Keep the Fire Burning (or Not)

Originally published November 13, 2006

I haven't made a real home-cooked meal in a while. Mostly because our kitchen is a mess and one of the things I seem to have caught from Adam since we've been married is his aversion to cooking in a messy kitchen.

But tonight I felt like making something new and different. So I thawed some chicken and paged through my More-with-Less and Extending the Table cookbooks looking for chicken and rice recipes. I finally settled on a peanut soup recipe from More-with-Less to which I added chicken, rice, and garlic (since the books are copyrighted, I won't post the recipe here, but you can purchase your own copy, here. Peanut Soup is on page 217).

The real fun could now begin. First, the knife I had wasn't working well with the chicken. I already had a Band-Aid^® on my thumb from an earlier run in with a knife (no pun intended), and now I was getting raw chicken juice all over my hands. Yuck.

Next, I was searing the chicken a bit when I noticed a small flame outside the burner ring. When I bent down to investigate, I saw a ladle that had once been neatly situated in the center of the stove between two burners was now melting into the flame under my sauce pan. I pulled up on the pan, immediately turning off the flame. When that didn't solve my problem, I reached up into the cupboard for an open box of baking soda, remembering the dire warnings my home ec teacher had given us about spreading a grease fire with water. Since I wasn't quite sure the content of the plastic-looking handle, I didn't want to take any chances.

Unfortunately, sprinkling baking soda over an open flame is not the most efficient means of dousing it. Once the box was emptied, the flame continuing unabated, I decided the best course of action would be to grab the ladle from the serving end and plunge the flame into the sink.

The problem with that plan was a simple matter of unfinished laundry. Both of our oven gloves are in the wash. I tried grasping the metal end with a dishtowel, but I wasn't able to get a decent grip on it. Additionally, by this time, the melted portion of the handle was dripping down onto the chrome plate below the burner. I was not at all certain that lifting up one end would ensure the other followed.

Finally, in a moment of inspiration, I remembered that we have a fire extinguisher on the shelf above the microwave. I pulled it out and searched quickly to find the directions for use. (As an aside, this is not the course of action I recommend. If you have a fire extinguisher in your kitchen--a wonderful idea in itself and highly recommended--make sure you know how to use it before you need it.) Following the instructions on the label, I stood six to eight feet back and squirted a short blast of whatever was inside onto the stove. Instantly the flames went out. It was kind of fun, really.

Once the excitement was over, I still had dinner to make. I briefly considered throwing my hands in the air and letting Adam finish it, but, by then the meal was nearly complete, so I scooped out the half-cooked chicken, washed the excess baking soda out of the pan and began cooking again.

By the way, the soup turned out pretty yummy. I'll have to repeat my experiment again sometime. Minus the steps involving runaway flames, of course.

The Worst News for Chickens Since Col. Sanders

I was served this wonderful breaded-chicken dish at a friends' house one evening. When I raved about it, they directed me to Rachel Ray's website for the Cheddar-Crusted Chicken recipe. I had Adam make some for me posthaste. Yummy. But, since I can never leave well enough alone, I had to play, making the recipe just a little bit tastier. I also came up with a great variation for a Parmesan breading, which I've posted below.

Oven-fried Cheddar Chicken Fingers
serves 4-6

2 lbs skinless, boneless chicken (about 4 breasts)
3 c salted baby pretzels
4 oz cheddar cheese, grated or cubed
1 t thyme
¼ t pepper
1 egg
2 T water
¼ c flour

1. Slice chicken into fingers (approx. ½” x 1½”).
2. Grind together pretzels, cheese, thyme, and pepper until they resemble coarse bread crumbs. Place in a shallow bowl.
3. Beat egg and water in another shallow dish. Pour flour into a third dish.
4. Dredge chicken through flour, egg, then pretzel mixture.
5. Place fingers ¼" apart on a greased cookie sheet.
6. Bake at 375° for 20-25 minutes or until juices run clear.

Variation: Chicken Parmesan Fingers

Substitute

• 1½ c dry breadcrumbs for baby pretzels
• 2 oz Parmesan cheese for the cheddar cheese
• ½ t oregano for one-half the thyme

Add

• ½ t salt

Serve warm, with marinara sauce for dipping.

Thanksgiving with a Twist

Originally posted November 19, 2006

I had never heard of the concept before this year. Suddenly, I keep seeing references all over the place, but when I tried to Google "third world thanksgiving" I only found information about one organization's fundraising banquet, an article about daily life in poverty-stricken countries, and one site that had a video link which didn't look quite savory, so I left before I figured out exactly what it was showing. Therefore I offer you my own primer.

How to host a Third World Thanksgiving

Basically the idea is twofold: better understanding of and offering tangible assistance to those living in poverty (whether in the Third World or not).

Step one...Invite lots of friends over. And don't forget your family, too. Make sure everyone knows you are having a non-traditional dinner to raise awareness, as well as funds, for the hungry.
Step two...Shop for food. Go to your favorite grocery store with a list of all the ingredients you would need to buy in order to host a traditional Thanksgiving dinner for all the people you now have coming to your house. Price all of the items on your list. Buy only rice.
Step three...Cook dinner. Measure one cup cooked rice per person.
Step four...Enjoy the party. Spend a few hours sharing with family and friends the many blessings in your lives for which each of you can give thanks.
Step five...Share the wealth. Write a check for the amount you would have spent on your traditional Thanksgiving dinner (as calculated in step two). Send it to a worthy charity working to combat poverty and hunger in the Third World or right here in North America. Suggest to your guests that they make donations of their own.

Not sure which charity might be worthy or who is working in the part of the world where you're most interested? Check out a charity evaluation website, such as GuideStar, Charity Navigator or JustGive.org.

Not Quite Auntie Anne's

I love Auntie Anne's pretzels. I have could eat them as a whole meal. Sadly, while they aren't terribly expensive, they're not something we can afford to keep in our regular monthly food budget. And during months like these, when the food budget is already overburdened with stocking up for postpartum meals, even a special treat is out of the question. So, I made my own. The original recipe knock-off I found was created by Todd Wilbur of Top Secret Recipes. While his was pretty tasty, I humbly submit that mine is even better.

Pretzel Dough
2¼ c all-purpose flour
1½ c whole wheat flour
2¼ t yeast
¼ c sugar
1½ t salt
1 c very warm water (approx. 120°F)

1. Stir together dry ingredients
2. Add water and stir together until well mixed
3. Knead until smooth and elastic (5-10 minutes)
4. Cover and let rise one hour or until doubled in size
5. Divide dough into 12 equal pieces
6. Roll each into a rope at least 2 feet long and twist into desired shape

Salt Bath
2 c warm water
2 T salt

1. Dissolve salt into water
2. Dip each pretzel into bath and shake to drain off excess water
3. Place pretzels ½-1" apart on a greased baking pan
4. Bake in a preheated 425°F oven for 10 minutes or until golden brown

Toppings
2 T melted butter
     -AND-
2 t coarse salt
     -OR-
¼ c brown sugar
1½ T cinnamon

1. Brush warm pretzels with melted butter
2. Sprinkle with coarse salt or dredge in cinnamon sugar

Why Drive to a Homebirth?

Once you've looked at the research, you know that out-of-hospital births have similar outcomes to births in hospitals. So, without the comfort factors of being in my own home and not having to drive while in labor, why am I still planning a homebirth away from home?

As you may recall, if you've been a long-time reader of this blog, attending a homebirth as a Certified Professional Midwife (CPM) is illegal in South Dakota. However, CPMs are the only certified professionals in this country who are trained to attend natural births outside a hospital setting. Obstetricians, Certified Nurse Midwives, and other certified birth attendants are all trained in the medical model of birth. Medically-managed births are all about monitoring and procedures which are intended to reduce the risk of mothers and babies dying or being injured during birth. Sadly, studies show that in most cases, medical management does little to reduce these risks, and in some cases, it actually increases them.

There's really more to it than that, though. Most hospital-based practitioners have never seen a truly natural birth. They are so used to their standard procedures and interventions, they don't know what really natural birth looks like. Compare that to a CPM, who sees unmedicated, unhindered births almost exclusively.

Let me share a quote with you from a book I've been reading the last couple of days. It's written by Judy Kay Jones, a local CPM and former RN who spent time in jail for attending homebirths within the state of South Dakota.

A medical perspective sees birth as a dangerous situation--a complication waiting to happen. It operates in fear. True midwifery approaches birth from a natural perspective, not in fear, but in respect.

I compare it to the preparation of Treasury agents to spot counterfeit money. They do not study the counterfeit. Instead, they study the real thing. They know every detail of the real thing so well that a counterfeit immediately stands out as different when they see it.

Why would I want to trust my birth to attendants who'd primarily, or ONLY, seen counterfeits of natural birth? I did that once before and was unsatisfied with my care. This time, I chose to seek out a professional who specializes in natural births. And, in a few more days or weeks, I hope to come back and be able to share firsthand how different it is.

A Little Lesson in Unity

Originally published January 30, 2007

I went to Brazil four years ago with a group from my church. We worked with an organization called Project AmaZon, or PAZ for short. They work along the rivers in the Amazon Basin. Our group, we had been told ahead of time, was going to be on a health boat, visiting several villages along the Amazon River.

Our first morning in Santarém we each purchased a rede (Portuguese for "hammock" and pronounced "hedgie") and went down to the public line boat that would take up out to meet the PAZ boat at the first village. And when I say "down" I really mean DOWN. I can't find a photo of it right now, but trust me when I say there was a big huge high sea wall and a rickety spindly little ladder.

Down and I are not good friends. I have no problem with heights, but going down from heights is pretty anxiety inducing for me. I spent several minutes at the top of the wall, watching everyone else head down, including several local workers who carried large boxes on their heads while they fairly danced up and down the steps.

When I finally made my descent, complete with sweaty palms and shaky knees, I realized that there was no way I would be able to repeat this journey later that evening with my luggage. I hadn't even been able to carry down the plastic grocery-sized bag with my rede in it.

On the dock beside the line boat, I spoke with another member of our team, sharing that I was a bit nervous about the return trip down the ladder. I asked him if he would be willing to help me with my suitcases. "Of course," he told me. "We're a team. We'll take care of it for you."

Climbing back up the ladder, it started to rain. I was grateful, because it helped to hide the fact that I had tears streaming down my face. At least, it did until I got back to the van and completely broke down sobbing among the rest of my teammates. Several of them hugged me, told me it would be okay, and prayed for me. I managed to stop crying, but I didn't really feel any better.

That afternoon we had a rest period to recover from our overnight flight into Brazil and to prepare for the overnight voyage on the line boat. I was supposed to be napping, but whenever I tried to lie still and close my eyes, I felt completely unsettled and upset about my experience that morning.

Finally, I asked one of my teammates to please finish up in the bathroom because I needed to be in there right away. My urgency wasn't because I was desperate to use the facilities, but because I really needed some time alone, without anyone else intruding on my space. At the PAZ guest house, the only personal space to be had was in the bathroom.

I sat on the floor and spent several minutes simply crying out the rest of my tears. When I'd finished, I began to pray. "Why?" I asked God. "Why am I so upset about this? It's not that big a deal. What's going on?" As I prayed and pondered, I began to understand that I wasn't so upset about the wall or the ladder or the down, but what was really bothering me was my inability to do for myself.

I'd been raised as a typical American, full of determination and independence. Like a small, stubborn child, I sat there on the bathroom floor saying, "No! I want to do it myself." Yet, I couldn't. The realization left me feeling very vulnerable and frightened. I decided to go back to bed.

While I was trying to fall asleep once again, I heard a message from God. This doesn't happen to me with any regularity, but I was pretty sure God was talking to me, even though it sounded rather a lot like just talking to myself inside my head.

God told me to look at my hand. "Huh?" I looked at my hand.

"Look at your fingers," He instructed. "See how they move? Aren't they beautiful?"

"Okay, sure."

"One finger, all alone, can't really do much, can it?"

"I suppose not."

"But, when all the fingers are together, working in concert as your hand, think how much more they can accomplish."

"Well, yeah, I can see that."

"You and this team are like your hand. On your own, you can only accomplish small things, but when you open yourselves up and work together, you can do so much more."

And that was all God had to say about that. The rest of the trip was really pretty uneventful for me, by comparison. But the image of all my fingers working together has really stayed with me.

And ... I'm Off!

With the official start of NaNoWriMo today, and the impending birth of the newest little Gray, I have decided to take a blogging break for a while. If I have the energy, I may be back now and again through the rest of the month, but maybe not.

I've scheduled some of my favorites to run while I'm gone, just to keep you interested. If you'd like to follow my novel-writing progress, you can check out my author page on the NaNoWriMo site.

Until next time ....

I Just Made the Yummiest Soup!

I've made a similar soup before and thought I'd just change it up a little. I had no idea it would be this good. I'm glad I made a double recipe!! Leftovers, mmmmmmmm ...

Potato-Bacon Chowder
serves 4-6

4 strips thick-sliced bacon
1 medium onion, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
1 small carrot, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
3 T flour
3 c chicken broth
2 medium potatoes, diced
¾ c corn
¼ t thyme
1/8 t oregano
¼ t salt
1/8 t pepper

1. Fry bacon until crisp. Drain and crumble, reserving 1 T grease.
2. Place onion, celery, and carrot in a saucepan with the reserved bacon grease. Heat at medium-high, stirring occasionally, until onions are translucent.
3. Add garlic and cook for one minute more.
4. Stir in flour until fully absorbed, then add chicken broth. Bring to a boil.
5. Add potatoes, corn, crumbled bacon, and spices. Reduce heat to medium.
6. Simmer 20 minutes or until potatoes are tender, stirring occasionally.
7. Eat with a great big smile on your face!

Is There an Emergency Stop on This Elevator?

Let's start with overnight, since, as a heavily pregnant woman, I haven't slept through the night in months. Last night I had a whole series of disturbing dreams. In each one of them, I had gone into labor, but I wasn't ready. I had to pack a suitcase to return from vacation or we were in the middle of a move from one house to another or labor itself was stopping and starting while I hung out at the "birth house" hoping for my turn while 20-some other women with more efficient labor patterns bumped me down the waiting list.

Once I got out of bed for the day, Adam told me his paycheck had come through. Hooray, we can afford groceries! In fact, the amount of the check was higher than I'd expected, and we can actually afford to pay all but one of the bills that's due before his next check.

Because it's Friday, and I really didn't want to contemplate going grocery shopping on Saturday, Rosi and I took Adam to work. The way there isn't too bad, it's picking him up at the end of his shift (two hours past Rosi's bedtime) that's the bear. He tried to find a ride home with one of his coworkers, but no one was able to do it tonight.

After dropping Adam off at the office, we sputtered our way to the nearest gas station to fill up our desperately thirsty car. Thankfully, no pushing was required to make it all the way there. After filling up on gas and oil, my 13-year-old car was happy as a clam once again.

We headed back home so I could work out a menu plan for the next few weeks and actually purchase appropriate foods to feed us within our budget. It took me about two hours longer than I'd expected, but finally, I got a list made out. My estimated cost came to within just a few dollars of our budget.

Before we left for the shopping expedition, I made a sandwich for myself. I offered one to Rosi as well (several times, in fact, because I knew she ought to be hungry), but she refused. Were I a brilliant mother, I would have brought an extra with me, so that when she started melting down in the pasta aisle, I could have pulled it out of my magic bag Mary Poppins style.

Unfortunately, I'm not practically perfect in every way, so instead of feeding her in the middle of the aisle, I pulled her out of the cart, left the food melting in the aisle, and we came back home--half-shopped with nothing to show for it.

I've spent the last 25 minutes trying to convince her that, yes, she does need to take a nap before we go get Daddy because she will be up for at least 2½ hours past her bedtime. At this precise moment, she's sitting on her bedroom floor, humming to herself to stay awake.

Aaaaarrrrrrgggggghhhh!

Calgon, take me away! And, could you possibly send somebody else in my place for a couple of days while you're at it?

Cleared

I had an appointment with my midwives yesterday. I've officially made it far enough that they are comfortable catching this babe at home and wouldn't send me off the the hospital were I to go into labor today.

Woo-hoo!

Wait ... do you know what that means? Sometime in the next month and a half I'm supposed to be having a baby.

Yikes.

How did this happen? Wasn't I just four months pregnant a couple of weeks ago?

How come my house isn't all cleaned up? Why aren't all the baby clothes sorted and washed? Whose job was that?

Oh, right. Mine.

Darn.

Guess I better get off my duff and get back to it then. Time's a wasting.

Anybody know where I put that nesting instinct?

Talking to Myself

I really enjoy taking time once in a while to read through old journals I have kept. Sure, they contain a lot of nonsense, but scattered throughout are wonderful gems that speak to me again months and years later. I like to think that indicates brief glimpses of wisdom. Maybe it just means I don't learn my lessons well, and God needs to keep showing me the same things again and again. This evening, I was reading through a journal I kept in 2003. The following passage really stood out to me.

When I try and I try and I try to do what it is I just can't do, I despair that I'm not living up to my potential. Ooh--were scarier words ever invented? Just like an egg is a potential chicken, I feel like I'm a potential good person. If I could just try a little harder, do a little better; if I would just listen to what God is trying to teach me.

I give up on myself ... I was going to say, "I give up on myself way more than God does" or "I give up on myself long before God will," but neither of those is true, because God will never give up on me!

Even when I'm sitting at the bottom of the mud hole, God doesn't throw down a rope, tie it to a stick, and walk off, waiting for me to climb out. He climbs right down next to me, because He knows I will need a shoulder to cry on long before I will be prepared to get up and let Him lead me back to the verdant pasture.

Somebody Won!

I finally chose a winner in my secret giveaway ... but I don't know how to contact her. When I asked for one comment number, Random.org gave me #4.

Susan2009 of Fruitful Words, please send me an e-mail. You won! I visited your site, only I couldn't find a way to actually contact you. I'd love to find some pretty cupcake wrappers for you ... but I don't know where to send them. :)

To everyone who didn't win, thanks for playing, and I'm sure I'll be hosting another giveaway in the near future, so keep reading.