I’m packing my bags

I’m packing my bags. Well, to be honest, I’ve been packing for a while now, trying to make every kilo count down to the last gram.

Mom told me the Amazon packages she’s piling on my desk in Illinois make her think of Mr. Grabbit. Toothbrushes, shoes, supplements, etc. Things I won’t have to bring with me.

I’m planning to wear multiple outfits to give myself several sets of clothes for the trip. “I might look homeless when you pick me up at the airport,” I tell J. The layers of clothing, the bulging pockets I stitched to the inside of my jacket, and the supermarket bag I’m planning to use as a carry-on might make me a key candidate for surveillance. Especially since I’m clambering into Chicago the weekend before the Democratic National Convention.

Time is winding down. Less than two more days now. My to-do list is moderate, all things considered. I put “mop the floor” at the top. The dirt on the bottoms of my feet comes off in rolls when I rub my feet together.

Below are a few snippets of summer life here that happen through the giddiness of preparing to see my family, friends, and J…

I love the extra wiggle room of a summer schedule. While most people choose not to cook or bake this time of year, I’ve tried North African bread, North African lentils, brownies with peanut butter and almond flour, and crackers with ground sunflower seeds. I’ve also attempted couscous twice and decided that “moderately close” is as good as it’s going to get for now. Puttering in my kitchen is delightful without the breath of a dozen other tasks at my neck.

I’ve been studying language at the local library. The walk across town in the afternoon sunshine is oppressive, but it doesn’t eclipse the joy of descending to the cool library basement. The summer crowd is sparse and the quiet is so thick it almost hurts until the ink chamber inside a pen rattles as someone write a note or careful feet tick down the stairs. I don’t use the library resources other than the air conditioning and the atmosphere, but it’s always worth it.

Summer has also been a good time to meet up with the friends who remain in Spain, to spend time in their worlds or let them be a part of mine. Maybe it’s English class or breakfast together. Or my little neighbor boys come up for a visit with their mommy to play with Legos, make the floor sticky with melon juice, and watch cookies bake with great anticipation.

While the cookies are still in the oven, I give them a drink of water which they drink with too-long straws. “Do you want one?” I ask the oldest boy, offering a container of dates I have on the counter.

“No,” he says. “I want chocolate cookies.” And he returns to watch them through the oven door, content to wait.

There have been meetings, appointments, and the like. This week is also my week to work ahead on office manager responsibilities in an attempt to keep my absence from being too obvious.

I guess you might say that I’m planning to be distracted for the next few weeks. 😉 Until another day, then…

I’m doing terrible, terrible

“Estoy fatal, fatal…” I’m doing terrible, terrible. That’s how an elderly neighbor typically greets me.

Maybe I’ve lent an ear too many times. Or, for all I know, she dumps her health issues on everyone she comes in contact with.

Being on the receiving end of her complaints isn’t much fun. It’s hard to listen to how the doctors can’t give her any answers, about her latest trip to the pharmacy, or how her legs refuse to work (although they mysteriously carried her several blocks from home).

She never asks how I am or what I’m doing. I doubt she even knows my name.

I help roll her walker down the ramp from the elevator, open the door, and stop for a “Oh, uh-huh, oh that’s too bad” chat on the street. I even take her cinnamon rolls at Christmas because I know she likes them. Still, I inwardly groan every time our paths cross.

“Estoy fatal, fatal…”

As much as I hate to admit this, I know that sometimes I sound just like my neighbor: “Why me? Why do I have to be the one to deal with this bumpy relationship/chronic illness/broken heart/smashed dream? I’m doing terrible, terrible…”

When life doesn’t feel fair, it can be an easy slide from lament to griping, from heartache to bitterness. Even with the Spirit of God dwelling in me.

So it’s a good thing God sends my neighbor into my life every now and then to give a face to my inward grumblings and remind me to trust that God knows what He is doing. Then, as Jen Pollock Michel writes in her book In Good Time, I can receive life with gratitude and say, “Whatever you choose to give, Lord, I embrace” (p.99).

Pollock Michel, Jen. In Good Time: 8 Habits for Reimagining Productivity, Resisting Hurry, and Practicing Peace. Kindle ed., Baker Books, 2022.

Behold your God!

I shiver as I write this. The cold is gliding down from the wind sills, nestling in my lap and curling around my ankles like an unwelcome cat. Still, I love this time of year. Christmas music never fails to remind me that, after all, it is “the most wonderful time of the year.” And who doesn’t want to walk down the street to Andrea Bocelli singing “Jingle Bells” over the street speakers?

My head is full of more than dancing sugar plums today. No, it’s full of Christmas plans–that last minute gift, Christmas cooking and baking, a neglected newsletter, and a shopping list that’s growing by the minute. But beneath all of this, anticipation swells.

As I make my Christmas plans, I see this framed print on my shelf: Jesus washing Peter’s feet. Jesus–Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace–washing the feet of a created one only hours before His crucifixion. Behold your God!

It’s no wonder Peter cries: “You shall never wash my feet.”

But Jesus replies: “If I do not wash you, you have no share with me.” (Jn. 13:8)

This is what Christmas is about, isn’t it? God in flesh bent over our filth, gently washing us clean. He says:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, 
    because he has anointed me 
    to proclaim good news to the poor. 
He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives 
    and recovering of sight to the blind, 
    to set at liberty those who are oppressed, 
to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor.” (Lk. 4:18-19)

This is Christmas.

Have a joy-filled-to-the-brim Christmas, everyone! ❤️

Art in the photo above available here.

Recipe: Buckwheat bread

It wasn’t until the doctor suggested I try a month of gluten-free that I began to crave bread. And pastries. And pasta. Erg. Even though it turns out that I am not gluten-intolerant or even sensitive, my gluten-less month grew my creativity. This buckwheat bread was one of my favorite takeaways, a recipe I still make although I can eat all the bread, pastries, and pasta I want! (Oddly enough, I don’t even want them anymore.)

This buckwheat bread is a quick-bread, really, and it takes almost no effort. I really like the kefir component–it seems to make the gluten-free texture just a tad springier. I realize, however, that not everyone has kefir fermenting on their countertop, so plain Greek yogurt may also work. Note though, that your kefir substitute should be something that you can substitute for a fat since this recipe has no oil.

2 ¼ c. (270g) buckwheat flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
2 eggs
¾ c. milk kefir
2 Tbsp. honey

Mix dry ingredients. Add eggs, kefir, and honey. Mix well.

Pour into greased and flour-dusted bread pan. Bake at 350° F. (180° C) for 30 minutes or until golden brown. Note that baking time may vary with the size of your bread pan. Also note that the yeast-less loaf will remain a small, quick-bread size and be a little crumbly because of the absence of gluten.

Allow to cool before slicing. I love using this recipe for small sandwiches or simply topped with strawberry jam.

“We scaled a mountain!”

(For context, read part 1 before reading this.)

Our goal to leave at 9:30 got us out the door by a remarkable 10:30. We were planning to mosey over to Interlaken to find those stunning picturesque spots that end up on everybody’s Instagram feed. Instead, the closer we got to Interlaken, the closer we also got to Schilthorn, and the closer we got to Schilthorn, the more excited my brother-in-law got about taking the cable car up the mountain.

green field with snow-capped mountains in the distance and train

It was the perfect day for it, or the perfect morning at least. One glance at the forecast told us that it was now or never.

So we left Interlaken without any of those Instagram-worthy photos. (It’s just as well; none of us have Instagram anyway.) Oh, but first we stopped for a short fuel stop which turned into a loooong bathroom break. My sister, nephew and I waited in the rental car as the minutes streeeeeetched on. “Should I go check on them?” I asked. But we decided to stick together, just in case. The three of them finally emerged with a reconciliatory bag of clementines and cherry tomatoes. It turns out that they had been waiting outside of a locked bathroom door with nobody inside, until someone had enough mercy to give them the key.

We bought our cable car tickets at the bottom of the mountain. “Let’s go,” Dad said weakly and we began to question whether or not this was the best idea. Heights are–eh–not Dad’s thing, and riding a bulky cable car up the mountain on a skinny piece of wire was particularly frightening. But, in the end, we were all game enough to get on board… although, the incentive may have been partially due to choosing the lesser evil– “Stay at the bottom and watch my family plummet to a certain death or plummet along with them?”)

So up we went, Dad relating a story of a cable car crash he had seen recently on YouTube.

It was a blast. No plunging or swaying. As we glided up the mountain to 9,744 feet, the view was progressively more breathtaking. At the top, my sister and I went outside for a stroll and came in stiff from the icy wind. But oh the view!

We climbed a final set of stairs to Piz Gloria, the rotating restaurant at the tippy top of the mountain. The outer ring of the restaurant makes a complete circle every 45 minutes. Initially, we almost left Dad behind when his chair leg stuck to the immobile wall and kept him in place. He waved at us. “Well, goodbye!”

“Bye, Dad! See you in 45 minutes!”

Before and after lunch, my brother-in-law kept checking our oxygen levels. He claimed I was turning purple. I wasn’t the only one who got a headache before it was all said and done.

On our way back down the mountain, we discussed what rating we would give our day. Dad gave it a 9, but only after our feet were on solid ground again. Still, I would give him a 10 for conquering his fear of heights!

We got home, tired. “Well, no wonder,” said Mom. “We scaled a mountain!”

colorful sunrise over silhouetted fir trees

The next morning was our earliest yet… which wouldn’t break any records except our own.

My Swiss friend came to spend the day with us. It was rainy and muddy, a perfect day to spend tracking down a bit of Anabaptist history. Due to complications with the directions, we were late for our tour, practically unacceptable for the Swiss. I guess we got away with it since we were American. Our tour guide was kneading dough when we arrived. My sister wanted to roll her eyes, assuming it was an act to replay Anabaptist history. It turns out that our guide was simply working on lunch so we saved the eye-rolling and sat back to enjoy the tour.

She gave us a long bit of history and showed us around her house which was built in the 1600s with a hideout for persecuted Anabaptists. It was a fascinating peek into our heritage.

My friend took us to a Mom ‘n’ Pop style Swiss restaurant where we ordered rosti and Rivella (a resourceful soda made from leftover whey). It was glorious to have an interpreter rather than just offering blank, ignorant smiles. The food was yummy and [relatively] inexpensive. My nephew took it upon himself to charm the other restaurant patrons and spent most of the time turned around completely in his seat.

Later, we discovered that the restaurant claims to be the oldest restaurant in Switzerland, dating back to 1356!

My friend had warned us not to order dessert because she had something else in mind–a visit to the local Kambly cookie factory. There, we shamelessly helped ourselves to the samples–the only free thing we had found in Switzerland so far!–but then walked out with arms laden with purchased cookies. It turns out Kambly knows what it’s doing after all! One of the favorites was a chocolate merengue that managed to be both fudgy and crisp as it silently melted in our mouths.

Our last adventure was a local store which was really quite large and overwhelming. We bought chocolate and groceries mostly. And then topped off the evening with creamy Swiss ice cream which may have ruined our Prairie Farms palates forever.

Here is Joy

Here is Joy.
Look, right here!
See her in the slippery soap suds puddling around the soap dish?
And in the far corner of the deepest cupboard you're cleaning,
Back, back, back until you can just dab the dirt triangle with the corner of your rag?
Do you hear her bursting through the speakers of your car stereo?
Or in the grunt of an awakening work computer?  
She's here on the supermarket shelf, coming along free in the celery stalks just because.
Do you see her? 
In the scuffed magnet that pins a child's artwork to your refrigerator?
And in the orange flame waltzing on the tip of a match as you light a candle and open the front door?
She's whisked into the batter and adds just the right nutty note…or is it woody…or just plain sweet?
She's here. Always here.
Even when your neighbor tells you never ever to add cinnamon and now you've ruined it completely.
Yes, sometimes Joy tastes a little like hot noodle soup during a head cold.
Or enlivens an aroma with a world of redeemed memories.
She's more than a good tiding at Christmas.
She's now. Today.
Riding along on the eternal breeze of faithfulness.  
Look for her.

Conglomeration of life

Below is a conglomeration of life I either noticed or experienced in recent weeks. The thoughts are scattered and unpolished (like everything else on my blog, except maybe just a bit more). But I hope you enjoy a peek into life here.

“Hola, American.” A sub-Saharan man said the words almost under his breath as we passed on the street.

I didn’t think much about it until I was a few steps beyond him. How did he know I was American? Someone must have told him.

Due to the abundance of Russian immigrants and the lack of North American ones, my community assumes I’m Russian. In fact, when I started Spanish class, my Russian classmate told me that she’s seen me around and always thought I was a Russian.

Last night in class, she worked on forming a sentence with the imperfect subjunctive: “Trish has a face as if she were Russian.” After various corrections and alterations, we all were very familiar with the idea that Trish looks Russian.

“I thought to myself: I hope she makes brownies. And you did!” My student pulled the brownie plate closer to her and grinned at me with shining eyes. And she didn’t protest when I sent the leftovers home with her after class.

Little arms thrown wide with delight in overhead bubbles.

Four neighbors were on the front stoop when I stepped out the front door of the apartment building.

“Are you having a meeting?” I asked with a laugh.

No, two were just out for a smoke and had collected the others coming in or out the door. Like me.

“Sit down here. Join us.” Demanded the middle-aged man from the second floor. We hadn’t seen each other for a while so maybe he thought he needed the latest scoop on my life.
Not really wanting to wedge myself between two people with lit cigarettes, I stood back just enough to enjoy the breeze that waltzed down the street.

“You don’t smoke, do you?” The second floor neighbor asked.

“No.”

“Do you drink?”

“Not that either.”

“What about the other thing?”

Was this a morality test? I hesitated, not knowing for sure what he meant. “Marijuana?” I asked hopefully. “No, not that either.”

“No. Making love.” He tinged a bit with this. I suppose you could say I had forced him to say it.

The lady on the other side of the stoop eyed me. “It’s not worth it. Men are too complicated.”

“You say men are too complicated!” He was indignant. “It’s the women who are too complicated.”

It was a good time to leave. So I made a light, overgeneralized comment. They laughed. I told them goodbye and continued on my way.

I had almost reached the language school when I noticed a woman was getting out of her car. She was a bleached blonde with dark eye makeup. The combination made her seem sad somehow. Behind her was a mural of a woman with streaking mascara.

Two sad ladies on the corner, almost like a piece of visual poetry, I thought, and continued walking.

I was in the middle of the crosswalk when muffins, donuts, and bread came skidding across the road toward me. I hesitated mid-stride. Was I hallucinating, my subconscious pulling up cravings for foods I rarely ate?

But no. A delivery van’s door had slid open as the van bumbled through the roundabout. The goodies inside had tumbled onto the street with enough momentum to shoot them in my direction.

I helped gather the packages littered across the roundabout and toss them into crates. The poetic sad lady from the corner helped too.

“Gracias!” the man told Sad Lady. “Chokran!” he told me.

I paused and looked down. Sometimes when I wear a dress, people ignore my fair coloring and assume I’m North African. Not that it matters, I suppose. Russian. North African.

Why not?

I trailed Sad Lady into the language school–who knew she was going there too?!–and when I couldn’t get my questions answered at the front desk as I had hoped, I began to chat with her.

She was planning to test for English; I for Spanish. “Let’s meet for coffee to practice!” she said and we exchanged phone numbers.

The next evening, my neighbor and I were only a couple of blocks from home when we saw the drunkest person I have ever seen in Spain. He stumbled out of a salón de juegos and clambered on his bike. Both he and the bike splattered onto the sidewalk. He gave an unintelligible monologue at high decibels but appeared relatively undamaged.

Just a block later, a man bumped into my neighbor. “I’m sorry! I was looking over there while I was walking and didn’t see you!” he said while his arm gave an exaggerated swing in the direction of the park.

“No problem,” my neighbor said graciously. “It happens.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not a racist. And I’m not a thief. You have to be careful on the street. Hold your bag like this!” He tugged the strap of his man purse. Then he clasped his hands together, and gave a wobbly bow in mid-stride and began the same speech again.

And again.

And so we continued several blocks with his cycle of effervescent apologies and wobbly bowing.

My neighbor and I finally stopped at a store to let him get ahead of us.

“Well,” I sighed. “We’re only a few blocks from home. What else is going to happen? Should we go back?”

Hopscotch boxes drawn all of the way to 85, progressively lopsided from weary little hands.

I fell out of bed the other morning. I was freshly awake and rolled over, only to realize that during the night, I had perched myself on the edge of the bed. Fortunately, I caught myself with flailing limbs before I made a resounding boom on the downstairs neighbors’ ceiling.

Who needs caffeine? There’s nothing quite like tumbling out of bed for a delightful adrenaline rush.

A friend cried when I brought her a gift. We sat on the floor together just inside her front door while she fingered every item in the gift bag with grateful tears. Someone cared.

The safety of Grandma’s hand holding fast.

A house with crumbs and sticky that remind me that someone has honored me with their presence in my home.

Recipe: roasted almonds

Roasting almonds is one of the easiest things in the world to do. You might buy your almonds already roasted, but roasting them at home is more fun. I’ve been roasting my own for a few years and finally decided I needed to write down a recipe since they never turned out the same. Note that these measurements are approximate; feel free to skip the measuring or branch out with your seasonings.

4 c. raw almonds
1 Tbsp. extra virgen olive oil
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1/4-1/2 tsp. black pepper, finely ground
1 tsp. salt, finely ground (I found that regular salt didn’t stick to the almonds, so I tried popcorn salt. If you have an electric grinder, grinding your preferred salt should work too.)

Stir almonds and olive oil until the almonds are uniformly coated. Add the seasonings and stir until spread evenly.

Spread on a baking sheet and bake at 300° F. (150° C) for about 15 minutes, stirring halfway through. Cool before serving.

Recipe: relatively healthy oatmeal chocolate chip cookies

These cookies are like breakfast muffins except in cookie form… probably an attempt to trick your brain. So, if you’re looking for a crisp, chocolatey bit of sweetness, these cookies aren’t it. But they do carry their own charm if you’re willing to give them a try.

I started making these cookies about the time I tried to eliminate refined white sugar and flour from my everyday diet. I still make them today, but I added the “relatively healthy” modifier because although they’re healthier than regular cookies, I’m not sure how healthy they are when I eat them in uncontrolled quantities. 😉

Like most cookies, they’re best fresh. Make sure you serve them with milk or tea if they last for a few days.

1 1/4 c. oats
1 1/2 c. oat flour
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
5 Tbsp. (70g) coconut oil, melted then cooled
1/4 c. honey
1/2 c. unsweetened applesauce (I peel and puree an apple. 1 apple = about 1/2 c.)
2 eggs, beaten
at least 100g chunked dark chocolate or semi-sweet chocolate chips

Mix ingredients. Chill dough for about 10 minutes. Press each dough ball before baking (see photo). The cookies hardly spread at all, so you can fit a lot on 1 cookie sheet.

Bake at 350° F. (180° C) for 15 minutes or until done. Makes about 30 cookies.

Recipe: chocolate-coconut granola

With the descent of summer, do you need a recipe for cold breakfasts? I’ve been faithfully using this granola recipe for the last several years. Granted, it has evolved over the last several years and feel free to keep it evolving to fit your preferences. 🙂

5 c. Old-Fashioned oats
1 c. unsweetened coconut
1 c. walnuts
1/2 c. unsalted sunflower seeds (if you use salted seeds, omit salt from the ingredient list)
1/3 c. ground flax
3 Tbsp. chia seeds
1 generous tsp. ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp. salt

Stir dry ingredients. In a separate bowl combine:

1/3-1/2 c. honey (I use 1/3 but, as a rule, I don’t like things very sweet)
1/2 c. coconut oil, melted
1 tbsp. vanilla

Stir and then pour over dry ingredients. Stir granola until well mixed. Bake on cookie sheet at 325° F. (160° C) for 40-45 minutes, stirring halfway through. Aim for golden brown. After the granola has cooled, add:

200g (approximately 1 1/2 c.) dark chocolate, chunked