Borax Ant Killer

It makes me cringe to think of posting a recipe for ant poison here on this blog, but it works!!!  I want to share it with any of you who may also have problems with ants in the kitchen as soon as it gets warm outside. The original post appeared on a blog and came to me via a friend on Facebook. (And did I mention that IT WORKS?!!!)

1/8 C. sugar
1 tsp. Borax (laundry aisle)
1/2 C. water

1. Boil water, then pour in empty jar.

2. Add sugar and Borax to hot water and stir until completely dissolved.

3. Soak cotton balls with mixture and place on a piece of aluminum foil.

4. Place near the path where you have ants coming in. 24-48 hours later, they're gone. (Truly!)

I didn't believe this, really. I'd tried Combat and Raid Ant Bait traps. I'd tried Ant Terro. I'd tried natural remedies. I'd tried wiping everything down with vinegar-water. I'd tried spraying ant killer outside along the perimeter of the house. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, has ever worked before to kill the ants. This works. YAY!!

Update NOTE: This absolutely worked amazingly the first time I tried it. Then, two weeks later, the ants were back. I pulled the leftover poison jar back out, and it didn't work at all! It seems to be important for the poison to be fresh, so I've cut the quantities way down in the recipe. Just make a fresh batch each time you need it.

Just a letter to mark a day...

Dear Laurie,

Your "good manners message" was received here with raised eyebrows and sharpened attention. Do things like this still exist? I lost out on a date once because I tried to open the car door for her. I had her coat rudely ripped out of my hands when I tried to help her with it. Without a smile, she pushed past me and knocked me into the door post when I tried to enter the restaurant first in order to ensure it was a place suitable for her visit. Etc. And over the years I settled for the thought that what we had learned as good behavior did no longer count in the modern world. But none of the girls who went against my grain in these small ways became the grandmother of your children. Now, after your message, I fear I have a long and hard upward haul back into a mode where I was when I left dancing lessons in senior high, hovered there for a while, then slowly began to slip – once, again, and again. Thanks for the eye opener.

Still with the warm memory of our transition into the new year, I am slowly recovering from the cold that I brought to you from Sneads Ferry. Not that anyone there gave it to me – no, they all remained untouched, but I picked it up there, because I had it during the short day-and-a-half here before I started out to come to you, and almost did not. I hope I did not deposit it in your house? And as things begin to look better through the burning and tearing eyes, old plans come back to life again. Originally, I thought to get a birthday card for you up there, but as things developed, this plan was shattered. Then I thought to make up for it by getting one here and mailing it, but, under the restraining grip of the bacterial assault, I missed this connection, too, and now am forced to send you my greetings through this uncouth media of digitized mail.

There is, however, in considered foresight, a birthday greeting from me "hidden" in Opa's room, between the little book shelf and the wall in the far left corner when you come through the door. Oh, you found it already! It is, as you must have read from the label, a (ask Google) – a round basket made of natural cane, used to proof bread dough before baking. I saw those offered by Bob's Red Mill when I ordered a shipment of 5-grain cereal, and since I remember these things from way, way back, I got me one. That last bread I baked before Christmas, of which you tasted and declared good, was proofed in one of those baskets. The first rise of that dough was scarily ineffective, and the second also totally unsatisfactory. That's when this first basket came through the mail and I washed it and dried it and threw the dough in it, covered it with a towel, and let it stand – and wouldn't you believe it, it rose to more than double its size after all the stress it gave me at first! Back then, when you tasted the bread, I could not tell you about this for fear to give away my plans for your birthday.

Now, one such story proves nothing, but I am looking forward to your own story of resounding success. May it give you joy in providing your family's daily bread. 

The use of this ancient baker's helper is remarkably simple: flower the dry mold liberally, place your dough in it (it has a capacity for a two-pound loaf), let it take its final rise, and simply dump it onto a baking sheet or stone or whatever you use to bake, this last area prepared the way you always prepared it in the past. Generations of bakers have graduated with these things and the result, including the distinctive pattern on the finished loaf, will assure many more generations making use of it.

In this sense, I wish you a great birthday, and great days to follow. May health and wealth and happiness be yours tomorrow and always.

With love, Opa

From stock like that, how could my man not be terrific?! It is so wonderful to be known, and gifts when I feel most known are the ones when I feel most loved. I'm so excited to try this new dough-proofing basket! Thank you, sweet Opa! Many happy returns all around!

The Miracle Has Only Just Begun

One of the things I have always loved about my Christmas stocking is that it reflects a warm, welcoming, homey environment. I don't have anything against snowmen... or Santas... or teddy bears... or gingerbread houses... Not at all! But I have loved that my stocking shows a roaring fire inside a warm home, a haven from the freezing weather outside. That is what I always want my home to be... a warm haven of welcome that invites people in.

When we first bought this house, it was a miracle house. Trust me, I don't throw that word around, and I don't use it lightly in this instance. Though I do believe in "ordinary little miracles," this isn't one of them. This was a big-time miracle that placed us in the home that has shaped our family for over two decades. That full story appears below, for those who care to read it, but at this point, suffice it to say that, the Lord took our miracle-house-in-the-first-place and made it a miracle all over again, a second time.

I remember a particular morning that I was praying, bemoaning, "Lord, if you are intentionally keeping us small because we're going to be in a hut in Africa someday soon, thank you. But if this is the kind of ministry you've called us to in this season of life, could we please just have a little more room?" I was having my devotions in my bedroom closet at that particular moment, because it was the only room in the house that didn't have someone sleeping in it.

I'm not kidding, nor am I exaggerating for effect. We had taken in a young, unmarried pregnant woman who was sleeping on the bottom bunk of my son's room. He had moved to the bottom bunk in the girls' room, displacing his sister OG. We had raised her sister EL's crib to the highest level, keeping the side rail down, placing a step ladder beside it, and telling OG that she now had her own "big girl bunk." The littlest one, EL, we moved into a porta-crib, vacillating between our bedroom closet and our bathroom, as we were never quite able to decide which of those two rooms it was more inconvenient to be barred from in the mornings.

Sleeping on the pull-out couch in our den was a young woman from our church who was separated from her husband. He had come home from a Navy deployment and they were working through some real marital difficulties with the help of pastoral counseling with the elder board at our church. Because of the floor plan of our house, I couldn't turn on a light in our kitchen, dining room, entry hall, or hallway without disturbing her, so I was—literally—crouched in our bedroom closet for devotions, begging either for a move to the mission field or for a little more room for ministry here.

I told no one. I didn't really harbor on it. I didn't keep praying it, asking over and over again. It was just one desperate cry of longing, uttered from my bedroom closet and then forgotten in the busyness of daily life with little ones and live-in guests.

Within a month, I found myself talking to my dad on one of the daily morning walks we took around the neighborhood. He had given us, free of charge, some sample pergo-type flooring that had been sent to his company by a manufacturer who had hoped they might choose to carry their product. Since our kitchen was still covered with the original vinyl linoleum, we had welcomed the gift and gladly put it down. Click-lock flooring is pretty easy to do yourself, so we had managed to cover it reasonably well to the edges. I was telling my father that we were out of our league, though, when it came to covering the gap you must leave at the edge of such flooring to allow for expansion and contraction. He told me he would have his business partner come cut some molding for us and help us put it down. ("'Business partner'? What 'business partner'?!" I asked. And that was how I found out that my father had started a business with the man who had helped put the pool-house in his back yard! Though we'd been walking and talking together every morning for years, this was the first I'd heard of it!)

That, my friends, is also how I met Dave. He came over to measure for the molding. While there, he casually mentioned, "You're losing your roof, you know." (This we did know, having certainly noticed that several shingles would blow off each time we had a bad storm!) We told him that we realized this, but that we had been considering adding a fourth bedroom, so we didn't want to replace the roof, only to have to rip it up again if we did.

The next time I saw Dave, a few days later, he was like a kid in a candy shop. Although he had come over to install the molding in the kitchen, he had brought his newest project: plans he'd dreamed up—and actually drawn up!—for turning our 3-bedroom, 2-bath, 1800-square-foot ranch into a 5-bedroom, 5-bath two-story with dormer windows and almost 4,000 square feet. We were stunned. And a little embarrassed. Had he thought we had wanted him to do this for us? Was he going to expect to be paid? What should we even say? We started hemming and hawing: "Um, Dave. Er. We can't afford this kind of renovation! Um.We can't even afford to pay you for having drawn up these plans. Uh. We just meant we might extend the left side of the L-shaped ranch and turn it into a T-shaped ranch. And, um, we can't even afford to do that—but we've been trying to spin straw into gold and figure out how to pull it off—which is why we still have the crummy roof but no addition. What were you thinking?!"

Dave quickly put our fears at ease, explaining that—for him—this was great fun... better than a video game, this drawing up of imaginary dream plans for fantastic house renovations. He didn't expect us to pay him, nor did he expect that we'd ever actually use the plans. He was just excited to share his handiwork. And what handiwork it was! We had fun looking over it, we had a good laugh, and then we went back to life-with-four-kids-and-two-live-in-guests.

Within the next couple of weeks, we were invited to share brunch with my parents after church one day. We arrived at the usual restaurant and were pleasantly surprised to find that Dave and his wife, Janet, were joining us. After much visiting and feasting, the conversation turned to the renovation plans Dave had drawn up. My father asked what we had thought of them. We shyly replied that they were great, but that we couldn't afford anything like that. After a few more minutes of awkward conversation, it became clear that Dave and my father had already talked about this, and that they were jockeying to build this addition for us. They needed a local "show home" in our town, they said, since there were many local folks contacting them about additions, and it was cumbersome to take people to the next town over, many miles away, to show their handiwork. If we were willing to be that show home—letting them take people through the house whenever needed (maybe once a month, but no more than once a week, they conjectured)—they would like to do the addition for us. So, while we paid for things like carpet and paint and ceiling fans, the cost for the bulk of this addition was absorbed by my dad and his company.

We lived in the house during the renovations. When we started—in February—I remember telling Dave, "As long as as it's done by the time we need to start school next September. (Ahem. I had a little to learn about construction!)

I recall my friend Ken saying to me at one point, early on, "You are not doing this. This thing is happening to you... around you." And he was so very right! The Lord had heard my hastily-uttered-then-quickly-forgotten request ("...Could we please just have a little more room?!") and He had chosen to give us "exceedingly above what we could ask or imagine" (Ephesians 3:20).

The renovation took almost a year to complete. I remember vacuuming up the scraps from the newly installed carpeting, the day my in-laws arrived to celebrate Christmas with us. The every-couple-of-weeks unannounced "show home" visits—which were wonderful because they forced us to keep the house tidy at all times!—ended with the dissolution of Sanctuary Builders a few years later. But for the last decade, we have lived and grown in this house, ministering and hosting and housing others whenever the opportunities have presented themselves.

I am so thankful for the incredible gift of this home—ultimately from my Father, the source of "every good and perfect gift" (James 1:17), but also from my earthly father, the first man I ever loved, and one of the dearest persons on earth to me. Proverbs 13:22 says that "a good man leaves an inheritance to his children's children," and my father has done that in so very many ways, both tangible and intangible. How blessed our children have been to grow up within half a mile of their grandparents, loving and knowing them in deep, daily-day ways. Thank you, Heavenly Father... and thank you, earthly Dad!

For those who might care to read about such things, which I'm sure is not many, what follows is the full story of how we came to be in this miracle house in the first place.

When Iivo and I began looking at houses, we quickly realized something very depressing: We couldn't afford anything nice in any kind of nice neighborhood. (Never mind the spiritual crisis it caused us,  wrestling with our feelings about "good" neighborhoods versus "bad" ones... and with deciding what kind of place we wanted to raise our family... and with my thoughts and fears when imagining walking with little ones around a neighborhood where I didn't feel safe... and with wrangling through the realization that mercy and justice and compassion and help are difficult enough concepts to define and wrap your brain around, let alone embrace with deliberateness and purpose... But those are all thoughts for another post!)

At any rate, after looking at all the things we could afford, we realized that the little townhouse we were living in was just fine, and that it would have to serve us well for a few more years, because we weren't going to move across town to something awful when we could stay here. We loved it here, five minutes from my parents' house, the childhood home I grew up in.

One day, as we were bemoaning that we would never be able to afford an actual house in this part of town, my dad casually mentioned, "You ought to look at that house at the front of the neighborhood. We played golf with that guy about a year ago—he was a singleton who joined our threesome—and he was anxious to sell it then. He might be open for an offer."

Well, long story short, we did. We looked at it. It was cosmetically hideous but structurally sound, and we knew some new carpet and fresh paint would do wonders. We calculated the absolute most we could afford monthly without my paycheck—the plan was for me to stay home with our children when they were born—and made an offer. We made the offer through his real estate agent, hoping that the lack of commission he'd have to pay our agent would help with the deal. We had decided to have my father, the consummate businessman, make the offer for us. As we sat with the agent around my parents' family room, my father said, "TM, the kids would like to offer—" and proceeded to name a price that was $1000 less than we had told him was "the absolute most we could afford." We had no idea why he was doing that, but we had decided to let him handle it, so we let him handle it. TM responded with something like, "Well, I'll make the offer, but I think that's what he paid for the house, ten years ago." (Bear in mind that this was long before the "housing bubble" had burst and people had experienced the reality that their house was worth less than they'd paid for it. Houses in our area had steadily risen in value for decades, and this house was undoubtedly worth more than we were offering.)

As expected, the homeowner was insulted by our offer, and countered with a counter-offer of his own. We explained to the agent that we couldn't afford any more than we had offered, and she indicated A.'s feeling that the house should sell for "what it's worth, no what they can afford!" We agreed, and told her that we were sorry for having wasted her time. We had just thought that, perhaps—with the house having sat on the market, unsold, for almost two years—A. might just be willing to part with it for the lesser amount.

We arranged a meeting with TM, the real estate agent, to get our earnest deposit back. That morning, she told us that A. had called her and said, "Keep it alive, TM." The conversation went something like this:

TM: "We could do some creative financing and get you into the house for about $25 more a month."

Us: "TM, we know that this is how this usually works. We make an offer. They make a counter-offer. We haggle a while and settle somewhere in the middle. But we really did offer the most we can afford. $25 more a month and we don't eat one week. We're sorry."

TM: "Can you not offer him anything?"

We proceeded to tell her that, actually, we had originally settled on a figure that was "the absolute most we could afford" and our father had—for reasons he couldn't explain—offered $1000 less than that. We could counter with an offer that was a measly $1000 more, if she thought it would help. She agreed to try once more, and our offer was accepted! We found out later that, in reality, A. had actually paid $10,000 more for the house ten years ago than he was selling it for now. (Again, this was pre-housing-bubble-burst.)

It really was a miracle that we got into this house, one of the smallest in a lovely neighborhood just minutes from my parents...on foot!

For many years, we lived in that house, growing—and eventually outgrowing—the little three-bedroom ranch. When they were little, we had all three girls crammed into one of the tiny bedrooms, while their brother PT was king-of-the-world in the other (tinier) one. We used bunk beds like loft beds and put the girls' furniture beneath them, but it became apparent that eventually—as the actual size of their clothing grew with them—we wouldn't be able to fit it all in one little dresser and one little closet. We began to dream of adding another bedroom, but it was only a dream. We were no more able to afford more per month then, than we had been at the beginning! Where would we come up with the money for anything of the sort?

It was at that point, in the midst of all that hoping and dreaming for one more bedroom, that the Lord gave us the miracle addition... a miracle addition on a miracle house!

I believe the Lord knew that this gift would take my natural, God-given bent toward hospitality and solidify it into a lifetime of ministry in our home. When you live in a house that literally grew around you—happened to you, in response to the prayer, "If this is the ministry you have for us in this season, could I have just a little more room?"—you are all the more likely to open it up to people for ministry whenever you possibly can. We've hosted countless meetings for church over the years: Bible studies, prayer meetings, pot luck dinners, music practices. We've housed hundreds of people, many of whom we haven't known before they came... some for days... or weeks... or even longer, when it's been needed. I'm so grateful for the opportunities we've had to meet people, many of them pastors and missionaries involved in God's work around the world. It's been fascinating to meet them and hear of their work with Bible translation or church planting or ministry in orphanages.

One such dear stranger-turned-friend, Lucy, had come to stay at our house multiple times. The last time she called me, she said, "I absolutely love staying at your house. That guest room is so peaceful, and I get so much work done! Thank you for letting me crash there and for leaving me alone to work!" We got word just this past week that sweet Lucy died last month. Finally, she has gone home to be with her First Love and heard those blessed words, "Well done, good and faithful servant!" (Matthew 25:23). And I know she's enjoying an even better, more peaceful room, prepared for her by her loving Heavenly Father (John 14:2-3).

I'm so thankful to have had the chance to bless her and know her because I was given "a little more room," and I can now keep a guest room, ready and waiting, for whomever the Lord sends to it.

What a gift!
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*Entry 11, The 12 Days of Christmas Blog Challenge 
The title is a line from the song "The Miracle of Christmas" by Stephen Curtis Chapman.

Easy Battery Test

Cleaning Between the Lines (or, Grout Management)

I found--and re-posted--the following claim on Facebook (from a total stranger!) regarding the cleaning of dirty grout.  I decided I wanted to give it a try today, and I inadvertently came here, to this blog, to look for the formula.  (It seems strange to call a formula for a cleaning product a "recipe"!)

This blog tends to wear a lot of different hats for me, and this is one of them: a place to share something useful and store it for future reference.  I have no idea if this grout-cleaning formula actually works, but I'm going to give it a try.  I'll let you know how it goes in the comments. 

Here's Lynn Cole's "Spring Cleaning Recipe for the Grout":
7 C. water
1/2 C. baking soda
1/3 C. lemon juice
1/4 C. vinegar

She says to "throw in a spray bottle and spray your floor, let it sit for a minute or two...then scrub."

Hmmmm. Could it really be that easy?!

"Whoa! You moisturize!"

Today, in what could undoubtedly be viewed as a totally banal post, I share with you my favorite new moisturizer--and by "new" I mean, "I've been using this for the past year and it works so well!"

Drum roll, please!

Yes, it is a jar of organic coconut oil from Trader Joe's.  I began using this as a moisturizer last year about a month after my daughter EV did.  She has lots of food sensitivities and allergies to beauty products, so she had decided to dispense with conventional (read: chemical-laden) moisturizers in favor of this relatively cheap, all-natural solution.  Inwardly, I smiled at my "weird, granola" daughter and never thought anything more of it.

Then, one day, I saw her give a high-five to a friend of ours, Ben.  (You  may know him as the wonderful lead singer of The Last Bison.  If not, give a listen!  But I digress...)

Just as their hands met in the high-five, Ben exclaimed, "Whoa!  You moisturize!"  (Really, I am not making this stuff up!)  EV works with her hands a lot...in dishwater, in the garden...and she uses no moisturizer save that coconut oil.  I figured that if it gave her skin that warranted a, "Whoa, you moisturize!" it must be working!  I switched over that day and haven't looked back.

It is really wonderful just out of the shower!  A small fingerful rubbed into liquid between my palms and then rubbed onto my skin makes a wonderful body oil.  I use it on my face.  I use it on my lips.  It's wonderful stuff.  Just figured I'd share...

"Instant Festive"

Today is my birthday, and this morning my acts-of-service-love-language self was overwhelmed by the food spread waiting for me when I rounded the corner to the dining room after our morning gathering as a family.  The food was delicious and the company delightful, but I realized that half of what is so special for me was the fact that it was pulled off without my involvement at all.  I didn't have to plan it.  I didn't have to shop for it.  I didn't have to cook it or execute it in any way.  And it was beautiful.  It was delicious.  It was festive.

As I've contemplated what made it feel so instantly festive as I came around the corner, I've come up with several things.  Some are not surprising.  One--of course!--is the fact that there was a candle.  Candles create "instant festive," in my mind.  I had a special china plate and cup and saucer.  Nothing quite says, "You're special" like bringing out the good dishes! But another thing that I think creates "instant festive"--and this surprised me!--is a pedestal bowl.


I absolutely love my little pedestal bowl!  We bought it just before Thanksgiving for $10 and the local TJ Maxx Home Goods store.  I wanted something to house the tossed salad (yes, tossed salad) my sister-in-law had requested with the Thanksgiving feast.  (I made a layered salad in the miniature trifle bowl, and it was delicious and beautiful!)  For the Christmas season, we re-purposed it as a centerpiece decoration on the dining room table with colorful glass ball ornaments of different sizes in it.  And now here it was, on my birthday, housing an exotic-looking fruit salad.  Festive.  It instantly added class and importance to the table, in my silly mind.

The breakfast was delicious.  There are plans for lunch out with my father and kids for lunch.  Tonight my husband and I will have dinner together at a favorite local restaurant.  Clearly, we celebrate around here around the table!

And if there's a festive bowl involved, all the better!

...You Would Even Say It Glows

This post is pure "practical" and "pragmatic"... a follow-up to my previous post about candles.

First of all, since it was Christmas dinner at my mother's house, it qualified as a special occasion... and thus warranted candles even in Mom's book. We ate by candlelight--festive red tapers burning brightly at each end of the table. It was lovely!

The amusing part came later. One of my fun "happy" gifts to my parents included Yankee Candles: a large "First Down"--yes, as in football--candle for my father, and a couple of small holiday-scented ones for my mother, stuffed down into some Santa pants that Yankee Candle had had as part of a special promotion for Christmas. When they opened them, my mom said, "Well, in light of that, you should open this present!" and proceeded to hand me a Yankee Candle as well!

When I tried to get my father to light his candle--wanting to smell this warm, comfortable "man-scent" actually burning and not just while sniffing the lid--my mom piped in with something to the effect that we needed to light my pine-scented one since it smelled so wonderful and Christmas-y. (She had bought the same Balsam & Cedar candle for my sister, who had ignited it immediately and left it burning most of the day during their celebrations in Atlanta.  Love that girl!)

Happy to oblige--but unwilling to let the opportunity go by to actually get their candle burning, too, instead of sitting there as decoration!--I lit mine and got Dad to light his. We kept one in the living room and took one to the kitchen.  I proceeded to explain to them that they needed to allow the candles to burn until the wax had melted to liquid all the way across the top so as to maximize their life. They had never heard of this "rule" of cande-burning, even though they had bought their gift candles at the Yankee Candle store, which is where I first heard of it, I'm sure. (I think they told me it usually takes the large jar candles about two hours to get melted evenly across--I find that it doesn't take quite that long, but we usually burn them for at least that long at a time anyway.)

Mom wanted to make sure that my sister knew this rule and asked me to call her to tell her.  I did, and she did--and, in fact, her wonderful pine-scented gift of a candle is already gone, burned frequently throughout all the days of their December to brighten their home and make it festive and warm.  She's a candle-burner, too, and had loved this particular gift from my mom!

So, since my mom--a newbie to actual burning of the candles--didn't know this, I figured I'd post it here in case someone else doesn't know it. Here's the "practical" and "pragmatic" I promised earlier...

Here's a picture, from their website, of a Yankee Candle--and indeed, it would apply to any other chunky candle, as well-- improperly handled in the burning department:

Notice how it has burned down into a tunnel, leaving much of the candle unburned at the outer edge of the jar. This is caused by lighting the candle for just a little while and not letting it burn until the wax melts all the way across. Once that has been done even once, you're on your way to a ruined candle--do it multiple times and you really will get about a fourth of the life out of the candle as you should have.

Here's a picture of a Yankee Candle almost burned all the way across, but not quite. Notice the little unmelted "lip" of wax on the inside of the jar, off to the right side?  That needs to be allowed to melt, too, so that the melted wax is straight across and liquid before it is blown it out.

So, really, in the midst if all the wonderful and profound things that could be being discussed as we
ponder the reality of Emmanuel, "God with us,"
how to properly burn a candle seems banal and mundane, if not downright trite!

But I love that the Light of the World was born, and lived, and died, to bring us to God!

And I love the special little reminders that bring us joy amid commonplace, everyday living... including--for me--burning candles!

Super-Easy Canned Tomatoes

Canning things the old-fashioned way is time-consuming and complicated, at least to someone inexperienced like me.  However, my friend Evonne has a super-easy method for canning tomatoes that works perfectly!

So, here's a healthier alternative to tomatoes packed in aluminum cans, and you can extend the healthy goodness of those oh-so-much-yummier homegrown tomatoes into the winter months.  Enjoy!

Shared Lifetimes

For the next assignment, I had to find a picture, and use it to write an analogy for my kitchen.  Here it is:

SHARED LIFETIMES

My kitchen is like this Italian window box.
Open, arched, reaching, reaching...

The flowers and vines grow freely
around the hearts and lives that gather here
Intertwined
Blooming
Joined, yet distinct,
as they embrace a scent 

and a taste 

and a touch.

Brown, red, orange, black,
Wood, terra cotta, stone, and iron
Wrapped around and weaving through
the lives that perch here
Some for moments,
Many for lifetimes.

Shared lifetimes
over a cookie
and a cup 

of spiced tea.

© 2010 Laurie Sitterding

My Kitchen

I really love my kitchen.  I have always loved it as the sort of "social center of the home" that the kitchen inevitably is.  But beyond just that comforting, comfortable feeling of a kitchen in general, I really love my kitchen--and all the more so since the "clean sweep" has made it all the way to this room.

So I was thrilled to find that the research survey I'm participating in this weekend has begun by asking me questions about my kitchen... both in technical descriptions and with figurative questions that probe how I feel about the room itself... and how I feel when I'm in it...

I was asked to use all of my senses as I gave a written accompaniment to the video, capturing how I feel about my kitchen and surrounding areas.  So, here it is:

There is a bit of a "living circuit" in our home... a circle formed, from the time you walk in the front door, that encompasses the entry hall, the family room, the kitchen, the dining room, and the study. When we have people over, they fill all of these areas, including the spillover to outside on the decks that are off both the kitchen and the family room.

The kitchen is definitely the "social center" of our home. In it, I prepare our meals from healthy, whole foods. I do home baking from freshly milled whole grains... I make healthy chicken and vegetable stocks by boiling the carcasses for at least 24 hours... we drink fermented beverages that we prepare ourselves in our home (kefir, kombucha, homemade yogurt, etc.)... we grow many of our own organic vegetables in our garden...

Our kitchen is always filled with a variety of delicious aromas, mostly driven by what's been baking or cooking on a given day.  On this day that I filmed my kitchen for the research survey, there was a chicken stock beginning to boil on the stove. During the filming, the scent of the rich broth began to prick at my nose, as the rolling boil began in earnest. There was the faint hint of banana cake in the air, and the suggestion of tomato and spices from the bruschetta we had eaten earlier.

A friend of mine once said, "I love to eat whatever Laurie sets out on this corner, because it is always good. Whatever is there, I eat it..." The "that corner" of which he spoke is the corner of the center island that is right there when you walk into the kitchen from the hallway or the family room. That ledge is always filled with whatever foods I'm serving, whether a full meal buffet-style, a wide array of appetizers and snacks, or a fun spread of homemade dessert with coffee and tea at the coffee bar.

My counter tops are granite, cold to the touch, but they sport a warm mix of tans and browns and greys that are pleasing and inviting to the eye. There is plenty of room to stand around the outer edges of the island, and people usually congregate there. This leaves me free to navigate through the "galley" that contains the stove and sink, and to continue to prepare and serve food as we visit. I have chosen to fill my kitchen with lots of wrought iron, wood, and stoneware. The overall effect is one of a European winery or bakery, with all the commensurate spice-y smells, and earthy pottery, and vintage cookware.

I ended by including a poem I'd once written, which captures pretty well some dimensions of how I feel about my kitchen, and about provincial decor in general.

I have another friend who is an interior designer at heart--probably since long before she studied it in college many years ago--and she's been after me--since she met me--to paint my wooden cabinets white.  I know she is much more knowledgeable than I about the style and fashion and trendiness of it all, but it has been easy to roundly refuse this suggestion.  Why?  Because I love wood... wooden bowls, wooden utensils, wooden furniture.  My kitchen is filled with it, and I love the warmth and homey-ness it adds.  So the rich brown of the wooden cabinets is a real pleasure to me.

I think Jane Austen must have been thinking in some measure of the kitchen when she said, "Ah!  There is nothing like staying at home, for real comfort"  (Emma, Chapter 32, 1815).

Some of the best things are discovered quite by accident...

Well, I have had a third request for the secret to making what have come to be known as "strange-boiled eggs." Since each request has come from someone who was asking because this is "absolutely the only way my child will eat an egg, period," I figure maybe we're onto something worth sharing.

We discovered these quite by accident one day.

I was cooking eggs to go with breakfast while my husband's family was visiting. My family had been reading the delightful story Red Sails to Capri as a family read-aloud, and the soft-boiled eggs which one of the main characters had consumed every morning of his life for many years had been intriguing to us, since we had never eaten one.

So, I was going for soft-boiled--strictly by the timer in the cookbook since I don't know Senora Pagano's soft-boiled egg song--and I called to my husband for a taste test to be sure it was done. I had pulled it out just at the right time, peeled it quickly and easily thanks to the baking soda, and handed it to him.

Perfect.

Yet the few seconds all this "call, peel, and taste" took was apparently enough to take my eggs from "soft-boiled" to something else no longer soft-boiled, but not quite hard-boiled, either.

I was disappointed--and more than a little embarrassed--to be serving these strange things to my house guests. But my children were thrilled. Only one of the four enjoys soft-boiled eggs, and none of them are too thrilled with the hard-boiled variety. My nephew is the one who dubbed them "strange-boiled," and he proceeded to eat the first egg he'd eaten in its entirety in his life.

I spent the next several weeks trying to get the formula right, in order to re-capture the correct consistency to the final product. My kids choked down a lot of soft-boiled eggs, and we consumed a ton of hard-boiled-eggs-turned-egg-salad, in the pursuit of this elusive formula.

I present it to you now, for your family's enjoyment. If you have a child who won't eat eggs, at least give these a whirl. He may surprise you.

"Strange-Boiled" Eggs recipe on the recipe blog, Sharing Recipes

Three spirit-crushing stains...

...and how to lift them.

So reads the title of a little blurb in May 2010's issue of Real Simple magazine. On page 210 they give tips for the following three "spirit-crushing stains," and--in the spirit of 'this is as good a place as any for me to file something'--I post them here for my (and possibly your) future reference.

Let's hope we actually never need them!

Courtesy of Real Simple magazine, May 2010 edition:

A GUEST SPILLED RED WINE ON YOUR WHITE SOFA

1) Immediately blot and reblot with a cool, damp sponge until no more color comes out. (You can do the rest after the guests leave.)

2) Spray with a mixture of equal parts water and 3% hydrogen peroxide (first test of colorfastness).

3) Let sit for a few minutes, then blot with a solution of one part white vinegar to three parts water. Blot again with a damp cloth. (Linen, silk, velvet, and wool sofas should be professionally cleaned.)

THE CAT PEED ON THE LIVING-ROOM RUG

1) Layer a few cotton cloths over the stain, cover with a plastic bag, and top with a couple of heavy books to soak up the liquid. Repeat until the cloths are no longer wetting through.

2) Apply an enzyme-based cleaner, such as Nature's Miracle ($8.50, drugstore.com), to an area twice as big as the stain.

3) Let sit for five minutes, then blot. Next, spray with equal parts white vinegar and water and let sit for 15 minutes; rinse with water and blot.

THE KIDS LEFT A PERMANENT MARKER SPOT ON A WOOD TABLE

1) Using a soft cloth, rub in a lemon oil-based furniture polish, going with the grain. Repeat.

2) Spot still there? Use a cotton swab to dab rubbing alcohol onto the stain; rub with a cloth.

3) Wait five minutes; blot and repeat. Follow with furniture polish to restore moisture to the wood.

I really love this magazine! To get your own free preview issue, go here.

Unplugged

It is Friday, and that means it is the day that my friend Chris comes to help us with our "clean sweep." (See my previous post for more information about that.)

Basically, this means I don't have much time for Blogging this morning... but I figured I'd share a tip I read in this month's issue of Real Simple magazine. (This subscription was also a suggestion from my friend Chris, as she's found this magazine full of wonderful tips for keeping life streamlined, efficient, and free, while still taking thought for beautiful. I like it.)

At any rate, this month they were speaking of ways to make the most of family time in this crazy busy, electronic world of ours. One woman's suggestion? She and her family take one weekend a month and go "unplugged."

They make no social engagements. They watch no television, play no video games, skip the movies. They spend the time deliberately doing all those wonderful things that get lost in the normal busy-ness of life, even on weekends... they go outside to play together. They go hiking. Swimming. Boating. Fishing. They pull out the board games. Card games. Puzzles. They cook and eat together. They grill out. They play croquet. Badminton. Spontaneous kickball with the neighbors. They garden. They plant flowers. They take a bike ride together.

Anyway, you get the picture. To me, the idea sounds wonderful.

And - get this - when we went to plan it, we found only ONE option left - during the next two months - where the weekend was not already full of other plans and obligations!

So, we'll see how it goes. It sounds really wonderful to me.

Computer Cretins, Unite!

Okay, so maybe most people already know this, but I decided to share this with any fellow computer cretins who sometimes have frustrating times with their printers but don't know it yet.

(That, and the fact that this is the handiest way I can think of to avoid an actual post-it note on my computer. If I ever need this information again, I'll be glad to have it in some other form than the scrawled, tattered, yellow document rapidly losing its adhesive power and irritating me every time I open my laptop...)

When your printer is frozen up, stuck with a document in queue in the spooler - which you've tried to delete, of course, but which will not go away, of course - this is how you can get rid of it and get things flowing again:

Control Panel
System and Maintenance
Administrative Tools
Services (at this point it needs you to grant it permission to continue)
Print Spooler
Restart the Service (link choice on far left on my computer)

This is assuming you've alreay tried selecting Control Panel then Printers, and deleting stuff there, and that you have tried restarting your computer.

Good luck!

"Who owns your children?"

A recent news story about homeschooling from my friend Dale Hurd, a reporter with CBN News, has my blood boiling.

The reality that children are being seized from loving, exemplary parents simply because those parents have chosen to educate them at home is appalling. To hear the terrified screams and cries of little 7-year-old Dan Schultz as he is forcibly removed from his bed and home in the middle of the night is shocking... disturbing... sobering...



(I just keep hearing the voice of the little twit in Steven Crowder's video - you know, the one who can't name the Vice-President of the United States - announcing, "I don't like America. I'm from America, but I don't like America. I'm moving to London.")

This idea that to be a "progressive society" means that the State takes over the lives and education of its children - with little or no regard for parental rights - is no longer just a European idea.

Consider the words of the current United States Secretary of Education Arne Duncan, who believes that "the more our schools truly become the centers of the community, centers of family life, the better our children can do." He envisions "pushing innovation, pushing change," where schools are open "twelve, thirteen, fourteen hours a day, six or seven days a week, twelve months a year."

Why? Because, "Our society has changed, and our schools have not really kept pace." He acknowledges - and he's right - that the days of kids coming home from school at 2:30, to a mother at home and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, are largely over. He is correct when he acknowledges that the typical American school child is currently "going home to almost no-parent families." Dad is at work. So is Mom. She has been since he was six-weeks old.

I just missed when we started calling this good. acceptable. ideal.

When did it become the government's responsibility to raise our children for us?

As you evaluate the merits of his plans for American schools (which include things like onsite provision of three meals a day, onsite provision of dental and medical care, and onsite provision of vision care and eyeglasses for students), consider his own track record of success as CEO of Chicago's public schools. Even taking into account a controversial change in testing methodology which experts have claimed "significantly inflated test scores," fewer than half of all Chicago elementary and middle school students met or exceeded state standards during his years of leadership. This means that for all the money he poured into it (an astonishing average of nearly $11,000 per pupil), fewer than one in every two Chicago students can read on grade level. Or write on grade level. Or perform math on grade level. Or demonstrate understanding of science on grade level.

His assessment of the situation? "The money I spent to open our schools longer in Chicago is arguably the best money I spent."



"This needs to be the norm, not the exception," he has said when referencing this proposed near-24-hour-a-day oversight of children, in all areas of life, by schools.

Sounds like he's following the battle plan of Adolf Hitler, who noted, "When an opponent declares, 'I will not come over to your side,' I calmly say, 'Your child belongs to us already... What are you? You will pass on. Your descendants, however, now stand in the new camp. In a short time they will know nothing else but this new community.'*

*From a speech given by Adolf Hitler in November 1933, quoted in The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William Shirer

Anticipating Advent

Okay, I realize that the point of Advent is a time of preparation and building anticipation for an important coming event, so I think it is hilarious that I am getting excited that Advent itself is coming...

It truly is one of my favorite times of year.

A friend recently asked me about Advent traditions we do, and it got me thinking about it all just a little bit earlier this year. I am approaching the coming Thanksgiving holiday (the "official" commencement of Advent for our family, for all practical purposes) with mounting excitement.

In whatever ways you decide to do it, why not join us and make Advent a special time in your household this year, too?



Please also share your favorite traditions and ideas in the comments section, as I am always open to adding something new that has proven especially meaningful.

Here's to making the Christmas holiday about something more than presents and toys!

"Math Plates"

A few nights ago, the little six-year-old girl next door came a-knocking to see if my youngest daughter (age 8) could play. EL had spent some portion of her day dawdling, so her school work was not yet completed and she was unavailable to play. However, little KM came inside anyway.

"What are you doing?" she had asked.

"I'm making dinner. Wanna come help?"

"Sure!"

And so I had a new young kitchen helper on my hands. (Our previous neighbor girl had also learned to cook, and do fractional math, in our kitchen, but she has since moved away.) And so, it was time once again to bring out the "math plates."

Math plates are a regular part of the schooling in our home because "home economics" is also a regular part of the schooling in our home. (I understand that this is no longer a PC term, but it fits exactly what I'm trying to accomplish, so that's what we call it.) I feel very strongly that I want the children in our family to know how to cook when they leave home. They all need to understand nutrition and healthy eating. They all need to be able to follow a recipe to prepare things from scratch, without dangerous pre-fab ingredients.

But the girls also need to know how to shop frugally, how to plan family meals, how to pull off getting all parts of a meal ready at the same time, etc. Call it sexist, but I do want the girls to be equipped to be doing the bulk of the meal preparation for their families one day because I hope they will choose to be home with their children when they are young. Mom training children = Mom home with them all day = Mom who needs to do most of the shopping/cooking/cleaning = Dad trying to support a family on one income = Mom who needs to know how to resourcefully provide for her family on less-than-average funds. (Hence, home economics.) But I digress...

Math plates. These are nothing more than paper plates (ours happen to have a lovely floral pattern on them, but only because those were the most substantial ones around when I needed to make them). There's a whole plate (a birthday plate, I think) and then there are the "half plates" (three plates, cut in half to make six halves) and the "third plates" (a plate cut into thirds) and the "quarter plates" (a plate cut into fourths). Whenever I am making food in our home and there is a young child around (unfortunately there is a dearth of these in our home these days, but not from lack of trying), I grab them and let them help me.

[A word about this sort of "help" - it is not helpful. It is training. It is fun, but it is work. Do not expect it to pay off as "help" for many more years. But call it help. Kids love to think they're helping; they don't need to know it isn't really helpful but is actually a ton more work taking a ton more time than you would take on your own. This is one of the secrets of mommyhood.]

Usually the math plates come into play in our home when I'm doubling a recipe. With six of us eating, I'm usually at least doubling everything. Sometimes I'll triple or quadruple it, just to jazz up the mental math required of them. Or we'll do something "half whole wheat" so that they have to work with halving as well as doubling.

At any rate, eventually the day will come when you suggest pulling out the math plates to help with some impending recipe conversion, and the child will say, "Mom, may I just do it in my head, please?!" By all means, you will indicate, and you will smile to realize that you have a pre-schooler who is handling complex fractional math computations in her head without batting an eye.

Here's to kitchen math!

Did You Make the Cut?

Autumn Resolutions

In a post entitled Let's Make Some Autumn Resolutions, John Piper challenges toward a life of deliberate self-examination and resolve. I am encouraged, in both senses of the word. I am heartened ("encouraged") to hear teaching that praises the practice, and I am pleased to have been exhorted ("encouraged") toward that end.

God approves of New Year’s resolutions. And mid-year, and three-quarters-year, and monthly, and weekly, and daily resolutions. Any and all resolutions for good have God’s approval—if we resolve by faith in Jesus.

I would like to encourage you to make some autumn resolutions. Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” Well, the examined life is not worth living either if the examination produces no resolutions. What examination and experience teach us is that the unplanned life settles into fruitless routine. The drifting life—the coasting, que-sera-sera, unreflective life—tends to be a wasted life.

The opposite of this is self-examination—life-examination, routine-examination, schedule-examination, heart-examination—followed by “resolves for good.” That’s what I encourage you to do. Here’s why I think God will be pleased when you do this by faith in Jesus...

Read the entire article here.

Here's to self-examination, and to prayerful consideration, and to godly resolve. I will making a deliberate point of this pursuit over these last two weeks of August. Care to join me?

(More about the idea of "setting stakes"...)