Pie Belle

My Vintage Kitchen: Very Before, Before, and After

Posted on February 28, 2020 by Terri

During our last effort to finish cleaning out my parents’ home nearly ten years ago, I finally came across some of my childhood toys. Memories came to mind and heart with each new discovery. Some toys I remembered well and had thought of many times throughout the years. Others had slipped deeper into my memories and I only remembered them as I found them. Some of my favorite finds were items from my kitchen set. I loved my kitchen set. I probably played with it every day until about 6th grade when it was moved out of my room. It was a Sears one, made of Masonite. It had red accents, including a plastic red sink. Behind the sink was a little painted window scene, complete with red and white check curtains. All of the cookware was red and my dishes were tin with red accents.

Our house on the farm was built in 1956 and it had characteristics traits of a mid-century home. The two bathrooms were beautiful with amazing pastel and black tile-work. When I posted pictures of those rooms on Retro Renovation‘s Facebook page, those who commented said they had never seen such beautiful tile. I remember one of my friends in junior high said she like our bathrooms because they were “punk and funky.”

FAB mid-century ceramic tile work in a ranch-style farm house in south Louisiana!
This was our Blue Bathroom. Toilet, sink, tub: all matching blue. We bought matching blue toilet paper, of course. There is a cabinet with four doors above this and a walk-in linen closet to the right, in addition to a long vanity with many doors and drawers opposite.

We had wood paneling in the living room, hallway, one bedroom and the kitchen. The hallway and living room were paneled in beautiful varnished pine, while the kitchen and bedroom had smooth cypress. The kitchen even had a smooth cypress ceiling. You would have difficulty finding cypress like that, unless you bought it on the black market or it was reclaimed from a demolition or remodel. Mama literally had nightmares about the renters painting over the wood after we moved.

The kitchen was the center of our lives and the backdrop for so many memories. It was twenty-five feet long and gave Mama plenty of decorating space. In the breakfast area, she had her Hoosier cabinet and collectibles on display. Granddad built shelves above the windows to give her more horizontal space for her items.

Pictures taken as renters were packing to move out
That is SMOOTH CYPRESS on walls and the ceiling.
The little door is the built-in ironing board.

In the center of the kitchen, a peninsula extended from the back wall. It was wide enough that you had to clean it from both sides, reaching to the middle in either direction. We had five 1950s turning bar stools and it was at that peninsula that we ate family meals. It’s where I sat and colored and worked on school projects. At one end of the bar was a built in phone nook. Mama would sit on the bar stool and talk to friends on our avocado-green rotary phone. I knew not to interrupt her or make loud noises near her when she was on the phone unless something or someone was on fire. My friends would sit there to ask their mothers if they could stay a little longer or spend the night. Since we were a family of four, that fifth bar stool was primarily the phone stool.

The peninsula and the counter surrounding the built-in stove were covered in original Formica. It was beautiful–white with gold star bursts. The area around the stove no longer boasted many star bursts as they had been scrubbed away. The other counters, along with back splash, were tiled in the same black and sea foam green tiles used in the small bathroom. The cabinets were traditional 1950s country pine. The whole space was carpeted with an indoor/outdoor berber carpet in shades of olive green and rust. Horrible if you dropped flour, but I don’t think we ever lost dropped dishes to breaking!

So, it’s little wonder that a sentimentalist like I would have deep connections to vintage kitchens. During my senior year of college, Mama and I began collecting vintage items for my future kitchen. At that time, I wanted a turquoise and red kitchen, but as we shopped, we kept finding items in red and jadeite green. So, my vintage green and red kitchen was born. In my first apartment, decorative space was sparse, but I managed to display it all. You see, I am like my mother when I judge a kitchen. Display space ranks equally with workspace and storage. I carry on the tradition of Function Follows Form! Joey moved into that apartment after we were married and then we moved to Texas and lived in an apartment with a bigger, but still plain, apartment kitchen. When we found out we were expecting E, we decided to find a house to rent. We found one with a darling galley style kitchen. It had pine cabinets with the same handles of my childhood one, and a white tile back splash and counter. My vintage ware looked right at home. Mama made sweet red and white check curtains, with red rick-rack trim, similar to June Cleaver’s kitchen curtains. It was a bright and happy kitchen!

When we decided to buy our first home, we found a 1964 home with its original kitchen. I squealed when I saw the worn original Formica (white with gold specks). I told my realtor that most people would look at it and say, “Gut it,” but I was delighted with it. It had curly-q wood work above the sink and the same cabinet handles as my childhood kitchen. The cabinets were painted white and I removed all the handles so I could paint them red. I hung Mama’s red and white check curtains at the window above the sink (Does anything say “homey” quite the same as a window above a sink?). My vintage ware fit perfectly and the result was my sweet, bright, happy vintage kitchen. Two years ago, we finally had to do an update. I didn’t want to, but they were so worn that water was seeping under the seams and we knew that the counter tops would hurt future sale of the house. I was able to find pre-cut Formica counter tops with flecks of my vintage green and we installed a basic white tile back splash where before there was only painted paneling. So, the kitchen was updated, but the updates still worked with the unmistakably vintage vibe of the space.

We outgrew our sweet home, though, and had to search for a new one. There aren’t a large number of vintage homes in our area that haven’t been taken over as student housing. The newer, the better seems to be the leading philosophy in our area.

My new kitchen is “finished.” It’s only ten years old, making it the newest kitchen I’ve ever had. The first time I really looked at the kitchen was on our second trip with the realtor. I wasn’t sold on the home itself on the first viewing. I had yet to walk into a kitchen and feel that it was mine. On that second viewing, I had that feeling. It has a similar shape and feel to the farm kitchen of my youth. The workspace is great and even includes an island (always a baker’s dream). The storage is amazing and for the first time, all my kitchen and service items are in the kitchen rather than stored around the house.

The first thing I did was remove the wallpaper border and change the paint color. I wanted a neutral background for my vintage items. I used the same color as our previous living room since it’s a nice, happy color that always received compliments..

The cabinets are the same golden pine finish of the farm kitchen and I added black knobs and pulls that have vintage charm. I will never understand cabinet doors with no knobs or grooves for opening! The kitchen had Formica counters that had been “rolled” up the back to form a back splash. There were several holes in the space where the back splash section began and some of those were behind the sink. Already, the wood beneath was swelling from the moisture. So, new counter tops and back splash were needed. I went with a classic black, in Silestone. Now, my counter-top edges are black, just like the edges of Mama’s farm kitchen counters. I chose classic white subway tile for the backsplash, with dark grey grout, for a vintage feel and ease of cleaning.

The kitchen has a high bar so my children will have memories of sitting at a bar and coloring, doing schoolwork, eating snacks…just like my memories of the bar in our kitchen. There is a large breakfast area that holds Mama’s round table and Hoosier cabinet and I have room to grow in terms of wall display space. I purchased a red-handled rolling pin for $4.00 to start a display collection of rolling pins.

Granddad and Mama stripped this Hoosier cabinet on one of his visits. They found the Hoosier label on the front and inside is the paper shipping label for a Natchez, MS furniture store. She added the glass and replaced the pulls with her favorite choice: white ceramic. Inside are vintage tablecloths she gave me. Some of them are still folded as she stored them, ironed and perfectly square. It is a special experience to use one of them. I will leave some folded as she left them.
Mama read cookbooks like novels. I share her love for them. This is just some of them, the ones I use most often.

Display beside Hoosier cabinet: Mama’s vintage towels on her rack/shelf, some of my childhood kitchen toys, and a picture of Granddad. Mama bought the print above because it looked so much like Granddad. He wore overalls when he came to visit.

I thought he walked on water.
Mama painted the sign by their door.

I know light oak is not in vogue, but really it is classic. Also, you do NOT paint wood unless it is damaged and cannot be stripped and stained/varnished. Plus, these are extremely well-made, solid wood cabinets. I want to take care of them. I chose a light grey group for the subway tile for a more vintage feel. White grout would have been more modern.

Mama’s favorite copper pieces displayed atop the cabinets

My primary goal in decorating our new home has been to age the place. Since the kitchen doesn’t lend itself to my normal vintage look, I’ve gone for a more vintage cottage feel. I noticed the space above the cabinets first, and I have been able to display many of Mama’s collectibles that were stored away in boxes before. Her vintage Sunbeam mixer, a wedding present in 1956, is on display, along with her copper collection. Just like her, I point out the copper pieces and tell the story behind them.

Mama and her friend, Carmel, went to garage sales most weeks. In the Baton Rouge area, the usual days for sales were Thursday through Saturday. One Wednesday, they were going somewhere and they happened upon a sale. It wasn’t a usual day for a sale and it was raining. Mama saw this collection of black buckets and pans on a table. She asked the owners what they knew of them. They only knew they had been in a flea market fire. They were wrapped in plastic and during the fire, the plastic melted to the pieces. After inspection, Mama was certain they were all brass and copper. She asked the price and was told they were $10 for the whole set. In typical fashion, she said, “I only have $7; would you take that?”

Mrs. Carmel started to speak up, “I’ve got a $10.”

“Be quiet, Carmel,” Mama whispered.

She brought them home and was able to clean them to reveal three copper pots, a kettle, and three solid brass buckets. The large pot, a jelly pot, retails for over $100 alone.

Growing up, people would often bring friends by to tour Mama’s house. My father called it the “Dime Tour,” because Mama could point to things and say, “I got that for a nickel. They wanted a dime for it, but I got it for a nickel.”

How we first viewed the space
I like both greens, but they were rough paint jobs. They also clashed with the natural greens of the backyard so visible with the many windows.

After: view of breakfast area from living room
Update: I have since painted my living room a cheery blue.

Here’s that cheery blue paint when we moved the furniture back.
I bought the striped furniture set from a Facebook selling group. Mama always said when you decorate with deals and bargains, you can change your look up, from need or want, without guilt. Unfortunately, we had plumbing flooding that caused this change.

Our kitchen is the center of our home now. It’s where everyone congregates while I cook. It has all the homeyness of my childhood memories, but with my own personal stamp. I still feel guilty since I’ve always loved older homes, but it really has turned out to be a perfect home for us!

My friend Amber made the striped curtains from a tablecloth I found on Clearance at Dillards. Also, I love white appliances. They are as close to vintage-look as I can afford:)

A Vision of Christmas

Posted on December 24, 2019 by Terri

Hand-carved table-top nativity scenes, life-sized nativities, Christmas trees aglow, the wonder of children’s faces: they are all images brought to mind during this holy season and I love them all. When I think about the image that stays with me, that links my childhood to adulthood and never fails to prompt contemplation, it is an unlikely scene that stands out from the rest.

Growing up in Louisiana, I saw extreme poverty in rural areas. On the farm next to ours, there lived an elderly man who was called, “Preacher.” He worked on the farm and his small home was just beyond our fence. People passing by would probably refer to his home as a shack and as technical definitions go, they would not be incorrect. There was one main room which had at its center a free-standing wood stove. There was no air conditioning in the summertime and Preacher spent most of his spare time on his tiny front porch rather than indoors.

Such shacks were a fixture in the landscape that passed by my window on our family’s many drives. Sometimes we were driving with a proper destination in mind, such as a cattle sale, show, or field day at a farm. Other times, we were just driving for recreation. For my father’s recreation. I would assume my position in the backseat, gazing out the window, taking in the scenery that inspired my daydreams or barely noticing the familiar sites as I got lost in the world of my imaginings.

I knew these humble dwellings in the light of day. Old ringer washers and retired upholstered furniture might occupy space on their front porches. Children’s bikes and toys often littered the yard beyond flower beds that neatly lined either side of wooden steps that led up to the front door. In the winter, the tell-tale smoke puffing from a stovepipe gave evidence of the stove that heated the home and probably provided a means of cooking. Different thoughts went through my mind. I was more thankful for my lovely, comfortable home. I felt a bit guilty because I had a lovely, comfortable home. I worried about fires for the families caused by rudimentary electrical wiring or the flames of the stove. I wondered how the children inside felt. I wondered if the children on their school bus also lived in similar housing or if they were in better circumstances. Did they face ridicule as the bus slowed to a stop in front of their homes? No matter how happy the reason for the drive, the sight of those homes along a rural Louisiana highway made for somber moments.

But then there were the night drives on those familiar highways. Now, those mere shacks shone with a cheery and welcoming light in their windows. Against the black night, with no city lights or even street lamps, the glow from those windows transformed those shacks into homes. And at Christmas time, how the transformation was complete! Outlined with simple large, multi-colored bulbs, those shacks, so sobering to passer-bys during the harsh sun-lit hours, became quaint little cottages. They resembled gingerbread houses and I can honestly say, I have yet to see the grandest decorated home that can rival those humble homes.

Even my imagination changed in the light of those night-time houses. Honestly, I moved from pity to sometimes wistfulness. I would think about how different things could look at night. In the dark, in the quiet, in the stillness. The tell-tale marks of poverty disappeared and light from within and without now defined those homes. I would think about the magic of Christmas. Even those in humble circumstances could participate in the celebration. I almost felt as if their simple decorations were much more satisfying than the magazine-spread decor that awaited us at home.

The dark. Where poverty remains to so many Americans. So many people live such sheltered lives that they can’t imagine the poverty of places like the inner city or the rural south, places where either time marches across or time was left behind. Where Mary awaited the birth of her son in a humble stable, its blackness broken only by meager lamplight. Where hurts and pain lie in the recesses of our hearts and minds. Where the disciples slept whilst Jesus prayed with his whole being. Where Peter thrice forsake his Lord by the servant’s fire. Where Jerusalem descended as Christ drew His last breath on the cross.

In the quiet. Where we contemplate, looking for hope or where we give in to worry. Where we find peace from a noisy world. Where things are more simple and truth stands out from the distractions.

In the stillness. Where we listen to the breaths of our sleeping children and gaze upon their resemblance to the angels. Where we can breathe. Where the quiet leads. Where we hear God speak to our hearts.

In humility.

On our journey of faith, the Church gives us seasons of darkness, stillness, and quiet, so different from Ordinary time and the celebrations of Christmas and Easter. We wait in quiet and darkness through Advent for the birth of our Savior. In the history of God’s chosen people who anticipated the Messiah. In the stable. In the night sky where there appeared a special star. We wait in quiet and the darkness throughout Lent for our Savior’s crucifixion and resurrection. In the parable where we hope to count ourselves among the wise virgins with lamps lit. In the garden with the disciples. In the courtyard with Peter. In the tomb.

But like Christ Himself, the Church never leaves us in the darkness. This Christmas, as those before, the Church walks into the dark of midnight and joyfully shines her light of faith into the world, proclaiming that Christ is born! No matter how broken, unsightly, or poor–in body, in spirit, in mind, in circumstances–we are welcomed to take our place amongst the festivities. When we enter into the quiet and stillness, grace transforms us and the light of faith illumines our ordinary outlooks and concerns. Then, piling mystery upon mystery, we can be humble lights to each other as we journey in faith.

Dear Lord, thank you for breaking the darkness of Advent with your light. Thank you for grace and the gift of faith to light my path among the ordinary and the extraordinary. Thank you for those many people you’ve used in my life to light the way closer to you. Amen.

The Visit

Posted on November 25, 2019 by Terri

I was the youngest of nineteen grandchildren on my mother’s side. I only saw my paternal grandmother a few times, only one of those times do I remember and I only saw my paternal grandfather once. I was closest to my maternal grandparents, although I usually only saw them once a year.

When the air began to get cool and crisp and the pecans began to fall, I knew the time was approaching for the occasion to which I most looked forward each year: The Visit from Grandma and Granddad. Bill and Lena were my mother’s parents. They were married almost sixty-seven years (Granddad was buried on their anniversary in 1990). Even today, when I hear the term, “salt of the earth” my thoughts always go to images of them. They were the kind of people who, in their seventies and eighties, were still bringing meals and doing work for the “elderly” in their church! In personality, they were a little like the grandparents on The Waltons. The theme song of that program always makes me think of them. Grandma was always busy working and could sound a little sharp when she spoke and Granddad was quick with a joke or a wink.

My grandmother was an incredible cook, making everything from scratch, of course. She made homemade chicken and noodles, pies, fried chicken, and so on goes the list. My mother told me stories of dishes she remembered from her childhood. Grandma made strawberry shortcake with layers of pie crust, sweetened strawberries, and real fresh farm cream. She was famous for her sweet pickles and she canned everything from their garden. Mama would tell the story of one of Grandma’s home births. When the doctor arrived, he looked at all the filled Mason jars in the kitchen and wanted to know WHO had done that? She had spent the entire day canning while in labor!

The visits I most remember are those they made to the farm when I was in elementary school. My Aunt Pat would drive them to our house and she would stay for a day or two. It was so exciting to see Aunt Pat. I liked watching her and Mama together as sisters. And Aunt Pat knew how to speak to and play with children. I still have a miniature Strawberry Shortcake figurine she brought me one year. She found out I liked Strawberry Shortcake but didn’t have any of the toys yet, so she made sure to bring one when she made the trip to take Grandma and Granddad back to her house.

Aunt Pat and Mama, second and third from left, top

As they arrived in fall, it was still pecan harvesting time. We had quite a few towering old pecan trees of several varieties. We spent every spare moment of daylight picking up pecans. People laugh when I tell them how we accomplished our task. We picked on our knees. Starting at the base of the tree, we sat beside each other and began picking outward in rings. As we searched, we had to move the leaves and they formed a ring to let the person beside you see where your area stopped. We would pick the ground beneath the trees clean in this manner! I wish I knew how many pecans Mama picked over the years. She told people that the first year we moved there, the neighbors probably thought she was either really short or very religious, since she was out on her knees so often! Mrs. Carmel and Granddad were the only two people who could keep up with her when it came to picking up pecans or any other task.

While we were out picking up pecans, Grandma would stay inside, usually cooking. We had a little television in our kitchen and she would keep it on as she worked. I can remember her coming out every so often to tell us about the latest winner on The Price Is Right. This is the show she would complain about and wonder why anyone watched!

I also remember her coming out at some point on each visit and announcing the tally of chickens for that year. My mom collected chickens and Grandma would count the total number each time she visited. It always struck her as amusing because she said my mom couldn’t stand taking care of chickens as a girl and then she ended up having a kitchen full of them.

Evenings, we would visit and watch television, each of us with a t.v. tray on our laps, cozy in the living room warmed by a fire. On the trays were cracked pecans that we would pick out so the meat could be put into freezer bags for storage. One of the sounds from my childhood is the pecan cracker from Kent’s Nursery that seemed to be working without stop during the fall.

Granddad always called Mama his baby girl. She was the youngest of six children. He loved to fish and he was an amazing carpenter and craftsman, although not by trade. When he visited, he and Mama often had some refinishing project to be done. When Mama found out she was pregnant with me, they were refinishing this antique Duncan Phyfe table. Granddad said when she came up the driveway after her doctor’s appointment, she looked like she was floating on air!

Aunt Shirley called my mom one day and said her neighbors were getting rid of the table. The owner kept it in the garage and was throwing his tools upon it! As long as I can remember it was called my table and I loved caring for it and asking Mama to tell me the story of the day she found out she was pregnant with me. Mama’s face as she told the story and the scent of lemon Pledge as I carefully polished “my table.” It is now the centerpiece of our family celebrations and my daughters help me polish it.

Another year, Grandad and Mama worked on this Hoosier cabinet. It belonged to Mama’s best friend, Carmel and when she no longer wanted it, she passed it on to Mama. It had several coats of paint and when they stripped it, they found the copper Hoosier label on the front. Inside, the paper shipping label was still taped to the cabinet wall. Mama took the doors off and had glass installed, so she could keep the doors closed for display. It now holds vintage tablecloths and kitchenware that Mama collected for me, usually at garage sales.

Then, on another visit, Grandad made Mrs. Carmel a bench for her kitchen table. When Mama saw the finished product, she decided she needed a bench, also, so Grandad made the one that now sits at the foot of our bed. It is so nice to think of him as I walk through the various rooms of our home. I think of the two of them, working and talking. They were both meticulous when it came to making or refinishing items. Everything was done slowly and carefully, with such care, pride and PATIENCE. My conscience is pricked often as I look upon the beautiful finish of our table after I’ve literally gotten upset over spilled milk! Such a connection with family through treasured items can never be assessed a value.

This is my favorite picture of Granddad. I asked my cousin Linda to take a picture of Granddad in his overalls because that’s how I always pictured him, and all the other more recent pictures we had of him were in his Sunday best. The only thing about the picture is these were his nicer overalls. I remember him in his striped, engineer-style overalls, bent at one knee picking pecans or bent over a piece of furniture, bringing it to its original finish. I remember the feel of the buttons and clasps and the fabric of those overalls against my cheek as I sat in his lap. I can still hear his voice as he said, “Granddad loves you honey.”

Even though I didn’t spend time with them very often, I learned so much from my grandparents. I learned about the dignity of work and a job well done, kindness to those in need, marriage, wisdom and faith. When the country song, “I Thought That He Walked on Water” was released by Randy Travis in the eighties, Mama and I thought of Granddad because that title captured how our “little girl” hearts thought of him. He was a towering figure in our minds, full of kindness and love and I still miss him. God gives us so many tiny glimpses into His Glory and the true joy that awaits us one day with Him. In Granddad’s lap, I think I had an earthly taste of the happiness of one day being a beloved child in the presence of my Heavenly Father for all eternity.

Candied Sweet Potatoes and Apples

Posted on November 22, 2019 by Terri

These can be prepared a day ahead and placed in the fridge. Just reheat them before serving!

This is a standard recipe for our family for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and even Easter. When you look closely at the ingredients, you’ll see why this is a special dish that only needs to be eaten a few times a year! Be sure to cut the apples and sweet potatoes as directed; they will cook better and make a nicer presentation.

Use an apple corer to remove the core and slice apples into rings. I used a cannoli form to remove the core.

INGREDIENTS:

2 pounds sweet potatoes, peeled

1 cup firmly packed light brown sugar

1 cup butter

1/2 cup apple cider (not juice & not the instant packets)

1/4 tsp. salt

1 tsp. vanilla extract

3 large Braeburn or other cooking apples, cored and cut into 1/2″ rings

Cut sweet potatoes in half crosswise. Cook in boiling water to cover 10 minutes. Drain and cool. Cut crosswise, into 1/2″ round slices.

Combine brown sugar and next 3 ingredients in a med. saucepan. Bring to a boil; boil 10 minutes. Remove from heat; stir in vanilla.

Layer sweet potato and apple slices in a greased 13 x 9 baking dish. Pour glaze over slices. Bake, uncovered, at 400 degrees for 1 hour or until potatoes are candied and glaze is thickened, basting with glaze after 30 minutes.

Yield: 8 servings

from Christmas with Southern Living 2002

Applesauce Cherry Cake with Brown Sugar Icing

Posted on November 22, 2019 by Terri

I was delighted to find this black and white print as I was cleaning and purging a few weeks ago. It is one of many from a summer photography course my sister took at Louisiana State University in 1983 or 1983. This was one of many vignettes Mama decorated with in our decidedly country kitchen. That’s her artwork on the painted pieces. As I look at this photograph, I can feel myself back at that house and in her kitchen that was usually full of incredible smells.

This recipe was one she made every year and I can taste the memories of fall on the farm as I bake it and eat it. I hope you enjoy it!

APPLESAUCE CHERRY CAKE w/BROWN SUGAR ICING

For anyone who likes an old fashioned spice cake, this recipe is for you. Mama always made this during the fall and cut it into small squares, each with a pecan half centered on top, for a nice presentation.

Cake:

1 egg

1 1/2 cups sugar

1 1/2 cups applesauce

1 cup drained sour pie cherries

1/2 cup raisins

1 cup chopped pecans or walnuts

2 cups flour

2 tsp. baking soda

1 tsp. cinnamon

1 tsp. cloves

1/2 cup butter or margarine, softened

Mix ingredients well and bake 40 min. at 350 degrees.

Icing:

1 cup brown sugar

1/2 cup butter

6 Tbsp. milk

1/4 tsp. salt

3 cups sifted powdered sugar

Melt butter. Add brown sugar and salt. Boil hard for 2 minutes. Stir constantly. Remove from heat and add milk. Bring to a full boil, while stirring. Remove from heat and cool until lukewarm. Add powdered sugar.

Margarita Bars

Posted on November 15, 2019 by Terri

“I think I’m going to order a margarita.” I grinned as I said it, perched on the edge of a bar stool in the bar of Tampico’s Restaurant in New Iberia, Louisiana.

I was there for Happy Hour with two fellow teachers: Joey, who is now my husband, and Mike, who was the band director. “Well, o…kay,” said Mike. “I’ll alert the media.”

“No, Mike, you don’t understand,” I said, leaning in to whisper, “I’ve never had a margarita before. I had my first glass of wine last weekend.”

Mike just turned around and looked at me with a puzzled look on his face. Such an announcement in the heart of Cajun country was as shocking as it would have been for me to say, “I’m really from Mars, and right now, you’re coming back to the Mother Ship with me.”

I was raised in a dry house by parents who grew up in dry counties. My grandfather was an elder at church. So, I was a drinking novice. Mike, as a more experienced drinker, took on the role of mentor that afternoon.

“Okay,” he said, as he cleared a space before him at the bar in a business-like manner. Then, he pointed to a frozen margarita at the other end of the bar. “You see

that? You are not going to drink that. See how pretty it is? You don’t drink pretty drinks. You can’t taste the alcohol in pretty drinks and that’s what gets people into trouble.”

“No,” he said, “this is going to be your drink when you come here,” and he ordered me a top-shelf margarita, on the rocks. He then proceeded to teach me to never drink on an empty stomach and to always order and drink plenty of water. He said not doing those things were two other drinking mistakes. I asked him if I could order Dr. Pepper instead. Later, he would just shake his head and say I was the only person he knew who drank margaritas with Dr. Pepper chasers.

Top-shelf margaritas are still my signature drink, in addition to whiskey sours. They’re both strong enough to remind me of what I’m drinking and that always reminds me of Mike and the afternoon at Tampico’s when he taught me how to drink.

This recipe has the flavor of my margaritas. A buttery shortbread crust incorporates fine pretzel crumbs to give a salty bite to these Margarita Bars. Be ready to spend a little extra time at the food processor to get the pretzels crushed until they have an almost whole wheat flour-like texture. The filling includes tequila, along with freshly-squeezed juice and freshly-shredded zest from the outer peel of the limes. Orange zest in the filling

gives a hint of the flavor of triple sec. The bars are topped with a simple glaze that gives a slightly sweet, refreshing finish with another subtle reminder of salt. Friends and families were willing taste-testers and more than one person told me they felt transported to a tropical destination as they sampled these bars. Whip up your own batch for a summer barbecue, a lazy day by the pool, or just as a mini vacation in bite-size form.

The Pie Belle’s Margarita Bars

Ingredients

Crust:

1 1/2 cups flour

1/2 cup finely crushed pretzels

1/2 cup powdered sugar

1 tablespoon lime zest

1/2 teaspoon Kosher salt

1 cup cold butter, cut into small pieces

Filling:

1/2 cup flour

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

4 large eggs, beaten

2 cups sugar

1/3 cup fresh lime juice

3 tablespoons tequila *

2 teaspoons orange zest

2 teaspoons lime zest

Glaze:

1 cup powdered sugar

3 tablespoons fresh lime juice

pinch of Kosher salt

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl, combine 1 1/2 cups flour, crushed pretzels, powdered sugar, and lime zest. Use a pastry blender to cut the butter into the flour mixture until it is crumbly, with tiny bits of butter and no loose flour.

2. Dump the flour mixture into a 13 x9 pan; use your hands or a measuring cup to firmly press the crust into place. Bake at 350 degrees for 20 to 23 minutes or until lightly browned.

3. In a small bowl, combine 1/2 cup flour and baking powder; set aside. Use a whisk to combine eggs, sugar, lime juice, orange zest, lime zest, and tequila in a medium bowl; beat well. Stir the dry ingredients into the egg mixture and pour it over the baked crust.

4. Bake at 350 degrees for 20 to 25 minutes or until lightly browned and set. Completely cool the bars, in the pan, on a wire rack.

5. To make the glaze, combine powdered sugar, lime juice and dash of salt, using an electric mixer. Mix well until the glaze is smooth. Pour the glaze over the cooled bars and spread evenly across the top.

Refrigerate the bars and serve chilled.

*You may simply omit the tequila for a non-alcoholic version of these bars, or you may substitute 1 tablespoon of orange juice or lemon juice for the tequila.

Searching For Cannas and the Image of God

Posted on November 15, 2019 by Terri

Originally published 12/29/2014

All three of my children started school this year. All three. The boy is now a proud kindergartner. Curly is in second grade. Big sister began intermediate school which means a locker and schedule to remember.

My house is nearly silent during the day and it feels very empty and lonely. I have to stop here and step off any pity train, though. Every school day, I climb into my car and get to pick up my babies from school. Then, I get to spend the rest of the evening with them, along with the weekends and holidays. My house is not always empty. It’s not the same as the seven years we waited for the sounds of children to fill our home.

The idea of returning to homeschooling has been very appealing to me recently. It’s been appealing because I want my children with me all the time. I honestly miss them. My head soon takes over for my heart, though, and I am reminded of the reality of homeschooling for our family. It did not work. That is not to say that it will never work. One of my children has no desire to ever home-school again. Another might want to one day and it is possible that I could successfully teach at home under the much-different circumstances of having older, independently-reading children. We will take each year as it comes and do what is truly best for each child.

Best for each child is key here. I’m not making decisions based upon what I think might be best for me or what would make me feel best. Thomas has the same incredible kindergarten teacher with whom Clare was blessed. She is the best teacher, at any level, I have ever seen. Her classroom is a Montessori one in public school. She is a child development expert. As an added bonus for us, she attends our church and is a Eucharistic minister. I cannot duplicate what Thomas is receiving by being in her class. I cannot come close. She can never love him the same way I can, but she can teach him in a way I never can. It’s okay for me to admit that. I am not a failure as a: mother, a teacher, or as a Catholic. OR AS A CATHOLIC.

See, I had a hard time fitting in as a homeschooling parent. I taught eight years before I stayed at home full-time with my oldest child. I taught three years of seventh grade in Louisiana and then we moved to Texas where I taught sixth grade for two years, third grade for one year, and fourth grade for three years. My husband has taught public school fifth and seventh grades in Louisiana and Texas, Catholic high school in Louisiana, and university classes in both states. We both attended public schools, K-12 and graduated with degrees from public universities. We cannot hate public schools. We cannot contribute to or hope for their failure. There is a tremendous amount of animosity toward, and distrust of, public schools in the American homeschooling community. While there are homeschooling parents whose decision to homeschool has no basis in animosity, fierce, full-bodied hatred of the system is easily encountered. There is also a disturbing element made up of those who genuinely want public schools to completely fail. I believe some want the system to collapse so it can be remade according the their wishes, often for monetary gain. Some just envision a world where everyone should homeschool, following a severe libertarian bent.

The family is the foundation of our society. As a Catholic, I see the earthly, imperfect reflection of the Holy Trinity, in the family and I understand the basics of that theology in a very rudimentary way. In the United States, the public school system plays an important role in supporting families and communities. For some children, it offers the only structures and interactions similar to those found in families. As we start this third year of public school for our children, I can see all that public school offers.

My children are able to see people as a whole of humanity. They are not separate from “them.” I’m talking about the Wal-Mart phenomenon, where people will pay more money to shop somewhere like Target so they don’t have to be around “Wal-Mart people.” To clarify, they mean people in tube tops and slippers, dirty workmen, the obese in automatic carts, and all the other realities of the world on display at your typical Wal-Mart. Oh, but let us Christian people who refuse to go to Wal-Mart go on a nice planned, scheduled mission trip. Let us tie on a clean apron and spend an hour or so dishing out meals at a soup kitchen or shelter. Oh, the gushing about how beautiful is service to the poor. How humbling! How much one learns to be thankful for all one has! It is so easy to fall into the trap.

Because “they” or the “them” are somehow easier to take, less of an assault on our delicate sensibilities, if they are contained, neatly. They can be gathered together so we may drop in on them and share with them the benefits of our kindness and generosity. Heaven forbid we have to stand behind them in the check-out lane, though. Somehow, a kind smile and conversation just isn’t the same as it is from behind a serving window in a food line. It’s up-close and personal, and it might even feel uncomfortable, as if we are somehow the same, part of the same group. I mean it’s all well and good to show off our Ash Wednesday forehead ashes all over social media in #ashtag selfies (and can those stop?!), but to actually admit that we are all from the SAME dust and to the SAME dust we shall return?!

My children notice that some children wear the same pants to school every day. They notice that one little boy always has holes in his shirts. They also see the little girl with an iPhone and Vera Bradley backpack who doesn’t even seem to enjoy life and must be miserable to be that mean to other people. They see a lot. It gives us lots of opportunities for discussions we might never have had.

You see, poverty exists all around us and within us as poverty in body, mind, spirit, circumstances. Those who show the signs of their poverty in more obvious ways do not exist in nursing homes or low-valued neighborhoods as some sort of amusement park for the benevolent. We must encounter the impoverished, so that God may minister to us, through them, as much as God may minister to them through us. In public school, our children are being tested and I see their faith becoming stronger as it becomes their own. They are concerned for other students whose parents are in jail. After a student’s outburst in class, my oldest told me, “Who knows what may have gone on at her house last night? She may just be upset about something else.” They see administrators and teachers working together for the good of students and it teaches them how to react to others. They also are attracted to those who show kindness and empathy. Their school is truly diverse. Within each government-labeled sub-group, there is a range of socio-economic levels. It’s all on-the-job training for disciples of Christ, while still being under our loving direction.

When I first began homeschooling, I wanted to protect my children from everything bad the outside world could offer. Slowly, as homeschooling just didn’t work, I began to really think about my own school experiences and the encounters I experienced because of my mother. I attended the same rural school, from kindergarten through eleventh grade. The summer before my senior year, we moved to a larger town and school district. I remember the first day of school, as we gathered in the gym. I was surrounded by strangers with two faces of neighbors’ children being the only ones familiar. For the first time at school, I noticed race only. At my other school, I had known everyone for so long that I saw names and personalities, not color. At this new school, I knew no names and had no history. I remembered thinking, “If I had not gone to school at Jackson all those years, I would be terrified right now.” But, I wasn’t, because of my previous experiences in school. I had become friends with people from varied backgrounds and learned to get to know people. I learned all the similarities between us, but also, that the differences weren’t a bad thing. They could be strengths, not weaknesses. It was not theory or abstract. No ideas were woven with only threads from stories and lectures. Stories and lessons were bolstered by real encounters with my fellow man, people for whom Jesus died on the cross, the same as He did for me.

A few weeks after my children’s first day of school this year, I found myself driving past our exit after I dropped them off in the morning. I kept driving to a near-by small town and parked in the Wal-Mart parking lot. It’s a small Wal-Mart with no grocery section or Super aspect to its name. Locals were stopped in aisles, visiting with each other as they caught up with life’s happenings. Employees talked and laughed as they stocked shelves or priced clearance items. I smiled and spoke to anyone I could. I felt so at home, or rather, that I had returned home. It was a place my mama would have loved.

I spent untold hours of my childhood standing by grocery carts as she struck up conversations with strangers in stores. We would stop at stranger’s homes, often mobile homes, because Mama admired the flowers and wanted to compliment the owner while she also learned more about the yard. Most often, it was the bright tropical hues of canna lilies which grabbed my mother’s attention. Cannas were a somewhat elusive plant for my normally green-thumbed mother. We inherited one circle of them in our large yard, but she had never been able to successfully grow them in any other spot. She would almost fret over them as she observed them growing in ditches at the other end of the country lane on which we lived. Those same ditches often contained sewage from poorly functioning septic systems. You could see the cannas thriving, tall and hearty, along the sides of shacks and forgotten scraps of yard. Canna lilies drove my mama to encounters with men and women, black and white, often poor as she sought what they had. She connected with people she met, on equal soil with them. And I was often right beside her.

Over the course of my childhood, I was there as a neighbor hid at our house, making contact with estranged family, as she tried to get out of a harmful relationship. I stood in the house of a grandmother who was trying to raise her grandchildren because their parents were consumed by drug addiction. In that house, I watched cockroaches, as legion, crawl over and under pictures on walls, unaffected by the daylight or presence of people. Mama was there to plan a coupon shopping trip and to be a shoulder to cry upon. She caught my eye as she saw me staring at the bugs. Her look told me to stop staring because it was rude. I knew better than to turn down the drink offered to me there and as an adult, I later realized that my hostess was doing the best she could.

In that Wal-Mart and later, as I reflected upon my now-strong commitment to public schools and a general throwing open of the doors of my heart, I realized what I had truly been looking for. A month before my mother passed away, my best friend gave me The Story of a Soul, the autobiography of St. Therese of Liseux. Therese has been with me ever since and the Little Flower, as she was called, helped me through my mother’s death. I realize, as a Catholic parent, I am on my own look-out for canna lilies. St. Therese once had a vision of the kingdom of God as being like a garden, with all varieties of flowers needed, from hothouse specialties to the seemingly common daisies. They were all equal in their purpose and necessity and to lose any of them would bring diminishment to the beauty of the garden.

My mama was a daisy and as much as my romantic heart may wish to be an orchid or rose, I too, seem to belong to the wildflower ranks. It is not a disappointment, though, as I realize what Therese saw was the equality of creation, beauty, and purpose. One garden. Though I might have gifts in some areas, there are things I just don’t have and I want to learn from those who do. I want to seek out the hearty, in defiance of their poor circumstances, and ponder the mystery of how they survive or even thrive. And I want my children to be there beside me so when they encounter humanity in the faces of strangers, they will not be terrified, but will call upon their experiences and open their hearts to trust in God, who made us all, as they seek His image in the faces of our brothers and sisters. Spontaneous, organic–not orchestrated– experiences of cannas in ditches and overgrown yards to the image of God to be found in everyone. Not as just some act of goodness, but on equal soil. Especially in our schools and any Wal Mart.

Gumbo: A Soul-stirring Recipe

Posted on November 14, 2019 by Terri

For some people it’s chili. For some, it’s soup. For others, it may be stew. When cooler temperatures finally roll in, we think of the hearty comfort foods of fall and winter. My residence in central Texas hasn’t changed my thoughts at the first sign of a cold front. My Louisiana roots still make me think, “It’s gumbo weather.”

Gumbo could be described as somewhere between a soup and a stew, but it is truly its own dish and hard to compare to any other. It’s flavor and consistency are derived from the roux (pronounced ROO), a mixture of oil—or fat– and flour cooked until darkened to the color of a dark cup of coffee. It is common in Louisiana, when a cook is asked how long to cook a roux, for the reply “two beers” to be given.

For me, making gumbo is almost a spiritual experience. It’s usually a two-day affair for me, as I like to cook my chicken and stock the day before. Most Cajuns will actually cook their chicken in the gumbo, after the roux is finished, but I prefer to cook my chicken ahead and add the stock after the fat has been removed. The next day, I clear time and assume my place at the stove, big wooden spoon in hand, as I stir the roux. I watch it go from blonde to varying shades of brown before it reaches the copper-penny color stage. Then, I know it won’t be long. As the color intensifies, so does the fragrance.

It never fails to amaze me how two simple ingredients can become something so extraordinary. The roux is earthy–in color, scent, and taste—and so it offers the perfect culinary representation of south Louisiana. Quotes from southern authors fill my head, along with visions of Spanish moss draped over limbs of live oaks, with all these roux-induced hallucinations helped on by the musical accompaniment of lively or mournful Cajun music as I stir.

Then, comes that anticipated moment, right before the roux reaches that perfect darkened shade of brown, when I add the seasoning vegetables: the Cajun Trinity of onion, bell pepper, and celery, along with garlic. I call everyone present in to experience the smell as the vegetables hit the hot roux. The fragrant steam results in the ultimate Cajun facial as we lean over the pot.

After the broth, chicken, sausage, and seasonings are added to the roux, the gumbo will continue to simmer on the stove. It’s one of those wonderful foods that is even better as leftovers, as the flavors have time to intensify and combine in the refrigerator. Served over cooked rice, gumbo is the heartiest and most satisfying of comfort foods.

Below is my recipe for a Cajun-style chicken and sausage gumbo, as opposed to a Creole-style one more associated with New Orleans. Although I was born and raised in Louisiana, I am not a Cajun. This gumbo has received the Cajun Seal of Approval, though, from my husband, who can trace his ancestry back to some of the original Acadians who arrived in St. Martinville, LA. A Cajun will typically cook his chicken in the gumbo, not stew his chicken/broth separately as I do. I find it easier to skim fat off my broth, without losing gumbo flavor and I don’t worry about bones. My husband prefers this finished gumbo.

Pie Belle’s Chicken and Sausage Gumbo

INGREDIENTS:

Chicken and Stock:

Whole fryer or hen (hen is recommended)

4 quarts water

1 large onion, quartered

2 stalks, celery, chopped in large pieces, with leaves

2 carrots

salt and pepper

2 bay leaves

Roux:

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 cups vegetable oil

Seasoning:

1 large yellow onion, chopped

2 stalks celery, chopped

1 bell pepper, chopped

4 cloves garlic, chopped

4 tsp. salt

2 tsp. black pepper

½ tsp. red pepper

1/8 tsp. garlic salt

dash of Tabasco brand pepper sauce (or more for more heat)

1-2 Tbsp. Worcestershire sauce (Lea & Perrin’s recommended)

2 lbs. smoked sausage links (combo of beef and pork works nicely)

green onions, chopped

dried parsley

Directions:

Place rinsed chicken in water in a stock pot. Add the vegetables and seasonings. Bring to a boil. Cook 45 min. to an hour, until chicken is cooked. Remove chicken and allow to cool. Let broth cool, after straining through a cheesecloth. When chicken is cool, shred it. Remove fat from broth as it rises to the top. If making the day before, put the broth in the refrigerator where the fat will solidify and be easy to remove.
If your chicken broth is cold, heat it on the stove so it will be warm when you add it to the cooked roux.
To make the roux, heat the cooking oil on medium-high heat. Add the flour and stir continuously until the roux reaches almost the color of dark coffee. Don’t burn the roux! If you feel more comfortable, go for a slower roux, cooking over a lower heat. If you see black flecks or the roux smells burnt, you’ve gone too far and must start over.
Add onion, celery, bell pepper, and garlic, stirring constantly as the roux reaches the color of dark coffee. Reduce heat and continue cooking as the vegetables soften.
Add warm broth, stirring to combine with roux and vegetables.
Add shredded cooked chicken and salt, pepper, red pepper, garlic salt, Tabasco, and Worcestershire.
Cut sausage links into ¼ inch slices and fry them in a skillet, just until browned on each side.
Add sausage to gumbo and simmer at least one hour.
Before serving, add chopped green onions, parsley, and ground file. Stir well.
Serve over rice in soup or pasta bowl.

C’est bon! (That’s good!)

At the Base of A Pecan Tree

Posted on November 14, 2019 by Terri

The first major cold front finally blew into our area. It offered us relief from unseasonably warm temperatures that followed our seasonably hot summer. Along with a welcome change in weather, Autumn has brought back memories of that season on our small farm in Louisiana.

The pecan harvest fell to women and children on our farm. My father commuted thirty miles to the university where he taught and when he was home, any work he did was related to the cattle. I would pick pecans after school, but for me, the real work —and the real memories—belonged to Saturdays. On those mornings, I woke early and dressed in my warmest, oldest clothes. Blue jeans that could take wet, grass stained knees and a too-large coat–previously the property of my parents or older sister– were basics in my pecan picking- ensemble. A quick breakfast and then I headed outdoors, grabbed a bucket and prepared to hit my knees.

When I tell people about picking up pecans, they sometimes share their own stories of spreading sheets on the ground and shaking trees to capture the nuts in their linen traps or of using long-handled, curved-spring devices to gather small numbers of pecans. Our method was a little different and my adult mind can appreciate the lessons I learned at the bases of those majestic trees which canopied my childhood.

1. Just start at the beginning. Mama usually picked pecans all week with her friend, Carmel. Mrs. Carmel had six children, so on any given Saturday, you could find as many as nine people picking pecans on our farm. The method was simple. We lined up, at the base of the tree, with about two feet between each person. Then, we dropped to our knees and began to search for pecans amidst the grass and leaves. We picked in circles around the tree.

2. Make your own way while leaving a path to guide the way for others. As we circled the tree, we would rake the leaves out of our way, leaving neat piles that formed concentric circles. As the day progressed, those leaf circles made an extremely satisfying sight. The leaves left a clear mark for the person beside you so that he could keep his path and know exactly how far to look for pecans in either direction. Not only was I responsible for picking my area, but my work affected the path of the people on either side. Only if we all kept to our path were we assured the ground beneath the tree had been cleanly picked.

3. Patience and deliberate action will eventually lead to harvest and bounty. As we made our way around the tree in ordered fashion, we eyed little piles of pecans waiting to be gathered with no work needed to discover them. After we had scavenged for single pecans scattered under leaves, the discovery of those beautiful piles was always a little bit of pleasure in our day. Our usual method of pushing leaves aside had to be altered when we picked pecans in our pastures, instead of the yard. Our cattle were grass fed, which meant we planted ryegrass for the winter months. Ryegrass is extremely delicate, so we had to gingerly feel for and lift pecans from their tangled snare so the grass for which we had paid and labored to plant would not be ripped from its roots.

At dusk on Saturday afternoon, we would drive thirty miles to sell our pecans at a fruit market. There were two markets and we called to find out which one was offering the best price per pound. Then, we poured all our pecans into sturdy burlap sacks which still smelled of cottonseed meal for our cattle’s vitamin/mineral mix. Mrs. Carmel and Mama used that money for Christmas presents, so we reaped a concrete reward on Christmas morning. It always made Mama proud that she never touched money in the bank accounts to pay for Christmas presents, decorations, and foods.

4. Natural surroundings offer a peaceful environment for conversation, silence, work, and thought.

I always enjoyed being included in adult conversation. It seemed to occur so naturally as we were joined in solidarity on our knees beneath the pecan trees. I also learned so much about my mother and what it meant to be a woman from the conversations between her and Mrs. Carmel. In addition to group picking, I was also required to pick up a half-gallon ice cream bucket of pecans after school. That solitary time spent with my hands focused on a repetitive task gave me a chance to allow my mind to ponder and my imagination to wander. The idea of seasons in my life was clear to me at an early age due to my life on the farm. Over the year, I watched the cycle of the trees. Bare grey, winter branches gave way to green leaves and tiny buds in the spring. Over the summer, those buds would develop into bright green hull-encased nuts. Finally, fall brought the browning of the hulls, as the pecans became visible and eventually fell to the ground. As I grew older, God’s hand in the seasons of my own life became more real as I compared the cycle of nature with that of my faith. In the silence of those fall afternoons created by God, I became comfortable with silence. That silence would foster my longings for Him and His voice as I grew older.

Pecan picking was not a task I looked forward to –or appreciated –at the time. Such is usually the case in our lives! Looking back, memories of cool breezes, hot chocolate breaks, and the smell of bean suppers simmering on the stove take pride of place over annoyance at my time not being my own and my Saturday being filled with work instead of play. Time tends to do that. Mama never sat down and consciously planned pecan- picking as a formative activity for me. It was an organic activity of our farm life. As mothers, we provide opportunities for life lessons without even realizing it. Everything doesn’t have to be planned and picture-worthy. Simple truths can be learned in the most simple of tasks. As a child, my heart and mind were being prepared for God while circling the base of a pecan tree on my knees. Later, I would hear the voice of God as I knelt at the base of a reminder of the tree of our salvation: the crucifix.

Dear Lord,

May I approach the mundane and simple with a heart open to You and Your voice. May I take the extra time to involve my children in household tasks. May I be an example to them of approaching work with a grateful heart. May we experience Your presence in the glories of Your creation and in simple silence. May we always remember that we join our motherly tasks with those of Holy Mother Church to teach our children about God and help them to listen for His voice in their lives. Amen.

— This post was also published at CatholicMom.com

Let Me Get My Purse

Posted on November 14, 2019 by Terri

“Let me get my purse,” she would say, as she turned around, untied her apron, and headed back inside. My parents would wait for Mama’s Grandma Taylor until she came out with her purse and closed the door beside her. Mama always said that after they’d driven a few miles, only then would her grandmother ask, “Where are we going?”

This was the story Mama liked to tell me about picking up her grandmother for Sunday drives. Mama would emphasize to me when I was little that my great-grandmother did not care where she was going, she was just always ready to go. To get out of the house. To go on a little adventure. I knew my mama daydreamed about traveling across the country on a motorcycle or in an RV as part of a retirement life. She would imagine all the places she would see and the people she would meet along the way. She was always open to adventure when a friend called or stopped by with an idea of some excursion or some other fun.

It is surely a part of my pioneer roots, from relatives who came from England and Ireland and later ancestors who helped settle the prairie. There is no part of my pioneer heritage that I feel more keenly than a sense of wanderlust. I could sympathize completely with this characteristic in Pa Ingalls of the Little House on the Prairie books I so loved as a child. I almost felt myself get as itchy as he when the town began to close in on him or he was just ready to see what was further down the road, or off the road. There are times when I am taking the kids to school when I want to turn onto the highway and just take a road trip with them, abandoning the daily-ness of our day for some new adventure. Just to see where we’d end up and who we might meet along the way.

Mama told this story of Grandma, in her apron at the door, eager to go, with purse on her arm as one of her lessons for me. I think she wanted to preserve that sense of adventure in me. I think she wanted me to see it as a gift, to be able to drop everything and just enjoy a sunny day’s drive. I can see its meaning in a larger way in my life, also. As a daughter of God, I trust in the adventure of my life, where God is there with me through the joys, sorrows, and the daily daily-ness. I want to be that disciple who stands eager for Him whenever He comes to me, in prayer, through others, and at my final moments on earth. With no hesitation, but trusting and giving in to my sense of wonder and adventure. Ready to drop it all to tend to a child, to baby-sit at the last minute for a friend in need, to make a meal when I’d rather read the next chapter of a novel. Ready, on my doorstep to follow where He may lead, quickly untying myself from the trappings of the world and giving him my “Let me get my purse” in the form of a “yes” that reveals my acceptance of His offer.

To remember this lesson, this prayer of my heart, I hung Great Grandma Taylor’s picture in my kitchen today.

A little reminder, in the most daily of places, of the true adventure this life holds if I just accept the call.