Cinnamon Streusel Coffee Cake: delicious for a birthday breakfast. Made entirely of ingredients you are likely to have on hand. This is handy when you forget to buy the key ingredient, blueberries, for the requested Blueberry Buckle Coffee Cake. We were all pleased with this light and fluffy alternative.
King Arthur Cinnamon Streusel Coffee Cake
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Summer Goals - When You Are Fourteen
I have noticed that days make themselves wings and fly away. Lazy summer days are an especially flighty sort. A flighty sort that calls for a certain amount of goal setting, lest we miss an open opportunity because we are too busy sitting on the couch. You've been busy in that way too, haven't you?
When I mentioned to Ally that I thought she ought to form some summer goals, she had already made a long list. I was impressed and saw no reason to ask anything more of her. Her summer goals:
When I mentioned to Ally that I thought she ought to form some summer goals, she had already made a long list. I was impressed and saw no reason to ask anything more of her. Her summer goals:
- Sew her first quilt, all by hand. (Personally I consider this nothing short of torture, but these are Ally's goals.)
- Type up recipes and organize a recipe notebook.
- Compete in the Bible Bee.
- Read books. A rather extensive reading list, too long to be finished. Beginning, and ending, no doubt with Dickens.
- Fit in 300 hours of drawing.
- Mow the soccer fields with her father and earn a dollar or two.
- Use those hard earned dollars to spend one glorious week visiting old friends.
Monday, May 28, 2012
The Bible in Bee and in Life
This week the girls are anxiously awaiting the arrival of the Bible Bee materials. They are excited. This is the fourth year our family has participated, and with time immersed in the Word, we have borne fruit. There is the obvious fruit: the the sheer number of verses memorized (hundreds). There is fruit that sweetened and ripened into a Bible Bee Bible shared with an unbelieving friend. There is the sweet fruit of encouragement, watching other families take the Word of God so very seriously. We are not alone, in fact, we fall well behind the efforts of others.
The most enduring fruit has been that treasuring of God's Word in our minds through our summer days, poured over into all the rest of the year. Because my kids have worked so hard to know verses word for word, I now have a stack of memory verses of my own. A pile of ordinary index cards, hole-punched and on a binder ring, I carry it around and attempt to bind those passages to my heart. My mom, too, now has a stack of memory verses. The kids have spurred us on.
A hundred years ago, when I was in college, I had one professor whose course left a lasting mark on my life. He was old, probably close to retirement. He had frizzy hair and wore the same clothes he'd worn for the past 20 years. Truthfully, he was kind of boring. There were plenty of other professors, young, handsome, hip, entertaining, who seemed to overshadow him. And so, at the time, I felt like I was simply enduring his class on Romans.
Time, sifting the memory of college experiences, has allowed that out-dated professor to stand out among so many others. Every time that funny old man, that godly theologian, wanted to reference a scripture passage he quoted it from memory. There, before a sleepy class, meeting a Bible requirement, he quoted verse after verse of Scripture. When he missed a word, he was upset with himself, not quitting but running back over the passage again and again until he could run past his stumbling block.
The lasting legacy of a Christian University education, which didn't come cheaply, mind you, was that humble unpretentious man, steeped in the Bible. All his years of study and teaching both undergrads and seminary students was surpassed by what he chose to do in the quiet minutes of his days, and years. And that rich legacy, the wealth of wisdom from the Word of God, is ultimately free to us all, costing only hard work and much repetition.
I would give much to be out-dated, out-moded, by-passed by the hip and the culture shapers; yet able to recite verses and passages, chapters and books of the unchanging, eternal Word of the Lord.
Here is a blog post from my alma mater, The Easiest Way to Memorize the Bible that has spurred me to press on, and challenged me that even now I aim too low.
The most enduring fruit has been that treasuring of God's Word in our minds through our summer days, poured over into all the rest of the year. Because my kids have worked so hard to know verses word for word, I now have a stack of memory verses of my own. A pile of ordinary index cards, hole-punched and on a binder ring, I carry it around and attempt to bind those passages to my heart. My mom, too, now has a stack of memory verses. The kids have spurred us on.
A hundred years ago, when I was in college, I had one professor whose course left a lasting mark on my life. He was old, probably close to retirement. He had frizzy hair and wore the same clothes he'd worn for the past 20 years. Truthfully, he was kind of boring. There were plenty of other professors, young, handsome, hip, entertaining, who seemed to overshadow him. And so, at the time, I felt like I was simply enduring his class on Romans.
Time, sifting the memory of college experiences, has allowed that out-dated professor to stand out among so many others. Every time that funny old man, that godly theologian, wanted to reference a scripture passage he quoted it from memory. There, before a sleepy class, meeting a Bible requirement, he quoted verse after verse of Scripture. When he missed a word, he was upset with himself, not quitting but running back over the passage again and again until he could run past his stumbling block.
The lasting legacy of a Christian University education, which didn't come cheaply, mind you, was that humble unpretentious man, steeped in the Bible. All his years of study and teaching both undergrads and seminary students was surpassed by what he chose to do in the quiet minutes of his days, and years. And that rich legacy, the wealth of wisdom from the Word of God, is ultimately free to us all, costing only hard work and much repetition.
I would give much to be out-dated, out-moded, by-passed by the hip and the culture shapers; yet able to recite verses and passages, chapters and books of the unchanging, eternal Word of the Lord.
Here is a blog post from my alma mater, The Easiest Way to Memorize the Bible that has spurred me to press on, and challenged me that even now I aim too low.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Good Running Wild
“And the more I considered Christianity, the more I found that while it had established a rule and order, the chief aim of that order was to give room for good things to run wild.” G.K. ChestertonI want, today, to make room for good things to run wild. Chesterton asserts that room is found by following the laws we think restrain us. We make room by adhering to the principles that are narrow. Wildness is found in obedience. When sin is restrained we come out into a wide place. And good can run wild.
Today.
Friday, April 27, 2012
The Storymobile
Wednesday when I delivered that bowl of strawberries to my neighbor, we got to talking about the Mennonite nursery out by the swimming lake. Half of our conversations revolve around the garden, so we quickly agreed to go together.
Thursday I hurried the kids through lunch and we piled in the van with our neighbor. Out toward the mountains we drove, out toward the swimming hole. The sign for the nursery was by the road, a crowd of pansies down below. We followed the drive, curving beside perfectly mowed fields. We passed the cattle trailers, perfectly perpendicular. The cattle chutes were gleaming. The greenhouses were small, but clean, perfectly built and maintained. The plants were nodding, happy, in the April sun. Later, I had to confess to Bryan some serious envy in my heart.
The car ride to the nursery, on the prim Mennonite farm, was all stories. Long ago her great-grandfather had fought with Sam Houston in Texas. When the fighting was done, he made his way back up into this river valley and chose a farm at the foot of the mountains. When the country was up at arms, readying for the Civil War, he declared he couldn't fight against his friends. He set his two slaves free, joined a regiment from Ohio and ended running a Union commissary, where the Methodist church now stands, a ten mile wagon ride from home. A niece had lost a husband, then a boyfriend in the fighting, so with two small children, she moved out to his farm and when the war was over they married and had a whole passel of kids. Aunt Em's house used to be right here, but it's fallen now. The wainscoting was waist high. When World War I ended, and they were the only house out there with a phone, someone called on the party-line at one in the morning with the news. Everyone got out of bed, and at two her mother set out across the fields with a lantern, to tell the next farm over. She worried all the way she'd step on a snake.
That is history.
Ambling between the petunias and begonias, I whispered in Sam's ear, "Wasn't it worth it, just to hear the stories?" When we finished, we hopped back in the storymobile and drove home. And Sam reported to Bryan, "She tells great stories."
In the Civil War there was a man who didn't want to fight. He hid up in the mountains, in a cave, just up there on the cliff. When the men from town came looking for him, he couldn't be found. After the danger had gone, his wife would put out the laundry, white sheets, visible on the valley floor from the cliffs up above, and he would make his way home.
And we rattled along in the storymobile. Cliffs to the right. Nursery ahead. Storyteller beside us in the car.
Thursday I hurried the kids through lunch and we piled in the van with our neighbor. Out toward the mountains we drove, out toward the swimming hole. The sign for the nursery was by the road, a crowd of pansies down below. We followed the drive, curving beside perfectly mowed fields. We passed the cattle trailers, perfectly perpendicular. The cattle chutes were gleaming. The greenhouses were small, but clean, perfectly built and maintained. The plants were nodding, happy, in the April sun. Later, I had to confess to Bryan some serious envy in my heart.
The car ride to the nursery, on the prim Mennonite farm, was all stories. Long ago her great-grandfather had fought with Sam Houston in Texas. When the fighting was done, he made his way back up into this river valley and chose a farm at the foot of the mountains. When the country was up at arms, readying for the Civil War, he declared he couldn't fight against his friends. He set his two slaves free, joined a regiment from Ohio and ended running a Union commissary, where the Methodist church now stands, a ten mile wagon ride from home. A niece had lost a husband, then a boyfriend in the fighting, so with two small children, she moved out to his farm and when the war was over they married and had a whole passel of kids. Aunt Em's house used to be right here, but it's fallen now. The wainscoting was waist high. When World War I ended, and they were the only house out there with a phone, someone called on the party-line at one in the morning with the news. Everyone got out of bed, and at two her mother set out across the fields with a lantern, to tell the next farm over. She worried all the way she'd step on a snake.
That is history.
Ambling between the petunias and begonias, I whispered in Sam's ear, "Wasn't it worth it, just to hear the stories?" When we finished, we hopped back in the storymobile and drove home. And Sam reported to Bryan, "She tells great stories."
In the Civil War there was a man who didn't want to fight. He hid up in the mountains, in a cave, just up there on the cliff. When the men from town came looking for him, he couldn't be found. After the danger had gone, his wife would put out the laundry, white sheets, visible on the valley floor from the cliffs up above, and he would make his way home.
And we rattled along in the storymobile. Cliffs to the right. Nursery ahead. Storyteller beside us in the car.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
My Grandma's Shortcake
I have funny memories of my Grandma's Wisconsin kitchen. Once the leg fell off my gingerbread man when it was time to pose for the picture; I pouted. My grandma's refusal to wash dishes during summer thunder storms. Seven layer salad was a genuine foreign food to a Californian, vegetarian, hippy child. I'm not sure if I liked it, but I know I loved the bacon. Much to the chagrin of my parents. Her kitchen was long and narrow, meticulously clean, with a window looking out on the back yard, the garden, and the strawberry bed.
After my grandma died there were years I didn't eat shortcake, at least not the way she made it. Then one day I found the recipe hiding in my mom's recipe box. I copied it out on an index card. Now my grandma's shortcake is standard summer fare. Or April fare, if you live in the South where summer hustles in and sticks around with a vengeance.
I warn you, this is not a sweet shortcake. It's more like a biscuit. The berries and ice cream piled on high add all the sweetness (no skimping, make a lot of berries). I once made this for an older friend and with a voice full of the past, she said, "This is the way my mother used to make shortcake." I love the food of memories, cherishing our families, the good and the bad, no perfect people, but looking for love. And sometimes you do have to look for the love, overlook the bitterness, add the sweet to the salty and come out with something good.
All of which is a long aside...the recipe for Shortcake:
2 c. flour
3 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt (a little less if you use salted butter)
3 TB sugar
1/2 c. shortening (I use butter)
2/3 c. milk
Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees.
Sift together the flour, powder, salt, and sugar. Cut in the shortening until the mixture is like oatmeal. If you don't have a pastry blender an easy way to do this is to hand-grate the butter into the flour, using a cheese grater, then crumble it into the dry ingredients with your fingers. (I use the food processor: pulse the dry ingredients a couple times. Cut the butter in one inch pieces, then add it to the dry ingredients and run the processor for a minute.) With a fork (or a quick whir of the machine) add the milk. Mix just until blended. Knead lightly, about 20 seconds. Turn out onto a floured board. Roll to a half inch thick circle. Bake on a greased cookie sheet (or parchment paper) for 20 minutes.
And as for the strawberries, I hope you already know, but just in case...
Slice or mash a bunch of berries. Add a heap of sugar. Taste. Add more sugar if it doesn't taste sickly sweet. Refrigerate for a couple hours, until the berries have released their juices. The juice is critical, if for some reason your berries don't make much, add a small amount of water. Stir it in and let the mixture sit a few more minutes.
Last year's post on freezer jam.
After my grandma died there were years I didn't eat shortcake, at least not the way she made it. Then one day I found the recipe hiding in my mom's recipe box. I copied it out on an index card. Now my grandma's shortcake is standard summer fare. Or April fare, if you live in the South where summer hustles in and sticks around with a vengeance.
I warn you, this is not a sweet shortcake. It's more like a biscuit. The berries and ice cream piled on high add all the sweetness (no skimping, make a lot of berries). I once made this for an older friend and with a voice full of the past, she said, "This is the way my mother used to make shortcake." I love the food of memories, cherishing our families, the good and the bad, no perfect people, but looking for love. And sometimes you do have to look for the love, overlook the bitterness, add the sweet to the salty and come out with something good.
All of which is a long aside...the recipe for Shortcake:
2 c. flour
3 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt (a little less if you use salted butter)
3 TB sugar
1/2 c. shortening (I use butter)
2/3 c. milk
Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees.
Sift together the flour, powder, salt, and sugar. Cut in the shortening until the mixture is like oatmeal. If you don't have a pastry blender an easy way to do this is to hand-grate the butter into the flour, using a cheese grater, then crumble it into the dry ingredients with your fingers. (I use the food processor: pulse the dry ingredients a couple times. Cut the butter in one inch pieces, then add it to the dry ingredients and run the processor for a minute.) With a fork (or a quick whir of the machine) add the milk. Mix just until blended. Knead lightly, about 20 seconds. Turn out onto a floured board. Roll to a half inch thick circle. Bake on a greased cookie sheet (or parchment paper) for 20 minutes.
And as for the strawberries, I hope you already know, but just in case...
Slice or mash a bunch of berries. Add a heap of sugar. Taste. Add more sugar if it doesn't taste sickly sweet. Refrigerate for a couple hours, until the berries have released their juices. The juice is critical, if for some reason your berries don't make much, add a small amount of water. Stir it in and let the mixture sit a few more minutes.
Last year's post on freezer jam.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Strawberries
The crew and I picked strawberries today. The ripe berries were few and far between. I feel it in my back tonight. Then we discovered all the best berries were in the area beside the mud puddle. Thankfully, Ally wore her boots.
Home again, we washed and sorted and cut. This afternoon we made one batch of strawberry freezer jam. I carried a bowl of berries over to share with an elderly neighbor. This evening we are having shortcake. We're calling it an End of the Math Book Party, because Ally finished Algebra I today. Or we could call it a First Sign of Summer Party. They are both appropriate.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)