Last Week’s Muffin: Brown Sugar

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Muffins are usually easy to make—one of the reasons I love them—but this recipe is one of the easiest I’ve found. The ingredients are staples, and there’s a lot of round numbers… none of this “1 1/3 cup + 2 tablespoons” business.

From the lovely Taste and Tell blog–please check it out!

INGREDIENTS

  • 1 cup brown sugar
  • ½ cup (1 stick) butter, melted
  • 1 egg
  • 1 cup milk
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla
  • 2 cups flour
  • 1 teaspoon baking soda
  • ¼ teaspoon salt
  • ¼ cup nuts, chopped coarsely (optional)

INSTRUCTIONS

  1. Preheat oven to 375F. Grease or line 16 muffin cups with paper liners. (Or if you have 5 people in your family like we do, 15 cups)
  2. Combine the melted butter, brown sugar, egg, milk and vanilla. Add in the flour, baking soda and salt and mix just until combined. Stir in the nuts, if desired.
  3. Fill prepared muffin cups and bake for 20 minutes or until a tester inserted in the center comes out clean.

Speed, Haste, Popsicles and Earthworms

“Mommy, you ruined my savoring.”

For a few years I was what you might call tri-vocational: I pastored a church, I wrote books and spoke to groups and retreats, and I parented three elementary-age children along with my husband. Life was a wonderful crazy-quilt of scheduling: writing an article at the library down the street from the piano teacher, finishing a sermon in the bleachers at swim practice.

It also wasn’t sustainable, I now realize. If you ask my kids, they’d probably tell you my two most common phrases were “Just a minute” and “Hurry up.” Ironic, eh? We still had times of Sabbath together, but they were shorter and less frequent than a few years ago. Part of that’s to be expected as our kids age. Part of it’s a by-product of a too-full life.

Now I’m bivocational, having left the sweet church I was serving. In the same time period, Robert adjusted his work schedule such that he’s no longer working in the evenings. Consequently, we have more space in our schedule, though I’ll let him speak for himself as to whether it feels more spacious. But for me, I know as I figure out a routine and my freelance work, the crazy quilt will be turning into something slightly more structured, geometric.

The problem is, I’m still in just-a-minute-hurry-up mode mentally. It’s like when you’re on one of those moving sidewalks at the airport and then you get ejected out the other side. Everything’s a bit disorienting when you take that first step onto solid ground; your brain hasn’t caught up to (or slowed down for) the new pace.

Which is why, the other night when the younger two kids were enjoying their popsicles after dinner, I hurried them along to bath time for no good reason. It wasn’t that late, and hey, these were the first popsicles they’d had since last summer… but I couldn’t help myself. That’s when the seven-year-old busted out with the quote that still makes me want to laugh and cry simultaneously.

Mommy, you ruined my savoring.

People ask me sometimes how the kids feel about the idea of Sabbath time. As if it’s something we’d have to drag them into. Are you kidding? Children get this stuff in a way adults rarely do.

Some years ago I read a quote about the difference between speed and haste. It’s long gone now, but my version is that haste is speed without mindfulness. Sometimes, life moves quickly, and speed can be healthy and appropriate. If I’m crossing the street and a car is coming faster than I’d anticipated, I’d better pick up the pace. But sometimes we are—or I should own it and say I am—in a hurry without purpose.

Our 12 year old is a bus patrol, which means she leaves the house about 5 minutes before my son and I do. This morning J and I left even later than usual because it was rainy and we had to find umbrellas. Still, when we got outside and saw C on the sidewalk, she was only about two houses ahead of us. She was also walking funny. I called out to her, “C, what’s up?” She whirled around in alarm: “Be careful! Look down!!”

There were earthworms everywhere.

We picked our way down the sidewalk, point out each skinny pink wriggling thing to one another so we wouldn’t squish it. I’m sad to say that “hurry up” was in my throat, trying to escape. But this time, it didn’t. This time I didn’t ruin the savoring of spring.

One of you posted this to Facebook this week:

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I’m glad of this—it means my kids will be in my life for a good long time.

Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Can’t Lose.

53648f3a4db9210c5de15f61Oh my goodness. J J Baskin, a great man and a good man, has died.

Every now and then someone offers the gift of letting us witness their journey through illness, and their transition from this life to the next. Steve Hayner was one of those people. So was J J, though the tone of his public posts was different than Steve’s. He was defiant and feisty, evidenced by his invoking of Friday Night Lights’s signature slogan and the way he refused to dwell on medical details publicly. He fiercely kept private things private.

I didn’t know J J well. I write this not as an intimate friend but as a friend on social media and a fellow Texan/Presbyterian, which is a smaller tribe than you might think. This tribe knows well that God lives at Mo-Ranch and Montreat is at most her summer home. Like many, I was a proud member of J J’s Fight Club. Like many, I wore the shirt as a defiant F U to cancer.

A friend and I were texting back and forth this morning. This one hits hard. The last journal entry on J J’s CaringBridge site reports that the boys are doing OK; they were currently snuggled up with their mother watching Pokemon. No one young enough to watch Pokemon should be without their father today.

For her part, my friend said she couldn’t get “His Eye is on the Sparrow” out of her head.

That’s just right. Just right.

I can never think about that song without remembering this rollicking bit of audio by Anne Lamott, Knocking on Heaven’s Door. Take 18 minutes and listen, or at least listen to Anne’s friend Renola sing it at the end. I post it in gratitude for J J and in hopes that Anne’s irreverent reverence would please him.

Rest in peace, rise in glory, and Texas forever.

This Week’s Muffin: Perfect Corn Muffins

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No, these aren’t Jiffy, they’re homemade, but I do have special affection for the little blue and white box.

I don’t have a photo of my corn muffins because I actually made them several weeks ago and froze them, and now they’re gone. Devoured.

The recipe comes from The Ultimate Muffin Book and I like it because it has buttermilk, sour cream AND butter. These are the way corn muffins should be. Giddyup.

Ingredients

1 1/2 cups yellow cornmeal
1 cup all-purpose flour
3 T sugar
2 1/2 t baking soda
1/2 t baking powder
1/2 t salt
2 large eggs
1 c buttermilk (regular or low-fat)
2/3 c sour cream (anything but non-fat)
4 T (1/2 stick) butter, melted and cooled

Instructions

  1. Preheat oven to 375 and grease/line 12 muffin cups.
  2. Whisk cornmeal, flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl.
  3. In a separate large bowl, whisk eggs, then buttermilk, sour cream, and butter until smooth.  Stir in the cornmeal mixture until incorporated.
  4. Fill muffin cups about 3/4 full and bake for 22 minutes, or until the muffins have bumpy rounded tops and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.
  5. Cool on a wire rack for 10 minutes; remove muffins from pan and cool 5 minutes before, and serve. Or cool completely before freezing.

The Beauty in the Ordinary

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I am a writer today because I was a blogger first. Some 11 years ago I began a pseudonymous blog, as was the custom at the time–a place to write about my kids, ministry, and life in general. I wrote poems and top ten lists and meditations on parenting. I wrote liturgy but also cursed freely. It was a liberating space because there were no names attached, though if you knew me and stumbled upon it, you’d recognize me quickly. At least that’s what I always hoped. Authenticity, with a Google-proof veil of privacy.

Now eleven years and hundreds of posts later, I write this blog, I author books and articles for a living, I freelance for a non-profit, and I speak to groups about a whole host of things. But I don’t write as much personal stuff. Sabbath in the Suburbs has some memoir-ish elements in it, but I don’t know that I’ll publish another biographical book any time soon. My kids deserve not to be on display as they mature.

There is one place where I still write personal things. For the past few years I’ve been keeping three paper journals, one for each child. I call it The Memory Project. In it I write one-sentence entries about what’s going on in their lives. I keep it to one sentence because a paragraph or page is too much. One sentence is a small enough goal that I’ll actually do it.

My hope was to write every day, but every three weeks is more like it. I strive to record the quotidian moments as well as the milestones. In fact, I hope to write more of the former than the latter, since the latter are often easier to recall later.

This beautiful Atlantic article, The Value of Remembering Ordinary Moments, helps spur me along in this discipline:

Quotidian life seems too banal to document. Why write down routine conversations, ones we’ve had a million times and will have a million times more? Isn’t it more important to remember extraordinary moments: first steps, graduations, jobs, awards, marriage, retirement, vacations? Yet people seldom realize how fondly they will look back on days spent mundanely: a day spent reading in the bay window, a picnic in the park with friends. These things may not stick out while they are happening, but revisiting them can be a great pleasure. “Who would call a day spent reading a good day?” writes Annie Dillard. “But a life spent reading—that is a good life.”

I write these journals because I hope my kids will want this window into their childhood some day. I write because some things are too precious for Facebook… and other things are too mundane for it. But according to the article, it’s the everyday experience that we crave:

The people in the study were most interested in rediscovering the mundane experiences. Asked to write down what they were doing on an ordinary day (a few days before Valentine’s Day) and then on an extraordinary day (on Valentine’s Day), participants had more pleasure reading their entry about the ordinary day three months later than their entry about the extraordinary day.

When I reflect on my childhood, I remember the Christmas I got the entire series of Sweet Valley High paperback books (at least, the mere fifteen that had been published at that point). I remember the family trip to Colorado and the sooty chug-chug of the Silverton to Durango train. I remember my baby brother getting into my prescription medicine when I had the chicken pox and watching from the upstairs window as the paramedics drove away with him to get his stomach pumped. But I don’t remember what my random Thursdays were like. I don’t remember what our go-to dinner was on busy nights before my mother led the Girl Scout troop. I don’t remember shoe shopping.

My favorite movie of 2014 was Boyhood. Many people appreciated the cinematic achievement of following the same actors for seven years, but thought the story itself was boring. I agree that the movie was about the in-between moments–the fight before the divorce, the party after graduation–but I consider that a feature, not a bug. The scenes of a mother driving her son to school or a father taking his kids for pizza–those are the precious places of everyday grace.

Those moments are what make up a life. That kind of vision, a vision of the sacred in the ordinary, is what I mean when I talk about living Sabbathly. Living Sabbathly means we are awake to our life as it unfolds. And life unfolds primarily in ordinary moments.