Breaking Bread (B)

Easter Sunday is just another
chance for my family to declare
that cooking is not my forte'.

Although everything I cook
is quite edible and often tasty-
I have never been one of those super moms
who can fry pretty eggs,
bake a beautiful cherry pie,
or create a casserole that
can make you lick your lips.

My favorite cooking tools are
the can opener
and the microwave-
Both of which my family
frowns upon
and adamantly assures me that
Rachel Ray would not approve of.

I suppose I may have been denied
a few of those cooking genes
that my grandma possessed.

She was a wonderful cook.
A large Slavic woman
who always wore a dress and an apron-
and whose pale skin was
as sweet and as doughy
as the bread she kneaded daily.

My fondest memory of my grandma
is her bending over the oven
and pulling out a tray of hot, brown bread...
Loaves as big as an arm
and as comforting as love.

All the years I spent in
grandma's kitchen
and bread is the only thing I remember.
(Oh-
and cinnamon donuts from Schnuck's grocery.)

But grandmas house smelled of bread.
Sweet, solid slices of yumminess.
It was a part of the woodwork-
and the fabric-
and the soul of the family.

It was satisfying and savory.
A heritage and a tradition.
Perfect and pleasing-
grandmas bread
was greedily consumed
at every meal.

I suppose I should go on with the story.
About how I accidentally found out
that I didn't inherit my grandma's
bread cooking skills.

It was in the first year or two
of being a new bride.
I was still starstruck and invincible-
eager to please and willing to go the extra mile
to please my darling husband.

One day he requested bread.
Whole wheat bread.
Good, healthy,
Mother Earth News Says It's Great For You bread.

I smiled.
Piece of cake.
A given.
Easy Peasey.

I had often been told how I
resembled my grandma-
so it was only logical
that her baking talent
had been passed down to me also.


I had video daydreams
of those flawless loaves of bread
being snatched from the oven.
Oh...The praise!
The glory!


Well, I decided that to be whole wheat
it would have to be totally whole wheat
which apparently makes the bread heavy and dense.

Apparently.

So heavy, in fact,
that even our sharpest kitchen knife
could barely skim the surface.
It turned out being
a giant, brown, mishaped blob
of baked concrete.

Being the sweetheart that he was is,
my husband assured me that it
wouldn't be wasted.
I blushed with the thought
that he would eat it anyway-
simply to avoid hurting my feelings.

But instead of bringing out the butter,
he headed for the tool box
and proceeded to hammer a nail
through the firm rump my petrified prize.

"The birds will love it", he said,
adding a piece of string
and tying it from the porch rafter.

I am not sure if I laughed
or I cried,
but I knew for certain
from that day forward-
that bread baking was positively
not my legacy.

For several years later
we noticed wild birds
with broken, craggy beaks-
and even the woodpeckers
could not invade
the impenetrable force field
of my whole wheat wonder.
They suffered disturbing mutations
and distorted peckers beaks.

Well, that's my story.
Gotta go now and run errands.
Buying a nice ham,
fresh asparagus,
and some sweet corn.

Oh-
and of course I'm making
a special trip to the bakery.

Happy, blessed Easter!

The Song of Angels (A)

There are moments in our lives that we never forget.
Days that carve their song into our hearts.
Memories that bury themselves in the creases of our brains and forever breathe there.
One such moment happened for me over twenty years ago.
But I can still see it as clearly as a photograph.
I can continue to play it over in my mind like a crisp, brilliant video.
At the time, there were several troublesome things happening in my life. Things that were too big to handle. A heap of confusion and sorrow that seemed to overflow into a river I could not swim. I could only watch from the lonely shoreline and continue to pray. I could only hope for better tomorrows.
On this day, I was feeling particularly distressed.
Defeated.
Broken.
My children had worn me down with their playful messes and sibling fights.
My husband was in the mood to argue.
Responsibilities and burdens loomed over me like a black umbrella.
That evening, I cried myself to sleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I awoke suddenly with an alertness.
I heard singing.
Not a radio or television playing, or a tune being sung or hummed somewhere nearby.
It was as though a great orchestra was playing, accompanied by a choir of holy voices.
I got up and walked through the house.
I felt awake.
I remember peeping in the doorway of my children’s rooms.
I can still feel the cold linoleum on the soles of my feet.
I remember the darkness of the house, with a little nightlight  glowing in the hallway -making silvery shadows.
The singing grew louder.
And it was beautiful.
Like a church choir that takes your breath away.
Like a rhythm that stung my eyes with tears.
I groped through the darkness to the front door, trying to locate the source of the song.
I slowly unlocked the door and carefully pulled it open.
It took a minute for my eyes to adjust, but there on the right hand side of the deck, stood two angels.
They had huge glowing wings and a soft aura.
They were semi-transparent, floating, and continued singing the song of heavenly rejoicing.

I looked into the yard.
Everything up to the deck was burnt. Charred.Smoldering as though a fire had recently ravaged the land.
And then it was over.
The angels disappeared.
The grass grew again.
And I returned to my bed.
I told everyone about it the next day and of course they assured me I had been dreaming.
But I know that I saw those two angels. And they came to me with a message.
I believe that they told me
that no matter how bad things get-
how black the world gets-
how all that is around me may be destroyed-
that my family will be safe.
And that God is protecting us.
Not too long after that visit, things began to improve. Worries softened, troubles lessened, responsibilities and burdens became less heavy.
And through it all, I realized that life is good.
That hope lives.
That no matter how bad things may seem, they will get better. Nothing is impossible if you believe.
I still get goose bumps when I tell this story.
I am truly thankful for that day-
that revelation-
that memory-
that message…
And for the song of angels.

Faceless Bloggers, Faithful Friends

For those of you non-bloggers out there,
it must seem strange how one person
can sit in front of the computer every day
and pour out their heart.

I am sure there are those of you
who consider bloggers merely
"wanna-be's",
troubled souls,
or journalists who publicly
expose their daily diary.

 I raise my hand.
Guilty.

I suppose I have been all of those
at one time or another.
And I've been many more faces
that reveal themselves
when the keyboard starts clicking.

But above all else,
I believe that most bloggers
are here to learn.

About themselves,
their craft,
and the support and
entertainment they provide
their faceless readers.

I have only been blogging a few years now,
but the changes taking place in Blog Land
are tremendous.
No longer is the blog a blank page
with a calendar of words.

Blogs are brilliant and bold.
Flourished and fancy.
Some chocked full of
advertisements,
contests,
give-aways
and awards.

Some are whimsical,
cute and funny.
Others are heart breaking,
real-to-life
and soul-searching.

There are blogs with stunning photographs,
silly cartoons,
and daily doses of life.

But what all these blogs have in common
is that the person behind them
is growing.
Stretching.
Experimenting with not only their words,
but their feelings.

So, it is both exciting and intimidating
when a fellow blogger offers
a new challenge.

Dee over at

Say Anything

has a giant plate of fun
constantly being filled with
a variety of new applications.

In addition to Dee's personal blog,
she also hosts Say Anything,
which interviews and introduces
bloggers to the masses,
suggests weekly subjects,
and links readers and writers alike
to a network of camaraderie
and creativity.
She even co-writes a third blog.

 A Note A Day

that promotes positivity and
optimism.
Check it out.

This week I've been challenged by
Arlee Bird
over at tossing it out,
and it's a fun project I'm hoping
to follow through on.

Arlee says:
"The challenge would entail that each day participating bloggers post at least 100 words based on the letter of that day, starting with "A" on April 1 and ending with "Z" on April 30. "
(This is counting Saturdays, with Sundays off, which adds up to 26 days - one day for each letter of the alphabet).

So, tomorrow I will be staring
with the letter "A"
and it sounds pretty easy.
But, I can't help but get a bit nervous
when I look ahead to "Q'" and "Z"
and realize I'm being monitored!

If you readers have any suggestions
of subjects you'd like to throw out to me,
just let me know and I'll try to
create something special just for your
letter of the alphabet.
And I'll mention that you
were the inspiration.

Okay, Arlee-
I'm taking up that Double Dog Dare!
Let's just hope this old dog
can learn some new tricks!