Friday Feast

Approximately 24 years I ago, I created a cooking disaster of such epic proportions it is forever seared in my memory. And, it’s pretty much prevented me from buying and preparing a whole chicken.

Let me set the stage for you, and inform you right up front that I blame my mom for this episode. She had baked a scrumptious chicken that literally melted in your mouth a few weeks before. Mom said cooking a chicken was as easy as making Pillsbury biscuits—pop them out and pop them in the oven. No problem. I reminisced about that chicken and thought why not? I’ll give it a shot.

I cooked that chicken to death. Pulled it out of the oven a million times, and parts of it weren’t done. It never fell apart, tender little pieces falling off the bone. The meat gripped tightly to the bone as if hanging on for dear life. Finally, it appeared done enough, and I tired of waiting.

 Sitting at the dinner table, we sawed pieces off until the innards slithered onto the plate. Turning ugly Shrek-like shades with stomachs churning, we immediately lost our appetites. Dinner over, I phoned Mom to ask her about this strange phenomenon. She howled while I held the phone away from my ear. I’m sure the people in the next apartment heard her chortling. After the shrieking stopped, I wondered why she neglected to give me such important information about the chicken. And, why in the world wouldn’t the chicken killers take care of this mess before they arrived at my dinner table?

My whole chicken baking days sufficiently in the toilet, I stick to boneless, skinless chicken breast recipes. It’s a safer bet, and I don’t have to worry about unwanted body parts sliding out. One of my all time favorite crockpot chicken recipes is so easy, my 11 year old couldn’t mess it up! With five minutes preparation time, this recipe works well for busy families.

Slow Cooker Chicken Stroganoff

4 skinless, boneless chicken breasts, cubed

1/8 c. margarine

1 package dry Italian-style salad dressing mix

1 package cream cheese

1 can cream of chicken soup

Put chicken, margarine and dressing mix in slow cooker; mix together and cook on low for 5 to 6 hours. Add cream cheese and soup; mix together and cook on high for another ½ hour or until heated through and warm. Serve over hot, cooked egg noodles.

Enjoy!

A Girl With a Voice

Eleven years ago today, baby Madisen burst into the world like a captain commanding attention from his troops. Not content to serenely slip onto God’s green earth in a normal fashion, she sent nurses and doctors scrambling to prepare for an emergency C-section on her behalf. She’s marched to the beat of dramatic flare and adventuresome spirit ever since.

I suppose it’s only fitting that in 2001, her birth year, the name Madisen with its various spellings sat at the top of the charts, right where our own Maddie reigns. Just like Daryl Hannah’s movie name from “Splash” we pulled her name directly off a Bainbridge Island street sign. Her name derives from English origin and means “Son of Matthew” even though she’s the “Daughter of Tony.” We appropriately nickname her “Mad Dog”, “Mad Girl” or just plain “Mad” for the years of fit-throwing in Target, Kroger, friends’ houses, restaurants and church. It’s obvious the pinch of Irish O’Connor blood trickling through her veins overpowers the 1/8 teaspoon of calm, cool English blood.  

With two siblings quite a bit older than she, Maddie matured more quickly in the ways of the world than her friends. In many respects, this maturity paired with her magnetic, outgoing personality serves her well. On the one hand, she speaks before she thinks, forgets to filter her words and tender her tone. Yet, she courageously rescues those being bullied and speaks up on behalf of those too timid to fight for themselves. Maddie pontificates her point of view without fear and will argue a topic to death.

One day at school, Maddie fought with another boy about the Big Bang Theory versus creation. Her voice rose as she related the story to me. “Mom, he kept saying “big bang” to me under his breath over and over again. He made me so mad!”

I assured her that he was achieving his intended effect on her—making her mad. “He’s just trying to get your goat. Ignore him, and he’ll stop.” My advice was like telling a cat to stop chasing mice.

In first grade, Maddie kicked another little boy because he wouldn’t stop following her. Second grade she punched a boy in the face on the bus because he pestered her one too many times. Third grade, when an older girl bullied her on the bus, Maddie be-bopped down the bus steps straight into the principal’s office to report the incident. When I asked her if she was scared, she stated, “No, mom, that girl was crying in Mr. Richardson’s office.”

Maddie is not afraid to voice her opinion yet fearful regarding performances of any kind. A girl who loves to be the center of attention, make people laugh and tell jokes, she loathes being the lone person on stage performing. Piano recitals unnerve her; gymnastics meets make her anxious; singing in front of an audience petrifies her. Maddie desires to control the situation—how, when, where she draws attention. When she’s forced to perform, she doesn’t feel in control.

Still, she is a social butterfly to the nth degree. When school begins each fall, Maddie detoxes for a minimum of three weeks from the summer season of fun, friends and furlough. Forgetting that summer is over, she views school as an extension of her social season—until the teacher clamps down on her chatting. For a girl who epitomizes the word “fun”, school is utter drudgery. For approximately 7 hours, she must listen, learn and lock her lips. Difficult to do for a girl who’s wiggled like a worm since her birth weight, 6 pounds, 13 ounces.  For this reason, recess remains her favorite time of day when she is released from desk and task to fun and freedom.

Expressive, exuberant and energetic characterizes this bundle of joy. Spreading happiness wherever she goes, Maddie gabs with old and young alike. She doesn’t know a stranger, communicating with maturity well beyond most teens. Her greatest struggle, self-control, surfaces often in her daily life—in speech and behavior. Still, she loves God deeply and desperately desires to please Him. I see this love in her journal writing, her questions and conversations.

I pray that she becomes a strong young woman of faith, not ashamed of the gospel, proud of the girl God created her to be—a girl with a loud voice and a principled point of view.  

Friday Feast

The first meal I cooked for my parents is forever etched in my memory like words on a locket. A novice at cooking in my younger years, I probably should have begun with something simple like Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup; however, I chose beef stew. Gathering all the ingredients, I chop, cut and cook. The recipe calls for a clove of garlic. For the first time ever, I purchase garlic. Fast forward a few hours later when we are seated around the table preparing to sip our stew. Mom lifts her spoon out of the bowl and looks stunned at the contents.

“Ummm, how much garlic did you put in this stew?” she asks.

“A clove. That’s what the recipe asked for,” I respond.

“But you put the whole thing in!”

“Well, that’s what it asked for,” I repeat, not grasping her meaning.

She proceeds to explain the difference between a clove and cloves of garlic and that one should actually peel the outer layer off a clove, chop or mince it and then add it to the recipe. Well, excuse me. How was I to know the finer details of handling garlic? I missed Cooking 101 because my nose was planted in school books not recipe books. Besides, I don’t recall my mother using garlic at all, ever. Maybe she did, but I occupied myself with boys and books, not necessarily in that order.

Fortunately, I’ve learned a bit about garlic and love to use a lot of it, properly! White Chili recipes are as plentiful as sand on a beach, but our family loves this one particularly. Because the slow cooker makes meal preparing easy, I use it as often as possible. It certainly eliminates the hurry and scurry of trying to prepare a meal in between nightly activities and sports. Just a little effort in the morning and 6 hours later, a tasty dish is ready to eat!

White Chili

2 T. butter

2 lbs. boneless chicken, chopped

2 medium onions

1 large can chicken broth

8 oz. chopped green chilies

3 c. shredded Monterey Jack cheese

1 48-oz. jar Great Northern beans

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 t. cumin

1 t. oregano or Italian Spice mix

¼ t. ground cloves

¼ t. cayenne (optional)

Sauté chicken, onion, spices and garlic in butter until chicken is done. Combine all ingredients, except cheese. Simmer on low 6-8 hours; a crock pot will work well. Stir in cheese to melt just before serving.

Enjoy!

Whatever It Takes

Lately, I’ve been pondering the words “whatever it takes.” One time in my life I prayed this small but powerful phrase out of sheer desperation. Apparently, God heard me because my world turned completely upside down. He answered my prayer, just not in the way I desired. So, I am petrified to pray those three simple words, yet I consider them because I know God will perform a work that cannot be accomplished otherwise.

Here’s the deal. When I prayed those words over 15 years ago, I anticipated the process of “whatever it takes.” God would change the heart of the person I was praying for by taking him through a transforming encounter. Whatever it takes for the other guy. Not me. Surely not me. After all, I’m not the problem. Good church girls who are God-honoring, giving and growing don’t need the “whatever it takes” field trip because we follow the yellow brick road, like Dorothy in the “Wizard of Oz.” However, just like Dorothy, we face a few obstacles along the way that prevent us from skipping down the path straight to the wizard.

For two years, I took the trip when I expressly prayed that God mold, melt and make him into a Godly man. Unfortunately, the person for whom I prayed self-destructed. God used my prayer to change me instead. Not quite what I expected. Yet, in the process, I did whatever it took to cling to God. And, He used this simple prayer to perform whatever it took for me fix my eyes solely on Him. He grabbed my attention and holds it even now.

So, I’m thinking about praying this phrase but scared at the same time. I hesitate to throw these words out, to utter them out loud. God will answer, and what if He wants to change me instead? Surely, I’m not the one who needs another field trip.

Friday Feast

I’m no Paula Dean or Rachael Ray in the kitchen. In fact, when I married, I didn’t even know how to cook. Mom taught me a few things, but homework ruled my life and kept me from the kitchen. Kraft macaroni and cheese and browning hamburger were my specialties. But, my true love involved baking chocolate chip cookies or anything else with sugar. A few faux pas in my early married years and 20 something years later, I’ve learned a bit about cooking. However, I still like to keep it simple. Share a recipe with me that contains more than 10 ingredients, and I’ll not take a second glance. For this reason, I steer clear of gourmet cooking magazines which like to use strange ingredients I’ll only use once then find 6 months later growing a nice shade of green in my refrigerator. Recipes that use massive quantities of Cream of “Something” soup or spaghetti noodles or chicken thrive in this cook’s hands. My problem is I open the pantry door and stare at boxes and cans hoping the kitchen muses will bless me with inspiration, ideas and illumination.

These days, the majority of the battle with cooking is meal planning. If I can conquer that itty bitty thing, cooking is a piece of cake. In honor of this ongoing struggle, Friday posts will be devoted to quick yet tasty recipes. In our family, we call these “keepers,” a word coined by my husband to gently let me know if the meal should stick around.  Let’s face it, cooking can be deeply personal, and nothing is worse than the customers complaining about the menu:

“Oooooo, what’s this? Have you made this before? Do I like it? How many bites do I have to eat?”

Chefs put time and effort into preparing something they hope consumers will enjoy. And, moms don’t want to hear their beautiful babies (or bellyaching big boys) bawling about the beans, bread or broccoli or they’re liable to send those buggers to bed to wait for breakfast the next morning.

I ripped this recipe out of a Kroger mailer. Everyone raved about it except Maddie, who thumbed her nose at the dish never having tasted it. Apparently, she’s allergic to the color green!   

Balsamic Roasted Green Beans

2 lbs. green beans, trimmed

1 red bell pepper, cut into ½-inch wide strips

1 small red onion, sliced

2 cloves garlic, sliced

2 T. balsamic vinegar

2 t. olive oil

Freshly ground black pepper

Salt

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Place beans, bell pepper, onion, garlic, balsamic vinegar and olive oil on a sheet pan. Toss to coat vegetables with oil mixture. Roast for about 20 minutes or until vegetables reach desired tenderness. Season vegetables with salt and pepper to taste. Serve immediately. Refrigerate any leftovers. Serves 8.

Enjoy and let me know what you think!

The Red Robe

The bowels of the basement are full of boxes containing a plethora of memories past—pictures, yearbooks, rejected home décor, old cassette tapes and vinyl records. Really? I still have the Music Box Dancer record? Where would I rustle up the ancient relic called a record player in the age of CD’s and Ipods? And why am I still hanging onto my AP History study cards? Just in case someone needs them…? Since boxes threaten a coup, I’ve decided to purge or recycle unnecessary items and reorganize. That’s when I stumbled upon the picture of mom wearing the red robe.

I’d post the picture, but it doesn’t show Mom’s best fashion sense. And, I want to live a few more years. The red robe evokes memories of late nights and boyfriends. It was a staple as much as bologna sandwiches at lunch. Mom crashed on the couch at night waiting for me to return from dates in that zipped up redness. Eyes half shut, feigning interest, she listened to me recount minute details of the evening. Finally, mom clothed in red robe, exhausted from my rambling, mumbled she needed to sleep and plodded to her bedroom. My sister says that delineating the exact number of times I used my napkin threw mom over the edge, but I seriously doubt that. When my sister’s turn came to encounter mom sprawled in red robeness after her own date nights, she learned from my mistakes. Verbalizing her evening to mom meant answering yes or no to a few quick questions and slipping off to bed. Mom, expecting an hour long conversation, spent a little less time in her robe when “keep it short and sweet” sis came in at curfew. Dumfounded initially by the stark contrast between the two of us, I’m fairly certain she relished the short and sweet just a tad more. I’m not the least bit offended if she does.

Umpteen years have passed since the red robe days. The names have changed, and I wouldn’t don a red robe for cash, but the circumstances are similar. While Tony sleeps, I wait for the teenagers, and I understand it now. I’m tired and just want to sleep, but someone needs to be the sofa-crasher with or without red robe. And, I too, have one of each—teen, that is. My first born is just like me, regaler of details, expert of the play by play until eyes glaze over. He needs to set the stage from the very beginning and relate all occurrences so it makes sense. I get that. I’m like that. My daughter, like my sister, recounts what is required of her. No more, no less. “Just the facts, ma’am” could be her motto.  She offers responses when asked and never volunteers extra information.

Recently, I dozed on the couch waiting for “don’t mess with the details” daughter to arrive home from a night out. Awakened from my comatose-like state with the garage door opening, I greeted her with a sleepy yawn.

“How was your evening?”

“Good.”

“How was the movie?”

“Good.”

“Ok, well glad you had a good night. We’ll chat tomorrow. I’ve got to get to bed!”

Happy to comply, daughter Alix heads to bed. Padding to my room for some shut-eye, I realize that the only time ditching the details is acceptable is when it interferes with sleep!  I am my mother, after all.

Break the Rules?

I’m a die-hard rule-follower who married a man who doesn’t read instruction manuals let alone follow rules religiously. Sometimes a little bitty conflict erupts due to this discrepancy between us.

A few years ago, Tony and I stayed the night in a small town in Indiana. Construction workers were remodeling an old hotel in French Lick, and Tony wanted to see the progress. As we drove down the street, we encountered one of those “danger, do not enter” signs. Tony ignored it and kept driving.

“Wait! We can’t drive down here. Didn’t you see that sign?” I asked.

“Sure, but it’s ok. No one’s going to stop us!”

“Yeah, but we are breaking the rules. We aren’t supposed to drive beyond the sign! Turn around!” I’m panicking, looking around for the swarm of police that are surely waiting around the bend to arrest us.

“It’s fine, Annette. Nothing’s going to happen.” Tony keeps driving towards the palatial hotel ahead.

“Turn around, Tony. We are NOT supposed to be here!” I’m waiting for someone to pounce on us like a cat on a mouse. A gargantuan hotel rises before us, but I can’t appreciate it; I’m too concerned about the trouble we are about to face.

“Wow! Look at that hotel. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, sure. Can we get out of here before someone finds us?”

My risk-taking, adventurous, non-rule follower turns around with a sigh and drives away, my panic ruining the experience. It turns out that we weren’t arrested nor were we mauled by the construction mafia. No one even seemed to care that we took a drive down a do not enter lane. Just this uptight, bossy firstborn!

I struggle with this extreme bent in other ways as well. Frequently, I carry this over to my relationship with God in the form of a checklist. Read my Bible—check. Pray—check. Journal—check. The problem with this is two-fold. If I miss reading Scripture one day, I heap guilt on myself. On the other hand, when I consistently read, journal and pray, I puff with pride. Crossing the Bible off my checklist, following the “rules,” becomes the goal instead of growing in my relationship. When I trade in the rules for a relationship, I’m released from duty and drudgery to love and freedom.  God desires me to experience all that He has for me out of love not law, desire not duty, passion not pressure.

In my little adventure with Tony, I missed enjoying the beauty of the old, restored hotel because I was too focused on the rules. And while rules are absolutely vital to smooth running households, schools, communities and governments, maybe it’s okay to—every once in awhile—enjoy the moment. Love, not my list, should draw me to my Creator.