Monday Morning Mayhem

I kind of liked that title from last week (or was it two weeks ago?) so I though I’d use it again. So creative, aren’t I?

So much to tell you. Keep reading to the end because I have some exciting news for you!

First, I want to thank those of you who took time to pray for me on Saturday. The women’s retreat went well, and I know it was because I was bathed in prayer. I could not have done it without all of you pray-ers out there, so thank you.

Cool God story. Before the retreat, I had planned out my morning in my mind, and part of my plan just might have involved Starbucks and a steaming hot cup of really good coffee to get my day going. So I drove through the Starbucks near my house, shaking slightly from the nerves and adrenalin that were starting to build up in my body.

When I got to the window to pay for my coffee, the girl who worked there said to me, “Um, you know what? . . .”

I was ready to get more money out. I honestly thought she had told me the wrong amount through the little squawk box and that I needed to give her a few pennies more.

Instead she said, “You know what? The lady in the car ahead of you just paid for your drink.”

I cannot tell you what that meant to me. Immediately I started to cry. The girl at the window probably thought I was nuts, but I thought it was just amazing that God had used that little thing—a woman paying it forward—to show me that He was with me. I had never, ever, in my entire life had something like that happen to me. Never. And it really felt like confirmation from God that my day would be O.K.

And it was. I had so much fun getting to know the ladies from Our Savior’s. They were so sweet, so genuine, and so warm. I really enjoyed being with them.

So now we’re on to a new week. One more week of school before two of my girls are off for a week. Woo hoo! Back in the day, the hard days when the girls were really little, I thought I’d dread school holidays because, well, the kids would be home. But now that our lives are so full (read: “busy”) I really look forward to their breaks when we can be home together and put our feet up and get away from the routine for a while.

Plus, I love Thanksgiving. Even though the retailers get nothing out of the holiday and they seem to feel like they can just skip right over it, Thanksgiving just makes me happy. So I’m looking forward to next week. A lot.

What else? Last night we had a bunch of Kate’s college friends over for pizza. It may not be that much fun for them (although the free pizza probably isn’t a bad deal), but it sure is fun for the P’s. We love having those kids around. Always good for a laugh. Plus, one of the guys who was here, we discovered last night, now lives in the same room that B lived in his Sophomore year. Pretty small world, huh?



O.K. . . . here’s the exciting news. I’ve got a new monthly writing gig over at the MODsquad blog. I’m especially excited about it because MOD stands for Mothers Of Daughters, which, as you know, I am one. And if you know me at all, you know I’m pretty passionate about raising girls. I guess they wanted the voice of an “older” mom, or maybe a mom of “older” girls, I don’t know, but I guess I fit the bill. I’m older, and I have older girls, so there.

Not sure if I should be flattered or run away. Oh well. I think I’m in now, and I’ll be writing every month over there.

In fact, my first post is up and running over there today (it might look vaguely familiar, but that’s O.K.). Head over to the MODsquad blog and check it out!

Now tell me, how was your weekend? Anything amazing or crazy happen to you this weekend?

Taking a Break

Here's what I have going on this week:

- Taking Maggie to the orthodontist for the first time today. This could be interesting.
- Grocery shopping. We have no fruit in this house.
- Buying dog food. We have no dog food in this house either.
- Taking part of Thursday off to go shopping with my husband who is off. Bankers never work, do they?
- Watching Maggie perform in her school play tonight and Thursday.
- Buying mascara for Maggie who needs it for the play. Could take a while.
- Peeling. I got a little sun last weekend.

But mainly I'm practicing, focusing, and preparing for the women's retreat where I'll be speaking on Saturday. Please pray for me--I'm speaking twice on Saturday. And please pray for the women of Our Savior's Lutheran Church in Naperville, that God would speak to their hearts and help them to find their identity in Him alone.

With all that mascara and dog food buying going on, I've decided to take a break from the blog this week. I'll miss you, but make sure you come back on Monday when I'll be back to talking about all the nonsense in my life.

I'd love to know . . . what do YOU have going on this week? Do you ever take a bloggy break?

More Than Enough

Hello there! I'm out of town this weekend (yes, again!) so I thought I would re-post this post from August of this year. It's something that's been on my mind lately as I prepare for a women's retreat next weekend. I kind of liked this one, and I hope you like it too.

Have a great weekend!

* * * * *


I’m kind of consumed with the start of school this week.

Office Depot loves me. And tonight, Famous Footwear is going to love me too.

Don’t even get me started about Target--we’re BFFs these days.

But amidst all the rushing around, buying new clothes, making sure we have all the necessary school supplies, there’s a certain bit of angst in our house these days. It’s called middle school.

Maybe it’s called junior high where you are. I grew up going to junior high, but my kids have gone to a middle school; I have yet to understand the difference. Different curriculum? Different set up of classes? What is it? Personally, I think the phrase “middle school” kind of softens the blow somehow. Makes it seem like a natural progression to the next phase of life rather than a waiting-for-high-school kind of thing.

Maybe that’s just me. It probably is.

One thing I do know, however, is that middle school or junior high or whatever you want to call it, is just about one of the toughest times for a girl. (I can’t speak about boys here because I don’t have one. Feel free to comment away about the boy-aspect of middle school.) I cannot tell you how many people I’ve talked to who have said that their junior high experience was so terrible that it’s the reason they chose to work with junior high students at church. Or others who said it affected their future career choice. Or others who just stay away from middle schoolers at all costs.

Seriously, it’s a rough go.

I’m currently going through middle school for the third time with my own girls, and each one has handled it differently. One seemed to breeze through middle school, only to tell me later that she hated every minute of it. Who knew?! Certainly not me. Another withdrew a bit, probably trying to ward off every cruel thing another person had said to her. Self-preservation becomes an art in middle school.

This time around is different still. We’re more concerned with our appearance. We’re straightening our hair and buying clothes in new and different stores. We’re much more concerned with the opinions of others.

And it’s this last aspect that had me on my knees today. Or walking, which is my preferred prayer stance.

I have always told my girls that I don’t want them to be known as the “smart girl” or the “athlete” or the “musician” or fill-in-the-blank. I would be much happier if the other kids at school think of them first as “the kind girl” or the “friendly girl” or, best of all, “the girl who really loves Jesus.”

The outward stuff just isn’t important. It’s the inward stuff that will shine through in the end.

But, you know what? You really can’t tell that to a junior high girl. Oh, you can tell her, and the sounds you are coming from your lips might reverberate around in her head a little bit, but there’s something that just makes them not hear it. Really hear it.

And so you have to come up with lots of different ways to say the same thing which is, “Just be yourself. Be the kind and loving person I know you are, and other people (the right people) will be drawn to you.”

Unfortunately in middle school, that just doesn’t register a whole lot. And so this morning I was praying for my girls, especially that sweet middle schooler with a whole bunch of angst about stuff that really doesn’t matter, and God somehow broke in through my mumbling and had me pray this:

“God, please help her to see that you are enough.” Just that. Enough.

Today I want my precious girl (all of them, really) to know more than anything that her clothes, her hair (as gorgeous as it is), her outgoing personality, even her talents in the classroom . . . none of it will ever be enough. Because there will always be someone to come knock her down a peg, or someone who feels like it’s their business to put her in her place, or someone who just gets a kick out of being cruel. All of the outward stuff will never be enough to make her feel good about herself.

But Jesus will.

Today I am thankful for a God who knows my daughters.
A God who knows when they sit down or stand up.
A God who knows their thoughts.
A God who knows when they go out and when they lie down.
A God who is familiar with all their ways.

These verses are loosely paraphrased from Psalm 139, and they bring me a lot of comfort. As a parent, it’s great to know that this God knows my daughters better than I do. He knows what’s best for them, and He even knows their mistakes. He still cares for them, watches over them, and loves them deeply.

Later, the Psalm goes on to talk about how God’s works are wonderful—that means you, junior high girl! About how God knew each and every day of our lives before we were even born and how He planned them all. And about how precious is each and every thought God has about us.

That part amazes me. Every thought God has about us is precious!

So on those days when it seems like we need the opinions of others to make us feel good about ourselves (Who are we kidding here? I have days like that too.), we can remember that God thinks highly of us. And that is enough.

He is enough for junior high. He is enough for high school. He is enough for college. And beyond.

More than enough.

Magnet Street Christmas Cards (and a Discount for YOU!)

Sooooo (she says, kicking nonchalantly at the ground with the toe of her shoe) . . . got your Christmas cards ordered yet?

No?

Good! Me neither.

But mine will be ordered soon. Just as soon as I can find any picture on my computer that doesn’t involve food or my dog or an event I’ve been to recently. (Basically, all of the photos on my computer are blog-related, not family-related.)

And since this year has been completely insane what with our taking separate Spring Break vacations, and one child spending an entire 8-week summer at camp, and another going off to college this fall, well, we don’t have any photos of our entire family together.

Yet.

Hopefully the stars will align and we will all be in the same place at once and we will be able to take a picture together. It may be a terrible picture, and it may be Photoshopped, but there will be a picture of five Wildpeople all in one place at one time if it kills me.

*deep breath*

I’m fine. I really am.

In fact, I’m better than fine because even though we may not have a photo . . . yet . . . at least I know what Christmas card I’ll be getting this year. It’s this one.



Isn’t it cute? Obviously the family on the card will have to go.

On second thought, they are much younger and much cuter than our family, so maybe we’ll give them one square. I’ll have to think about that.

Anyway, I want to introduce you to Magnet Street Christmas cards. These are so cute, both classic and contemporary at the same time.

Here are a few of my favorites.






Magnet Street is a great company which is owned by a great family. And they are also the world’s leading supplier of save-the-date wedding magnets.



(Get this, their website offers over 2,000 different styles of save-the-date cards and magnets! That's a lot to choose from!)

But they do so much more than that. They offer wedding invitations. (I think this letterpress design is beautiful and elegant.)



They also do baby announcements and business stationery, too.

But I really like their Christmas cards. You can even get a magnetic Christmas card—isn’t that cool?



I messed around on their website for a while and found it really easy to navigate. Plus, here's another great feature--you can totally customize your Christmas cards by changing the colors or the fonts or the text. Even with hundreds of great designs, your card can be uniquely your own.

Today, just because they love me and I love them, Magnet Street is offering my readers (that would be YOU!) at 15% discount on your Christmas card order. Just enter the promo code EFFA373Z7E at checkout.

Head on over there now and check out all of their great designs--anything from magnetic Christmas cards, 4 x 9 Christmas cards, and two sizes of folded cards--they've got it all. And don't forget your 15% discount!

Merry Christmas!

Now tell me . . . when do you like to get your Christmas cards out? Are you a before-Thanksgiving person? Or a sometime-in-January person? Or do you get them delivered on time?

Disclaimer: Magnet Street is giving me some free Christmas cards in exchange for this post. Thank you. And have a nice day.

In Which I Apologize to my Dad

Photo Credit: deere.com

Have I ever mentioned that I grew up on a farm? I should have. It was a big part of my growing up.

I guess I don’t talk about the farm much because I don’t really know what to say about it. And because not many people can relate to it. In my life right here (my real life, not my bloggy life and not the lives of people who don’t live here in the suburbs with me) I can’t think of a single other person besides me who grew up on a farm. It was a strange and solitary existence, which could probably explain a bit of my introversion problem.

But growing up on a farm was mostly good. Aside from the allergy situation. I was a farm kid with allergies and asthma, and every year at this time the situation became pretty unbearable.

Of course, I couldn’t complain because my dad was a farmer with hay fever. Which is worse, I think. Much worse. Poor guy would sit for hours on a tractor just sneezing and blowing his nose. He’d come in from the field late at night with bloodshot eyes and a huge red nose. This would go on for weeks, until the time of the first frost when he’d start to feel a little better.

At this time every year I really miss the farm. I loved Fall on the farm, especially the smells of harvest. All of that dust being blown through the air. All of those diesel fuel fumes. It was great.

Some of my favorite memories of the farm involve harvest time, when my dad would climb up on the combine and sit there for hours on end, probably for days and weeks on end without a break, until the job was done. Talk about a solitary existence. Just Dad and his radio buddy, Orien Samuelson who brought the farm report on WGN . . . .

. . . until we brought him dinner out in the field late at night, with only the big light from the top of the combine to give us a sense of where he might be in the vastness that was harvest. Dad would drive over to where we were waiting with his semi-warm dinner, hop down off of the tractor and give us all big, dusty hugs. He’d take his cap off of his head and we’d see the distinct line of dirt across his face where the cap had protected his forehead.

And so it was with such memories—the sights and smells of harvest—in my head that I sighed as we drove to Springfield for a quick weekend getaway earlier this fall. As we drove, we watched the busy farmers harvesting corn in the fields with their huge combines when all of a sudden Maggie asked, “Mom, what does a combine do?”

I nearly had a stroke right there in the car when I heard it! Seriously? What does a combine do? She was joking, right? After all, her grandpa had been a farmer. He had ridden a combine every harvest season for the better part of 35 years. And she really didn’t know what a combine did?

B and I just looked at each other in the way that parents of troubled teenagers look at one another. You know, the look that says, “Where did we go wrong?”

So I took a deep breath, tried to remain calm, and patiently explained to Maggie that a combine was a harvesting tractor that gobbles up the corn stalks on one end, strips all the unnecessary parts off and spits them out the back onto the field. The only part that was kept were the corn kernels which were then used to make things like corn oil, corn syrup, and feed for cattle.

And, really, Maggie, HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW WHAT A COMBINE IS???

When all of a sudden it hit me. Maggie didn’t know what a combine was because I hadn’t taught her. Her grandparents had retired from farming when she was about three years old, and then they moved away, so Maggie had never really had the experiences that her sisters had had on the farm. Her sisters remembered riding tractors with Grandpa and walking through tall cornfields and climbing on the combine, but Maggie didn’t.

Maggie had no recollection of farm life because I had neglected to instill in her a sense of her heritage. I just assumed she would know what farming was all about.

And, Dad, for this I am truly sorry. Well, that, and the fact that your granddaughter doesn’t know what a combine is.

As we drove down the highway toward Springfield, I had another realization. If my daughter, who is just one generation removed from an actual farmer, doesn’t know much about farming, how quickly could our Christian faith be lost if we don’t pass it on to future generations?

More than anything, this thought scared me. And it made me realize the importance of being intentional about passing on our faith to my daughters, and also, someday, to my grandchildren. How quickly, how easily, can our heritage be lost if we don’t do anything to make sure it is preserved?

Yes, it’s important to me that my daughters understand the farming culture which is a part of them, but it is much more important to me that my daughters understand the Christian faith which has sustained my family and my husband’s family for generations.

“Listen, O Israel! The LORD is our God, the LORD alone. And you must love the LORD your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your strength. And you must commit yourselves wholeheartedly to these commands that I am giving you today. Repeat them again and again to your children. Talk about them when you are at home and when you are on the road, when you are going to bed and when you are getting up. Tie them to your hands and wear them on your forehead as reminders. Write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.” Deuteronomy 6:4-9

Monday Morning Mayhem

Don't you just love that Allstate commercial that's on right now? That guy who plays Mayhem and drives all over town creating a ruckus? Those commercials just make me laugh. Which is why I chose the word "Mayhem" for my title.

And also because that word pretty much signifies my life right now.

Of course I could have titled this post "Monday Morning Mundane" because one woman's mayhem is another woman's mundane. But who would click on that link and actually want to read it? I'll tell you who . . . NOBODY! Which I why I opted for mayhem over mundane.

And I realized as I was thinking (for all of 10 seconds) about this post that I very rarely let you glimpse into all of the mundane mayhem that is my life, so today's your day.

Aren't you so glad you clicked over?

Let's start with last Thursday, when B and I attended a public policy debate titled "Does Capitalism Have a Soul?" I'll save you the brain cells . . . it doesn't. Anyway, we really enjoyed the debate (if you can call it that--it was more like a discussion) and created a little mayhem of our own as B pumped his fist every time he got an answer right. Which means that Arthur Brooks, the conservative on the panel, said something B already had already whispered in my ear. He's so competitive, that boy.

Friday's mayhem involved taking Maggie to see "Great Expectations" over at the college. Her friend, B, who is also Amy's daughter, played young Estella . . . . Marvelously, I might add. The mayhem part was trying to get Maggie away from B after the play was over . . . at 11:00 P.M.! My head was spinning I was so tired and hot because the theater was very small and very warm.

Saturday was a bit of a relief from the mayhem. After a relaxing morning in a beautiful home honoring a wonderful girl with a baby shower, I came home and relaxed for most of the afternoon. And then relaxed some more that night as Maggie and I watched "Julie and Julia" together. (It was on sale at Target for $10 last week, and I couldn't resist that bargain.)

Sunday's mayhem started out with a cute joke by our pastor. He said that even though the passage we were about to study was a bit "tricky," when taken in its proper biblical context it would prove to be a "treat." I think I was the only one who got his slight nod to Halloween as I loudly guffawed and everyone turned to stare at me. Believe me, this happens more than one would hope it would. Am I the only one who gets British humor?

And then there was last night . . . true mayhem as 20 college students descended on my home. They ate. And ate. And ate some more, but we did have plenty of food (thank goodness!). We watched the Giants pretty much crumble the Rangers underneath their thumbs. And B and I finally got to meet and spend time with some of Kate's friends. It was a great night.

So there. Mayhem? Yes. Busy? Always. Mundane? I don't think so.

This is my life. And I love it.

How about you? What do you love about your life? Is it full of mayhem too? Tell me about it!




P.S. Why not create a little mayhem of your own? Be sure to go VOTE tomorrow!

Fabulous Friday Food - Amy's Roast Chicken

Close your eyes.

Now picture the most beautiful, succulent, juicy, perfectly browned roast chicken you've ever seen.

Got it? Great. Now hold onto that image because you'll need it later on in this post.

Let's talk turkey chicken. I'm going to give it to you straight . . . I'm not much of a chicken fan. But this chicken. Oh my goodness, I think this chicken has pretty much solidified my friendship with Amy forever.

This is the chicken she brought us when we arrived home, jetlagged, from Switzerland two years ago. And the chicken she made for me when I was sick (I think. I can't remember 100% because I was in a fog for about 2 months after that). It's the chicken Amy makes THE. BEST. homemade chicken noodle soup with, too.

So yesterday I was able to pay it forward, so to speak--or maybe it's pay it backward, I don't know--and take a roast chicken to another friend who just had surgery. I love doing that kind of thing.

And while I was at it, I made one for us, too, because, you know, three people can eat a whole roast chicken in approximately 2 1/2 weeks so we should be able to finish it around Thanksgiving. (I say three because even though four people technically live in this house, five on breaks, these days it's usually only about three of us who end up eating together on any given night.)

You, my friends, are the beneficiaries of all this chicken-sharing. Aren't you happy? And to my friends who are newly married or have little kids running around, I would highly . . . HIGHLY . . . recommend putting this one in your repertoire of recipes. (What? You have no repertoire of recipes? Well you must get one and lickity split. Put this on the top of your list because it's so, SO easy.)

So here we go. It's Fab Food Friday and we're roasting a chicken.

Here's what you need--only five ingredients. Chicken (duh!), olive oil, garlic, thyme, and a lemon.



Wash and pat dry Mr. Chicken. Make sure you get the inside too. Then sprinkle it with salt and pepper. Inside too!



Take the lemon and zest it . . . . Zest it good. (Sorry, just a slight diversion back to the '80s.)



Then there's thyme. Oh yeah, I've got thyme. Lots and lots of thyme. (But for this recipe you really only need a couple of teaspoons.)



In a small bowl, combine the lemon zest, the thyme leaves, and a couple of cloves of chopped garlic. Amy's original recipe calls for four cloves of garlic, but two is plenty. Trust me. Two.

Add about 2 tablespoons of olive oil and mix it all together.



Spread that all over the top and sides of the chicken, rubbing it all over the surface of the chicken.

Take the lemon that you've already zested and cut it into quarters. Stick the lemon pieces and a couple of sprigs of thyme inside the cavity of the chicken.



Place the chicken in a 450 degree oven for 20 minutes, then reduce the temperature to 375 and bake for about an hour and fifteen minutes longer until the internal temperature is 180 degrees.

When your chicken is done it will be crispy on the outside, juicy in the middle. Mmmmmm.

Remember that mental image you had earlier in this post of a delicious, succulent, juicy roasted chicken? Well, bring that image back to mind now because I forgot to take a picture of the final product. Can you believe that? Oh, sure you can. Just imagine how beautiful it looked because it did. And it tasted even better.

Amy's Roast Chicken

3 Tablespoons minced fresh thyme or 3 teaspoons dried thyme
2 Tablespoons olive oil
2 garlic cloves, chopped
2 teaspoons lemon zest
1 5-6 pound roasting chicken
1 lemon, quartered

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Mix first 4 ingredients in a bowl. Rinse chicken, pat dry. Place chicken in roasting pan and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Rub the garlic/oil mixture over the surface of the chicken. Place lemon in cavity of chicken.

Roast chicken for 20 minutes at 450. Reduce oven temperature to 375 and continue roasting until meat thermometer inserted into thickest part of inner thigh registers 180 degrees, about 1 hour 15 minutes (or you could us my method--when the little plastic thingy pops up). Let rest a few minutes before transferring to a serving platter.

Have a great weekend, everybody. Now get cooking!

Let's Take a Tour

This is my creative place. The place where I do most of my writing and thinking and preparing.

I have this little basket next to my chair that usually holds my current projects, books I'm reading, etc., but this morning it started to overflow. As in Mount Vesuvius. So I decided to tackle the mess.

And I made an even bigger mess.

Why, oh why do I ever start organizing? It only leads to anxiety and blog posts when I should be doing other things, like getting ready for a women's retreat I'm speaking at in two weeks. Argh!

Anyway, I thought maybe you'd like a tour of this mess. Because touring other people's messes is always such a thrill, but it just might make you feel somewhat O.K. about your own messes. Or maybe I'm doing this for me because by writing my way through it I might actually be able to figure out what to do with it all.

So really, you're helping me out. Thank you.

So here goes. A little insight into my very messy work habits.

First you see my computer in the foreground. On top of it is a church bulletin from last May with some notes I wanted to save. If I take notes in church (which is probably about half the time) I type them into a file I have titled, creatively, "Sermon Notes." And then I throw away the bulletin. But usually there are about 10 church bulletins floating around various locations in my house, from the top of my desk to my catch-all basket or even shoved into my Bible. All from at least 6 months ago.

Help me!

To the right of my computer sits my Bible with my glasses on top. Can't really do much without either of those.

And to the right of my Bible--all those file folders?--are projects I'm currently working on or old project files that need to be, well, filed. A women's retreat. Two Christmas teas. A retreat I did way back in March.

I'm hopeless.

Behind those files, further to the right, is a pile of garbage. Walking it there now . . . .

I'm back.

Now let's look to the left of the chair. These are all things I just don't have a clue what to do with.

The yellow binder pile is some old literature notes from college. College! That was more than 25 years ago, folks! Not that the binder has been sitting there for 25 years--I'm sure I was using it for something within the past year. What do you think? Time to take it back to the box in the basement?

The pile behind the yellow binder and to the left is a stack of books I'm currently using for research or reading for pleasure. I'm one of those people who can't read more than one book at a time, so the stack is pretty small. It's the only pile that should go back in the basket.

And then there's this.

Twelve books, not all mine, that have been lying around my room collecting dust for who knows how long. Some are borrowed. Some were given to me at various events. Some are actually mine. But do you have any idea how long it would take me to actually read all of these books? Pretty much forever.

I'm not a very fast reader.

Besides, without naming names, (*cough, cough* Joyce Meyer *cough, cough*), I'm just not that into you.

It's time to give these books back to their rightful owners, to put them back on my bookshelf, or to just chuck them into a box in the basement. If they haven't been read already (a few have!) they just are not going to be read any time soon.

Besides, a quick glance next to my bed would reveal a stack of four more books that I need to read.

Ah, me. I'm a mess. But I'm working on it, and today is a good start.

How about you? Are you a mess too? (Please tell me you are.) What areas of your house need to be tackled today?

Top Ten Things about a Junior High Retreat

Call me crazy, but I love junior high kids.

I know, right?! Crazy.

Oh, I love other kinds of kids, too—those of the high school and college-aged-young-adult variety—but there’s something just so, well, funny about junior high kids.

All that angst. All that energy. All that hair.

So, you’d think I would have laughed my weekend away this past weekend. And I pretty much did. Those junior highers totally cracked me up.

Oh, I didn’t mention my weekend plans? Don’t be jealous, but I went on a retreat. With 80 junior high kids.

It was a party, my friends. A Party in the U.S.A. if there ever was one.

Top Ten Things About a Junior High Retreat

1. Earth ball Soccer. Hysterical! Bodies flying. Cheers erupting. And one leader-who-shall-remain-nameless with a black eye. The game is brutal, folks. Brutal, I’m telling you!

2. Shaving Cream Wars. Picture 90 people on a field, each with a can of shaving cream. And they just go for it. In the end the field looked like the Creature from the Black Lagoon threw up everywhere, but at least the camp smelled clean.

3. Rope Bridge. A perennial favorite. And what could be better than rope burns, leeches, and a swamp?

4. Canoeing. For the more mellow among us who want to build up our upper bodies by rowing against the wind for four miles. Just a walk in the park. Or a row down the river.

5. Get-to-know-you games. Quick! Line up and put yourselves into alphabetical order by your mother’s maiden name! Now line up in order of your favorite teacher’s birthdate! And now get into alphabetical order by your pet’s name! Quick!

6. Pranking. Pretty much my favorite part of retreats. Just ask the girls in my group. I was all about the pranking, oh yeah. All about it. I think my favorite prank was the one where I got in my sleeping bag and pretended to go to sleep. The prank was that I wasn’t pretending, but don’t tell the girls.

7. Wet socks. These all-important camp accessories are not only comfortable, but they also make your room smell great. Especially when twelve girls all have wet socks—your room smells so sweet.

8. Ooga Booga. This is a game that one of our youth pastors made up about 15 years ago. It’s a rite of passage for the 7th graders new to the youth group and is truly one of the highlights of the weekend. I’d explain the game to you, but it’s a huge secret, so if I told you, I’d have to kill you.

9. Watching girls flirt with boys and boys flirt with girls. And they thought we wouldn’t notice. Bwahahaha.

10. Underground church. A super-cool game we always play that’s not only fun, but educational too. Because we all know junior high kids are looking for that educational piece in their games. But the best part? It’s played outside. In the dark. (See number 9.) Kids running away from the secret police as they try to smuggle Bibles to the persecuted church.

Just your regular Saturday night in the suburbs.

So there. A few glimpses into our weekend at camp.

Oh yeah. And there was a speaker too. Trust me, he was good. He taught about the Prodigal Son story. The kids liked him so much that they t.p.-ed his car. Like, completely. Not a single bit of the car could be seen.

Not that I’d notice a prank or anything.

All-in-all it was a good weekend. Tiring, of course, because I’m old, but good. And one of the best parts was that the kids got to see God in action this weekend. Big time. It was supposed to rain all weekend. No kidding. We were all talking about it on Friday before we left, wondering how we’d get to play Underground Church if it rained. But, aside from a few sprinkles on Saturday morning, not a drop of rain fell from the sky.

Until, that is, the drive home.

He’s good, you guys. All the time. Even in the small things.

He’s good.

I'm linking up with Top Ten Tuesday at Oh, Amanda! Head on over there for some more great top ten lists.

Still Learning - Part 2

Hi! I'm so glad you stopped by. If you're here for Fabulous Friday Food, you'll have to come back next week. I have been busy--really busy--this week and haven't been cooking much, so I got nothin'. But I hope you'll come back next Friday for some really Fabulous Food.




When I last left you we were in the middle of a story. Two identical keys, on the same ring, were missing, and my daughter was learning some important lessons.

And so was I . . . .

* * * * *

Throughout the week we texted back and forth, and she told me she was going to walk over to Public Safety with a friend to see if they could help get the U-lock off of her bike.

Good idea, I texted her back.

She also said she had stopped at the front desk of her dorm to see if anyone had found the keys. No luck there.

Oh, that’s too bad. I’ll keep praying.

At one point she said to me, “Mom, do you have any idea how much a locksmith costs? Like, 80 dollars!!”

Uh huh.

Life’s rough. And let me tell you something, sweetie, being a mom whose hands are tied is rough too. Restraint isn’t exactly my strong suit.

Finally, about three days later at around 9:30 P.M. my phone rang. “MOM!!! I FOUND MY KEYS!!!! I ACTUALLY HAVE THEM RIGHT HERE IN MY HANDS!!!”

We jumped and shouted together on the phone, rejoicing that the incident, which had caused me almost as much internal turmoil as it did her, had come to the very best conclusion.

“Kate, that’s great! I’m so happy for you! Where did you find them?”

Turns out, she decided to ask one more time at the front desk in her dorm lobby. The girl working the desk was no help whatsoever, but it a guy who was standing nearby overheard Kate asking about some lost keys, looked down on the counter, and said, “Are these your keys?” all nonchalant like.

There they were, just sitting innocently on the counter. Who knows how long they had been there? I guess long enough for Kate to sum up the financial implications of a locksmith and buying a new lock. Long enough for her to come up with a plan and to ask someone on campus for some help. Long enough for God to teach her whatever lesson He wanted her to learn and for her to spend some time praying through her situation.

And in the meantime, those keys remained lost long enough for God to teach me a thing or two as well.

How easy would it have been for me to just say, “Oh honey, I’m so sorry this has happened. Let me call a locksmith for you and I’ll come meet you at work and we’ll see if we can get that bike unlocked for you”? And surely it would have been easier for me to write the check to a locksmith than for her to do it.

But in the meantime, she wouldn’t have come up with the great idea of going to Public Safety. Or checking at the front desk. Or finding out just how much this mess was going to cost her.

And in the meantime we both had the opportunity to pray and to wait for God to work it out. I’m so glad He worked it out this way rather than the most painful, expensive way, but even if He had chosen that path, it would have been worth it, too.

Because she did it. Kate had gotten herself into that mess and she had the unique privilege of getting herself out of it. It was her problem, and even though I was there to support her in it, she got the satisfaction of handling it.

I’m so proud of her, but I’m also just a little bit proud of me because I didn’t handle it. Me, the fixer-upper. Me, the handler. Me, the mom who wants to kiss it and make it better.

I didn’t handle it. And it was the right thing to do.

After almost 19 years of mothering this child, I’m still learning.

Now it's your turn. What parenting lessons have you been learning lately? What is the hardest part of parenting to you?

Still Learning - Part 1

The call came in last week: “Mom. I did something really stupid.”

How does one respond to this? I sat. I waited for the story I was sure to come.

“So I was running late for work the other day so I rode my bike, but I was wearing a skirt so I didn’t want to ride my bike home from work. I figured I’d just get it the next day when I was there.”

Yeah? Where’s the stupid part, aside for riding your bike to work with a skirt on?

“Well, when I got back to the dorm I don’t know what I did, but the keys to the bike lock fell out of my purse and I can’t find them anywhere.”

Immediately I pictured the bike lock that her dad bought before she left for college—a huge, heavy-duty U-shaped lock that only opens with a key. The packaging bragged that no bolt cutter could cut through this lock. No, sirree.

“Oh, Kate. How did this happen?” I asked.

“I don’t know!” the panic starting to rise in her voice. She’s probably picturing the U-shaped lock, too. “We played Capture the Flag when I got back. I set down my bag somewhere. The keys probably fell out on the grass.”

Yes, she had looked everywhere. Yes, she had torn her room apart. Yes, she had asked people if they had seen the keys. Nothing.

And, no, she had not separated the keys—two identical keys were still linked together on the small ring.

Don’t even get me started.

“Let me call Dad,” I offered, knowing already what he would say. But I felt like I needed to do something, and that was all I could offer at that point. “I’ll call you back.”

I made the call and got the response I knew I would get.

“Don’t help her out. Whatever you do, do NOT call anyone for her. If she were out East, we wouldn’t be able to help her, so just pretend she’s away at college, not just right down the street.” After 25 years, I knew this was what he would say, but I needed him to be the fall-guy, not me.

I called Kate back.

“Kate, I don’t know what to tell you. You’re going to probably have to call a locksmith to come and pick the lock for you. And then you’re going to have to buy a new bike lock.”

“How much is that going to cost?!” The panic rising in her voice even more.

“I don’t know. You’ll have to call to get an estimate.”

That little incident was one of the hardest parenting issues I’ve faced in a long time. It seems so simple in theory—make your child do the hard things . . . face the consequences of their actions . . . yadda yadda yadda. I KNOW all this in my head, but putting it into practice is so very hard.

I didn’t offer to Google locksmiths (even though I had already done it). I didn’t offer to pay for anything. I just remained firm that she would have to figure this one out, and I made sure she knew that I was sorry, so very sorry, for the hardship she was experiencing. And I was. More than she would ever know.

So tell me, has your child ever gotten into a jam? What did you do? Anything? Nothing?

I’ll let you know tomorrow how this all worked out.

It is Well. So Very Well.

Every Wednesday night at 7, I grab my Bible and my 7th grader and head over to church for a couple of hours. I hang out in a too-small room with about 85 sweaty, smelly junior high kids.

We play games.

We talk about the Bible.

We pray.

And we sing. Always there is singing.

I have the privilege of hanging out with a small group of girls each week. Maggie is one of them. A few of the girls who were in a Bible study at my house last year are in the group as well, along with a handful of girls I knew-but-didn’t-really-know-before.

It’s great to be with these girls each week.

Two girls in our group are very special to me, to all of us. K and A are middle school girls with special needs. At a time when everyone is trying to be the same, these girls are different, and we love them—they add so much to our group.

You know what I love best about them? They are still uninhibited. Every other junior high girl in that room is self-conscious. You can see it the minute you walk in the room--their arms crossed in front of them as their eyes scan quickly to see who’s talking to whom and who’s wearing what.

But not K and A. They are best friends, and the minute they see one another they run into each other’s arms, greeting each other with a huge hug. And then they start to communicate in their own unique way.

K talks . . . . and talks . . . . and talks.

A likes to dance. So when she sees her friend she jumps up and down and claps her hands wildly.

See? Uninhibited. I love it.

Last week in the junior high group we did all the things we usually do. We played a raucous game of Shuffle Your Buns—in the dark with flashing disco lights. We talked about the Bible. We shared prayer requests.

And we sang one of my favorite hymns: “It Is Well With My Soul.” Can you believe it? Eighty-five self-conscious junior high kids singing that wonderful old hymn together.

That’s amazing in itself.

K and A were sitting just behind me, and I could just see them out of the corner of my eye. During this song something caught my attention, so I turned around to see what was going on.

There was A, dancing to “It Is Well,” clapping her hands and jumping up and down like she was in a mosh pit. And why not, really? The song is totally mosh pit worthy.

K, likewise, was doing the thing she loves—singing at the top of her lungs. Belting it out because she knows every word.

Imagine . . . a room full of self-conscious teenagers, worried to death about being found out as someone who might actually like singing or playing games or (*gasp!*) church.

And here are these two girls who just. don’t. care. About what anyone thinks.

They only want to sing and dance because they love Jesus. And they don’t care who knows it.

When peace like a river attendeth my way.
When sorrows like sea billows roll.
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well with my soul.

It is well, with my soul.
It is well. It is well.
With my soul.

Good Reads

It's the weekend and time to take a few minutes to catch up on some good posts. These will make you laugh. Some will make you cry. All will make you think.

This one is from a while back, but it still makes me chuckle. If you don't read Boo Mama, you should. She's just plain funny.

I love this idea of a reverse bucket list. Rather than dreaming of someday, why not keep a list of all the cool things you've already done? You might find you're already living a pretty fulfilling life.

This one is serious. Real serious. Last month, Ann Voskamp, a writer I adore, travelled with the Compassion bloggers group to Guatamala and asked the question, "Where in the world, in all this world, is God?" She found the answer in a surprising place.

And I'm putting this one out here for me. I needed this little kick in the behind, and if you're a writer you just might need it too.

Finally, here's one my husband put out there this week. I love how he took some marketing advice that he got in a random email at work and turned it into concepts that work for marriage. Isn't he great?!

Happy weekend, everybody!

Fabulous Friday Food - Baked Brisket

This one is for Angie. Because she asked.

But you can make it too. In fact, I think you should make it too. It's so good--one of my all-time favorite meals. Of all time.

I've been making this recipe forever. Can't you tell? Just look at this recipe card.



But first we have to talk meat. Remember the old David Letterman thing they used to do, "Know Your Cuts of Meat"? Back in the day, B and I used to stay up late watching Letterman. Until he made fun of Sarah Palin just one too many times and even though I still haven't completely made up my mind about Sarah Palin, I just couldn't take Dave making fun of a woman like that. Just couldn't take it. And so, with a sigh, I turned off the T.V. one night and haven't watched him since.

Take that, Dave.

Anyway, today I'm recalling the old Letterman days because I have just a little meaty lesson for you. Cue the music, Paul.

This here is a brisket.



I know it looks a little weird in this packaging, but that's the way they usually come--at least from my butcher. The brisket is a big, kind of fatty, cut of meat that comes from the underside of a cow (sorry, Dad--I know I should probably say steer here). Brisket comes in a big piece--5 or 6 pounds--so it's not a cheap piece of meat, but believe me, it is worth every penny. There will be no waste with this recipe--you will want to eat every bite.

So now, open the package very carefully, preferably over a sink so the blood can drain out. The meat will look like this.



See the kind of big layer of fat on there? You'll want to cut that off or have your butcher trim it up for you. I did it myself, but I'm not showing you a picture of that because . . . eew.

Anyway, after you've trimmed your brisket a bit (go ahead and leave a little fat on it because, as we all know from watching Food Network, fat means flavor, right?), lay it in a close-fitting pan like this.



O.K., so you have your meat, trimmed of excess fat, and lying in a pan. Now what?

How 'bout some sauce? Oh yes, the sauce makes this sooooo delish. And it only takes a few ingredients.



Dijon mustard, brown sugar, lemon juice, ketchup, worcestershire, and salt. That's it. You've probably got all that hanging around. Mix it together so it looks like this.



Pour it over the meat.



Nothing to it, right? You still with me?

Pop it in a 300 degree oven (my girl Sandra Lee--notsomuch--always says "Pop it in the oven" and it drives me crazy. Crazy, I tell you!) and shut the door. For about 4 hours.



Just as an aside, don't you just love my retro Magnalite pan? It used to be my grandma's, but I snagged it when she moved one time. I absolutely love this pan and wouldn't trade it for the world.

After about 4 hours, this is what you'll have. Take the lid off the pan and give it another half hour, basting often. Just because.



Here is where you separate the men from the boys . . . or the meat from the juice.

Lay the meat on a tray with sides and let it cool for a bit. You'll want to skim the rest of the fat off the meat, but, of course, no picture of that because . . . eew.



Using a strainer to catch the rest of the gross stuff, pour the juices into a saucepan, and bring them to a boil.



Now make a slurry of cornstarch and warm water. No big deal. You can do this. Just mix 2 tablespoons of each in a small bowl and carefully pour some, but not all, of it into the juices. Don't pour it all at once or your sauce might get too thick. Use about half, stir the sauce for a minute, and see how it goes. If it's not thick enough, add some more of the cornstarch until you get the right consistency. You want it saucy, not pasty. Got it?

Now, back to the meat that is now de-fatted and resting on the pan. Slice it. It might just fall apart on you, like mine did today, but try your best to make slices. If you want (and this is probably a good idea if you have the time), put the piece of meat in the fridge for an hour or so before you slice it.

Anyway, slice away and place the meat into a pretty dish. Pour the sauce over the whole thing and try not to eat it all in one sitting. Or before your family comes home. Because (and I know this from experience), it's pretty hard to resist all that meaty, saucy, juicy goodness. Oh my.



Here's the great thing about this recipe--you can make it ahead. In fact, I made it this morning and we're not eating it until Sunday. But it's all done, sitting in my fridge just soaking up the yummy, yummy sauce. And on Sunday all I have to do is warm it up in the oven for a bit. Easy peasy.

So there. Brisket. Go make it and let me know what you think.

Baked Brisket

1 5-6 pound beef brisket, trimmed

1 T. Dijon mustard
1/3 C. brown sugar
1/3 C. fresh lemon juice
1/2 C. ketchup
3 T. worcestershire
1 t. salt

1. Lay meat in a close-fitting pan. Combine sauce ingredients and pour over trimmed meat. Cover. Bake in a 300 degree oven for about 4 hours, until tender. Uncover pan for the last 1/2 hour and baste meat often.

2. Remove meat to a carving board and skim off excess fat. Let meat cool for a bit before slicing.

3. Strain juices into a saucepan and bring to a boil. Blend 2 T. cornstarch with 2 T. warm water in a small bowl and stir gradually into juices to desired consistency. Pour over sliced meat and serve. Makes 10-12 servings.

Now it's your turn to share! Got a Fabulous Friday Food link? Add it here . . .



Now get cooking!

P.S. Did you notice that I did this as a special request? If you've got a recipe you'd like me to feature on Fab Friday Food, let me know. I just might give it a try!

Fabulous Friday Food is coming . . . later today. So go cook something, take pictures, and come back here to link up.

And go have a great day!

Chi, Chi, Chi! Le, Le, Le!

Photo credit: Washington Post

I cannot stop watching.

Every time that capsule goes underground empty and comes back filled with one more miner, my heart jumps and my eyes fill with tears.

What can I say? I'm hormonal.

And emotional. Rightly so, I'd say. This whole miner rescue thing is really a miracle. And I do mean miracle. Who among us didn't entertain the thought 69 days ago that there was no way these guys were ever going to get out of there? Maybe I'm just showing my lack of faith again, but I sure thought about the possibility that they wouldn't ever see the light of day again.

But now, today, they are. Behind some pretty serious sunglasses so their eyes don't get damaged from the sudden shift from darkness to light, but they are definitely seeing the light of day.

They have dealt with cramped quarters, darkness, lack of food (although they were able to get some), missing their families, illness, and much more. And they have had to deal with each other.

I don't know about you, but I think I might get just a little bit tired of dealing with the same 33 people for 2 1/2 months straight. The complaining. The whining. The lack of personal hygiene. And that's just how I'd be acting if I were down there. They'd all hate me within about 24 hours. It's amazing my own family puts up with me.

This afternoon I turned on one of the news channels for a few minutes and heard something that made my ears perk up. The commentator was describing one of the men coming up out of the hole and he said, probably without thinking, "It's just like they are being born again." In more ways than one, Mr. Commentator. In more ways than one.

And just now, as I was writing this, the President of Chile was greeting the man who just came out of the hole and said, "Welcome back to life."

I look at the people hugging, kissing, patting each other on the back, clearly thrilled with this rebirth, and I hope and pray that these men truly do know the gift that they have been given. The rebirth with which they have been blessed.

I wonder. Do I? Do I rejoice in this way over the rebirth I've been given? Do I ever stop to think that at one time I was just like a miner trapped underground--a person facing death, without hope. And God reached down and gave me the gift of life. A gift I didn't deserve, but a gift for which I am so grateful.

Did you notice the shirts they were wearing when they came up out of the ground? The name of Jesus was written across their sleve, and a Bible verse written across their backs. It is Psalm 95:4: "In His hand are the depths of the earth, and the mountains belong to Him." Right there, for all the world to see.

God has been good. So good. To the miners, yes. But also to me.

Top Ten Tuesday - Northside Park

We've been having Indian Summer around here. Normally, it should be around the mid-60s during the day, but last week and over the weekend we've had temperatures in the 80s. The 80s! That's practically unheard of at this time of year.

But I'll take it.

I mean, shorts in October? I'm all over it. I'm happy to let the world see my now-faded legs after six weeks (not that they were ever that tan in the first place), so if the weather is going to be warm, I'm going to wear shorts.

Thank you, Weather!

Last week, in addition to the beautiful weather, my favorite place to walk the Wonder Dog opened up again. For the past year this park near my house has been closed for renovations, but it's almost done (at least they say Phase 1 is almost done, whatever that means and whoever "they" are).

I've missed my park. Thunder has missed the park, too. It's our favorite place to walk.

So, the opening of the park makes me almost as happy as the weather. Seriously, when I walked into the park for the first time last week, this is what I saw.

Really? Couldn't you just look at that for a long, long time?

And so, in honor of Indian Summer, here are the Top 10 Things I Love About My Park.

(No, that's not a misprint. When I'm there it really does feel like "my" park.)

1. Big, old trees.

2. Blue skies.

3. Poop bags. Do I need to explain this one?

4. Brilliant colors.

5. Log Cabins--there are four of them, I think.

6. Ponds.

7. Thunder is happy here too.

8. Did I mention the trees?

9. Ducks!

10. The sledding hill. (Look closely--it's back there.) One of the only things around here that makes winter tolerable.

So now you know where I am on those gorgeous days when I just don't have time to post on my blog. I'm out enjoying my beautiful stomping grounds.

It's where I think. It's where I pray. It's where I get refreshed.

So tell me, where do you go to get refreshed, recharged, renewed? Do you like to walk outside or would you prefer a massage? Or is there something else that makes you happy?

I'm linking up with Top Ten Tuesdays at Oh Amanda! today. Head over there for more fun Top Ten lists.

Good Reads

Happy weekend! In fact, happy loooong weekend. Seems like bankers and school children alike have a three-day weekend this weekend which means that the Wild Fam will all be together. Mostly.

We're taking the two-who-remain to an undisclosed location for part of the weekend. I'll tell you all about it next week because it should be fun.

But what say we play a little game? Can you figure out where we are if I give you just three little words?

Stovepipe. Civil. Penny.

There. You should be able to guess.

Now, just in case I haven't entertained you enough this week with great memories and good food, here are some of my favorite posts from this week (and maybe one or two from last).

Flowerpatch Farm Girl is my kind of gal. She's funny. She's spunky. And she's full of life. Plus, she loves her children more than anything. This post is a tribute to her sweetie called Ruby. Celebrate with her today.

A few weeks back I gave you instructions about how to set up a feed reader. My instructions took a lot of words. Jo-Lynne managed to explain it much more simply in this post.

Oh my goodness, I almost jumped up and down as I read this post by Don Miller this week because this is something that I SO resonate with, and it's something that B and I talk about. A lot.

And since I'll be headed out on a retreat in a couple of weeks, this post by Jon Acuff totally made me laugh. Because it is pretty much 100% true.

And this one? Just. Plain. Cool.

There you go. Happy reading! Happy weekend.

Fabulous Friday Food - Steak and Ale Pie

We were starving. And wandering. And tired. And looking for a restaurant.

Just a terrible combination when you're in a foreign country.

Did I mention we were starving?

Finally, after getting really frustrated and desperate, Abby spotted a tiny little pie shop tucked underneath a staircase in Covent Garden. In England, pie doesn't necessarily refer to the lattice-topped, fruit-filled, ooey-gooey goodness that we enjoy here in the States.

Pies in England are often filled with meat.

I know. Gross, right?

Wrong!

Meat pies are yummy. Really, really yummy.

It may have been that Abby and I were just so hungry that night that anything would have tasted delicious, but truly, the steak and ale pie I had that night in Covent Garden was just about the best thing I had EVER tasted. Seriously. The meat was so tender; the crust was so flaky; the gravy was just so gravy-y. I was in meat-and-gravy heaven.

I wanted to go back the next night, and I wanted to go back this summer when B and I were in the UK, but it just didn't work out.

We had to eat fancy food this summer.

Battersea Pie Shoppe certainly did not qualify as fancy food. But I'm not that fancy myself, because I've been dreaming about that pie ever since April. Battersea Pie Shoppe, you have a piece of my heart.

Ever since we got home last spring I have been dying to make steak and ale pie. Dying, I tell you.

Well, last night I finally had a chance to make the English delicacy (is that an oxymoron?). I had the ingredients and looked up about 10 different recipes online--you should have seen the open windows on my computer! But I did what I usually do--I read the recipes and decided for myself how to make my very own variety of steak and ale pie. I'm picky that way. And then I laid hands on my cooktop and prayed that it would all work out.

I needed to be transported to Covent Garden.

So here goes. My first attempt at steak and ale pie. And I gotta say, it won't be my last. Since I don't have the gift of teleportation, I have a feeling I'll be making this one again and again whenever I miss my favorite place on earth. Which is pretty often.

First things first: assemble your ingredients. For this one you'll need stew meat, flour, salt and pepper, butter, onions, garlic, mushrooms, ale (of course!), beef broth, and puff pastry. Couldn't be more basic.

Cut the stew meat into bite size pieces and toss them with a couple tablespoons of flour.



Place the meat in a hot pan and about three tablespoons of olive oil. Brown the meat really well, and be sure not to crowd the pan. In fact, you might want to brown the meat in two batches just so you don't run into this problem.

Once the meat is browned, set it aside. Melt some butter in the same pan. This is so important because you do NOT want to lose the brown bits on the bottom of the pan. Your flavor is in there!



Throw in a chopped onion and a little bit of minced garlic, letting the onions get soft and browned.



Once that's done, throw in some mushrooms. I used baby bellas, but you can use whatever you want.



Let those babys brown for a little bit, then throw in some ale (we just call it beer around here--we're not that fancy).



Let the ale get all bubbly while you scrape the brown bits from the bottom of the pan. In fact, it needs to cook down just a bit, so let it simmer for a few minutes. You're combining flavors here and flavors cannot be rushed.



Finally, add 2 or 3 cups of beef broth and a sprig of fresh herbs (I used thyme, but rosemary would also be good). Return the beef to the pan, and put a lid on the whole thing. Let it simmer for an hour to an hour and a half.

As the beef simmers, the broth will thicken and turn much darker. Like this, see?



Place it in a baking dish and cover the whole thing with some puff pastry that you have thawed in your fridge for a few hours. (Make sure you use plenty of flour on your surface when you roll out the pastry. Just trust me on this one.)



Use an egg wash to create a seal between the pastry and the dish. Then brush the top of the pastry with egg wash.



Bake your pie in a 375 degree oven for about 40 minutes until the crust is golden brown.



And serve this dish with mashed potatoes. Promise me you'll serve mashed potatoes. You NEED mashed potatoes with this one.

Steak and Ale Pie

1 ½ pounds beef stew meat
3 T. oil
salt and pepper
3 T. flour
-----
½ stick butter
1 onion
1 clove garlic
About 1 1/2 Cups sliced mushrooms
1 bottle (12 oz) dark ale
3 C. beef broth
Thyme (or other fresh herb)
-----
Puff Pastry

1. Cut the meat into bite-size pieces. Toss in flour.

2. Heat a dutch oven or large pan until the pan is nice and hot. Add oil. Add meat to hot oil in pan and brown well on all sides. Salt and pepper to taste. You may have to do this in two batches so you don’t crowd the pan. Remove meat from pan and set aside.

3. Melt butter in bottom of pan and add onions and garlic. Cook for several minutes until onions are soft and carmelized. Add mushrooms; cook for 2 more minutes until the edges of the mushrooms just start to brown.

4. Add beer to onions and mushrooms and cook down for a few minutes. Add beef broth and bring to a boil. Add back the meat to the pot and add a sprig of thyme. Reduce heat and simmer for about an hour to an hour and a half on top of the stove until thickened and meat is tender.

5. Place mixture in a baking dish, and top with thawed puff pastry. Use an egg wash along the rim of the baking dish in order to help the puff pastry to stick. Brush egg wash over the top of the puff pastry. Poke top of pastry with a knife in order to let steam out of the pie.

6. Bake at 375 degrees for 35-40 minutes until pastry is browned and flaky.

SERVE WITH MASHED POTATOES. And ale.

Now it's your turn. Add your link here.

Facebook Friends, Real-Life Friends, and the Best of Friends

In my college writing class I would often have students read an essay by Judith Viorst called “Friends, Good Friends, and Such Good Friends.” It was an interesting analysis of how women tend to categorize their friendships. Well-written. Erudite. Interesting, even.

If you’re looking for a great essay on friendships, go and read hers.

But I got to thinking about that essay this weekend because, well, I just did. And probably also because I was surrounded by friends—lots of friends—and the lines of friendship got blurred, so I’m feeling this instinctive need to sort it all out.

Where better to sort than here, right? I’m constantly sorting out all my issues with you all. Why not one more, huh?

So this past weekend was our grand and glorious 25th college reunion. OH MY WORD, it was fun! Too much fun! In fact, it took me two days to even muster up enough strength to get my bed made and to empty the dishwasher. Staying up until 1 a.m. for two nights in a row really took its toll on me because it’s not like I’m staying up into all hours of the night on a regular basis.

Unless, of course, there’s a Blackhawks game on. Then I just might be persuaded to stay up until, oh, 11. But not much more.

But it was so worth it because I got to spend every possible waking minute with four of my dearest friends in the world. And even if we did eat way too much Costco Spinach/Artichoke/Parmesan dip on those flattened pretzel thingys and even if we did drink a little wine late into the night, it was so worth it because we were together. Gloriously together for about 72 hours.

Speaking of which. Why does time go so fast when you want it to just slow down? I kept checking the clock all weekend, wishing time would just stop so we could keep talking, talking, talking. But it didn’t.

But then again, maybe that’s a good thing because seriously not much gets done when you’re sitting up until 1 a.m. eating fattening mayonnaise-based appetizers and drinking wine.

Anyway, the weekend was filled with friends and it got me to thinking about the nature of friendship and the types of friendships I’ve enjoyed over the years.

Because I’m deep like that.

And, like Judith Viorst (you knew I’d get back to her, didn’t you?), I realized that I have categories of friends too. Just different categories. Probably less erudite categories than Judith’s, but it’s the best I’ve got.

Facebook Friends. These are the friends who will tell you what they are making for dinner. Or how they unclogged their bathroom drain. Or that their child is finally potty-training.

Not necessarily stuff I’d care to know about them, but also not stuff I’m opposed to. I guess you could same I’m ambivalent.

I’ve come to like Facebook, though, because it’s a fairly non-threatening way to keep up on people’s lives. To actually keep up on the fact that these people ARE alive. It’s fun. It’s surfacy. It’s nice.

Facebook is my friend, too, because it has helped me find people from my past whom I probably never would have found (or maybe it’s the other way around—I don’t do much searching for people, but if someone finds me, I’m not opposed to being friends with them again). Anyway, I’ve made some nice reconnections that I have enjoyed through Facebook.

Plus it gives me a place to vent. Like today, for instance, while I’ve been trying to write there has been a dog barking incessantly out my window. I don’t know who’s dog it is, but it is driving me CRAZY! Enter Facebook, where I can tell 282 of my not-so-closest-friends all about this dog and my feelings about it.

And they will care. I know they will. Because they are my Facebook friends.

Real-life friends. Another category of friendships that is not hard to figure out. These are friends IRL (“in real life” – I know this only because I have teenagers). These are the friends I can call when my car is in the shop and I need a ride to go pick it up. These are the friends I actually pick up the phone to call. Sort of. I don’t usually call anybody, but if I’m going to call someone, it will be a real-life friend.

These friends know a lot more about me than my Facebook friends. Some of them know where I hide my house key. Some know where I like to shop and how I spend my Saturday mornings. And the best ones know how I take my Margarita (frozen, no salt).

I love my real-life friends because they are dependable. I can depend on them to have just as busy a schedule as I do and not to be offended if they don’t hear from me for weeks at a time. I can depend on them to bring me dinner after a long trip or after surgery, depending on the situation.

And I hope my real-life friends find me dependable too. I can be depended on to drop everything to go to lunch with them. I can be depended on to organize our PTAA group (and if you don’t know what that is, I don’t really have time to explain it. Just know it has something to do with Margaritas.). I can be depended on to be at Bible study every week and to love being with them there.

Real-life friends are the ones who dig in and just do life with you. The ones you bump into in the grocery store and say, “Hey, how’s that thing we talked about last week?” They won’t care if I have a bad hair day because they’ve seen it all. And they won’t even mention those few extra pounds I’ve put on lately because age and hormones don’t mix. God bless my real-life friends for not mentioning that.

The Best of Friends. These are the friends who have known you the longest and who still love you despite it all. These are the friends who you might not have seen in 15 years, but who you can sit down and catch up with immediately. These are the friends who encourage me the most because despite all we’ve been through, both separately and together, they still love me.

The best of friends were there when I was an awkward college freshman in my Kelly green corduroy pants just hoping some boy would notice my Dorothy Hamill haircut and think I’m special. The best of friends sing hymns together in their dorm rooms—one person for each part. (I guess you could say here that the best of friends are dorks.) The best of friends let you be totally crazy or catty or snarky and they just sit there and listen and love you even more because of it.

The best of friends know your family. And your husband’s family. So you don’t have to waste time on all THAT stuff.

The best of friends sit down, look you in the eye, and care deeply about where you’ve been and where you’re going. And you do the same for them.

I’ve been thinking about these best of friends ever since they left on Sunday.The weekend was a blur. So much fun. So much laughter. So much catching up.

And so much love.

Love that spans 30 years. Love that picks up where it left off. Love that lets me be me. Love that doesn’t care where you’ve been or what you’ve been through.

Love that sits up eating junk food and drinking wine until 1.

The best of friends. I miss them already.