About Those Routines

I understand the concept of routines, I really do!!  I want to get routines going.  It is just that I live with 6 other people and 2 dogs and I have to say that of those 7 other creatures I live with, about 5 of them are just as distracted procrastinators as I am.

So, a week of attempts may look like this:

Monday - 6:30 a.m. - I am heading to the shower when a head appears ominously around my doorway.  "Mother," it croaks, eyes wide, skin pale, "I forgot my essay is due this morning."  And then, since I have been on that end of things many times in my life, I come to his aid, and together we finish the essay an hour and a half later.  Morning routine . . . up in smoke.

Tuesday - 7:00 a.m. - Just cracking open my morning devotional.  From up on the catwalk a sad snuffling, coughing, and wheezing.  "Mama," says the snuffling and wheezing little being, "I'm sick.  Can you come lay down with me??"  And then, because this is the baby and there will be precious few times where I'm so desired to make it through the beginnings of a nasty cold, I cuddle up.  Morning routine . . . drifts off into the ether.

Wednesday - 6:45 a.m. - A holler is heard from the kitchen area where the Man of the House is making his way to the kitchen, via the area where the dogs sleep.  They have done it again.  Having apparently missed their perfect schedule by 1 or 2 minutes,  now where there were only glossy, empty hardwoods, there are glossy hardwoods with foul-smelling piles and at least one medium-sized lake.  The next half hour is then spent, wiping, spraying, bagging and shampooing, with a little time added in for repeated gagging.  Just saying.  Morning routine . . . sadly hijacked.

Thursday - 7:30 a.m. - With a large stretch, I sit before my computer to address the large stack of e-mails coming in on the sports web site.  Rapid footsteps staccato down the hall and the door flings open.  "Are you ready, Mom??"  ::gulp::  My fuzzy pajamas and suede, fur-lined slippers already give the answer.  "Well, don't forget that my car is in the shop and Middle Son has to have the other car for math lessons and Dad already left for work and Oldest Daughter is away at college, leaving only you to take me to school!!!!!"  ::ugh::  So, I pull on a pair of boots long enough to cover the bottom of my fluffy pajamas and a black coat long enough to cover the top of my fluffy pajamas and off we zoom to school.  And between morning traffic and car lines, my morning routine has evaporated.

I'll spare you any more painful citings of morning routines sadly gone awry.  Suffice it to say that best intentions still remain best intentions.  EXCEPT, for the one routine that has come to stay.  The morning walk.

The walk from where these pictures came, where I can discover plants still alive in winter, bird nests lonely from last spring's abandonment, and the first of the tiny narcissus.  Where the river birch bark peels off in thick, curling chunks and the sun's rays burst through the clouds and touch the neighborhood's small lake.

Getting up at 6:00 a.m. has assured me that this routine will remain un-threatened.  It's a full half hour before the first stirrings of the earliest awakening members of the house.

And the only sure way to remain untouched by the needs, grievances and distractions of those I love to serve.  This one small success gives me hope that in time more routines will join the routine of the morning walk.

And in the meantime, "Yes, I'll make 2 dozen cookies for your class's St. Patrick's Day celebration.  I wouldn't have it any other way."

Comfort Cooking

Saturday dawned cold and drizzly . . . wet and overcast . . . bleak and chilly.

I've heard of comfort foods and comfort eating, but on Saturday all I wanted was comfort cooking---cooking that made me think of prairie settlers and roaring fires in walk-in fireplaces and cast iron pots hanging from pothooks, simmering all day long.

Not that there is a ghost of a chance that any prairie settler would have prepared this stew that originally graced the pages of Gourmet magazine, but it sure does appeal to my romantic sensibilities.

It was a grand day for puttering in the kitchen.

For chopping up celery and onions and garlic and carrots.

For searing the meat in olive oil and adding the flavors of bay leaves, thyme, red wine, and balsamic vinegar.

For adding in tiny round, white boiling potatoes to poach in the delicious broth until their tender skins split.

It was a day for cleaning out the refrigerator and feeling happy that for one day, at least, all the dairy products sat lined up on their own shelf, and all the produce was right where it should be, in the clean, center drawer free from mold and blight and goo, and the butter was stacked neatly in its own shelf in the door.

It was a day for getting all the dishes washed and listening to Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries on my ipod and being geeky enough to take notes to help me keep track of the suspects.

And it was a day to sniff and sniff the gently bubbling stew that is really a deep rich beef soup and to stir and stir and taste and sigh deeply.

And to be glad I wasn't outside where it was bone-chilling and drippy and raw, but to be,instead, inside, where the warmth was embracing and where I could enjoy the comfort of cooking.


Comforting Beef Stew (adapted from epicurious.com)

2 1/2 pounds boneless beef chuck, cut into small chunks
1 1/2 tablespoons olive oil
2 carrots, quartered
2 celery ribs, quartered
1 onion, quartered
1/2 head of garlic, halved crosswise
1 1/2 tablespoons tomato paste
3 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
2 cups dry red wine
1 bay leaf
1 sprig of thyme
1 1/2 cups reduced  sodium beef broth (gasp . . . I used chicken because I forgot to buy the beef!!)
1 1/2 cups water
1 pound small white boiling potatoes
3/4 pound carrots

Preheat oven to 350°F with rack in middle.  (I actually cooked mine on a burner, and it also worked fine!)

Pat beef dry and season with 1 teaspoon salt and 1/2 teaspoon pepper.

Heat oil in pot over medium-high heat until it shimmers, then brown meat, without crowding, iabout 8 minutes. Transfer to a platter.

Reduce heat to medium, then add carrots, celery, onions, and garlic and cook, stirring occasionally, until well browned, about 12 minutes.

Push vegetables to one side of pot. Add tomato paste to cleared area and cook paste, stirring, 2 minutes, then stir into vegetables.

Add vinegar and cook, stirring, 2 minutes.

Stir in wine, bay leaves, and thyme and boil until wine is reduced by about two thirds, 10 to 12 minutes.

Add broth to pot along with water, beef, and any juices from platter and bring to a simmer. Cover and braise in oven until meat is very tender, about 2 1/2 hours.

Set a large colander in a large bowl. Pour stew into colander. Return pieces of meat to pot, then discard remaining solids. Let cooking liquid stand 10 minutes.

While beef braises, peel potatoes and cut into 1/2-inch-wide wedges (oops, I left mine whole!!). Slice carrots diagonally (1-inch).

Add potatoes and carrots to stew (make sure they are submerged) and simmer, uncovered, stirring occasionally, until potatoes and carrots are tender, about 40 minutes.

Life vs. Knitting

My hands have been itching to do some knitting ever since the weather cooled and sitting in an embracing leather chair by the fire was what I wanted to do.  I envisioned socks.  I dreamed of a baby blanket for a sweet friend's expected child.  I pondered a chunky gray cowl.

And then reality hit.

When you've got stacks and stacks of sports paperwork, can you splurge on learning to knit socks?

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When your Child #1 needs help with his essay and Child #2 needs to review for his Spanish test and Child #3 needs to make a wind sock out of a hanger, trash bag and tape, when will there be time for a chunky cowl?

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And when the dishes stacking up in the kitchen are threatening the health of the household, can you possibly indulge in knitting the cutest baby blanket ever?

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And so, the daily, critical "to do's" of life squeeze out creative dreams, until finally a crisis hits,

I'm running out of dish cloths!!

I love my hand-knit dish cloths.  I need my hand-knit dish cloths.  Once you have used hand-knit dish cloths, nothing else seems to fit so well into your hand and do quite the same job of wiping down the counters.

My current trio of hand-knit dish cloths is trying to make a quiet exit---fraying edges, holes, and dumpy gray-ish color changes are rendering them ineffective and depressing.

Time for some fresh yarn and new patterns.

Enter Blue Sky Alpaca's Organic Cotton Yarn in the winter-busting color of "Poppy," in one of the 3 patterns below.

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Somebody, fill the dishwasher.  Athletes, postpone your soccer season.  Kids, Google your homework help.  

There's a crisis, and I'm knitting dish cloths!

Happy Chaos and Old Dogs

It began around the time my oldest left for college.  A desire to bring some order to the happy chaos of the household.

I've always been quite comfortable with my easygoing outlook toward routines, schedules and lists.  In fact, I've probably been a little smugly happy over the fact that I wasn't an "uptight" mom.

And then Oldest Daughter left for college.  And Oldest Son leaves in 6 months.  And Middle Son is only a few short years behind.

And suddenly I find myself re-evaluating the way I want my household to run . . . and especially the home I want my kids to come home to.

It was one thing when it was the 7 of us living in a whirl of craziness.  I made sure every dish was done at least once a day.  But sometimes the time that happened was 7:00 a.m.  I could live with the kitchen in all its post-dinner upheaval waiting patiently through the night for me to attend to it.

But when Oldest Daughter arrives home at 1:00 a.m. after a 12-hour shift on her feet at Old Navy, cranky customers and the endless folding and refolding of stacks of sweaters and jeans, a kitchen of upheaval is not what I want to await her.

It was one thing when the 7 of us were basically within the same 4 walls, all making messes together, working to clean up together, and occasionally closing our eyes to it and sneaking off together for a bike ride around Furman Lake.

But more and more my older kids are not home.  They are out in a world that has a discord and tumult all its own . . . emotionally, physically, spiritually.  And if we aren't all together living our quirky chaos together, then I choose for home to be a contrast to the chaos outside the four walls of the house.

I now find myself wanting peace and order and simplicity and calm to be what my children come home to.  Because chaos away from home and chaos at home is just a little too much turmoil to deal with.

To that end, I find myself back reading Flylady's book, Sink Reflections, trying to be a little more open minded about routines, and cutting back on some volunteering.

Can I do it?  Wow . . . that remains to be seen.  There is, of course, the whole matter of old dogs and their tricks!!

A Perfect Night for a Fire Pit

On Friday, Youngest Son surveyed weather, date, and occupants of the house and pronounced it a perfect night.

A perfect night for making a fire in the fire pit.

Weather - clear and cold.  Mom can, therefore not make the excuse "too wet" or "too hot."

Date - no school in the morning.  Mom can, therefore, not say, "No fire pit on a school night."

Occupants - no older siblings home.  Therefore, no all-knowing brothers to be telling Youngest Son how to build a fire, tend a fire, or put out a fire.  No smugly confident older siblings to criticize the accidental burning of marshmallows, sparks on the deck caused by over-zealous stoking, or an entire 2-weeks worth of newspapers crumpled and added to the blaze.

No, altogether a perfect night for a fire in the fire pit.

The building and tending of a fire is a wonderful, earthy experience.  Bringing out all the primal feelings of joy in the ability to put together gathered wood (okay it came pre-wrapped from the local market), set it to burning (yes, we were helped out by the Diamond Match Company),

nurse it through its fitful starts and stops and then through much blowing and poking and arranging and sighing suddenly come up with a magical source of warmth to all around its circle . . . holding forth against the 33 degree air at our backs.

Of course there were marshmallows and gooey fingers, faces that got too hot and backs that got too cold, smoky hair and eyes that got red and teary.

And when the discomfort of the gooeyness, heat, and stinging eyes overcame the delight of the stoking, roasting and warming hands, we all headed inside and sipped home made hot cocoa and agreed with Youngest Son.

It really was a perfect night for making a fire in the fire pit.

Home Made Cocoa

Pour the following ingredients into a blender. 

4 cups of whole milk (sorry, but if you want the full, decadent flavor, you've gotta use whole!)

1/2 cup of sugar

3 teaspoons of vanilla

5 tablespoons of cocoa (I used Hershey's)

Blend away on highest speed. The frothiness this creates makes the beverage even more delectable!

Pour into a pan, heat to desired heat, serve to adoring children and/or adults . . . or yourself!

A Quiet Kind of Contentment

It's gone.

And I'm ever so glad it is!!

By the time Christmas had blown in and out and the ball had dropped and all the plans for the new year were put in place, the only thing I wanted in the whole world was for Christmas around the house to be gone!!

Really strange, actually, because when those same decorations came out last year, my heart melted over them.  I sat charmed and dreamy on the sofa, looking at twinkling lights, antique paper chains, and wreaths stuffed with all matter of natural materials.

This year, it just never felt right.  Tree too big.  Antique paper chain getting a little shabby, gaunt garland several years past needing replacing.  Pieces falling out of the wreath.  It all seemed tired and spent and secondhand from the moment the boxes were cracked open.

Christmas was fine.  Christmas was good.  It's just that I felt rushed and the house felt incomplete and the people that came for Christmas were Christmas-ed out upon arrival, after having already had 4 Christmases with various sides of their own families to attend.  And they tried, they really did.  But, actually, if you've already had Christmas 4 times and everyone has wanted it to be the absolute fun-est day of your life and the nights get longer and the desserts get richer, when you get to Christmas #5, you just might be yawning and you just might have your eyes glazed over and you just might be not quite so perky.

It's not their fault.  It's not my fault.  It's just life.  And life doesn't always look like we want it to.

Some Christmases are charming and fresh and warm and your heart hurts and your toes tingle and you find yourself floating around with scraps of overplayed Christmas songs humming through your head.  And other Christmases just feel a little . . . flat.

I'm learning to be okay with that.  That there can be a quiet kind of contentment, even in a Christmas that is a little less than . . . in every way.  There are bigger pictures, deeper fulfillments.

So, it was with a little too much gusto that we lit a fire, put on Peppermint Winter, stripped those trees bare and unceremoniously yanked off the garlands.

And while children dismantled (the decor that is!!), I heated up a skillet and got to work on hot Spiced Apples, to complete the comforting feeling of clean floors, order, and fresh starts.

Tart, thick wedges of very green Granny Smith apples, butter browning in the pan, and heavy sprinkles of cinnamon and nutmeg.  Okay . . . there's sugar in there too!!

And then as those apples gave in and yielded themselves to the caramel-y buttery-ness, the house filled up with smells that could fool you into thinking a juicy pie is baking.

The storage boxes were eventually filled.  The wood floor strewn thickly with Frasier fir, swept.  Furniture scooted back into its familiar places.

The feeling of a fresh start hanging in the air . . . along with the heady scent of apples and spices.

And I'm reminded that the joy of life isn't in the perfection of a dreamy Christmas but rather in the never-changing faithfulness of my Father.  His mercies new every day.  His provision complete.

And if the year starts with a delicious plate of Spiced Apples too . . .well, all the better!

Spiced Apples

1/4 cup butter

6 medium Granny Smith apples, peeled, cored and sliced (about 3 pounds)

3/4 cup sugar

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg

Melt butter in large skilled over medium high heat.  Add apples and remaining ingredients.  Saute' 15 to 20 minutes or until apples are tender.  Serves 6

Glorify

I love the idea of picking a word for the year.

I do not in any way think that it has any magical quality about it, and I would be quite unsurprised should I pick the word "feast" one year and find myself put on a green bean and water diet.

But I love the idea . . . the focus.  The urgent heart cry of where I want to be.

Sunday I had big things to contemplate

As I sat snuggled in my pew between Youngest Daughter and Youngest Son and soaked up the last remnants of the book of Ruth.

And the final refrain that would not go away

Was that my satisfaction is found not in shooing all troubles away

Not in figuring out all mysteries

Not in locking in to a way of thinking that will keep my mind always at rest.

But rather that my satisfaction and peace is to be found as I focus on glorifying Him.

The reason I was created.

It seems very backwards.

I want to glorify me.

I want to make sure I'm taken care of and get the love and attention I'm sure I need.

"Seek first His Kingdom and His righteousness, and all will be added."

It was a change of focus.

And it gave me my word for this year.

Glorify.

I want to learn what that is this year.

What does it look like in my life to glorify Him . . . for me . . . for now?

It's a word to give focus to my days for 2013.

Glorify.