Firsts

We have been rather remiss in posting.

I'd like to insert a list of perfectly valid reasons--reasons that would make the readers of this blog be both awed by the writing and dazzled by the courageousness of writing in the face of so many obstacles. That's the kind of list I would like to have.

To be perfectly honest, on my part, I haven't been writing. I've been desperately trying to track down the last bit of writing I did, hoping and praying that dear God I really have written something since November, but it's simply not true. After finishing my thesis and classes last semester, I did not want to have anything to do with my computer except watch Netflix. I have been absolutely lazy. I read three novels and spent the rest of break zoning out in front of the television. I'm not particularly proud of that choice, but after 2.5 years of having comps/language exam/thesis to worry about during breaks, I was grateful for the opportunity to shut my brain down for an extended period.

It. Was. Glorious.

It's also slightly remiss to say that I did nothing except watch television. I went to Christmas parties. I cooked. I met new people. I visited with old friends and family. I met actual people who read this blog and are not related to me. I went vintage thrifting. I read three months of back issues of Harper's Bazaar. I didn't check my grades. I lounged and did laundry and gloated over the variety of expensive kitchen gadgets I received as Christmas presents. I updated the list of my most loved/most hated words. Generally, I just recharged for this semester.

But now. It's time to get back into academic and other-kinds of writing. So, without further procrastination:

Our theme: Firsts

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Dinner


It was not veal piccata or bouillabaisse. It was not boeuf bourguignon. Not steak helene. Not puttanesca. It was certainly not braised scallops or mussels cooked in wine. It was not any of the other gourmet meals I would make through the years. It was just a chicken, breaded in herbs and the closest I could approximate  to my grandmother's recipe. Fried in a skillet while I was drinking a Pabst and we were talking idly about the day, the plans for the weekend, the weather. It was nothing Julia Child would provide for a dinner party, but sitting at kitchen table in our jeans, with our beer and the late early-summer sun, it was everything I wanted.

Food--Sort Of

Many people recall the moment they first encountered their life’s work: photographers remember their first pictures; teachers reminisce about gathering siblings and friends in playrooms to “teach” them; writers treasure the moment they realized what it was like to shape words on a blank sheet of paper. So too with me and theological discussion.

I attended a Catholic grade school from first through eighth grade. A few students came and went, but mostly we were the same group of thirty-six kids for those eight years. By seventh grade I was ready to move on; I needed new people, new friends. One of the boys in my class, Randy, was particularly antagonistic. My father had died when I was five, my mother was in a relationship with a woman, and there were many strong female role models in my life; the strength of the women around me influenced my young worldview. My feminism was not appreciated by Randy.

One day in art class we sat at separate tables in the section of the cafeteria that was designated for the development of our right brains. “You know, Lauren,” Randy said, “the Bible says that women are supposed to be submissive to men.”

And we were off. The women I knew were not submissive. Of course I didn’t think they needed to submit to a man in order to have value. Somewhere along the way our conversation shifted from humanity to divinity. “God can only be a man,” Randy said. His reason: “The disciples peed standing up.”

This logic didn’t work for me; it was faulty and crass. Consequently, we argued for the rest of the class period about the nature of God. I’d not thought about this before. If God is everything, why couldn’t God be woman too?

When school let out that day I ran over to the parish life center where my mother was helping Sister Joellen with some computer work. “How was school today?” Mom asked when I came into the office.

“Randy and I argued about God,” I replied. “He said God can only be a man, but I think God is a woman too.”

Joellen immediately affirmed my uneducated, untrained thoughts; she told me about the Holy Spirit, about Wisdom, about Sophia. She told me about God. From that day, I sought to encounter this Wisdom Sophia, this Divine Feminine. I prayed to her; I read and talked about her.

By the next year, my last in that small group of people, I was wholly invested in this mothering God. In short, I was a zealot. That year we had to give speeches in our English class. For the persuasive speech, I decided to persuade my classmates to recognize God as a woman. I approached Joellen for help with my speech, wanting to interview her about Sophia. Joellen gently suggested that I take a more round-about way of talking about this newfound God. An interview would be fine, but it was to be a different one than I had envisioned.

One night Joellen arrived at our home with a recipe for risotto as well as the ingredients. “My grandmother taught me how to make this meal,” she told me. “And when I think of God, I think of my grandma.” Together we chopped vegetables, cooked rice, stirred the mixture, added cheese. We talked about God and about women of strength, but I remember nothing of our actual conversation. What I do recall is the power of that meal.

It has been eleven years since I first shared risotto with Joellen. It is one of my favorite meals to make and to share. And every time I do, I offer it to Grandma God.

Simplicity

This week's theme: Food

I love to cook.

There are a number of reasons I love cooking, but two stand out particularly. Watching other people take genuine enjoyment out of something I've made is one of the greatest delights of my adult life. The process of making the meal is another.

Cooking is so simple. Even the most difficult recipe can be reduced to its ingredients. I love to work on a really involved recipe after reading systematic theology, or when I'm emotionally overwrought or spiritually dry. Cooking is meditative. It's simple and routine and something which allows me a little distance from my academic, personal, or professional life. I turn on some bluegrass, open up a recipe I haven't tried or still haven't perfected and just cook. I am almost always cooking for other people. When it's just for me I eat a lot of (badly) poached eggs on toast because eating is so communal--Eucharistic really. I hate putting tons of work into something that I have to enjoy without the added pleasure of good company

This picture was taken by Lauren shortly after I sent her a SOS text message on Saturday. A friend of mine has never had my dark chocolate apology truffles (thus named because I make them as an apology for being a vicious hell-beast when I get stressed out). I have been trying to perfect both the ganache and the chocolate shell for four years now, and still hadn't found a recipe that satisfied me. This recipe was intensely involved (48 hours, 57 ounces of dark chocolate, two cups of cream), but turned out splendidly.

Watching people sample these truffles over the past few days has been a gift. In the midst of two weeks full of personal disappointment, here was something small that I had done that was bringing intense enjoyment to people for whom I care deeply. Out of some cream, chocolate, and champagne I managed to craft something that made people pause during their busy lives and focus intensely on one small aspect of their day.

It's so simple.

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Simplicity

A glass of wine. Some slices of roast chicken.
Springtime vegetables from the garden--radishes, fresh lettuce.

A pie from the last of the frozen rhubarb.
Birdsong through the open front door.
With you, everything is suddenly
so simple.