kneading relief

Almost every Wednesday (sometimes Thursdays) I pull ingredients from the kitchen cupboards, procure my baking stone and pizza peel from the closet pantry. And almost every Wednesday I get busy measuring, mixing, adding, mixing a bit more until what's in the bowl is ready for kneading.

I didn't bake bread last week; our freezer was stocked with a couple loaves, and I was laid up with a week-long stomach virus. Coming off the gut-punched bug, I didn't feel like baking bread this week either...or doing much of anything actually--the bacterium expunged my innards along with my motivation to keep house.

By Monday our bread supply was depleted, so I was forced to uncurl myself from the couch and start baking. A churlish mood barraged my measuring and raided my mixing, but the blitzkrieg dissipated as I began to knead, folding my self-pity into the dough and allowing some perspective to illuminate the acrid haze.

Kneading was the perfect prescription to shake my funk; I've accomplished more in the last 2 days than all of last week combined. Perhaps I should move my bread-making task to Mondays.

self suchickency

an excerpt from Wendell Berry's Sex, Economy, Freedom and Community:

In a healthy community, people will be richer in their neighbors, in neighborhood, in the health and pleasure of neighborhood, than in their bank accounts. It is better, therefore, even if the cost is greater, to buy near at hand than to buy at a distance. It is better to buy from a small, privately owned local store than from a chain store. It is better to buy a good product than a bad one. Do not buy anything you don't need. Do as much as you can for yourself. If you cannot do something for yourself, see if you have a neighbor who can do it for you.

I find the idea of self sufficiency kind of romantic--in the idealistic sense of the word; there is something wonderful about changing the oil in your car, submitting your own taxes, and fixing problems around your house. Or for me: making yogurt and granola, mixing batches of laundry soap, and butchering chickens.

Last Friday our family clan gathered for another round of slaughtering to Papa's motto "Boo-tcher, boo-tcher, boo-tcher," which never fails to get a chuckle from his kids. This is probably the 4th or 5th time our family has participated in this endeavor, and everyone agreed the system was a well-oiled machine. Our process: catch chickens, cut heads off, skin broilers, de-gut naked birds, clean bodies, toss in ice water, transfer in coolers to "processing station," divide into pieces, clean again, stuff into bags, vacuum seal, and place chicken in freezer. 135 chickens and 7 hours later, the job is finished. My contribution: 2/3 de-gutting, 1/3 child-caring.

The following Monday a crew of 4 piled out of pick-up trucks wielding shovels, ladders, and cords to the motto "one roof per day" as they checked their tool belts and dug in. Everyone knew his job and executed it; it was a smooth system. Their process: tear off shingles, change out moldy plywood, replace vents, roll out and tack down tar paper, nail gun shingles, pick up renegade trash, blow off roof debris, sweep sidewalks, walk a metal detector through the grass. New architectural shingles and 10 hours later, the roof is finished. My contribution: 1/3 serving homemade zucchini bread, 2/3 mama pointing and watching.

I sometimes wish I did more for myself instead of hiring out work, but then I remember the idea of investing in community and blessing others with work. I'm glad Berry addresses the inability to do these things for my sake, and maybe for yours. I tried my hand at tearing off shingles once when I was young, but I think I'll stick to de-gutting chickens and baking bread.

ode to egg lady

My first egg lady was a nurse Nancy;
She dropped off several dozen when we 7 communed together;
The order reduced a few when numbers whittled to 5, 4, 3, now 2;
Sometimes Mom and Dad parting-gifted me a dozen pair,
Or toted a 3-carton greeting with loving care;
But when I left home, in my heart was a gaping, brown-egg despair.

My next egg lady encounter was brief,
Only a handful of weeks to be less than exact,
I don't even know her name in fact;
No-name's yolks were orange-ripened hearty,
But now that summer has ripened to crisp autumn,
her hens' production is stalling like a dwindling party.

I met my new egg lady last week on a stroller walk,
The front-lawn ad vanished months before I could knock;
So I presumed the free-range birds were out of commission;
But with a new-found mama courage I launched my tire-path mission;
Gently rapping the front door, girding my politest behavior,
A kind, middle-aged woman answered: Audra, my egg savior!
She unveiled her brown, white, and speckled pearls,
And sent me on my way with 2 cartons of treasure,
A tooth-shaped paper with name and number to unfurl,
and the smile-warmth assurance to pay at my leisure;

For dinner, we ate a delectable omelette beyond measure,
I wish everyone knew an egg lady with pleasure.

stick-tree suburbia

A few weeks ago I went for an early afternoon stroller-jog around my usual loop. My lungs hoarded and squandered the summer air as my shoes pounded the streets through the older section of our small town. I looked up; the tableau was picturesque--straight off the cover of a watered-down, inspirational devotional you might find in a Christian bookstore: sun glimmering through the wind-dancing leaves of a vested oak tree.

I'm sure you've seen it, and so had I, but for some reason it maintained my gaze as the phil&teds wavered off its once-efficient line and tugged me from my trance. I contrasted this neighborhood with the newer subdivision just south of it, where suburban houses are a repetition of piled boxes and triangles whose monstrous fronts are only highlighted by the token stick tree stuck in manicured front lawns. It was like a snippet out of Rod Dreher's Crunchy Cons (I loaned my copy to a loved one, or I'd include a quote about the "McMansions").

In the old section of town, varied patterns of the mature homes peek from shady undergrowth, and thick limbs dwarf the roofs behind. Towering trees command respectful nods, and wandering eyes are drawn up. "Huh, how appropriate," I muse.

In addition to the aesthetics of the creative designs those homes provide, I was struck how directed to an Other I was looking up at those deep-rooted shaders. They forced me to look outside myself--as opposed to suburbia, where superficial solutions come from gray concrete, bland vinyl, and melting asphalt.

Make no mistake, I'm in full agreement suburbia has its proper place; in fact, our family is hemmed into a 15-year-old subdivision--where thankfully, its trees have outgrown flimsy stakes. I hope our next home is tucked in a place with an abundance of seasoned trees which remind us to look outside ourselves, beyond materialism, and upward. If not, I'm sure the Lord will accommodate in our future home.