For the Food on Fridays carnival, any post remotely related to food is welcome—though we love to try new dishes, your post doesn’t have to be a recipe. We’re pretty relaxed over here, and stories and photos are as welcome as menus and recipes. When your Food on Fridays contribution is ready, just grab the button to include with your post. It ties us together visually. Then fill in the boxes of this linky tool to join the fun!

Food on Fridays with Ann

One afternoon, I realized I had some mushrooms that needed to be eaten, and a bunch of leftovers. So I decided to invent some kind of soup.

In olive oil, I sauteed the mushrooms and a tiny bit of shallots, then added sliced carrots. In retrospect, I should have started with the firmest veggie, which would have been the carrots, but that’s okay.

When those were soft, I added broth and then threw in some leftover rice and corn. I shook in a bit of salt and pepper. Tasted it.

Bland.

Then I found a can of tomatoes, spiced for chili. I opened it up and tossed it in.

That was the magic ingredient. The spiced tomatoes added depth needed to pull everything together.

The soup became a stew. And it made a lot of stew; I ended up pouring it into several storage jars and jamming them into every free spot in the fridge.

And then I ate mushroom stew for lunch, dinner, lunch again, dinner again.

I’m not sure the quantities are 100 percent accurate, but here is the basic idea, as best as I can remember:

Made-up Mushroom Stew

• 1 8 oz container mushrooms
• 1 small shallot, diced small (by all means use onion if your digestive system tolerates them…lucky)
• 1 regular carrot, peeled and sliced in circles OR shredded (see directions for explanation)
• olive oil to saute
• Broth (maybe three or four cans? Mine was homemade)
• Cooked rice (I tossed in a large Ball jar of leftover brown rice)
• 1/2 bag of corn (add as much as you like)
• 1 can tomatoes, seasoned for chili (or I suppose seasoned with Italian seasonings could be tasty)
• Spices
• Salt and Pepper to taste

Saute carrots in olive oil until soft, if they are cut in chunks or circles; if shredded, save them for later. Saute sliced mushrooms and then add diced shallot or onion. Cook until soft. Add broth, rice, corn and tomatoes (and shredded carrots, if you shredded instead of sliced them; they’ll cook quickly this way). Season to taste using spices that match the kind of tomatoes you used. Heat through. Top with crushed corn chips.

* * * * *

Photo by Ann Kroeker. “Pin” these images in a way that links back to this particular page, giving proper credit.

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This article was originally published on Ann Kroeker. Writer. and the original version can be found here: Food on Fridays: Mushroom Stew

Each Wednesday (or thereabouts) I’ve been recording a Curiosity Journal to recap the previous week using these tag words: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

Care to join me?

Reading

About 20 years ago, a career change resulted in unexpected freedom to reinvent my life. Having quit a full-time job at a church, I could suddenly explore possibilities. My husband encouraged me to take my time and refrain from settling for something bland simply because it offered a paycheck.

I know. He’s amazing.

Well, during those years on staff at the church, I’d been developing administrative skills. But believe me, organization is not my natural bent. I’d been directing drama sketches, as well, and while I’m creative, I’m not born for the theater. Nothing I’d been doing seemed like a perfect fit, so I felt the need to explore all options. Hopeful and curious, I pulled off the library shelves books like What Color Is Your Parachute? Nothing was helping much, however, until one afternoon at the library when I spotted a title at the end of a shelf. It caught my eye because I thought it said “Witchcraft.” Shocked at the audacity, I stared at the unexpectedly bright and colorful cover design.

When I got closer, I saw that the title was Wishcraft: How to Get What You Really Want. Ah, wishcraft. Whew! Interested in the author’s approach to “wishing”, I tossed the book on my stack and took it home.

Once I opened the book and read the first few pages, I reached for my journal to scribble responses to the exercises designed to reveal long-lost dreams and wishes for what might have been. The idea being, of course, that if those dreams and wishes are resurrected, revisited, and revised into actual goals, what might have been can turn into what will be.

Those exercises—that book—led to my confident pursuit of a writing life.

While I am not the most prolific nor widely known writer, I am grateful to have moved toward that goal.

With one exception—a deep longing to live near the beach—I’m living the life I wanted, the life that I felt the Lord was pointing me to pursue.

The other night, I found myself wondering about Wishcraft. I ended up discovering that the entire book is available for free online at wishcraft.com. Each chapter is downloadable as a pdf file.

I’ve been reading through the chapters again, pausing to revisit some of the exercises. It seems wise to go through them periodically, as I move into new phases of life. So far, I seem to have stayed true to my earliest dreams—even the simpler, smaller wishes and daydreams.

Missing from the book is any sense of Christ-centeredness. The book doesn’t lead the reader to live a life worthy of the Lord, a life submitted to Him. I added that perspective on my own, and I do hope that my dreams, wishes and goals reflect my faith in Him to lead me along the way.

Now, in fact, I’m looking forward to guiding my kids through a similar process in hopes that they will pursue a life that reflects how God has made them and His desire for what they do with this one wild and precious life they’ve been given.

Learning

Have I already posted this? If so, I refuse to apologize, as we should all watch it again.

Playing

While trying to describe the above video to my high school composition students, I imitated Annie Sullivan and demonstrated how she placed Helen’s hands on her throat, mouth and nose. And then, because I like to mimic, I created an Annie Sullivan voice.

On the last day of co-op, the students claimed that they will carry my Annie Sullivan impersonation with them the rest of their lives. And then, one by one, they each stretched out one of their hands, positioning their fingers on their own throats, mouths and noses while attempting a voice characterized by precise diction.

I am happy to recreate this performance on demand.

Writing

Watch out! School is wrapping up, so as soon as I turn in grades next week, I am free to focus on writing. Unless family disruptions alter my plans, I anticipate a more creative, prolific and vibrant set of posts this summer. Will you be around to read them?

Reacting

For old time’s sake, I did a couple of the exercises in Chapter 3 of Wishcraft. One of the author’s suggestions is to list 20 things you like to do. You have to make it to 20, but the last few entries can be simple (ride a bike, drink hot chocolate, stare at sunsets), because even simple activities reflect a person’s personality.

After generating the list, I was to make a little chart and determine:

• How long since last done?
• Costs money or free?
• Alone or with someone?
• Planned or spontaneous?
• Job related?
• Physical risk?
• Fast or slow-paced?
• Mind, body or spiritual?

I probably shouldn’t do this exercise on the last day of school, when I’m worn and weary. My list, including such entries as “read”, “write”, “take pictures,” and “drink a pot of tea,” is void of adventure as it reflects the desire for a low-cost, low-key, low-risk, slow-paced, quiet, contemplative lifestyle.

* * * * *

Notebook image by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved. You may “pin” in a way that links back to this post.

This article was originally published on Ann Kroeker. Writer. and the original version can be found here: Curiosity Journal: May 23, 2012

For the Food on Fridays carnival, any post remotely related to food is welcome—though we love to try new dishes, your post doesn’t have to be a recipe. We’re pretty relaxed over here, and stories and photos are as welcome as menus and recipes. When your Food on Fridays contribution is ready, just grab the button to include with your post. It ties us together visually. Then fill in the boxes of this linky tool to join the fun!

Food on Fridays with Ann

I’ve been making hummus for a while, using the same basic recipe.

Every once in a while I mess around with it. Change it up.

I’ve roasted a sweet red pepper and blended that in; another time I did the same with an orange pepper. One time I whirred olives into a batch. But most of the time, our family likes it plain.

For the basic recipe, we use garbanzo beans, tahini, lemon juice, olive oil, cumin, garlic, and some salt. I once substituted almond butter for the tahini, which was tasty, but we agreed that tahini tasted better. We usually use canned garbanzo beans, but I’ve cooked up dried garbanzo beans to use, and it changes the flavor. Improves it, if you ask me.

Well, the other day I decided to use sesame seeds instead of tahini (tahini is sesame seed paste).

Best batch yet.

Hummus

Ingredients

• 2 15-oz cans chickpeas, saving the liquid to add as needed (or cook and cool a bag of dried chickpeas, though this will make more hummus than you’ll get with the 2 cans…and you’ll have to add a little cooking liquid to moisten)
• 1/4 C tahini or raw sesame seeds (I have only recently acquired sesame seeds and love the result)
• 1 T olive oil
• 1/4 C lemon juice (I only use fresh squeezed)
• 1 peeled garlic clove, minced to ensure thorough blending
• 1 t cumin
• salt
• creative additions (such as roasted red pepper)

Directions:

Place everything but salt in the blender and whirr it all together, adding liquid from the garbanzo beans as needed to achieve desired consistency—you’re looking for the hummus to blend smooth and creamy. If you can control the speed of your blender, start low and then ease it up. Afterward, season to taste with salt.

After reading this detailed and amusing description of hummus-preparation, I plan to add fresh parsley.

We smoosh the hummus into wide-mouthed jars to store in the fridge, then eat it as a dip for vegetables, chips, melba toast, or Wheat Thins; or, we use the hummus as a spread for sandwiches and wraps. It’s even nice on salads to replace or minimize need for dressing.

* * * * *

Photo by Ann Kroeker. “Pin” these images in a way that links back to this particular page, giving proper credit.

Smaller button for various uses

This article was originally published on Ann Kroeker. Writer. and the original version can be found here: Food on Fridays: Basic Hummus

Each Wednesday (or thereabouts) I’ve been recording a Curiosity Journal to recap the previous week using these tag words: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

:::

Reading

After lunch on Sunday, I said I was sleepy.

“Lie in the hammock, Mom,” the kids said. “It’s Mother’s Day. You should relax.”

I took their advice. After scooping up my pillow and an old flowered comforter from my bedroom, I headed through the living room, where I snagged a bag of books on my way to the back yard. I spread the comforter over the ropes and then hopped onto the hammock. It swayed for quite a while, then slowed. Once I was relatively stable, I reached into my bag and pulled out a book: Donald Miller’s A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life.

All afternoon, I lay in that hammock, reading that book, sensing situational irony.

In the book, Miller describes the process of working with two guys, a filmmaker and cinematographer, to edit his memoir, Blue Like Jazz, into a movie.

The idea is that this memoir must be revised from a series of thoughts and essays to form a somewhat fictionalized narrative, complete with compelling characters, a storyline that sustains interest, and a theme (and resolution) that satisfies.

The three guys struggle to get started, to find the story.

The filmmaker, Steve, explains that in a story, “there is a purpose in every scene, in every line of dialogue. A movie is going somewhere.”

The cinematographer, Ben, says, “What Steve is trying to say…is that your real life is boring” (25).

I certainly couldn’t depict a scene from my life to better represent that statement. At that moment, I was a suburban mom of four wrapped in a floral comforter, swaying in a hammock.

Your real life is boring.

Unlike my life, Miller’s real-life storyline certainly picked up. He shifted from sleeping in with no particular purpose or plan for his life, to hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, cycling across the nation to raise money for clean water, hiking the Columbia River Gorge, and kayaking up the Jervis Inlet in British Columbia. He contacted his dad, whom had never known, and met up with him in Indiana, where he forgave him for leaving the family. He started The Mentoring Project, serves on the President’s task force on Fatherhood and Healthy Families, teaches a course designed to help people understand and organize their lives using the elements of story (similar to his personal journey chronicled in this book). He speaks, blogs, tweets, writes.

He does all that. Oh, and he managed to finish that movie script, too.

I guess he pretty successfully edited his life.

After reading the last lines of A Million Miles, I stuffed it in the bag and stared up at the tree branches. Late afternoon sunlight streaked over the roof of the house and hit the upper branches of the tree.

My husband came out to check on me.

“Our lives are boring,” I said.

“Are they?”

I stared at scraps of blue sky visible through the leaves. “Look at me!” I exclaimed. “I’ve been lying on a hammock all day by myself, reading a book.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I loved it.”

“Then it’s not boring.”

“But…”

My husband opened the porch door and came out to the hammock. “And four kids? That’s an adventure.”

“I suppose.”

“I just dug out the garden so we can plant.”

“That’s not an adventure.”

“I know. But it’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s very good.”

He grinned and left to go jogging. I stayed in the hammock and stared a while longer, wondering.

Learning

As one of my daughters works on a leaf collection for her biology class, I’m remembering how much I enjoyed collecting and identifying leaves when I was young.

Her assignment inspired me, so I decided to start again as an adult. Instead of pressing and mounting leaves in a scrapbook, however, I plan to display them digitally—a virtual leaf collection.

Black Oak (Latin Name: Quercus velutina)

The only problem so far? It’s harder than I remembered to figure out the precise species. This oak, for example: what kind is it?

Some kind of oak

And this cedar. Instead of giving up identifying the trees in my area, I plan to ask around.

Northern White Cedar?

Because I’m curious.

And I like to learn.

Playing

While walking through the neighborhood snapping pictures of leaves, I noticed all the flowers in bloom.

Just as I am attempting to create a virtual leaf collection, it’s kind of fun to assemble some virtual bouquets, as well. Love these cheery, casual daisies.

But the peonies? Spectacular!

Writing

Last week I described a writing exercise called a “Comment Box Essay.” I intended to post one on Monday, but the week expanded, filling like a sponge, squeezing out my good intentions. Next thing you know, I wrote a long response to an article at The High Calling and left it in the comments.

And then I realized, “Hey! I think I just wrote a Comment Box Essay!”

(See the essay—kind of a personal, reflective essay, I guess—below, under “Reacting”)

Reacting

Bradley’s post on Tuesday at The High Calling reminded me of my first job as a library page.

My work was to shelve returned books, “read” the shelves (which was to ensure that books were in their proper order so patrons could find them), and check out books at the counter. While reading shelves, we were expected to pull all of the books to the edge and line them up straight, making them easy to reach.

The library was like heaven to me: free access to all those books, all that knowledge, all those stories. I was delighted to do the boring tasks of getting those books in the right place, pulling them to the edge, reorganizing to perfection. During that job, I was helping people like me, who were always on the prowl for a new title. I served people. I appreciated the work of a library.

For that brief time in my life, my work as a library page was both job and calling: I was tickled to get a paycheck, so I appreciated that it was a job; but I understood how I was serving the community. I loved it so much, I almost pursued a degree in library science.

I think it met all the criteria mentioned in the article to qualify as a calling: (1) I emphasized service; (2) I focused on excellence and “craftsmanship” in my work (not sure about the craftsmanship of library work, but I occasionally got to repair books with thick, clear tape, and I took great pains to do a good job so that the book got a second life); and (3) I de-emphasized money.

Even today, when I am nothing more than an everyday patron, I have reached up to straighten chaotic shelves at the library. Sometimes, while I’m browsing, I reach in and pull the books to the edge, making sure they are all lined up, easy to access, nice and straight.

* * * * *

Notebook image by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved. You may “pin” in a way that links back to this post.

This article was originally published on Ann Kroeker. Writer. and the original version can be found here: Curiosity Journal: May 16, 2012

I light candles on birthday cakes and snap pictures, laughing at my child’s delight—all the while swallowing back a lump in my throat forming at the thought of the thousand little goodbyes that day represents.

Goodbye, pacifier, blankie, sippie cup, toddler bed.

Goodbye, Little People and Playmobil.

Goodbye, Dr. Seuss and Dora the Explorer.

Goodbye, childhood.

And yet, I know that I’ve deepened and matured through this life of goodbyes.

When he was little, my son called oatmeal “opa-meal,” the Pledge of Allegiance the “fledge” of allegiance, and pancakes were “pampakes.”

For a long time he said “pomatoes” for tomatoes.

We were working on letter sounds with him one day. Studying black-line drawings of nouns that start with the “t” sound, he understood that each word began with that hard “t-t-t.”

“T-t-tire” he said while looking at the picture, then proudly glancing up for affirmation.

“That’s right.”

“T-t-turtle.”

“Yep.”

“T-t–what is that flower?”

“A tulip.”

“Oh! It’s pretty. T-t-tulip.”

Keeping the rhythm, he looked at the next picture and said “P-p…” He stopped, realizing that he wasn’t making the “t” sound, even though he was pretty sure he was looking at a pomato. He started again, “P-p…” He stared at it. “What is this thing?” he asked.

With the pang that accompanies goodbyes, I reluctantly said, “A t-t-tomato. It’s a to-ma-to.”

“Tomato?” He was perfectly capable of saying it.

“Yes,” I sighed, “a tomato.”

“Oh. T-t-tomato.”

Goodbye, pomato.

This article was originally published on Ann Kroeker. Writer. and the original version can be found here: A Thousand Goodbyes

For the Food on Fridays carnival, any post remotely related to food is welcome—though we love to try new dishes, your post doesn’t have to be a recipe. We’re pretty relaxed over here, and stories and photos are as welcome as menus and recipes. When your Food on Fridays contribution is ready, just grab the button to include with your post. It ties us together visually. Then fill in the boxes of this linky tool to join the fun!

Food on Fridays with Ann

The other day I was craving a snack. Something substantial. Something…with artichokes.

I’m not sure why. Maybe it was the fond memory of my Penn Station sub, but for some reason I kept thinking about artichokes. Couldn’t get them out of my mind. Fortunately, I discovered a can of artichoke hearts in the back of the cupboard, so I did a quick Internet search and found a recipe for hot artichoke dip with sun-dried tomatoes.

I mixed it up.

And baked it.

When it was ready, I used tortilla chips to scoop up and consume an undisclosed portion.

Let’s just say it was substantial.

The rest of the day, the dip sat in my stomach, heavy, like a completely saturated towel balled up in the bottom of a beach bag.

I stuffed the leftovers into a jar and wondered if I could buy some French bread, spread some of the dip on half of a slice, and create a homemade version of the Penn Station sub.

But the next day, when I opened the fridge and considered the possibility, I involuntarily placed my hands on my stomach and groaned a little.

So, here is the recipe for the snack that I should have served with a side order of self-control.

Hot Artichoke and Sun-dried Tomato Dip

Ingredients:

• 1 (14 ounce) can artichoke hearts, drained and chopped
• 1/2 cup mayonnaise (I used light)
• 1 1/4 cups shredded mozzarella cheese
• 1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
• 2 cloves garlic, crushed
• 1/3 cup chopped sun-dried tomatoes (optional; I used just a few tablespoons from a Trader Joe’s jar of sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil)

Directions:

Mix ingredients together. Spread into baking dish. Bake for 15 minutes (I think it was 20+ minutes) until hot and bubbly, and a little brown on top. I stuck it back in the oven after I took the photo above, so the final version was a little darker.

* * * * *

Photo by Ann Kroeker. “Pin” these images in a way that links back to this particular page, giving proper credit.

Smaller button for various uses

This article was originally published on Ann Kroeker. Writer. and the original version can be found here: Food on Fridays: Hot Artichoke Dip w/Sundried Tomatoes

Each Wednesday (or thereabouts) I’ve been recording a Curiosity Journal to recap the previous week using these tag words: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

:::

Reading

I just finished The Pursuit of God, by A.W. Tozer: a simple but motivating reminder to seek God in the midst of everyday life…written by someone who obviously practiced what he preached. His love for the Lord inspires.

Time to update my status on Goodreads.

Learning

My mind is not exactly a steel trap. In the past, I attempted to memorize passages of Scripture, but the words quickly slipped into the cobwebby corners of my mind and faded to a forgotten gray.

To have any hope of locking them in, I simply must be diligent to revisit and resurrect those selections to review and refresh my mind. I took my husband’s suggestion to type them up and create a pdf file to load onto my Kindle, so I can click on it each morning after I’ve read my daily passage of Scripture.

He’s brilliant. Having the memory work so handy has made a world of difference. I inevitably misplace or lose notebooks and card systems (I would have been a terrible Navigator) but I work hard to keep track of my Kindle.

I look forward to maintaining this daily practice, perhaps one of the four decisions that will transform my life.

Playing

Writing about the cocoa? That was fun. Gross, but fun.

Writing

You may recall from last week that I want to improve my writing. At Scott Russell Sanders’ suggestion, I am going to read, analyze, and learn from quality literature, practicing various skills.

To that end, the other day I read one of his short essays, a memory from childhood involving a Luna Moth. impressed with his description, I let my mind dredge up a childhood memory of my own and recalled the cocoa incident. Without taking a lot of time to plan, I wrote the story, trying to tap into at least three senses (advice from Gregory Wolfe, which I’ve preserved in another post from last fall, under “learning”). I decided to go ahead and share the little writing exercise on my blog on Monday, as practice became post.

Now that I’m considering this part of my weekly routine, I hunted down ideas. A quick search turned up an article offering several ideas, including the “Comment Box Essay.” The author suggests visiting a favorite blog and reading the main article. Then, click on comments and compose a response that would normally enter the comment thread. However, instead of publishing the comment, stop. Copy-paste that response into a new post at my own blog and revise it to become a full-length post of my own (linking back to the original inspiration).

By responding to writing with more writing, we create a bigger conversation on a given topic.

I love the idea, so keep your eye open for a Comment Box Essay.

Reacting

What joy to hear Amber Haines read aloud, on the radio, my contribution to Mother Letters (see sidebar for affiliate link with Mother’s Day sale codes). Won’t you listen? Click through the link on this tweet:

This morning @amberrunsamuck had read @annkroeker's #MotherLetters contribution for @KLRCmorningshow! Listen here: http://t.co/HvylzZB4

May 9, 2012 10:36 am via HootSuiteReplyRetweetFavorite

@motherletters

Seth & Amber Haines

She’s got a clear, yet soothing, Southern accent…a much better representative for Not So Fast than my brisk, clipped Northern voice.

* * * * *

Notebook image by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved. You may “pin” in a way that links back to this post.

This article was originally published on Ann Kroeker. Writer. and the original version can be found here: Curiosity Journal: May 9, 2012

As I lifted the glass to sip, I would lower and raise the glass, swishing the milk backwards and forwards, trying to coax those cocoa-pods front and center so I could suck them in and with my tongue, press them against the roof of my mouth, releasing a burst of cocoa-flavored sweetness that would dissolve into that swishy sip of milk.

In winter, I did the same with hot cocoa mix. I’d heat water in the kettle, spoon cocoa mix into the mug, and then stir, keeping an eye open for the unmixed cocoa blobs. When mixing chocolate milk, I could easily see the dark against white; in a mug, I found it harder to spot unmixed cocoa under the creamy film that formed at the water’s surface. No matter; I’d trust my tongue to feel for them. I loved the sugary sensation as the cocoa separated into granules and dissolved in my mouth.

One cool afternoon I pulled out one of my favorite black mugs, poured in a packet of hot cocoa mix and waited for the water to boil. I pulled out a spoon and spun it between my fingers, waiting. As soon as the kettle burbled, I lifted and poured. Absently, I stirred and watched it blend, anticipating my ritual of hunting down undissolved pockets of cocoa floating to the surface.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, I lifted the mug to my lips, blowing a little to cool the surface, and began sipping. Several sips in, I spotted a blob and sloshed the liquid, working that tempting pod front and center, to suck in and press against the roof of my mouth.

As soon as it was within sipping distance, I tilted the mug, drank it in, and with my tongue pressed up. But it didn’t give when it hit the roof of my mouth. It didn’t dissolve into a hundred granules of sugar. It was…hairy.

I rushed to the sink and spat.

A fly.

A dead fly.

I dumped the contents of the mug into the sink, pushed the faucet and scooped water into my mouth with my hands as fast as possible to rinse, and rinse, and rinse, and rinse. As I rinsed, I had to stare down into the sink where the fly rested against the stainless steel drain basket strainer, the stream of water rinsing specks of cocoa from his lifeless black form.

I started to cry.

To this day, I can still recall the unexpected sensation of hair…legs…wings.

To this day, I always press the curve of my spoon against every pocket of unmixed cocoa, running it against the side of the glass or mug, to ensure that it bursts and blends with the liquid.

To this day, I avoid dark mugs. But if I don’t have a choice, I always peer in, turn the mug upside down, and shake.

This article was originally published on Ann Kroeker. Writer. and the original version can be found here: Incomparable Sensation: My History with Cocoa Mixes (a cautionary tale)

(broccoli lovers everywhere grieve the end of an era)

For the Food on Fridays carnival, any post remotely related to food is welcome—though we love to try new dishes, your post doesn’t have to be a recipe. We’re pretty relaxed over here, and stories and photos are as welcome as menus and recipes. When your Food on Fridays contribution is ready, just grab the button to include with your post. It ties us together visually. Then fill in the boxes of this linky tool to join the fun!

Food on Fridays with Ann

The other day I stared at the fridge and spotted a container of mushrooms, some half-n-half, and assorted leftovers. When I spied a few cheese tortellinis, I decided to throw together a quick cream sauce. I’ve written about mushroom cream sauce before, but I didn’t really want to look it up or pore over recipes online. I just wanted to eat lunch as soon as possible.

So I started grabbing things that sounded good, hoping the combination would turn out okay.

I sauteed sliced mushrooms in a combination of butter and olive oil.

Poured in some half-n-half.

Shook in some sage, salt, pepper. A little garlic powder. Some Parmesan cheese.

Then I dropped in the leftover tortellini to reheat in the cream sauce.

I ladled it into a bowl and ate it with a spoon.

* * * * *

Photo by Ann Kroeker. “Pin” these images in a way that links back to this particular page, giving proper credit.

Smaller button for various uses

This article was originally published on Ann Kroeker. Writer. and the original version can be found here: Food on Fridays: Quick Cream Sauce

Each Wednesday (or thereabouts) I’ve been recording a Curiosity Journal to recap the previous week using these tag words: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

:::

Reading

I’m chewing on these excerpts, especially the lines I’ve highlighted in bold, from The Pursuit of God by A.W. Tozer (free Kindle version):

The stiff and wooden quality about our religious lives is a result of our lack of holy desire. Complacency is a deadly foe of all spiritual growth. Acute desire must be present or there will be no manifestation of Christ to His people. He waits to be wanted. (loc. 145)

A loving Personality dominates the Bible, walking among the trees of the garden and breathing fragrance over every scene. Always a living Person is present, speaking, pleading, loving, working, and manifesting Himself whenever and wherever His people have the receptivity necessary to receive the manifestation. (loc. 446, 453)

Our pursuit of God is successful just because He is forever seeking to manifest Himself to us. (loc 584)

Why do some persons “find” God in a way that others do not? Why does God manifest His Presence to some and let multitudes of others struggle along in the half-light of imperfect Christian experience? Of course the will of God is the same for all. He has no favorites within His household. All He has ever done for any of His children He will do for all of His children. The difference lies not with God but with us. (Loc 594, 599)

They [saints] differed from the average person in that when they felt the inward longing they did something about it. They acquired the lifelong habit of spiritual response…As David put it neatly, “When thou saidst, Seek ye my face; my heart said unto thee, Thy face, Lord, will I seek.” (loc 604, 609)

Learning

Though my computer keyboard was teeming with bacteria last week when the eager, curious student swabbed it for a science demonstration, I’m happy to report that the petri dish carefully labeled “Mrs. Kroeker’s Computer Keyboard” wasn’t the worst offender. Sure, we exclaimed over the yellow gunk growing vigorously in almost all of the petri dishes, but the one that practically sprouted arms and legs to climb out of the glass container was…the dish rag.

Swap out your dish rag often. Wash in hot water. Use bleach.

The teacher pointed out one of the dishes that was growing yellow gunk. “This one,” she said, “was the stair railing. We swabbed it, and then afterwards, I swiped some Purellon the same spot and swabbed a second time, to compare. And look!” She pointed to the petri dish labeled as the railing swiped with Purell. It showed only the tiniest specks of growth. The teacher exclaimed, “That stuff works!”

Also, I’d like to report that as soon as I knew my keyboard had been swabbed, I searched the Internet for how to clean the thing and used these instructions to sterilize it. Next time you shake my hand, be not afraid.

But if you ask to use my laptop to write a quick e-mail or check Facebook, please understand if I hand you a bottle of Purell, first. It’s nothing personal.

Playing

Charity joined me on a short road trip to hear a lecture by author Scott Russell Sanders. He offered a few remarks about the wonder of libraries and then read the short essay “Hunger for Books” from his book The Country of Language. In the hushed air of his small town library, he could “follow any question wherever it led, and all for free.” That was me. That was my childhood.

Like sunshine, like the urgency of spring, like bread, language is so familiar that we easily forget what an amazing gift it is…Surely this is what most clearly distinguishes us as a species, the ability to accumulate knowledge and to pass it on. We pass it on by word of mouth, we pass it on by example, we pass it on in films and tapes and disks, in magazines and newspapers, but above all we pass it on in books. (30, 31)

At risk of sounding like a technophobe, he applauded the strengths of the printed, bound, physical book. The kind we carry with us, tucked in our backpacks, purses or pockets.

I’m still devoted to the humble book. A book requires no electricity. It is portable, made for the hand and pocket. It invites but does not demand our attention, and it leaves us time to think. We can enter or leave a book just as we choose, and we can interrupt our reading to burp a baby or pay a bill or ponder a cloud. A good book appeals to what is best in us, without trying to sell us anything. (31)

As he read, I found myself in the description of the curious kid searching for answers to simple questions about constellations and Native Americans and muskrats. I loved the library. I would check out an armful and drink deeply of the ideas, explanations, stories and inspiration. Books were my food and the library was an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord.

[T]he best books invite us to share in a sustained, complex, subtle effort to make sense of things, to understand some portion of our humanity and our universe. As long as there are people hungry for such understanding, there will be people hungry for books…even now, after devouring so many thousands of books, I am as ravenous as ever. (32)

Hearing him read, I heard, even felt, myself in his rich descriptions of libraries, books, words, ideas. I sat in that chair—Ann the reader, the writer—and I grew hungry for more: more from him (I bought two of his books), and more from me (I resolved to work harder at my craft).

Writing

Charity and I lingered after the lecture to ask Scott Russell Sanders (SRS) a couple of questions. I asked about improving my craft. I mentioned that MFA programs had tempted me as a way to take my work to the next level. Should I explore that? Or is there a way to achieve a level of excellence and artistry on my own?

If I wanted to pursue an MFA, he suggested I look into low-residency programs. But he assured me that finding like-minded writers to form a writing group could achieve a similar end. Gather some working writes who share an inner drive to develop themselves, he said. A group like that could provide a rewarding level of stimulation, evaluation and interaction.

The group could read the same book together (poetry, essays, fiction) and discuss why it works—dissect it and learn from the writing in order to apply those principles to our own projects.

He thought it could be done.

Charity’s feeling pretty well situated, as she recently joined a writer’s group committed to that very process.

I figure at the very least, I can read and dissect some books on my own. I bought two of SRS’s books. Perhaps I’ll start with those. After all, as he read, my heart raced a little and I held my breath. When he paused between selections, I scribbled in my notebook, “I want to write like that.” And then I underlined it. Twice.

Reacting

A discussion with my 10-year-old son:

Son: You’re like God to me.

Me: Really? How?

Son: I mean you’re like a God example to me.

Me: I’m not perfect, though. And God’s perfect. So, is that such a good idea for me to be an example of God?

Son: It’s okay. No one is a perfect example, because no one is perfect. Everyone sins. I just mean that parents in Christian homes can be that for their children. Christian parents are like God to their kids because you love them, you teach them to do the good things and not the bad. That’s pretty much like God. He tells you what to do and what not to do and loves us infinitely.

Me: We do that?

Son: Yes!

Me: That’s a pretty big responsibility.

Son: It’s not really a responsibility. It’s just something you naturally do. You naturally love me and teach me.

All of that occurred shortly after he finished his third bowl of Cocoa Puffs.

* * * * *

Notebook and keyboard images by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved. You may “pin” in a way that links back to this post.

This article was originally published on Ann Kroeker. Writer. and the original version can be found here: Curiosity Journal: May 2, 2012