Having not touched this blog in eons, I stumbled back here recently and encountered an uncomfortable truth: many of my previous attempts at blogging were pretentious. On several occasions this blog functioned as a means of self-promotion and digital vanity. And it wasn't very honest. Some of the posts were honest and genuine, and I had fun writing a few of them. But overall I recall constantly wrestling with wearing a façade, of writing because I wanted to feel and sound intelligent. Blogging became a mirror in which to gaze and gain confidence that I was the sort of man I wanted to be, whether or not it was true.
Time has a way of altering our perspective on life, thankfully.
I think that, for whatever set of reasons, over the last few years I have become less enamored with myself. I am less smitten by the notion that I will impress others with profound ideas - I feel more confident that my ideas aren't very new or profound. And although I still find myself gazing, from time to time, at something I write as though it were the most brilliant piece of prose on the interwebs, the self-indulgence doesn't last long before I remember I am not nearly as amazing as my heroes, the actual literary, philosophical, and intellectual giants.
And as I looked around the whole of the blog I knew other things had to change, too. From the former title, to the description, to the background image, it all felt... kitsch, like a junior-high-ish attempt at self-branding, and the brand was wrong.
So I gutted it.
And in a moment of intuitive certainty I have retitled this blog "The Inquisitor's Desk". Why? Because that is actually an honest description of me and what I actually want to write about. I have so many interests, ideas, questions, and curiosities, and I want to express them without wearing a façade.
So, I may write here again. And for the first time really share here, contribute to the internet here, and allow the inquiries of my mind, heart, and hands, to be expressed here. Or, at least it feels as though I've thrown off the shackles of artifice and am free to return here simply as me.
Monday, September 15, 2014
Sunday, March 18, 2012
The Logan Returns
Nostalgia: the fond remembrance of that which was and is no more.
--------
Memory is a funny thing. It's not perfectly accurate. In fact, it can often be straight up fabrication. Gather a hundred witnesses of an event and it's plausible that each witnessed something different. It is a significant challenge to remember truthfully, and to plan on remembering truthfully by walking through each day observing the world objectively. And it's even harder to bring objectivity to memories once they've been stored away.
My life in Chicago has gone through many evolutions. Transitioning from North Dakota, living in a dorm, cycling through roommates and part-time jobs, dating, finally finding a church home, beginning married life with my sweet bride - the list could go on and on - every turn of events has shaped the way I relate to this city.
A handful of places and persons have become themes through this season of life. One of them is Logan Square.
The Blue line runs through Logan Square and ties downtown Chicago to the Southwest and Northwest neighborhoods of the city and eventually takes its passengers to O'hare airport. Riding the Blue Line in the winter of my first year of school I discovered coffee shops that were off the beaten path so often trod by my peers. Throughout school, Logan Square was the neighborhood of several friends' apartments. Visiting them I was introduced to the vintage Chicago three-flat: awkwardly shaped rooms, cramped staircases, mini-yards, limited insulation, and naturally, no AC.
The real gem, however, was the Logan Theatre. Few would have called it a gem a year ago, but during college it was a fantastic $4 second-run movie theatre. Well, again, take fantastic with a grain of salt. Sticky floors, seats that threatened your seat with pokey springs, questionable concessions, etc., etc. Key selling points: Off campus, $4.
After school, when we had our first apartment in Logan Square, we fell even more in love with the boulevard, the old homes, the renaissance of the Milwaukee Ave corridor, and of course, the Logan Theatre.
For the last seven or eight months or so, however, the Logan Theatre was boarded up. Supposedly closed for renovation. I was skeptical. Too many businesses had fallen to the bad economy. But a few months ago I learned that the Logan would emerge from the ashes. Under new ownership and with new money the Logan was being restored to its roots.
Having opened in 1915, the Logan was built in the fashion of the grand theaters of the day and held four large theaters. Later the four theaters were chopped into four smaller ones. Under the same family's ownership since 1922, the purchase last year was a significant passing of the torch. The new owner has begun his leg of the race well.
I wish I had pictures of it before the renovation. New AMC's are a dime a dozen. If you've been to one, you've been to them all. The Logan is different.
Polished marble walls, art deco designs on the ceiling, original stained glass above the ticket window and entrance, rich carpeting, restored period drinking fountains and bathroom fixtures, all encouraging you to pause and remember that there was a time when viewing a film was an event. Walking through the restored Logan Theatre one half expects an experience on the order of Annie when Daddy Warbucks takes her to the movies.
I am not nostalgic for the Logan as it used to be, but I am grateful that it has returned to its roots.
--------
Memory is a funny thing. It's not perfectly accurate. In fact, it can often be straight up fabrication. Gather a hundred witnesses of an event and it's plausible that each witnessed something different. It is a significant challenge to remember truthfully, and to plan on remembering truthfully by walking through each day observing the world objectively. And it's even harder to bring objectivity to memories once they've been stored away.
My life in Chicago has gone through many evolutions. Transitioning from North Dakota, living in a dorm, cycling through roommates and part-time jobs, dating, finally finding a church home, beginning married life with my sweet bride - the list could go on and on - every turn of events has shaped the way I relate to this city.
A handful of places and persons have become themes through this season of life. One of them is Logan Square.
The Blue line runs through Logan Square and ties downtown Chicago to the Southwest and Northwest neighborhoods of the city and eventually takes its passengers to O'hare airport. Riding the Blue Line in the winter of my first year of school I discovered coffee shops that were off the beaten path so often trod by my peers. Throughout school, Logan Square was the neighborhood of several friends' apartments. Visiting them I was introduced to the vintage Chicago three-flat: awkwardly shaped rooms, cramped staircases, mini-yards, limited insulation, and naturally, no AC.
The real gem, however, was the Logan Theatre. Few would have called it a gem a year ago, but during college it was a fantastic $4 second-run movie theatre. Well, again, take fantastic with a grain of salt. Sticky floors, seats that threatened your seat with pokey springs, questionable concessions, etc., etc. Key selling points: Off campus, $4.
After school, when we had our first apartment in Logan Square, we fell even more in love with the boulevard, the old homes, the renaissance of the Milwaukee Ave corridor, and of course, the Logan Theatre.
For the last seven or eight months or so, however, the Logan Theatre was boarded up. Supposedly closed for renovation. I was skeptical. Too many businesses had fallen to the bad economy. But a few months ago I learned that the Logan would emerge from the ashes. Under new ownership and with new money the Logan was being restored to its roots.
Having opened in 1915, the Logan was built in the fashion of the grand theaters of the day and held four large theaters. Later the four theaters were chopped into four smaller ones. Under the same family's ownership since 1922, the purchase last year was a significant passing of the torch. The new owner has begun his leg of the race well.
I wish I had pictures of it before the renovation. New AMC's are a dime a dozen. If you've been to one, you've been to them all. The Logan is different.
Polished marble walls, art deco designs on the ceiling, original stained glass above the ticket window and entrance, rich carpeting, restored period drinking fountains and bathroom fixtures, all encouraging you to pause and remember that there was a time when viewing a film was an event. Walking through the restored Logan Theatre one half expects an experience on the order of Annie when Daddy Warbucks takes her to the movies.
I am not nostalgic for the Logan as it used to be, but I am grateful that it has returned to its roots.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
The Wisdom of the Great and Terrible Humbug
*rediscovered on 9/15/14, two years after originally being lost in the "drafts" section of Blogger
Before today I thought of The Wizard of Oz as a fun movie, but not necessarily thought provoking. Viewing it on the big screen at the re-opening event of the Logan Theatre, however, fostered quite the opposite experience.
Maybe it was the lack of commercials interrupting the film (though I did go get popcorn and a Coke right before Dorothy encounters the Cowardly Lion - big mistake, a top five moment of the film). Maybe it was seeing the characters ten feet tall. Who knows.
Several times I felt as though I was seeing the movie for the first time. Lines I'd never heard before were jumping out at me, provoking thoughts and laughter I hadn't expected.
One blurb that is prompting some ideas came from the conversation between the wizard and Dorothy. Upon discovering that he wasn't actually "The Great and Terrible Wizard of Oz" but instead "The Great and Terrible Humbug" (HA!) and incapable of keeping his promise:
Dorothy: Why, you're not a wizard at all, you're just a man! And you're a very bad man for pretending to be a wizard!
Wizard: Oh, no, my dear; I'm a very good man, just a very bad wizard.
But that thought is not quite fully cooked yet. Another day, another blog post...
The thought that went straight through the easy bake oven, however, was inspired by the conversation in the same scene between the Tinman and the wizard. Upon giving him a testimonial heart, the wizard cautions:
Wizard: A heart is not judged by how much you love; but by how much you are loved by others.
At face value this sounds like one of those feel good lines you'd expect to see cross-stitched on a pillow in a small town gift store. And normally I would dismiss such silliness and be on my merry way, but the quote stuck with me through the evening and as I was considering the thoughts of Miroslav Volf in his work The End of Memory: Remembering Rightly in a Violent World I realized there was a kernel of truth hidden beneath the pseudo-therapeutic exterior of the wizard's words. First, however, I must preface said kernel with a brief synopsis of one of Volf's ideas.
Volf, writing on the subject of the memories of wrongdoing done to us, posits that memory can be active or passive, and that active memories are ones acted upon (actively recalled). He then describes passive memory (memory acting on us): "...[the memories of wrongdoing done to us] steal our attention, and they assault us with inner turmoil marked by shame, guilt, and maybe a mixture of self-recrimination and self-justification. They envelop us in dark mists of melancholy, they hold us back so that we cannot project ourselves into the future and embark on new paths. They chain our identity to the injuries we have suffered and shape the way we react to others." (italics mine)
Or, in other words, those memories can haunt us, shape us, and change us. And not for the better.
What does this have to do with a Tin Woodman and a humbug Wizard? Consider this rephrasing of his words to the Tin Woodman, this time in a less positive light:
Wizard: You will perceive your self-worth, not by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others. or You cannot create your self-worth by loving others, rather, your value will be assessed by how much you are loved by others.
If the Tin man really does judge himself according to the love he receives, consider for a moment just how crucial it is that he receives that love. And how dangerous it will be for him if he does not.
Let's break it down a little more.
When I consider the gravest wrongs done to me, I would rank the worst as those that urged me to consider myself unloved and unlovable. In none of those memories of wrong did the wrongdoer actually use the words unloved/unlovable, but they were communicated quite clearly using the non-verbal language of the fall.
On account of sin three things entered the realm of human experience - shame, guilt, and fear. And rightly so. Sin is shameful, it incurs guilt, and inspires fear. But I'm not talking about shame, guilt, and fear brought about by my own sin. I'm talking about other people saying and doing things that inspire the sensation of shame, guilt, and fear on invalid premises.
We've all been there. Maybe I make a mistake at work or in school and a peer or even a supervisor insults my intelligence and competence. I didn't actually do anything wrong, but I am immediately shamed and feel ostracized from my "perfect" peers. A gnawing fear is planted that engenders insecurity and anxiety. If it comes from someone respected or trusted it stabs even deeper!
And the current beneath the fear, shame, and guilt? The message that who and what I am is unlovable. On account of my intelligence? My speech patterns? My skin color? My wardrobe? My friends? Whatever. It doesn't matter. Anything could be used against you. It's almost a form a moral jiujitsu. Weaknesses and strengths are equally exploited as a means of tearing you down.
How crushing! How cruel! All of this because someone has chosen to not love. Make no mistake; there are no neutral deeds. Actions and words are either loving or they aren't. And if they aren't, by necessity they communicate one thing: you are not loved.
And it's only a short step from "you are not loved" to "you are not lovable".
------------------
Thus, the plot twists. For as I examine the ways I have been wronged I cannot dismiss from my mind the knowledge that I have loved imperfectly, too. But that is much too gracious. I have loved, and I have withheld love. And where I have withheld love I have inadvertently told those people that they are not worthy of my love.
Where does that leave us? I shudder to think that by withholding love I have been the active agent of the horror described by Miroslav Volf above, "[I] chain[ed] [their] identity to the injuries [they] have suffered and shape[d] the way [they] react to others." Could it be that by failing to love I have injured and shaped others into persons that also refuse love to their neighbor?
Is my worth summed up by the quantity and quality of my love for others? Is it really bound to the love that others have for me? If I am so imperfect, how can I depend on the love of other imperfect people?
God be praised, for in the darkness of this horror the light of the gospel shines fiercely bright.
Christ be praised, for by his life, death, and resurrection he has freed me from the just punishment I deserve on account my sin against others and against God. Christ be praised, that by those same feats he has proven and established eternally my relationship with him, who loves perfectly, and whose love is powerful to sustain me.
The Spirit be praised, for it is by his work of illumination and regeneration that this truth has been revealed and grasped and trusted and believed. And it is through his transforming power that I am enabled to love like my savior loved me!
---------------------
Simply put, we are persons in community and how we treat each other has profound power to dramatically inform our self-image. Our experiences of love and hate form the memories that strengthen or cripple us from within.
But the wisdom of the wizard is not gospel wisdom. It is incomplete. Living for the love and admiration of our friends, family, community, pastors, coworkers, bosses (or subordinates), will always leave us unsatisfied, always questioning, doubting, and wondering if the love received was truly genuine, dependable, and real. We can't even live for the love and admiration of God, because there's nothing we can do to earn it.
In fact, on our own, God wouldn't be able to be near us, even look at us, on account of our sin. But God chooses to see us through Christ, who died our death and gave us life so we could have fellowship again with God.
Thankfully, on account of God's character, his actions, and his word, we know that regardless of how our community behaves his love for us remains constant. Our identity is secure in Christ our savior.
And, here's the kicker, it is out the abundance of God's love that we can boldly love others. Whether they chose to love in return or not.
Before today I thought of The Wizard of Oz as a fun movie, but not necessarily thought provoking. Viewing it on the big screen at the re-opening event of the Logan Theatre, however, fostered quite the opposite experience.
Maybe it was the lack of commercials interrupting the film (though I did go get popcorn and a Coke right before Dorothy encounters the Cowardly Lion - big mistake, a top five moment of the film). Maybe it was seeing the characters ten feet tall. Who knows.
Several times I felt as though I was seeing the movie for the first time. Lines I'd never heard before were jumping out at me, provoking thoughts and laughter I hadn't expected.
One blurb that is prompting some ideas came from the conversation between the wizard and Dorothy. Upon discovering that he wasn't actually "The Great and Terrible Wizard of Oz" but instead "The Great and Terrible Humbug" (HA!) and incapable of keeping his promise:
Dorothy: Why, you're not a wizard at all, you're just a man! And you're a very bad man for pretending to be a wizard!
Wizard: Oh, no, my dear; I'm a very good man, just a very bad wizard.
But that thought is not quite fully cooked yet. Another day, another blog post...
The thought that went straight through the easy bake oven, however, was inspired by the conversation in the same scene between the Tinman and the wizard. Upon giving him a testimonial heart, the wizard cautions:
Wizard: A heart is not judged by how much you love; but by how much you are loved by others.
At face value this sounds like one of those feel good lines you'd expect to see cross-stitched on a pillow in a small town gift store. And normally I would dismiss such silliness and be on my merry way, but the quote stuck with me through the evening and as I was considering the thoughts of Miroslav Volf in his work The End of Memory: Remembering Rightly in a Violent World I realized there was a kernel of truth hidden beneath the pseudo-therapeutic exterior of the wizard's words. First, however, I must preface said kernel with a brief synopsis of one of Volf's ideas.
Volf, writing on the subject of the memories of wrongdoing done to us, posits that memory can be active or passive, and that active memories are ones acted upon (actively recalled). He then describes passive memory (memory acting on us): "...[the memories of wrongdoing done to us] steal our attention, and they assault us with inner turmoil marked by shame, guilt, and maybe a mixture of self-recrimination and self-justification. They envelop us in dark mists of melancholy, they hold us back so that we cannot project ourselves into the future and embark on new paths. They chain our identity to the injuries we have suffered and shape the way we react to others." (italics mine)
Or, in other words, those memories can haunt us, shape us, and change us. And not for the better.
What does this have to do with a Tin Woodman and a humbug Wizard? Consider this rephrasing of his words to the Tin Woodman, this time in a less positive light:
Wizard: You will perceive your self-worth, not by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others. or You cannot create your self-worth by loving others, rather, your value will be assessed by how much you are loved by others.
If the Tin man really does judge himself according to the love he receives, consider for a moment just how crucial it is that he receives that love. And how dangerous it will be for him if he does not.
Let's break it down a little more.
When I consider the gravest wrongs done to me, I would rank the worst as those that urged me to consider myself unloved and unlovable. In none of those memories of wrong did the wrongdoer actually use the words unloved/unlovable, but they were communicated quite clearly using the non-verbal language of the fall.
On account of sin three things entered the realm of human experience - shame, guilt, and fear. And rightly so. Sin is shameful, it incurs guilt, and inspires fear. But I'm not talking about shame, guilt, and fear brought about by my own sin. I'm talking about other people saying and doing things that inspire the sensation of shame, guilt, and fear on invalid premises.
We've all been there. Maybe I make a mistake at work or in school and a peer or even a supervisor insults my intelligence and competence. I didn't actually do anything wrong, but I am immediately shamed and feel ostracized from my "perfect" peers. A gnawing fear is planted that engenders insecurity and anxiety. If it comes from someone respected or trusted it stabs even deeper!
And the current beneath the fear, shame, and guilt? The message that who and what I am is unlovable. On account of my intelligence? My speech patterns? My skin color? My wardrobe? My friends? Whatever. It doesn't matter. Anything could be used against you. It's almost a form a moral jiujitsu. Weaknesses and strengths are equally exploited as a means of tearing you down.
How crushing! How cruel! All of this because someone has chosen to not love. Make no mistake; there are no neutral deeds. Actions and words are either loving or they aren't. And if they aren't, by necessity they communicate one thing: you are not loved.
And it's only a short step from "you are not loved" to "you are not lovable".
------------------
Thus, the plot twists. For as I examine the ways I have been wronged I cannot dismiss from my mind the knowledge that I have loved imperfectly, too. But that is much too gracious. I have loved, and I have withheld love. And where I have withheld love I have inadvertently told those people that they are not worthy of my love.
Where does that leave us? I shudder to think that by withholding love I have been the active agent of the horror described by Miroslav Volf above, "[I] chain[ed] [their] identity to the injuries [they] have suffered and shape[d] the way [they] react to others." Could it be that by failing to love I have injured and shaped others into persons that also refuse love to their neighbor?
Is my worth summed up by the quantity and quality of my love for others? Is it really bound to the love that others have for me? If I am so imperfect, how can I depend on the love of other imperfect people?
God be praised, for in the darkness of this horror the light of the gospel shines fiercely bright.
Christ be praised, for by his life, death, and resurrection he has freed me from the just punishment I deserve on account my sin against others and against God. Christ be praised, that by those same feats he has proven and established eternally my relationship with him, who loves perfectly, and whose love is powerful to sustain me.
The Spirit be praised, for it is by his work of illumination and regeneration that this truth has been revealed and grasped and trusted and believed. And it is through his transforming power that I am enabled to love like my savior loved me!
---------------------
Simply put, we are persons in community and how we treat each other has profound power to dramatically inform our self-image. Our experiences of love and hate form the memories that strengthen or cripple us from within.
But the wisdom of the wizard is not gospel wisdom. It is incomplete. Living for the love and admiration of our friends, family, community, pastors, coworkers, bosses (or subordinates), will always leave us unsatisfied, always questioning, doubting, and wondering if the love received was truly genuine, dependable, and real. We can't even live for the love and admiration of God, because there's nothing we can do to earn it.
In fact, on our own, God wouldn't be able to be near us, even look at us, on account of our sin. But God chooses to see us through Christ, who died our death and gave us life so we could have fellowship again with God.
Thankfully, on account of God's character, his actions, and his word, we know that regardless of how our community behaves his love for us remains constant. Our identity is secure in Christ our savior.
And, here's the kicker, it is out the abundance of God's love that we can boldly love others. Whether they chose to love in return or not.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Ash Wednesday
Tonight I stood before a pastor in a dimly lit cathedral participating in a centuries old ritual. As he rubbed the oily residue of last year's palm branches on my forehead he made a pronouncement over me. "From dust you have come, and to dust you shall return," he said in solemn voice. I walked away, returning to my seat, joining the other similarly marked worshippers. We were all marked for death.
------
Having not grown up in a church that observed Lent or Ash Wednesday I am enriched to worship in a church that recognizes all of the liturgical calendar. Now, after being here for several years, the passing of Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Ordinary Time, Ash Wednesday, Lent, the Triduum, Easter, and Pentecost all seem as rhythmic and as necessary as breathing. Each leans and leads into the next, each preparing the church to encounter the gospel. And perhaps most significantly, each reinforces the reality that the narrative of scripture is alive and that we are participants in it.
A few days back I heard some mind-blowing statistics about the state of the American family. Within a certain demographic almost three out of four children were born to single mothers. Within another, almost one out of three. There was no demographic that had a birthrate of lower than one out of four for single mothers. How could this be? What had happened to the American family?
As I heard the radio show host ask questions similar to those above I sensed that, although, yes, it is complicated and a multi-faceted issue, essentially, I propose, it comes down to narrative. Who we are, where we come from, what our role is - all are elements of story. We are not static. We are not isolated islands. Our character is not random, nor is it merely a clumped together bunch of facts or belief statements about the world. Rather, who we are individually and corporately as persons of narrative is paramount.
On the level of the individual, Carl Rogers proposed the Triangle of the Self (perceived self, ideal self, real self). I would expand on that and propose that those categories apply just as well to our sense of narrative. Just like Rogers' triangle, we experience life in keeping with how we perceive our narrative. Unequipped to understand ourselves rightly, we perceive inaccurately. Discontent with (the inaccurately perceived) reality we dream of an ideal. Which story we live in is largely a function of our proximity to (and willingness to stomach) reality as it truly is.
Although I gave the example above of the erosion of the American family, narrative extends far beyond the issue of family. The way we live is a direct result of which story we believe we are living in. If the family erodes, it tells us something about narrative. If hate-crime is on the rise it tells us something about narrative. When Jews and gypsies were being rounded up and sent to concentration camps, those actions tell us something about the narrative of the time, place, and persons acting in concert to bring about those events.
All this to say, my chief problem is a narrative problem. Learning to see through my false perceptions, having courage to look into the mirror of reality, and knowing who and what is the true ideal is good medicine for my narrative problem. My only guide through these waters is the Messiah of the bible, Jesus Christ. Knowing the narrative of the Narrator, who spoke the world into existence, is the only anchor to reality, revealing over and over again where I am from, of whom I am from, who I am, what I am, what I have and what I lack, what I need, and where I am going, etc. Though it is about so much more than me, it includes me, too! Not knowing our narrative - this is the individual and corporate, gender-neuteral, all-inclusive, age-transcending, national, and global, dilemma.
-----
Last week on a news website there was an advertisement for an exposé on the hottest grandmothers of Hollywood. I was shocked and not shocked at the same time. This is normal for our culture - we despise age, have plastic surgery, inject our skin with chemicals that alter and mold our appearance. Why? Because we live in a culture whose narrative teaches us to praise youth and beauty but despise old age. Why? Because old people are dying - and we want nothing to do with death. In fact, we live in a cultural narrative that teaches us we can elude death. Somehow, through advancements in science and technology, we will find a way to cheat death. And if we can't, we'll make ourselves look as young, beautiful, and healthy for as long as possible.
But we all die.
This was the purpose of the ashes, the ritual, the somber music, the solemn oaths. Regardless of our cultural narratives, Ash Wednesday was an opportunity for narrative realignment.
If I were to go through my days denying death through my self-deluded fantasy and rejection of reality, when death came knocking there would be no time to prepare. I would not have considered the mortal terms of the existence clause of my life contract. What a shock.
If, however, I lived, knowing I would die, I will have lived an unconventional life. And if I lived informed not only of my impending death but also knowledgeable of the death of one who lived in order to die, conquering death, and giving everlasting life to those who trust in him, well, my life might yet become even more unconventional.
-----
Thinking of Ash Wednesday and this season of lent, I am thankful for Scripture. Praise God for inspiring it, preserving it, and giving it to us, allowing us to know him, to know ourselves and each other, and to know our savior.
But I am also convicted that I have not examined my heart thoroughly enough, that the light of Scripture, the word of God made flesh, the Illuminator, has not yet revealed entirely all the ways I see myself wrongly, understand the gospel narrative incompletely, and have yet to trust in him.
Praise God that, as he has done so much and is the author of our salvation, he is faithful to be the finisher of our salvation. Praise God that his narrative changes everything. Praise God that we can gather together to reflect on our frailty and his sufficiency.
------
Having not grown up in a church that observed Lent or Ash Wednesday I am enriched to worship in a church that recognizes all of the liturgical calendar. Now, after being here for several years, the passing of Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Ordinary Time, Ash Wednesday, Lent, the Triduum, Easter, and Pentecost all seem as rhythmic and as necessary as breathing. Each leans and leads into the next, each preparing the church to encounter the gospel. And perhaps most significantly, each reinforces the reality that the narrative of scripture is alive and that we are participants in it.
A few days back I heard some mind-blowing statistics about the state of the American family. Within a certain demographic almost three out of four children were born to single mothers. Within another, almost one out of three. There was no demographic that had a birthrate of lower than one out of four for single mothers. How could this be? What had happened to the American family?
As I heard the radio show host ask questions similar to those above I sensed that, although, yes, it is complicated and a multi-faceted issue, essentially, I propose, it comes down to narrative. Who we are, where we come from, what our role is - all are elements of story. We are not static. We are not isolated islands. Our character is not random, nor is it merely a clumped together bunch of facts or belief statements about the world. Rather, who we are individually and corporately as persons of narrative is paramount.
On the level of the individual, Carl Rogers proposed the Triangle of the Self (perceived self, ideal self, real self). I would expand on that and propose that those categories apply just as well to our sense of narrative. Just like Rogers' triangle, we experience life in keeping with how we perceive our narrative. Unequipped to understand ourselves rightly, we perceive inaccurately. Discontent with (the inaccurately perceived) reality we dream of an ideal. Which story we live in is largely a function of our proximity to (and willingness to stomach) reality as it truly is.
Although I gave the example above of the erosion of the American family, narrative extends far beyond the issue of family. The way we live is a direct result of which story we believe we are living in. If the family erodes, it tells us something about narrative. If hate-crime is on the rise it tells us something about narrative. When Jews and gypsies were being rounded up and sent to concentration camps, those actions tell us something about the narrative of the time, place, and persons acting in concert to bring about those events.
All this to say, my chief problem is a narrative problem. Learning to see through my false perceptions, having courage to look into the mirror of reality, and knowing who and what is the true ideal is good medicine for my narrative problem. My only guide through these waters is the Messiah of the bible, Jesus Christ. Knowing the narrative of the Narrator, who spoke the world into existence, is the only anchor to reality, revealing over and over again where I am from, of whom I am from, who I am, what I am, what I have and what I lack, what I need, and where I am going, etc. Though it is about so much more than me, it includes me, too! Not knowing our narrative - this is the individual and corporate, gender-neuteral, all-inclusive, age-transcending, national, and global, dilemma.
-----
Last week on a news website there was an advertisement for an exposé on the hottest grandmothers of Hollywood. I was shocked and not shocked at the same time. This is normal for our culture - we despise age, have plastic surgery, inject our skin with chemicals that alter and mold our appearance. Why? Because we live in a culture whose narrative teaches us to praise youth and beauty but despise old age. Why? Because old people are dying - and we want nothing to do with death. In fact, we live in a cultural narrative that teaches us we can elude death. Somehow, through advancements in science and technology, we will find a way to cheat death. And if we can't, we'll make ourselves look as young, beautiful, and healthy for as long as possible.
But we all die.
This was the purpose of the ashes, the ritual, the somber music, the solemn oaths. Regardless of our cultural narratives, Ash Wednesday was an opportunity for narrative realignment.
If I were to go through my days denying death through my self-deluded fantasy and rejection of reality, when death came knocking there would be no time to prepare. I would not have considered the mortal terms of the existence clause of my life contract. What a shock.
If, however, I lived, knowing I would die, I will have lived an unconventional life. And if I lived informed not only of my impending death but also knowledgeable of the death of one who lived in order to die, conquering death, and giving everlasting life to those who trust in him, well, my life might yet become even more unconventional.
-----
Thinking of Ash Wednesday and this season of lent, I am thankful for Scripture. Praise God for inspiring it, preserving it, and giving it to us, allowing us to know him, to know ourselves and each other, and to know our savior.
But I am also convicted that I have not examined my heart thoroughly enough, that the light of Scripture, the word of God made flesh, the Illuminator, has not yet revealed entirely all the ways I see myself wrongly, understand the gospel narrative incompletely, and have yet to trust in him.
Praise God that, as he has done so much and is the author of our salvation, he is faithful to be the finisher of our salvation. Praise God that his narrative changes everything. Praise God that we can gather together to reflect on our frailty and his sufficiency.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Valentine's with The Doctor
I wish this post were some glamorous narrative about moi, the doctor of love, cooking up a fantabulous Valentine's for my honey.
Unfortunately, parasites planted their flag in our home recently and February 14, 2012 will instead be remembered as the day we met The Doctors of Death - a.k.a., the Exterminators. Three separate pest control professionals toured our lovely home today giving estimates on just how much moolah it would take to rid our living quarters of the insectoid stowaways. Not exactly the most romantic place to be spending a quiet evening with my bride.
Instead we made the most of it and had a special dinner at a fancy place downtown. Seriously, it is the best of it's kind in all of Chicago. And they had romantic music to boot!
Unfortunately, parasites planted their flag in our home recently and February 14, 2012 will instead be remembered as the day we met The Doctors of Death - a.k.a., the Exterminators. Three separate pest control professionals toured our lovely home today giving estimates on just how much moolah it would take to rid our living quarters of the insectoid stowaways. Not exactly the most romantic place to be spending a quiet evening with my bride.
Instead we made the most of it and had a special dinner at a fancy place downtown. Seriously, it is the best of it's kind in all of Chicago. And they had romantic music to boot!
 |
| (If you've never been, please go soon. It'll change your life) |
You may think this a strange place to go for romance, but Amy and I share a relationship built on many things, including adventure. So, thanks to Al, two of the best Italian Beef sandwiches ever, and some fantastic heart-shaped pretzels dipped in chocolate thanks to the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, we managed to celebrate love just fine.
 |
And when we got home, I got to plug in a steam gun and blast bugs in our furniture! It's fun getting to play the hero on Valentine's day. Even if my arch enemy is only a bug, I still got to rescue a maiden in distress.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Joys of Youth Ministry
Today, as I walked home from church, I went to place my hands in my pockets and instead discovered them already occupied.
This is one of the joys of youth ministry: emptying pockets at the end of the day and finding spent balloons, candy wrappers, ping-pong balls, drawings scrawled on legal paper, random ideas on the backs of receipts from coffee dates or burrito celebrations... All of these remind me of why I love working with kids.
Reason 1 - They're FUN
No matter what, almost without exception, kids are intent on having fun, practicing sarcasm, pulling practical jokes - just plain enjoying themselves.
Reason 2 - Teaching Truth
Sometimes I think I benefit from the act of teaching as much or more than my kids do from being taught. It's intoxicating to study and pray and meditate on scripture and then share it with others. And I love knowing that although I am not the sharpest pencil in the drawer, we all have learned from God's word.
Reason 3 - They had fun while learning truth
Okay, okay. I know, it's kind of a cop out to combine the two. But seriously, having sat through too many boring lessons, I love it when I know the kids were enjoying a dive into truth. That fun was not divorced from our discussion of God's word. Rather, that the greatest fun is the pleasure of growing in our worship of God and relationship with one other.
Anyways, I love finding ping-pong balls in my pocket. They are mementos to me, symbols of significance, 'stones of remembrance' even.
This is the joy of youth ministry.
This is one of the joys of youth ministry: emptying pockets at the end of the day and finding spent balloons, candy wrappers, ping-pong balls, drawings scrawled on legal paper, random ideas on the backs of receipts from coffee dates or burrito celebrations... All of these remind me of why I love working with kids.
Reason 1 - They're FUN
No matter what, almost without exception, kids are intent on having fun, practicing sarcasm, pulling practical jokes - just plain enjoying themselves.
Reason 2 - Teaching Truth
Sometimes I think I benefit from the act of teaching as much or more than my kids do from being taught. It's intoxicating to study and pray and meditate on scripture and then share it with others. And I love knowing that although I am not the sharpest pencil in the drawer, we all have learned from God's word.
Reason 3 - They had fun while learning truth
Okay, okay. I know, it's kind of a cop out to combine the two. But seriously, having sat through too many boring lessons, I love it when I know the kids were enjoying a dive into truth. That fun was not divorced from our discussion of God's word. Rather, that the greatest fun is the pleasure of growing in our worship of God and relationship with one other.
Anyways, I love finding ping-pong balls in my pocket. They are mementos to me, symbols of significance, 'stones of remembrance' even.
This is the joy of youth ministry.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Music Consumerism
Tonight at Ipsento - the best coffee house in Chicago, hands down - I took a break from the jazz in my headphones to listen to the music chosen by the baristas and was struck by the thought that it's been a very long time since I experienced music - as in, experienced music on someone's terms other than my own.
I'll never forget sitting with my dad in the upper balcony, gazing, dumbfounded, over the rail as I watched the musicians of the local symphony orchestra perform on a bleary fall day. I couldn't make sense of how, with such minute movements, the musicians released such beautiful sound. It was as if the music were coaxed out of non-existence, briefly blossoming and then receding. No wonder Lewis placed a song in the mouth of Aslan, and Tolkien's Silmarillion begins with pure music as the embodiment of the creator's glory. There is magic in sound.
The Lord God spoke, releasing concepts into space and time, creating all that is. The Maker of heaven and earth took thought and made it deed through sound, transforming the immaterial into material with such power that that which was said, became.
Where did the sound come from? How did it manage to support and contain and reveal such complex and terrifying purpose? When you and I speak our voice disappears into nothingness. When he speaks the universe is thrown into upheaval. Where did it go after passing me by? Surely, something so weighty and significant couldn't simply be... transitory, could it? My words, because I have no power, recede. His words are life.
--------------------
Yet each note fell into silence, revealing the next, and the next, together weaving narratives of hope, despair, of cruelty, of deliverance. And after each piece the final note remained only long enough to remind us listeners that what we had experienced would never be, again. It had been a moment, unique to all other moments. Not greater or less, simply un-reproducible.
The half sun-light, weakly breaking through the gloom outside. The expansive ceiling of the theater and the crimson curtains adorning the broad windows. The harsh stage lights, dramatically showcasing the austerely dressed musicians. The way my lunch had remained unsettled, distracting me from the first movement and then stabbing me in the back by seducing me into near sleep during the third. The presence of my father, making time for his son.
All these elements as platform for the performance of a piece that can be played again, but never reproduced the way it was received that day.
---------------------
All that to say, live music, or at least music chosen for you by someone else, is an opportunity to experience what they intend for you, rather than demanding to have your mood matched by the perfect soundtrack of your own design.
I think of my swelling music collection. Who am I to own sound? And at what cost have I purchased such luxury?
I no longer carry any responsibility to be the creator, I can own, I can hit repeat, I can build playlists. Nor am I subject to any will beside my own. I have the right to claim injustice if an establishment plays a song that doesn't fit my mood. How pathetic. I think I am a control freak.
I create perfect playlists, but am I really listening? Does it even matter who the artists are, what they say, or represent, as long as I feel like I'm put in the right mood? Does everything become subjective as long as I get my feeling fix? Have I made a cheap bargain: as long as the music doesn't make any demands of me I can consume it thoughtlessly?
I don't want to degrade the beauty of silence by casually (read: lazily) filling the air. And I want to restore the experience of being the grateful and thoughtful receiver, who would rather form a memory of a song heard once than scramble to figure out what the song was, missing the song entirely, but feeling triumphant as I hit purchase on iTunes.
I want to memorize and sing more songs, becoming an agent of beauty as opposed to it's critic. The world is overburdened by critics.
Enough rambling - the end.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Reboot?
I'm considering rebooting the blog - anyone interested?
By reboot I mean:
- blogging on a schedule
- a possible move to 1) tumblr; or 2) wordpress
- being a pro (i'm not sure what I mean by this, I think I mean... be awesome at blogging)
Here's why:
- I miss writing
- I think I've grown over my fear of saying dumb things. All my favorite bloggers regularly say dumb things and it's awesome. So, time to be real. Out with the canned, in with the... umm... real/authentic-ness... something. Boo-ya, I've now said two dumb things - I slaughtered an idiom and said Boo-ya.
- I like the internet. Slash, I might be an internet addict. And I consume a lot of it. Maybe it's time to contribute.
- Oddly enough, hanging out on the blogosphere I feel very grounded. Something to do with the fact that real people read what I write, so it matters what I write. And that makes me feel a little more connected to the world.
The end.
By reboot I mean:
- blogging on a schedule
- a possible move to 1) tumblr; or 2) wordpress
- being a pro (i'm not sure what I mean by this, I think I mean... be awesome at blogging)
Here's why:
- I miss writing
- I think I've grown over my fear of saying dumb things. All my favorite bloggers regularly say dumb things and it's awesome. So, time to be real. Out with the canned, in with the... umm... real/authentic-ness... something. Boo-ya, I've now said two dumb things - I slaughtered an idiom and said Boo-ya.
- I like the internet. Slash, I might be an internet addict. And I consume a lot of it. Maybe it's time to contribute.
- Oddly enough, hanging out on the blogosphere I feel very grounded. Something to do with the fact that real people read what I write, so it matters what I write. And that makes me feel a little more connected to the world.
The end.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Snow Roots (no, i didn't mean routes)
Chicago is getting slammed by a snow storm that didn't just bring snow and wind, it also brought lightning and thunder. This, people, is why I love winter.
People use various coping mechanisms to get through the rough seasons. Sun-tan fiends take cruise ships to Cancun, snow fiends take trips to the mountains or get snowmobiles. Both are fun, and I don't mock those who let their hair down by blowing some cash and getting a few thousand miles away from it all. But I have a different perspective on winter.
Winter, in relation to the other seasons, is the time of death (or rest, depending on who you ask). The ground isn't forced to produce any crops or the trees their fruits. The animals conserve energy and a handful of them hibernate. Some things truly die off to make way for new life. Therefore, in the spirit of such harsh realities as death and decay, I love it when winter throws it's worst at me and reminds me of my frailty.
Tonight I watch from my window as the normally mundane N. Talman Avenue of Logan Square Chicago turned into a surrealist painting. The single light source, high and to the left of my field of vision illuminates a smaller swath of the neighborhood than usual. Flecks of white, moving brilliantly fast, gather and scatter like schools of fish in the ocean - the inky black of night a reasonable imitation of the darkness that resides beneath the deepest of the seas.
What once was a double row of automobiles, one on either side of the one-way street, blurs and transforms into new monstrous forms. Barely recognizable and no longer operable, the weighty precipitation crawls ever so slowly over the morbidly inert family sedans, compacts, and decade-old has-beens. The unnatural joining of snow drifts and four-cylinder imports resemble the horror of a morticians table - the cold, stiff bodies of the deceased partially covered by white cloth - a haunting vision beyond my partially frosted window.
Trees, against such a tempestuous backdrop, abandon their nobility and adopt a lurid and egregious sway becoming limbs of mass destruction, lurching and reeling, directed by the wind. Three seasons out of four a tree bears fruit, provides shade, and is habitat for many creature. With winter the trees flex and bend, reaching and twisting with their scraggly arms for anything to destroy.
It may not be what you see when you watch a winter storm, but this the vision I watch unfold as I look out my window. And it's beautiful to me. Were I Dali, I'd paint you a picture, but I am stuck with my words.
There is something very intoxicating to me about a good winter storm. The sheer power necessary to pull off such a massive feat may be part of the awe factor. I remember standing, stunned to silence, from the summit of Giant mountain in the ADK watching a storm roll over the Dix range of the High Peaks. Huge ribbons of white, moving with seemingly effortless grace, flowing and twisting, visible and unpredictable, containing thousands of pounds of snow.
So many memories, so much bliss. So many opportunities to lean into the bite of the wind, feel it push and swirl around you, cleanse you, scraping away all that isn't necessary and essential, and leaving the soul feeling lightened. Free.
I suppose this is the part of the narrative where I fess up and admit that I was raised in North Dakota and I have soft spot for wicked winters. There, I said it. So shoot me. I guess wicked snow storms take me back to my roots.
All in all, I can't wait for tomorrow. Everything has already closed, no one will be out and about, and a snowbank is already calling my name. If you think of me today, feel free to envision me dressed head-to-toe in winter garb sitting contentedly in a snowbank, peaceful, and at rest.
People use various coping mechanisms to get through the rough seasons. Sun-tan fiends take cruise ships to Cancun, snow fiends take trips to the mountains or get snowmobiles. Both are fun, and I don't mock those who let their hair down by blowing some cash and getting a few thousand miles away from it all. But I have a different perspective on winter.
Winter, in relation to the other seasons, is the time of death (or rest, depending on who you ask). The ground isn't forced to produce any crops or the trees their fruits. The animals conserve energy and a handful of them hibernate. Some things truly die off to make way for new life. Therefore, in the spirit of such harsh realities as death and decay, I love it when winter throws it's worst at me and reminds me of my frailty.
Tonight I watch from my window as the normally mundane N. Talman Avenue of Logan Square Chicago turned into a surrealist painting. The single light source, high and to the left of my field of vision illuminates a smaller swath of the neighborhood than usual. Flecks of white, moving brilliantly fast, gather and scatter like schools of fish in the ocean - the inky black of night a reasonable imitation of the darkness that resides beneath the deepest of the seas.
What once was a double row of automobiles, one on either side of the one-way street, blurs and transforms into new monstrous forms. Barely recognizable and no longer operable, the weighty precipitation crawls ever so slowly over the morbidly inert family sedans, compacts, and decade-old has-beens. The unnatural joining of snow drifts and four-cylinder imports resemble the horror of a morticians table - the cold, stiff bodies of the deceased partially covered by white cloth - a haunting vision beyond my partially frosted window.
Trees, against such a tempestuous backdrop, abandon their nobility and adopt a lurid and egregious sway becoming limbs of mass destruction, lurching and reeling, directed by the wind. Three seasons out of four a tree bears fruit, provides shade, and is habitat for many creature. With winter the trees flex and bend, reaching and twisting with their scraggly arms for anything to destroy.
It may not be what you see when you watch a winter storm, but this the vision I watch unfold as I look out my window. And it's beautiful to me. Were I Dali, I'd paint you a picture, but I am stuck with my words.
There is something very intoxicating to me about a good winter storm. The sheer power necessary to pull off such a massive feat may be part of the awe factor. I remember standing, stunned to silence, from the summit of Giant mountain in the ADK watching a storm roll over the Dix range of the High Peaks. Huge ribbons of white, moving with seemingly effortless grace, flowing and twisting, visible and unpredictable, containing thousands of pounds of snow.
So many memories, so much bliss. So many opportunities to lean into the bite of the wind, feel it push and swirl around you, cleanse you, scraping away all that isn't necessary and essential, and leaving the soul feeling lightened. Free.
I suppose this is the part of the narrative where I fess up and admit that I was raised in North Dakota and I have soft spot for wicked winters. There, I said it. So shoot me. I guess wicked snow storms take me back to my roots.
All in all, I can't wait for tomorrow. Everything has already closed, no one will be out and about, and a snowbank is already calling my name. If you think of me today, feel free to envision me dressed head-to-toe in winter garb sitting contentedly in a snowbank, peaceful, and at rest.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Emergency Supplies
Growing up in North Dakota I experienced many a rough winter. Tales of cars going off the icy roads and submerging in snowbanks, not to be found till spring (with their occupants frozen within) motivated most residents to carry at least one Emergency Kit with them. They might include some candy bars, candles, florescent streamer to tie to your antenna, a space blanket, a tin pie pan for melting snow for water, etc., etc. There were commercial ones and homemade ones, but you can bet that if the weather was bad I was thankful I had mine (including my sleeping bag, a shovel, and my own person repository of candy :)
But I don't drive here in Chicago and blizzards don't threaten my life like they did in North Dakota. Instead, something fouler and more loathsome threatens my livelihood.
Running out of Milk.
I am the consummate cerealist. Since I was a child I have considered cereal to be the forgotten pillar of the food pyramid and have, ever since, waged a personal campaign to consume such vast amounts of cereal that someone upstairs in corporate would notice and take pause.
Yes, I eat mucho cerealoso. And although I love other breakfast foods, there is nothing like the sound of ceramic and cereal clinking into my bowl in the the morning and getting out a heavy jug of cool refreshing milk from the fridge and mating the star-crossed lovers in my bowl. Cereal, O Cereal! Bound to the shelf, to the box, to isolation!! Milk, needing refrigeration, trapped in that cold tomb of darkness!!
K, I'll cut the melodrama...
Anyhow, like I said, I love other breakfast foods, but when I don't even have the option of eating cereal because we've run out of milk my day starts off a little gloomier.
Which brings us back to the horrors of venturing out into the wild during winter. Now, without a car, I must venture by foot or by bicycle. In those circumstances, I am my own Winter Survival Kit. My instincts fuel my hunt for milk, my will to survive heightens my senses, my wits protect me better than any florescent ribbon, and my love of milk and cereal wraps me in a cloak of passion warmer than any space blanket.
Into these perilous climes I sojourn undaunted. And seeing as how there is a blizzard on the forecast for Wednesday, I better make the journey today before the visibility drops to nil and arctic wookies come out of hiding like the Morlock beasts of the night from H.G. Well's Time Traveler.
-------------
By the way, if any of you are wondering why it is I think it's hilarious to turn my everyday misadventures into homeric epics, I can't tell you. I just think it's funny. I'm also inspired by the writings of Andrew Bisharat of Rock and Ice Magazine who writes the Tuesday Night Bouldering feature in every magazine. He molds and crafts his stories into modern epics that always leave my stomach aching from laughter and thankful that someone else pauses to think deeply, if not always seriously, about everyday life.
But I don't drive here in Chicago and blizzards don't threaten my life like they did in North Dakota. Instead, something fouler and more loathsome threatens my livelihood.
Running out of Milk.
I am the consummate cerealist. Since I was a child I have considered cereal to be the forgotten pillar of the food pyramid and have, ever since, waged a personal campaign to consume such vast amounts of cereal that someone upstairs in corporate would notice and take pause.
Yes, I eat mucho cerealoso. And although I love other breakfast foods, there is nothing like the sound of ceramic and cereal clinking into my bowl in the the morning and getting out a heavy jug of cool refreshing milk from the fridge and mating the star-crossed lovers in my bowl. Cereal, O Cereal! Bound to the shelf, to the box, to isolation!! Milk, needing refrigeration, trapped in that cold tomb of darkness!!
K, I'll cut the melodrama...
Anyhow, like I said, I love other breakfast foods, but when I don't even have the option of eating cereal because we've run out of milk my day starts off a little gloomier.
Which brings us back to the horrors of venturing out into the wild during winter. Now, without a car, I must venture by foot or by bicycle. In those circumstances, I am my own Winter Survival Kit. My instincts fuel my hunt for milk, my will to survive heightens my senses, my wits protect me better than any florescent ribbon, and my love of milk and cereal wraps me in a cloak of passion warmer than any space blanket.
Into these perilous climes I sojourn undaunted. And seeing as how there is a blizzard on the forecast for Wednesday, I better make the journey today before the visibility drops to nil and arctic wookies come out of hiding like the Morlock beasts of the night from H.G. Well's Time Traveler.
-------------
By the way, if any of you are wondering why it is I think it's hilarious to turn my everyday misadventures into homeric epics, I can't tell you. I just think it's funny. I'm also inspired by the writings of Andrew Bisharat of Rock and Ice Magazine who writes the Tuesday Night Bouldering feature in every magazine. He molds and crafts his stories into modern epics that always leave my stomach aching from laughter and thankful that someone else pauses to think deeply, if not always seriously, about everyday life.
1 month down, 11 to go.
January is already written, folks. Here comes February.
Though I made a strong blog presence in early January, the last twelve days I've been quiet. Why? No reason in particular. Other things to do, more pressing concerns have been given attention.
So what has happened?
I've started learning Adobe Dreamweaver, Illustrator, Photoshop, and Flash. These are the cornerstones of web media. Gargantuan cornerstones to be sure. So I've been watching videos, doing tutorials, learning everything I can so that I can turn my parent's website for their B&B into pure gold. I'm only slightly intimidated by the scope and scale of my task.
So, there goes a bunch of hours for you...
I've actually been loving it. It's tapping into a creative vein that I haven't let flow for some time and it feels so good. Read that last phrase again slowly, savoring the goodness. IT FEEEELS SOOO GOOOOOOD! It's like reacquainting myself... with myself?
Anywho, it's fun having fun while doing business. Isn't that the dream?
What else, what else, what else....
I've learned that the pet industry of America is hilariously moronic. Yup. Moronic. Put supply companies have this golden opportunity in which the target for whom the product is made doesn't actually buy the product. Instead, an entirely different species does, and not using the same metrics as the target species would. Let me offer a "for example".
Kitty ran out of food. So, off I go to Pet Smart to compare prices with the Kitty food at Target. I arrive at Pet Smart without a clue about which one is good, which is bad, and how to tell the difference. Right away, however, I discover that it's not about the cat. It's about me. About me? About moi?
Yes.
Moi.
How can it be about me? Well, just as humans have designer jeans that are only slightly different from normal jeans, kitty owners have the luxury of choosing from a dizzying plethora of options too. Everything from Science Diet to Blue to Meow Mix to Purina, and these are just a few of the dry food options, not to mention the canned food. CANNED FOOD FOR CATS! Have you ever heard of anything so absurd? Oh, right, kind of like paying five hundred dollars for designer jeans...
Anywho, within all those varieties are an entire world of varieties based on the age of the cat, the dietary needs (and or preferences) of the cat, and so on and so forth. Ingredients, percentages, organics, flavors, ages, diets, and PRICES! Why would I ever pay twenty dollars for Science Diet when I can pay 8 for Purina or 4 for Meow Mix?
(I'm not stupid. I'm sure Meow Mix is four dollars for a reason.... Or maybe I am stupid. Maybe Meow Mix is correctly priced and everything else is gross inflation...)
How am I supposed to know? They all say that they contain a balanced blend of nutrients. So what does it come down to? Packaging. Marketing. How can we appeal to cats when they aren't even the ones buying it. Appeal to the human, not the cat! For CAT food. Ridiculously genius.
Speaking of flavors, by the way, I want to know who decided that my cat needs to eat Lamb and Rice? Or Tuna? Or have Oceanspray flavor food? Were I to release my 2 lb. cat into the wild she would never take down a sheep, harvest rice, or fish for Albacore. In fact, I don't even know if she'd show any interest in the rotting carcass of a ram. Nope. Here's what would appeal to me (because it might actually appeal to my cat): Sparrow and Mouse flavored Kitty food. Afterall, when was the last time your cat dragged a lamb chop up onto the front porch? Never? Didn't think so.
So, I got the Purina. Not because of the advertising, but because it was a middle-price option and happened to be on sale.
And don't even get me started on Cat litter.
Litter for multi-cat homes, organic litter, clumping litter, non-clumping litter, and on and on and on and on. I walked away feeling bludgeoned by options.
Hmmmm....
What else happened this last few weeks.....
I set a new personal record and biked to work in 3 degree weather! Wind Chill was something awful but with my handy dandy face mask I was rock solid! Or, maybe closer to Frozen solid. It wasn't exactly pleasant, but delightful to know it was bearable.
Do I qualify as insane yet?
Hmmm...
No new baking adventures, I've been remiss in that department. Although I did create a fabulous black bean stew with a cornucopia of peppers and spices and veggies, paired with aged cheddar and garlic cheese bread breadbowls. THAT was the epitome of comfort food. Oh! I just realized that I made that on the 3 degree day. No wonder that's such a good memory!
Last week Amy and I went to the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry. We spent four or five hours there on one of their winter free days and only saw about one eighth of the place, and that might be a generous estimation. It's HUGE!!! Of course, the highlight of the trip was taking a tour of the U-505, the only captured German U-boat of WWII. Unbelievable experience. Second only to manipulating a tornado in their live science exhibit! That was pretty awesome too. Basically, if you've never been to the Museum of Science and Industry, you need to go. And if, like us now, you've been there before, chances are likely you should go again. Because you just can't see it all in one day.
So, it's been busy. I'm getting to teach my Sunday School kids about Abram and God's amazing faithfulness these days and it's been a blast. A real highlight.
Well, as this has been a shotgun blast of topics and no real depth of reporting about anything, you can bet that now that I'm blogging again I'll post pictures from the museum and give a real update on our fantasti-cat Marshmallow.
Until then, sleep better than I do (a.k.a. why I'm writing this after midnight)
Though I made a strong blog presence in early January, the last twelve days I've been quiet. Why? No reason in particular. Other things to do, more pressing concerns have been given attention.
So what has happened?
I've started learning Adobe Dreamweaver, Illustrator, Photoshop, and Flash. These are the cornerstones of web media. Gargantuan cornerstones to be sure. So I've been watching videos, doing tutorials, learning everything I can so that I can turn my parent's website for their B&B into pure gold. I'm only slightly intimidated by the scope and scale of my task.
So, there goes a bunch of hours for you...
I've actually been loving it. It's tapping into a creative vein that I haven't let flow for some time and it feels so good. Read that last phrase again slowly, savoring the goodness. IT FEEEELS SOOO GOOOOOOD! It's like reacquainting myself... with myself?
Anywho, it's fun having fun while doing business. Isn't that the dream?
What else, what else, what else....
I've learned that the pet industry of America is hilariously moronic. Yup. Moronic. Put supply companies have this golden opportunity in which the target for whom the product is made doesn't actually buy the product. Instead, an entirely different species does, and not using the same metrics as the target species would. Let me offer a "for example".
Kitty ran out of food. So, off I go to Pet Smart to compare prices with the Kitty food at Target. I arrive at Pet Smart without a clue about which one is good, which is bad, and how to tell the difference. Right away, however, I discover that it's not about the cat. It's about me. About me? About moi?
Yes.
Moi.
How can it be about me? Well, just as humans have designer jeans that are only slightly different from normal jeans, kitty owners have the luxury of choosing from a dizzying plethora of options too. Everything from Science Diet to Blue to Meow Mix to Purina, and these are just a few of the dry food options, not to mention the canned food. CANNED FOOD FOR CATS! Have you ever heard of anything so absurd? Oh, right, kind of like paying five hundred dollars for designer jeans...
Anywho, within all those varieties are an entire world of varieties based on the age of the cat, the dietary needs (and or preferences) of the cat, and so on and so forth. Ingredients, percentages, organics, flavors, ages, diets, and PRICES! Why would I ever pay twenty dollars for Science Diet when I can pay 8 for Purina or 4 for Meow Mix?
(I'm not stupid. I'm sure Meow Mix is four dollars for a reason.... Or maybe I am stupid. Maybe Meow Mix is correctly priced and everything else is gross inflation...)
How am I supposed to know? They all say that they contain a balanced blend of nutrients. So what does it come down to? Packaging. Marketing. How can we appeal to cats when they aren't even the ones buying it. Appeal to the human, not the cat! For CAT food. Ridiculously genius.
Speaking of flavors, by the way, I want to know who decided that my cat needs to eat Lamb and Rice? Or Tuna? Or have Oceanspray flavor food? Were I to release my 2 lb. cat into the wild she would never take down a sheep, harvest rice, or fish for Albacore. In fact, I don't even know if she'd show any interest in the rotting carcass of a ram. Nope. Here's what would appeal to me (because it might actually appeal to my cat): Sparrow and Mouse flavored Kitty food. Afterall, when was the last time your cat dragged a lamb chop up onto the front porch? Never? Didn't think so.
So, I got the Purina. Not because of the advertising, but because it was a middle-price option and happened to be on sale.
And don't even get me started on Cat litter.
Litter for multi-cat homes, organic litter, clumping litter, non-clumping litter, and on and on and on and on. I walked away feeling bludgeoned by options.
Hmmmm....
What else happened this last few weeks.....
I set a new personal record and biked to work in 3 degree weather! Wind Chill was something awful but with my handy dandy face mask I was rock solid! Or, maybe closer to Frozen solid. It wasn't exactly pleasant, but delightful to know it was bearable.
Do I qualify as insane yet?
Hmmm...
No new baking adventures, I've been remiss in that department. Although I did create a fabulous black bean stew with a cornucopia of peppers and spices and veggies, paired with aged cheddar and garlic cheese bread breadbowls. THAT was the epitome of comfort food. Oh! I just realized that I made that on the 3 degree day. No wonder that's such a good memory!
Last week Amy and I went to the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry. We spent four or five hours there on one of their winter free days and only saw about one eighth of the place, and that might be a generous estimation. It's HUGE!!! Of course, the highlight of the trip was taking a tour of the U-505, the only captured German U-boat of WWII. Unbelievable experience. Second only to manipulating a tornado in their live science exhibit! That was pretty awesome too. Basically, if you've never been to the Museum of Science and Industry, you need to go. And if, like us now, you've been there before, chances are likely you should go again. Because you just can't see it all in one day.
So, it's been busy. I'm getting to teach my Sunday School kids about Abram and God's amazing faithfulness these days and it's been a blast. A real highlight.
Well, as this has been a shotgun blast of topics and no real depth of reporting about anything, you can bet that now that I'm blogging again I'll post pictures from the museum and give a real update on our fantasti-cat Marshmallow.
Until then, sleep better than I do (a.k.a. why I'm writing this after midnight)
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
The Edible Resume
For the last few weeks I've been trying to find bakeries and cafes that I would want to work at and while coffee shops abound, bakeries do not. Or, at least bakeries that I respect.
But there is one around the corner from where I live called Letizia's Fiore, and it's fantastic! Old-world quality baked goods and pizzas, fresh, modern decor, everything is cooked on a wood-burning stove right in front of you... could it get any better?
So I applied, and met the manager, shook his hand, and made small talk. But I'm not the best at talking myself up and didn't know how to make a stand-out impression, so without further adieu I thanked him for the opportunity and made my exit.
But last night while our friends were over for dinner I was serving individual-size Cranberry Apple tarts and I realized that an application is standard and a nicely formatted resume looks great, but who wants paper when I can give them an edible resume?!
Enter exhibit 1:
Letizia's Fiore specializes in individual size pies and tarts and other such pastries, so why not bring them pure ambrosia? Imagine this... I walk over there with a fresh, oozing, just-out-of-the-oven cranberry apple tart with a deluxe butter crust and latice topping and two scoops of vanilla bean ice cream on the side and say, "I've brought you an edible resume. At the end of the day it doesn't matter where I went to High School or how fancy my references are. Instead, taste this fresh, golden brown Cranberry Apple tart and let it do the talking."
What do you think, blogosphere? Should I be bold? Should I pack a secret weapon next time I fill out an application?
But there is one around the corner from where I live called Letizia's Fiore, and it's fantastic! Old-world quality baked goods and pizzas, fresh, modern decor, everything is cooked on a wood-burning stove right in front of you... could it get any better?
So I applied, and met the manager, shook his hand, and made small talk. But I'm not the best at talking myself up and didn't know how to make a stand-out impression, so without further adieu I thanked him for the opportunity and made my exit.
But last night while our friends were over for dinner I was serving individual-size Cranberry Apple tarts and I realized that an application is standard and a nicely formatted resume looks great, but who wants paper when I can give them an edible resume?!
Enter exhibit 1:
Letizia's Fiore specializes in individual size pies and tarts and other such pastries, so why not bring them pure ambrosia? Imagine this... I walk over there with a fresh, oozing, just-out-of-the-oven cranberry apple tart with a deluxe butter crust and latice topping and two scoops of vanilla bean ice cream on the side and say, "I've brought you an edible resume. At the end of the day it doesn't matter where I went to High School or how fancy my references are. Instead, taste this fresh, golden brown Cranberry Apple tart and let it do the talking."
What do you think, blogosphere? Should I be bold? Should I pack a secret weapon next time I fill out an application?
Friday, January 14, 2011
Phobic, in a bad way.
I am terrified of the intrusive powers of the Anti-Cruelty society.
A little over two weeks ago Amy and I returned from ND and found ourselves living in a little apartment in a big city, far far away from family. Sometimes we have friends over, but it's not the same as having a family. So we got a cat. It wasn't completely impulsive... but we might have had mixed motivations. Anyways, I'm not getting into that.
Regardless, we have a cat. She's awesome! She comes when we call her, loves to play games, sits on my shoulder like a pirate's parrot, and has an awesome name: Marshmallow. She is incredibly affectionate and her latest new game is to wait under the desk, chair, table, or behind doors and fake pounce on our legs when we walk by. She doesn't attack us, and isn't being malicious, she just likes to play hunt with us. It's absolutely adorable.
But then I remember where we got her from. The ruthless, coldhearted, glorified pound that needs so much help overcoming the negative stigma from having a building that looks like a lab for mad-scientists that it puts the words anti-cruelty right into its name.
The Anti-Cruelty Society.
When I read this I don't think, "Oh, a group of people who care about animals," I think, "Slick advertising - $10 bucks says they sell the rejects to hotdog vendors." Okay, I just made that up. But doesn't it seem a little hokey? "Oh yes, we're the anti-cruelty society! No cruelty here, ho-ho-ho, we're the saints of animal rescue!"
What gives me the heebyjeebies is that when we "rescued" Marshmallow from the wannabe despots they made us sign a form that gave them the right to visit, unannounced, whenever they want. WHENEVER THEY WANT? I just gave strangers the key to my back door? For crying out loud, why don't they just put it in plain English, "Yes, give us your money and take home the kitty but don't you ever let your kitty get hungry or her kitty box dirty or her dish unsanitary or let her shots get out of date because WE'LL KNOW, AND WE'LL TAKE YOU TO COURT AND LOCK YOU UP FOR INFINITY TIMES THREE!!!!"
It's all just a little Faustian if you ask me. Maybe I missed the check box that allowed me to include my soul in the deal...
Anywho, the reason I'm all up in a twist is because little Marshmallow (who isn't so little anymore ever since she actually started eating all of her allotted 1/3 cup of kitty food for kitties her size) came pre-spayed. Quite the convenience if you ask me. Except the stitches weren't out yet and we had to take her home with two little sutures in her tummy. We were told to bring her back at a certain time for them to take them out, but we were busy and couldn't go.
But we didn't sweat it. We figured that we could just call and reschedule, right? Wrong.
Instead, I got an answering machine that didn't mention anything about clinic reschedulings. Still, I persisted, and left my name, number, situation, name, and number again, and then hung up. I had done all I could do, short of barging in with a kitty under my arm and an uzi in my other hand like a weak-sauce impression of Rambo or something. Not that Rambo ever had a kitty emergency...
So we waited and waited and waited. And didn't hear anything back. And waited some more. And I became impatient.
And [GASP] I took matters into my own hands.
I got my scissors, cleaned them up, and went snip, snip, tug, tug. No more sutures.
Marshmallow initially hated me, but after a few hours she realized I'd removed the bane of her self-cleaning regimen and I was her new hero. Trumpet noise: dah-dah-dah-dahhhhhh
Except now I have this nagging spectre of doom stalking me, threatening to play pounce for real. The face of the nagging spectre? There isn't one. It's hooded, and masked, and all that comes from the slits that are vaguely in the right region for nose holes is a vaporous cloud. A haze of guilt and impending doom. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID. YOU DON'T HAVE A VETERINARY LICENSE. YOU PERFORMED SURGERY ON YOUR COUCH. YOU WILL PAY. YOU WILL PAY.
Pretty soon the apartment is swarming with Anti-Cruelty undercover agents. Marshmallow is being crated, I'm being dragged off, and Anti-Cruelty agents are trashing my place. I'm hauled off to the Anti-Cruelty Re-education Center (read: Gulag), Amy has to move in with her parents, and Marshmallow get resold under a new name. When her new owners ask about her past, the Society (as the like to refer to themselves) just says that there isn't any on file!
All this and more. And I think she has a booster shot coming up...
A little over two weeks ago Amy and I returned from ND and found ourselves living in a little apartment in a big city, far far away from family. Sometimes we have friends over, but it's not the same as having a family. So we got a cat. It wasn't completely impulsive... but we might have had mixed motivations. Anyways, I'm not getting into that.
Regardless, we have a cat. She's awesome! She comes when we call her, loves to play games, sits on my shoulder like a pirate's parrot, and has an awesome name: Marshmallow. She is incredibly affectionate and her latest new game is to wait under the desk, chair, table, or behind doors and fake pounce on our legs when we walk by. She doesn't attack us, and isn't being malicious, she just likes to play hunt with us. It's absolutely adorable.
But then I remember where we got her from. The ruthless, coldhearted, glorified pound that needs so much help overcoming the negative stigma from having a building that looks like a lab for mad-scientists that it puts the words anti-cruelty right into its name.
The Anti-Cruelty Society.
When I read this I don't think, "Oh, a group of people who care about animals," I think, "Slick advertising - $10 bucks says they sell the rejects to hotdog vendors." Okay, I just made that up. But doesn't it seem a little hokey? "Oh yes, we're the anti-cruelty society! No cruelty here, ho-ho-ho, we're the saints of animal rescue!"
What gives me the heebyjeebies is that when we "rescued" Marshmallow from the wannabe despots they made us sign a form that gave them the right to visit, unannounced, whenever they want. WHENEVER THEY WANT? I just gave strangers the key to my back door? For crying out loud, why don't they just put it in plain English, "Yes, give us your money and take home the kitty but don't you ever let your kitty get hungry or her kitty box dirty or her dish unsanitary or let her shots get out of date because WE'LL KNOW, AND WE'LL TAKE YOU TO COURT AND LOCK YOU UP FOR INFINITY TIMES THREE!!!!"
It's all just a little Faustian if you ask me. Maybe I missed the check box that allowed me to include my soul in the deal...
Anywho, the reason I'm all up in a twist is because little Marshmallow (who isn't so little anymore ever since she actually started eating all of her allotted 1/3 cup of kitty food for kitties her size) came pre-spayed. Quite the convenience if you ask me. Except the stitches weren't out yet and we had to take her home with two little sutures in her tummy. We were told to bring her back at a certain time for them to take them out, but we were busy and couldn't go.
But we didn't sweat it. We figured that we could just call and reschedule, right? Wrong.
Instead, I got an answering machine that didn't mention anything about clinic reschedulings. Still, I persisted, and left my name, number, situation, name, and number again, and then hung up. I had done all I could do, short of barging in with a kitty under my arm and an uzi in my other hand like a weak-sauce impression of Rambo or something. Not that Rambo ever had a kitty emergency...
So we waited and waited and waited. And didn't hear anything back. And waited some more. And I became impatient.
And [GASP] I took matters into my own hands.
I got my scissors, cleaned them up, and went snip, snip, tug, tug. No more sutures.
Marshmallow initially hated me, but after a few hours she realized I'd removed the bane of her self-cleaning regimen and I was her new hero. Trumpet noise: dah-dah-dah-dahhhhhh
Except now I have this nagging spectre of doom stalking me, threatening to play pounce for real. The face of the nagging spectre? There isn't one. It's hooded, and masked, and all that comes from the slits that are vaguely in the right region for nose holes is a vaporous cloud. A haze of guilt and impending doom. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID. YOU DON'T HAVE A VETERINARY LICENSE. YOU PERFORMED SURGERY ON YOUR COUCH. YOU WILL PAY. YOU WILL PAY.
Pretty soon the apartment is swarming with Anti-Cruelty undercover agents. Marshmallow is being crated, I'm being dragged off, and Anti-Cruelty agents are trashing my place. I'm hauled off to the Anti-Cruelty Re-education Center (read: Gulag), Amy has to move in with her parents, and Marshmallow get resold under a new name. When her new owners ask about her past, the Society (as the like to refer to themselves) just says that there isn't any on file!
All this and more. And I think she has a booster shot coming up...
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Basic White
Found in the chapter Basic Yeast Bread and Other White Flour Breads is found the very first recipe of James Beard's Beard on Bread. And as the beginning is the appropriate place to start any adventure, that is where I have started mine. The Basic White.
Having grown up in the home of a baker I had the privilege to learn much about cooking, baking, canning, pastries, etc., straight from my Mom and therefore was resistant to the idea of starting with the very, very, beginning. Basic White? Seriously? I think I'm ready for Advanced White.
But, I knew deep down that my hubris would be undoing and that if I really wanted to learn the ropes from James Beard I needed to buckle down and just bake whatever he told me to bake. But don't worry, I still brought the heat.
Basic White turns out to be just that - basic. Granted, there really isn't a whole lot that goes into a simple bread. A little flour, a little water, a little yeast, a little salt, and maybe some sugar if you want. Other than that all that's necessary is some butter to grease the pans. But as simple as that description just was, I quickly realized I was dealing with a baker writing to an audience from 1973!
Apparently, back in the days of yore, good flour products were hard to come by and so Mr. Beard wrote this recipe for those who couldn't get a hold of bread flour, whole wheat flour, rye flour, etc., etc. The Basic White of James Beard calls for All-Purpose! Is this blasphemy?!?
Nevertheless, I followed his instructions. As he says, "I have chosen it as my first recipe here because I think it will provide any beginner with the basic techniques of breadmaking." Again, I cringed a little. I am not a beginner.
Then again, maybe the constant mantra of "I'm always a learner" in essence expresses that I'm always a beginner.
So we began.
By far my favorite aspect of his writing is the degree of detail he puts into describing the process. It doesn't feel dumbed down at all. Rather, it feels like he's just in the kitchen explaining what's going on as it happens, explaining what should happen next, what texture the bread should have, and what consistency you're looking for.
First thing I liked about Beard: he proof's his yeast with sugar. This is something I remember my mom teaching me but was decried by The Joy of Cooking. I never understood why Joy would spread such heresy, so Beard's praxis was a comfort indeed. Chemically speaking, yeast, the leavening agent, is a bacteria. And bacteria feeds on sugar. Therefore, if you want to know if your yeast is still active (i.e. able to make the bread rise) you put it in a bowl with some warm water and a little sugar to see if it will react. If it does, you're golden and ready to add it to your flour.
Second thing I like about Beard on Bread is the diagrams. Even though I have a good deal of experience, it's still nice to see a picture from time to time of what it should look like.
Now, I do feel a little guilty about this, but I made the bread last Saturday, so all of this is going off of my memory of the bread. But this is what I remember.
A) I had to use a little more water that the recipe called for. Not a big deal. A number of factors could have caused this to be the case. Humidity, quality of the flour, etc. But I did find that at the ratios given in the recipe the dough was tough and difficult to fully combine without more water. In hindsight, I could've probably used even a little more water, but it turned out fine.
B) The dough did not rise as much or as fast as expected. This could also be attributed to the temperature of the room, the rising environment, etc., but it wasn't a major concern. Also, I got lazy with my loaf. This is not to blame James Beard or the recipe, I just got lazy when it came time to form it. Oh well. So it wasn't even. Whatever. It still tasted awesome :)
C) The loaf did not brown as I expected and so was difficult to judge by sight for doneness. I followed the recipe in every way and gave the loaf only a cold water brushing rather than an egg yolk wash or milk wash. As a result I turned out a very light colored, dense loaf that had a firm crust. It was perfect with soft butter and turned out very well.
Just as he said, it was easy, simple, and a good starter bread. Additionally, he gave several examples of kneading technique. I read them, but prefer the method that I've formed over the years.
All in all, Basic White was a great bread. I expected that it would be a nice beginner's loaf but nothing I'd ever want to make again, but I actually liked it enough that I would definitely make it, and enjoy it, again.
Having grown up in the home of a baker I had the privilege to learn much about cooking, baking, canning, pastries, etc., straight from my Mom and therefore was resistant to the idea of starting with the very, very, beginning. Basic White? Seriously? I think I'm ready for Advanced White.
But, I knew deep down that my hubris would be undoing and that if I really wanted to learn the ropes from James Beard I needed to buckle down and just bake whatever he told me to bake. But don't worry, I still brought the heat.
Basic White turns out to be just that - basic. Granted, there really isn't a whole lot that goes into a simple bread. A little flour, a little water, a little yeast, a little salt, and maybe some sugar if you want. Other than that all that's necessary is some butter to grease the pans. But as simple as that description just was, I quickly realized I was dealing with a baker writing to an audience from 1973!
Apparently, back in the days of yore, good flour products were hard to come by and so Mr. Beard wrote this recipe for those who couldn't get a hold of bread flour, whole wheat flour, rye flour, etc., etc. The Basic White of James Beard calls for All-Purpose! Is this blasphemy?!?
Nevertheless, I followed his instructions. As he says, "I have chosen it as my first recipe here because I think it will provide any beginner with the basic techniques of breadmaking." Again, I cringed a little. I am not a beginner.
Then again, maybe the constant mantra of "I'm always a learner" in essence expresses that I'm always a beginner.
So we began.
By far my favorite aspect of his writing is the degree of detail he puts into describing the process. It doesn't feel dumbed down at all. Rather, it feels like he's just in the kitchen explaining what's going on as it happens, explaining what should happen next, what texture the bread should have, and what consistency you're looking for.
First thing I liked about Beard: he proof's his yeast with sugar. This is something I remember my mom teaching me but was decried by The Joy of Cooking. I never understood why Joy would spread such heresy, so Beard's praxis was a comfort indeed. Chemically speaking, yeast, the leavening agent, is a bacteria. And bacteria feeds on sugar. Therefore, if you want to know if your yeast is still active (i.e. able to make the bread rise) you put it in a bowl with some warm water and a little sugar to see if it will react. If it does, you're golden and ready to add it to your flour.
Second thing I like about Beard on Bread is the diagrams. Even though I have a good deal of experience, it's still nice to see a picture from time to time of what it should look like.
Now, I do feel a little guilty about this, but I made the bread last Saturday, so all of this is going off of my memory of the bread. But this is what I remember.
Just as he said, it was easy, simple, and a good starter bread. Additionally, he gave several examples of kneading technique. I read them, but prefer the method that I've formed over the years.
All in all, Basic White was a great bread. I expected that it would be a nice beginner's loaf but nothing I'd ever want to make again, but I actually liked it enough that I would definitely make it, and enjoy it, again.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Julie and Julia Pt. 2 - Jonathan and James?
Either last year or the year before a movie came out about a girl who worker her way through the entire Julia Child's cookbook Mastering the Art of French Cooking. It was a fun movie and a great story about life and the adventures of kitchen mishaps, upsets, and disasters as well as the occasional and extremely satisfying success.
Well, I like to cook and would love it if someone bought me Julia's cookbook, but I love something else maybe even more.
Bread.
And as Christmas present I received James Beard's Beard on Bread. Check it out here.
This man loved bread even more than I do. The book is filled with 100 of his favorite recipes and although I already know a little more than the average joe about bread, I decided today to work my way through and make every recipe in the book, cataloguing the experience here for all to enjoy!
I am stoked. While I have plenty of friends who enjoy the fruits of my labor, James will be my first official bread mentor. This is going to be awesome!
Well, I like to cook and would love it if someone bought me Julia's cookbook, but I love something else maybe even more.
Bread.
And as Christmas present I received James Beard's Beard on Bread. Check it out here.
This man loved bread even more than I do. The book is filled with 100 of his favorite recipes and although I already know a little more than the average joe about bread, I decided today to work my way through and make every recipe in the book, cataloguing the experience here for all to enjoy!
I am stoked. While I have plenty of friends who enjoy the fruits of my labor, James will be my first official bread mentor. This is going to be awesome!
Groupon Glory
Whoever thought up Groupon is a genius. What is it? It's kind of like buying coupons, which would be stupid, except it's for places that would never ever have 50% off sales! Or More! And it's tailored to your city! Your favorite shops!
Today's Groupon is 50% off at a little bakery I love called Red Hen Bread. The way it works is this: I pay 5 dollars but get a 10 dollar gift card/certificate thingy. Now, I was already going to buy their bread, so why not buy it at half price?
Awesome, huh?
I think you should join Groupon too. Follow my link (here) and be a part of the awesomeness.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Sad Numbers
Confused by the title of today's blog? You mean you never realized numbers had feelings too?
No. Of course numbers don't have feelings. But I have feelings, and sometimes numbers make me sad. Like that number over there on the right.
Yeah, the number that says I'm not awesome.
Okay. I admit. I'm the one who changed the title of the gadget from "Total Pageviews" to "my Awesome-ness rating..." But let's all be honest. That's what we really think when we see it.
Question: Should Mark Zuckerberk add a "Total Profile Views" gadget to Facebook?
Question: Why hasn't he?
By the way, those aren't rhetorical. I invite response via the comment thingy. And I recently changed the settings so you don't even have to have a blogger account to comment, so you have NO excuse.
Okay, I'm done. I'm not actually going to throw a pity party for myself, but I will leave up my Awesome-ness Rating thingamajigger. It makes me laugh.
No. Of course numbers don't have feelings. But I have feelings, and sometimes numbers make me sad. Like that number over there on the right.
Yeah, the number that says I'm not awesome.
Okay. I admit. I'm the one who changed the title of the gadget from "Total Pageviews" to "my Awesome-ness rating..." But let's all be honest. That's what we really think when we see it.
Question: Should Mark Zuckerberk add a "Total Profile Views" gadget to Facebook?
Question: Why hasn't he?
By the way, those aren't rhetorical. I invite response via the comment thingy. And I recently changed the settings so you don't even have to have a blogger account to comment, so you have NO excuse.
Okay, I'm done. I'm not actually going to throw a pity party for myself, but I will leave up my Awesome-ness Rating thingamajigger. It makes me laugh.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Quiet home no more...
If you asked me if I prefer cats or dogs, I'd tell you dogs. Same goes for the wife. We like them so much that we went a little crazy this fall with wanting one. We picked out a breed, found some breeders, even made some inquiries, and then remembered - "hey, we're in a little apartment in Chicago. Is this really the right time to have a dog?"
Also, our landlord also has a no dog policy. So that ended that.
But that didn't end our desire for a pet. Fish are lame and make better food than pets. Birds are loud, messy, and annoying. And there's always that constant temptation to try and train it to sit on your shoulder so you can look like a pirate. K, maybe that's just me. Anywho, alligators are illegal and monkeys throw poop. Gerbils are glorified rodents and no matter what anyone says, I will never believe that a rock can be a good pet. Nope. No pet rocks for me.
So, after returning from The Big House (a.k.a. Mom and Dad's at Christmas), our apartment felt more like a mega-closet than a mini-home. And it was quiet. Too quiet.
So, pet fever set in again.
It also didn't help that a friend in the city was followed home by a stray cat and his wife put up pictures of the feline destitute.
Granted, that cat was so ugly I knew on the spot that if we got her we would just name her Ugly. Okay, I know that's harsh, but it looked more like a cow than a cat. It just did. End of story.
So it was time to hit up to world wide web. PAWS charges way too much for their cats so we went to, yes, that's right, The Anti-Cruelty Society. Duh, duh, duhhhhh...
Walking past the ACS building on Grand and LaSalle I always thought it looked more like the research center of a mad scientist than a kind home for cats and dogs in need of owners. It's not an abandoned warehouse or anything, it just never looked inviting. And with a name like "The Anti-Cruelty Society" I knew that it was either one of two things. A clever name meant to throw off innocent bystanders and mislead them into believing that good, humane things happened inside it's doors, or an actual operation by good-hearted, well-meaning, well-funded people who were bad at naming their organization. Wouldn't "Humane Society" be easier?
Anyhow, off we went on Thursday afternoon. Upon arrival the wife had to fork over her coffee because it wasn't allowed inside. First move by the ACS - uncool. But on to the kittens.
Inside the feline room were probably thirty-five to forty cages of cats of all ages. Kittens a few months old to cats on the last of their nine lives. We wanted a kitten, naturally, but the one we saw online was already claimed. Oh, no! Oreo was going to be someone else's! Egads!
But that freed us to give a fair appraisal of the other cats. There were tabbies, calicoes, persians, and all sorts. All black cats, all white cats, orange, brown, and mixed color cats. Big ones, little ones, feisty ones, frightened ones, fatties and anorexic kitties. Seriously. All sorts. So we picked out two kitties and took them out to play. First was Pineapple. He was a three month orange kitty with 'cuddly' written all over him. But after a little while we decided we wanted a cat with a little more personality. So back went Pineapple and out came Stella.
Stella was a mix between a calico, a tabby, and something else. I forget. Anyhow, where Pineapple was a flop, Stella was a homerun. One application, interview, and about forty minutes later we had a cat. Just like that. But not in a hat. K, I said that just rhyme. Back to the kitty... She's awesome. Sploches of color everywhere. Spots, stripes, patches of this next to patches of that, and then a ton of white mixed in. Black, orange, gray, white, spots, stripes, patches, and everything all mixed together. What an awesome cat! And, she came pre-spayed, with her vaccinations, deworming, microchip and everything. Pretty good deal.
Just look at her! What a cutie!
But the name had to go. Now if your name is Stella, don't worry, we probably like you. But we didn't want your name for our cat. The naming game had begun.
Porky. Peanut. Asteroid. Georgie. Nala. Felix. Hobbes. Trudy. Tiger Lilly. Spas-ti-cat.
None of them fit.
Penelope was a little better, but it didn't have anything to do with her personality or her coloration or anything. We just liked the name. The wife liked the name Cricket because of how loud her purr was, but I wasn't a fan. And on and on it went. I'd like a name but she wouldn't and vice versa. I liked Moose, but she didn't. She liked Patches but it didn't stick. With her unique colors and markings it was difficult finding a food that she resembled. Turtle? Like the ice cream? It kinda works, but doesn't.
Until last night. Epiphany.
It had been on the tip of my tongue for days. Finally, while watching her play last night I realized what she resembled. Our cat is a half-burnt marshmallow. You know, one of those perfect, huge, Jet-Puff Marshmallows that you had too close to the flame and so parts of it got singed, but other parts of it are still perfect golden brown. And all gooey on the inside. Yup. That's our cat.
I think it works on multiple levels, too. It may just be the kitten in her, but sometimes she seems a little half-baked. Haha...
So, welcome to the family Marshmallow.
We're happy you're here :)
Also, our landlord also has a no dog policy. So that ended that.
But that didn't end our desire for a pet. Fish are lame and make better food than pets. Birds are loud, messy, and annoying. And there's always that constant temptation to try and train it to sit on your shoulder so you can look like a pirate. K, maybe that's just me. Anywho, alligators are illegal and monkeys throw poop. Gerbils are glorified rodents and no matter what anyone says, I will never believe that a rock can be a good pet. Nope. No pet rocks for me.
So, after returning from The Big House (a.k.a. Mom and Dad's at Christmas), our apartment felt more like a mega-closet than a mini-home. And it was quiet. Too quiet.
So, pet fever set in again.
It also didn't help that a friend in the city was followed home by a stray cat and his wife put up pictures of the feline destitute.
Granted, that cat was so ugly I knew on the spot that if we got her we would just name her Ugly. Okay, I know that's harsh, but it looked more like a cow than a cat. It just did. End of story.
So it was time to hit up to world wide web. PAWS charges way too much for their cats so we went to, yes, that's right, The Anti-Cruelty Society. Duh, duh, duhhhhh...
Walking past the ACS building on Grand and LaSalle I always thought it looked more like the research center of a mad scientist than a kind home for cats and dogs in need of owners. It's not an abandoned warehouse or anything, it just never looked inviting. And with a name like "The Anti-Cruelty Society" I knew that it was either one of two things. A clever name meant to throw off innocent bystanders and mislead them into believing that good, humane things happened inside it's doors, or an actual operation by good-hearted, well-meaning, well-funded people who were bad at naming their organization. Wouldn't "Humane Society" be easier?
Anyhow, off we went on Thursday afternoon. Upon arrival the wife had to fork over her coffee because it wasn't allowed inside. First move by the ACS - uncool. But on to the kittens.
Inside the feline room were probably thirty-five to forty cages of cats of all ages. Kittens a few months old to cats on the last of their nine lives. We wanted a kitten, naturally, but the one we saw online was already claimed. Oh, no! Oreo was going to be someone else's! Egads!
But that freed us to give a fair appraisal of the other cats. There were tabbies, calicoes, persians, and all sorts. All black cats, all white cats, orange, brown, and mixed color cats. Big ones, little ones, feisty ones, frightened ones, fatties and anorexic kitties. Seriously. All sorts. So we picked out two kitties and took them out to play. First was Pineapple. He was a three month orange kitty with 'cuddly' written all over him. But after a little while we decided we wanted a cat with a little more personality. So back went Pineapple and out came Stella.
Stella was a mix between a calico, a tabby, and something else. I forget. Anyhow, where Pineapple was a flop, Stella was a homerun. One application, interview, and about forty minutes later we had a cat. Just like that. But not in a hat. K, I said that just rhyme. Back to the kitty... She's awesome. Sploches of color everywhere. Spots, stripes, patches of this next to patches of that, and then a ton of white mixed in. Black, orange, gray, white, spots, stripes, patches, and everything all mixed together. What an awesome cat! And, she came pre-spayed, with her vaccinations, deworming, microchip and everything. Pretty good deal.
Just look at her! What a cutie!
But the name had to go. Now if your name is Stella, don't worry, we probably like you. But we didn't want your name for our cat. The naming game had begun.
Porky. Peanut. Asteroid. Georgie. Nala. Felix. Hobbes. Trudy. Tiger Lilly. Spas-ti-cat.
None of them fit.
Penelope was a little better, but it didn't have anything to do with her personality or her coloration or anything. We just liked the name. The wife liked the name Cricket because of how loud her purr was, but I wasn't a fan. And on and on it went. I'd like a name but she wouldn't and vice versa. I liked Moose, but she didn't. She liked Patches but it didn't stick. With her unique colors and markings it was difficult finding a food that she resembled. Turtle? Like the ice cream? It kinda works, but doesn't.
Until last night. Epiphany.
It had been on the tip of my tongue for days. Finally, while watching her play last night I realized what she resembled. Our cat is a half-burnt marshmallow. You know, one of those perfect, huge, Jet-Puff Marshmallows that you had too close to the flame and so parts of it got singed, but other parts of it are still perfect golden brown. And all gooey on the inside. Yup. That's our cat.
I think it works on multiple levels, too. It may just be the kitten in her, but sometimes she seems a little half-baked. Haha...
So, welcome to the family Marshmallow.
We're happy you're here :)
Christmas in North Dakota - Pt. 4
Sadly, while I took pictures fairly diligently the first half of the week, during the second half of the week it became more important to just be with the family and not necessarily take pictures of everything. So, there are only a few left and some of them not so great.
We enjoyed family meals together all week. Breakfast was usually a pajama affair and lunch was a general idea that could stretch anywhere between noon and four o'clock, but dinner usually happened with all eleven of us around the table. Some nights were quieter than others, some more rowdy, but it was always just nice to see everyone's face at the same table.
On the Christmas Eve eve, the 23rd, we had a fancier dinner with candles and everything. Santa even showed up and had presents for all. Somehow I made it into the "nice" book, and in some twist of fate my brother did too. But, we both have pretty awesome wives, so that probably explains it.
The 24th arrived and we went to church for the Christmas Eve service. We went to a church we'd never been to before because we assumed it would be smaller and easier for us to navigate with the little ones. We were also surprised by the service though. It's hard to say what it was we should have expected, but I'm pretty sure none of us saw what was coming.
It wasn't dramatic, there wasn't a pageant, and it was all fairly straight forward. But perhaps the kind way of describing the event is "unrehearsed". I could also add untalented, bad, poor, shameful, lacking, or pathetic to the list, but I'm trying to be nice. The two highlights were the special song and the candlelit number "Joy to the World". The special was indeed special, but only because the singer didn't know the words, was whispering more than singing, and seemed to be having an anxiety attack. To top off the awkwardness we were invited to join in on the last stanza. It was difficult not to laugh.
"Joy to the World" felt more like bad circus music than a rousing Christmas hymn. For the first two phrases the song leader swayed between three or four different keys. It wasn't slurpy country music. It was more like a his vocal chords were a slide whistle that just couldn't find home. At no point was the entire congregation in the same key, although I tried valiantly to belt out the correct one from the back row. I think a few families joined in, but it was the most raucous hymn sing I've ever been a part of.
So, Christmas Eve was kicked off with a memorable service, then we had dinner with Grandma and a neighbor friend and a few other family friends. Later in the evening we had a fantastic game of Settlers of Catan and tried to watch a little bit of White Christmas on TCM.
Christmas day was awesome. My nephew got a litte excited and started digging through his stocking before he was supposed to, but you can't exactly re-pack it and tell him to wait, so we were off to the races. The rest of the kids soon joined in and before too long the floor was a sea of wrapping paper. Later on we went to see the grandparents at the nursing home and then we cracked open the pinochle deck after dinner for a family game. Classic. Just classic.
So, Christmas was a success. It was hard to say goodbye when my brother left Sunday morning and even harder to leave on Sunday night on the train. As the fates would have it, our train was late getting home but spot on time to leave.
And after staying at a house of eleven people for a week, our little apartment felt like a glorified closet and a little too quiet. But such is life. Being home did much to remind me the value of staying close to my family and not losing touch with them in the next year. So, here's to family. Happy New Year, all!
We enjoyed family meals together all week. Breakfast was usually a pajama affair and lunch was a general idea that could stretch anywhere between noon and four o'clock, but dinner usually happened with all eleven of us around the table. Some nights were quieter than others, some more rowdy, but it was always just nice to see everyone's face at the same table.
On the Christmas Eve eve, the 23rd, we had a fancier dinner with candles and everything. Santa even showed up and had presents for all. Somehow I made it into the "nice" book, and in some twist of fate my brother did too. But, we both have pretty awesome wives, so that probably explains it.
The 24th arrived and we went to church for the Christmas Eve service. We went to a church we'd never been to before because we assumed it would be smaller and easier for us to navigate with the little ones. We were also surprised by the service though. It's hard to say what it was we should have expected, but I'm pretty sure none of us saw what was coming.
It wasn't dramatic, there wasn't a pageant, and it was all fairly straight forward. But perhaps the kind way of describing the event is "unrehearsed". I could also add untalented, bad, poor, shameful, lacking, or pathetic to the list, but I'm trying to be nice. The two highlights were the special song and the candlelit number "Joy to the World". The special was indeed special, but only because the singer didn't know the words, was whispering more than singing, and seemed to be having an anxiety attack. To top off the awkwardness we were invited to join in on the last stanza. It was difficult not to laugh.
"Joy to the World" felt more like bad circus music than a rousing Christmas hymn. For the first two phrases the song leader swayed between three or four different keys. It wasn't slurpy country music. It was more like a his vocal chords were a slide whistle that just couldn't find home. At no point was the entire congregation in the same key, although I tried valiantly to belt out the correct one from the back row. I think a few families joined in, but it was the most raucous hymn sing I've ever been a part of.
So, Christmas Eve was kicked off with a memorable service, then we had dinner with Grandma and a neighbor friend and a few other family friends. Later in the evening we had a fantastic game of Settlers of Catan and tried to watch a little bit of White Christmas on TCM.
Christmas day was awesome. My nephew got a litte excited and started digging through his stocking before he was supposed to, but you can't exactly re-pack it and tell him to wait, so we were off to the races. The rest of the kids soon joined in and before too long the floor was a sea of wrapping paper. Later on we went to see the grandparents at the nursing home and then we cracked open the pinochle deck after dinner for a family game. Classic. Just classic.
So, Christmas was a success. It was hard to say goodbye when my brother left Sunday morning and even harder to leave on Sunday night on the train. As the fates would have it, our train was late getting home but spot on time to leave.
And after staying at a house of eleven people for a week, our little apartment felt like a glorified closet and a little too quiet. But such is life. Being home did much to remind me the value of staying close to my family and not losing touch with them in the next year. So, here's to family. Happy New Year, all!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Christmas in North Dakota - Pt. 3
Wednesday brought a new adventure for the kids. Ice Skating! While there were skates to fit the two oldest kids, little AJ had to endure skates too large for her tiny feets. It's strange watching little kids learn to skate, struggling to skate, when I have hard time remembering a time when I didn't know how to skate! So, my brother held AJ while Dad, H, and C, made a chain gang with the kids in the middle, and we had a blast!
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