Past Blast: Happy at Home

By Lori | Published: October 29, 2012

From November, 2007: “The happiest people are those who think the most interesting thoughts. Those who decide to use leisure as a means of mental development, who love good music, good books, good pictures, good company, good conversation, are the happiest people in the world. And they are not only happy in themselves, they are the cause of happiness in others.” Author Unknown

Here in the B household we’ve been having some challenging days, days with opportunities to grow in patience and faith and love. And, thanks be to God, we’ve had enough of all three to have much peace and even happiness in the middle of uncertainty. Today, I am thinking about the beauty and gifts I have been experiencing, and I am feeling thankful. Some are trivial and some are terribly important, but all are welcome comforts just now.

Good music: Alyssa introduced me to an a capella group called Voice Male. They don’t just sing; they also make all the instrumental sounds with their voices. Way cool – the CD we have, Up Up and Away, has lots of energy-giving “classics” and a few originals. Their rendition of Loch Lohman, complete with an intro done in a hilarious and endearing fake Scottish accent, begs to have the volume cranked up a bit. Both the parents and The Offspring enjoy listening to these guys around here, and the boys hardly bat an eyelash when their mom starts bopping with the music.

Yesterday, I turned on the local public radio station and the van was flooded with the sublime sound of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons “Spring,” a violin concerto that ranks among my favorites. Apparently, the program scheduler agrees with me that it is misnamed – to me the music speaks of the brilliance of the sun shining through golden leaves and dappling the road with light and shadow, which was exactly what was happening as I drove home.

Good books: As usual, I am reading a variety of things at the same time. Among them are Molly O’Neill’s anthology, American Food Writing, Wendell Berry’s novel, Jayber Crow, and David Shalleck’s Mediterranean Summer. I’m pre-screening a book or two for Jonathan, I’m trying to apply what I learned in Financial Peace, and one of my bedside table books is a little treat from the library called The Weekend Book, a reprint of a book originally published in 1924, which has chapters on poetry, sing-alongs, British architecture, various aspects of nature, and much, much more. It was written as a volume for a weekend walker to take along in his rucksack. It is, as the Brits would say, rather delightful.

Good pictures: Art is something I have gradually learned more about over the last ten years or so, but I have a lot more to discover. Lately, I’ve finally understood the difference between Romanesque and Gothic architecture, which is added to the store of largely useless bits of knowledge that clutter my head.

The best “pictures” I’m seeing now are those painted by the Great Artist. It’s the Golden Time here in PA, perhaps a tad less stunning than in most years, but stunning enough, stunning enough. Yesterday I had a satisfying tramp in it. Thank God for his creativity – imagine if he hadn’t bothered with color!

Good company: It occurs to me what pleasant companions our children are. We have three adolescents in our family, and they have all reached the age of reason. They ask searching questions and value The Husband’s and my opinions, without seeming too shocked when we don’t always know the answer. I like them very much, and I know that is a great blessing too many other parents don’t share.

It is also hitting me again and again what a gift I’ve been given in my life companion, The Husband. There just aren’t words for what he is to me. I hope the rest of you marrieds can say the same. If you can’t, get busy – it is so worth it to grow marriages. God bless us all in this.

Good conversation: I’ve had nourishing talks, both in real life and via email, with three friends lately which have bolstered me, comforted me, and encouraged me in my walk. There are plenty of encounters with others, too, but these stand out as most helpful, as words “fitly spoken” that have given grace to this hearer.

I started this early in the morning and would have said, “Let the day unfold,” but I’ve been going back and forth between the writing and other tasks and now it is nearly mid-day. So, I suppose I’ll say, “Let the remainder of the day unfold, and be a blessing.”

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Family Matters: Cultivating Kindness

By Lori | Published: October 25, 2012

Williamsburg, VA; carpet detail

Recently, I ran across the following in two places, and it struck a chord with me about some ways our family could stand to improve:

Showing kindness —

  • Courteous words instead of sharp retorts.
  • Smiles instead of blank looks.
  • Enthusiasm instead of dullness.
  • Response instead of indifference.
  • Warmth instead of coldness.
  • Understanding instead of the closed mind.
  • Attention instead of neglect.
  • Patience instead of irritation.
  • Sincerity instead of sham.
  • Consideration instead of annoyance.

I didn’t know who wrote it, but it was important enough to me to copy it onto our kitchen marker board. What I especially appreciate about the list is the items that have to do with the need to push oneself to respond to others in a positive way. I think our family has stressed communication skills like speaking courteously and being patient, but maybe we haven’t thought to train ourselves as well as we might to react with “smiles instead of blank looks, response instead of indifference, warmth instead of coldness, and attention instead of neglect.” These seem to be skills that a more reserved person has to work harder at than an outgoing one, and as I am outgoing mother, I think it just didn’t occur to me to stress them as our kids were growing up.

They matter, though, a lot, in our everyday relationships, and strengthening relationships is part of what we’re all about around here.

Williamsburg, VA; doll on child’s bed

The importance of these ideas struck me harder because I recently finished listening to the audiobook, Happier at Home, by Gretchen Rubin, in which she discusses one of her goals: Give warm greetings and farewells.

What a simple but helpful rule for a household! Our family has always followed the practice of not leaving the house without telling at least one person where they are headed and their expected return time, but we’ve never articulated the why of that beyond saying it is simple courtesy. The why is hard to express, but the “kindness list” helps me — when we search one another out before leaving from and when arriving at our shared home, it is a concrete way to give warmth, attention, and consideration, which all add up to being kind to one another.

Little things, but they add up to a home where the people feel warmed, attended to, considered, and loved.

Williamsburg, VA; apothecary shop window

I went searching online for the author of the quote. It is from a book called The Art of Living, by Wilferd Allan Peterson, published in 1963. I found that it had made the rounds as a salesman “thing” in the early sixties, even used at a “pump them up” meeting for cigarette salespeople!

No matter. Truth is truth, right? And there is more to it. Here is the whole thing:

Showing kindness —

  • Courteous words instead of sharp retorts.
  • Smiles instead of blank looks.
  • Enthusiasm instead of dullness.
  • Response instead of indifference.
  • Warmth instead of coldness.
  • Understanding instead of the closed mind.
  • Attention instead of neglect.
  • Patience instead of irritation.
  • Sincerity instead of sham.
  • Consideration instead of annoyance.
  • Remembering people instead of forgetting them.
  • Facts instead of arguments.
  • Creative ideas instead of the humdrum.
  • Helpfulness instead of hindrance.
  • Giving instead of getting.
  • Action instead of delay.
  • Appreciation instead of apathy.

Do any of these resonate with you as things your family already does well or that could take some improvement? Ours has plenty of fodder for growth, for sure!

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Past Blast: Applesauce Canning Day

By Lori | Published: October 22, 2012

October 19, 2005: Yesterday was our family’s annual (or sometimes biennial if we make enough) Applesauce Canning Day. This time, we processed 35 quarts plus kept about 7 quarts fresh in the fridge, which we decided not to can because we were pooped and it was getting late. We live right in the middle of the highest apple-producing county in PA, so this is a natural for us, almost a duty. The Husband loves homemade applesauce, more specifically, my homemade applesauce. He helps a lot with the processing, but no one is allowed to sweeten and spice each batch but me, according to him. Unfortunately, in mid-afternoon he and our daughter were called out to a house fire (they are volunteer firefighters), so I was left to tend the range alone. Next time, we’ve got to make less — my energy level just isn’t up to this amount of output. The trouble is, our two boys are entering the stage where they vacuum up everything in sight. I don’t think either of them would have any difficulty at all eating a whole quart at a time if they thought it was allowed.

Imagine the scene: The kitchen is a 13 year-old remodel in a 100 year-old typical PA Dutch wood frame farmhouse in a tiny town in south central Pennsylvania. It is not a high-end remodel; rather, it is a Formica/linoleum middle-class job, though it is extremely functional and a pleasant heart of this home.

Using the Victorio Strainer to process the sauce

Big, crisp Nittany apples are washed, cut into quarters, and simmered in a bit of water in a big black spatterware enameled pot on the gas stove until they are mushy. When the lid is lifted to stir them up, wafts of apple-y steam meander through the kitchen and out into the October sunshine. The cooked apples are squooshed through a Victorio strainer, a wondrous device that separates the apple flesh from the peels and cores. Sauce emerges from one aperture; detritus bound for the compost heap comes out of another.

The sauce is sweetened with sugar, cinnamon, allspice, and cloves, which add their own sharp notes to the fragrant air. The hot sauce is ladled into quart Mason jars, which alone are privy to their history beyond the years in this house. (Who knows how many hands have filled and emptied them with who knows what bounties?) Methodically, the rims are wiped clean, flats applied, and bands tightened in place. Into the tall pressure canner they go for 0 minutes at 15 psi. They are gingerly lifted out one by one and set on a clean bath towel in an out of the way spot on the kitchen floor. Most are already sealed, but a few surprise the workers with their soft but distinct “ping!” as they complete the preservation process.

Next morning, the sticky bands are removed (there is always some sauce leakage in the canner and it takes only a smidgen to coat all the jars with sweet residue) and the jars are soaked, six at a time, in a bath of warm water in one side of the sink. They are scrubbed gently all over to remove the tacky mold-growing apple coating and set on another clean towel on the island. When finally dry, the lids are labeled with the year and they are ready to be ferried to the basement pantry shelves. But first, the cook takes a few moments to enjoy them in all their glory — they stand in rows like soldiers awaiting orders, sparkling in a shaft of sunlight from the back door. She is tired, to be sure, but this moment is pure pleasure. She smiles thinking of the delight she’ll have in the months to come when she fetches one of these jars up to the kitchen and pours the contents into a bowl, a jar full of October’s essence to add to the family table.

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Past Blast: Washing Machine Shopping – a field report

By Lori | Published: October 15, 2012

In case you weren’t sure, ours is NOT a pinterest-worthy laundry room. It is located in the cellar, a place of cobwebs and pipes and that terrific dank cellar-smell I have loved since earliest childhood.

From November, 2007: One of my faithful servants, the washing machine, breathed its last several days ago. I assumed my handy mate would pick up the odd part, rattle around in its bowels, and keep it going for another few years, but it turns out that, as with one’s car, a ruined transmission is an expensive thing to fix. And apparently we are the only folks left in the US still using such an arcane washer, because parts for our twenty-year-old appliance are not even made anymore, so a fix-it job was not possible.

This is a current shot of our set-up. The “new” washing machine is now five years old. We are still happily using the old dryer (bought in 1988) — when we bought the front-loader washer, we talked about going ahead and replacing the dryer, too, but decided it might hang on another year or two. Here we are, in 2012, still using it. If it ain’t broke…

I was torn at hearing the news. Demands to part with our money seem to present themselves daily, so I was loathe to shell out hundreds of dollars for this unexpected need. On the other hand, a NEW washer is kind of exciting. The Husband and I did just what our savvy friend suggested and took ourselves off to the library to delve into Consumer Reports back issues. We read bits of vital information to each other, paid to copy the most pertinent pages, and began the search for the best combination of model and price we could hunt down. I learned a lot during the eight hours or so that passed between settling down with the mags and watching the Adolescent Male Offspring help set up the new machine:

–Because of energy efficiency laws that took effect in Jan. 07, new top-loading washers do a poorer job of cleaning clothes than older models. Indeed! It seems that anybody who is anybody knows that front-loaders are currently the only sensible choice, unless one is purchasing a very tip-top of the line top-loader, which does an “acceptable” job of cleaning, but they cost much more than mid-line front-loaders, so those folks find themselves right back in Chumpville anyway. On the upside, if you are reading this and feeling sorry for yourself for having a decade-old machine, you can be comforted – “It may be scratched and dented and use enough water to irrigate the back forty, but blast it, at least our clothes are clean!”

–What the world needs more of: salespeople with actual, useful product knowledge. It is discouraging to the average consumer to encounter store employees who, when asked what brands their company carries, reply, “Uh…” Such a response does not make the average consumer trust that he or she is in good hands, that his or her best interests will be considered, that the employee believes he is there to serve. Really, it makes this average consumer want to slowly torture the employee to an agonizing but finally welcome death, and in a few of the worst cases I was surrounded by plenty of potential tools – in one store, a big carpet-rolling machine that to my eye resembled a medieval mangling device rested tantalizingly near the appliance department.

–If you are a salesperson hoping to sell a washing machine or anything else to the public, do not preface any of your remarks with the phrase, “To be honest”. Let’s analyze the meaning. What you are saying is, “Up until this moment I have been speaking lies to you, but now I am going to tell you the truth.” I may listen to what you have to say, but to be honest, I won’t be handing my hard-earned money to you.

–I’ve always been of the opinion that it makes sense to get the best appliance one can afford when one is purchasing something intended to last many years. I quickly discovered that the best is much more than we can afford and probably much more washer than our family needs anyway. For example, I decided we could get along fine without a machine that would allow me to program a future washing cycle up to seven days in advance. We don’t own enough clothing to keep the washer occupied with a dirty load for a week waiting for its big moment of programmed washing glory, and even if we did, I just can’t think of any scenario that would make me wish to do such a thing.

I’m interrupting this list of what I learned during our shopping day to point out that there is no need to spend a couple of hundred dollars on a stand for a front-loader machine, especially if your laundry area is in the basement and not included in the house tour for guests. The Husband knocked this together for me in less than half an hour, as I recall. One of these days he’s going to make me a matching one for the dryer, but he’s always busy with all the other stuff I ask him to do, plus, you know, his career.

–After a few hours of trying to spend hundreds of dollars of one’s money, nothing revives flagging energy like ice cream. We came out of a store to find a heavy rain, which naturally made us think of Bruster’s second-scoop-free-during-precipitation policy, which is one more reason to be thankful for rain. “Two scoops of raspberry twirl and two spoons, please.” “Mmmm. Ok, let’s go look at some more appliances!” I hated to spend the money, as ice cream does not fit our new-ish plans of retrenchment, but I decided to chalk it up to a necessary expense in the quest to get the best washing machine deal. Anyway, it made sense at the time.

–The Husband’s limit of Appliance Shopping Stamina is seven hours. We shopped for eight hours. By the end, he was ready to get me the washer, a dryer to match, a second chest freezer, and throw in the range I’ve wanted for years, if only we could go home. In a supreme act of self-control, I chose not to exploit his weakness, but this is not the sort of knowledge I am likely to forget.

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The Nostalgia of Tomatoes and Culinary Tradition

By Lori | Published: October 10, 2012

Garrison Keillor said autumn is the season of nostalgia, and truer words have not been spoken. In the warm sunshine of this early October day, I worked in the yard for a couple of hours. Part of it was puttery work, and part was hot and sweaty. I pulled out the tomato vines – in spite of the nearly-hot weather today, in a few days we may have frost. In any case, the day of the tomatoes is past for this season – the vines are dying and the tomatoes are no longer ripening.

The end of the tomatoes is part of that autumn nostalgia, and this year it feels particularly so. We traveled a good deal this summer, and I just was not able to harvest and use many of the vegetables as thoroughly as I usually do. It makes me feel bad to see how much tomato goodness I let go to waste because I wasn’t here to pick regularly. I gathered what fruit could be salvaged from the plants before I began to cut pieces of stems and pull armfuls out of their supporting fence panels. It took some oomph to get the roots out of the ground – they had reached far and deep into the soil during this good growing season.

I rescued three ripe tomatoes with significant bad places on them and several green tomatoes. I peeled what could be salvaged of the ripe tomatoes, snugged them into a casserole, and inserted pieces of garlic into the flesh. Before bed tonight I’ll drizzle them with some olive oil and shower them with salt before putting them into a very slow oven to roast overnight. They will be delicious heaped on a bagel smeared with cream cheese or mixed with a little pasta.

The green tomatoes will be sliced, tossed in buttermilk and then in cornmeal, and fried, and as I work on this job my thoughts will be focused equally on not getting too spattered with hot fat and on my grandmothers and my mother, who between them have spent many decades standing over stoves doing the same thing – tending the batches of browning tomatoes and slapping the hands of the dear ones who try to snitch a hot slice from the plate of finished disks. Actually, we don’t do it exactly the same way, I suppose. Ways of cooking evolve through the generations. I learned to use the buttermilk from my sister-in-law’s mom, and I like the little bit of extra meal that clings to the tomatoes because of that moisture. I think I salt the finished product more heavily than my forbears, too. But that is no matter – we are still of one tribe – using what we know and what we have to make something good for those in our orbit.

I wonder, will my daughter someday stand over a hot cast iron skillet and fry green tomatoes? I hope she will. She’ll add her own twist, too, which will make her tomatoes both her own and her mother’s and her grandmother’s and her great-grandmothers’ and so on, stretching back time out of mind. This is one of the main reasons I think it is so important that we learn to cook something – that skill of tending to such a basic need of loved ones is preciously fragile. Neglect can break a chain of knowledge that reaches back many, many generations, and the loss of it is rarely appreciated until it is too late.

Is there something you cook from your family’s heritage?

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Past Blast: The Happy Camper Returns

By Lori | Published: October 8, 2012

The Husband grew up camping, but in my family roughing it meant a hotel with a lot of trees around it.

October 7, 2000: When last we spoke, I was still an interested but apprehensive virgin camper. We got back from our 2 week vacation tonight (the first seven days we camped) and I am here to report my experiences. We planned to spend two nights in a state park just north of Columbus, OH and then go to a gathering of homeschoolers at a state park in northern KY.

The weather forecast was calling for rain, rain, rain in OH and they were right on target. When we informed the park employee that we wanted a tent site, she raised an eyebrow and said skeptically, “Well if you decided to stay, you’ll be the only ones out there. Why don’t you drive around and look at the campsites?” It was sad: mud puddle connected to mud puddle, the fire rings encompassed in impenetrable seas of muck, no place to rig a tarp. The Husband was discouraged while I tried to be positive. “Why don”t we just set up our tent on the nice paved place where the vehicle gets parked?” I asked, all innocence. He dryly pointed out that the tent needed to be staked to something. Hmmm. In the end, we decided to take one of their Rent-a-Shacks. It was an 8 X 10 prefab structure with a tarp roof.

I had a lovely gourmet meal planned for our first night: grilled fish (happily marinating in the cooler as we drove all day), a yummy risotto from a mix, and steamed fresh broccoli. Thankfully, I had brought a generous amount of fish, because I neglected to remember that at home we grill fish on a grid with small openings; over the campfire we had a simple grill with big spaces and so The Husband lost large portions of our entree to the fire beneath. I dumped the broccoli in with the rice and slopped it all onto our plates. Nobody complained about the food — they were too busy shivering in the chill rain. I kept encouraging everyone: “Hurry and eat — some hot food will make you feel much better. Hurry and get into your sleeping bag — you’ll be dry and warm.” Really, I was the Pollyanna of camping. If you could have seen me, I feel sure you’d have given me a medal.

After I’d hurriedly washed dishes, we crept into our sleeping bags. The Husband and I were sleeping on two single platforms and the children were on the floor. As I lay there for hours watching my breath and listening to The Husband’s snoring, I actually had the following mental conversation with myself:
“You really should get up and check the kids.”
“I’m too cold to get up.”
“A good mother would get up and check them.”
“If they really needed anything, they’d say something.”
“Maybe they’re dead.”
“If they’re dead, it won’t do any good for me to get up.”

Then I started thinking, “You really are a good person, Lori. You could just get up and get in the van and head back to PA and leave them all here, but no, you’re sticking it out like a trouper. They’ll never appreciate all you are going through. Listen to The Husband, he’s completely oblivious to these miserable conditions. Just snoring away as if he was home in our outrageously comfortable bed.”

Then I started feeling guilty about how spoiled I am. I thought, “Just think about all the people throughout history who’ve had to endure conditions far worse than this. Think of the Jews during the Holocaust, who were forced to run from one concentration camp to another and were simply shot if they couldn’t keep up. You’d probably say, ‘Just shoot me and get it over with.’ You wouldn’t even try to survive because you’re such a big baby.”

Then, as I lay there dying to go to the bathroom but loathe to go out into the rain, I began a litany that was to last most of the night: the “It Could Be Worse” chant:
“It Could Be Worse — you could be menstruating.”
“It Could Be Worse – you could be pregnant.”
“It Could Be Worse – you could have a baby.”
“It Could Be Worse – you could have a baby that was screaming right now!”

And that was my first night of camping. Amazingly, the morning dawned bright and beautiful, with sunshine and crisp air. The rest of the week was idyllic:  I felt like an old hand at camping by the time we got to KY, the weather was great, and I really enjoyed myself. I’d do it again in a minute if I could have an air mattress that didn’t leak. But that’s another story…

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Lori’s Almost-Famous Peanut Butter Pie

By Lori | Published: October 5, 2012

Need a crowd-pleasing dessert you can make ahead, refrigerate, and forget about until serving time? I like this peanut butter pie better than any I have ever had, hands-down. Everybody loves it, and it is great any season of the year. It is rich, so think of serving thin slices and having it after a lighter-than-average meal.

I wanted to serve it for dessert at camp last summer, so I made it as individual servings in 9 oz. disposable plastic cups, but at home I use a 9″ or 12″ springform pan.

Peanut Butter Pie filling for 60 takes a big-guns mixer. Go, Hobart!

Filling the cups

Garnished with chopped peanut butter cups

Mmm — a satisfied camp teacher; photo credit: Tori Luther

 

Lori’s Almost-Famous Peanut Butter Pie

9” springform pan: serves 8-10 12” springform pan: serves 12-14 To serve 60 in 9 oz. plastic cups: X 4 big recipes
Graham cracker crumbs 1 c. 1 ½ c. (1 sleeve) 6 c. (4 sleeves)
butter, melted ¼ c. 6 T. 3 sticks
light brown sugar, packed ¼ c. 1/3 c. Skip
peanut butter, creamy 2 c. 3 c. (one 28 oz. jar) Four 28 oz. jars
sugar 2 c. 3 c. 12 c. (5+ lb?)
8 oz. package cream cheese, room temperature 2 3 96 oz. or twelve 8 oz. pkg. or two 48 oz. pkg.
butter, melted 2 T. 3 T. 12 T. (1 ½ sticks)
vanilla 2 t. 1 T. ¼ c.
whipping cream, whipped 1 ½ c. 2 c. (1 pt.) 2 qt.

Crust: Combine all and press into a deep dish pie dish or a spring form pan.

Filling: Beat together all but whipped cream. Then, fold whipped cream into cream cheese mixture. Place in crust. Chill several hours or overnight in the fridge.

Glaze: 1 c. chocolate chips and 3 or more tablespoons strong hot coffee. (This amount is fine for both pie sizes.) Melt together in a saucepan or in the microwave. Stir until smooth. Drizzle over pie. For individual plastic-cup servings, omit glaze and top soft filling with chopped peanut butter cups before chilling thoroughly.

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Cerebral Homemaking Part 8 – Not a Kid Anymore

By Lori | Published: October 3, 2012

I wish I had a flattering photo of one of our bathrooms for this article, but there aren’t any, so you get this detail of an early autumn garden bouquet. Trust me, this is far more attractive.

Other Cerebral Homemaking posts:

Part 1: Wrapping My Mind Around My Work 

Part 2: Please Lie Down on the Couch and We’ll Begin the Analysis

Part 3: Lofty Thinking — About Vision, Philosophy, and the G-Word

Part 4: Blast Physics! We Have to Aim Just a  Little Higher

Part 5: Time Matters

Part 6: We Like What We’re Good At — Developing Competency

Part 7: Mundane or Maniacal?

When I was a kid, it was my job to clean the bathroom. At first we had just one in our old farmhouse, but then we had three after we remodeled and expanded when I was twelve. And one of the new bathtubs was dark chocolate brown, which meant it showed every single hard water droplet that touched its surface and required cleaning with a multi-step paste regimen designed for boats. And the master bedroom bathtub was a sunken Jacuzzi that required me to lie down and reach nearly full-length into the thing to reach all the corners. I smacked my head hard more than one time on the faucet as I hauled myself out of it, and it hurt. Just typing that makes me feel as sorry for myself as I am sure reading it makes you feel for me.

Poor, poor Lori. Despite my punishing schedule in elementary school and junior high, despite having to share a bedroom with my sister until the house was remodeled, and despite being forced to wear hand-me-downs and homemade polyester dresses until the age of twelve, I was also expected to give an hour of my time once a week to cleaning bathrooms. I was saddled with parents who thought it was good for their children to contribute sweat equity to the family economy and believed it was part of their job to train their kids to develop competency at everyday life skills like toilet-scrubbing, for crying out loud. Poor, poor soul.

Then I grew up. And then I got married, and with marriage came the responsibility to “manage the house.” The first house I managed was a single-wide, furnished mobile home with one bathroom (rented). Then it was a two bedroom/two bath townhouse (rented). Then it was a basement apartment with one bath (ditto), then a three bedroom/one bath duplex (ditto), then a two bedroom/two bath house (ditto again), and finally for the last nineteen years a three bedroom/two-and-a-half bath house (mortgage). For at least the first two or three of those homes, my attitude toward housework was pretty okay except for the bathroom. I avoided working in it until it just had to be done, and then I sort of slammed around in there sloshing the toilet brush around and swiping the surfaces, practically muttering under my breath, “Why should I have to do this?” Real mature, huh?

Cognitive therapists have an answer. They believe our minds play tapes from our pasts over and over again that direct our behavior in the present. And the Bible, which I trust far more than the average cognitive therapist, says, “As a man thinks in his heart, so is he.” Based on my own experience and observation of others, I firmly believe that homemaking attitudes, practices, and behavior are often influenced by forces from our pasts that we may not recognize if we aren’t paying attention. It is very illogical, but common! By avoiding cleaning the bathroom, a job I knew needed to be attended to regularly, I was in effect saying, “Nobody’s going to make me do it!” And I didn’t, because nobody did make me and I could “get away” without “obeying.” So the bathroom got dirtier and dirtier, and I minded that more than anyone else, but still I kept repeating that act of rebellious negligence. I was acting as my own worst enemy without even realizing it, and all over a ten or fifteen minute job. The sad truth is that, twenty-seven years later, I still find myself thinking and acting that way now and then.

What other “tapes” might be playing in a homemaker’s mind as she goes about her work? April at The Flourishing Abode made this comment about an earlier Cerebral Homemaking post: “I remember in college, if my roommates came home and saw me cleaning the house, they knew I was upset. Not angry at them, and not even angry at the condition of the house, but just letting off steam. Because when I was angry, I would have all this energy and I figured, hey I might as well do something productive. But, of course, cleaning and anger started to become synonymous. Even if I wasn’t angry, if I started cleaning, I would feel angry. I’ve figured out better ways to handle my anger since then – but I think there is still the residual connection … and it makes housekeeping VERY unpleasant.”

So we’ve got rebellion against perfectly reasonable authority and associating cleaning with feeling angry on our list. What else? How about these?

–What about if parents used chores as punishment? That might make a person feel even more negative toward housework than I did.

–I think many of us unwittingly buy into the societal message of the last several decades that housework is somehow beneath intelligent or wealthy or powerful people – “I have better things to do than keeping the floors clean…”

—Acts of Service folks may equate having others do housework as a proof of love – “If you loved me you’d clean the toilet…”

–Are there any princesses out there waiting around to be “rescued” or “saved” from grownup responsibilities? Maybe one parent assigned duties, but the other parent came along behind and undermined the first by saying, “Aw, you’re only a kid once. Go on and go have fun. I’ll do that for you…”

–Did you feel deprived of material goods during your growing up years? Sometimes that translates into an adulthood of telling oneself, “Just in case…” when making decisions about hanging onto clutter or making household purchases.

–If you tend to overdo it in the cleaning and organizing department, it could stem from a strong desire to control your environment in order to feel that you have more control over other aspects of life that you do not, in fact, have the ability to dictate.

–Along the same lines, sometimes people try to attain perfection so they can prove themselves worthy of love or esteem. For this person, it is not enough to have a clean bathroom – the bathroom has to be noticed and praised.

–The opposite side of that coin is the perfectionist who does nothing rather than risk a less-than-perfect outcome.

So what is the answer to these mostly-unconscious messages that negatively influence our behavior and attitudes?

  1. Develop awareness: Just noticing and identifying negative self-talk is probably the biggest fix. “There I go again – acting like I’m being punished because it’s my job to change the bed linens. Silly!”
  2. Be on my own team: Replace the negative message with the positive truth. “I am not being forced to change the sheets against my will. I choose to change them every week because I love the luxury of crawling into a clean, fresh-smelling bed every night. It is a gift to myself and my husband.”
  3. Grow up: It is time to let go of the past. Maybe I really was treated badly by my caregivers. (I wasn’t! My parents couldn’t have been better, but I know some people truly are.) Well, what about that? Will I let my past dictate my present and my future? I only get this one life, and I don’t want to waste it acting out negative stuff over and over.
  4. Quit playing house: This is a necessary part of growing up. I’m not a kid anymore. A life without responsibilities makes people feel useless and disconnected from the rest of humanity, which isn’t what I really want. I am a grownup with grownup responsibilities and privileges. I need to have a vision for what I want my life to be and embrace that. Embracing my life means I accept the truths we talked about earlier about what behavior is necessary if I want to dwell with my family in a Living Space. Embracing not only means I accept the truths, but that I remember the truths and live the truths. And yeah, this is where the cerebral part of homemaking meets the making part of homemaking.

And while I am being kind of bossy and tough on us, let me add that embracing means not saying, “Whatever,” and going on acting like I’ve been acting and getting the same frustrating results. Embracing means not getting all gung ho for a few days and then forgetting the true-ness of the truths and sliding back into my old habits. Finally, and did you notice how I casually stuck the H-word in that last sentence, embracing means I will understand that all the thinking in the world won’t quite get the floors cleaned and the dishes washed – action is required.

Putting My Thinking Into Practice: Identify a homemaking job you hate or avoid because you were made to do it in childhood or because you think you are a princess or you associate it with bad feelings or whatever. Analyze your self-talk logically and tell yourself the truth. Develop a good h-h-habit (Whew! Got it out!): commit to doing the job at the level of frequency/efficiency you choose for period of _______ days/weeks/months. Consciously work to change your attitude about it (Be on your own team.) Evaluate progress.

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Past Blast: Alley Cat

By Lori | Published: October 1, 2012

From 2008:

I love walking through alleys. Well, I must clarify: I love walking through the kinds of alleys that crisscross my town and all of the little towns in my orbit. I am sure there are big-city alleys I would be terrified to traverse, but here in Mayberry, alleys are where it’s at.

One never knows what one may see in the not-for-public-viewing side of houses. There may be a tangle of weeds or a manicured little kingdom guarded by soldierly rows of zinnias and marigolds. There may be a litter of children’s toys or an old-fashioned brick barbecue or a goldfish pond or even a stream with ducks. One side alley near my house parallels a backyard with a small, inviting vegetable garden. The soil looks so fecund I just know I could plunge my arm straight down well beyond my elbow. Even now, when the height of the growing season is weeks in the past, there are tomatoes and bell and hot peppers peeping out from under plants outgrowing their wire cylinder supports. Somebody spends time out there working, but I have never seen the gardener – just the fruits of the labor.

Sometimes there are unintended insights into the lives the people living in the houses. A modest house may hide a great big boat parked in back off the alley (Oh – that is where their money goes!) One derelict house in our town has three Corvettes of various ages and states of running condition parked along the alley. I have seen recycling bins overflowing with beer cans and bottles (My, what big drinkers you are!) and bins full of healthy-looking compost (Teach me your secrets – please, please!). One house has a large lot fenced primly and privately, but it is possible to spy (You don’t imagine I would ever do this myself, do you?) a broken-up clay tennis court and a many-decades-old concrete swimming pool amongst all the overgrown shrubbery and trees. I wonder – who lives here? Do they ever swat a ball across the line where the net used to be stretched? Do they come out in the moonlight and sit in one of the rusty scrolled lawn chairs, dreaming of the days when there were pool parties and laughter and refreshments around their home? Or do they even see these relics of the past that speak in ghostly echoes to me as I peer between the fence slats?

I have my alley companions, of course, mostly canine. Near the tennis court/pool house is a tidy property with a backyard fenced with morning glory and ivy-covered chain link. Two basset hounds within bark to me from the moment they sense my approach until my footsteps fade away. As they are located on the edge of town, I often bark along with them, and we have a grand time together. On the other side of town near the borough office, I walk past a house encircled by one of those buried “invisible” fences. A rather large, certainly scary Doberman rushes suddenly and purposefully across the yard, barking in a deep “we-both-know-a-little-electricty-isn’t-enough-to-stop-me-and-if-you-give-me-the-slightest-reason-I-will-leap-across-this-boundary-and-sink-my-teeth-into-your-jugular-vein” sort of way. I think we understand one another perfectly. He does his bark, adrenaline pours into my bloodstream, he senses it as a sign of my inferiority to him, and lets me pass on shaking legs.

Our own property is bordered by an el of two alleys. What does the view from these say about us? We have no fence around our yard, which I imagine reflects our open nature. We have a lawn that is more broadleaf than grass in places, I am afraid, and has never been molested by an edger. We have some casually, some might say carelessly, planted raised beds of herbs, vegetables, and flowers in the back. We have an old – not quaint just old – one car garage-sized shop that began life as a horse stable/carriage house. We have some evidence of a man of the house with more good project ideas than time. I hope our backyard says we are a family who live decently but have a life beyond making the grass into an outdoor carpet, who have an eye for beauty and understand the importance of tomatoes in any well-rounded garden, and who keep the borough’s code enforcement officer at bay. Oh, and to prevent us from ever being tempted to pride, we have an utter failure of a compost heap with poke weed growing majestically around it. I really must get some advice from those good compost people.

“Alley-oop-oop, oop, oop-oop…”

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Breakfast Burritos for a Crowd (or for one!)

By Lori | Published: September 28, 2012

Breakfast Burritos are one of my favorite ways to feed a crowd, a family, or just one or two because everybody who’s anybody loves them. I have made them more than once over the years with the kids in my summer cooking classes, usually paired with fruit smoothies or a fruit salad and they are always a hit. We served them at the girls camp last summer (with Lemon and Berry Parfaits on the side) and got the same reaction. Everyone in my family enjoys them, too, whenever there are extra tortillas to be found in the kitchen. Why are they so great? Breakfast Burritos are:

  • Uber scalable — You can make them for 1 to 1,000 people.
  • Versatile — Change up the ingredients as much as you want to suit your taste and what you find in the fridge.
  • Warm — Sometimes we just really want a hot breakfast, ya know?
  • Fast — If you keep some prepped ingredients on hand, like cooked bacon or sausage and shredded cheese, you can be eating one of these within five minutes. I have even heard of people freezing completely prepped Breakfast Burritos for later microwaving, although we haven’t tried it ourselves.
  • Portable — Grab and Go couldn’t be easier if you want something beyond a granola bar.
  • Healthy — It depends on what you include and a moderate level of dolloping, of course, but this is a good protein-packed start to the day.
  • Tasty and Filling — Natch

It takes a lot of eggs and a lot of bacon to feed 60 hungry campers and staff.

 

Oven cooking the bacon is much easier than stove-top frying: don’t let the pieces touch, 400 degree oven, about 15-20 min., watch carefully.

 

It was my first time to make baked scrambled eggs. It worked well — the trick is to remove the eggs while they are still rather wet, because that volume of hot eggs is going to keep cooking for awhile after they exit the oven.

 

Garnishes ready for device. (I love a good garnish or three, myself, and if sour cream is involved, the other ingredients are just vehicles for getting it into my mouth.)

 

Feeding the hungry hordes…

 

Breakfast Burrito! (This person appears to have skipped the sour cream, so you know it’s not mine.)

 

Basic Breakfast Burrito for One

1 egg, beaten

pinch salt and grind of black pepper

a little fat for scrambling the egg, optional

1 strip bacon, cooked

1 flour or corn tortilla

shredded cheddar or other cheese, salsa, sour cream, chopped cilantro leaves, etc., etc. for garnishes

1. Scramble the egg to your liking with some salt and pepper.

2. Assemble the burrito: Lay the tortilla on a plate. Place the bacon strip down the center, leaving an inch or so of “nekkid” tortilla at the bottom (the side closest to your body). Spoon the egg over the bacon. Add toppings. Fold up the bottom of the tortilla. Fold in the sides to enclose the filling. Eat right away or wrap in waxed paper or aluminum foil for a take-along breakfast. Hearty eaters may want two of these.

To change things up, consider using sausage, black beans, pico de gallo, a little rice — lots of possibilities here.

 

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  • In My Kitchen, In My Life is a place where women (and the odd male) can be encouraged, nudged, and occasionally kicked in the pants toward living their lives on a higher plane. Oh, and readers get plenty of chances to laugh at the author's foibles, which is always worth a click.

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