirls a color similar to the smell of Earl Grey tea and lately, tea is all I want. Pungent bergamot, a hint of vanilla, a soft and heady aroma; it never fails to soothe and comfort. And combined with deep, dark chocolate? Oh, swoon.

I love the aromas and flavors of tea with chocolate; it speaks of pure comfort, while still sounding sophisticated enough to serve at your fanciest tea party and stick your pinky in the air (basically, I’m pretty sure this cake has a British accent). I came across this Earl Grey Chocolate Cake on Shutterbean a few weeks back and was instantly hit with the itch to get in the kitchen and make it. I had an unopened box of fancy organic loose leaf Earl Grey tea (picked up whilst in England, you know) that I had been saving specially for baking. (Earl Grey also pairs beautifully with vanilla and lavender, in case you were wondering. And soft stone fruits, like apricots or peaches.)

With two family birthdays coming up, it was a perfect excuse to stir up this lovely-sounding treat. This was a snap to make (15 minutes from getting out a bowl to sliding the pan in the oven) and bakes up beautifully; a dense, moist cake with a tender crumb and just enough of an Earl Grey whiff. Dust it with powdered sugar, slice it up and serve it with fancy china teacups and dainty little forks. (Pinkies in the air optional.)

Chocolate Earl Grey Cake
From Shutterbean

6 Earl Grey tea bags or 2 tablespoons loose Earl Grey
1 cup water
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter
3 eggs
2 cups granulated sugar
4 ounce unsweetened chocolate, melted & cooled
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 cup plain yogurt
confectioners’ sugar (for dusting)

Heat oven to 350° F. Coat an 8-cup bundt pan with cooking spray.

Brew the tea in the water 3 to 5 minutes. Remove the tea bags or strain the leaves and set the brewed tea aside.

Using a mixer, beat the butter, eggs, and granulated sugar until fluffy. Blend in the chocolate. Beat in the flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, yogurt, and brewed tea. Pour into pan.

(The pretty, staged shot.)

(The real life shot; this is the entirety of my kitchen counter space and I’m a disaster.)

Bake 50 minutes or until a skewer inserted into the cake comes out with a few crumbs attached. Remove from oven and let stand 5 minutes.

Turn out of pan and cool. Dust with confectioners’ sugar. This will keep for up to three days, tightly wrapped.

As we’re sitting on the couch, chatting, Addie turns to me and says, “Caroline, I want to see silly pictures on your ca-dooder!” (She’s still working on the word “computer”.) I introduced her awhile back to PhotoBooth and she has become enthralled, even though she’s still not sure how the camera “is inside the ca-dooder”. However, Auntie C was without laptop last night, so we made do with my iPhone. Her faces are still making me laugh.

I’ve been trying to slow down and really be present in these light-hearted moments, especially as my thoughts have been growing towards the sacrificial season of Lent that is nearly upon us. I will get up very early tomorrow and drive to church, to sit in the silence of a darkened former shopping mall and let my brother or sister wipe a cross of ashes on my forehead. As I consider very intentional and deep movements towards what must die and what must rise, I know these moments of silly faces and crunchy kale will become evermore precious.

(As for interesting thoughts on Lent, my dear friend Jettie has some wonderful words to share.)

Be blessed today and enjoy the silly-faced, bright, kale-filled moments. It’s the good stuff.

Here’s the truth: I try to be healthy. I don’t eat much meat, I don’t drink pop, I put kale in things, I obsessively read food labels to avoid preservatives, I drink lots of herbal teas, and I sneak ground flax seed into practically everything. But let’s be real for a moment — sitting at work the other day, I was eating some homemade granola and with every crunch, I dearly wished I was eating french fries. (Specifically, the ones from Brewery Vivant that are fried in duck fat and come drizzled with truffle oil and sea salt. Sweet mother.)

But if I ate french fries as much as I ate granola, I would probably have be pried through my kitchen door with a greased shoehorn. That’s just the God’s honest truth. So to avoid such a situation, I have embraced the challenge of finding ways to make traditionally unhealthy things just a little bit kinder. Whether it’s using a whole grain flour, an unrefined sugar substitute, or a moisture-replacing fat substitute (applesauce! yogurt!), I like to make things that people don’t hesitate to eat. I bask in the fact that my livelihood is happily fueled by butter yet I would like to live to a ripe old age and still be able to leave my house at will and fit into something other than yoga pants.

So to celebrate that fact, I made some Whole Wheat Chocolate Sugar Cookies for a friend’s Grammy night this past weekend. I made them in cute, Valentine’s-esque shapes so that their whole wheat cheerfulness might stretch an extra two days. (Truth is, they didn’t make it past Monday. So I was forced to make cinnamon rolls for V-Day. It just had to be.)

So bake some whole wheat cookies and feel good. They aren’t french fries, but they’re still pretty darn good. Slightly chewy, a little crispy, all delicious.

Whole Wheat Chocolate Sugar Cookies
From Joy the Baker

1 cup whole wheat flour
1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons cocoa powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg

In a medium bowl, whisk together flours, cocoa powder, salt and baking powder.  Set aside.

In the bowl of an electric stand mixer, fit with a paddle attachment, beat together butter and sugars until well-incorporated. Stop the mixer and scrape down the bowl. Add the egg. Beat on medium speed until mixture is glossy and fluffy, about 2 to 3 minutes.

Stop mixer and add the dry ingredients all at once. Mix on low speed until all of the flour is incorporated. Stop mixer and finish incorporating ingredients with a spatula. Scoop out cookie dough and pat into a large disc, wrap, and chill in the fridge for at least 2 hours.

When the dough is ready to roll, place a rack in the upper third of the oven and preheat oven to 350 degrees F.  Line two baking sheets with parchment paper and set aside.

Once chilled, divide dough in half and place one half on a lightly floured counter surface.  Lightly flour a rolling pin and roll out dough to a 1/4-inch thickness.  Use your favorite cookie cutter to cut out cookies and place dough on prepared baking sheet. Very lightly brush cookies with water and sprinkle with granulated or sanding sugar.

Bake for 10 to 12 minutes. Remove from the oven, allow to rest on the baking sheet for 10 minutes before removing to a wire rack to cool completely.

Roll and cut cookies, re-rolling the dough once or twice, until all cookies are cut and baked.

Cookies will last, in an airtight container at room temperature, for up to five days.

Makes about 3 dozen cookies

So here’s a collection of a few things here and there that are making my heart sing for joy:

HOMEFRIES! — I particularly have a giant crush on the Joy the Baker podcast and the blog column High Straightenance. I love to listen to Joy and Tracy‘s hilarious commentary while I’m in the kitchen (especially when Tracy starts talking in her Oprah voice).

“God Is Not Ashamed – Our Brothers Speak Out” – Rachel Held Evans organized a call-out for men to respond to recent comments that Christianity has a “masculine” feel, and this post chronicles the many amazing and encouraging pieces our brothers wrote on our behalf, supporting and affirming women’s role in leadership in the Church. As a woman, it is more meaningful and touching than I could possibly say.

Welcome, “With Love”! — Rosie Thomas‘ new album is released today and me oh my, is it wonderful. It’s being streamed for free this week, but after that, you should definitely, definitely buy it. I’ve already listened to it twice today and it’s quickly becoming full of new favorites for me.

But I have to say, one of the things I have loved most lately is some serious quality time with people I love. Cooking club, birthday parties, tasty bevvies out on the town, brunches, Grammy parties, cooking dinner and baking cookies, cheesy movies out, Anglophile nights in, and surprise handmade Valentine’s gifts. Love and loved, indeed!

So Happy Valentine’s Day! You are loved.

These lentil “meatballs” would be delightful with some wilted kale and tomato sauce, perhaps with a scattering of freshly grated Parmesan. And a poached egg. (I’m currently obsessed with topping everything with poached or fried eggs. I can’t stop myself.)

I have a freezer full of berries from last summer and a desire to eat healthier, and this Strawberry Cucumber smoothie from Joy sounds tempting and fresh. SOLD!

I’m planning on doing a riff on these mini Meyer lemon tarts for my Cooking Club this Saturday. Our theme is “appetizers”, so naturally, I want to do bite-size desserts. I’m thinking maybe some wee brownies, too? With a Mexican hot chocolate twist?

Or I might just find myself also showing up with homemade soft pretzels with a cheddar beer dipping sauce or perhaps some kind of zesty spice topping. Because let’s be honest: eating healthy all the time is overrated. And pretzels are delicious.

What’s showing up in your kitchen this week?

It was eventful in lots of small ways and seemed to imbue my very arms and legs with this quivering, inspiring energy that I can’t seem to shake.

In the tradition of Joy the Baker, whose random advice alongside yet another stellar kale recipe made me smile real big, I have some thoughts zooming around my dome that I wanted to share. I’m not sure if it’s because they’re valuable or because I just drank a lot of coffee. Nothing qualifies me to give any of this as advice except that it’s advice I myself need to hear over and over and over.

Go on lots of dates. And I’m not just talking about dates with menfolk (or ladyfolk). Those are fun, don’t get me wrong; you get to dress pretty (or handsome) and get doors opened for you (or open doors?) and stuff. But I think dates are much bigger than that. Go on dates with your friends; go to dinner and order fancy cocktails and split giant plates of enchiladas with extra hot sauce. Cook at home and drink out of mason jars. Go to the park and climb trees. Go on dates with yourself, even if it’s just grocery shopping. Treat yourself to the fancy peanut butter. Use your free drink on your favorite coffee shop punch card and bring a really good book. When I look at ordinary things like this as something special, it simply makes me more aware of how loved I am and how much I love. It’s a good thing.

Recycle/upcycle/reuse/reduce. It feels so much better than just throwing stuff away. Give things another chance at life and use. Use those spare socks as dusting mitts. Don’t use the plastic produce bags at the grocery store if you don’t have to. Bring your own bags everywhere, even when the people at the mall look at you funny. You’re saving trees and air and people.

Be thankful. It’s really that simple. Be thankful. For everything. For hot coffee, for clean floors, for surprise sister hugs. Be thankful even for the awful, crappy stuff that makes you cry the kind of tears where snot runs out of your nose and you feel pathetic. Be thankful for that. This is a posture and a way of looking at life that I am doing my utmost to live into and live into well. I know so much of what I write may sound like a broken record, but I’ll say it again: gratitude is the best possible lens I know at which to look at life and really does make all the difference.

Smile at people. I walk to one of my jobs and pass a fair number of people on my way to and fro. I’ve started to intentionally smile at each person I pass, instead of staring at the sidewalk with my headphones in, convinced that everyone is going to mug me. You never know what something that simple can mean to someone else. If nothing else, it helps remind me that these people are real humans who are so very worthy of being loved and smiled at.

Listen to good music, eat more vegetables, buy less stuff. Live outwardly, love the people who deserve it the least, ask the hard questions, hug without reason. Don’t worry so much what other people think of you; it doesn’t really matter nearly as much as you think it does sometimes. (Plus you’re awesome.) Don’t speed or tailgate people when you’re driving; it’s just plain bad manners. Give yourself a break once in awhile; you’re human and screw up and it’s okay. Try new recipes, laugh really loud, wear skirts, call instead of text, invite people into your home as much as you can. Live the kind of life that fills you up to your toes.

“Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly.” – 1 Corinthians 13:13 (The Message)

I sincerely love making lists, yet I am absolutely, miserably terrible at lists that require more discipline that just checking things off. Making goals, writing budgets — I stink. I will write grocery lists and cleaning lists and packing lists like they are poetry of the highest order, yet when I try to organize the more serious areas of my life, the ones that I have to be accountable to, I suddenly find much better uses of my time…like Pinterest…or Facebook…or scrubbing my sink. (All of which I’ve done today, so I’m out of excuses.)

However, I read this the other day and it got me to thinking. Goal-making is supposed to be good, right? You’re supposed to make goals that you WANT to achieve, yes? In thinking about it, I think I may have stumbled upon what my problem has been in the past: I made the goals I thought I should achieve, not the ones I wanted to achieve. Therein lies a giant, giant gap! A big, stern, judgmental gap that laughs at me each year as I make goals that I have no intent of keeping.

So here are a few goals for 2012 that I have every intention of keeping! So let’s go!

1. Play around with more creativity in my clothing: My clothing default comfort zone is what I like to call “preschool yoga teacher.” Lots of muted colors, lots of long shirts, lots of leggings. Not bad, just rather boring. This year, I want to have a little more fun with how I dress. So I’ve recently gotten really into colored tights (red, yellow, aqua, navy, oh my!) and began playing around more with textures and layering different items together. I will never relinquish my deep and powerful love for cardigans, but hopefully, this year, they can have a little more fun.

2. Read more books, watch less movies: Once winter hits, there is nothing I love more than hibernating in and watching movies and backlogged seasons of TV shows. While I have no intention of giving this up, I do want to balance my media diet with more of the written word. I love to read but I tend towards thinking I should read “serious” books, which sometimes makes me not want to read. Because sometimes I want to read novels about other girls who love Jane Austen and have problems! Or sometimes I want to read foodie books! Or sometimes I like historical fiction! So lay it on me, readers. What books have you read recently and loved?

3. Live in community again: I wrote about this recently and am now in the midst of figuring out what this might look like. It may still take a few months, but I plan on entering summer 2012 with some solid action. I am really, really looking forward to cooking together, hanging out, watching movies, dance parties, and generally enjoying what it is to be hilarious, awesome ladies in our 20s.

4. Eat better: As a baker, I have a whole lot of butter, sugar, and flour in my life. It’s my job, it’s my passion, it’s the reason I have a little bit of a muffin top. I absolutely love carbs and I tend to indulge a little more than I should. It’s been too easy to do this while living alone; no one is there to ask why I think that four pieces of toast and a glass of wine is a suitable dinner. However, I really want to try balancing my tendency to scarf carbs with more vegetables and whole grains in my diet. (I’m also hoping cooking in community will help keep me accountable to this. Cassie, you hear that? TAKE AWAY MY TOASTER.)

5. Have more fun: This may sound like a no-brainer, but trust me, there are many moments where I need to kick my somewhat introverted self in the tush and demand that I go dance, go to that art show, go meet friends for a cocktail, go for a walk, even when I’m tired and feel more like going to bed at 9 p.m. like a granny. I want to take more advantage of the fact that I am young and living in an amazing city that has ample opportunities to enjoy life. So next weekend, it’s a comedy show and a birthday party; the weekend after, it’s a dance party. There will be party dresses and bright tights and photos and giggles. And what fun we shall have!

6. Write it down: It’s no secret that I love to write. I’ve never had much of a problem doing this with any frequency. But for 2012, the goal is getting back into writing with more intention. This means both here on Ye Olde Blog (hopefully bringing more recipes back!), as well as in my own personal handwritten journal. It’s a wonderful tool for becoming more diligent in prayer, in becoming a more self-aware person, and as a way to understand better how my experiences, relationships, and choices affect who I am, the way I see the world, and what can be learned from all things.

So those are my goals! I’m excited about living into these thoughts and ideas with intention and excitement. And feel free to keep me accountable and ask how these things are going.

So now what I want to know — what are some of YOUR goals for 2012?

“When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in it in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one’s ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.”
- Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows

When I wake up on cold mornings and every molecule in my body wants to stay hibernated under the warm blankets, drowsy and safe, the only thing that seems to lure me out of bed is a promise of a boiling kettle. Whether it’s for some fragrant coffee or a cup of tea, it helps bring my morning to life. Even when my apartment is dark and I’m still stumbling around in a post-sleep fog, to know that there is freshly made bread in the toaster, butter and jam on the counter, and three heaping spoonfuls of coffee in my French press is enough to stay awake for.

One of my favorite parts of our stay in England was eating meals together, particularly breakfast. It was usually late (us Americans blamed it on jet lag, far after the point when it could have feasibly been jet lag’s fault) and it was always simple: homemade granola, yogurt, fruit compote, and tea. But it was a moment to pause, with sleepy eyes, sweaters, and crazy morning hair; to acknowledge that the dawning day was a gift we might open and to enjoy the simple beauties of being in each other’s company and the crunch of a big spoonful of granola.

No matter how early the morning or how cold the air outside my door may be, it is always easier to greet with some hot buttered toast and a steaming cup.

[photo credit here]

I’ve lived by myself for two and a half years now and it’s been a good and necessary season for me. But I’ve found myself aching for community lately; for roommates to connect with, to eat with, to cry with, to watch BBC shows and drink tea with. The past few days in my life have been bittersweet ones and I found myself longing for others to come alongside me, to help give me the strength to bear the answers to the questions I’ve been asking. I am so grateful for the friends whose support shines in other ways (phone calls, texts, Facebook), yet I felt keenly the absence of consistent physical presence. I don’t really know what to do about this; my friends who I would love to live with aren’t really in a place to sign leases and move in their couches. As in so many other seasons in my life, all I can do is hold this loosely and openly, trusting that He who moves in mysterious ways is still telling a redemptive and true story in my life, and hasn’t run out of ideas yet.

I find my heart brimming with wordless prayers today; a begging to simply feel close and held.
That’s all I can manage for right now.

(This song speaks hope for me today.)

We decided to seize a once-in-a-lifetime experience whilst here in Old Blighty and head into foggy London town for New Year’s Eve. We caught a train into the city around lunchtime and once we arrived at Paddington station, we hopped onto the Tube straight to Trafalgar Square, so we could wander around the National Gallery. From there, we walked over to the Strand and the West End, to find a gem of a falafel place called Gaby’s our hosts has clued us into. After stuffing ourselves with hummus, hot pita, and falafel, we started heading down into Covent Garden and after happening upon a four-floor H&M (which caused Jettie to literally gasp out loud) and passing some time (and pounds) there, we ended up at a fun bar. We sassed it up with red lips, toasted with mojitos, took silly photos, made friends with (and got flirted with by) the bartenders, and jammed to their most excellence playlist.

After celebrating with a few cocktails, we walked over to Waterloo Bridge around 9 p.m., to secure a place to stand and watch the fireworks. We were facing the London Eye and Big Ben and were in prime position to enjoy the show. We passed the time with some more dancing to the DJ the BBC had so kindly provided (Adele1 Black Eyed Peas! Elbow!) and had some truly interesting opportunities for people-watching. And, naturally, we bought light-up bunny ears. (We’re in London for New Year’s Eve! Why not?)

Once midnight hit, the fireworks show was spectacular. We all cheered together, shot off confetti poppers, and sang a rousing chorus of “Auld Lang Syne” to toast 2012. After that, we then had to buckle down and shuffle shoulder-t0-shoulder through a two hour line just to get INTO Waterloo train station, where we then had to hop on the Underground, head back to Paddington, and catch the last (3 a.m.!) train to Reading. By the time we finally walked in the door, it was 5 a.m. and both of us were barely standing.

What an experience! We spent New Year’s Day enjoying a delicious lunch with the Russells and going to St. Laurence, the church where our host, Chris, is the vicar. It’s a beautiful little church that actually used to be attended by the likes of Jane Austen. We spent a moving evening in that community and ended up back next to the fire at the house, drinking wine, eating “mezze” and enjoying our time together. Today was a brisk romp around the Berkshire countryside, followed by a magical roast lunch (roast pork! roast potatoes and parsnips! veggies! Yorkshire pudding! crackling!) and now, we’re lounging around, after a movie with the family, sipping cognac and being utterly spoiled.

What a trip! And still another week to go!

We’ve decided this is simply heaven.

It’s also an amazing and humbling lesson in what it is to receive. Being a person that loves to take care of people, feed them, and generally shower people with love and affection, it’s been a huge system shock to be shown this overwhelming brand of hospitality this family is showing us. I have never felt more welcomed and loved in my life; it’s a snapshot of exactly the kind of life, home, and family I hope to grow into someday.

Enjoy these snaps; we’re off today to explore the village, walk along the Thames, and enjoy a dinner and game night with friends tonight. Tomorrow, it’s New Year’s Eve in London!

(I think “blessed” is the biggest understatement I could make right now.)

How appropriate that these artists, named after the French for “good winter”, have been my soundtrack lately. In the falling of winter, the slow and quiet sleep, the loss, the cold; this beautiful music is something that sustains and reminds me that in the necessary dark, there is goodness and beauty brewing.

Even though it’s the holidays, this hasn’t been an easy week to get through. A whirlwind two days where we drove for 12 hours, attended a funeral, wept and laughed together, and I stumbled back home just in time for friends to arrive on visits from D.C. and Germany. I got sick, slept for 14 hours, wore yellow tights and gold shoes, and let other people do most of the cooking (which mostly never happens). My gift to myself for Christmas has been rest. All I made was a chocolate cake and a pot of coffee.

I hope your Christmas has been happy, restful, and full of the kind of perfect love that reminds us of the quiet goodness of winter and the One who gives it.

The ground’s generosity takes in our compost and grows beauty. Try to be more like the ground. – Rumi

There are those moments in life when grief and sadness arrive and we are presented with a choice: consume or be consumed. Take in the hurt and the brokenness and allow it to create in us more space for grace, for understanding, for patience, for love; or allow it to swallow us whole. Sometimes, it seems to be a delicate dance between the two. Sometimes, it’s a crawling out of one and into another.

I lost my grandfather this past weekend. He had been so sick for a very long time, and in all honesty, I find myself mostly relieved and grateful that he is no longer in pain, suffering, and weak. I believe that whatever comes next, I will see him again and he will be strong and full of life, the way that I remember him as a child. Yet still, I feel the sadness in losing someone I love and in walking alongside my mother as she has lost her father. I realize that I only have one grandparent left and I feel the urge to be evermore grateful for her presence and life, her love and endless support of me.

In feeling grief, the best things I can think to do is to celebrate those things that are good; like the really, really good things. Because we’re all ticking off days here on earth, young or old, healthy or sick; we all have a numbered amount of breaths left to take, moments to laugh, meals to eat, songs to listen to, and times to kiss the people that make our insides smile. So even in loss, all I know to do is celebrate because I never want it to be “too late”.

I will listen to amazing records in the dark, under the twinkle of Christmas lights.
I will let my phone calls with my mom be rambly and let our hugs last as long as they can.
I will eat spicy noodles and try new flavors and splurge on fancy butter without feeling guilty.
I will make my grandma’s amazing Greek salad and eat lots of it, with crusty bread and creamy mushroom soup.
I will be extra grateful to sit in a gray chair in my church that I love, next to my (newly stateside) dear friend home from Spain.
I will dance. A lot. (And probably badly. But I won’t care!)
I will take more pictures and be thankful that my grandpa was the reason I have this beautiful camera in the first place.
I will sip holiday ales and laugh too loud with my friends, grateful that the miles that separate can get smaller, if only for a few hours.
I will be still and amazed as much as possible. Our world’s wonder is endless, if only we stop and listen properly once in awhile.
I will be grateful that I get to be a part of “ours” in so many ways; not mine, not yours, but ours, together.
I will wear brightly colored tights and sparkly gold shoes just because they make me happy.
I will make my niece laugh as much as I can, because the sound of her laugh makes me believe extra hard that this life is a pretty great thing.

[photo credit to my best friend here]

That’s so weird to say. I am done. With culinary school. No more classes. I get to be a normal adult again. I don’t have to do homework again. Culinary school is now a finished space on my CV.

That is just plain wacky-crazy-go-mad to me.

Monday was my final exam and when I walked out of the door, it didn’t feel like a big sense of “OVER” to me. It just felt…complete. It felt like “Yes, this is the last step of this, but also the first step of something else.” Basically, I never stop walking and no matter where I am, I am always going somewhere interesting.

I celebrated by making a delicious dinner (that Borlotti Bean-Tomato-Fennel Sauce over Polenta!) for my guy and he showed up and surprised me with a bottle of chilled champagne and a bar of fancy extra-dark chocolate just for me. What better way to throw up your hands and say “Yeah!” than cracking open a bottle of bubbly and watching “The Holiday”? It was just perfect.

Now I’m celebrating with a visit from my best friend, Skype conversations with fabulous blog friends (hi, Aban!), coffee dates with my dear friend who shall be my London companion in just two short weeks (!), and just a lot of time spent cooking and crafting Christmas gifts that make my home smell and taste magical.

Speaking of London, I’m not even sure I mentioned that to you out there on the interwebs! As a celebratory trip, my friend Jettie and I are going to London for about two weeks, right after Christmas through the first part of January. As I’ve finished culinary school and she’s wrapped up her masters’ degree, we figured it was time to party hardy with our favourite isle of people — you know, drink pints, fake British accents, prance around. So that we will! I am so excited and just keep stopping myself these past few weeks, thinking “Wait, WHAT?! I’m GOING?! I need to PACK?! WHAT!”

There is so much to celebrate that the best thing I can think to do, the place and posture I keep coming back to, is one of thankfulness and grace. That I am here, doing something I love, around people I love, feeling joy, feeling pain, learning, failing, getting back up, and just plain connecting with people and loving and being loved — I keep stopping, naming, thanking.

Culinary school is done, Christmas is coming, I’ll be back on English soil soon, and I am loved well.
Stop, name, thank.

[photo credit here]

Somehow, I manage to get so into what I’m baking that minor things, like being covered in frosting or having chocolate cake batter all over my elbows and arms (also happened today), just slide by my notice. An occupational hazard of making lovely things like these!

I just sent these little beauties on their way to my friend Jordan’s house, for his daughter Oona’s first birthday! I made a dozen fancy-pantsy salted caramel cupcakes for the guests and one giant vegan chocolate cupcake for the birthday girl. I love that something I made will become a part of their family’s memories forever. I love when they look back at photos in one year, two years, ten years, that that chocolate cupcake I made will be smeared by the fistful all over a happy baby face (and if she’s anything like my niece, in her hair, on her feet, and in her tutu).

It’s times like these that I really love my job the most; the small chances I have to bring joy into people’s lives and be a part of something beautiful and lasting. It’s not a testament to me or to cupcakes at all, really; rather a testament that there is always something to celebrate about life, something to be grateful for, something to laugh and smile about, something that makes you just want to be glad that today, you get to be in that place, with those people, eating cupcakes.

These are just a few recipes I’ll be trying this coming week:

Borlotti Beans with Tomato-Fennel Sauce over Creamy Polenta — I’ll be making this Monday night; a perfect, hearty early winter dinner that will make us just sleepy enough to want to curl up with a Christmas movie and a handmade blanket.

Nutmeg Maple Butter Cookies — I’ll be momentarily whipping up a batch of these guys as my mom and I bake some Christmas cookies! I love traditional cut-out sugar cookies and can’t wait to take a bite of a freshly baked one, and taste the warmth of the nutmeg and maple syrup.

Whole Grain Gingerbread Pancakes — If it’s made with whole wheat and Greek yogurt, I can eat as many pancakes as I want, right? I can’t wait to stir these up when I have my favorite chefie friend, Amanda, over for breakfast-for-dinner! I think they’ll be excellent with hot maple syrup and a little of the extra Cranberry-Pomegranate Marmalade from my Christmas gift baskets.

Spiked Hot Chocolate — After a whirlwind Saturday evening of dinner, ice skating downtown in Rosa Parks Circle, and then exchanging gifts with my handsome guy,  what better to accompany a pink-cheeked night in (with perhaps a viewing of “Love Actually”) than a bit of Nigella Lawson’s spiked hot cocoa? Oh, yum!

Okay, I’m going into the kitchen now, friends. Have fun decking the halls of your own kitchen and let me know what you’re cooking!

[photo credit here]

Sometimes it is something very common and easily passed over; a few weeks ago, I found myself utterly mesmerized by frost-glazed maple leaves littering the grass next to the  sidewalk I walk down to work. I couldn’t stop staring at them and nearly ran into a mom taking her child into the nearby school playground.

Sometimes it is something that gives me pause and stirs me up; the past few days, it’s been these two duets, by Feist and Ben Gibbard, and St. Vincent and Bon Iver, respectively, that I just can’t stop listening to. Their quiet beauty has simply not stopped astonishing me.

But particularly, this morning, I find my inspiration in the comfort and challenge of written words by a handful of women whose books are marked up and well-loved on my bookshelf; women like Anne Lamott, Barbara Brown Taylor, and Rachel Held Evans. As a girl who grew up in a church that didn’t exactly encourage or recognize the role and wisdom of women leaders, I find myself now drawn to these women for their strength, their thoughtfulness, and their boldness. These are NOT the meek, submissive creatures held up as examples in some circles; instead, they charge forward, speaking of love, of doubt, of forgiveness, of the down-and-dirty-sometimes-life-is-shitty-but-I’m-still-fighting-anyway kind of strength that makes you walk taller, bolstered by the fact that you are equally created, that you are loved, and that your voice is worth hearing. I am so grateful to have women like these, among so many that I know and love in my own life, to look up to and be inspired by.

“You were loved because God loves, period. God loved you, and everyone, not because you believed in certain things, but because you were a mess, and lonely, and His or Her child. God loved you no matter how crazy you felt on the inside, no matter what a fake you were; always, even in your current condition, even before coffee. God loves you crazily, like I love you…like a slightly overweight auntie, who sees only your marvelousness and need.”
- Anne Lamott, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith

“What is saving my life now is the conviction that there is no spiritual treasure to be found apart from the bodily experiences of human life on earth. My life depends on engaging the most ordinary physical activities with the most exquisite attention I can give them. My life depends on ignoring all touted distinctions between the secular and the sacred, the physical and the spiritual, the body and the soul. What is saving my life now is becoming more fully human, trusting that there is no way to God apart from real life in the real world.”
- Barbara Brown Taylor, An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith

 ”Sometimes I wonder if I might have spent fewer nights in angry,resentful prayer if only I’d known that my little systems - my theology, my presuppositions, my beliefs, even my fundamentals - were but broken lights of a holy, transcendent God. I wish I’d have known to question them, not him.”
- Rachel Held Evans, Evolving in Monkey Town

I am more moved and whole through these things than I can speak of. From the soft light of strings of Christmas lights that watch quietly while I fall asleep to the feeling of my niece’s arms wrapped tightly around my neck, as I find my inspiration, I find that God, too, is in these places. Nothing particularly holy or theological or biblical; just in spaces of quiet, of kindness, of light, of the moments where you recognize we’re all humans, trying to figure out our messiness together. It has become so much less about belief or doctrine for me, and so much more about recognizing that we all are connected to the same life-force, the same creative thread binds us together. And that’s what we are, whether we want to be or not — we’re together in this thing, side by side.

If that can’t inspire me to a life lived with eyes wide open, then I don’t know what can.

What inspires and shakes you?

[image credit here]

It begins to get cold, I slip into hibernation mode, and I somehow convince myself that I absolutely have to rewatch all six seasons of “How I Met Your Mother” and eat as much breakfast as possible. I have to wear my favorite cream knit hat and go the farmer’s market and talk too much about Ryan Gosling; I must bake many pumpkin things and drink whiskey drinks and read Tina Fey’s book, Bossypants and laugh so loudly that it’s a little inappropriate.

I absolutely must spend an inordinate amount of time in the kitchen and forget to take photos of pretty much anything I make. I have to squeeze in as many Thanksgivings as possible with friends and family and light a lot of candles in my apartment and string up twinkling lights that I leave on when I sleep because it makes me feel cozier. I have to swing from holiday to holiday, spending evenings trick-or-treating with a sassy little pirate, beginning to decorate Christmas trees with my mom, baking things in Mason jars, making fabulously buttery tri-colored birthday cakes, and reveling in the joy of the first snowfall.

It’s been busy, yet not busy at all with anything big. My days have been pleasantly filling with small moments and it’s been amazing. It is a sweet, sweet thing to be content, to be happy, and to be present in the goodness that is my everyday kind of life.

“Missions then is less about the transportation of God from one place to another and more about the identification of a God who is already there [...] You see God where others don’t. And then you point him out. So the issue isn’t so much taking Jesus to people who don’t have him, but going to a place and pointing out to the people the creative, life-giving God who is already present in their midst. ” [Rob Bell]

I hope your day is beautiful and that your eyes spot the small places where the Sacred rests, waiting for us to discover Him like diamonds in the rough.

[photo credit here]

So it’s a pretty sure bet that if you put the words ‘pumpkin spice’ in anything, I will immediately want to make it. Pumpkin spice lattes. Pumpkin spice cheesecake. Pumpkin spice mashed potatoes. (Okay, maybe not the last one.) A friend recently coined the term “pumpkiphiles” for freaks like us. In this pumpkin-obsessed vein, I started getting a devilish hankering for pumpkin spice doughnuts last week, but was stopped short when I read the ingredient label of the store-bought ones. As much as I love their cakey, sugar-coated goodness, I was uneasy with the idea of ingesting chemicals I couldn’t even pronounce. Plus, let’s be honest, most baked goods I pick up at the grocery store, I usually think, “Yeah, I could make that even better.”

So I set out to do just that. After a little sniffing around the internets, I discovered you could make baked doughnut “holes” with a mini muffin pan. I tweaked the recipe a little, adding some whole wheat flour and ground flaxseed, mostly so I can convince people that sure, doughnuts are healthy! Have another one!

I chunked these up and layered them in Mason jars with lightly sweetened whipped cream and an apple compote. Drizzled with a little apple molasses, my friends and I were quite literally licking out our jars.

These are a great fall treat that you don’t have to feel too guilty about. So Happy Halloween! Go eat some doughnuts.

Baked Pumpkin Spice Doughnut Holes
Adapted slightly from Craving Chronicles

For Doughnuts
1 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup white whole wheat flour
1 tablespoon ground flax seed (optional)
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/2 teaspoons nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon allspice
1/8 teaspoons ground cloves
1/3 cup vegetable oil
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3/4 cup canned plain pumpkin (not pumpkin pie filling)
1/2 cup low-fat milk

For Coating
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
2/3 cup granulated sugar
2 tablespoons cinnamon

Directions

Preheat oven to 350°F. Spray each cup in a 24-cup mini muffin tin with baking spray or butter generously.

In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, salt and spices (through cloves). In a separate, large bowl whisk together oil, brown sugar, egg, vanilla, pumpkin and milk until smooth. Add dry ingredients to wet ingredients and mix until just combined – do not over mix!

Divide batter evenly among muffin cups. (Using a 2-tablespoon scoop will ensure uniform size.) Bake at 350°F for 10-12 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.

While the muffins bake, melt butter in one bowl and combine granulated sugar and cinnamon in another bowl. Remove muffins from oven and cool for 2 minutes, or until just cool enough to handle. Dip each muffin in melted butter, then roll in cinnamon sugar to coat.

Makes 20-24 doughnut holes

Fall is my favorite time to take photos; the colors are so warm and luscious and snap out spectacularly against a blue sky. I ended up with some lovely shots from a family apple-picking venture, as well as a family photo shoot I did with my sister Johanna, her husband Matt, and their daughter and my niece of choice, Addison. So of course, I wanted to share them.

I’m plotting to make a wholesome, chock-full-o’-grain spin on pumpkin pie this weekend, so look out for that soon, I hope! I’m also going to attempt to figure out how to do mini apple pie parfaits in little Mason jars (just ’cause it sounds cute and I’m obsessed with Mason jars). Hopefully the next time I post photos, it will be of tummy-rumblin’ food. But for now, here’s some cute people, a baby goat, some pretty leaves, and a whole patch full of pumpkins.

Here are a few of my favorites shots from my sister’s family photo session.

How have you been spending your fall days?

Surrounded by all the deepening colors of fall, this time of year makes me nearly giddy. So giddy, in fact, that I feel the need to eat a lot of brownies and sing at the top of my lungs and dance around. (A silly mental image, perhaps, but so true.) And what other kind of brownies would I want to eat during this time of year but the Pumpkin Swirl variety? I made these last year for a party I catered and I fell utterly in love. Deeply chocolate-y, comfortingly pumpkin-esque, and spiked with a tiny bit of cayenne pepper, these brownies are gooey and gorgeous.

Some people may balk at the idea of chocolate and pumpkin mixed together. Perhaps you’re a traditionalist and think pumpkin goes in pie and maybe muffins, but that’s it! None of this crazy mixing together of things for you! Well, to that I say, “Live on the edge!” And at this edge, there are brownies! Fudgy, luscious, autumnal, dreamy brownies!

So here’s the deal: you go bake these brownies and I’m going to go pounce around in the leaves for awhile. (Deal? Deal!)

Pumpkin Swirl Brownies
From Smitten Kitchen

8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, plus more for pan
6 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups sugar
4 large eggs
1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract
1 1/4 cups solid-pack pumpkin
1/4 cup vegetable oil
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 8-inch square baking pan or dish. Cut a length of parchment that will cover the bottom and two sides (makes it much easier to remove), and line the pan with it. Butter the lining as well.

Melt chocolate and butter in a heatproof bowl set over a pan of simmering water, stirring occasionally until smooth. Whisk together flour, baking powder, cayenne, and salt in a large bowl; set aside. Put sugar, eggs, and vanilla in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment; beat until fluffy and well combined, 3 to 5 minutes. Beat in flour mixture.

Pour half of batter (about two cups) into a separate bowl and stir chocolate mixture into it. If you find that it is a little thick, add a little more batter (a few tablespoons or so) until it is more pourable. (Note: You want both batters to be about the same consistency, so they swirl together easily.)

In other bowl, stir in the pumpkin, oil, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Transfer half of chocolate batter to prepared pan smoothing top with a rubber spatula. Top with half of pumpkin batter. Repeat to make one more chocolate layer and one more pumpkin layer. Work quickly so batters don’t set.

With a small spatula or a table knife, gently swirl the two batters to create a marbled effect.

Bake until set, 40 to 45 minutes. Let cool in pan on a wire rack. Cut into 16 squares.

I found my sadness mingled with multiple reasons: sadness at Rob’s impending departure; sadness that my dear friend Cassie, who had been my Sunday morning church companion, recently moved to Spain; sadness that everywhere I looked, I saw couples even as I felt overwhelmed with loneliness.

It was a simple enough service. Rob walked us through his story, what brought him to his decision, and what would happen to our church community in this new and unexpected season. His voice, in its typical generosity and openness, was cloaked with tears and soon enough, I felt my own join in. My eyes welled up with tears and soon overflowed; I wept through most of the service.

At first, I felt silly. I don’t know Rob personally and wasn’t sure why I seemed to be taking this so intimately into my chest. As he spoke of the conviction he felt about this change in his life, I began to understand my tears.

This has been my story, too. I have lived that chapter. I too have looked fearfully into the face of a huge leap that God has asked me to take and shakily said “yes”. I too have looked potential failure in the eyes and jumped anyway, even when I knew there was a good chance I would end up on my face.

As I sat there, weeping, I felt so overwhelmed by God’s faithfulness that I nearly couldn’t breathe. This story of mine, not just in my recent season, but in them all, is a living testament to the redemptive rhythm of Jesus, to the constant love of a God whose faithfulness is so much bigger than I ever could have expected. I felt grateful for that love in a way that pounded through my bones and rendered me speechless.

In that moment, I felt deeply the blessing of my church community and the joy it is to be a part of the Mars Hill family. Even in our grief and flood of emotions, I could feel every person in that packed room of thousands bind together in love that lifted up Rob and his family; the love that is only possible because we truly believe that God is always with us and is always, always up to something.

As we sang the benediction, I found I could barely get the words out. I suddenly felt an arm wrap tightly around my shoulders and I looked to see the woman two seats down from me, someone I don’t know, embracing me, hard and fast. In that one small moment, I felt affirmed and allowed to be where I was: collapsed on my knees in front of the empty tomb, weeping with joy and gratefulness that the One who was inside had risen, just as He said; weeping that I am loved by One who keeps His promises. “Never will I leave you, never will I forsake you.”

As I process through the myriad of emotions coursing through me this morning, I wish nothing but the fullness of God’s blessing and guidance to Rob and his family. We, the Mars Hill family, are here for you, believing in you, and will continue to write a story of redemption and transformation that Jesus showed us, empowers us to, and creates inside of us each day.

Grace and peace, brother.

[photo credit here]

What a good decision it is to force ourselves to stop sometimes.

I ventured outside, taking my fancy new gilded TOMS for a spin, to soak in and absorb all the fresh autumn awash in the air. Sunny blue skies and enough crispness for a scarf, today is a day bursting with blessing and grace. I love how colorfully God paints the world and, in turn, splashes color all over our days. As one who thrives and lives in the creative, I am continually inspired and awed by His unending imagination.

These days, I see it in the first leaves on the bright green grass, in the luscious and breathtaking dahilas from the market, and in the perfect freshness of apple cider. I’ve also come to appreciate it in the presence of beautifully designed things — I visited an estate sale last weekend and found a lamp and chair (only $8 for both! I love deals) that make my home feel that much more lovely and cozy. Along with gearing up to start my first knitting project of the season, I am awash in the colorful and created.

(I promise, I have other things in the works than endless ruminative entries with iPhone photos and my love letters to autumn. But for now, it’s what I can manage. )

What brings color to your life?

So here’s the last few weeks of my life, via some Instagram photos. With the onset of gorgeous early fall days, I’ve been awash in baking pumpkin swirl brownies, buying bunches of stunning dahlias at the farmer’s market, punking around with some of my favorite people, drinking homemade pumpkin spice lattes, experimenting with cheesecakes, wearing mukluks and being generally inspired and spun about by the loveliness of the season.

It’s that boot-strutting, scarf-wrapping, tea-sipping, candle-burning kind of weather and I just love it.

What is your favorite way to greet fall?

So I’ve had a bit of a thing this summer for two ingredients whose very names cause me to swoon.

Brown butter.
Bourbon.

An alliterative, dreamy pair. Whether in cookies, peach jam, or crispy treats, both add a bit of extra magic and love to whatever I make. It’s sort of like the swish in the skirt; regular skirts are comfortable and lovely, but when you wear a skirt that has a fuller fit that allows you to swish around, it just feels better.

The flavor of this gorgeous, silky pound cake goes against its very name; not heavy or greasy, it’s luscious and heady, imbued with a nutty aroma from the browned bits of butter and a light warmth from a hint of bourbon. I had to give away as much of this as possible the first time I made it, because I would have literally eaten the whole loaf in a matter of hours. It’s pound cake nirvana and the only requirement to achieve it is an hour of your time, a loaf pan, and a stick (or two) of butter.

Oh glory, oh glory. This cake would be lovely served with some of the last of the season’s peaches, lightly sauteed with some brown sugar and a sprinkle of ginger. Slice and devour, my friends. It’s oh so good.

Brown Butter Pound Cake
From Sassy Radish

2 1/4 sticks unsalted butter
2 cups sifted cake flour (not self-rising; sift before measuring)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
4 large eggs
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 tsp bourbon

Preheat oven to 325°F with rack in middle. Butter and lightly flour an 8 1/2- by 4 1/2-inch loaf pan. Heat butter in a 10-inch heavy skillet over medium heat until milk solids on bottom are a dark chocolate brown. Transfer to a shallow bowl and chill in freezer until just congealed, about 15 minutes.

Whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt. Beat together brown butter and sugars with an electric mixer until fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add eggs 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in vanilla and then the bourbon. At low speed, mix in flour mixture until just incorporated.

Transfer batter to pan, smoothing top, then rap pan on counter to settle batter. Bake until golden-brown and a wooden pick inserted into center comes out clean, 1 to 1 1/4 hours. Cool in pan 30 minutes, then invert cake onto a rack and cool completely, right side up, 1 hour.

Serves 8 people