These sound fancier than they are. What’s a “pioneer woman” doing making French pastry, anyway? (I love that she explains it’s an old mimeographed recipe she picked up in high school French class. Love!)
They are basically disguised muffins. However, they are super simple, delicious, and like she points out, they nuke well, so what’s not to love about some muffins rolled in a butter/cinnamon sugar mix where you can freeze the leftovers and then warm them up any day you want a fresh French pastry with your morning brew?
I suppose one could pick on the fact these use all white flour and sub in some wheat. And the true taste secret is the ample toss in luxurious butter, and then the leisurely roll through the sugar and cinnamon. As Ree explains, rolling them slowly in the butter and sugar while warm forms a gentle crust. They are rich and tasty enough while eating that you don’t need to butter them like you would normal muffins. So that’s where you can cut back–by not slathering them with additional butter.
I started by halving the recipe, not sure if I would like them that well. Some recipes don’t work so well when halved, but this did very well, so I’ll share this version making 6 nice sized puffs.
French Breakfast Puffs (adapted for 6)
1 ½ cup flour
1 ½ teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon nutmeg
½ cup sugar
1/3 cup shortening (Crisco type)
1 egg
½ cup milk
Mixture to roll them in
1 stick butter, melted
¾ cup sugar
1 ½ teaspoon cinnamon
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Lightly grease 6 muffin cups.
In a large bowl stir together flour, baking powder, salt, and nutmeg. Set aside.
In a different bowl, cream together 1 cup sugar and shortening. Then add eggs and mix again. Add flour mixture and milk alternately to creamed mixture, beating well after each addition.
Fill prepared muffin cups 2/3 full. Bake at 350 degrees for 20-25 minutes or until golden.
In a bowl, melt 1 stick butter. In a separate bowl combine remaining sugar and cinnamon. Dip baked muffins in butter, coating thoroughly, then coat with cinnamon-sugar mixture.
And if you want to SEE Ms. Drummond making these easy goodies, check here.
***
If you have my book, Whatever Happened to Dinner? here is a list of other breakfast breads and pastries in it, with the page number. I’ve also provide links below to those featured on this blog.
Cinnamon rolls 92
Cornmeal whole wheat waffles 41
Cranberry orange bread 42
Morning glory muffins 39
Oatmeal bread 36- We love this toasted.
Quick honey wheat bread 43
Whole wheat rolls 38
Christmas morning French toast 114
Funnel cakes 136
Martha Elizabeth Hiestand Krabill (1919-2014)
Photos provided by Mary Ann Hollinger
Today I pay tribute to a woman who, without realizing it, helped to launch and encourage my career as a writer.
Martha Krabill was our pastor’s wife and also my piano teacher. She patiently sat as I stumbled through three or four years of Schaum Piano books (remember those?). Perhaps she knew I’d never make it as a musician and so it was a blessing that an idea of hers, shared with her son, James, led to my very first regular column in print. Martha died this past November at the rich age of 95.
James was searching for staff members as editor of our high school paper at Bethany Christian High School, The Reflector. He wanted to profile selected members of the senior class throughout the year, and he needed someone to interview them and write a short, interesting sketch of what made them tick and what they hoped to do in life, as I remember it. Martha suggested he ask me, on the basis of short features for our church newsletter at North Goshen Mennonite on youth group activities where I tried to be more creative than just a straight up report like “The MYF (Mennonite Youth Fellowship) enjoyed the hayride and Halloween party at the Miller barn the other week…” (how boring).
I understand that on the basis of Martha’s idea and recommendation, James asked me about writing the column; we also shared a creative writing class together my sophomore year, so it wasn’t that the idea was completely foreign. (Miss Hoover, our teacher, frequently read some of my writings aloud to the class, which was always an occasion for red cheeks and squirming to have my private thoughts shared out loud, while secretly enjoying the fact she had picked something I wrote so she must have thought it was good.)
As a pastor’s wife, Martha was ever the gracious and outstanding hostess. We loved going to their home for a meal, and it was there I learned the art of setting a beautiful table. The dishes she prepared were, in my memory, always delicious and frequently from her Pennsylvania Mennonite background, artfully presented, and perfect in every way. My father would tease her that like Martha, Jesus’ beloved friend in the Bible, she’d spent too much time on the meal, but I personally drank it all in. It was fun to be pampered and sit at a table that looked like something from my mother’s beloved Good Housekeeping magazines.
Martha and daughter Mary Ann
But it was a recent comment by Martha’s daughter and oldest child, Mary Ann Hollinger, that helped me see more of Martha’s deeper spirit and attitude that created a home and family atmosphere where a teenage son would actually take his mother’s advice or idea to heart and go with it.
In the tribute Mary Ann wrote for her mother’s “celebration of life” service, she noted that Martha gave them as children a wonderful gift that carried them far—“a trusting belief that we could take care of ourselves and that we were in God’s hands. I’m so thankful that she not only gave us roots, but wings.” Mary Ann and James have both lived and traveled in a variety of settings around the world as they’ve followed God’s leading for work and witness to Christ’s love and example.
Mary Ann also sent me a Facebook message noting that Martha “was always so affirming of us children. Not making us feel so much that she was proud of us, as that she just believed in us and believed we could do whatever we set our minds and hearts to.”
In her tribute, Mary Ann recalled that as a youngster, “By age 4, I was sent down the street selling my first wagon full of vegetables from our garden; for years after, James and I sold vegetables door-to-door across North Goshen.”
Of course those were different times. We can’t imagine or recommend that today. But the principle of apron strings and love that stretch far can still apply: “Somehow mother just believed we could handle whatever situation we encountered—be they mangy dogs or inebriated residents,” noted Mary Ann.
Without knowing it or intending to, Martha gave me some wings, too, that set me on a path I’ve written about before, here.
Her husband Russell had a deep influence on my Christian faith as well, as my first pastor who worked closely with my father as deacon. But I have to wonder in how many other pastorates does a congregation often get a great two-for-one deal: a spouse, male or female, who has their own informal or formal ministry walking alongside the ordained one. That was true for my own children who benefited in so many ways from our pastor Ann Held’s spouse, John, and his love and dedication to music and children, which I also wrote about, here. The appreciation I gleaned from Martha for music—especially piano, in spite of my awkward ways and infrequent practicing—benefited my own children in our willingness to pay for music lessons in their instruments of choice, and for one, a career choice.
Call me twice or thrice blessed, and so very thankful for all the gifts of those who’ve gone before us.
***
Who influenced you or your life, who may not even know they did?
***
I’m excited to share that the Harrisonburg District of United Methodist Women invited me to address their “Women Evening Together” program this Thursday night, Feb. 19 at Bridgewater United Methodist Church at 7 p.m. The United Methodist Women’s national 2015 reading program selected my most recent book, Whatever Happened to Dinner: Recipes and Reflections on Family Mealtime, which I’ll talk about at the event. Open to all. Door prizes. Snow/inclement weather date for this is Feb. 26. I’d love to speak to your group, too. See here for more info.
A Kitty Living Will
I wrote this for our daughter 15 years ago when she was a freshman at College of William & Mary and her beloved cat, Boots, had already had one surgery for a malignant lump on her back; Michelle helped pay for one operation and we paid for the second, but beyond the money, I began to feel like too much treatment for animals bordered on inhumane and there comes a point at which you just have to let go … and I hoped this would help Michelle deal with her pain and grief.
If cats could speak (or write) for themselves, maybe they would say something like this. Michelle recently ran across this in her files and emailed it to me, sniffling some tears.
Bottom left: Boots at birth with her mother Shelly. Upper right: Shelly with her litter of five kittens including Boots, admired by sisters Doreen and Tanya, right, and first cousins Cathy and baby Robin, left.
A Kitty Living Will
I, Boots, having just gone through a second major operation in three months, being of relatively sound body and slightly peeved mind, do hereby state that I do not wish to be subjected to any more such ordeals.
Everyone has been most kind; I’ve been handled lovingly, gently, cooed at, admired, praised for being so gentle. But that can’t make up for the fact that, as a cat, my very catness has been invaded.
I’ve been made to go to bed without any supper, made to stay inside against my will, even when I had to GO all because I had this stupid appointment at the veterinarian’s. Moreover I had to get up and not have any breakfast: you humans can be told what is going on, but all I could do was guess: okay, what’s up with this? Are they just being mean, or are they planning to sneak me off to the hospital again. It can’t be that, not again, so soon. I don’t ever want to go back to that place.
The indignity! Going to a place that serves … dogs! In the same place. I know I’m not supposed to be prejudiced, but come on, dogs? Our arch enemies?
Being put in a cage, like a wild animal? Oh sure, I hiss with the best of ‘em, but I am meek and gentle of heart. A genuine lap cat, even if I still like a little roaming and hunting now and then to keep me young.
At the hospital someone pokes me, sticks me, shaves me.
Well, soon after that, I don’t feel anything, but buddy when I wake up, it is hangover city, staggering around like someone who’s drank too much. (I think they drugged me.) I don’t feel too bad, just look like …. a cat out of you know where. Then I have to retch. The mortification!
Well at least I got to go home by evening this time and not stay overnight in that dark and smelly place in a cage while all the nice people go home. No one to tuck me in. No one to talk to, except other cats meowing madly and dogs yelping like wimps.
Even now I face a daily ordeal of swallowing pills morning and night, – count em! Why do they keep choking those things down my throat? And for what? Then I will have to go back to the doctor where he pinches and hurts me to remove my stitches.
No, a true cat, a real cat, just lives his or her nine lives as they come, none of this pussyfooting in and out of vet offices, getting poked, pilled, puked and “puffed” (to use Aunt Debbe’s term).
Therefore, as a true brave cat, who has been more loved than most cats in this world and better than I probably deserve, I do humbly request that you just let me be; if the growth comes back, I’ll just take my lumps and with a little bit of luck maybe it’ll just go into remission for awhile. Maybe my nine lives are about up. I don’t know.
I do know this: I’ve been a lucky lucky kitten to have you for my mistress all these wonderful years, far longer than anyone ever dreamed a cat could live at the Davis house. Remember how I broke that spell of bad luck, and taught every kitten after me the wonderful Art of Skillfully Dodging Cars While Fearlessly Hunting Mice Across the Road? Rats, that was fun! Remember how you used to dress me up like I was a living doll? Hey, I kind of like that name, living doll.
Oh, don’t get me started, I’ll have you crying, and you need to be at your best right now, going through your first major exams of your college career.
Speaking of which, don’t feel badly; we both knew this time was coming, when you would go off to college; but would I have traded all those years of being “most loved cat?” I think not.
Boots and her special box of Kitten Chow she
received from Michelle every Christmas.
In fact, that fact of being “most loved cat” gets me through this tough time even now. Knowing you are happy (except when thinking about me) makes me feel very smug and perfect: I sure did a good job of raising you.
I do not delude myself. After all, I am a cat. I’m quite happy with what I am, and that means cats stay home and girls go to college. And since I am a cat, please, please don’t worry too much about not doing all you can for me in my sickness. After all, they shoot horses, don’t they, not to coin a phrase. And don’t cry, except for tears of joy, maybe, because you have made me probably the happiest cat in the world!
Or maybe go ahead and have a good cry, it seems to be what humans do. You will feel better then. Just don’t worry. I’ll be just fine, whatever happens. –“Hakuna ma ta ta.”
Your loving cat,
Boots, “Bootie,” whatever.
Boots and Michelle after Boots’ first surgery.
***
I’m sure there are situations under which others are compelled to make different choices regarding invasive procedures for much-loved pets, but this is what felt proper for us and Boots. Two years ago we faced similar dilemmas with our beloved dog, Fable.
***
Dedicated to dear Dr. Kathy, an A+ veterinarian at Waterway Animal Hospital,
who would be ours if she didn’t live in another state.
I love this picture even though I am ditzy-looking and have on a horrible outfit. It shows how we used to wear pants under our dresses for warmth even when not allowed to wear them (unless helping with heavy-duty farm work). I love the throwback wallpaper, hi-fi, the plastic curtains. I especially love seeing my saddle shoes again. This calls up so many good memories and if you are a child of the 50s or 60s, I hope it does for you, too. I think the year was 1958.
So what is going on? Just one of our favorite activities when Mom and Dad would go away for an evening. When they went away to a banquet or program of some kind related to the farm or church organizations they belonged to, we would crank up the hi-fi in the corner of the room. My middle sister would stand on a chair and conduct an imaginary orchestra. My little brother and I would stroll around “dancing” to the music. My older sister may have waltzed like this too but she would have been in junior high by this time and likely had too much homework to do silly kid stuff like this. And she likely snapped the photo—she was the first of us to have a real camera. (And my grandparents lived in attached in-law quarters so it wasn’t like we were totally on our own.)
Indulge me to take apart the photo some more.
- My dress: homemade (absolutely) and a pretty tricky pattern at that; mom must have sewed a blouse type top into a jumper-looking dress—all in one, I’m pretty sure. Mom made most of our dresses, which we wore to school and church. We bought some skirts, blouses and sweaters; the “bought” clothes were always my favorite items.
- My hair: What a mess. End-of-the-day pigtails, is all I can say. No bangs—we were not yet allowed to have cut hair.
- My expression: Loopy lane, I believe. My best imitation of waltzy and dreamy actresses and dancers on TV or in the movies. This was before we had TV, circa 1960, before I ever went to a movie, but had seen TV shows at neighbor’s or friend’s houses—when hour-long music/dancing/comedy shows like Jack Benny or Bob Hope were popular and acceptable family fare.
- My middle sister: You can’t see her outfit here, but it was a T-shirt tucked into jeans (sans the dress), which marked her status as Dad’s farm helper—allowed to wear jeans out on the farm as she worked in the barn or drove tractor or whatever.
- The “secretary” desk: The tall hutchy-looking thing with bookshelves was one of my mother’s favorite pieces of furniture: it moved with us to Florida, back to Indiana, and eventually to mom’s apartment in the retirement complex. She still writes cards and letters sitting at that desk with a front leaf folded down. Our school pictures from that year are stuck in the windows of the cabinet doors.
- The living room: Pre-remodeling and the advent of modern storm windows, old timey carpet. Looking back, it was a rather simple and spare living room.
But this photo also says exercise, enjoyment of music, making our own entertainment, interaction with siblings. If we fought, we also had to live with each other or were punished later. We all remember the time Dad went away to a committee meeting or something and one of us got into that precious desk and left crayon shavings in his pencil sharpener in the desk. Crayon shavings! No one would admit to it. We three youngest were severely scolded and sent upstairs to kneel down by our beds and ask God to forgive us for lying. I remember crying as I prayed, “God, I ask you to forgive me, but I didn’t do it.”
But those were mostly carefree times for those of us lucky enough to live in a home where yes, we were punished, sometimes harsher than we deserved, but also loved and respected and made to listen and work hard. We were never abused nor went hungry. I never had to deal with an alcoholic parent. Dad never touched the stuff, nor cigarettes, to my knowledge.
L to r: Linda (Pert), Terry, Vernon (Dad), Nancy, me, Bertha (Mom).
We played together, vacationed together, read the Bible every morning together as this other picture shows from a similar era (although note we have cut bangs here, and my oldest sister Nancy has shorter hair). While this photo was very posed for a Christmas card one year, it reminds me of how much Dad and Mom invested in fun times for the family. The photo was taken in the log cabin Dad built by a pond in our pasture field. Dad chopped the logs for the cabin and mortared the space between the logs. It had a loft so there was space for 8-9 kids on floors for sleepovers and such. We’d retreat there on summer evenings for a picnic, a swim, a little fishing, horsing around rowing a pontoon raft, or a bigger party with chicken BBQ for groups from church or extended family.
We were not perfect, nor were our parents, but how grateful I am for the childhood I had.
Happy Birthday Poppa. He would have been 98 years old today.
What will your children remember about their childhood days?
Do you have a photo that takes you back to your childhood?
Barbara and Anna’s Cheesy Chicken
I’m not sure if I can legitimately name this chicken recipe for my sister-in-law Barbara who made the first batch I ever tasted, or for her youngest daughter who loves it too. It came out of an unnamed magazine and I enjoyed it because:
- it is super easy
- my husband could eat chicken every day of the week while I get tired of the same old
- anything with lots of cheese and butter is going to be tasty
Okay, so it won’t win any awards from the health department. But if you round out the meal with freshly steamed broccoli or carrots or a California mix, your favorite vegetable or fruit salad, and maybe a rice pilaf, it moves up on the nutritional scale. I have made the cheesy chicken twice for large groups. I wanted to have plenty of a main meat dish, so I also prepared baked chicken tenderloins covered simply with an Italian type dressing for those who preferred something lighter and not breaded.
So that makes an easy menu alternative to offer alongside the cheesy chicken when serving a larger group. People seemed to like having a choice, and both were eagerly consumed, with a few leftovers from each choice.
Cheesy Chicken
1 sleeve Ritz (or other) crackers, crushed
6 oz. sharp grated cheese (we swear by Extra Sharp Cracker Barrel Cheese)
Salt and pepper to taste
6-8 boneless skinless chicken tenderloin or breast pieces
4 Tablespoons melted butter
Mix crushed crackers and grated cheese together. Melt butter, place in bowl that you can dip chicken pieces in. Dip each tenderloin first in butter, and then cracker/cheese mixture. Place in lightly sprayed 9 x 12 baking dish. 
Cover with remaining crumbs, as desired. You may end up with extra crumbs, depending on how big your chicken pieces are.
Bake for 30-40 minutes in 350 degree oven.
Two tips:
1) As easy as this is, don’t screw it up the way I did one time, mixing the butter with the crackers and cheese. Globby mess. Don’t do it.
2) If your chicken pieces are frozen, the melted butter congeals very quickly on the frozen meat; better to use pieces that have thawed in the fridge and aren’t so cold.
***
I also wrote about Barbara recently in an Another Way newspaper column, here. One of these days I’ll get one of her talented children to video her as she makes her oft-requested Shenandoah Valley Renowned Macaroni and Cheese.
***
My book, Whatever Happened to Dinner? has some family favorites in it, but also recipes from a wider group of families from my office.
WRITER WEDNESDAY: A BOOK REVIEW 
A Living Alternative: Anabaptist Christianity in a Post-Christendom World is a big book. Edited by Joanna Harader and A.O. Green, it squeezes in much with narrow margins and almost 300 pages. So this is a book to pick up and savor when you want to read a chapter at a time from one of the 20 authors on spiritual pilgrimages, experiments and experiences in being church, heavier stuff on our post-Christendom world, and living out faith. It is not a book best crammed through hurriedly for a class, or to write a review in a short amount of time!
Which is what I felt I needed to do, since I accepted the offer of a free copy in exchange for a review! Especially when I had about four other books of this nature (mostly Mennonite-written) ahead of it in line. The book functions as a “reader” in contemporary Anabaptism by a variety of current writers, pastors and theologians who speak, blog and engage in conversation about such things. It is not comprehensive in terms of who contributed—I think an invitation went out broadly to and through the MennoNerds network of bloggers. I suspect many passed feeling that they didn’t have the time or had other projects looming.
In an anthology such as this, you tend to first read the chapters from those you know personally, or by whose lives have somehow intersected (online or real life) with your own. So I first turned to Donald Clymer, an author for whom I recently served as editor for a book on spirituality he co-wrote with one of his sisters, Sharon Clymer Landis, The Spacious Heart (Herald Press, Sept, 2014). In The Spacious Heart they both touch frequently on their spiritual pilgrimages but in this anthology, Don fills in the missing pieces while adding his particular take on post-Christendom Christianity. His chapter is called “Conversion from Ethnic Mennonite to a Convinced Anabaptist” and follows the path of many others who grew up culturally and ethnically Mennonite, but not really understanding what the Anabaptist faith was all about.
Brian Gumm, who also lived in Harrisonburg a number of years, now “telecommutes” from Iowa for his main bread and butter doing online educational programming for Eastern Mennonite University. I first took the plunge into blogging after hearing him speak convincingly about his own experiences blogging. His chapter titled “Seeking the Peace of the Farm Town: Anabaptist Mission and Ministry in the Midwest” speaks of his vision as a bi-vocational pastor for Church of the Brethren. The approach he describes is sometimes called “slow church” or more broadly “missional,” where you emphasize getting to know the community, neighbors, and becoming an everyday part of it. This approach bears in mind that God is already at work in a given community, so there is less of parachuting into a situation attempting to change or fix things that don’t work culturally.
I’ve never met this next author, Jamie Arpin‑Ricci, writing “What Anabaptists can learn from St. Francis of Assisi” but I was intrigued to learn more of his background and thinking. The first time I encountered Jamie was when he first contacted Third Way website, for which I also work, as he did social media contacts asking websites for links to The Naked Anabaptist book (Herald Press) by Stuart Murray after it first came out. Jamie leans towards a Franciscan spirituality—that is following the example of St. Francis of Assisi—even to the extend that when he and others first started Little Flowers Community in Winnipeg, Manitoba, he wished to call it “St. Francis Mennonite Church.” No one thought that would go over too well so they settled on Little Flowers—probably one of the more unusual names for a Mennonite church—as tribute to the flowers and animals that we associate with the nature-loving St. Francis. Jamie’s chapter is fascinating and one of the easier reads in the book, and he has numerous books of his own including a forthcoming title: “Vulnerable Faith: Missional Living in the Radical Way of St. Patrick.”
From my work curating content for Third Way website and hearing from many folks interested in Mennonite or Anabaptist churches over the years, I know that many people live in areas where they desperately wish there was a local Mennonite church. So it is insightful to hear from some of these writers who are pastors or lay persons in underserved communities. Justin Hiebert addresses this need directly, a Mennonite Brethren pastor who says he realizes he does not wish to pastor a church plant per se, but rather to be in a congregation being planted. In a chapter called “The ministry of availability and community transformation,” he notes that the Mennonite Brethren denomination set a goal (like many denominations) several years ago to plant six new and stable churches a year. Hiebert terms it a practical goal aiming “to create and reproduce more incarnational-missional churches in local communities to disciple more people under the lordship of Jesus” (p. 151). Justin includes great ideas for involving ourselves more intentionally in whatever neighborhood we live in, and notes the first step: get to know your neighbors. 
I also resonated with the chapter from Chris Nickels exploring the concept of Table Fellowship – not the food or cooking but the practice of gathering around tables to just talk, hang out, and fellowship. As a pastor, he notes “the table’s effectiveness as a tool for ministry is that it helps theory become practice.… Sitting down at a table invites us to break from our regular activity and shift our focus. It is a place where we intentionally choose to slow down and really be present with other people” (p. 157). He tells how his congregation, Spring Mount Mennonite Church in suburban Philadelphia, tried a table church liturgy for an experiment. A member who works in construction came across some handsome but well used round tables being discarded from a work site, and asked Chris if the congregation wanted them. They did and the result was that they’ve used the tables in a variety of settings, including a once-a-month worship liturgy incorporating a meal—making use of the particular gifts in the congregation more towards cooking than professional music, for instance. Their “potluck theology” also helps members think about the home table as a place for fellowship and spiritual growth and discipleship. This chapter beautifully provides theological and philosophical framework for the book I called Whatever Happened to Dinner: Recipes and Reflections for Family Mealtime. His thoughts take this kind of approach a step further for worshipping communities.
Drew Hart is another Philadelphia pastor, young and hard at work on many fronts—which means he is a man to watch in the years ahead as he cuts through the make-nice racial conversations to face down ongoing prejudice and systemic racism even when people know better. Did he coin the word he uses to pinpoint his vision?: Anablacktivism. In his chapter he recounts how he stumbled upon Anabaptists, has researched black theology and Anabaptism, and is currently working on a Ph.D on that topic, along with a more popular-level book. His chapter is much too in depth to summarize here other than to use his own appeal at the end, “Those who desire to find inspiration from the Anabaptist legacy, ought to consider and pursue this by also engaging the Black church and Black theology, all while joining the struggle against white supremacy and the systemic racial violence that continues to disproportionately devastate Black life in America” (p. 215).
The book includes some of the brightest new voices emerging from and about the Anabaptist tradition. Hannah Heinzekehr and Deborah-Ruth Ferber and editor Joanna Harader are the lone female voices but I can hardly criticize the collection for that because other women (including yours truly) had the opportunity and invitation to contribute but either didn’t find the time or didn’t feel they had something worthwhile to add on the topic. Of these I found Deborah-Ruth’s on singleness most engaging—probably because I gravitate towards personal journeys and stories and recall experiencing while age 23 and still single, many of the same feelings myself.
The endorsers and foreword writer are all names known to me as an editor/writer working in this general field: whew: Greg Boyd, Stuart Murrary, Sarah Bessey, Shane Claiborne, Christena Clevland. Good job, editors Joanna Harader and A.O. Green in tagging this book with this depth of Anabaptist-related thinkers. Published by indie house Ettelloc – one might wish for a more winning cover, but that’s a weak criticism, knowing how difficult cover decisions can be. With the diligent study questions closing each chapter and ample bibliographies provided by the authors offering additional resources, any Sunday school class or small group or book discussion group could cherry pick this rich volume and create a study tailor-made for your group’s particular interests and issues.
***
How do you live your own faith in our current society? What are you guiding principles?
***
Have you read this book? Comments?
This book is available on Amazon and other locations and at the MennoNerds collective.
Every month we have an office potluck lunch at the MennoMedia office where I work. About once a year we take a coffee break to brainstorm the sometimes off beat but interesting themes around foods we’d like to share. (Such as here, and here.) The idea is to spend minimal work time planning, and maximum time fellowshipping/building camaraderie.
So this month was “Funeral Foods” and you’re going … those weird Mennonites. In many Mennonite churches, the Food Committee is in charge of serving a sit down dinner to the family and close friends of deceased loved ones, usually after the actual funeral or memorial service is finished. This is generally more than a finger-foods reception that I’m now more familiar with in the Presbyterian church where we’ve been members for 30 some years. (There are some interesting posts on Funeral Foods if you google that, like here.)
Most times a traditional Mennonite church Food Committee (and believe me, that’s a big assignment for someone who is extremely good organizing people and working a kitchen full of helpers, a job my mother always politely if adamantly turned down—“Just Don’t Make Me Chair of the Food Committee!”—I can hear her saying) sends out the call for a number of volunteers to make a certain recipe—everyone making the same thing for a casserole, a jello or other salad, a yummy dessert. Or, if the bereaved family prefers, perhaps a soup, sandwich and veggie type lunch. The meal is kept simple and focused: not a huge spread or variety.
One of those typical casseroles, at least in the past, has been Tater Tot Casserole. When my father died in 2006, we told the Food Committee we’d love it if they fixed that dish that came into vogue when we were kids, with the roll-out of Ore Ida Tater Tots. I wonder who ever assembled the first combination using, of course, the standard (and sodium filled) can of Cream of Mushroom soup, ground beef, green beans and topped off with crispy tater tots in neat rows?
So when “Funeral Foods” came out on the office potluck list for 2015, I knew what I’d be making, something I had not tasted since 2006 at my Dad’s memorial.
The dish was quite good and satisfying. But maybe over the years my tastes have changed and grown to the place many other foods are much more interesting and palate pleasing. Our assemblage of “funeral foods” included quite an array of stuff I would never have called by that label including pinwheel type roll up sandwiches. I thought—funeral food? And then smacked myself thinking of the Presbyterian receptions at my church where, indeed, pinwheels are often frequently served—picked up I’m sure at a deli or Costco. (Yeah, pinwheels and pimento cheese sandwiches with the crusts cut off are my Presbyterian go-to funeral foods!)
But if you want a throwback or cozy comfort food, try this super easy warming and filling traditional Mennonite funeral food from the 60s -70s era.
North Goshen Mennonite Cookbook Tater Tot Casserole
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 lb ground beef
1 medium chopped onion
1 quart or large size can green beans, (drained and chopped slightly on a cutting board)
1 pound or 16 ounces tater tots
(Spread mushroom soup over layer of hamburger and green beans. Kind of patchy, but it spreads out in cooking.)
Brown ground beef and onion in skillet. Place in bottom of 9 x 13 inch baking dish. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Add layer of green beans, chopped to about half of normal size. Spread mushroom soup to cover as much as possible. Top with layer of frozen tater tots—can be placed in rows or just jumbled.
Bake at 375 degrees for one hour. Serves 6-8.
Adapted from North Goshen Mennonite Cookbook, provided by RuthAnn Wittrig
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Do you have a favorite comfort food served frequently at funerals or memorial dinners? What is the tradition in your church or family?
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For many other recipes (both Mennonite, Presbyterian and even no special religion!) check out Whatever Happened to Dinner.
Locals are invited to an upcomingspeaking gig on the theme of this book, with United Methodist Women of the Harrisonburg District, at Bridgewater United Methodist Church, February 19, 7 p.m. Any and all are invited. The United Methodist Women’s Reading Program selected Whatever Happened to Dinner as one of its recommended books for the year. See more here. The complete list for 2015 is also available on Amazon, right here, which has boosted sales for this book significantly! (I love United Methodist Women!)
Last Sunday my husband and I were greeters at church. When we finally finished greeting folks and headed into the sanctuary, the usher handing out bulletins handed me a personal note that someone had written covering my bulletin. It had been left with the stack of bulletins by a woman who helps bring a group of volunteers from Pleasant View Inc., a wonderful agency in our community serving adults with special needs. The volunteers come every Friday to our church to fold our bulletins because it is something they enjoy doing and it is a way for them to experience the joy and camaraderie of volunteering.
Here’s the note. (Click or flick to enlarge.)
Of all the ways I have received communication from readers of things I’ve written, this was the most unusual. I walked into church all pumped up. To hear from a reader who had obviously been moved by one of my early books—after almost 30 years! I was blown away and grateful to Marianne for writing the note.
The first book she was referring to is called For the Next Nine Months: Meditations for Expectant Mothers, published by Zondervan in 1982. I wrote the journal type entries and prayers, and found scripture verses to accompany each meditation, while expecting our first child in 1981.
This story gets even more special. I called the number she gave and yesterday we spoke by phone. Not only had she loved the book, she had planned to name her baby after me if it was a girl. Her mother’s last name had been Davis and so she felt that was special too. (My own mother found my own name in a book, too, by an early prolific Mennonite novelist, Christmas Carol Kauffman. That writer had a character with the slightly unusual spelling of Melodie.)
Marianne and her husband ended up having a boy and named him Michael. My oldest daughter, the one about whom the meditations were written while she was gestating, we named Michelle. Pretty close—they come from the same root name of course!
Michelle when she was four days old.
Michael is now married but it his sister, Marianne’s daughter, who just had a baby. Marianne wanted me to know that the baby she prayed over every day as he was growing inside her while reading my book “turned out well”—a good son with a great job. And obviously she feels the same way about her daughter that just had a baby!
Very cool. How amazing to hear the back story. Marianne did not live in our community at the time she read my book, so when she saw my name in the church bulletin: “Stuart and Melodie Davis, greeters” she knew she had to find out if I was the same one who had written the devotional book.
My daughters also enjoyed reading the meditation book while they were expecting in 2013—even though to read it, it feels dated now. So much has changed about how we have babies in North America today, from baby registries (one of the first tasks of many expectant parents) to husband involvement in labor and delivery (now almost always husbands or boyfriends participate in those phases, which was pretty new in 1981), to routine, sophisticated ultrasound pictures. (Our daughters’ labor and delivery experiences here and here.)
Early ultrasound of Michelle, three months gestation, 1980.
But I hope that the emotions and basic experiences of pregnancy are somewhat universal and timeless as we go through the miracle that has happened since the beginning of time.
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Did you ever receive a note or letter that blew you away with surprise and wonderful feelings? I’d love to hear your story!
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The For the Next Nine Months book is only available from used book sellers online and through Amazon.
In conversation with Marianne, the devotional book for new mothers she was remembering may have not written by me, but my book Why Didn’t I Just Raise Radishes: Finding God in the Everyday comes close to that with stories and prayers from our early days of raising children, also available only as a used book on Amazon etc.
However, the publisher I work for, Herald Press, has just brought back into print three books for expectant or new parents, Meditations for the Expectant Mother and Mediations for the New Mother, by Helen Good Brenneman, (mother of my high school friend Tobi) and also Meditations for New Parents by my college friends, Sara and Gerald Wenger. Check them out and stock up—on sale now until Feb. 2 for just $5.99 each.
Our church goes in for Epiphany in a big way, emphasizing how Christmas only begins on Dec. 25 and runs through January 6. Last weekend we held our “Epiphany Dinners” in homes as a way of having small fellowships with people NOT in our small groups or house churches, and totally mixed up by organizers who pair people who want to host, with people who want to be “guests.” Everyone makes a dish and viola, a lovely dinner in a private home is enjoyed by all who wish to participate!
We hosted this year and I prepared a Wassail to enjoy as folks gathered, which turned out to be perfect on a frigid January evening. Now that I’m finally un-decorating the house, I think I’ll stir up another batch to enjoy.
In a nod to those who don’t want a long story before they get to the recipe (you know who you are), here goes.
Wassail
Note: I halved this recipe to serve approximately eight.
1 gallon apple cider
1 cup brown sugar
1 – 6 oz can frozen lemonade concentrate (or use lemonade Koolaid, with juice of a whole lemon added)
1 6 oz can frozen orange juice
1 Tablespoon whole cloves
1 Tablespoon whole allspice (can put whole spices in steaming bag or just throw in whole)
1 teaspoon nutmeg
Cinnamon sticks
Lemon or orange slices
Simmer 20 minutes.
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Any Epiphany celebrations to share?
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How do you cheer yourself up for the dismal, disheartening, depressing work of un-decorating??
Buster, the Thousand Dollar Dog
The bones of this true story were written by my father, circa 1995, which I finessed into this piece which appeared in several papers at the time. It spoke to me recently and I’m happy to share it here—with the photo opportunity a blog allows.
By Vernon U. Miller
Dad, Buster, and Mom on their farm near Wakarusa, Indiana.
We bought Buster as a baby Border Collie. He was very smart and easy to train from the very beginning.
One of his first lessons was to halt at the road as I went across to get the mail. Naturally he wanted to follow. So I took the newspaper and lightly spanked him saying, “No, no.” After that I don’t recall that he ever tried to cross the road with me to get the paper. Indeed, he could be tearing along chasing a rabbit, but if the rabbit ran across the road, Buster stopped.
Buster and I soon became the best of friends. He followed me constantly on the farm. Even when I was plowing my field that was a half mile long, Buster would follow. So I would pick him up and perch him on the fender of my Ford tractor, so he wouldn’t wear himself out tagging along. This soon became his favorite place, because he could scout out mice, rabbits and ground hogs from there.
The ground hogs were his favorite to chase. As soon as he spotted one he would want to jump off the tractor. But I knew it was too far away. So I’d tell Buster, “No, not yet.” We crawled along on the tractor and when we were close enough, I’d urge him, “Go!” and he shot off: usually he got his ground hog.
In the barn yard, he knew which sow was always left out first, and saw to it that she would go where she was supposed to go. After the sow did her business, Buster would bring her back in. He spent so much time with the pigs he often smelled like a pig and padded around happily with mud caked to his underside.
As a working dog, he enjoyed the freedom to roam within the confines of the farm. He humored me and anyone I could gather for an audience, by hopping through our tire swing, posing on a 50 gallon drum, or on the porch swing. He was gentle with the grandchildren even when they were toddlers.
Dad with my oldest daughter, Michelle, circa 1983, and Buster on his beloved tractor.
But life is not always kind to dogs or men. When Buster was about 12, I developed diabetic neuropathy, and became confined to a wheelchair for a period of time. I could no longer farm. We had to sell all our farming equipment and made plans to move.
Friends, relatives and church members helped to get everything ready for the sale. I begged the doctor to let me go home from rehab for the day of the sale. He said if my oldest daughter, a nurse, would take care of me, he would let me go.
The sale went along well, but the bidding slowed down when it came to selling Buster’s favorite Ford tractor. The auctioneer knew the tractor was worth more money and he also knew Buster’s many tricks. He looked around, spied me, and called, “Vernon, where is that dog?”
Buster posing on the tractor at Mom and Dad’s farm equipment auction.
I called Buster and he tore through the crowd to my side. “Get on the tractor, Buster,” I said. He jumped to his perch on the fender. Everyone clapped. The bidding started up again and went up another $1000 until the auctioneer was finally satisfied, earning him the moniker, “Thousand Dollar Dog.”
That summer we built a barrier-free house to accommodate my wheelchair on a plot next to our old place. Buster moved with us to the new house, but he didn’t understand why.
The farm was as much in his blood as it was in mine. Buster thought he needed to go up to the barn to help chase the hogs and do chores. He growled at the strange man tending his pigs. The new owner was afraid; he couldn’t trust a snarling dog. They said he snipped at one of their daughters.
There was nothing we could do but tie up Buster at our new home. He was old, too old to learn new tricks. Buster cried and cried; we shed some tears too. Where was the freedom he longed for? What kind of life was this for a hard working farm dog? What good was he? These were questions I asked myself too, as I massaged my useless legs.
Buster became more and more feeble, with no reason to live. He stopped eating and drinking. Finally we knew that there are things worse than death. If we couldn’t give him back the farm, we could free him from his broken heart.
I think there were some who thought I would soon be gone, too: a farmer deprived of his work and life. Over the years, through therapy, prayer and hard work, I gradually regained the use of my legs. I practiced standing and taking steps until one day I walked free of my wheelchair. Even while I was in my wheelchair, I set up a shop in our garage where I enjoyed building doll houses and toy barns for children who will probably only ever be farmers in their dreams.
But as I putter, I enjoy remembering every farmer’s dream dog: Buster tearing across a field at the word “go.” Stopping short if a rabbit foiled him by crossing the road. And dear old Buster hopping up on that trusty tractor when the bidding was slow.
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Epilogue: After the onset of his illness/disability in 1986, Daddy lived 20 more years, gradually adding the use of a cane, walker and then again a wheelchair. Mom took care of him until the last week of his life in 2006 when he had to move to nursing care. Mom is still amazing and active at 90. The photos below are an early photo from when they were just dating, and a later one from the 1980s.
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Has a pet ever helped you cope with illness, disability, change? I’d love to hear your story!
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How does a parent or grandparent’s example speak to you?
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This story was originally published in Living magazine. Today the magazine I serve as editor is called Valley Living and is online here.
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Here are two of my favorite posts on Mom and Dad; other links may automatically show up below.
findingharmonyblog 