Busy day today. Gotta go check on the annual Thanksgiving fire out in the field. The goal is to see how long we can keep it going. Thanksgiving is usually our last good weather and I love to spend as much time as I can outdoors.
One Thanksgiving Beaven wanted to cut down a tree that was blocking our satellite reception. But the tree landed on the house and it took the entire day Thanksgiving clearing up that mess.
Another year the pond had dried up and we spent the day clearing out a lot of stuff that had sunk in the water. What makes that year memorable is that one of our daughters was wearing a heart monitor because she had developed an erratic heartbeat. After she got home after that weekend she ended up in the hospital and had a procedure to correct the problem. Nothing makes a Thanksgiving memorable like a brush with medical problems.
I am grateful this year for great weather. For health. For a family that, for the most part, really enjoy each other’s company. For living close to God’s creation.
Facebook the last couple of days has been alive with recipes and cooking plans. Here’s my contribution:
How to Cook a Turkey
Cooking a turkey is one of the most overrated efforts in America. Years ago, housewives with too much time on their hands began doing weird stuff like sewing it together. It doesn’t need that.
There is only one precaution. Remember to check it inside for those little bags of parts. God only knows what they are-liver and hearts and gross stuff. Some people know how to use them but I don’t. You don’t have to know what to do with them, just remember to take them out or you will cut into the turkey at the dinner table to find it and be publicly humiliated - probably in front of your mother-in-law.
The whole process starts at the store when you have to pick one out. I’ve never done any fancy calculations about weight. I always just bought one the same size as all the others. You’re feeding an average size crowd so buy an average turkey. Don’t get one too small or you won’t have enough juice for gravy. Don’t get one too big, either--you don’t have an oven that big and surely you have enough sense not to invite that many people.
Bring it home and wash it. This is not only for cleanliness. You want to be sure to check for all those little bags. Most important, however, is that during the washing of the turkey you get to know it. This is your honored guest for the big meal. His name is probably Tom. Call him by name. I never figured out why people would cook a male turkey named Tom when it is the big breasts they want. Maybe the toms are larger. I always call mine Tom no matter what sex it is.
Introduce Tom to your children. Have him wave his wing. Show the kids how he runs on his drumsticks. Enjoy yourself . This is the last quality time you will have with the children this whole day. This is the last smile they will see on your face. Explain to them that you are going away on a trip and another mother who just looks like you will be here for a day or so. She may say and do some shocking things and her face will get very red while she screams at everyone. Explain that you will be home after she leaves, probably on Saturday.
Here is my recipe for cooking turkey:
Read on the bag how long to cook it and what temperature to use. Stuff an onion and a celery stick up his butt and throw him in the pan. I’m not sure the onion and celery help the turkey but it makes the room smell nice. Do NOT cover the pan. Rub a little margarine on the top. Salt and pepper. Make a mental note of the time. Put it in the oven. Go away and forget about it. Turkeys have been doing this for years. They know what to do.
About Me
- Jane
- I'm pretty much a typist for the Holy Spirit. I try to put those things into words in a blog called Jane's Journey. I have another blog for recipes called My Life in Food. Also Really Cool Stuff features Labyrinths and other things like how to fry an egg on the sidewalk.(first step: don't do it on the sidewalk, use a skillet) Come along with me as I careen through life.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Chicken Drop Sunday
I have given birth twice. And once I did it without the benefit of drugs. So I know what childbirth is like. And I have to say that giving birth is a piece of cake compared to writing a book. I just got home from dropping off the final final final draft at the publisher. I understand that there will still be a final final final final draft to work on but it will be the real honest to God “last word.” Hopefully, there will be plenty of time for me to have actual physical things to sell people to give as Christmas presents. “Plenty of time” in this case means before midnight on Dec 24th. You should plan to reserve about 16 bucks to get a copy. And we plan to have a place here on the blog where you can order an autographed copy and charge it on Pay Pal. I know my buddy Jason Gambel and everybody else at Dorchester Presbyterian in South Carolina will want their own copy of the story of the Great BBQ Cookoff at the Pearlington PDA camp.
I have been instructed to push the book here on my blog. So, now I have an emergency “Out” anytime I can’t think of anything new to say here. I’ll just draw on something from the book.
First, let me say that the book is hopefully a combination of serious reflection and funny stories. Kind of like what I post here. Some of it I hope is funny and some of it I hope will make you think.
Let me give you one of my favorite stories today. The night I learned about Chicken Drop Sunday.
It was January of 2007. I was having a tough time and felt like any moment I could crash going around the learning curve trying to get a handle on how to manage a hurricane recovery camp. Out of the blue my daughter sent me a card in the mail that perked me up. And this is where the story picks up:
The other thing that lifted me out of the doldrums was a group of volunteers God sent me that week. They were a small group, and I knew one of the guys from my solo trip in February, the year before. Bill Smith was our water guru, and he was the one who designed the water treatment system. I was really glad to see him, because we had failed our water test a month before and had to warn volunteers against drinking the water in camp. Because they were the only group in camp that week and only numbered five people, we just ate our meals right there in the kitchen around the prep table. It was very homey.
First you need to remember that we were in Mississippi. Deep, rural Mississippi. The closest place-- well, the only place--in town to get a meal outside your own kitchen was the bar up on the highway. It’s called Turtle Landing and it’s a very laid-back place where you can have a burger and a beer out on the landing and watch the wildlife. I hear you can feed the turtles and an occasional alligator from the dock. They don’t serve any of that fancy stuff like wine, and the place is usually full of cigarette smoke. On nights like Sunday’s Super Bowl it was only natural that the Pittsford, New York group wanted to visit Turtle Landing to watch the New York Giants play.
They came back to camp with an explanation of a sign Turtle Landing had outside for months that proclaims Sundays are “Chicken Drop” night. All the times I passed the sign I just assumed this meant some kind of deep fried chicken meal they sold on Sundays. Oh, no. Nothing could be further from the truth.
“Chicken Drop” is a game. The Pittsford team didn’t actually see it played but they got an explanation : they have an enclosed pen with a grid marked on the floor. Inside each square is a number. You pay for a number. At the prescribed moment they put the chicken into the pen while everyone sits and enjoys their beer watching it walk around inside the pen. If the chicken poops into the square you chose, you win and get the prize money. I’m not sure if the bar keeps part of the pot or if the winner gets it all. But it set the church from Pittsford to thinking.
They decided it would make a dandy fund-raiser for mission trips to Mississippi. They started talking about how they could do this. I’m still not totally sure how serious they are about it, but the conversation was the perfect way to unwind from the day.
First, they had to discuss if owning chickens was legal in Pittsford and how they could find one. And did this constitute cruelty to animals? No, they decided, since pooping is a perfectly healthy and normal thing for a chicken to do. Then, could they do this inside the church or outside? If outside, the dates for the Drop would have to wait until winter was passed. Nobody wanted the poor pooping chicken to have to walk around in the cold. Everyone was interested in how fast the chicken would produce a winner, but no one knew much about the bowel habits of chickens. I suspect it takes a while and that the real goal of the game is drinking a lot of beer.
Then, where else could the conversation go after that but forming a committee? And, no name would do but the obvious: The Chicken Shit Committee. Each person at the table, including myself, decided we had served on this committee in the past and could probably chair the committee ourselves simply through our vast experience. That was the end of that, and we all went to bed.
I have been instructed to push the book here on my blog. So, now I have an emergency “Out” anytime I can’t think of anything new to say here. I’ll just draw on something from the book.
First, let me say that the book is hopefully a combination of serious reflection and funny stories. Kind of like what I post here. Some of it I hope is funny and some of it I hope will make you think.
Let me give you one of my favorite stories today. The night I learned about Chicken Drop Sunday.
It was January of 2007. I was having a tough time and felt like any moment I could crash going around the learning curve trying to get a handle on how to manage a hurricane recovery camp. Out of the blue my daughter sent me a card in the mail that perked me up. And this is where the story picks up:
The other thing that lifted me out of the doldrums was a group of volunteers God sent me that week. They were a small group, and I knew one of the guys from my solo trip in February, the year before. Bill Smith was our water guru, and he was the one who designed the water treatment system. I was really glad to see him, because we had failed our water test a month before and had to warn volunteers against drinking the water in camp. Because they were the only group in camp that week and only numbered five people, we just ate our meals right there in the kitchen around the prep table. It was very homey.
First you need to remember that we were in Mississippi. Deep, rural Mississippi. The closest place-- well, the only place--in town to get a meal outside your own kitchen was the bar up on the highway. It’s called Turtle Landing and it’s a very laid-back place where you can have a burger and a beer out on the landing and watch the wildlife. I hear you can feed the turtles and an occasional alligator from the dock. They don’t serve any of that fancy stuff like wine, and the place is usually full of cigarette smoke. On nights like Sunday’s Super Bowl it was only natural that the Pittsford, New York group wanted to visit Turtle Landing to watch the New York Giants play.
They came back to camp with an explanation of a sign Turtle Landing had outside for months that proclaims Sundays are “Chicken Drop” night. All the times I passed the sign I just assumed this meant some kind of deep fried chicken meal they sold on Sundays. Oh, no. Nothing could be further from the truth.
“Chicken Drop” is a game. The Pittsford team didn’t actually see it played but they got an explanation : they have an enclosed pen with a grid marked on the floor. Inside each square is a number. You pay for a number. At the prescribed moment they put the chicken into the pen while everyone sits and enjoys their beer watching it walk around inside the pen. If the chicken poops into the square you chose, you win and get the prize money. I’m not sure if the bar keeps part of the pot or if the winner gets it all. But it set the church from Pittsford to thinking.
They decided it would make a dandy fund-raiser for mission trips to Mississippi. They started talking about how they could do this. I’m still not totally sure how serious they are about it, but the conversation was the perfect way to unwind from the day.
First, they had to discuss if owning chickens was legal in Pittsford and how they could find one. And did this constitute cruelty to animals? No, they decided, since pooping is a perfectly healthy and normal thing for a chicken to do. Then, could they do this inside the church or outside? If outside, the dates for the Drop would have to wait until winter was passed. Nobody wanted the poor pooping chicken to have to walk around in the cold. Everyone was interested in how fast the chicken would produce a winner, but no one knew much about the bowel habits of chickens. I suspect it takes a while and that the real goal of the game is drinking a lot of beer.
Then, where else could the conversation go after that but forming a committee? And, no name would do but the obvious: The Chicken Shit Committee. Each person at the table, including myself, decided we had served on this committee in the past and could probably chair the committee ourselves simply through our vast experience. That was the end of that, and we all went to bed.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Listening to the Leaves
I had just about the best week you could imagine last week. And that’s even considering the Exploding Quiche.
I spent a lot of time on the road last week; it seemed like I drove a couple of hours every day and burned up about three tanks of gas just going back and forth to civilization. But every trip was for something unique and exciting. I went to Garland for a gathering of young adults to talk about starting a group from several different churches. I went to a meeting in Longview to help plan a Women’s Retreat based on the way we do ours at the Garland church. Probably the most interesting field trip of the week was meeting a friend for lunch who gave me a tour of Hockaday School in Dallas, where she works. Hockaday is a very exclusive private school for girls. The words “private” and “exclusive” tell you why I’ve never been inside the gates and I felt a little like Dorothy entering Oz. However, the lunch with my friend was even better. Lunches with friends top just about any event.
That will explain how great it was to have two of the most peaceful women I know came out for lunch on Friday. We spent a lot of time sitting outdoors just listening to the leaves fall. Yes, leaves make a sound when they fall. If you get quiet enough you can hear each individual leaf as it hits the ground then scrapes against the dirt as it settles down for winter. We went for a walk in the woods and I noticed that the air now has that distinctive smell that you get only in the autumn when the oak leaves change color and dry out then stiffen and float through the air as they leave the tree. Pine needles and cedar have their own unique smell in summer when the heat releases their oils. The two events smell very different but heavenly in their own way.
We sat outside on the deck for a long time. It’s unusual for me to sit still and I asked Traci and Nancy, “Are ya’ll bored or just being peaceful?” I figure a good hostess checks things like that. They assured me they were enjoying the quiet.
Someone spotted a hawk in a tree across the creek. The way it sat on the tree branch was almost like it was showing off for us. We even suggested that we could tell more about the bird if he would show us his profile. A few minutes later, almost like he had heard us, he turned his head. I went into the house and got the binoculars and a couple of bird books. For the next hour, we watched it fly from tree to tree encircling us, finally ending up in the original tree.
I have to admit that without good friends to sit with I never would have sat still long enough to witness it all. I am grateful to them for their visit--it gave me a reason to be still in my own backyard and watch what God sends to me every day. And I had to send God a little prayer of apology for wasting such a gift.
I had to feel some regret, however, that Traci and Nancy missed the Quiche Explosion because it was truly remarkable. The recipe called for me to pre-bake the pie crust. When the crust was cooked to a golden brown I set the glass pie plate on the top of the stove to cool. Then, ever the multi-tasker, I filled a pan with water for the tea and turned on a burner to heat the water. I went into the living room to check email while the water for the tea heated. I figured I would fill and bake the quiche later. But in the midst of email there was a loud “POW!” followed by the distinctive sound of a zillion glass shards landing on every surface in my kitchen: counter tops, window sill, stove, sink, floor—you get the picture. Then smoke filled the house.
Without setting foot in my kitchen I knew immediately what had happened. I had turned on the wrong burner and the heat under the supposedly “cooling” pie shell had caused the glass pie plate to shatter. Then the pie crust had settled on the bare burner and instantly burned to a crisp. I know these things, sadly, through vast experience. When I got to the kitchen there was a perfectly round but black pie crust settled on the burner and sort of lapping over the edges like a Salvador Dali painting. And, of course, glass was everywhere.
This gave me a new hobby. For the next few months I'll be picking up glass shards from every surface of my kitchen. My granddaughters may never be allowed to go barefoot in my house again. In the meantime, I still had to make another quiche. I didn’t pre-bake the pie crust for this one, though. I’ve decided that life is too short to waste on stuff like that, especially when you factor in the time to clean up after dumb mistakes.
Maybe I should stick to listening to the leaves.
I spent a lot of time on the road last week; it seemed like I drove a couple of hours every day and burned up about three tanks of gas just going back and forth to civilization. But every trip was for something unique and exciting. I went to Garland for a gathering of young adults to talk about starting a group from several different churches. I went to a meeting in Longview to help plan a Women’s Retreat based on the way we do ours at the Garland church. Probably the most interesting field trip of the week was meeting a friend for lunch who gave me a tour of Hockaday School in Dallas, where she works. Hockaday is a very exclusive private school for girls. The words “private” and “exclusive” tell you why I’ve never been inside the gates and I felt a little like Dorothy entering Oz. However, the lunch with my friend was even better. Lunches with friends top just about any event.
That will explain how great it was to have two of the most peaceful women I know came out for lunch on Friday. We spent a lot of time sitting outdoors just listening to the leaves fall. Yes, leaves make a sound when they fall. If you get quiet enough you can hear each individual leaf as it hits the ground then scrapes against the dirt as it settles down for winter. We went for a walk in the woods and I noticed that the air now has that distinctive smell that you get only in the autumn when the oak leaves change color and dry out then stiffen and float through the air as they leave the tree. Pine needles and cedar have their own unique smell in summer when the heat releases their oils. The two events smell very different but heavenly in their own way.
We sat outside on the deck for a long time. It’s unusual for me to sit still and I asked Traci and Nancy, “Are ya’ll bored or just being peaceful?” I figure a good hostess checks things like that. They assured me they were enjoying the quiet.
Someone spotted a hawk in a tree across the creek. The way it sat on the tree branch was almost like it was showing off for us. We even suggested that we could tell more about the bird if he would show us his profile. A few minutes later, almost like he had heard us, he turned his head. I went into the house and got the binoculars and a couple of bird books. For the next hour, we watched it fly from tree to tree encircling us, finally ending up in the original tree.
I have to admit that without good friends to sit with I never would have sat still long enough to witness it all. I am grateful to them for their visit--it gave me a reason to be still in my own backyard and watch what God sends to me every day. And I had to send God a little prayer of apology for wasting such a gift.
I had to feel some regret, however, that Traci and Nancy missed the Quiche Explosion because it was truly remarkable. The recipe called for me to pre-bake the pie crust. When the crust was cooked to a golden brown I set the glass pie plate on the top of the stove to cool. Then, ever the multi-tasker, I filled a pan with water for the tea and turned on a burner to heat the water. I went into the living room to check email while the water for the tea heated. I figured I would fill and bake the quiche later. But in the midst of email there was a loud “POW!” followed by the distinctive sound of a zillion glass shards landing on every surface in my kitchen: counter tops, window sill, stove, sink, floor—you get the picture. Then smoke filled the house.
Without setting foot in my kitchen I knew immediately what had happened. I had turned on the wrong burner and the heat under the supposedly “cooling” pie shell had caused the glass pie plate to shatter. Then the pie crust had settled on the bare burner and instantly burned to a crisp. I know these things, sadly, through vast experience. When I got to the kitchen there was a perfectly round but black pie crust settled on the burner and sort of lapping over the edges like a Salvador Dali painting. And, of course, glass was everywhere.
This gave me a new hobby. For the next few months I'll be picking up glass shards from every surface of my kitchen. My granddaughters may never be allowed to go barefoot in my house again. In the meantime, I still had to make another quiche. I didn’t pre-bake the pie crust for this one, though. I’ve decided that life is too short to waste on stuff like that, especially when you factor in the time to clean up after dumb mistakes.
Maybe I should stick to listening to the leaves.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Halloween Report 2009
This was not your grandmother’s Halloween. I have somehow escaped the annual candy-o-rama the last couple of years so I was excited to be able to tag along with them this year. But found out they don’t go door-to-door anymore. They do “Trunk or Treat” now. Emily started taking them to a friend’s church parking lot where people pass out candy from the trunks of cars. Huh?
When I was a kid the easiest costume was the Lone Ranger because all it required was a black mask. The rest of the costume was usually hanging right there in the closet. I can’t remember any other costume. And it’s entirely possible that I wore the same one every year. I’m like that.
Then came the wait for it to get dark. There was no wait longer than waiting for dark on Halloween. Once we finally took off we wouldn’t come home until the paper grocery sack was too heavy to carry.
Then when my girls were Trick or Treating I think I made a couple of costumes but again it was nothing elaborate. I do remember the first Halloween costume for each girl was always as a ghost because you can use a pillowcase when they’re little.
You can tell I’ve never been much on dressing up. When I worked at the bank they tried to have costumes a couple of times and I had a good friend who was almost fully grown when she was still in the fifth grade. She loaned me her Girl Scout uniform and it fit me perfectly. I think I wore that one for two years in a row. But my enthusiasm for dressing up at work dissolved the year the geniuses in charge of things decided to lay off a huge chunk of personnel on October 31st . There is no sight more pathetic than someone cleaning out their desk or madly copying their resume while dressed as a Martian. I’ll never forget the way my friend’s antennae bobbed as she was cleaning out her desk. That’s just wrong to do to folks.
I’m not sure we ever dressed up for Halloween again. In retrospect, it’s pretty dumb to have a bank lobby full of employees dressed in costumes when a robber could walk up in a mask and clean out the vault and leave without looking out of place.
The grands out-did themselves this year with their costumes.
Essie was the girl from Mythbusters. This involved coloring her hair and wearing safety goggles. Aunt Elizabeth made her a shirt with “Mythbusters” emblazoned diagonally (it’s a long word on a small chest) across a black shirt.
Sarah went as “the world’s worst doctor.” All she needed was scrubs, surgical mask and lots of fake blood splattered everywhere. A far cry from wearing a Lone Ranger mask every year.
I was still not sure about Trick or Treating from car trunk to car trunk. But it didn’t take me long to be convinced this was the best idea since sliced bread. Besides candy dispensed from the artfully decorated trunks by church members (good Christian people you could trust to handle your grandchild’s health) there was more entertainment than I’ve seen at a lot of state fairs.
There were three or four tables set up to sell food: BBQ, hamburgers, hotdogs, French fries, nachos, cotton candy….you name it and they had it. Then there was a petting zoo with baby goats and ducks and other baby animals I can’t remember. The fire department had brought a couple of their fire trucks to let kids climb on. A pony ride. A cake walk. A sound system blaring out music. I’m afraid it was so loud I couldn’t really make out the music but I had a feeling it was good clean Christian songs. Then surrounding the whole thing like a giant vinyl curtain were at least eight bounce houses. Maybe more. Let me say that again: there were lots and lots of bounce houses. Kid Heaven.
As a matter of fact, the kids were having so much fun that the candy took a back seat. The adults ended up sitting under a tree eating nachos and babysitting the candy while the girls played.
Elizabeth and Emily were astonished when I went through the girls’ candy baskets to check for the good stuff and helped myself to a Tootsie Roll. Then an Almond Joy. Apparently they never knew I did this to their candy every year after they went to sleep. Kids don’t appreciate good candy. They’ll eat anything in case you haven’t noticed. Besides, they didn’t need to eat all that candy. I thought of it as a kind of nutritional supervision and part of being a good mother to separate out some of their candy. I always kept a secret stash of the good stuff on top of our refrigerator. It would sometimes last me until Christmas when the stocking candy arrived. Which would last until Valentines Day. Then Easter.
Coming on the heels of last week’s post about the new non-denominational churches I must report that it was one of these new congregations who hosted this Halloween extravaganza. The name of the church is “Church in the City.” They have a website. Emily chose this event for the girl’s Halloween about three years ago when a co-worker who worships there told her about it. Emily also attended one Sunday when Tracy’s newly adopted son was dedicated. Emily loves their worship style. And the congregation is “diverse.” That was easy to say since Tracy is black and the people working the party were an assortment of colors. But Tracy leaned forward and re-emphacized, “REALLY diverse.” Like maybe race wasn’t the only difference in their members. I started imagining gays, ex-cons, bikers, strippers, murderers, maybe even a few backsliding Baptists.
But this church is huge and growing. They have a big new building. An active congregation. What are they doing right that the withering up old mainstream churches aren’t? I have a feeling the eight bounce houses are a clue.
When I was a kid the easiest costume was the Lone Ranger because all it required was a black mask. The rest of the costume was usually hanging right there in the closet. I can’t remember any other costume. And it’s entirely possible that I wore the same one every year. I’m like that.
Then came the wait for it to get dark. There was no wait longer than waiting for dark on Halloween. Once we finally took off we wouldn’t come home until the paper grocery sack was too heavy to carry.
Then when my girls were Trick or Treating I think I made a couple of costumes but again it was nothing elaborate. I do remember the first Halloween costume for each girl was always as a ghost because you can use a pillowcase when they’re little.
You can tell I’ve never been much on dressing up. When I worked at the bank they tried to have costumes a couple of times and I had a good friend who was almost fully grown when she was still in the fifth grade. She loaned me her Girl Scout uniform and it fit me perfectly. I think I wore that one for two years in a row. But my enthusiasm for dressing up at work dissolved the year the geniuses in charge of things decided to lay off a huge chunk of personnel on October 31st . There is no sight more pathetic than someone cleaning out their desk or madly copying their resume while dressed as a Martian. I’ll never forget the way my friend’s antennae bobbed as she was cleaning out her desk. That’s just wrong to do to folks.
I’m not sure we ever dressed up for Halloween again. In retrospect, it’s pretty dumb to have a bank lobby full of employees dressed in costumes when a robber could walk up in a mask and clean out the vault and leave without looking out of place.
The grands out-did themselves this year with their costumes.
Essie was the girl from Mythbusters. This involved coloring her hair and wearing safety goggles. Aunt Elizabeth made her a shirt with “Mythbusters” emblazoned diagonally (it’s a long word on a small chest) across a black shirt.
Sarah went as “the world’s worst doctor.” All she needed was scrubs, surgical mask and lots of fake blood splattered everywhere. A far cry from wearing a Lone Ranger mask every year.
I was still not sure about Trick or Treating from car trunk to car trunk. But it didn’t take me long to be convinced this was the best idea since sliced bread. Besides candy dispensed from the artfully decorated trunks by church members (good Christian people you could trust to handle your grandchild’s health) there was more entertainment than I’ve seen at a lot of state fairs.
There were three or four tables set up to sell food: BBQ, hamburgers, hotdogs, French fries, nachos, cotton candy….you name it and they had it. Then there was a petting zoo with baby goats and ducks and other baby animals I can’t remember. The fire department had brought a couple of their fire trucks to let kids climb on. A pony ride. A cake walk. A sound system blaring out music. I’m afraid it was so loud I couldn’t really make out the music but I had a feeling it was good clean Christian songs. Then surrounding the whole thing like a giant vinyl curtain were at least eight bounce houses. Maybe more. Let me say that again: there were lots and lots of bounce houses. Kid Heaven.
As a matter of fact, the kids were having so much fun that the candy took a back seat. The adults ended up sitting under a tree eating nachos and babysitting the candy while the girls played.
Elizabeth and Emily were astonished when I went through the girls’ candy baskets to check for the good stuff and helped myself to a Tootsie Roll. Then an Almond Joy. Apparently they never knew I did this to their candy every year after they went to sleep. Kids don’t appreciate good candy. They’ll eat anything in case you haven’t noticed. Besides, they didn’t need to eat all that candy. I thought of it as a kind of nutritional supervision and part of being a good mother to separate out some of their candy. I always kept a secret stash of the good stuff on top of our refrigerator. It would sometimes last me until Christmas when the stocking candy arrived. Which would last until Valentines Day. Then Easter.
Coming on the heels of last week’s post about the new non-denominational churches I must report that it was one of these new congregations who hosted this Halloween extravaganza. The name of the church is “Church in the City.” They have a website. Emily chose this event for the girl’s Halloween about three years ago when a co-worker who worships there told her about it. Emily also attended one Sunday when Tracy’s newly adopted son was dedicated. Emily loves their worship style. And the congregation is “diverse.” That was easy to say since Tracy is black and the people working the party were an assortment of colors. But Tracy leaned forward and re-emphacized, “REALLY diverse.” Like maybe race wasn’t the only difference in their members. I started imagining gays, ex-cons, bikers, strippers, murderers, maybe even a few backsliding Baptists.
But this church is huge and growing. They have a big new building. An active congregation. What are they doing right that the withering up old mainstream churches aren’t? I have a feeling the eight bounce houses are a clue.
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