This January marked the 92nd anniversary of Boston’s Great Molasses Flood. It sounds implausible but on January 15, 1919 it took 21 lives, injured 150 people, killed horses, destroyed buildings and cost hundreds of thousands of dollars in damages. At that time molasses was a top commodity. A tank had been built on Commercial Street near Keany Square to hold over 2 million gallons. It was a huge tank and it provided a great financial advantage for the Purity Distilling Company. Tragically, its construction was rushed. For a few years after it was built groaning noises could be heard coming from it. Fermentation of the molasses on an unseasonably warm day caused the tank to explode and a wall of molasses 30 feet high rolled through the streets at an estimated 35 mph. The force of the explosion knocked a nearby house off its foundation, took out an overhead railway and shattered windows for a mile. People drowned in a wave of molasses. All for a company’s greed and pride.
I don’t remember learning about this event in school. I read about it last year in an almanac that Marie got for Christmas. I later read a book about it, “The Dark Tide,” by Stephen Puleo. I’m not sure what intrigued me most about the event: the bizarre tragedy or the sadness of the loss of life. Perhaps it was the reminder that life can change in an instant.
Ever since my late husband’s death I have been aware of the fragility of life and of our plans. When asked about my thoughts on the end of the world they come quite easily. Regardless of the second coming or the apocolypse or the end of the world, all we truly have is now. We don’t know if we’ll die tomorrow or next year or in thirty years. We don’t know how much time we have left any more than we know when the world will come to an end. Even if someone’s prophesy were correct and the date was set, our time is uncertain.
What is important is how we live the here and now. To seek truth, to love as God loves us. To live prudently and wisely. To teach our children the same…to be moral, giving and forgiving people. As Christians, to live as Christ taught us.
Invariably, we’ll fall short. But we must try. Apathy or dispair are not good options. Tragedy and loss are difficult. I have lost close loved ones, I know the pain and the difficulty of going on. My late mother-in-law lost her son. I saw her pain. I saw her faith and the strength that came from it. Years later after more terrible losses and multiple, serious health problems, people asked her how she kept going. She answered, “I could give in and become depressed and be of no good to anyone. But there are people who still need me, and I have to look at the blessings that God has given me, what I have, not what has been lost.”
Ninety-two years ago the world changed suddenly for many Bostonians. Some lost their livelihood, some their homes, some lost their loved ones. I pray that God gave them the strength to go on. I hope that they were able to see blessings and to live to see more.
Through our losses or suffering or difficulties, I pray that we are able to see all of our blessings, too.
God bless you,
The Abbey Farm
Monday, January 31, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Goat Theology
Have you ever wondered why goats get such a bad rap in the Bible? I guess I didn't really either until I owned them. We have a herd of Nubian goats on the farm. My friend, Christy, owns Providence Farm, an amazing family farm that produces goat milk, cheese, goat milk soap, artisan breads and more. Christy is from Alaska and is one of the most fascinating people I know. Her goats are fat and beautiful and healthy. Of course I would seek her help when we decided that we wanted a healthier milk alternative. Goat milk has a smaller protein which is better metabolized by humans than cow’s milk. I was interested in trying something that had no hormones and that would be fun to produce. Marie and Susanna were game and Christy helped us get started.
Goat milk is very creamy; it is naturally homogenized. If you want cream you have to have a special cream separator. I defy anyone to sense a “goaty” (caproic acid) smell in the milk, as long as the goats are healthy and NOT kept with a buck. Does (females) have an almost lovely lanolin smell. Bucks--well--not nice. We do own bucks and they are usually kept separate from the does. When we went to Christy’s to pick up our first goats I fell in love with a different kid, “Starbuck.” His name had nothing to do with the company or coffee. His mother was “Star” and he was a “buck,” and that’s how he earned his name. Fluffy and café-au-lait colored, small and snuggly and sweet, I did think of a warm, creamy cup of coffee. I was taken. He’s big and stinky now, but still sweet and quite a character. We had him pastured with the horses for a while. He was very affectionate with Snowball the pony. Snowball was barely tolerant.
Thanks to Starbuck, we’ve had kids born on the farm now, too, and they are really adorable. They are such affectionate animals, really more like dogs. They call to Marie as soon as they hear her coming out to feed. Susanna soon lost interest in the work (it can be demanding when they‘re in milk), though still thinks they’re "cute." Marie is the goat farmer. Really, she gets the credit for any aspect of The Abbey Farm being called an actual farm. She feeds all the animals and manages their care…horses, goats, dogs, cats, chickens, assorted strays and injured wild. As to the latter, she has successfully rescued birds, turtles, bunnies and even a fawn.
So back to my original question: Sheep vs. Goats. Lambs, I know, relate to Jesus in the Bible. He was the Pascal Lamb. He was innocent and loved by His Father who sacrificed Him for our salvation. In the Old Testament God promised Abraham, who for so long was childless, that he would have descendants that would "number the stars." Yet God asked Abraham to sacrifice his beloved son Isaac. Of course God stopped him. The typology to Christ is all throughout the Old Testament. The Jews sacrificed lambs on Passover and at other times. They were instructed to pick the finest lamb of the herd and then have it live in their house for two weeks. Can you imagine how attached the children and even adults would become to this soft, adorable creature? The sacrifice, when made, was not easy. Christ’s sacrifice was not easy.
Lambs are as cute as goat kids, but grown sheep to me are kind of flighty and hard to get close to. The goats are perhaps not as cloud-like or stuffed-animal-like, but just have more personality and affection. So why are they “separated from the sheep” like “chaff from wheat” in the Bible?
I asked Christy. I figured she’d be a little indignant, too. She surprised me. “It makes so much sense, Suzy.” She wasn’t offended. Here’s the Theology lesson she taught me: “Sheep stay out of trouble by staying with the herd. They’re much harder to single out by predators. They listen to their master.” Hmmm, I had to think about that. “Goats, while more inquisitive--and maybe because of it--get themselves in trouble and sometimes don’t want to be together. Separated, they’re an easier target.”
Made total sense to me. I thought of the allusion to human behavior. Intelligence and inquisitiveness and passion are strengths. It is the desire to put one’s pride above caution and self above others that can lead to problems. There’s fuel for a year long course in Theology about this one. God made us capable and intelligent and quite amazing. We can change our world for the good or for the bad. The important thing, it seems to me, is foresight, caution, caring for the world we have, love of every person, and the consideration of God’s intention and design.
All that from goats! I never thought I’d own them, but they’re pretty special here on the Abbey Farm. Good for milk and fun and affection and lessons in life and love.
God bless you!
The Abbey Farm
Monday, January 24, 2011
Memories of Batavia
We all have favorite childhood memories. Many of mine took place in Batavia, Ohio. Aunt Irma and Uncle Carl managed a tobacco farm with a big farmhouse, a beautiful lake, a large barn and lots of outbuildings. In any given year there were hutches of rabbits, dogs, and cats with litters of kittens. We drove each year from Maryland to visit for a week. It was kid nirvana. Especially the lake. The men would go frog-gigging at night and the Moms would fry up the legs for a feast. It probably sounds awful, but they really were tasty. I always wanted to go along with the men but was told it was too dangerous. Flashlights, darkness, tipsy boats, deep water and long spears called gigs--did make for a haunting image in my young mind.
We spent idyllic hours fishing from the bank of the lake. My cousins Steve and Jeff were a lot of fun. Other cousins came to visit while we were there. Along with my brothers we’d fish, play in the old tobacco barn, run around like nuts inside the farmhouse, and play wiffle-ball or Sunday-ball in the yard. There was a long gravel lane with grass growing in the center that headed up to the farm. A screened-in porch wrapped around the frame house. One of the doors had an old-fashioned doorbell that you would twist like a wind-up music box, only it was bigger and made a very loud, brassy sound.
I can’t remember exactly why the house had two kitchens, but one had to be entered from the outside. There was a second refrigerator in it and (sorry, Aunt Irm!) we would sneak in and snitch food and soda pop. Grandma Breiner would make the family’s favorite dessert, Dobos Torte, and store it in the extra refrigerator. Nothing escaped our kid eyes. Dobos Torte was and is far better than any dessert. Created by Hungarian baker Jozsef Dobos in 1906, my Grandmother’s version had about a dozen thin sponge cake layers filled with chocolate-coffee buttercream and iced with a thick Hungarian chocolate frosting. Sliced thinly, it was an experience like no other. It melted in your mouth and left you smiling for hours.
When the smiles wore off and clarity returned, we snuck into the second kitchen. We were stealthy. We’d open the refrigerator as softly as we could (back then they had big clunky latches). With a knife slipped from the main kitchen we’d make precise, surgical cuts so that no one would ever know we had been there. I can imagine the taste now.
As a young adult I baked Dobos Tortes for a local restaurant. At that time there were no warnings about using raw egg in dishes; the buttercream and icing incorporated them. Thankfully, no one was ever reported ill. It was the hit on the menu. Later I adapted the recipe and stopped using raw eggs. Not exactly the same, the buttercream a little softer, but still pretty heavenly. A couple years ago I sent one in to Bruce’s office for the Christmas Party and Dessert Contest. I knew it would be a shoe-in. I told Bruce to be sure to refrigerate it until about an hour before serving. I arrived late to the party, the judging had been done. The Dobos Torte was slumped and resembled pudding squishing out of the sides of a stack of askew pancakes. It didn’t win. Bruce was sure I told him expressly not to refrigerate it. It was okay. A lot of people still came up and said it tasted really good. We still laugh.
We’re due for a Dobos Torte. I wish I hadn’t started Weight Watchers just yet, or that I’d thought to make it a few weeks ago. It must be about 157 (plus) points on the PointsPlus Program. But then, some things are just worth it; I’ll make it soon and post pictures and the recipe.
My children will have some of the wonderful memories I had from my childhood. They are growing up on a farm with a big house, a barn, a pond and lots of animals. Though I don’t think their mother will fry up frog’s legs, I will make Dobos Torte for them. And, no doubt, they will try to sneak thin slices when no one is looking. I know I will.
God bless you with good memories,
The Abbey Farm
We spent idyllic hours fishing from the bank of the lake. My cousins Steve and Jeff were a lot of fun. Other cousins came to visit while we were there. Along with my brothers we’d fish, play in the old tobacco barn, run around like nuts inside the farmhouse, and play wiffle-ball or Sunday-ball in the yard. There was a long gravel lane with grass growing in the center that headed up to the farm. A screened-in porch wrapped around the frame house. One of the doors had an old-fashioned doorbell that you would twist like a wind-up music box, only it was bigger and made a very loud, brassy sound.
I can’t remember exactly why the house had two kitchens, but one had to be entered from the outside. There was a second refrigerator in it and (sorry, Aunt Irm!) we would sneak in and snitch food and soda pop. Grandma Breiner would make the family’s favorite dessert, Dobos Torte, and store it in the extra refrigerator. Nothing escaped our kid eyes. Dobos Torte was and is far better than any dessert. Created by Hungarian baker Jozsef Dobos in 1906, my Grandmother’s version had about a dozen thin sponge cake layers filled with chocolate-coffee buttercream and iced with a thick Hungarian chocolate frosting. Sliced thinly, it was an experience like no other. It melted in your mouth and left you smiling for hours.
When the smiles wore off and clarity returned, we snuck into the second kitchen. We were stealthy. We’d open the refrigerator as softly as we could (back then they had big clunky latches). With a knife slipped from the main kitchen we’d make precise, surgical cuts so that no one would ever know we had been there. I can imagine the taste now.
As a young adult I baked Dobos Tortes for a local restaurant. At that time there were no warnings about using raw egg in dishes; the buttercream and icing incorporated them. Thankfully, no one was ever reported ill. It was the hit on the menu. Later I adapted the recipe and stopped using raw eggs. Not exactly the same, the buttercream a little softer, but still pretty heavenly. A couple years ago I sent one in to Bruce’s office for the Christmas Party and Dessert Contest. I knew it would be a shoe-in. I told Bruce to be sure to refrigerate it until about an hour before serving. I arrived late to the party, the judging had been done. The Dobos Torte was slumped and resembled pudding squishing out of the sides of a stack of askew pancakes. It didn’t win. Bruce was sure I told him expressly not to refrigerate it. It was okay. A lot of people still came up and said it tasted really good. We still laugh.
We’re due for a Dobos Torte. I wish I hadn’t started Weight Watchers just yet, or that I’d thought to make it a few weeks ago. It must be about 157 (plus) points on the PointsPlus Program. But then, some things are just worth it; I’ll make it soon and post pictures and the recipe.
My children will have some of the wonderful memories I had from my childhood. They are growing up on a farm with a big house, a barn, a pond and lots of animals. Though I don’t think their mother will fry up frog’s legs, I will make Dobos Torte for them. And, no doubt, they will try to sneak thin slices when no one is looking. I know I will.
God bless you with good memories,
The Abbey Farm
Thursday, January 20, 2011
History of The Abbey Farm
Long ago in the mid-1800’s Benedictine Monks came to Atchison, Kansas. Determined to spread the Gospel and to serve God in their work and prayer, they built a monastery and a church on the bluffs above the Missouri River. By 1890 they started work on a farm that would produce most of their food and supplies. Self-sufficiency wasn’t trendy as it is now, it was necessity. They carved huge blocks of limestone from the property and built a house and barn. They planted a vineyard, built fence, started beehives, stocked cattle and hogs and chickens, tended a large garden, and settled into a laborious and virtuous routine.
The monks and brothers ran the farm for a couple of decades and then decided they needed a farm manager. Over the next 50 years a succession of families inhabited the place but it was always worked by the Brothers. Charlie Wagner, now an octogenarian, was a child of one of the families. His father managed the farm for some 15 years in the thirties and forties. Charlie visits us from time to time. It is always a treat. His mind is sharp, his eyes bright and his tongue spins tales of boyhood adventures. He remembers the Brothers coming to work every day from the monastery in the horse-pulled cart, milking dairy cows, slaughtering hogs and working the fields. He remembers galloping on horseback with his brother Bert, ducking through the narrow, low bridge that went under the farm road to round up the cattle from the south pasture. He says they were amazing days, and I believe him.
Charlie's mother worked hard. There were ten children. There were usually boarders in the house, hired farmhands. She worked to cook and clean and wash the clothing for all of them. Water was funneled into a cistern that was used for household chores and washing. A hand-dug, stone-lined well about 75 feet deep was used for drinking water. Charlie says his mother was very generous. One day about a dozen migrant workers showed up on the property. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or caution in her eyes, but she had Charlie sit them down under the shade of a tree and sent out trays of sandwiches and fresh, cold milk. Rested, fed and obliged, they continued on their way.
Years went by. More families lived in the house. The monks said Mass in the upper room of the house, the children played in the spacious third floor. The farm produced all that it could until the day of the supermarket, when the fields lay fallow and the last of the livestock was sold. In the sixties the Galley family rented the farm and lived not in the main house, for it had become inhabitable, but in what was formerly called the “Bee House.” That was a frame house, originally attached to the main stone structure, but moved farther back on the property early on. The Galley’s were a large, prolific family, active at St. Benedict’s Church and the local Maur Hill School. The Monks sold the farm in the seventies and the land was subdivided.
The Benedictines continue to own an adjacent parcel of a few hundred acres, leased to a local farmer. The Abbey and Monastery in Atchison are thriving. Benedictine College has earned a reputation of one of the top ten Catholic Colleges in the nation. Thirty acres remain with the original house and Bee House. In the nineties it was sold to a couple who truly infused life back into the place. The Denney’s were visionaries and took the house, which by now was damaged and populated with snakes, and renovated it into a beautiful, livable home. They decorated it with antiques and treasures they’d found at auctions and markets and opened a Bed and Breakfast. People came to get away from the city or to have a tranquil stay when visiting the historical events and attractions of the area. It was a unique experience to stay in a one-time monastery. The grounds are peaceful, the house still has its original crimped tin roof and cupola with bell tower and cross on top.
We were blessed to purchase the farm in 2004. We were asked if we would run it as a Bed and Breakfast; we said only for our growing family of eight. And grow it did. Four more children have been born, an even dozen in the house. Benedictines are hospitable and when we bought the farm we made a promise to God that we would be, too. Yeo Joo from Korea lived with us for a year, Renata from Brazil for four, Johanna from Germany for a semester of school and currently, Bobby from Thailand. The Bee House has been home to four college girls and two families since we moved here. All have contributed richly to life here on the Abbey Farm.
There are many more stories I’ll share over time. I wanted you to know the history of the place. It has been populated by Godly men and women. The cloud of witnesses over this place is great. It is comforting to know that people who dedicated themselves to God in work and prayer and service and hospitality filled these walls for over a hundred years. With God's grace, we’ll try to live up to their example.
May God bless you,
The Abbey Farm
The monks and brothers ran the farm for a couple of decades and then decided they needed a farm manager. Over the next 50 years a succession of families inhabited the place but it was always worked by the Brothers. Charlie Wagner, now an octogenarian, was a child of one of the families. His father managed the farm for some 15 years in the thirties and forties. Charlie visits us from time to time. It is always a treat. His mind is sharp, his eyes bright and his tongue spins tales of boyhood adventures. He remembers the Brothers coming to work every day from the monastery in the horse-pulled cart, milking dairy cows, slaughtering hogs and working the fields. He remembers galloping on horseback with his brother Bert, ducking through the narrow, low bridge that went under the farm road to round up the cattle from the south pasture. He says they were amazing days, and I believe him.
Charlie's mother worked hard. There were ten children. There were usually boarders in the house, hired farmhands. She worked to cook and clean and wash the clothing for all of them. Water was funneled into a cistern that was used for household chores and washing. A hand-dug, stone-lined well about 75 feet deep was used for drinking water. Charlie says his mother was very generous. One day about a dozen migrant workers showed up on the property. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or caution in her eyes, but she had Charlie sit them down under the shade of a tree and sent out trays of sandwiches and fresh, cold milk. Rested, fed and obliged, they continued on their way.
Years went by. More families lived in the house. The monks said Mass in the upper room of the house, the children played in the spacious third floor. The farm produced all that it could until the day of the supermarket, when the fields lay fallow and the last of the livestock was sold. In the sixties the Galley family rented the farm and lived not in the main house, for it had become inhabitable, but in what was formerly called the “Bee House.” That was a frame house, originally attached to the main stone structure, but moved farther back on the property early on. The Galley’s were a large, prolific family, active at St. Benedict’s Church and the local Maur Hill School. The Monks sold the farm in the seventies and the land was subdivided.
The Benedictines continue to own an adjacent parcel of a few hundred acres, leased to a local farmer. The Abbey and Monastery in Atchison are thriving. Benedictine College has earned a reputation of one of the top ten Catholic Colleges in the nation. Thirty acres remain with the original house and Bee House. In the nineties it was sold to a couple who truly infused life back into the place. The Denney’s were visionaries and took the house, which by now was damaged and populated with snakes, and renovated it into a beautiful, livable home. They decorated it with antiques and treasures they’d found at auctions and markets and opened a Bed and Breakfast. People came to get away from the city or to have a tranquil stay when visiting the historical events and attractions of the area. It was a unique experience to stay in a one-time monastery. The grounds are peaceful, the house still has its original crimped tin roof and cupola with bell tower and cross on top.
We were blessed to purchase the farm in 2004. We were asked if we would run it as a Bed and Breakfast; we said only for our growing family of eight. And grow it did. Four more children have been born, an even dozen in the house. Benedictines are hospitable and when we bought the farm we made a promise to God that we would be, too. Yeo Joo from Korea lived with us for a year, Renata from Brazil for four, Johanna from Germany for a semester of school and currently, Bobby from Thailand. The Bee House has been home to four college girls and two families since we moved here. All have contributed richly to life here on the Abbey Farm.
There are many more stories I’ll share over time. I wanted you to know the history of the place. It has been populated by Godly men and women. The cloud of witnesses over this place is great. It is comforting to know that people who dedicated themselves to God in work and prayer and service and hospitality filled these walls for over a hundred years. With God's grace, we’ll try to live up to their example.
May God bless you,
The Abbey Farm
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Happy New Year!
Hiatus over. Wow, what a busy month. We took the family to Branson after Christmas and for the New Year. Branson, Missouri is hailed as the Las Vegas of the Midwest. There are many performers, shows and acts. Our family took in the Chinese Acrobats, Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede, the Titanic Museum, the Dinosaur Museum and more. My highlight was discovering Table Rock Lake with Marie. It’s hard to get the ocean out of the East-Coaster; I love just about any water and this man-made lake was gorgeous. The Corps of Engineers built the dam to protect surrounding areas from seasonal flooding and with the idea that it would provide boating, swimming, fishing and recreation for the locals and future tourists. It was beautiful even in the middle of winter.
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| A peaceful moment |
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| Bruce and Max, Christmas |
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| Christmas Morning |
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| She's a Roeder; telling how she see's it |
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| Playgrounds are a good thing, even on vacation |
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| They didn't tell Mom that the Dinosaur Museum was dangerous! |
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| A lone island on the lake |
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| Marie on Table Rock |
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| Jim keeping up with his big sisters! |
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| 18 month olds don't need Branson, just a faucet... |
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| Bobby's first real snow. Of course, we put him to work! |
Since coming home we’ve been kept busy by a winter storm, three snow days which the kids loved, wedding planning, the Settlers of Catan/Cities & Knights edition, the “Roeder-Roto” (Margaret had a stomach bug, probably a roto-virus…bad stuff!), and the general happenings of your basic farm with 12 people in the house.
Time. Where does it go? Why can’t there be more of it? How do we get all that we need and want done? I’ve been stressing over these issues. My brother had me read a book called, “Getting It Done,” by David Allan. I highly recommend it. My files and office are in much better order and I’m slowly getting better with the general management of the place. I’ve also been reading, “Change Your Brain, Change Your Body,” by Daniel Amen, MD. Lots of interesting info on brain chemistry, neurotransmitters and health. I hope he’s not a quack. I don’t have time to waste!
I wondered this morning how I'd feel about time if I found that I didn’t have much of it left? What if the last days involved pain and suffering? I realized in a split second that the suffering would then be a given or a constant, so that my attitude and interactions with my family would be paramount. The right thing would be to choose to go out being an inspiration to them, letting them know how loved they are--more than my life itself. But really, I don’t have to have a fatal diagnosis or suffering or pain to make those choices now. Life is hard. We’re living in a time where gratification is instant and we expect it to be so. Where people are dealing with cyber-community more than real community and are, in truth, less and less nice with each other. There are more and more decisions and demands on us. So, what is most important? How I live the here and now, trying to do right, and searching for truth.
This morning I read a quote from St. Augustine (Sermon 169, 18):
“On earth we are wayfarers, always on the go. This means that we have to keep on moving forward. Therefore be always unhappy about what you are if you want to reach what you are not. If you are pleased with what you are, you have stopped already. If you say; ‘It is enough,’ you are lost. Keep on walking, moving forward, trying for the goal. Don’t try to stop on the way, or to go back, or to deviate from it.”
I felt relief in knowing that my feelings that “I should be a lot further along at this point in my life” are perhaps okay. We’re all works in progress. May you progress steadily in 2011!
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Friday, December 24, 2010
Merry Christmas!
We have a family tradition. At dinner, we go around the table and state our "Highs and Highers." It used to be "Highs and Lows," but the lows lent a negative aspect to our conversation. One Lent we started the new version, for example, substituting "I need to pray for the kid who wants to pick fights in school," rather than, "So-and-so picked on me again," and it stuck. When there are visitors the tradition is explained and they are welcome to join in or pass. Most join in.
Bobby is from Thailand and is Buddhist. His Highers are thought provoking. Some of our little boys will say things like, "Jesus told me to listen better." We smile. Jim, two, just likes to say, "In my heart!" We all coo and he hugs whomever is closest. Many times they'll say that they want to be more thankful for family, or for all that they have. Bobby said the other day simply, "It is better to give than to get." Today his Higher was, "We need to remember the reason for our celebrations...and that giving is better."
Tonight the older children are going to a Benedictine Abbey for Christmas Eve. They will be invited back to the Monk's private dining room for homemade cookies and eggnog. The monks will share their food and laughter and will break into song. Their lives are full of prayer and work and giving. "Ora et Labora."
Bobby ran out of the house this morning, with flipflops and no coat, into the new-fallen snow. He's never seen a snowfall before. He's almost sixteen but he looked like a five-year-old with sheer delight. It was a treat to watch. We have been blessed with really great foreign exchange students. It is true what Bobby said in his Higher, about giving. It was said thousands of years ago by someone whose birthday we celebrate today. One who taught us that in giving we receive treasure from Him, and peace and joy on Earth.
May God bless you. We pray especially for those whose loved ones are deployed, or who have passed away, and those who are lonely, sad, scared or suffering. May you know God's comfort and peace.
Merry Christmas,
from the Abbey Farm
Bobby is from Thailand and is Buddhist. His Highers are thought provoking. Some of our little boys will say things like, "Jesus told me to listen better." We smile. Jim, two, just likes to say, "In my heart!" We all coo and he hugs whomever is closest. Many times they'll say that they want to be more thankful for family, or for all that they have. Bobby said the other day simply, "It is better to give than to get." Today his Higher was, "We need to remember the reason for our celebrations...and that giving is better."
Tonight the older children are going to a Benedictine Abbey for Christmas Eve. They will be invited back to the Monk's private dining room for homemade cookies and eggnog. The monks will share their food and laughter and will break into song. Their lives are full of prayer and work and giving. "Ora et Labora."
Bobby ran out of the house this morning, with flipflops and no coat, into the new-fallen snow. He's never seen a snowfall before. He's almost sixteen but he looked like a five-year-old with sheer delight. It was a treat to watch. We have been blessed with really great foreign exchange students. It is true what Bobby said in his Higher, about giving. It was said thousands of years ago by someone whose birthday we celebrate today. One who taught us that in giving we receive treasure from Him, and peace and joy on Earth.
May God bless you. We pray especially for those whose loved ones are deployed, or who have passed away, and those who are lonely, sad, scared or suffering. May you know God's comfort and peace.
Merry Christmas,
from the Abbey Farm
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Magnetawan
When I was fifteen my friend Bev and I worked for a summer in Canada. Her sister had done it before and we were super excited. We were hired as cooks for an elderly couple who vacationed every summer on a huge lake. They were from the South. For decades some wealthy families had traveled up to Canada to escape the heat of the Bible Belt. Bev and I both came from big families and had learned how to cook early on; nothing gourmet, but we could get good meals on the table without too much fuss.
We drove with Bev’s sister about 13 hours north to a little town called Magnetawan. It was very quaint along the main street on Ahmic Lake. An old Post Office, a gas station and “June’s” store were the local hangouts. We met our new employers and loaded into their circa 1930’s wooden motor boat. The boat would be our means of transportation for the next few weeks. Buzza, as our elderly gentleman was nicknamed, taught me how to handle her…piloting around the lake, docking, and gassing her up. We were a few miles into the lake by boat, with no road or car. The sprawling log home and boat house had been built years before when the lake was completely frozen in winter. Every day we took the boat into town for supplies and mail and milkshakes.
We had an amazing summer for two teenaged girls. There was a distinction between the locals of Magnetawan, the wealthy summer vacationers, and the cooks. The teens and early twenty-somethings all partied together, but we knew our places. We spent weekend evenings in the cozy lofts of boathouses, listening to James Taylor, Pure Prairie League and melodic jazz; the water lapping and boats knocking softly in their docks below. Some of us could play the guitar or sing, and sometimes we listened to a stereo phonograph. Other evenings we conspired to meet somewhere on the lake and, in the dark by boat light and lanterns, we hitched a dozen or so boats together and played more music, laughing and talking until midnight.
We looked forward to the weekly square-dance. Everyone was there and we hoped to be in some formation or to dosie-doe even for a second with one of the handsome young boys. Bev and I would return home by boat, and though summer, huddle under blankets and freeze on the ride back. There were canoe races (came in 3rd) and sailboat races (dead last, capsized), water skiing (could NOT get the hang of dropping a ski) and swims from one island to another (amazing how gullible I was to shrieks of “Shark!”). Great memories.
We did cook. Breakfasts, lunches, dinners. We made and ate what Buzza and his family liked. I had grits for the first time and blueberries with heavy cream. We learned to bake “Butter Tarts,” a favorite of the town. The family’s grown children and grandchildren visited while we were there and were all gracious to me and Bev. It was a wonderful experience. I did not return until years later, married, and a guest of one of the wealthy vacationers. It was fun to revisit the lake and town. I was no longer a part of the younger culture and at that time it was OK. If I could go back in time, though, it would be to that summer when I was fifteen.
We weren’t asked back. Maybe the couple got too old or didn’t go back for a few summers. I doubt it. They probably found better cooks. Or it could have been because we almost burned their house down with a kitchen fire. Bev and I made some great chicken, but that night one of us forgot to turn off the broiler, and the other returned the pan full of meat drippings into the oven and closed the door. Halfway into the meal Buzza’s wife jumped up, eyes wide with fear and shouted, “OK, Buzza!!” We all turned to see smoke billowing from the kitchen. Buzza grabbed a fire extinguisher and gallantly put out the flames while we rushed in to save things. Luckily, the only thing lost was the stove. It could have been worse. Bev and I were in the doghouse for only a brief time before we were allowed back in. Our employers were gracious Southerners, forgiving Christians.
When we were homesick or just needed to be mothered and cooked for, we boated across the lake. Osa was the cook for one of the oldest vacationers. Slightly stooped but full of spice and energy, Osa took care of us. She could really cook. We loved her lasagna and her butter tarts. I’ll include the recipes below. Maybe someday we’ll return to Magnetawan. I’ll bet it’ll still be magical. But I think most of the magic will be sparkling in my eyes as I remember that summer.
Osa's Lasagna
2 Tb. Olive oil
1 lb. lean ground round
4 c. tomato sauce
4 Tb. chopped Italian parsley
3 ½ c. ricotta cheese
1 c. chopped spinach, cooked & well-drained
¼ c. grated parmesan cheese
1 Tb. oregano
¾ tsp. nutmeg
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
8 lasagna noodles, cooked
3 c. shredded low fat mozzarella
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Heat olive oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add ground beef. Cook 5 minutes. Remove from heat and drain oil. Add tomato sauce and 2 Tb. of the parsley.
In a bowl, mix ricotta, spinach, parmesan, remaining 2 Tb. Parsley, oregano, nutmeg and pepper. Place 2 c. tomato meat sauce in the bottom of a 9x13 inch baking dish. Place 4 lasagna noodles on top, then ½ the ricotta mixture, then 1 c. mozzarella. Repeat layers once more. Top with remaining sauce and 1 c. cheese.
Cover loosely with aluminum foil. Place dish on cookie sheet and bake for about 45 minutes. Remove foil and bake another 15-20 minutes. Remove from oven and let rest 10-15 minutes before serving. Makes about 8 servings.
Osa's Butter Tarts
2 c. brown sugar
2 Tb. Butter
2 tsp. vanilla
2 eggs
piecrust dough (bought or favorite recipe)
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Mix all ingredients with an electric mixer until very smooth. Roll out piecrust dough and cut a dozen 4 to 5 inch circles with a bowl. Press each circle into 12 muffin tins. Pour brown sugar mixture evenly into tins. Bake until pastry is done and tarts are browned and bubbly.
I hope you’ll get the chance to try these. I hope you’ll get the chance to visit Magnetawan someday. You'll be blessed.
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
We drove with Bev’s sister about 13 hours north to a little town called Magnetawan. It was very quaint along the main street on Ahmic Lake. An old Post Office, a gas station and “June’s” store were the local hangouts. We met our new employers and loaded into their circa 1930’s wooden motor boat. The boat would be our means of transportation for the next few weeks. Buzza, as our elderly gentleman was nicknamed, taught me how to handle her…piloting around the lake, docking, and gassing her up. We were a few miles into the lake by boat, with no road or car. The sprawling log home and boat house had been built years before when the lake was completely frozen in winter. Every day we took the boat into town for supplies and mail and milkshakes.
We had an amazing summer for two teenaged girls. There was a distinction between the locals of Magnetawan, the wealthy summer vacationers, and the cooks. The teens and early twenty-somethings all partied together, but we knew our places. We spent weekend evenings in the cozy lofts of boathouses, listening to James Taylor, Pure Prairie League and melodic jazz; the water lapping and boats knocking softly in their docks below. Some of us could play the guitar or sing, and sometimes we listened to a stereo phonograph. Other evenings we conspired to meet somewhere on the lake and, in the dark by boat light and lanterns, we hitched a dozen or so boats together and played more music, laughing and talking until midnight.
We looked forward to the weekly square-dance. Everyone was there and we hoped to be in some formation or to dosie-doe even for a second with one of the handsome young boys. Bev and I would return home by boat, and though summer, huddle under blankets and freeze on the ride back. There were canoe races (came in 3rd) and sailboat races (dead last, capsized), water skiing (could NOT get the hang of dropping a ski) and swims from one island to another (amazing how gullible I was to shrieks of “Shark!”). Great memories.
We did cook. Breakfasts, lunches, dinners. We made and ate what Buzza and his family liked. I had grits for the first time and blueberries with heavy cream. We learned to bake “Butter Tarts,” a favorite of the town. The family’s grown children and grandchildren visited while we were there and were all gracious to me and Bev. It was a wonderful experience. I did not return until years later, married, and a guest of one of the wealthy vacationers. It was fun to revisit the lake and town. I was no longer a part of the younger culture and at that time it was OK. If I could go back in time, though, it would be to that summer when I was fifteen.
We weren’t asked back. Maybe the couple got too old or didn’t go back for a few summers. I doubt it. They probably found better cooks. Or it could have been because we almost burned their house down with a kitchen fire. Bev and I made some great chicken, but that night one of us forgot to turn off the broiler, and the other returned the pan full of meat drippings into the oven and closed the door. Halfway into the meal Buzza’s wife jumped up, eyes wide with fear and shouted, “OK, Buzza!!” We all turned to see smoke billowing from the kitchen. Buzza grabbed a fire extinguisher and gallantly put out the flames while we rushed in to save things. Luckily, the only thing lost was the stove. It could have been worse. Bev and I were in the doghouse for only a brief time before we were allowed back in. Our employers were gracious Southerners, forgiving Christians.
When we were homesick or just needed to be mothered and cooked for, we boated across the lake. Osa was the cook for one of the oldest vacationers. Slightly stooped but full of spice and energy, Osa took care of us. She could really cook. We loved her lasagna and her butter tarts. I’ll include the recipes below. Maybe someday we’ll return to Magnetawan. I’ll bet it’ll still be magical. But I think most of the magic will be sparkling in my eyes as I remember that summer.
 |
| Coming in third, me in center |
 |
| Me in Magnetawan. Uh, I think Bev wasn't aiming at me. |
Osa's Lasagna
2 Tb. Olive oil
1 lb. lean ground round
4 c. tomato sauce
4 Tb. chopped Italian parsley
3 ½ c. ricotta cheese
1 c. chopped spinach, cooked & well-drained
¼ c. grated parmesan cheese
1 Tb. oregano
¾ tsp. nutmeg
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
8 lasagna noodles, cooked
3 c. shredded low fat mozzarella
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Heat olive oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add ground beef. Cook 5 minutes. Remove from heat and drain oil. Add tomato sauce and 2 Tb. of the parsley.
In a bowl, mix ricotta, spinach, parmesan, remaining 2 Tb. Parsley, oregano, nutmeg and pepper. Place 2 c. tomato meat sauce in the bottom of a 9x13 inch baking dish. Place 4 lasagna noodles on top, then ½ the ricotta mixture, then 1 c. mozzarella. Repeat layers once more. Top with remaining sauce and 1 c. cheese.
Cover loosely with aluminum foil. Place dish on cookie sheet and bake for about 45 minutes. Remove foil and bake another 15-20 minutes. Remove from oven and let rest 10-15 minutes before serving. Makes about 8 servings.
Osa's Butter Tarts
2 c. brown sugar
2 Tb. Butter
2 tsp. vanilla
2 eggs
piecrust dough (bought or favorite recipe)
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Mix all ingredients with an electric mixer until very smooth. Roll out piecrust dough and cut a dozen 4 to 5 inch circles with a bowl. Press each circle into 12 muffin tins. Pour brown sugar mixture evenly into tins. Bake until pastry is done and tarts are browned and bubbly.
I hope you’ll get the chance to try these. I hope you’ll get the chance to visit Magnetawan someday. You'll be blessed.
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Suffering and Real Love
I mentioned in a previous post the documentary “The Human Experience." I was thinking about the film as I was moaning about some ache or pain which was real and annoying but in the scheme of things, minor. Why do I let things like that bother me so? I cannot imagine the real suffering that some endure. An article was written about our Mary Pat in the National Catholic Register by Laurie Ghigliotti, dated December 19, 2010. We suffered over her disabilities when she was born, and for months if not years after. But there was always a knowledge--a reality--of God’s presence with us. I am sorry that some do not know the peace that He gives at times like that. Mary Pat is a miracle and a gift beyond measure. I know that others suffer worse...and have no beautiful Mary Pat to hold or to smile at them. Is their suffering in vain?
Whomever Jesus is in your belief system, He is a well documented historical figure and what He said is cross-referenced and supported through history. Jesus taught us to go beyond ourselves and love others despite inconvenience and our own suffering. I remember when I was a little girl, hearing in church “It is better to give than to receive,” and “No greater love hath man than this, to lay down his life for a friend.” Jesus gave all that He had, down to the last centimeter of flesh and the last drop of blood. His suffering was endured even for people who wouldn’t know Him or love Him or acknowledge Him, yet He willingly died. “God forgive them, for they know not what they do.” He could still love them, and die for them. For us.
We all get wrapped up in ourselves. Me, to a fault. I’m thankful for God’s forgiveness and reconciliation, and for new beginnings. A beautiful Christian friend visited a few weeks ago. Nadija glows. She is so full of joy. Her life has had plenty of suffering, but she loves God and she loves every human being. She said, “I’m not trying to be as good as someone else. I’m trying to love like Jesus showed me.”
A loving Creator wouldn’t set a ball in motion and sit back to see what happened. He also wouldn’t manipulate every detail in a robotic type world. He would create us with free will and love us more deeply than we love our children. He would come to the Earth as a little baby and experience all there is to be human. He would create us with free will, but would pay the ultimate price for it. He would be overjoyed with every bit of love returned, every example of love modeled and with every reconciliation. Through His Resurrection He would make it possible for us to be with Him forever.
So I’ll keep returning to Him. When I have the days where I’m so wrapped up in me I’ll strive to pray for others. I’ll make my way clumsily, eventually and ardently back to Him, to the source of me, of us all.
I pray that you always have hope and that you know His love.
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Whomever Jesus is in your belief system, He is a well documented historical figure and what He said is cross-referenced and supported through history. Jesus taught us to go beyond ourselves and love others despite inconvenience and our own suffering. I remember when I was a little girl, hearing in church “It is better to give than to receive,” and “No greater love hath man than this, to lay down his life for a friend.” Jesus gave all that He had, down to the last centimeter of flesh and the last drop of blood. His suffering was endured even for people who wouldn’t know Him or love Him or acknowledge Him, yet He willingly died. “God forgive them, for they know not what they do.” He could still love them, and die for them. For us.
We all get wrapped up in ourselves. Me, to a fault. I’m thankful for God’s forgiveness and reconciliation, and for new beginnings. A beautiful Christian friend visited a few weeks ago. Nadija glows. She is so full of joy. Her life has had plenty of suffering, but she loves God and she loves every human being. She said, “I’m not trying to be as good as someone else. I’m trying to love like Jesus showed me.”
A loving Creator wouldn’t set a ball in motion and sit back to see what happened. He also wouldn’t manipulate every detail in a robotic type world. He would create us with free will and love us more deeply than we love our children. He would come to the Earth as a little baby and experience all there is to be human. He would create us with free will, but would pay the ultimate price for it. He would be overjoyed with every bit of love returned, every example of love modeled and with every reconciliation. Through His Resurrection He would make it possible for us to be with Him forever.
So I’ll keep returning to Him. When I have the days where I’m so wrapped up in me I’ll strive to pray for others. I’ll make my way clumsily, eventually and ardently back to Him, to the source of me, of us all.
I pray that you always have hope and that you know His love.
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Friday, December 17, 2010
Mrs. Bennett
Matchmaker. Idealist. In love with love. The girls accuse me of being a Mrs. Bennett. “Oh, Mom!” I hear a lot. I’m not as bad as the Mom in Pride and Prejudice--not as giddy and ditzy. I like her character, though, and the relationship with her husband. In the newest motion picture, I love the scene that pans the outside of the old house, peering in through the windows lit with candles, allowing us to see the private moments of the family and the love of the parents. Mrs. Bennett is goofy, but she is adored by her husband. She wants that happiness for her girls. It’s not that she wants them out of the house. She treasures every moment they have been there. Because she is so in love with her husband, she wants the same for her daughters: to be honored and treasured and loved. I think my daughters get a kick out of my hopes for them. My Mom was like that with me. I understand it now.
I’m going to be a Mother–In-Law and I quite like it. Emily was engaged this week. She and Jason have been dating for a couple of years now and we can see how much they adore each other. Emily has been my stepdaughter for ten years, but I have never thought of her as anything but my daughter. She was barely a teen when Bruce and I married. I loved her from the moment I loved Bruce. It is beautiful to see the woman she has become. We are very proud, and hopeful for a wonderful future for them.
I have five more daughters, and so I will continue to act a little Mrs. Bennett-y. It is fun. I may still worry. There are heartaches and difficulties in life and we cannot protect them from all of them. I do pray that they will have an easier time than I did, but I feel extremely blessed to have lived through challenges, by the grace of God, and to be Bruce’s wife. I pray for that kind of love for them.
My favorite scene of Pride and Prejudice is of Mr. Darcy coming through the dawn mist. Requited love! I want that for my daughters, but more importantly, I pray that they will first feel the awesome love of God, the intimate relationship with Jesus and the presence of the Holy Spirit. That they will love all of God’s creation and know that only man was made in God’s image. We are responsible for the care of the Earth and for the upholding of the sanctity of human life. We will, in heaven, love our neighbor more than we ever loved our spouse or our children while on Earth. That is pretty heavy to contemplate. But we don’t have to wait to love as Christ loved.
I pray that you know His love,
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Thursday, December 16, 2010
A Heartfelt Prayer
For our busy days and our moments when we are unsure of direction, a prayer from Bruce's Bible Study this morning (thanks, Eric!):
Lord, today I let go of my expectations and accept what is and isn't in my life. I accept all that You choose to send and to bloom where You have planted me. Forgive my foolish desires and wants. Help me to accept the life You have given me and if I find my corner of the world a bit dark help me to become a light for it. To shine for You and live my life pleasing to You. That is all that matters. Amen
God bless you,
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Lord, today I let go of my expectations and accept what is and isn't in my life. I accept all that You choose to send and to bloom where You have planted me. Forgive my foolish desires and wants. Help me to accept the life You have given me and if I find my corner of the world a bit dark help me to become a light for it. To shine for You and live my life pleasing to You. That is all that matters. Amen
God bless you,
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Foxhunting and Safety
For many years I worked at a boarding school for girls. Faculty and staff were expected to wear many “hats.” A teacher or administrator might also be a dorm parent, a coach, or the head of a club. My favorite hat was being in charge of foxhunting. There was a beautiful stable and riding facilities at the school. Some girls even brought their horses with them. Not all of the riders had ever foxhunted, so it was my job to teach them about foxhunting etiquette and to be sure they were ready and safe on the field.
Horse people know about early mornings. If an event started at 7 or 8am, we not only had to be up in enough time to get there, but also to get the horses ready. It wasn’t out of the ordinary to ask the girls to meet me at the barn at 4:30am. They were so excited that no one was ever late. Despite cold temperatures, rain, darkness or snow, we were not deterred.
Entering a barn at that time of the morning had an ethereal quality. The horses were asleep in their stalls, steam rising from their breath. The light was switched on and their eyes would blink questioningly with long-lashes. They’d stretch out their front legs and waft up on all fours, shake the straw off their bodies and walk over to their stall doors. Horses say hello by breathing into each other’s nostrils. We imitated this with them. The feed and hay and grass gave them a sweet, earthy breath. Saying hello in this manner invited a smooth rub on your cheek from a luxuriously soft muzzle.
The girls arrived and the quiet was shattered. The nervous giggling and chatter of the events of the night before would wake up the last of the horses, and the nickering for breakfast would begin. They were fed, tack was placed in the trailer, and horses were loaded. Safety was paramount. These 1000lb-plus creatures had to be maneuvered around each other, backed into narrow slots and secured with chest bars and halter ties.
I had driven horse trailers for years, but this gooseneck, six horse model, pulled with a diesel dually pick-up was challenging. Only once was there a problem. On a very muddy day we had to be pulled out of a valley by an old Ford 8N tractor. I learned, then, to scope out our destinations beforehand. I admit that I rarely wanted to back it up. Even the McDonald’s parking lot became negotiable; we were hungry after hours galloping and jumping fences. We had one horse, Hercules, who loved to stick out his long soft tongue and flap it at people. We came out of the McDonald’s after one hunt to see him with his head sticking out of the trailer window, performing for a group of laughing people.
I’m at the age now where the memories of past experiences are very satisfying. I feel blessed to have lived through what I did, and thankful that I was kept safe despite my mistakes. I watched an episode of “Star Trek Next Generation” where the main character, Captain Jean Luc Picard, was given a chance by an immortal, omnipotent being named “Q” to change an event in his past which caused a terrible injury. Assured that major events in history would not be altered and no one would be hurt by his change, Jean Luc agreed to it. He changed a key event and stopped himself from being a cocky, arrogant young man. Later, we find that “Q” has not been completely honest. When zipped back to the future, Jean Luc is no longer Captain of the Enterprise, but a science officer who has “played it safe” his whole career. At 50 he has no chance of a command. I disagree with the show on the point made that it was essential that Jean Luc make his mistakes. The show could very well have ended with a alternate positive outcome. It is not good to be cocky and to make trouble, to do wrong and to sin. But we are human and we will make mistakes, and we will need to deal with the consequences.
We should strive to do what is right. We do need to consider safety and not be fools who rush in, disregarding all warning signs and wisdom of previous generations. I’ve heard some parents refer to their teens’ poor choices: “Well, look what we used to do!”, or “I did it, I guess it’s inevitable that he will, too!” Poppycock. Our mistakes may have contributed to who we are, but they should compel us to protect our children from making the same ones. Their futures have not been written. They can be saved the major mistakes that we made and be much better for it.
I am thankful for all of the wonderful experiences of my life. I regret the mistakes I‘ve made and I will strive to scope out where I need to travel, or park my trailer. I may still need a Ford 8N from time to time. But I hope to call a spade a spade and to ask forgiveness of anyone I’ve offended, and from God. There is no “Q” or “Ghost of Christmas Past,” or “Clarence,” perhaps, but we can be entertained and moved by the stories, discern any nuggets of wisdom, and mend our ways.
Here’s to your safety and wisdom and blessings,
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Hospital Day
At the hospital longer than we thought. Good stuff for Mary Pat. She saw her doctor, had a flu shot and an X-ray, met the man who helped us with her wheelchair and walker, and had her ankle braces adjusted. She was an exemplary patient!
Last night I made the third recipe I shared in yesterday's post. It looked the most complicated but it's not. I tripled it and pressed it into a rimmed cookie sheet. Bobby, our foreign exchange student, walked into the family room and said, "What is this? This is, like, the best thing I have eaten in my entire life! It melts in my mouth!"
On the way home now. Thankful for all our blessings, and the little shortbread
moments, too.
God bless you,
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Last night I made the third recipe I shared in yesterday's post. It looked the most complicated but it's not. I tripled it and pressed it into a rimmed cookie sheet. Bobby, our foreign exchange student, walked into the family room and said, "What is this? This is, like, the best thing I have eaten in my entire life! It melts in my mouth!"
On the way home now. Thankful for all our blessings, and the little shortbread
moments, too.
God bless you,
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Monday, December 13, 2010
Shortbread and Tortoises
Guests tonight! What to fix? It’s Bruce’s class and it’s after dinner, so that means cookies of some sort, easily passed, no utensils or mess. By this time I usually have tins of Christmas cookies put up. But there are none. The boys are eating a lot more than they used to. I could make a batch of Toll House Cookies every day and there wouldn’t be a crumb left. Our foreign exchange student has a high Asian metabolism and is trying to bulk up with weight lifting; he could take an IV infusion of cookies, no problem.
I still have my Christmas baking lists from 1987. It was quite a tradition. I usually baked about 10-20 varieties and gave them as gifts. My parents did that when I was a child. My Dad baked, too. He was a Renaissance man. He played for the Cincinnati Reds in the 50’s. It was a brief career, prematurely ended with a hook slide into 2nd base and a shattered ankle. He went into banking, but he continued to paint and cook and bake. My Grandfather taught him how to butcher meat, too. I can remember “helping” him with my butter knife. He’d buy a huge portion of a side of beef and process it for Mom’s freezer. I got to play and pretend with the fat. Fun! Mom and Dad canned sauerkraut and ketchup and the vegetables that grew in the garden. They even knew how to reupholster their own furniture. To have those skills!
I can bake. So…I think it’ll be shortbread. That was one of Dad’s favorites. He used the recipe from Betty Crocker, which is serviceable. I like to try others, though. When I was 21 I backpacked through the UK for a month. In Edinburgh I picked up a great shortbread recipe. Jean Torrence was an elderly friend. I was supposed to stop and meet her, then continue into the Highlands. Jean was so special, and Edinburgh so interesting that I never made it further north. Edinburgh is gorgeous. Jean had a beautiful walled garden and her pets were two large tortoises. She called them in a high, crackly voice, “Tor-toys!” and they would come running. Well. They looked enthusiastic. They liked her shortbread, and so did I. I’ll give you her recipe, but I’ll give you Dad’s, too. Bon Appetite!
4 ounces each of:
Butter
Margarine
Self-Rising Flour
Plain Flour
Caster Sugar ("Superfine" works well)
Corn flour (I used corn starch not knowing what the American equivalent was...maybe Masa Harina. I tried cornmeal and it was way wrong!)
"Rub fat into dry ingredients. Cook in sandwich tin just below centre of slow oven for about one hour. Cool a little, then cut into pieces and sprinkle with sugar."
I didn’t know what a sandwich tin was so I baked it in one of those neat stoneware shortbread molds. A “slow oven” is about 250 to 300 degrees. 4 ounces are roughly ½ cup. Have fun trying the recipe, but if you prefer something more surefire:
¾ c. butter
¼ c. sugar
2 c. all-purpose flour
Mix butter and sugar thoroughly. Work in flour with hands. Chill dough. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Roll dough 1/3’ thick. Dad used small geometric and Christmas cookie cutters about 1-2” wide. Sprinkle with colored sugar for Christmas or decorate with fancy sprinkles. Bake about 15 minutes until just golden around edges and on bottoms only. Makes about 2 dozen cookies.
Oh, I can’t help it. One more. I like this recipe from a cookbook called “Better Than Store Bought,” from 1979 by Witty and Colchie and published by Harper & Row. It’s a fun cookbook. I don’t know if it is still in print.
1 ½ sticks unsalted butter, at room temperature
¼ c. plus 1 ½ Tb superfine sugar
1 ½ c. all-purpose flour
¼ c. cornstarch (I’ve also substituted rice flour…gives it a slightly crumblier texture)
1/8 tsp. salt (Omit if using regular, salted butter)
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. In the small bowl of an electric mixer, cream the butter until it is light. Add the ¼ c. sugar and beat until pale. Combine flour, cornstarch and salt in a separate bowl, then with mixer on low speed, add the dry ingredients into the butter mixture. Beat just until the mixture forms small, crumbly particles (I actually do this step by hand). Do not try to make a smooth mass.
Press the mixture firmly into a 9 ½ inch fluted tart pan that has a removable bottom (I’ve used the stoneware, a 9X9’ square pan, and have baked it freeform in a circle on a cookie sheet). Press with the tines of a fork around the edge to make a regular design, then sprinkle the surface with the remaining 1 ½ Tb. sugar. Cut the shortbread into 12 even wedges, using a very sharp, thin knife and cutting all the way through to the pan. With a skewer or some other rounded, pointed instrument, make several deep holes in each wedge.
Bake for 30-35 minutes, or until it is just barely colored an ivory-beige. Do not let it brown. Cool for 10 minutes. Remove the rim of the pan, but keep the bottom under the shortbread and cool it completely on a rack. When cooled, cut through the wedge markings again, divide into pieces, and store in an airtight tin.
I usually double or triple the recipe and press it into a rimmed cookie sheet (no removable bottom). I set the oven about 25 degrees lower and I don’t score the shortbread before baking. I do make fork tine pokes with the plan of cutting the shortbread into squares or fingers…kind of like “Walker’s” brand.
Guess I should get baking. I’ll tell you which I baked and how it turned out, tomorrow!
God bless you,
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
I still have my Christmas baking lists from 1987. It was quite a tradition. I usually baked about 10-20 varieties and gave them as gifts. My parents did that when I was a child. My Dad baked, too. He was a Renaissance man. He played for the Cincinnati Reds in the 50’s. It was a brief career, prematurely ended with a hook slide into 2nd base and a shattered ankle. He went into banking, but he continued to paint and cook and bake. My Grandfather taught him how to butcher meat, too. I can remember “helping” him with my butter knife. He’d buy a huge portion of a side of beef and process it for Mom’s freezer. I got to play and pretend with the fat. Fun! Mom and Dad canned sauerkraut and ketchup and the vegetables that grew in the garden. They even knew how to reupholster their own furniture. To have those skills!
I can bake. So…I think it’ll be shortbread. That was one of Dad’s favorites. He used the recipe from Betty Crocker, which is serviceable. I like to try others, though. When I was 21 I backpacked through the UK for a month. In Edinburgh I picked up a great shortbread recipe. Jean Torrence was an elderly friend. I was supposed to stop and meet her, then continue into the Highlands. Jean was so special, and Edinburgh so interesting that I never made it further north. Edinburgh is gorgeous. Jean had a beautiful walled garden and her pets were two large tortoises. She called them in a high, crackly voice, “Tor-toys!” and they would come running. Well. They looked enthusiastic. They liked her shortbread, and so did I. I’ll give you her recipe, but I’ll give you Dad’s, too. Bon Appetite!
Jean’s Scottish Shortbread
Butter
Margarine
Self-Rising Flour
Plain Flour
Caster Sugar ("Superfine" works well)
Corn flour (I used corn starch not knowing what the American equivalent was...maybe Masa Harina. I tried cornmeal and it was way wrong!)
"Rub fat into dry ingredients. Cook in sandwich tin just below centre of slow oven for about one hour. Cool a little, then cut into pieces and sprinkle with sugar."
I didn’t know what a sandwich tin was so I baked it in one of those neat stoneware shortbread molds. A “slow oven” is about 250 to 300 degrees. 4 ounces are roughly ½ cup. Have fun trying the recipe, but if you prefer something more surefire:
Arnie’s Scotch Shortbread
¼ c. sugar
2 c. all-purpose flour
Mix butter and sugar thoroughly. Work in flour with hands. Chill dough. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Roll dough 1/3’ thick. Dad used small geometric and Christmas cookie cutters about 1-2” wide. Sprinkle with colored sugar for Christmas or decorate with fancy sprinkles. Bake about 15 minutes until just golden around edges and on bottoms only. Makes about 2 dozen cookies.
Oh, I can’t help it. One more. I like this recipe from a cookbook called “Better Than Store Bought,” from 1979 by Witty and Colchie and published by Harper & Row. It’s a fun cookbook. I don’t know if it is still in print.
Shortbread
¼ c. plus 1 ½ Tb superfine sugar
1 ½ c. all-purpose flour
¼ c. cornstarch (I’ve also substituted rice flour…gives it a slightly crumblier texture)
1/8 tsp. salt (Omit if using regular, salted butter)
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. In the small bowl of an electric mixer, cream the butter until it is light. Add the ¼ c. sugar and beat until pale. Combine flour, cornstarch and salt in a separate bowl, then with mixer on low speed, add the dry ingredients into the butter mixture. Beat just until the mixture forms small, crumbly particles (I actually do this step by hand). Do not try to make a smooth mass.
Press the mixture firmly into a 9 ½ inch fluted tart pan that has a removable bottom (I’ve used the stoneware, a 9X9’ square pan, and have baked it freeform in a circle on a cookie sheet). Press with the tines of a fork around the edge to make a regular design, then sprinkle the surface with the remaining 1 ½ Tb. sugar. Cut the shortbread into 12 even wedges, using a very sharp, thin knife and cutting all the way through to the pan. With a skewer or some other rounded, pointed instrument, make several deep holes in each wedge.
Bake for 30-35 minutes, or until it is just barely colored an ivory-beige. Do not let it brown. Cool for 10 minutes. Remove the rim of the pan, but keep the bottom under the shortbread and cool it completely on a rack. When cooled, cut through the wedge markings again, divide into pieces, and store in an airtight tin.
I usually double or triple the recipe and press it into a rimmed cookie sheet (no removable bottom). I set the oven about 25 degrees lower and I don’t score the shortbread before baking. I do make fork tine pokes with the plan of cutting the shortbread into squares or fingers…kind of like “Walker’s” brand.
Guess I should get baking. I’ll tell you which I baked and how it turned out, tomorrow!
God bless you,
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Rejoice
There are children everywhere in our house today (that is, more than usual). Teens on Wii and teens playing “Settlers of Catan.” In the morning, a quadruple recipe of pancakes after a huge sleepover, the car stuffed like a sardine can on the way to church. Later, the happy sounds of toddlers on the floor with trains, and schoolboys with Legos. It is the third Sunday in Advent, Gaudete Sunday. Gaudete…"Rejoice!"
Edith Stein was a Jewish woman who lived in Germany in the early 1900’s. She became a Catholic and then a nun: St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross. She died at Auschwitz in 1942. She truly loved souls. She wrote that, whether we have children or not, when we are open to life in a spiritual sense, we beget life by inspiring others in love and faith.
I have recently reconnected with a friend from High School. She was in a terrible car accident in our senior year and was disabled. She still has pain. She marvels at her path toward Christ and is openly thankful for His mercy. Her messages of hope and encouragement and love on her Facebook page are beautiful and inspirational. She truly loves God’s creation, His plan, and His souls. She has such joy.
Last year I saw a documentary called “The Human Experience.“ The filmmakers, two young men, traveled around the world to some of the saddest of places: a leper colony in Africa, an orphanage in South America, the streets of New York where the homeless sleep in cardboard boxes on freezing nights. They wanted to know what kept these people going. What they found was remarkable. The movie is now out on DVD. It is beautiful.
We are all here on this Earth, but living in many different circumstances. I pray for joy wherever you are. For love, hope, acceptance, and faith. Gaudete!
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Edith Stein was a Jewish woman who lived in Germany in the early 1900’s. She became a Catholic and then a nun: St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross. She died at Auschwitz in 1942. She truly loved souls. She wrote that, whether we have children or not, when we are open to life in a spiritual sense, we beget life by inspiring others in love and faith.
I have recently reconnected with a friend from High School. She was in a terrible car accident in our senior year and was disabled. She still has pain. She marvels at her path toward Christ and is openly thankful for His mercy. Her messages of hope and encouragement and love on her Facebook page are beautiful and inspirational. She truly loves God’s creation, His plan, and His souls. She has such joy.
Last year I saw a documentary called “The Human Experience.“ The filmmakers, two young men, traveled around the world to some of the saddest of places: a leper colony in Africa, an orphanage in South America, the streets of New York where the homeless sleep in cardboard boxes on freezing nights. They wanted to know what kept these people going. What they found was remarkable. The movie is now out on DVD. It is beautiful.
We are all here on this Earth, but living in many different circumstances. I pray for joy wherever you are. For love, hope, acceptance, and faith. Gaudete!
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Saturday, December 11, 2010
White Bread Roots
My Grandmother Susanna had a sister named Katherine. They were very close. The sisters lived near each other after they were married. Above is a picture of them before they came to America. Katherine (Tante Klein, as we called her) is on the left and Susanna is on the right. Below is the bread I mentioned yesterday. Grandma baked it every few days. My mother baked it once or twice a month. I have a written recipe, in Katherine’s hand. The instructions are cryptic and interspersed with German, so I elaborate below, especially for first time bread bakers.
Tante Klein's White Bread
3 c. very warm water (about 110 degrees Fahrenheit)
¼ c. vegetable shortening (I use canola oil)
4 ½ tsp. yeast (2 envelopes)
1 tsp. sugar
1 Tb. salt
6-8 c. all-purpose flour (I love “King Arthur” brand, but it is more expensive. Try to used unbleached flour. Bread flour is fine, too)
Preheat oven to the lowest possible setting (usually 180 degrees Fahrenheit) , and as soon as it reaches that temperature, turn off the oven. Check the temperature of the 3 c. warm water by dropping a little on your wrist. It should feel very warm but not hot. Warm a 1 c. glass measuring cup and a large bowl by holding them under a warm faucet. Put ½ cup of the very warm water into the 1c. glass measure and the rest into the bowl. To the glass measure add the yeast and the sugar. Stir to start it dissolving. Let it sit for about 5 minutes. The yeast will proof (rise) and it should be very bubbly and approaching the top of the measure.
To the bowl, add the shortening/oil, 2 c. of the flour and the salt. Stir well with a wooden spoon. Once the yeast mixture is bubbly add it to the bowl. Stir well. Continue stirring, adding a cup of flour at a time until the dough leaves the side of the bowl. It will go from being sticky to just moist. At this point, turn the dough out onto a floured counter or surface. Knead the dough for 5 to 10 minutes by folding the dough in half toward you, and then pushing it flat and away from you with the heel of your hand. Turn it a quarter turn and repeat. When you have kneaded the dough for 5 to 10 minutes it will feel very soft and more pliable. Small broken blisters will appear on the surface. At this point, oil the bowl that the dough was first mixed in and place the dough back into it. Turn the dough over once to coat with oil. Cover loosely with plastic wrap or a damp tea towel and place in the warmed oven. If the rack still feels hot, place the bowl on top of a cookie sheet or potholder. Too much heat will cause the yeast to stop rising and will dry the dough.
After about 1 ½ hours the dough should have doubled in bulk. Take the bowl from the oven and remove the covering. Punch firmly with your fist into the center of the risen dough. Kids love this part. The dough will deflate. Give the dough a couple squeezes to get more air out and let the dough rest on the floured surface for about 5 minutes. Knead the dough again for about a minute, then divide into three equal parts with a knife. Knead each part separately a few times and then flatten it into a rectangle about 8” x 10“. Roll the dough up, from the short side and pinch the ends and seam closed. Repeat with the other two loaves and place into greased loaf tins (4'x8"). Once again, cover loosely with plastic wrap or a damp tea towel and place on top of the oven for about ½ hour. In the meantime, preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. When the dough has risen above the level of the pans, place pans in preheated oven. If you like a crusty top you could brush the surfaces with a little water before baking. If you like a softer crust, brush lightly with milk or oil or butter. I prefer it crusty like my Mom and Grandma made it. Bake for about 30-40 minutes until golden brown on top and when it sounds hollow when you lightly knock on the top of the loaf.
Remove from the oven and cool in pans for 5 minutes on cooling rack. Then turn out the loaves by rapping the side of the pans sharply as you turn the loaves out onto the rack or towel covered counter to cool. I like to let them rest on their sides while cooling. The bread can be eaten after it cools about 15 minutes. Cut with a serrated or bread knife. I like it best the next day, toasted with butter! My daughter Susanna (whose birthday is today!) loves this bread. It can also be baked into little freeform rolls (her favorite). Shape lemon-sized portions of the dough into little mini-loaves and place seam side down on a cookie sheet. Place them a few inches from each other to allow for rising. Rise as for the loaves, and bake, but only for about 20 minutes. They are done when golden brown.
Happy Birthday to Susanna!
God Bless you today,
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Katherine at far left, Susanna at far right
Friday, December 10, 2010
Mawdash Soup
My Maternal Grandmother was from Europe. Susanna Elizabeth came over in her teens after her family’s lands were seized in the Crimean War. They had to start again in America. It was a bit of a shock to her Catholic family that she would fall in love with Joseph. He was a Protestant and a Butcher. Their love flourished, though, and they married and had nine children. Tragically, her first son died when he was seven and her first daughter when she was only months old. Life was so much harder then. When I was a child, I could not imagine what my Grandma and Grandpa suffered, but now as a mother of ten, my heart breaks. Though some cannot understand loving so many children, it is so easy. One child of ten is loved as much as an only child or a child of two or three. My mother was the second youngest of the seven who lived. Grandpa made a good living as a Butcher during the Depression and the children were well fed and very, very loved.
Grandma baked bread every few days. She cooked wonderful German and Hungarian meals. Very little was written down. When she would teach us, it was all by memory. Sometimes I would try to write things down, but her measurements were in “teacupfuls’ and ‘soupspoonfuls,“ balls the size of “walnuts,” and the like. We had many favorites. I recently made the recipe I’ll share here. My brothers and some friends asked for the recipe, so here it is. I never wrote it down, so bear with me about measurements and descriptions. Soup is very forgiving and is one of my favorite things to make. Go ahead and adapt it to your own liking. You can even leave out the beef dumplings...but then, it won’t be Grandma’s wonderful “Mawdash” Soup!
Serves 6-8
2 lb. boneless roast, nothing too expensive or fatty
3 Tb. oil (I use canola or olive)
2 onions, chopped coarsely
2 carrots, peeled and sliced into coins
1 ½ to 2 lb bag frozen mixed vegetables (use what you like)
1 lg. can diced tomatoes
1 lb. ground beef
2 c. all purpose flour
3 eggs
2 slices white bread
Salt and pepper
2-4 beef bouillon cubes, optional
Cut beef into bite-sized cubes. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Heat 3 Tb. oil in a large soup pot or Dutch oven on med-high and brown the beef on all sides. Turn off heat. Add the chopped onions and can of tomatoes, juice and all. Add about 2 quarts of water. Bring to just a boil over med-high heat, then reduce heat and simmer two hours. Stir occasionally to prevent burning, and skim any fat that comes to the top.
While the soup is simmering, prepare the dumplings. Mix the ground beef in a bowl with about a teaspoon of salt and ¼ teaspoon of pepper. Add one egg and the sliced bread which has been moistened with a little water, and torn into small pieces. Mix well and make into mini-hamburgers, about the size of flattened golf balls.
Prepare the dumpling dough: In a medium bowl, put the flour and a teaspoon of salt. Mix, and make a well in the center, sort of like a volcano. Crack the 2 eggs into the well and add about ¼ cup of water. With a fork, beat the eggs and water (imagining that the flour is the bowl). When the eggs are well broken up, start to make your stirring strokes a little wider and wider, gradually incorporating the flour into the eggs. Add small amounts of water to keep the dough from becoming too stiff. This dough will start out sticky and wet and will look like it is almost stringy and clinging to the bowl. Beat hard. This stretches the gluten in the flour. Finally, add a bit more flour until the dough is a consistency that could be rolled out. It will pull away now from the sides of the bowl. Let the dough rest about 5 minutes. The gluten in the flour will relax and it will roll better. Sprinkle some flour liberally on the counter or flat surface and your rolling pin. Roll out the dough until it is about 1/8” thick. Let rest again for a minute. Roll a final once over, then cut with a knife or pizza cutter into about 3” squares. Place a flattened beef ball on the center of each square. Pull the corners of the dough up and over the beef, pressing at the center and sides to seal the beef within the dough. Set dumplings aside.
After the broth has simmered 2 hours, taste it. If there is not enough beef flavor, I add 2-4 cubes of beef bouillon. If it is beefy but needs salt, I add that. If you have some favorite herbs or garlic, you could add them to taste. Increase the heat and bring the soup to a gentle boil. Add the carrots and the frozen vegetables. After the boil returns, adjust the heat so that it boils only very gently for about 15 minutes, until carrots are beginning to get tender. Now increase the heat a bit more. Carefully add all of the dumplings. When the boiling returns watch to keep it just barely boiling. The dumplings are finished when they float a little higher in the soup and you cut into one and the meat is well-done.
The soup is ready to eat! Be sure each person gets a dumpling. Complete the meal with a crusty loaf of bread. It really is delicious! Tante Klein’s White Bread recipe next time! Prost!!
God Bless you all,
Suzy
P.S. I have no idea what "Mawdash" means. Maybe it's the name for the dumplings?
The Abbey Farm
Grandma baked bread every few days. She cooked wonderful German and Hungarian meals. Very little was written down. When she would teach us, it was all by memory. Sometimes I would try to write things down, but her measurements were in “teacupfuls’ and ‘soupspoonfuls,“ balls the size of “walnuts,” and the like. We had many favorites. I recently made the recipe I’ll share here. My brothers and some friends asked for the recipe, so here it is. I never wrote it down, so bear with me about measurements and descriptions. Soup is very forgiving and is one of my favorite things to make. Go ahead and adapt it to your own liking. You can even leave out the beef dumplings...but then, it won’t be Grandma’s wonderful “Mawdash” Soup!
“Mawdash” Soup
Austro-Hungarian Beef Soup with Beef Dumplings
Serves 6-8
2 lb. boneless roast, nothing too expensive or fatty
3 Tb. oil (I use canola or olive)
2 onions, chopped coarsely
2 carrots, peeled and sliced into coins
1 ½ to 2 lb bag frozen mixed vegetables (use what you like)
1 lg. can diced tomatoes
1 lb. ground beef
2 c. all purpose flour
3 eggs
2 slices white bread
Salt and pepper
2-4 beef bouillon cubes, optional
Cut beef into bite-sized cubes. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Heat 3 Tb. oil in a large soup pot or Dutch oven on med-high and brown the beef on all sides. Turn off heat. Add the chopped onions and can of tomatoes, juice and all. Add about 2 quarts of water. Bring to just a boil over med-high heat, then reduce heat and simmer two hours. Stir occasionally to prevent burning, and skim any fat that comes to the top.
While the soup is simmering, prepare the dumplings. Mix the ground beef in a bowl with about a teaspoon of salt and ¼ teaspoon of pepper. Add one egg and the sliced bread which has been moistened with a little water, and torn into small pieces. Mix well and make into mini-hamburgers, about the size of flattened golf balls.
Prepare the dumpling dough: In a medium bowl, put the flour and a teaspoon of salt. Mix, and make a well in the center, sort of like a volcano. Crack the 2 eggs into the well and add about ¼ cup of water. With a fork, beat the eggs and water (imagining that the flour is the bowl). When the eggs are well broken up, start to make your stirring strokes a little wider and wider, gradually incorporating the flour into the eggs. Add small amounts of water to keep the dough from becoming too stiff. This dough will start out sticky and wet and will look like it is almost stringy and clinging to the bowl. Beat hard. This stretches the gluten in the flour. Finally, add a bit more flour until the dough is a consistency that could be rolled out. It will pull away now from the sides of the bowl. Let the dough rest about 5 minutes. The gluten in the flour will relax and it will roll better. Sprinkle some flour liberally on the counter or flat surface and your rolling pin. Roll out the dough until it is about 1/8” thick. Let rest again for a minute. Roll a final once over, then cut with a knife or pizza cutter into about 3” squares. Place a flattened beef ball on the center of each square. Pull the corners of the dough up and over the beef, pressing at the center and sides to seal the beef within the dough. Set dumplings aside.
After the broth has simmered 2 hours, taste it. If there is not enough beef flavor, I add 2-4 cubes of beef bouillon. If it is beefy but needs salt, I add that. If you have some favorite herbs or garlic, you could add them to taste. Increase the heat and bring the soup to a gentle boil. Add the carrots and the frozen vegetables. After the boil returns, adjust the heat so that it boils only very gently for about 15 minutes, until carrots are beginning to get tender. Now increase the heat a bit more. Carefully add all of the dumplings. When the boiling returns watch to keep it just barely boiling. The dumplings are finished when they float a little higher in the soup and you cut into one and the meat is well-done.
The soup is ready to eat! Be sure each person gets a dumpling. Complete the meal with a crusty loaf of bread. It really is delicious! Tante Klein’s White Bread recipe next time! Prost!!
God Bless you all,
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Thursday, December 9, 2010
The Unexpected
This week has been full of unexpected occurrences. Illness, broken water pipes, no water for a day, even a stray horse on the property. Yes, horse. It’s happened a few times. They are actually more welcome than the stray dogs. Dog drop-offs happen too frequently. Runaways, too. It seems they all like to come here. The worst time was when a stray actually killed one of Marie’s goats. I was furious. I’d called four different authorities in the area who all pled, “Not Our Responsibility.” The sheriff told me that the dog would actually have to be in the act of hurting a human before he could do anything.
I loaded the blood-stained dog into the car and took it into town to leave it at the (“too full of dogs”) Humane Society. I must have been a picture. Blood on my hands and trousers as well as the dog. I was told I could take it to the veterinarian who would euthanize it; they would call ahead. I have to admit I felt bad for the dog. It was pretty nice to humans. But in my head I could hear the sound of Marie’s voice as I saw her running over the hill toward the little goat she’d kidded just a few months before. Mother’s fury returned. I took the dog through the doors of the facility and asked if the Humane Society had called ahead. A pretty girl behind the counter perked up, “Oh, you’re Sharon’s Mom! I worked with Sharon. Oh, hey, that’s the Pastor’s dog! We know him!”
It took a few seconds to register that this was the dog of our new neighbor who was in the process of building a church at the end of our road. “We have to get the Pastor’s permission first,” the pretty girl informed me. I left the dog and headed straight for his old church. I was praying. I didn’t want to cause a scene. I’m actually not great with confrontation. The Pastor was there. He was counting the many Saran wrapped pies that must have been for a bake sale, lined on tables just inside the door. He reached out his hand with a friendly smile. Conscious of the impact of my appearance, I told him in a calmer, almost apologetic tone about the gory details. I asked him to allow the vet to euthanize his pet. I was really upset on so many levels. I had a picture in my head of the Pastor and Fido sitting before a crackling fire, Pastor with his pipe and Bible, Fido with his squeaky toy on the braided rug.
The picture of Marie and her goat returned. The Pastor was understanding and sorry and offered to pay for the goat. “No, no, not necessary.“…I couldn’t wait to get back in my van! To tell the truth I hoped the Pastor had a friend in another state with a fenced yard who would take the dog. Whenever I passed his home and new church site I felt discomfort. I knew he was a good man. I also knew that what I had asked for was not out of the question. The discomfort dissolved when the dog showed up on our road a month later. Bruce called the Pastor. He’d given the dog to someone. Unfortunately, that someone was working on his church and bringing the dog with him. Mother’s protective instinct came back full force and I jumped in the car and drove to the site. I think God must put pretty young girls and Pastors and even elderly little old ladies between me and making a complete fool of myself.
I had to help a little elderly woman up the slope to get to the construction site. She was sweet and excited about the first visit to her new church. I calmed. The confrontation was not bad. I asked the man to please keep his dog tied or not to bring it with him because it had a history with our goats. He was nice and proceeded to tell me it was a sweet dog with people. But then he told me he’d found out that the dog had been bred to fight and had even killed some other dogs. Oh, great.
Such is life in the country. Marie did better than I with the episode. She understands life well for her age. Thankfully, we haven’t seen the dog since. So…a stray horse is no problem, even if it’s a stallion with his mares (that has happened, too). God allows these annoying thorns in our lives. Seems they come pretty regularly, here. But we are here for Him. Growing up we learned the answer to the question “Why are we here?” It is: “To know and to love and to serve God in this life and in the next.” The thorns build character and virtue for His plan and His glory. I pray that pretty girls and Pastors and little old ladies are thrown liberally in my thorny path.
God bless you,
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
I loaded the blood-stained dog into the car and took it into town to leave it at the (“too full of dogs”) Humane Society. I must have been a picture. Blood on my hands and trousers as well as the dog. I was told I could take it to the veterinarian who would euthanize it; they would call ahead. I have to admit I felt bad for the dog. It was pretty nice to humans. But in my head I could hear the sound of Marie’s voice as I saw her running over the hill toward the little goat she’d kidded just a few months before. Mother’s fury returned. I took the dog through the doors of the facility and asked if the Humane Society had called ahead. A pretty girl behind the counter perked up, “Oh, you’re Sharon’s Mom! I worked with Sharon. Oh, hey, that’s the Pastor’s dog! We know him!”
It took a few seconds to register that this was the dog of our new neighbor who was in the process of building a church at the end of our road. “We have to get the Pastor’s permission first,” the pretty girl informed me. I left the dog and headed straight for his old church. I was praying. I didn’t want to cause a scene. I’m actually not great with confrontation. The Pastor was there. He was counting the many Saran wrapped pies that must have been for a bake sale, lined on tables just inside the door. He reached out his hand with a friendly smile. Conscious of the impact of my appearance, I told him in a calmer, almost apologetic tone about the gory details. I asked him to allow the vet to euthanize his pet. I was really upset on so many levels. I had a picture in my head of the Pastor and Fido sitting before a crackling fire, Pastor with his pipe and Bible, Fido with his squeaky toy on the braided rug.
The picture of Marie and her goat returned. The Pastor was understanding and sorry and offered to pay for the goat. “No, no, not necessary.“…I couldn’t wait to get back in my van! To tell the truth I hoped the Pastor had a friend in another state with a fenced yard who would take the dog. Whenever I passed his home and new church site I felt discomfort. I knew he was a good man. I also knew that what I had asked for was not out of the question. The discomfort dissolved when the dog showed up on our road a month later. Bruce called the Pastor. He’d given the dog to someone. Unfortunately, that someone was working on his church and bringing the dog with him. Mother’s protective instinct came back full force and I jumped in the car and drove to the site. I think God must put pretty young girls and Pastors and even elderly little old ladies between me and making a complete fool of myself.
I had to help a little elderly woman up the slope to get to the construction site. She was sweet and excited about the first visit to her new church. I calmed. The confrontation was not bad. I asked the man to please keep his dog tied or not to bring it with him because it had a history with our goats. He was nice and proceeded to tell me it was a sweet dog with people. But then he told me he’d found out that the dog had been bred to fight and had even killed some other dogs. Oh, great.
Such is life in the country. Marie did better than I with the episode. She understands life well for her age. Thankfully, we haven’t seen the dog since. So…a stray horse is no problem, even if it’s a stallion with his mares (that has happened, too). God allows these annoying thorns in our lives. Seems they come pretty regularly, here. But we are here for Him. Growing up we learned the answer to the question “Why are we here?” It is: “To know and to love and to serve God in this life and in the next.” The thorns build character and virtue for His plan and His glory. I pray that pretty girls and Pastors and little old ladies are thrown liberally in my thorny path.
God bless you,
Suzy
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
God In The Plans
East Coasters usually have one image of Kansas…from The Wizard of Oz. The sepia hued black and white part. Dust. Flat. Wind. The last thing I imagined when I first saw Kansas was the beauty of the steep hills along the Missouri River. We crossed into Leavenworth in June of ‘01 and the limey green, new leaves were lush on the hackberry and oak trees. Fort Leavenworth was beautiful. I was taken aback by the ponds, the hills, the trees, the horse stables and the century old brick buildings. This was not what I had envisioned. I was relieved!
In a few weeks this widow with two little girls would be marrying again. Bruce was a gift from heaven. If my late husband Bob was asking God for what I needed, He couldn’t have come any closer. This tall, faith-filled Lieutenant Colonel had melted my heart. The move, though, was not without pain. I would leave a home, my work as an RN, my family and old friends. I knew that God was in the center of it all and I was beginning a new chapter with an expanded family. Old friends and relatives would stay emotionally close, and home would be where my husband and children were. It did help that this part of Kansas reminded me of Maryland.
A month or so later we moved into our quarters, a large 1909 brick duplex. A year earlier you couldn’t have convinced me that life would be so different. Within that year I had lost my husband and my mother. Mom had come to live with us when Bob died. She was my rock. My friends supported me, God led me, but Mom nursed me along minute by minute, day by day, until I could once again take over. As she saw my improvement, she humbly stepped back. Before her unexpected death, she was able to get to know Bruce and see that another miracle occurred in my life.
I mentioned that the move had its bittersweet notes. My heart broke for Bob’s Mom. I was blessed to have a saint and rock of a mother, and I was doubly blessed to have a mother-in-law who loved me and taught me so much about living. "Grammy" was raised Protestant, and became Catholic later in life. She loved Jesus and she loved His Mom, the greatest example of motherhood we could have. Grammy’s faith was solid. She lived through the depression with 10 other siblings and lost a brother in young adulthood. She lost sisters and brothers-in-law as the years passed. Now she had lost her son, and I was remarrying and taking her two little granddaughters a thousand miles away. Though I knew it was right, it was not without her suffering. But she trusted God. Years later, as each of Bruce’s and my children were born, she welcomed them as her own. She would tell me how much she loved Bruce and ask me if I knew how blessed we were.
Grammy, at 80, flew out to be at our sides in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit when Mary Pat was born with life-threatening defects. Grammy’s arthritic, numb hands could barely hold Mary Pat for long but she insisted. She reminded me regularly how very bonded she felt to our dear Mary Pat. Last year, as Grammy lay in a hospital bed dying she reached out to hold baby Margaret. With tears in her eyes she cried, “Oh, this beautiful baby! Oh!”
Today would be her birthday. December 8th. I find it no coincidence that in the Catholic liturgical calendar it is the day on which the conception of Jesus’ mother Mary is celebrated. Grammy wasn’t a “glass-half-empty” person, but she wasn’t a “glass-half-full” person, either. Through joys, through physical and emotional suffering, she was thankful that she had a glass. She had the grace and the wisdom to see that through the life of her son, God brought her two precious granddaughters. She also saw, profoundly, that through the death of her son, God continued bringing new life. Maybe not the way she would have dreamed, but in His plan. One that brings life from death.
Kansas is a good state. It’s far from where I was raised, but it has its beauty, Midwest charm and people. It has been good to us. In the decade since moving here, world wide communication has become astoundingly fast and easily accessed. We stay in contact with loved ones and visit every year or two. I miss my East Coast family and friends. I miss my loved ones in heaven. But we trust in God, and He continues to bless us and give us what we need. My family is here. My place is here.
God bless you on this Feast of the Immaculate Conception,
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Birthdays
Mothers can relate to the joy we feel on our children’s birthdays. Every memory comes flooding back. We retell the events yearly. Our daughter Marie turns sixteen today. I won’t write about the day of her birth. She knows I’ll tell her about it sometime today. Marie is a strong person physically, mentally and spiritually. From her infancy through early childhood, I would jog the back roads of rural Maryland with her in the baby jogger. She’d comment on road kill…”Poor deer”…”Poor cat”…and she’d construct elaborate stories about what their lives must have been like. It gave us the opportunity to talk about the “Circle of Life.”
Marie didn’t ask for anything for her birthday this year. Three years ago she begged us for months to allow her to sleep “under the stars.” We gave in for her thirteenth birthday. She had it all planned. Then a snowstorm hit the day before. I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink worrying she’d freeze. Nevertheless, at 5pm she dug a cave not far from the house, dressed warmly, bundled up in a sleeping bag and settled in with three large dogs and a dozen cats. To my relief, she returned at 10pm. She had fallen asleep and was surprised it wasn’t later, but she smiled with bright pink cheeks, exhilarated!
She is very imaginative, and she loves learning about the environment. She rescues injured wild animals and is successful! I envision that someday she’ll have a home filled with domestic and wild creatures --sort of like the beautiful lady in “Thomasina” (a must-see Disney movie from the ‘60’s). Last year when we traveled back to the East Coast for our “family“ vacation, Marie stayed here with friends and relatives in order to manage the farm. She was milking three dairy goats and would not be convinced that someone could it for her. It was really hard leaving her, but she was safe and content. The second day she called with the news she’d jumped into the pond to save a baby deer. Never one for cell phones, but obedient to carry one at all times while we were away, she drowned the phone…but saved the fawn. She actually did well with it, having taken care of baby goats. She was disappointed to learn that it would be illegal to raise it with her goat herd. Dutifully, she did as she was instructed and, with the help of the local game warden, hid it in the grass beyond the pond a few nights later. She was still within the window of time in which the mother would search and search and listen for her baby’s call. The fawn wasn’t there the next morning and Marie was satisfied.
Our oldest daughter has graduated from college into the “real world.” Emily is successful and we are extremely proud. I cried the day we took her to college. Time had passed too quickly since I became her stepmom. I wanted more years. I asked Bruce if he was sad. He thought about it and replied, “You know, this is what I always wanted for her, how can I be sad?” Our second oldest, Sharon, is away at college and it hasn’t been any easier, but I was more prepared. I am thankful for the years we had her under this roof. I am extremely thankful that she has grown into such an intelligent and wise young woman.
I joke with Bruce that we won’t really have to experience “empty nest syndrome” because we’ll probably have many grandchildren by the time Margaret hits her college campus. I try not to take these days for granted, and try to enjoy every moment. Today we’ll celebrate Marie’s unique and wonderful life. Perhaps someday when she leaves for college I’ll have sleepless nights, listening for her call. I won’t find her warm and close like the doe found her baby fawn. But, like Marie with her fawn and Bruce with Emily, I’ll feel satisfaction and pride, and most of all, humble thanks.
Happy Birthday, Marie!
God Bless you all!
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Marie didn’t ask for anything for her birthday this year. Three years ago she begged us for months to allow her to sleep “under the stars.” We gave in for her thirteenth birthday. She had it all planned. Then a snowstorm hit the day before. I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink worrying she’d freeze. Nevertheless, at 5pm she dug a cave not far from the house, dressed warmly, bundled up in a sleeping bag and settled in with three large dogs and a dozen cats. To my relief, she returned at 10pm. She had fallen asleep and was surprised it wasn’t later, but she smiled with bright pink cheeks, exhilarated!
She is very imaginative, and she loves learning about the environment. She rescues injured wild animals and is successful! I envision that someday she’ll have a home filled with domestic and wild creatures --sort of like the beautiful lady in “Thomasina” (a must-see Disney movie from the ‘60’s). Last year when we traveled back to the East Coast for our “family“ vacation, Marie stayed here with friends and relatives in order to manage the farm. She was milking three dairy goats and would not be convinced that someone could it for her. It was really hard leaving her, but she was safe and content. The second day she called with the news she’d jumped into the pond to save a baby deer. Never one for cell phones, but obedient to carry one at all times while we were away, she drowned the phone…but saved the fawn. She actually did well with it, having taken care of baby goats. She was disappointed to learn that it would be illegal to raise it with her goat herd. Dutifully, she did as she was instructed and, with the help of the local game warden, hid it in the grass beyond the pond a few nights later. She was still within the window of time in which the mother would search and search and listen for her baby’s call. The fawn wasn’t there the next morning and Marie was satisfied.
Our oldest daughter has graduated from college into the “real world.” Emily is successful and we are extremely proud. I cried the day we took her to college. Time had passed too quickly since I became her stepmom. I wanted more years. I asked Bruce if he was sad. He thought about it and replied, “You know, this is what I always wanted for her, how can I be sad?” Our second oldest, Sharon, is away at college and it hasn’t been any easier, but I was more prepared. I am thankful for the years we had her under this roof. I am extremely thankful that she has grown into such an intelligent and wise young woman.
I joke with Bruce that we won’t really have to experience “empty nest syndrome” because we’ll probably have many grandchildren by the time Margaret hits her college campus. I try not to take these days for granted, and try to enjoy every moment. Today we’ll celebrate Marie’s unique and wonderful life. Perhaps someday when she leaves for college I’ll have sleepless nights, listening for her call. I won’t find her warm and close like the doe found her baby fawn. But, like Marie with her fawn and Bruce with Emily, I’ll feel satisfaction and pride, and most of all, humble thanks.
Happy Birthday, Marie!
God Bless you all!
Suzy
The Abbey Farm
Monday, December 6, 2010
"St. Chocolate's Wort"
Had mine tonight.
It amazes me that I can be exhausted, yawning, feeling low and pondering how I’ll get through the evening…and a couple of chocolates brings about a remarkable improvement in energy level and mood! What is it about the stuff?
Theobromines--or is that coffee? I had that, too.
The day had gone pretty well; it was a little busier than usual. My three year old, Mary Pat, was home sick from her special pre-school. My fifteen year-old, Marie, needed input on her homeschool plan for the week. The farrier showed up and Marie and I took turns holding horses and tending to three preschoolers…the list is quite long. I got really tired by the end of the afternoon, and over-reacted when our thirteen year old sprang a “mandatory school activity” on me 20 minutes before its start time.
Earlier in the week a friend remarked on her Facebook that it puzzled her how she can hold it together through a stressful day and then a seemingly insignificant event sends her over the edge. The post produced wonderful comments of support and understanding. Truthfully, it made me feel better. I didn’t think at the time to recommend “St. Chocolate’s Wort” to her.
The aforementioned thirteen year-old, Susanna, was responsible for my “medication,” though we had chocolate in the house. My Austrian grandmother, Susanna’s namesake, had a tradition in her family of celebrating St. Nicholas’ feast day. It is really fun: the children leave their shoes out the eve of December 6th and in the morning find them filled with chocolates and little gifts. We revived the tradition in our family when Bruce and I married. It’s a wonderful opportunity to teach the children about the real Nicholas of history, who was present at the Council of Nicea, fought the Arian Heresy, and became a great bishop. St. Nicholas…St. Nick…Santa Claus…one in the same. The Coca-Cola Company had something to do with his additional attributes around the turn of the century, and a new legend was born complete with a sleigh and reindeer and a North Pole. I grew up with that, too, but there is something really satisfying about teaching the children about the real man. A generous man who loved Jesus and gave just about all he had for the good of others.
I felt rotten about acting out like a two year-old toward Susanna; later, she was the one who came home early from the school event with a box of chocolates for her family. A warm hug and apology at her homecoming soothed my soul like the chocolate soothed my psyche.
Maybe I could medicate myself three times a day. Hmmm. Maybe not good for the weight. Moderation in everything, I guess. And plenty of hugs and giving and forgiving.
Happy St. Nicholas Day,
from the Abbey Farm
It amazes me that I can be exhausted, yawning, feeling low and pondering how I’ll get through the evening…and a couple of chocolates brings about a remarkable improvement in energy level and mood! What is it about the stuff?
Theobromines--or is that coffee? I had that, too.
The day had gone pretty well; it was a little busier than usual. My three year old, Mary Pat, was home sick from her special pre-school. My fifteen year-old, Marie, needed input on her homeschool plan for the week. The farrier showed up and Marie and I took turns holding horses and tending to three preschoolers…the list is quite long. I got really tired by the end of the afternoon, and over-reacted when our thirteen year old sprang a “mandatory school activity” on me 20 minutes before its start time.
Earlier in the week a friend remarked on her Facebook that it puzzled her how she can hold it together through a stressful day and then a seemingly insignificant event sends her over the edge. The post produced wonderful comments of support and understanding. Truthfully, it made me feel better. I didn’t think at the time to recommend “St. Chocolate’s Wort” to her.
The aforementioned thirteen year-old, Susanna, was responsible for my “medication,” though we had chocolate in the house. My Austrian grandmother, Susanna’s namesake, had a tradition in her family of celebrating St. Nicholas’ feast day. It is really fun: the children leave their shoes out the eve of December 6th and in the morning find them filled with chocolates and little gifts. We revived the tradition in our family when Bruce and I married. It’s a wonderful opportunity to teach the children about the real Nicholas of history, who was present at the Council of Nicea, fought the Arian Heresy, and became a great bishop. St. Nicholas…St. Nick…Santa Claus…one in the same. The Coca-Cola Company had something to do with his additional attributes around the turn of the century, and a new legend was born complete with a sleigh and reindeer and a North Pole. I grew up with that, too, but there is something really satisfying about teaching the children about the real man. A generous man who loved Jesus and gave just about all he had for the good of others.
I felt rotten about acting out like a two year-old toward Susanna; later, she was the one who came home early from the school event with a box of chocolates for her family. A warm hug and apology at her homecoming soothed my soul like the chocolate soothed my psyche.
Maybe I could medicate myself three times a day. Hmmm. Maybe not good for the weight. Moderation in everything, I guess. And plenty of hugs and giving and forgiving.
Happy St. Nicholas Day,
from the Abbey Farm
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