I enjoy having company—that’s what we called it when I was growing up. I’d ask my mom with anticipation, “Are we having company on Sunday?” We didn’t call it entertaining.
In thinking about finding harmony between different types of people (especially in families and marriage), there are probably those who enjoy having people over, and those who don’t. Mother would say she was a reluctant hostess, egged on by my father who loved company (but didn’t have to do much of the work).
At this point in my mother’s life, even having me and my husband there for a few days is a big deal. She shops for the Right Cereal for My Husband (even though he rarely eats cereal anymore) and stocks up on what she thinks I Have To Have for Breakfast (orange juice) because that’s what I always have at my house, and buys what she thinks We Expect to Eat at Her House (homemade sweet rolls from a friend of hers, or bakery sweet rolls, yes!). But at home we only have homemade sweet rolls on Sunday (as in here.) So having us kids for a meal is all she can manage. At 89 years of age, that is normal!
I do think I got my love of having people over from my mother even though she would argue that, but it is because it was something she did frequently—something families in my church in northern Indiana did at least monthly. We would invite someone to our house for Sunday dinner, or go to someone else’s. I loved getting out the good green bubble china and the bubble goblets and the real silverware (which I’ve never had) and setting a pretty table with a centerpiece and maybe candles.
I love this picture of the table in our farmhouse kitchen, recently discovered in my sister Nancy’s slides, which she transferred to print and I photographed. So excuse the poor reproduction, but this is Pert, far left, Nancy, yours truly, and my brother Terry, enjoying our “company meal” with Mom’s green bubbly china and goblets.
We would set it all up on Saturday night. I liked helping mom prepare fancier desserts (date pudding, real whipped cream) and the roast or meatloaf or ham she would bake. We liked setting the table “pretty” so much that sometimes when Mom and Dad would go away to a banquet and we were old enough to cook for ourselves, we would ask permission to use her best stuff and have a “company supper” just us four kids (see above).
So for the first 30 years of our marriage, my husband and I enjoyed having people over even though we didn’t have a dining room or a hutch to store my grocery store china or glassware or a decent table.
Our metal dinette set, covered up of course with a lace cloth. My nieces, Cindy and JoAnn were great helpers in the kitchen before my own children were old enough.
We used the space we had (or ate outside) and generally made do, first with a metal dinette set that came with our house, and later a cast off table from my parents—a mobile-home-grade-particle-board-table: wowser!—when they finally got their nice long dining room table.
Our fine and forgiving trailer-factory-particle-board-dining-room-table. It stood up to the creation of science fair projects and building model Globe theaters for English class.
The particle board table was where our kids did homework (Doreen will thank me for sparing you the photo of her sleeping in the middle of her homework with rag curlers in her hair), where we decorated Christmas cookies, had countless birthday parties. We hosted mostly family, friends, sometimes people from church. And made do.
One time for Thanksgiving we carried a huge table up from the basement that someone was giving away once, and put it in the living room so we could all get around one table.
A larger table in our living room with sister-in-law Barbara in blue, brother-in-law Richard carving turkey, my father checking it out, Stuart’s father to the right. Baby Michelle at 7 months in the corner high chair. And Stuart with the plaid shirt and VERY long hair, circa 1982.
Then we moved seven years ago. One of the things I looked forward to most was finally having a dining room, a hutch and a very very long dining room table.
The stuff of legends (not quite King Arthur size or shape). Hickory to match our cabinets. We were able to have an Old Order Mennonite in northern Indiana build it, the same guy who built my parent’s long long table. This one can seat 20, 22 in a pinch. We tend to argue about that, me trying to squeeze in as many as possible, my husband preferring to let folks have some elbow room. I remember the first Thanksgiving we used it and two grand nephews, gazing from the end of the table, looked like they were at the end of an airport runway.
After using this table a few years, I’ll be the first to admit you can’t have a decent conversation with the whole table around such a long board, and you tend to talk in clumps with the folks next to you. So in some ways, I now prefer smaller gatherings. But it is still fun to get a whole bunch of people together around a huge table.
I tend to think that tables, no matter what size or material, are special glue in families–the stuff of building memories. Other cooks with a love for holding families together around tables have written about the difference between entertaining and engaging folks over a shared meal (see Mennonite Girls Can Cook words on hospitality, and Doris Janzen Longacre’s words in More-with-Less Cookbook where she cautions that “serving guests [can] become an ego trip, rather than a relaxed meeting of friends around that most common every day experience of sharing food …” (More-with-Less Cookbook).
And now, pass the bread, please. (Many more family meal photos here, along with do you pass left, or right?)
***
What special memories do you have from around your table, however humble, from your growing up days?
Did your mother and father like to have people over? Do you? I’d love to hear from you!
***
There’s much more about memories and traditions along these lines and how families today can still hang on to the custom of “gather around table” in Whatever Happened to Dinner, available here.
Last week I wrote about growing up in Indiana. Flat Indiana. On our particular farm, our sunrises were partially hidden by the woods immediately to the east but nevertheless could produce some wonderful moments of awe.
One morning when I was a kid, maybe about 10 or 11, I decided to go out in our orchard and watch the sun rise. I could get a better view from the far end of the orchard.
(Our farmhouse in Indiana, with woods to the east. Not a great view.)
I loved the orchard: we had apple, pear, apricot and cherry trees. Maybe some peach. Grandpa and Dad both loved growing fruit and in later years, Mom and Dad had a fine dwarf orchard on their smaller lot from which they ate summer suppers of peaches, bread and milk (or whatever fruit was in season–strawberries, raspberries, etc.) for 4-5 months of the year. They ate locally and in season before that became trendy.
The morning I waited for the sun, I don’t know if I didn’t tell my parents what I was doing, or why I didn’t have appropriate information on what time the sun might rise that day or just what motivated me. It was spring and I headed out—much too early—and thought I’d freeze as I sat on the cold ground waiting.
I waited and waited and while the sky was getting lighter, I finally went back to the house disappointed in my failed mission.
Then for most of my life in Virginia, 30 years, my husband and I and daughters lived in a small ranch house where our kitchen window faced north. I enjoyed my view of the woods and homes behind us, but to really get a peek at the sun, I had to wait for a sunset. Sunsets were visible from my west-facing kitchen window. But no sunrises.
After looking many many years and touring hundreds of homes (yes literally, ask our agent) we finally found a spot of ground that was not too hilly, in the right part of the county, that we could afford. The bonus was it had a spectacular view to the east.
No, we couldn’t quite see the Massanutten mountain peak from our chosen building site, but we can see its range.
Massanutten range lines the eastern side of the Harrisonburg section of the Shenandoah Valley and punctuates any good photo with its outline. (When I was growing up in flat Indiana, we would pretend that a lining of clouds was a mountain range on the horizon.)
I have to pretend no more. We have a patio door looking out on a deck and I can watch the sun rise from the comfort of my dining room or deck. I try to pause frequently to drink in the beauty, to make up for lost daybreaks. Sometimes I sit on the floor cross-legged in front of the patio door to take it in.
I missed too many sunrises for too many years but I feel very blessed to enjoy them now and pretty much can’t stop photographing them, as lowly as my simple camera is.
A few poetry scriptures for your morning:
From the rising of the sun to the place where it sets,
the name of the Lord is to be praised. Psalm 113:3God[‘s] … splendor was like the sunrise;
rays flashed from his hand,
where his power was hidden. Habakkuk 3: 3-4
When one rules over people in righteousness,
when he rules in the fear of God,
he is like the light of morning at sunrise
on a cloudless morning.” 2 Samuel 23: 3-4
And of course at Easter we recall the most magnificent of all sunrises:When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices so that they might go to anoint Jesus’ body. 2 Very early on the first day of the week, just after sunrise, they were on their way to the tomb 3 and they asked each other, “Who will roll the stone away from the entrance of the tomb?”But when they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had been rolled away.” March 16:1-4
The powerful majesty of the rising sun, day after day, year after year, century upon century speaks to me. “The name of the Lord is to be praised.”
I am a morning person. Morning has broken! O happy day!
***
Do you love mornings or does your star come out at night? Neither way is better than the other!
Where is your favorite place to watch a sunrise, or sunset? Beach, mountains, prairie, cityscape?
Mexico Beach, Florida
Amigo Centre, Michigan
***
For more about eating locally and in season check out this fine cookbook, Simply in Season.
All photos mine; all are of sunrises, not sunsets.
Marinated Pork Chops
So the other week I signed up for “Take Them a Meal” to two households. I’m not trying to share how generous I am because my hidden motive is it gives me an opportunity to try a new recipe for the blog that I might otherwise not get around to trying. Although that is risky because what if it doesn’t turn out and the people you take the food to think you’re a terrible cook? Or can’t get it down, and they are “down” to begin with?
This time I offered to bring pork chops of some description (along with some other choices) and when the man in the family said bring on the chops, I found this recipe online for 2 which looked promising. But I adapted it to make enough for them (2) and my husband and I (2).
Marinated Pork Chops adapted from “Mitch in the Kitchen”
4 bone-in pork chops (about 6 to 8 oz each but mine did not have bones in)
1/3 cup apple cider vinegar
2 tsp. water
1 teaspoon honey
1 ½ teaspoon kosher salt
several grinds of fresh black pepper
herbs (I used dried thyme, they also suggested rosemary)
2 cloves garlic, sliced
Combine marinade and place pork chops and garlic slices in glass baking pan. Spoon marinade over the top surface. Cover dish tightly and refrigerate. After a few hours, flip the pork chops, soaking for a total of 6 to 8 hours.
Heat a skillet with a thin layer of olive oil on medium heat. When pan is hot, place the pork chops in the pan, prettier side down (for an attractive sear and to place up to serve). Do not disturb the chops while they cook for a few minutes. When they are ready to turn (they should be a nice golden brown and should release easily from the pan, turn them over with tongs or a spatula (not fork or juices will flow out). Cook the other side until the internal temperature reaches 160 degrees and sauce reduces. This took longer than I expected, about 20 minutes. It was like the vinegar had to bubble up and cook out is the only way I know how to describe it. Remove from pan and let rest for a few minutes before eating.
From “Mitch”: *You can also make a pan sauce to spoon on top by adding reserved marinade (but nothing that has touched the raw meat of course), stock, and/or wine to the pan, scraping up browned bits and letting sauce reduce. Spoon sauce over finished pork chops.
*I did not do this, as I ran out of time before needing to deliver the meal.
Having run out of time, I took one bite, left the chops with my husband and drove off to “Take Them a Meal” and an evening meeting.
A few minutes later my husband called on my cell phone and said “Tremendous! They melt in your mouth!” He is usually very supportive and complimentary for anything I try, but this was more effusive than I’m used to!
So, I scored a new dish for our repertoire. Well worth the effort! And obviously I was in such a hurry that I forgot to take a picture of the final product. Next time.
***
What is your go-to meal when you carry food to a friend, family or church member who needs a little help in a time of need?
***
And if you’ve never heard of my book with 100 more great recipes (not all mine) check out Whatever Happened to Dinner: Recipes and Reflections on Family Mealtime (Herald Press, 2010).
Part 3
My posts this week have centered on my faith journey (Part 2) and connections as a Eastern Mennonite College (Part 1) student. The president of EMC at the time (now EMU) was Myron Augsburger, and my personal history with him goes back to my very first days as an infant. He was the first preacher I ever heard the winter I was born in Sarasota, Florida.
My family the winter I was born in Florida: Linda (Pert), front left, Nancy, right, Mom, me and Dad. Our brother Terry would join us four years later who is the only one of us who now lives in Florida. But we all have that sand in our shoes.
My parents had a long love affair with Florida which began on their honeymoon. Mom bargained hard for a honeymoon to the romantic, semi-tropical state that she had only heard about, a perfect place to escape to if your wedding was, like theirs, in the dead of winter in northern Indiana.
They almost didn’t make it because of budget and car breakdowns, but they soldiered on at least in part because “Your daddy promised he would take me to Florida.” They definitely ended up with sand in their shoes and went back to try farming (like many other northern Mennonites) there for about six months in 1951-1952 the winter I was born. They also spent time living in northern Florida for eight years, and wintered in Sarasota for four-five months in their later years, roughly 1992-2002. Altogether roughly 12 years in the Sunshine state.
Almost-newlywed Myron and Esther Augsburger in front of Tuttle Avenue Mennonite Church, Sarasota, Fla, winter of 1951-1952. From my parents’ photo collection.
Myron was a budding evangelist who at the age of 23, with his bride Esther, was invited to move to Florida to pastor Tuttle Avenue Mennonite Church—a church plant associated with Virginia Conference. It had only 40 persons in May 1951; by Jan. 1952 (the winter I lived there as an infant), the attendance was around 500 (of course winter was and is high tourist season in Sarasota). In Roots & Branches: A Narrative History of the Amish and Mennonites in Southeast US, 1892-1992, (Cascadia Press, 2010) Martin Lehman describes Myron as “an eloquent speaker. He had a gift for evangelism, and his preaching resonated with Mennonites and non-Mennonites alike.” Martin points out that “some 200 [attenders] were of non-Mennonite background.” The whole history and book is rather complex and doesn’t shy from the conflicts which played out.
Augsburger left Tuttle Avenue in July 1953 to become campus pastor at EMC and to continue his schooling (although he spent another period of time pastoring in Florida). But Mom and Dad so much loved having him for their preacher, that all through my childhood, I often heard my Dad say, “I would sure love it if one of my children would go to Eastern Mennonite where Myron Augsburger is.”
That is NOT why I went to EMU but now I wonder if kids ever lean unconsciously towards paths their parents “wish” for?
Many years later I was asked to write an article for the EMU alumni magazine Crossroads when Myron’s long time assistant Peggy Shenk (indeed she served as assistant for three of EMU’s presidents) retired. Peggy recalled her and her husband’s (Michael) long friendship with Esther and Myron, and how as young women dating Michael and Myron they confided to each other that they hoped “the Lord wouldn’t return [to earth] until they got married.” I also enjoyed the opportunity to work with Myron doing “developmental editing” on one of his many books, The Resurrection Life, (Evangel Press) published in 2005 where I mainly broke up his trademark paragraph-long sentences to more manageable chunks. And yes, I got a little pleasure out of editing my former college president’s work. I also had the fun of interviewing both of them in their home about an assignment in India and got to know more about Esther’s remarkable work in art and its theological connections for her.
Myron was only one of three Augsburger brothers (there were five in all and one sister) who had an impact on my life: Don Augsburger was my pastor and high school principal for a number of years in Goshen, and in fact baptized and instructed me in the faith, and my father worked closely with him as a deacon of North Goshen Mennonite Church. Don’s pastoral gifts of tending a congregation, writing and memorizing poetry, and the ability to listen well and between the lines make him also stand out in my spiritual journey. Their brother David, whose creativity and booming bass voice (both singing and speaking on the long running Mennonite Hour radio program) contributed to the success of Mennonite Broadcasts Inc. for a period from about 1966 to 1975 (he left right before I joined staff in 1975). David was still a guiding force as we contracted with him to write and record various Choice radio series he birthed (one series on Living More with Less re-released as recently as 2011). For one series, I served as ghostwriter and Dave said he got a kick out of reading the material because I “out-Augsburgerized David Augsburger” or something like that–had made it sound so much like his writing.
So this Indiana Mennonite farm girl, whose Midwestern roots went so deep she somehow harbored hopes for many years of someday moving back “home,” ended up with even stronger connections to Mennonites of the southeastern U.S., especially Virginia (through my work for the Mennonite church) and Florida. Along with, yes, what shall we say, longtime formal membership in the Presbyterian Church and awesome local congregation, Trinity, and my husband’s deeply rooted Virginia family? Yes, it’s complicated. It has also led to my lifelong search finding harmony among these various threads.
I remember when I first realized I had a new home in Virginia setting: as my colleagues and acquaintances were aging and moving on, I went to funeral or memorial services and looked around and realized that I likely knew more people sitting in those pews than if you suddenly plunked me back in my home Indiana congregation. These were my people. I knew them much longer than my relatively short 17 years in Indiana. And Presbyterians have also become my people: my pastor Ann Held (the longest preacher I’ve ever had, almost 24 years) can play a pretty good “Presbyterian Game,” always striving to connect people. Her special gift.
Ann Reed Held, center, flanked by Trinity’s other two pastors, Dan Grandstaff, left, and Don Allen, right, all of whom have been my “Presbyterian pastors.”
Truly, any place can become home when you put down roots. But like the song says, “This world is not my home, I’m just a passin’ through.”
My mother, Bertha, holding infant me in the trailer park where they lived in Florida.
***
How have you put down roots? How much does your church family play a role?
***
If you love that great Mennonite Hour a cappella music, here’s a link to a bunch of YouTube videos featuring the music (nevermind the visuals, just listen to the music.)
***
And for my tribute to the wonderful new Presbyterian hymnal, Glory to God (designed by a Mennonite, so there), check here.
***
And when I get homesick for Sarasota, Fla. and Amish & Mennonite filled-Pinecraft, I go here.
Part 2. (Find Part 1 here.)
Why I had to apologize and restore harmony with the dean of the seminary goes back to this sawdust trail, spread down between these long rows of chairs on a flat Indiana farm.
(Photo dated 1952)
A reader of my Another Way newspaper column, Pauline Yoder Kauffman, who knew my family, once sent me this photo, which I treasure. Why? Because it includes my paternal grandparents, Uriah and Barbara Miller, sitting in the second row, pretty much the way I remember them throughout my growing up days as they lived in the “daughty” house attached to our home. I’ve written in this space of how Grandpa was just 6 generations removed from his ancestor, Jacob Hochstetler, featured in the new novel, Jacob’s Choice.
Grandpa Uriah M. Miller and Grandma Barbara Kauffman Miller, second row. He has a coat without a tie, and she has a jacket on.
Persons who attended every night of a Brunk revival received a free Bible. Grandpa and Grandma got a Bible. (I don’t know if it was one copy or two.) They were already in their 80s.
But the tent here is what astounds me as I look at this photo. Look at all those support poles, way back.
Other sources say the tent held roughly 6,000 people. Crowds of 17,000 with overflow tents in some communities are mentioned in other sources. Here the tent looks pretty well filled. That is a lot of people in the small communities where the tent was set up—not dense or urban population areas. People drove from miles around. Sometimes the meetings went as long as 3-4 weeks. That Grandpa and Grandma were there every night kind of blows me away.
So it was the only game in town, and a big game at that. George Brunk II was also a big man, around 6’4″, with a big voice and he knew how to use it. He was sincere in his fervor and calling. In 2014 we may critique the theology, the emotionalism, the hucksterism of the big tent. The 1950s were a different time and my family and I attended likely about a decade later than this photo, probably around 1963. It was a time and era when my peers and I grew up knowing and believing that we would “go forward” at some kind of public meeting thereby demonstrating we were ready or felt God nudging us that it was time to show that we were ready to follow Christ. At age 11 or 12, having grown up in the church, we were still taught that at some point we would need to make that public commitment that said “I’m a Christian.”
The night I went forward I remember watching one of my school mates who was a year younger than me. He went forward first and I thought, if he can do it, so can I. I was emotional of course and my pastor and his wife, I think, joined me in the private area behind the stage to pray with me and support me in that step. I don’t remember exactly how my parents reacted but I’m sure my father said something like “We’re very happy you went forward, Melodie” and that was pretty much the extent of it because we didn’t talk about a lot of deep personal things. I didn’t know what else to say. My sister may have went forward too but that’s her story, not mine to tell. I was baptized several years later.
So in my senior year of college when I wrote the yearbook essay on Eastern Mennonite Seminary mentioned in my last blog post, and George II as dean of the seminary was not happy, I ruminated on that for about two years. I would see George around town or the campus and wondered if he remembered the incident, if he recognized me as the writer of it. I had not intended anything ill or offensive, but I was made in such a way that I wanted to apologize. To me what I wrote was not a sin, but something had come between us. I once wrote a letter of confession and apology to a family whose bathroom scales I broke and had lied about it; in the same way, these bad feelings weighed on my heart.
I finally sent George a letter, apologizing, and asking for forgiveness if I had brought any mar on the reputation of the seminary. In the note I mentioned how as a child I had responded at one of his tent meetings, and how that had been an important marker on my faith journey. Maybe my letter was not necessary, but I felt a lot better after I sent it.
In due time George sent a conciliatory response. All was well. There was no bad blood, no bad feelings. One of my cherished mentors, Ruth Brunk Stoltzfus, the first ordained woman in Virginia Mennonite Conference, was a sister of George, an ordination he definitely opposed. In her memoir, A Way was Opened, she speaks some of her relationship to her brother. They had some family fences to mend, too. I was happy to have taken care of my unfinished business when he died at the age of 90. My compulsion was somehow connected to my grandfather and his grandfather and his grandfather before him (and on back) and how we are taught to not only seek peace with our brothers and sisters as mentioned in my last blog post, but to do good, especially “among those who are of the household of faith.” Galatians 6:10.
For more history of the Brunk Revivals, check here.
To be continued.
***
Did you ever apologize just because you knew you would sleep better if you did so?
Did you walk the sawdust trail or “go forward” at an evangelistic meeting? What do you remember?
When the topic of one’s personal faith journey comes up, mine was irrevocably entwined with two of the well known and powerful Mennonite orators of the day, George R. Brunk II and Myron S. Augsburger. I once got into trouble with the former (now deceased) and am still on friendly speaking terms with the latter. Both held a commanding presence in the Mennonite church of eastern U.S. of the 50s and 60s when I was growing up. I’ll share my intersections with both of these men in a three-part blog.
How I got in trouble with the dean of the seminary
… and I was never even a seminary student, and that was part of the problem. All through my years at Eastern Mennonite College except for the year I lived abroad, I was an active part of the Weather Vane (student newspaper) staff, which served as my practicum in journalism. Everyone needs a place to connect on a college campus and while our college was not big, the writers/photographers/designers who made up the staffs of our newspaper, literary magazine and yearbook was where I hung out.
So I was asked to write a descriptive essay on Eastern Mennonite Seminary for the college yearbook in 1975. The seminary was part of the EMC campus and community, yet its own entity on the edge of campus, even then. The yearbook that year attempted to be an artsy-fartsy attempt to be literary and cool, not just the same old yearbook with pictures and descriptive captions but more of an impressionistic feel for life on campus. That was what the editors described it, at least the way I remember it, and that’s what I wrote about the seminary in a half page essay to accompany a dark, foreboding-looking photo of the seminary building.
In those days not very many women went to seminary. There were only two that year, which probably represented a real growth spurt. I was starkly aware of my gender as I walked through the seminary building as I attempted to get inspired for my essay.
Here is part of the description I wrote in the 1974-75 Shen: (I think I was trying to write like T.S. Eliot in “Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock”) or some of the other poets and literature giants I was studying at the time as an English major. I have to resist the urge to edit myself now.)
Cloistered on the southwest perimeter of campus, the Eastern Mennonite Seminary squats, nor more or less imposing than the other brick edifices.
“Reserved,” a sign tells me. “The place reserved, or merely a parking space?” I wonder.
Inside, mingling with the somber coats and hats—a she-coat; I match it to the secretary.
In the room the people come and go, pattering the plastic walk-mat …”
But the part of the essay that got me in trouble was mentioning my awareness of my own legs in this densely male enclave as I tried to depict with words the atmosphere in the seminary. I wasn’t being disrespectful: I knew the scholars were working hard at a level far beyond mine but also had “lives” which made them human like me, which is what I tried to touch on:
Burrowing into Greek, Hebrew, Pastoral Care, Systematic Theology and Early Christian Thought, scholars lose themselves in individual study carrels. Here a photo of a baby, there a stale Styrofoam coffee cup. They man their carrels and barely stir as my female legs prowl into their den.
I ended the essay reflecting on the pleasant and inviting chapel atmosphere where there were cushions and hymnbooks in a holy hush. All in all, to me it was a fair description–for a surface look that any stranger walking in might have seen or observed.
But it was NOT taken that way by seminary staff and especially not the Dean. My face grew hot with shame and embarrassment as I read a long angry letter on the Opinion Board (I do not recall who wrote it) in the campus center not long after the Shen was published. How could any underclassman think they were representing what actually goes on in the studies of a 2-3 year graduate program without interviewing or getting information from the administrators or faculty there? How could this short description possibly do justice to the seminary program?
In hindsight and with many years of “maturing,” I certainly can understand the objections. I don’t remember now whether the yearbook editors offered a rebuttal on the opinion board or decided to just “let it go.” I do know that the upshot was that the following year, the seminary published its own yearbook, not just a page or small section in the underclassman year book over which it had no control.
That was then. Fast forward a few years, after I had been working in a sister Mennonite institution, then called Mennonite Broadcasts Inc., a few years. My offense to the seminary dean occasionally pricked my conscience, or at least my desire to do as the scripture tells us in Romans 12:18, “As far as it lies within you to leave peaceably with all.” This was the manifesto my father taught me from little up. I did not like the feeling of having an unsettled issue with George R. Brunk II. I wanted to find harmony. He was, after all, the evangelist who had once inspired me to walk the long saw dust trail, literally, in the days when many of my peers were also doing the same thing.
In the end, I don’t think I did much damage to the overall fine reputation of the seminary: pictured above is the current Eastern Mennonite University president Loren E. Swartzentruber, who was in seminary during those days.
To be continued.
The sawdust trail at a Brunk revival in Indiana, conducted by the “Brunk Brothers” 1952. In my next post I’ll tell you which of my relatives is found in this wonderful photo and why I felt a special need to “make things right” with George R. Brunk II.
Shen Photo credits: I cannot see that our yearbook–(are any yearbooks?) copyrighted nor were the photos in the 1975 volume credited to specific photographers but are listed as follows (many of whom were fine friends of mine at the time): Dave Kraybill, J. Marcos Hostettler, Marian Eberly, Jim Mast, Jim Bishop, Jon Byler, Ken Pellman, Keith Gingerich, Deb Stoltzfus, Tim Landis. If anyone remembers who took the photos which illustrated the seminary essay, I’d love to know!
***
Did you ever get in trouble with authorities at your school? Did you make peace?
This is probably one of the first recipes many kids try to make which is kind of surprising because while the ingredients are just three and super simple, you are basically making a candy and as such there are a lot of things that can go wrong go wrong go wrong. Or a lot of ways a young child could easily burn themselves but I know I started making them when I was likely 10-12.
But the beauty of these babes is that they mix up so kickin’ fast. We had a potluck the other day at work which I had kind of forgotten about and whipped these suckers together as I was getting ready for work in less than 10 minutes, maybe 15 until they were cut into squares.
And they are relatively low in calories, with the nutrition of hey—breakfast cereal! Fortified, a bowl of cereal (1 ¼ cups) supply 25 percent of a day’s needs in Vitamin A, C, D, E; 60 percent of iron and a bunch of other vitamins/minerals. Extrapolated to the proportion of actual cereal used in the squares, 2 large squares might have that amount of vitamins. Consumed with a glass of milk: breakfast. Not that I’ve ever done that, but just saying. They also contain a lot of sugar but maybe no more than a kid would pour on a bowl of cereal when you’re not looking.
But Kellogg’s and the store brands no longer automatically put the recipe on the box, and often it is not on the bag of marshmallows either, so when I made these last week, I actually did have to look up the proportions online.
Rice Crispy Squares
6 cups cereal
40 marshmallows (regular size—not tiny, not the huge kind)
4 Tablespoons butter
Melt butter in skillet on top of stove, low to medium heat. When all melted, add the marshmallows, and stir until they are all melted. Do not let butter brown and do not melt too fast. Remove butter and melted marshmallows from heat. Immediately stir cereal into the pan. Will become very stiff. If making with a child, let the child stir until it becomes too hard for them.
Spread mixture into 13 x 9” pan sprayed with vegetable oil cooking spray. Using scraper or wax paper, press down into pan as evenly as possible. Let cool a minute or two, then cut into squares. Makes about 24.
Hint: If you are taking the whole pan to a potluck or other event but still want to taste them while they’re fresh, save enough mixture to spread into minipan.
About 100 calories a piece.
The things that can go wrong if you don’t work quickly and have marshmallows and cereal measured out ahead of time are (and I’ve made all these mistakes):
1) the butter or margarine cooks too long and turns brown
2) the marshmallows are put on two high of heat and the mixture hardens like candy as you spread them out in the pan
3) you wait too long to spread them out in the pan and the mixture becomes an unmanageable mess
4) too much stuff remains in the skillet and you waste a lot of cereal/ingredients
***
When did you first learn to make rice crispy squares? Or what do you remember making first as a child?
***
There’s a whole chapter on packable treats that supply decent nutrition in my book Whatever Happened to Dinner? The chapter is called “Eating on the Run–Taking Charge of ‘Fast’ Food” and it includes Jodi Nisly Hertzler’s chart for helping kids pack their own school lunches using one item from these groups: proteins, grains, fruits/veggies, and “treats.” Find the book here:
Two valley girls are doing us proud here in the Shenandoah Valley as March Madness gets serious. If we can’t have spring yet, at least we can enjoy great basketball.
The two are seniors Kirby Burkholder and Nikki Newman playing for James Madison University, who have played together 8-9 years all through high school and now college. One hails from my husband’s hometown, Bridgewater, and both went to his alma mater high school, Turner Ashby. “TA” for short or “Trashby Ashby” depending on who was trash talking them. One of my daughters has as her alma mater JMU so we actually went to Burkholder and Newman’s last home game at JMU on a recent cold and rainy Sunday afternoon, enduring a 30 minute wait without umbrellas to catch a shuttle bus back to our parking lot after their brilliantly played rout. Drenched but glad now we made the effort.
How much women’s basketball, my first true love in sports, has changed since the days I began interscholastic competition as a lowly 7th grader! And yes, I remember playing half court b-ball, when only “rovers” could run end-to-end on the court with guards just playing on one end and forwards on the other because women were judged too unfit to all run the length of the court. Or maybe the purpose was to slow down the game, I don’t know.
My junior high 7th and 8th grade teams in Middlebury, Ind. I’m 2nd row, third from left. Yes, we played in white blouses. Blouses. So we’d match. (Some who forgot white blouses have on their gym uniforms here, including my bestest friend, Martha front row, far right.)
Today I probably enjoy watching football just as much, but how special it is to glory in the quick tempo and grace of a fast game of basketball. My sisters actually wore skirts to play (not just in gym but with other schools) but by the time I was playing we got to wear shorts. Worldly. We egged the coach into buying shorter shorts for uniforms because “it feels horrible to play with shorts reaching your knees,” I remember some girls saying. That’s funny now.
Pert was short but she knew how to jump, lifting her way above outstretched hands on our high school team. It also helped that to me, she was fearless.
My glory years were three years of high school, two of which I got to play with my sister, Pert, who went on to a significant career playing in college and then coaching at both levels. She even made it onto an exhibition team that played in Asia as a Christian outreach at the time. Pert, even though she was never more than 5’2” tall, was grace and spirit personified on the basketball court, charging ruthlessly through a knot of girls under the basket, somehow “slopping” (her words) the ball into the bucket. And drawing the foul from an opposing player. She was a great outside shot too and would have aced many 3-pointers in her day if they had counted that way. My oldest sister Nancy played too but I didn’t get to play with her. We sisters were all on the short side, me the tallest female if I stretched to 5’6″. My brother, the tallest of us around 6′ never played on a team. Go figure.
Our high school team (not very uniform). We wore “pinnies” with numbers for games. Pert on far left, middle row, long hair; me on far right, back row, long hair.
I remember especially one game when our small Bethany Christian school team traveled about an hour and a half away and some of the first string couldn’t go, or were sick, or whatever. When someone got into early foul trouble, I was number 6 off the bench that night, and I frankly wasn’t in shape enough to playing full court basketball for 32 minutes straight, doubling over at one point feeling like I was going to retch right there on the basketball floor. I motioned to my sister that I was about to puke and she got the coach to take me out. I think we won, no thanks to me. Usually I just played B-team, which is all the further I got in college too. But I played for fun. In Indiana, November was my favorite month because that’s when our season got under way. I loved playing the game and couldn’t wait for each opportunity.
I played for three years of high school until my family moved to north Florida where I was disappointed to learn there was no girls basketball in our area at the time. What? It was inconceivable to me, and even the boy basketball games played second fiddle to football, the only sport where big numbers of fans came out.
My team at Eastern Mennonite College (now University), 1972. I’m #33 next to the coach with her hair in a bun and likely a homemade dress. We played JMU that year.
When I got to college at Eastern Mennonite University, the cross town university to JMU, the women’s team at that time still actually competed against JMU. I remember playing in Godwin Hall and even then it was a ridiculous mismatch, a game JMU (then Madison College) agreed to simply because it was a sure win and an easy trip. But we were proud because the men’s team would never have played against Madison at that time, so we had one up on the guys. Right? And now I can say I played against JMU. Whoo Woo.
These days children have to start playing basketball and other sports in earnest by the time they reach third grade or maybe even earlier to have a chance of ever playing high school or college sports (but that’s another story and gripe). I guess that’s how kids like Burkholder and Newman and all of their colleagues play so crazy-skilled, fast, and awesome. Last night, at the point Gonzaga moved briefly ahead, Burkholder took over the game for her team, in my opinion, and made sure JMU stayed in the hunt. (Photos and run down here.) Let me hasten to say the strength of this team is their balance and tremendous team playing abilities more so than any one-or-two-woman show. Various players have stepped up during various games to give them a 29-5 record this year and I owe a shout out to at least two more players who will carry the JMU women forward after Burkholder and Newman graduate, junior Toia Gibbets (Norfolk, Va./Lake Taylor) and sophomore guard Precious Hall (Tallahassee, Fla./Maclay School). Somewhere along the line, north Florida women must have really started playing basketball!
Go JMU women. You gave a clinic last night on playing your hearts out and it just looked like you wanted this one a little more badly than the other team. And gave your hometown something to cheer for on this cold March night when more snow is predicted by Tuesday.
(Huddle: Anyone got a good joke to tell? I’m #34 here.)
But the real glory of those days was not any game won or individual records but the camaraderie and fun of being part of a great group of girls and women who loved playing the game. Traveling, especially in college, to schools throughout Virginia and now knowing just where many private women’s colleges like Sweet Briar and Longwood and Radford and many others were tucked away in small picturesque communities. It was eating those packed lunches on vans (low budget teams) and occasionally eating out and huddling before and after games and joking during time outs, when the coach ran out of things to tell us, “anybody gotta a good joke?” On the ESPN broadcast last night, I heard one player express much the same thought about the fun and joy of team camaraderie and thought, good for them. They’ve still got it right. And that’s something to keep in mind as parents, players and coaches.
Enjoy the ride.
***
Did you play a team sport in middle, high school, or college?
What sport to you enjoy the most now?
Do you think kids are playing for fun today or because their parents are hoping for stars or scholarships for their kids?
Do you remember exactly where and when you first tasted certain foods? My lasagna blog post was like that. (Sometime I’ll tell about the scary first time I ever had pizza at a friend’s home, which I could barely eat.)
Broccoli salad was one of those memorable firsts but I liked it immediately. It was my first year out of college and I was living with a roommate, Mary Ellen Witmer, and we drove to Lancaster Pa., to visit one of her long time friends. We had Sunday dinner (I think) at the home of her friend, Joyce (now) Thomas, and she fixed broccoli salad. I don’t remember anything else about that meal but the salad. Weird.
The original recipe which Joyce gave me did not include all the delicious options that the food editors for my book, Whatever Happened to Dinner added, which you’ll see below. (And don’t miss the special drawing I’ll mention at the bottom for a free copy of a different cookbook.)
But the best thing about this recipe is that my husband, while not a big fan of cooked broccoli in general (although he’ll eat it), loves this broccoli salad.
Some guys (gals too?) will eat anything with bacon in it, right? Unless that’s not your thing, and this is perfectly good if you’ve of any vegetarian bent, without a sniff of bacon. There are of course lots of other variations on the web–I’m linking to this one because this cook remembers the first time she tasted broccoli salad too. As others have pointed out, this salad has crunch, sweet, sour, nutty, and cool crispness.
I love this as a good basic alternative to tossed salad or cole slaw, my other two go-to’s.
Joyce Thomas’ Broccoli Salad
1 large head of broccoli, or several crowns, chopped (substitute half cauliflower, if you like)
1/3 cup raisins or dried cranberries
3 spring onions**, chopped (or ¼ – ½ cup chopped red onion)
4 slices bacon, fried and crumbed (optional)
½ cup chopped pecans, almonds, sunflower seeds, peanuts, or walnuts (optional)
Dressing:
1 cup* salad dressing (I like Miracle Whip best for this—I’m my mother’s daughter)
1-2 tablespoons vinegar (to taste)
¼ cup sugar
Stir dressing ingredients together and pour over the salad. Best if refrigerated several hours or overnight.
* I would only use 1 cup of salad dressing if it were a very large head of broccoli. As written above, this recipe would serve 8-10 hearty eaters. For a smaller group or family, half all amounts for the dressing part of the recipe, and half the amount of broccoli. All other amounts to your taste.
** Spring onions come in so many sizes, from very very thin, to robust. So of course use your judgement and taste for how much onion to add.
***
Head on over to the other blog I work with, Mennobytes where we’re sharing the journey of one small family (they have a 6-week-old baby) who are trying to cook through Lent with NO EATING OUT. Here’s the link. They are using the More-with-Less bestselling cookbook by Doris Janzen Longacre, originally published the year we got married, 1976. To have your name entered to win a free copy of More-with-Less Cookbook, just comment on THAT blog about any recipe or food that helps YOU cook “more with less.” (Deadline for that drawing is 4 p.m. ET Thur. March 28.)
I’ve been kind of quiet about Lent and temptation and giving up something this year. After last year’s rather ambitious blog series of Lenten meditations, I decided to keep a less stressful and quiet Lent this year and just give up chocolate and Facebook on Sundays. A sacrifice for sure, but not as big of a sacrifice for me as say, coffee or completely giving up Facebook. Or bread (one of my daughters loves bread so much she gave that up one year). But bigger than say, giving up Brussels sprouts, which I like, but hardly ever make. Or giving up a smart phone, which I do not own.
Then yesterday, one of my worst devils sneaked into the breakroom at my office and sat there sneering at me. See the little yellow guy beckoning on the Peanut M& M package? Yes, that. Rather than indulge, I quickly snapped a photo to keep myself from eating that just-right- combo-of-salty-crunch-and-savory-sweetness right then and there. But I was tempted. Can you tell?
And I had already cheated. I made yellow-cake chocolate-frosting cupcakes for my husband’s birthday two weeks ago, which of course I had to eat too lest he think I was poisoning him. So I squeezed by on that pecadillo by rationalizing it was just frosting and not really chocolate as in candy so it was ok.
A couple days ago, blogger Jennifer Murch confessed (on Facebook) her weakness for red licorice, which I quickly jumped on and admitted my cravings for the red sugary high. I was somewhat comforted and amazed regarding the number of us who were eager to confess right then and there on Facebook our addiction to licorice. Talk about not a private confessional booth.
Giving something up for Lent of course is not the important part. And these are all light duty sins–“sinlite?”: chocolate, coffee, licorice … the real tempter must get a kick out of seeing all of us light duty Christians running around during Lent obsessing over giving up Facebook and Peanut M & Ms. Giving up something is to help us take up other disciplines and use the time or money saved for better causes. To pray earnestly every time our temptation beckons–not for strength to fore go chocolate, but to look inward and weed out the pride and jealousy and laziness we see there. To pay attention to the niggling lusts and materialism and better-than-thou-ism that would lead us astray.
I also need to pay attention to what happens to my faith when the biggest sacrifice I can think of is Peanut M&Ms. Or giving up Facebook on Sundays. How easily we rationalize our sins–an easy step to take when we’ve practiced rationalizing how chocolate frosting doesn’t really count as chocolate candy.
God be merciful to me a light duty follower of the Christ who willingly gave up his life in the cruelest most inhumane death imaginable.
I am ashamed. I’m reminded of this story Jesus told:
9 To some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everyone else, Jesus told this parable: 10 “Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. 11 The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people—robbers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. 12 I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.’
13 “But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, ‘God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’
14 “I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” (Luke 18: 9-14)
Today pumped up athletes beat their chests when they’re all braggy and talking trash to the other team. When did that powerful symbol of deep despair get turned around anyway?
God, be merciful to me, a sinner.
findingharmonyblog 