I miss you, Norine.

Cooking a steak on the engine block of your car. (Road Trip!)
Baking cookies on your dashboard in the Summer heat.
I'm not so prolific in my cooking skills to include a vehicle or it's parts in the process of preparation. I have, however, exploded cans of soda pop in my car while at work a few times. More on the destructive side of the creation spectrum. It was below freezing, the soda got angry. What can I say? Winter in Northern Colorado almost caused me to explode a few times too.

There are parts of Colorado I really miss. I lived there for almost 4 years, so one might assume there would be a slight nostalgia hidden away somewhere. Maybe a memory or two that stand out as pleasant. Like driving down Eisenhower Blvd in Loveland during the Valentine's season. With a name like that, who could resist making the Hallmark holiday the city's favorite time of year? The street's light poles were affixed with giant cut-out hearts reading little messages like "all my love, ❤ Christine". But the city's pride was their re-mailing program. The post office would become a USPS sub-station for Valentine's day cards. Tens of volunteers would hand stamp a unique cachet on the postage before routing the card to it's final destination: your loved one, anywhere, USA.

Then there was Fall. The pumpkins grew to the circumference of a coffee table and the weight of a 7 year old boy. We would contest to see who could guess the largest pumpkin's weight. I never won anything. But, wouldn't you know! I guessed a weight. I think I got a 10 dollar bill. I think I spent it on soda. I think it exploded in the car.

And then there were the Rocky Mountain Oysters. And Esh's. And the Tuesday business meetings at PF Chang's. the sweet and sour soup. the rides in a green lotus with a thick, solitary yellow stripe down the middle. CSU colors. And the roundabouts. And my 94 year old friend, Norine Powell. I guess you could say I have some good memories. Cheers to making new ones.

I praise the Lord I have breath in me to do so.

Is anyone out there?

Lonely.
I wonder if there's anyone out there. If it matters if I write or not. In some ways this is my cowardly way of showing courage. Writing my feeling on the web and letting the world see. But no one really sees. I exist here in the blogosphere, but not really. I think 2 people even know this blog exists.

I still write because I have to. This is my Catholic confession: a keyboard and monitor. A google hosted blog site.
I'm not even benefiting this blog by adding photos, or exciting and personal information like my name or my nationality or my eye color or that my husband has a duck dynasty-esque pension for bearding. I'm being lazy, selfish and stubborn. I figure if I put too much effort into this and it fails - I'll abandon my efforts entirely. If I do the bare minimum, I just might keep this little blogging booger afloat. Defeatest mentality - maybe not the healthiest - but it just might work.
This isn't even about conjuring up an audience. it's my cathartic release. My need for transparency to be satisfied. I'm apt to let it out somewhere, might as well be here. Where self-flagellation is highly discouraged. To a benign e-priest audience.

Back to my first word.
I feel Lonely. Bundled with fear. Fear of new friendships that might demand more of me, require attention and effort beyond my comfort zone. But that leaves me still very lonely. I'm asking for God to fill the space in between. Where I need things I'm not ready to be responsible for. Where He's tested me and I've failed.

Attention Deficit moment: I got a Himalayan pink salt lamp for Christmas from my Editor and Bearded Chief . It's glowing reflection appears on my screen below where I type. It's happy. Apparently it's supposed to purify the air and add negative ions to the impurities and weigh them down to the ground. No longer airborne and now vaccumborne. Something like 2 pounds of salt purify a 10 foot space. A 10'x10' area needs a 12 pound salt lick...err...rock. Somehow that math doesn't add up.
Math makes me panic so I'll leave it alone.

When I was 19, I got a tattoo on my right foot. It was supposed to be Japanese Kanji meaning 'Courage'. Ironically, it turns out the symbols and their meaning got a little lost in inking translation. A constant reminder that courage doesn't come after one too many shots of Wild Turkey. Courage cannot be penned on a body part and somehow sink deeper than one's skin.

Courage is an antidote to my loneliness. It's one of the core ingredients that brings about joy and fullness. If I can be what God called me to be, say what He's called me to say and love the way He designed me to love, then problem solved. Now - I just need to do it.

I ask the Lord to bring me a strength that only the Holy Spirit can provide. Fill me with Your power. I have Christ in me - I need to activate the power with my thoughts first, then my words. Speaking life over myself and those around me. Amen.

Ouch. The truth hurts.

"Yeah, she got an opportunity to open a franchise salon in other parts of the state but, she's afriad. A fear of success, I guess."

I have that problem. But it's more like a fear of failure than of success. I think in my mind, the fear of success sounds like a euphemism for what it really is. Let's face it. My ego is delicate and doesn't want to get hurt. My will is what gets me in trouble. I believe Adam and Eve might agree with me on this one. Our desires vs. God's desires. God wins every time. It's just a matter of how much pain we want to experience before we finally surrender to His perfect plan for our lives.
My resident carpenter, best friend and editor in chief is currently the source of most of my internal desire for self-sabotage. My craving to run away and force a failure before the failure blind-sights me. It's a fear of success. A successful marriage. But no. that's not it at all. It's a fear of failure. Of having my ego damaged by rejection. Rejection from the man I love. It's the fear that I'm not good enough. Or just not enough.

A fear that I will be left just like I have left others. Ouch. That hurts to type. 

Cooking for an audience of One.

I had a thought today. Expertise comes from respect. "I don't get it" I hear you saying. Let me explain, my fellow blauggdience (I recently learned when you combine two words together that is called a Portmanteau. Use that one for scrabble or impress your friends at a cocktail party).

A hunter can only truly master the art of hunting after they have developed and nurtured a healthy respect for the animal they are preparing to hunt. An intimacy occurs : they learn their sleeping patterns, eating patterns, mating patterns, scent and general behaviors. They learn to respect the unique qualities of the creature God designed. Then they kill it. But they don't hack at it. No, not if they're any good at hunting. There determine an exact point on the body to aim, how to dress the animal properly after the kill - hunting etiquette - and then final appreciation for the animal by storing the meat and cooking it to perfection. Ahhh yes. A time to enjoy the fruits of your labor and the life that was spared to sustain yours. It's respect.

I like to cook. And for the first time ever, I am developing a respect for the food I'm cooking. It wasn't always that way. Many years ago it came from a vain desire to win appreciation. Much like a singer who approaches the microphone and an audience for the first time. Coming to the end of a song, with shaky knees, and hearing the roar of clapping and shouting in praise. Boy, that feels good. And all you want to do from then on is keep hearing more of that. They like me. They really like me. 

Yeah. Cooking endeavors stemmed from a need to inflate the ego. Don't get me wrong. I loved it for some of the right reasons, like the challenge and tackling a new recipe or learning new techniques and having a chance to empty my brain and live in my head for the hour I would spin in the kitchen helped me stay sane many days. The creative and introverted parts of me basked in those moments. I loved it for some of the right reasons. But mostly self-aggrandizing motives. 
My mother always said health and wealth start in the kitchen. And I've found that recently I've focused much of my attention on the health aspect of what we eat. Motives transitioned into one of 'how can I spend less and still eat healthy (non-gmo, no preservatives, no artificial ingredients, no food coloring, pesticide free, happy cow, happy chicken)? OK. this motive is reasonable and less self-absorbed. But today it really sunk into my soul. I get it! Respect for the food I prepare is the harvest that produces a mastery of the art form. It creates excellence and expertise. Cooking is a way to heal others with food. It's a form of loving people. It's me respecting what I prepare, who consumes it, and ultimately the Creator who designed it all. Unadulterated food. God's food. 

And I get to keep the creativity and challenge in there for good measure. Those are nice perks.

I don't, however, enjoy the ego aspect of it any longer. Thank the Lord! I'm tired of cooking to get approval; cooking to get an audience of praise, cheers and standing ovations, chanting 'encore! encore!' while stomping their feet. I want to study the elk. Admire it's beauty and stature. Shoot it humanely, with a single bullet to the heart. Then enjoy it medium-well, with a dollop of horseradish and large helping of gratitude for it's life. This is how I want to cook. Respecting the food, those who eat it, and He who made it. 

And the expertise will follow. Maybe even a round of applause.

Ironing Wars

I love garage sales. When we bought our house, the first thing I did was scout the neighborhoods for sales to find everything. I came to Houston with only a Honda Fit's worth of stuff and needed everything, with the exception of a Jack Lalanne Juicer and NutriBullet. I like pulverizing food.
People's refuse and defunct valuables crack me up. I am amazed at what you can find, and what some people will actually buy! Broken furniture, a broken bucket, old playboy magazines, calendars from 10 years ago, orphaned dish sets, the list goes on. I once bargained with a guy over a rusty, beat-up, ironing board. He wanted $7. I offered $5. He shook his head 'no' and wouldn't take it. As I walked away, he stopped me and offered it to me for free, explaining he's "got quite a few already, so what the heck". "What the heck" is right.
$7 or Free. Those are interesting options.
And I'm curious why a person would collect ironing boards. Lot's of business meetings and too many shirts to iron? Maybe they hold smart-business-attire ironing contests during the evening to pass the time; I imagine them grabbing the stop watches, assuming their positions perched over blouses and blazers with hot iron in hand. Some chose to steam, some take the conservative approach and keep it high and dry. Some carry disadvantages like astigmatism, being a lefty, or having attention deficiencies. Others have years of experience training in different parts of the county, even having unique mastery of hotel ironing. But the judging is simple: speed, technique, and final product wearability.

Final wrinkle tally: 24 - 3 - 7. Betty is in the lead. Ooooh she ironed the Lycra! 2 point penalty.


Lately, I've been working weekends and really miss my drives through the neighborhoods. A few months ago I had a Saturday off and decided to visit my brother who lives 5 minutes away. On the way out of our subdivision, the streets lit up with yellow and orange and green hand written signs with arrows pointing in every direction. I had forgotten about my favorite past time. game on!

Stormie Omartian books on CD. Lot's of them. and other Christian books...hmmm let's see here. This gal must be a Christian. Sure enough she was. And we swapped phone numbers and quickly became friends. The funny thing is. Those books on CD continue to bless me. I've been listening here and there - and I felt the Lord speaking directly to me through these chapters. Start Writing. Stop being chicken. Do it.

By the way - there is a great education in listening to books on CD. First off - I never knew how to pronounce Stormie Omartian's name. I thought of martian, like Marvin the martian. The 't' happens to be strong. Second, I can sit in traffic and read and learn and be fed. Keeps me calm and relaxed while I'm moving 2 inches every 3 minutes. Houston traffic can test the fruit of the Spirit.

White Flags of Kidney Beans

My girlfriend asked me what a GMO was the other day. Reality check: I am living in a Whole Foods, health conscious, Kale eating, free of refined sugar bubble. I won't call it dietary snobbery. But it appears I just did.
There is still a large population that never considers what's in their food. Let alone what a GMO is.

It wasn't that long ago that consuming a 2 liter of diet Mt Dew was my snack of champions. My generation is wising up, but many of us are still very conditioned to think that fat free and sugar free are healthy. That 'natural' means something on our label. In fact, I read an article explaining how low consumer confidence was in food purchases. 50% lower than it was 5 years ago. That's significant.
I'm still discovering that old assumptions about a label are all to be scrutinized now. What could the harm in a can of Kidney beans be? They're just kidney beans, correct? Blimey! I've been duped! High Fructose Corn Whaaa? In a can of kidney....oh, bother. I'll just speed-soak my own, freeze them in perfectly portioned baggies and call it a day. This is what I do when I throw up a white flag. Oy-vey.

This is not a fear tactic. Actually, the point is. I will care as much as I feel compelled to. I will not over analyze, over skepticize, over nitpick, over paralyze. I would like to live free and eat free, unbound. chainless and shameless. But with prudence and wisdom as my counselor. Holy Spirit lead me into all truth and wisdom. I claim protection even from the things I DO NOT know are harming me.

So start paying attention (care), then let it go (stop caring). There's the philosophy. There's the written prescription. Following the Great Physician's orders? Now that's an entirely different post for and entirely different day.