Pi(e) Day

I have a grand total of two kinds of pie that I like. (I will allow that there may be others that I have yet to try, but two so far.) They are Key lime pie and my chocolate chip pie.

I am always tempted by Key lime pie on a menu, even though I rarely order it. My favorite experiment last spring was making little Key lime pies in tiny mason jars to take out on our picnic for Easter lunch. I think it is the clear cool tang of the lime mixed with the smoothness of the cream that keeps drawing me back. I’m going to have to make them again.

But the pie that has been part of my cooking repertoire since I started cooking is my chocolate chip pie. I must have gotten the recipe from momma from somewhere, but twenty-three years later I have no clue where. I’ve claimed it as my own, and it continues to be my best pie.

I remember making it for the first time for a covered dish at the Open Door, where dad worked in Columbus. I made it, we brought it, and then when we went through the line, we couldn’t find it anywhere. One of the women who was preparing the dishes for people to have them took one look after cutting into the deliciousness, and moved it to the kitchen so the servers could have some.

The second memory I have with it was when I made it for a dessert cooking competition in Woodbine, and I won. The reason I was given is that the judge hates walnuts, but there are walnuts in my pie, and he loved it. I won an apron for my feat. (I don’t win many things, so winning this was special. One of my few happy memories at Woodbine.)

I know I made it a few more times, because I had made it often enough to memorize the recipe by the time I was in Peace Corps. The United States embassy families opened their homes to all the Peace Corps Volunteers to celebrate Thanksgiving. And my host asked me if I wanted anything special. I wanted my pie, so they let me make it, buying fabulous chunk chocolate and letting me have free reign. The family’s Kenyan cook made a homemade piecrust for me to use, and we dined on delicious memories for dinner. (He also made a pecan pie, and it remains to be the best pecan pie I’ve ever eaten, better than any southern cook I’ve ever had, it was more like candied pecans in a crust than anything else.)

I make the pie for anyone who loves chocolate and it does not disappoint. It’s rich. It’s decadent. It’s good with vanilla ice cream. And, it is good both warm and at room temperature (which really does make it perfect to take for a covered dish). And, now that I’ve altered my diet, it is just as good vegan.

I’d love to make it for you, if you come to visit. Just let me know so I can make sure I have everything I need. And, if it is a while until I see you again, you can make it at home:

(Award Winning) Chocolate Chip Pie

1 cup sugar

1/2 cup flour

2 eggs (or 2 T ground flax mixed with 6 T water)

1/2 c (1 stick) melted butter (or earth balance)

1 t vanilla

1 cup chocolate chips (vegan, if available)

1 cup chopped walnuts

9″ deep dish pie crust

Mix flour and sugar. Blend in eggs. Add butter and beat until creamy. Add in vanilla. Stir in chocolate chips and walnuts. Pour in pie crust and bake at 325 F for 60 minutes until set. Cool on rack and serve with vanilla ice cream if desired. (And why wouldn’t you?)

the Pie
My Simple Pie (gosh, that’s an old picture, but, you get the gist)

Postscript: Upon further reflection, I can come up with at least one other pie that I like, my dark chocolate frozen silk pie. But. No whipped pies. No meringue. No fruit pies. No cobbler. Apple crisp is ok, but only the way I make it. Normal pecan pie loses out because I don’t like the gel syrup filling. Pumpkin pie is a no because: pumpkin. Bake me a cake instead.

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Does Spiritual Growth for Parents Pause While Kids Grow?

TL;DR: I invite you and your kids to come on a retreat.

Roar and I have gone to church twice now. It’s a mostly new experience, Rebel was in the nursery for the first year while I was working. Also, what will surprise no parent of more than two children: my two girls are very different. Roar roars. She can roar so loudly my eardrums rattle. (I’ve started facing her towards my bad ear when she cries, so my good ear doesn’t go bad.) She doesn’t always roar, most of the time she’s just making baby noises and trying out her smiles. Even though she’s got lungs to match the angels, I keep her in worship with me. (There’s no nursery, but, she’d stay with me anyway.)

I keep her in worship because I believe it is never too early to let children know they are loved by God. The community reflects God’s love especially when it welcomes children who act like children. Churches are richer when there’s a kid or two or seventeen present. If Roar starts roaring, I do get up and go change her diaper in another room, but then I stand in the back and rock her. As I was rocking her on Sunday, I got smiles from those around me who heard her cooing, they know the value of seeing the face of God reflected in a child.

I am grateful for spaces where I feel welcome to be present with my small children. There seem to be far too many spaces in our culture where kids should be allowed, but aren’t welcomed. It’s kept me more isolated than I need to be. (So is the fact that simply leaving the house can be a production.)

Even in the midst of constantly caring for my two young children, I seek to grow spiritually. I’m going to turn 35 this week, and I don’t want to wait until after I’m 40 to grow deeper in my spiritual development. So I want a space for spiritual reflection and growth with babies welcome. I’m going to lead this retreat. We will create space for messy holiness. The Spirit can speak in many places including both in silence and the squeals of the littlest child.

We will partner together so each participant can have a time of silence and solitude each day (a minimum of half an hour a day), but most of the time we will gather together with our babies and learn together. If you don’t have children, you are also welcome, just know there will be kids there, too.

Spiritual growth doesn’t have to wait until you can be away from your kids for two days. You don’t have to spend an hour a day in your morning quiet time to grow spiritually. Children learn from their parents, a good way to teach them is to show you value their presence even while you retreat.

I’ve not encountered this idea before. Who wants to pilot it with me?

Perfect Happiness

I don’t think there is such a thing as perfect happiness. There are times when I am incredibly happy and times when I am nearly completely happy and times when I am perfectly content. But I don’t think I strive for perfection in happiness. If only so that I am not evaluating the level of my happiness. When I am happy, I am happy.

This morning, my daughter came and snuggled with us in our bed in the early morning, cuddling cozy between the covers, one of the last few times that it will be just the three of us. It was a happy moment. Part of what made it all the more sweet is that it was fleeting. Soon it will not be possible to have a moment like that, with just the three of us, because there will be four of us. (Also, we had to change the sheets afterwards, because she left us a “gift…” which takes away from the perfection, but does not detract from the sweetness of the moment in the slightest.) It wasn’t perfect, but it was good.

I suppose that in my happiness I do have levels of closer and further to complete, but happiness doesn’t really seem to be something that should fit into a category of perfection. I quibble with the idea of evaluating levels of happiness.

Things, times, and situations that make me happy: my daughter’s giggles, hiccups in utero, early morning solitary cups of coffee, fresh sheets on my bed, sunrises at the ocean, weather perfect for wearing my silk skirts, new music that I can instantly sing along to, Rhapsody in Blue, snuggles and kisses, a good search in finding the answers to the three questions we ask after watching a movie, the smell of new books, the smell of old books, good walks, snow days, new recipes, happy lights, haircuts, naps, figuring out new spaces, learning a new town, finding new and old friends, ice cream, and Santa’s Favorites.

I am still learning how to be happy and simply rest in it. Perhaps in ten or twenty years, I will be able to tell you what perfect happiness looks like for me, but probably not. What makes happiness good for me is that it doesn’t have to be complete to be enjoyed. Maybe that’s what makes it perfect.

On the Eve of Your Sister’s Birth

Dear Rebel,

You have been making our lives a more wonderful experience for two and a half years now. (Or more, if you consider when you danced inside my womb while at concerts and kept me company when I felt lonely at church.) Thank you for your joy and laughter, tears and tantrums, bumps and owies, and hugs and kisses through these years. Thank you for teaching me to be a mother in your own special way. Thank you for “preaching” to your daycare classmates when you were ten months old, for your newly introduced spontaneous songs, for your gentle pats on the back when I look tired, and for handing me my shoes when you want me to follow you somewhere.

Thank you for praying for me, your father, your grandparents (Gemma-Poppa & Nana-Grampa), your aunt Beth and aunt Julie, and for baby E. Thank you for holding my hand while we bless our food at the table, as you learn our family blessing (half of which you now say with us; you began by learning “Amen”). Thank you for sitting with me in worship while we listen to your daddy preach, pray, and consecrate the elements of communion. Thank you for being excited each and every time about the bread that he offers as a symbol of Jesus’ love for you and the whole gathered faith community. Even before you could speak, you signed “more eat” showing that you understood at a basic level that something intrinsically good was being offered.

Thank you for showing me my capacity for patience. I have handled far more than I could have imagined. From early tongue-tie revisions through weeks of illness, times when you seemed to cry for no reason whatsoever and times when you cried for very good reasons, in the midst of snuggles and bites, sleepless nights and seemingly endless car rides, we’ve gotten through it all. You have shown me how to offer grace to you.

I will always remember the first time you said that you loved me, shortly before Thanksgiving this past year, as you hugged me and held me close. “I yove you, Mom.” (You don’t have your “L”s down yet.)

You have always enjoyed being outside. Even when you were a day old, going out into the dappled sunlight helped you calm down. You exult in going out to the field next to our house to explore. You are always picking up rocks. You love the beach and water, as you should since you are my daughter. When we arrived at St. Simons and went to look at the ocean at the pier, you walked out to the shore and in no uncertain terms made sure that we knew there was water there, extending both your arms straight out, excited that there was water before you, as far as you could see.

Thank you for going with me to a HB2 rally, a justice candlelight vigil, the DC women’s march, and a Black Lives Matter protest. You may not remember them when you are older, but your presence was important.

Thank you for all your firsts. You are our first born child, and you will always be special and precious because of that. Your first step, word, and laugh are yours, and yours alone.

And now it is the eve of your sister’s birth. Some day soon you will become a big sister, and our love will grow to hold her in our family, too. There will be days when her needs will come before yours, and you won’t understand why. There will be days when we have to compromise and slow down because she needs a nap but you are ready to play. Our love will change, but our love for you will never diminish. We already know you will be a good, caring, and loving big sister, and we can’t wait to see how you and your sister grow and learn from each other.

From one big sister to another, little sisters are amazing: they teach us and love us and play with us and fight with us and hug us and show us how to share and love others in return. It can be a wild ride, but the journey is always worth it.

Thank you for these first two and a half years with you alone. I am grateful for each moment that you have been my only child. Life will change soon, but we will change too, and it will be wonderful.

I love you,

Mom.

Cheering

Since before I was a year old, I have been a fan of the Duke Blue Devils and the Alabama Crimson Tide. Mom and Dad took me to a Blue Devil football game the fall I was still at Duke while Dad was in his last year, and I was so cute, they put me on the TV broadcast. I returned to the same stadium twenty-seven years later to see the Devils face off against the Tide. It was not an even match.

I know that parent’s preferences have a strong controlling factor on determining what teams kids will root for, and so I know that some of my childhood memories of rooting for a particular team are due in large part to the teams that my parents cheered for. But it is also interesting that I have not seen the need to shift my allegiances as I have become an adult. The teams that my parents cheered for were important because they had attended those schools, and I even was able to add my own education to my cheering influence when I went to Duke for Seminary.

While I am glad that both of the teams that I root for, the Tide and the Devils, are currently at the top of their respective fields (at least in football and basketball, respectively) I’ve stuck with them through times when they were not the national champions. Until recently, the Duke Football team wouldn’t have had a snowball’s chance in the Sahara at a winning season, but I still rooted for them.

Cheering for the Crimson Tide (and against Auburn) influenced my favorite and least favorite colors growing up. I still don’t really like orange all that much, and it was one of the most disappointing days while studying Art and Color to learn that orange and blue were opposites on the color wheel and so meant to be together. So I just avoid orange, still. (Though I have learned to cheer for anyone in the SEC when they’re playing against someone outside of conference, even Auburn.) And UNC blue is not Sky Blue, even though they try to claim it.

I will continue to share my love of celebrating sports and cheering for those who play them with my children. I don’t really think I have a choice, since my husband loves sports possibly more than I do. We each bring something different to our understanding of the joy of the game, but what we bring fills out our experience even more.