It has been blissfully peaceful here with all of my teenage dearies away for the holidays. But soon they shall be returning. When they are here, my 268 children, a good day is defined as “a day in which no one decides to throw a flaming couch, or anything else including bodily fluids, out of his or her window.” Oh that I had more of these days.
However, when they are not here, I can define a good day differently. Yesterday, I had a completely remarkable day when I read stories to a non-verbal boy who was hooked up to a vent at the hospital. After an hour of stories (note: I hate Blues Clues. Blue, I don’t care where you hid the stupid blanket) broken up with my colorful commentary ("Frankly, it’s this kids fault for giving the moose a muffin. I mean, he’s a wild animal. Of course he’s going to try to get more. And didn’t his mother teach him not to get massive mammals in the house??!!") his parents came back and I got up to leave. The boy started thrashing and shaking. For a moment I thought he was having a seizure, but it dawned on me that this was the only way he had to tell me that he wanted me to keep reading. And here I thought he was just suffering through my inane babble (not unlike all of you). I read more stories. Because rarely can I capture an audience like that.
Oh that I was not blogging because of some interesting reason. But, no, again I am not blogging because I am lazy and because Bravo insists on running Project Runway marathons so dang often.
Things are, however, interesting here at camp TheologyGirl, and there is a new project in the works that should go live in the foreseeable future. A new project that I am sure to ignore once the new season of Top Chef starts running.
Of note is one of my recent interactions with my apathetic significant other, the United Methodist Church. No, maybe that’s not quite right. They care about me. In the way that my very breathing annoys them. So they’re not apathetic. They’re quite the opposite. What would that be, then? Pathetic?
Anyway, recently I received an email stating that the battery of psychological tests I had taken a few years ago were never paid for. Fascinating, since I took them at my school and the UMC conference here paid for them. But I didn’t “own” these results and one conference can’t transfer the test interpretation to another. If I wish to own the results, I could pay about 500 dollars to my home conference and retake the exams. In West Virginia. Which is very far away. Why this needs to happen, I do not understand. I mean, it’s all one church, right? Hence the “United” part. But, somehow, in the ordination process information cannot be shared between conferences because of, uh, money? Ownership? All of the paperwork is held in Nashville, on the national level. So is this some sort of partisan issue between national and state rights? Would becoming a Democrat help?
I’m at a loss.
So, instead of stopping people in the street and telling them of John Wesley, I have taken up the odd task of spreading the tenants of the Catholic faith throughout the land. I lack street cred to do this in many circles, as I am not Catholic. Actually, come to think of it, I once had “LutherRulz” as a password on an email account. However, what do you do when you are protesting against the Protestants? Why, you light a candle for the warm fold of Rome, friend! Today, a group of co-workers were talking about a recent wedding (the bride was in this group). There was communion at the (Episcopal) mass and the people there were of many faith backgrounds, but all were a little fuzzy on whether they were allowed to actually take communion. The bride said, “Well, Father said anyone who is baptized could come for communion. So that’s really what he meant.” But one person who was Catholic said, “Well, Catholics aren’t really supposed to because of Transfiguration.”
Because of the squid conversation, I knew in my heart I should just keep my mouth shut. But COME ON people.
My mother. A woman who read my blog exactly once and decided that “while you are a good writer, dear,” she would rather stick to reading mysteries.
When I got married in 2002, she informed me that not only would the alloted funds for my Christmas presents now be halved, she would no longer be sending care packages. Because adults don’t get care packages, even if they were full-time students and still lived in a dorm. I agreed to this (though the gift thing annoyed me, I have always suspected that once Peter came on the scene they liked him more then they liked me).
However, the box-sending did not stop. Rather, their contents changed to reflect . . . what? My married life? A dorm apartment with a kitchen? I’m not sure. But people are always fascinated by what I receive.
The most recent shipment contained: homemade fruit cake (Peter loves the stuff, freak), banana nut bread, three kinds of trail mix (again, for Peter) two labeled bags and three individually labeled tubs of cookies (one for me, one for Peter, and some for my friends who were in my wedding and my mother met, once), cheese popcorn, and Rice-a-Roni. There are also two plastic bags with seasoned tuna and little vegetable dip mixes with Bible verses on them. I can only assume they were from some crafty village or nursing home fundraiser. And that Jesus likes ranch dip.
She also sent a pan cozy, for the loving transport of hot dishes for church potlucks. I generally buy cookies at the drug store for such events, but this is shaming my Pennsylvanian Methodist heritage. I now have the proper tools to do right by Wesleyan scalloped potatoes. (They are like regular scalloped potatoes, you just warm them at 350 degrees, strangely.)
I also get articles from my hometown newspaper, one about a former viloa teacher of mine, one about a fifth-grader working on his own toy drive. Actually, I think the fifth-grader might be my cousin. This is a good shipment. Generally I get word of my high school classmates going to jail.
Ah, the holidays. Even if I won’t be home, home comes to me. Well, until one day when we have kids. And the Christmas fund goes to them and we just get fruitcake.
Maybe I’ll develop at taste for the stuff. Or learn alchemy and turn it in to gold. Either is just as likely.
At my current place of employment, they have a curious tradition of “Free Fried Dough Friday” on the first Friday of every month. On some level this offends me, because it really ought to be “Free Funnel Cake Friday,” because funnel cake is simply more artful. One could argue that all fried lumps of dough are created equal, but these poor fools have obviously never attended in a jubilee in Pennsylvania.
Really, I do not get the fried dough because I like it. I hate it, actually. Its only redeeming quality is that it conveys powdered sugar and cinnamon to my mouth, because the sprinkle containers are too large to just dump it directly. Also, it is always because I seek the funnel cake of my youth, a perfect dessert that has reached deity-like status in my memory. Alas, this fried dough is but a pale shadow cast upon the wall of a cholesterol-laden cave. The plutonic ideal can be found solely in western PA, circa 1985.
This brings us to another issue of baked goods in New England. Yesterday I had occasion to attend a bake sale (they seem to have a bake sale every two weeks here, amazing since few people have kitchens; but I digress). I desperately wanted a “no bake.” I asked the proprieter of one table if they had such a thing at the sale. She said, “Yup--there are cheesecakes at the end.” “No,” I said, “I don’t want cheesecake. I want a no bake.”
She looked at me as if I had four heads.
So it would appear that anything here that does no require baking is called a “no bake,” when in reality, it is a very specific, particular confection with very specific requirements. It generally involved oatmeal, chocolate and peanut butter. I googled this to make sure I wasn’t making it up, and there were many recipes that involved fruit and nuts. However, I found the recipe for the “no bake” ideal, the no bake of my youth, the thing that made school and church functions worth bearing. I became a graduate student in theology because of no bakes. So here is one recipe for them. In case you have to make something for a bake sale and you want your offering to crush all the others from the sheer weight of its superirotiy.
