Shocking, I know.

Two posts a day apart??? Keep breathing, Reader. Boredom begets many a blog post.

Have I introduced you to this cat?

I didn't think I had....here he is, sunning on our stoop. He lives around our little duplex, and belongs to someone, but we don't know who. (I think he has an owner--Andrew thinks he's feral). But he loves me. I mean, seriously. Cat will be waiting in the driveway when I come home to Chapel Hill after a work week. (Andrew says he loves everyone, but I'm convinced. It's me.)

I don't know his name--sometimes I call him Basil, (with a short 'a', like the Brits), sometimes I call him Marbles. But mostly I just call him Buddy Boy or Sugar Pie or Honey Bear or Muffin Pants or some such endearment. I really don't even know if he is, in fact, a he. But what I do know is that this cat meows and meows and meows and rubs and rubs and rubs until you pet him and sit down and let him climb up and make himself comfortable in your lap. How could a cat this sweet be feral??? And how could he not want to run away and live with us for the rest of his nine lives? I think he wants to.

Now, before you go callin' me Cat Lady and buying me long denim jumpers for Christmas, let it be known that I love this cat because he is nice. Lots of felines are not nice. Not nice at all, i.e. you unwittingly reach out to pet them and subsequently pull back a bloody nub. But this kitty is a nice kitty.

So what if he faintly smells of dirt and dead animal. (It's true. Gross. I know. But hey, cat's gotta survive in the wild, right? King of the Jungle and all that. And vigorous hand washing after petting.)

I'm thinking he probably won't be coming with us when we move. Andrew already said I couldn't steal him. Durn.

Butterfingers

Nope.

Sadly, this is not a post about the deliciously flaky, buttery chocolateness that is my favorite Yogurt Pump topping.

I got home Thursday night to find that, sob, in the course of the afternoon as Andrew, my dear sweet husband, had precariously and gingerly perched the coffee pot in the drainboard atop a bit of other miscellany: it fell. It crashed. It shattered. No more coffee pot. No more automatic morning aroma of nutty goodness. No more pause and serve. No more. Through no fault of his own, Andrew had inadvertently perched our beloved carafe on the thin edge of it's demise, and it had tumbled to it's inauspicious end.

I tried not to be upset. But the bitterness, like cold coffee grounds, was ever-present in the back of my throat. To stifle my pain and relieve the burgeoning headache from the lack of caffeine, we French pressed our way to an overstimulated stupor.

In my grief the next day, I took to cleaning. Scrubbing, dusting, laundering. I deep cleaned every appliance in our tiny kitchen. I laundered our bedding, couch cover, towels--anything that could be removed and covered in a goopy layer of Shout. Toward the end of my disinfection rampage, I began to dry all of the wet dishes in the drainboard. There were trays and racks from the toaster oven and microwave, bowls, plates, etcetera--I picked up the glass turntable for the inside of the microwave. It was covered in water droplets. I swiped them away with my colorful dishtowel, and as I was moving toward the microwave to replace said item, it slipped. I lurched to recover the heavy glass, but it was awkward in my hands and still wet--it crashed to the floor. My eyes screwed shut, I didn't want to look at the fate I knew had befallen the appliance accessory. It was in a billion pieces. One. Billion. At least. I couldn't believe it. In the span of 24 hours two of our most used appliances were completely out of commission.

Today, we googled. We whipped out the debit card and purchased replacement parts. A small fortune later, we breathed a sigh of relief. In a few short days--coffee will be brewing and popcorn will be popping yet again in the Armstrong household.

Crisis averted.

I'm a little bit of a Hallo-weeny.

Halloween. For some it brings back memories of trick-or-treating, churchy Fall Festivals, homemade costumes...and for some it's about the fear factor, blood and guts, horror, being scared out of their wits, ghost stories, murder mysteries...you get the picture. As a little girl, I remember being a black cat for approximately nine years in a row: black tights and leotard, a homemade safety pin attached tail, triangular felt ears hot-glued to a headband, my black patent leather church shoes and a few whiskers drawn on my freckly cheeks with Mama's eyeliner. Jessica, Noah and I, along with the rest of our neighborhood crew would set out down our street, stopping at each house to run up the driveway, and press the doorbell fifty times and yell trick-or-treat as soon as the door was cracked. We knew which houses gave out lame-o candy like tootsie rolls or dum dums. And we knew which ones were the jackpot houses, like the "glass house" at the end of the street, (always our last stop). They gave out ice cold Cokes and king sized Snickers bars. I know. I'm sure our parents were pleased as punch when we returned home with caffeine and sugar saturated half consumed Cokes in our grubby little hands.

Part of me wishes we could have the trick-or-treating and the fun costumes without the plastic tomb stone riddled yards, or the creepy skeletons on the porch. I remember one year we stopped at this house with a coffin on the front porch and as soon as you got up to the sidewalk, it would open and a guy with a BULLET HOLE in his forehead would sit up and scare the pants off of you. It was TERRIFYING. As we walked, (well, I ran), away I lost my shiny black shoe in the pixie grass on the edge of the yard and, as Noah had the flashlight, I was left rummaging around in the dark by myself with my heart in my eight year old throat, scared that the very fires of hell were licking at my heels because of the "dead guy" on the porch. I may have cried. I don't remember. I probably blocked that part out. When I found my shoe, I ran so fast I felt like Michael Johnson in the 1996 Summer Olympics, Izzy and all. I just leaned back and bolted. I probably screamed the quintessential, "wait for meeeee!!" a few times, too.

Anyhow, this blog is proof that I made it home, mostly unscathed, to dump my candy out on the kitchen table or the living room floor for my parents to inspect. We would sort through the "good" and "bad" candy and the rejects would be put in a big bag to be taken to the prisoners at the local jail where my Dad and some of his buddies had a prison ministry. I know. Unwanted candy taken to the prison? I don't even know what to say. We would share some candy with my parents, trade amongst ourselves, (although I'm pretty sure I got duped into giving away the good stuff because Noah and Jessica were pretty good negotiators back then), and then put away our candy for the days to come. My candy would usually be gone in about two weeks. Noah's would last until Easter. I'm not sure if he had ten times as much as I did or if he was just very disciplined as a ten year old. Either way, I marveled at his endless supply of Skittles, M&Ms, and Milky Ways.

As an adult, I love to think back on the excitement of thinking up a costume and the anticipation of trick-or-treating. But I also worry a teeny bit about those kids that dress up as Zombie Bride, a Dead Surgeon, or George Bush. What lessons or values are they learning through this American tradition?? I guess it's up to the parents, but still. If I was scared of the neighbor's 18 year old son with a stick-on bullet on his forehead, I'm not sure a ten year old dressed as Freddy Krueger is such a fantastic idea.

To each his own, I guess. But I still shiver when I'm walking the neighborhood and I see a tricked out house just waiting for a few little kids to venture up the driveway. I, for one, will be staying on the street.

Notable Achievements

Instead of posting on all that I haven't accomplished in the last ten or so days, I will post on a few notable things juxtaposed to that blessed and proverbial check mark. Glass half full, mm?

1. Half of the curtains are hung in our apartment. Score. This is an accomplishment because, A] we have cinder block walls on all outside walls (can't nail or screw into them without special equipment) and B] I made two of the curtains myself and I have one pair left to make.

2. Andrew and I paid off half of our credit card yesterday. Cheers to being [almost] debt free!

3. Sometime between the months of August and September I completed 30/30 days of Jillian Michaels' 30 Day Shred. They were not consecutive days because I was one giant hematoma after about a week straight of killer work-outs, but more like every other day with long walks on the "off" days. I lost just a couple of libbies, but I could tell a big difference tone wise. I think the biggest thing for me is monitoring what I put in my mouth. And I like brownies.

4. Today, I did Level 1 on the Shred DVD after not having done it in about a month. It was brutal. And I'm being kind. But I finished. Barely. So, it's an accomplishment in my book.

5. Chubby bunny.

6. It's less than a month 'til my birthday. My Dad's birthday is on Friday. He'll be 35. ;)

7. This list is no longer resembling the list that I set out to make. Oh, well.

8. I started looking for a Christmas card yesterday. Loves it.

9. I love Martha Stewart, but I know there's no way that she freakin' makes all those pies and cakes and decorations and crap. I mean, get real. But, I love her.

10. For the life of me, I wanted to make this list a consistent and congruous catalog of accomplishments, but pretty much the first three are the only legit achievements for today's inventory. But three is a good number. Makes a balanced arrangement. Adds height and dimension and interest.

Yep. Thanks for reading.

First things first.

So, y'know how there's that understood chain of events that happens once you meet "The One"? Like...love...really love...engaged...naivete...married...more naivete...decorating the nursery...babies...etcetera. Well, in between the "married...babies"...I've been told that certain happenings should take place in order to deem one ready for los bebes. It's called the, "Can you keep a living thing alive?" test. And it starts with houseplants.

Remember when I planted my herb garden on the porch? Yes? Basil, Rosemary, Thyme, Mint...all delicious, aromatic and lovely little organisms. Well, I also have a few other houseplants just for the decor factor, and with a few cuttings here and there as well. Here's how they're all doing:

"Devil's Ivy" or Pothos plant--thriving!

Clipping of Pothos--precious!

Philodendron--growing!

Philodendron clipping--perfect!

Herb fiesta--three out of four?

So.....if you did not notice....I'm missing an herb. Cue the funeral dirge--the Thyme died. Dead as a doornail. Or a doorknob. Or a stone. Dead and gone, as T.I. would say. We went on vacation and, alas, the Thyme was not hearty enough to withstand the hot, hot heat of a southeastern summer.

Ok, the plants and babies theory: apparently, the order is plants, fish, dog, baby. If you can keep the three previous living things alive and healthy, it's a good indication of your readiness for the responsibility of a bambino, (according to someone). Basically, if we do some simple math, I'm at approximately an 86% success rate, (I'm counting the clippings as one plant). YIKES. If I was a goldfish I would be hoarding food flakes and hiding in my plastic tank castle.

AnyHOW, regardless of Andrew's and my proximity to reproducing a squishy, pooping, screaming, delightfully cute little rugrat, we are definitely getting one of these regardless of how the whole fish thing turns out:

Oh, hello, Love! (Vizsla puppies...me wantie).

Can we all say a collective, "yes, please!" In fact, let's skip the fish and cut to the chase, ignoring my slightly brown thumb altogether: I gotta get me a puppy dog!

A smidge of randomosity

1. I saw a gentleman in Harris Teeter the other day with two 12 packs of Mountain Dew and a bag of Funyuns. Wikipedia says that Funyuns were invented by a bloke named Douglas Bubbletrousers. I'm having a hard time believing that the "Funyuns" bio isn't one of the reasons Wikipedia is not an acceptable source on college term papers.

2. I just painted my nails OPI's Bubble Bath. Ah, bliss.



3. I purchased Tigi's Rockaholic Dirty Secret Dry Shampoo so that my husband and I can take our grungy, dirty, hippie steez to the next level.



4. I'm already thinking about Christmas. and Fall.



5. Bing Crosby originally sang the song Pennies From Heaven in the clip from Elf. How'd you like your nickname to be an onomatopoeia?

6. "Elf" is a funny word.

7. It looks like we're having chicken again tonight. Womp, womp.

8. Why can' we have juss like a salad? (please, tell me you know what movie I'm talking about.)

9. In case you're clueless...



10. Amen.

There's a snake in my boot!

Just saw Toy Story tres with my lovely amiga Abby. If you're wondering why I'm inserting occasional palabras de espanol, you'll just have to see the movie to find out. It was quite precious, actually. Aside from the little girl behind us asking if every character was sad in almost every scene, and the infant crisis down in front, it was quite a care-free and enjoyable movie-going experience. I highly recommend it.

Now. If my allergies would just take a chill pill, I might be able to tell you about the beach. There's just nothing quite like a span of two or three days of soaking up the salt air and the sound of the crashing waves. As much as the beach comes with it's own innate set of unpleasantries, (you know, the sweating, the repetitious sunblock application, the sand in the crotch of your bathing suit that is amazingly on the inside of the lining), it really is one of God's greatest masterpieces. Andrew and I drove down on Sunday morning and met the whole clan at the campground--everything was in it's place, the "mamas" had each site laid out to be most organized and user-friendly, but to also provide the most community fostering atmosphere--the "git-the-sand-off-ya" showers were rigged up, and the shared mini fridge was stocked with waters, juice, and just about anything else cold and wet. The sun was shining bright and the only thing between us and the edge of America was a quick costume change. The next handful of days were filled with games, (Corn-Hole, Sequence, Cranium, and Fishbowl, to name a few), laying out, playing in the water (or cooling off), going out to eat, hangin' around the campsite, cheering on the Tigers, and an assortment of brownies to tempt even the most disciplined of dieters. It was quite the vacation.

On this week's docket, there's laundry, grocery shopping, work, sleep, and sweating off the brownies. Oh, and I almost killed my plants again while we were away. Leave it to me to abandon my garden on the hottest span of four days this summer. I'm still willing them to live.

In other news, next weekend is the Fourth of July!!! My second favorite holiday next to CHRISTMAS, of course. I don't know, there's just something about America that just makes me smile from the bottom of my heart. There's a part of America that's trademarked by tiny flag pens on expensive lapels, million dollar campaigns, I'll-scratch-your-back-you-scratch-mine and then there's a part that's more jorts than Jaguars, more "count on me" than count my votes, more nose to the grindstone than nose in the air--that's the part I'll sing about with my hand over my heart. God bless America, land that I love.

And with that, I leave you this.

Shake, shake, shake, shake-uh-shake it!

I should take a shower. But I'd rather blog. I've had about 87 cups of cranberry juice this afternoon, so I'm really hopped up on the Q. Or hyped up on the Q. (What is Q, by the way? I hope it's nothing bad...) Either way, I'm pretty sure my urinary tract is in tip-top shape. My glomerular filtration rate must be off the charts. I mean, but still good. Moving on to another drink, however. Anyone ever heard of a Queen's Park Swizzle? Anyone know what a swizzle is? Yeah, it's not a dance move or something a rapper uses to cleverly rhyme with words he made up and then trademarked to go on to make millions and influence thousands of unsuspecting young children. It's not. I didn't know what a swizzle was either until a few weeks ago when I went home to see my brother, Noah, who had flown in to visit my parents for a few days down in the Chuck. By definition, a swizzle is "any of the various tall, frothy mixed drinks made usually of rum and lime juice and sugar shaken with ice" or "a tall, traditionally rum based cocktail filled with crushed ice. A stirring rod or swizzle stick is quickly rotated between the palm of the hands to form a frost on the glass." Now, I'm no lush, but... it's AWESOME.

Granted, we were working in less than perfect conditions with less than all of the proper tools, but we made do. Noah taught me how to make a Queen's Park Swizzle and a Bourbon Smash. Annnnd boy did we make some super sippers. They dance on the tongue and sing in the belly. I'm talking about my fav, though. The QP swizzle. I'm no NYC bartender, but through my research I've discovered that a perfect Queen's Park Swizzle would be in a Collin's glass, (tall and skinny, like me. Not.), with true Demerara sugar syrup or "sugar in the raw"--not the white stuff you plop in your tea--a nice 8 year rum, (like a nice sea bass), fresh squeezed lime juice, fresh mint leaves, real crushed ice, (think Sonic ice), and a few dashes of Angostura bitters. {Bitters is "a distillation of aromatic herbs, barks, roots, and plants, steeped in alcohol." It's approximately 45% alcohol, so not something you want to drink outright, but just used in small amounts to add flavor to a drink or food. Much like vanilla extract. Angostura is made from roots. And some other stuff. It's good, don't worry.}

So. First things first. Equipment: tins, jigger, muddler, swizzle stick, Collin's glass or the next best thing, straw. Ingredients: crushed ice, lime juice, mint, Demerara syrup, 8 year rum, Angostura bitters, magic. Numero uno, you have to make your syrup. Two parts sugar to one part water, and depending on how many people you're planning on serving, adjust accordingly. Stick that puppy on a stove top and give it a good stir until all the sugar has dissolved and you've got, well, syrup. It keeps in the fridge, so don't be afraid of making too much.

Next, yank a bunch of mint leaves off your stalk, wash them well and shake off the excess water. Drop 'em in the bottom of your tins, (you know, the shaker thingy). Measure 3/4 oz of your Demerara syrup in your jigger (excuse me?) and pour it in. Don't worry if all of it doesn't go in. You'll be pouring in lime juice next so it will get the rest of it out. Now. This step is very important. At this point all you've got is mint leaves and syrup in the bottom of your tins. You need to muddle the mint leaves so as to bring out the peppermint oils and infuse the syrup with the flavor of the mint. I said muddle not crush into oblivion. So. Take your muddler and gently, but firmly, press down on the mint leaves. There. Now you've done it. Next, measure 3/4 oz of lime juice in your jigger (say what?) and pour that into the tins. See? Got all the leftover syrup. Then measure 2 oz of rum in your jigger (who dat?) and pour that sucker in. Now, close up your tins and shake the ever-living life out of that thing. You should feel it in your triceps. If you don't break a sweat, you're not doing it right. You're basically trying to incorporate everything into one delicious, inseparable liquid--like pouring two cylinders of sand into a box during a wedding ceremony. Except not. So, then, you grab your Collin's glass with your swizzle stick at the ready, pour in the drink from the tins, making sure to get all that delicious mint out, fill that glass up a little over halfway with ice, stick your swizzle stick down in the ice (pardon me?) and quickly rotate it between the heels of your hands until a frost forms on the outside of the glass. Once you're there, now you've REALLY done it. Add more ice to the top of the drink, three or four dashes of Angostura bitters, a sprig of mint and a sexy black straw and you are good to go. Seems complicated? Do it a few times and you'll be taking orders in no time. Or getting mentioned in the New York Times. Ahem, Noah, ahem.

Here's mine. Disclaimer: this was probably the second one I've ever made, it was not in the proper receptacle, and the straws were more like Coca-cola-in-a-glass-bottle straws instead of swanky-NYC-bar straws. Oh. freakin'. well. It was still delicious.

House on fire!

Did anyone else play that ice-breaker game in high school youth group?? No? Mmkay.

Well, yesterday afternoon I gave my first and best effort at creating Pioneer Woman's homemade pizza. And I did. And it was amazing. And we have left overs. Muahahahaha!! But I also almost watched all of our worldly possessions go up in flames. You see, the oven had to be set to 500 degrees. That's the last degree setting until "broil". Pioneer Woman, while seemingly innocent and kind, did not put a warning at the bottom about cooking pizza in a ghetto oven. If it had been my cook book it would have read something like this:

WARNING: If you live in the ghetto, have ghetto neighbors, went to a ghetto high school, have ever been told you are the lucky owner of a ghetto booty, have ever owned a ghetto vehicle, have ever hummed Elvis Presley's "In the Ghetto", or have a ghetto oven: do NOT attempt this pizza. I repeat, do NOT attempt this pizza.

Well, there was no warning. So I proceeded sans caution to make a lovely, gourmet, tomato-basil pizza, and then a subsequent pepperoni and turkey sausage pizza for my manly hubster who cannot survive on greens alone. See, one of the first steps in assembling the pizza is to drizzle the pan with olive oil and then spread out your pizza dough. So, I drizzled. *Note: I think the key here was that PW used rimmed baking sheets. I do not have rims. I wish I did, because that would probably complete my ghetto lifestyle. Heh heh.* Anyway. I drizzled. And I spread out the pizza dough and topped it with pesto, real mozzarella, roma tomatoes, and a sprinkling of parmesan. And then I stuck it in the fiery furnace, alongside Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. And behold, it did not catch on fire...immediately. About eight minutes into the baking time, I turned on the oven light to see the deliciousness that was filling my apartment with a dizzying aroma of goodness, only to see olive oil pooling at the corner and then dripping off onto the blazing hot element in the bottom of the oven. And then, the flames. Thank goodness, however, that by the time I shrieked, "ohmygosh, it's on fire!!" the flames were gone. But where there's fire, there's smoke ('er, something...), and our apartment was literally filled with hazy smoke--as if pollen wasn't enough--even more so than when I burned the pork chops or the meatloaf, (I'm a good cook, I sw'ar). We, (and by that I mean "I"), set off both fire alarms--twice. I had only cooked the first pizza when the flames popped up, but we powered through, baking soda on hand, to cook the second one and they both turned out delicious, amazing, party-in-your-mouth good. So. P-Dub, thanks for the recipe. But next time, a heads up about cooking in ghetto ovens might be nice. I still love ya (and your recipes) more'n my luggage, though!

Tomato-Basil pizza. Recipe from The Pioneer Woman Cooks.

Department of Malicious Vipers

Ohhhh, the glorious to-do lists of an unemployed, childless, dogless wife. Many are the sticky notes and spare pieces of paper that get scribbled on and subsequently discarded among the cold coffee grinds and shriveled grapefruit halves of the day. I wonder how many to-do lists I've gone through in my lifetime and the percentage of tasks completed compared to the percentage left incomplete. Or how many times I've written the same task on a list: laundry. groceries. work out. Or the same item to obtain: q-tips. deodorant. milk. We shall never know. One thing I did cross off my list today, only to write it on tomorrow's, was to visit the beloved Department of Motor Vehicles. I went to Social Security yesterday, so it is official. No more Smith. But today, the task was to go to the DMV and get a North Carolina license as well as change my name. I had it all worked out. I brought every conceivable legal document I could think of--I was prepared to give blood or pee in a cup if I had to--and I did, of course, have all of the right things. Except that I haven't taken the written road test since I was fifteen. I was told by multiple people that I would only have to take the "signs" test, (you know, where you press your clean, sanitary forehead against the greasy, grimy machine to make the screen light up and tell them "railroad crossing, school, stop sign" etc.), but no. I had to take the (DUN dun dun) written test. And since I thought I would have time to wait (like you do when you go to the DMV every time) I also thought I would have time to study this so-called "pamphlet". I passed the signs test, administered by a man who had an ongoing narration with my information as he was typing it into his little computer. He kept saying things like "and your beautiful eyes are...green. and you were a little bundle of joy on, let's see--when was it? Oh, November... and you are clearly a blond. and..." yada yada yada--you get the point. Interesting. That's all. So, I proceed to the computer that's flashing "MARY ARMSTRONG" and of course I'm like, who's that? But I sit down any way and take the durn thing, only to find out that, indeed I would have loved to have had at least an hour wait at the DMV this morning only to prevent myself from having to come back tomorrow. I FAILED. Boo. I missed six out of 25 (you have to have five or less wrong to pass), but to be fair, the questions are HARD. Like what percentage of fatalities is attributed to alcohol related crashes? Why is it bad if your exhaust pipe is leaking? (Is my name Jimbo? Am I wearing a jumpsuit covered in grease? Didn't think so--leaking is bad because it's bad! When you say "car" and "leaking" in the same sentence it's never good, everyone knows that!!) What's the punishment if you get caught drunk driving?, etc. So. I have to go back tomorrow and do my thing again. Only this time, I've got a pamphlet. I did get even by telling them that their signs machine was disgusting and a hazard to my health. So there.

Welp. Better get studying. Tomorrow's only a day away.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm a cook.

So says the bottle of Stubb's barbeque sauce that graced our table last evening as we feasted on a bleu cheese meatloaf that almost wasn't. By almost wasn't, I mean...well, I'll get to that when I get to it.

This past weekend, Andrew and I zoom-zoomed down to Charleston in our tricked out Tacoma with the flashy black rims ;) to take part in Angela and Stephen's wedding--it really was a beautiful wedding, held in the first Catholic church in the United States, I believe, and still the "mother" Catholic church for Georgia and the Carolinas. The sanctuary was just breathtaking--small in square footage, but the paintings and the stained glass and the statues and carvings on the altar--just beautiful. It was slightly familiar having grown up Episcopalian, at least with the liturgy and knowing what to say and when to say it. The service wasn't as complicated as some masses can be, or even traditional Episcopalian services. The old saying in the Episcopal church is "stand and sit and kneel and stand, kneel and stand". Kind of like taking a yoga class--you feel pretty limbered up when you leave. But really, what struck me about the service and the sanctuary really was the reverence of it. The knowing that you are in God's house. The God of the Universe. Mmmm. It gives me chills. When I was in Italy a handful of summers ago, I got the same feeling in many of the cathedrals that we visited. Just breathtaking. I'd love to go back someday.

Saturday evening, post-wedding festivities, Andrew and I piled back into the truck, (including an armchair from my parent's house so that we have somewhere to seat guests in our apartment), and came home to make it to a leadership class at church on Sunday morning. I'm absolutely electrified about this time in our lives; about finding the Lord's vision for us (Proverbs 29:18) and living into it--this time for building the edifice of our faith. The foundation has been laid--and sturdily-- by our families and friends and the churches of our childhoods, and of course by the Holy Spirit, and now we are coming into a new season of putting up the framework for what's next (don't ask me what's next, I'm praying, praying, praying!). We're out of diapers, the training wheels are off, and--look, Ma! No hands! I am so thankful for the church I grew up in--St. Andrew's-- and the Saints I was mentored by--all pointing to the Father, telling me to press into Him, to find the good way, the ancient path, and walk in it (Jeremiah 6:16). And I'm thankful to my King, the Lion of Judah, Jesus Christ, who never, ever lets go of my hand. The narrow pathway through the needle's eye/I'm stepping forward to the place I die.

Sunday was a whirlwind in and of itself, filled with blessing after blessing after blessing after blessing. Isn't that just like God?? We went to lunch with Duncan and Kate and some others at Jason's Deli after the service, a place where the ice-cream flows like Niagara Falls--and it's fo' free--and then headed home to recoup after a speedy-Pete weekend. I took a nap and Andrew did work. Later, we went to Graham's apartment for supper--homemade lasagna-- with him and Joanna and to play corn-hole for a bit. A delightful evening with friends. :)

So now, the meatloaf. What started as a yummy concoction of ground beef and sausage and bleu cheese and stewed tomatoes, ended as a smoke filled apartment with my husband waiving the dishtowel around the smoke alarm, like the white flag of surrender to the perils of newlywed cooking. My loaf was indeed just that--a loaf of meat--waaaaaay too big for the pan I put it in-- it dripped grease all in the bottom of the oven, subsequently filling our apartment with smoke to rival the California forest fires, and leaving Andrew and me discussing "what would we take?" if our apartment were to go up in flames. Andrew said his Osprey bag--it has his computer, Bible, journal and everything he needs in it. I said my guitar and my Kitchen-aide mixer. Ha! How different we are. So anyway, the meatloaf basically just made a huge mess and forced us to crack the windows for the rest of the evening, but it still tasted delicious. Moral of the story? Divide the loaf into two next time. Maybe then the apartment won't turn into Smokey the Bear's den. Still, Andrew had to remind me that I'm a great cook and that he loves meatloaf. So he pointed at the slogan on the bottle of Stubb's and said, "this is how you should introduce yourself from now on: Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm a cook."

And so I am. :)


I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them. ISAIAH 42:16