The Recipe

CHAPTER 2 Pouring out the fresh, Georgian pecans onto the butcher block table, she ran her hand over the bits, thankful she had chopped them earlier. Teacher-Turned-Student was quiet and peaceful. She still had piles of work to plow through, but the idea of starting her day making granola was her only care. It was a simple request from her husband the week before. How she loved answering yes to him. If only she could remember that more often. She smiled with the words she and a friend had just relayed, “Want something done, give it to a busy person.” They had both said the words at the same time, then laughed at how overbooked their lives were. Full! To the Max!

So, why did the details swirl, the endless lists get scratched off, and new ideas to tackle more not overwhelm? As Teacher-Turned-Student pondered, she imagined the answer having most to do with having the right ingredients.

Into the bowl went a cup of chopped pecans.

She next measured from the jar of slivered almonds. One and a half cups.

Her mind wandered back again to the chat with her friend. They had stolen a few minutes from their routines the day before. A dog walk and lawn-mowing job were both put on hold, as their conversation was more important than either task. Both women enjoyed their impromptu meetings. Penny Lane, still a puppy, but over the one year mark, needed three square walks a day, which brought the neighbors together. They often chatted about their love of hiking in the Adirondack 46 High Peaks, and this particular morning was no different.

She measured coconut flakes. One and a half cups.

Dried cranberries, next. One cup.

Their conversation came back to her. The friend had described how she and her husband were traveling on an unmarked trail the day before, called a “herd path,” not to the mountaintop, but to a dead end, then to another dead end, and then to another dead end! The wrong turns lost them hours and caused quite a battle with the mountain, nutrition and peace of mind. So much was learned about oneself when hiking, they agreed, and every hike brought different lessons. Preparation and adjusting to the conditions on the ground were huge pieces of their story, but the most importantly they both realized was about stopping for a break to refuel. No matter how strong, nor determined the hiker, no good can ever come if the body wasn't nourished. Teacher-Turned-Student promised herself after their goodbyes to return with some of her home-made granola.

After measuring one cup of almond meal, her mind couldn't help but relive one of her nutrition battles in the High Peaks.

STREET AND NEY

Her Journey, Mountains #22 and #23

Hers wasn't a shortage of food like her friend's, but a battle with the wrong foods.

With good intentions, the night before their planned hike, Jen prepared a dinner for herself and her husband. Having it ready for apres-hike meant a ravenous return home would be met by old friends: home-made angel hair pasta, rich and thick tomato sauce, ground beef meatballs, spicy sausage links, all topped with a trio of pecorino, asiago and parmesan cheeses. As ingredients went into each part of the dinner, her mind wandered as it so often did. And instead of focusing on readying for the hike, she mindlessly tasted everything at every stage in the process. Before carefully wrapping and putting the completed dinner in the refrigerator on her way to bed, she grabbed one more meatball drenched in the saucy goodness and downed it with a tall glass of cold milk. Nutrition is so important the night before a hike, she mused. This is good for her, right? Too delicious, she swallowed another.

As she laid in bed for the night, her mind wandered the plan for the next day. They were to be her twenty-second and twenty-third mountains of the whole Adirondack forty-six. She'd reach the half way point. Street and Nye were the mountains. No real view on the top, but she had heard the trails were so very green and beautiful, and not as challenging as most. So, why did every night before a hike give her such nerves, she thought as she tried to get to sleep. Will she be able to keep up? Will she be strong enough? What would she have to face? Maybe this hike would be the one she should pass on.

She heard her husband's peaceful sleep beside her and knew she wanted to be there with him. "No! I'm not missing a thing. I'm in!" she tried to convince herself as she drifted off, despite a distinct grumble in her stomach.

Early the next morning after a rather restless night, she still had doubts about her abilities but leaned into the day. Hours later, on the trail, she remembered telling herself, "Almost half way to forty-six! Almost!"

She knew she did not quite feel herself, though, as she started to scale the first stretch of steep incline. Oops, was that her stomach making that noise? She tried to ignore it and attempted to take in the sights. She thought though, "Why didn't I stick with what is best... chicken and rice... last night?"

At the second, even bigger incline, her stomach turned again. She really didn't see turning back as a choice. Trudging on she did, but surely it was a struggle. Her hiking companions thought she was dogging it today. "Any time now, Jen! Any time..." they teased, as they saw her lagging. An offer to let her lead was one way to motivate even the most tired of hikers, but not today. She was horrified to think of them following her pecorino, asiago and parmesan!

The third stretch of mountain left her with quite a tummy ache; she knew she was in trouble. Chicken and rice is the diet of choice before a hike! Chicken and rice! After several torturous more miles, she confessed that she did not think she would be able to make the summits. But hiking friends would hear no part of it and encouraged her to hike at her own pace. They reminded her to enjoy and stop as often as she needed.

Finally, they arrived at a beautifully carved out "Y" in the path, and much to her gratitude, it came with a make shift bench. She was done. She told them this was where she'd wait for them to come back down. Not hearing of it, both hiking companions insisted she had come this far, there was no stopping now. With a pathetic look on her face of four hours of tummy issues, she confessed how her meatballs the night before made her preen to just find a tree to collapse against. Maybe she'd have enough luck to say goodbye to some of the cheeses.

The hiking companions laughed and told her they'd go grab Street Mountain while she grabbed comfort. They were on the base of Street Mountain. Once they peaked it, they would come back and take her to the second peak. She'd have some alone time with that tree.

Beads of sweat on her forehead, she swore she would never make this mistake again. Chicken and rice!!

She remembered feeling like maybe she didn't know much about anything, but she did know two things for certain. One.. diet is key, and two.. of all her hiking stories, she'd never re-tell this one!

When her hiking companions returned and told her to pull herself together, and go grab the second peak with them, Nye Mountain, she pushed herself up and onward. And, off they went.

That was the day she learned if she could tackle a mountain with a bad stomach, she could do absolutely any mountain out there. She stopped watching whether she was leading, following, or somewhere in between. She stopped wondering if the next mountain would be the one that was too big for her. She stopped worrying about falling; she stopped falling to worry. The half way point to forty-six was a defining moment for her.

She would also carry with her the complete generosity of spirit of her fellow hikers. After the trio made it to the mountain top, Jen's companions invited her to do their first mountain.. the one they had climbed while she was "re-grouping," so that she would not have to travel that same trail again another day. Her companions climbed three mountains that day. She did two, but they were big ones.

Finally, Teacher-Turned-Student realized that she'd need to do the last half of her forty-six hikes for herself, at her own pace and to enjoy not just the peak, but the journey, no matter what challenge it would bring. And wow, would she remember to always be thankful and generous. This faith in herself and of the journey was a gift and a turning point that she'd have to hold tightly. This faith would be tested, as much as her faith in her God would be tested.

BACK IN THE KITCHEN

Sprinkles of cinnamon and pumpkin pie spices slowly swirled into the bowl. But, then, instead of double checking the recipe page and continuing on, she found herself drawn to another of her notebooks. Spices back in the cupboard, she opened the favorite pages and re-read lines that had been written out in cursive, quite carefully. She had been writing about the act of hand-writing.

Slowing thoughts down and slowing too the pace of my script.

New attention to the lines on the page becomes a gentle gift.

Pencil to paper, my letters become a relaxed flow.

Like a mediation, writing out the Lord's Prayer

in the most beautiful detail I can create.

As letters roll across my page, I watch the loops get more elegant

and the rounded edges uniformly join together.

Once hastily written and messy thoughts become calligraphy.

It was almost surreal that she had taken time to reflect on how letters were formed on a page, and acknowledged appreciating them, only one day before an awkward fall left her with a broken right arm,

a sprained wrist and damaged tendons.

With amazement, she saw how she had just spent time being grateful for something so mundane, so taken for granted. And, now, with a broken, dominant, arm, swollen fingers, she had no way to write. She had told friends that her newly diagnosed “broken wing” was the universe giving her a well-deserved time out. She stared at the page in wonder. Then she stared at her swollen and discolored fingers sticking out from their fresh bandages and cast. She glanced at the granola that despite the wounded wing was coming together.

She re-read more of her notes from pages written earlier, picked up a pen, and tried to add a comment. She picked up the pen with her left hand. He looked at the cryptic left-handed chicken scratch she had attempted. On the page were words that beckoned to be rewritten...

Want something done,

give it to a

busy

person.

Patience, she thought, and stretched her awkward left hand... which was cramping from unusual use. Would this task be a way for her to grow or should she stay in a place that was old and comfortable? She had no left hand coordination at all. She tried again, adding more words...

With a peaceful heart,

piles of progress.

With an oversized, capital, cursive “I,” she wrote on.

...If what is in the mix sparks joy.

She continued with a realization and wrote, awkwardly...

I really should

practice...

my left-handed

cursive.

She recalled the day back in the fifth grade to write 100 times: I will not talk in class.

She did her penance as required but wrote each line backwards. In the process, the young girl perfected backwards script.

I will not talk in class.

I will not talk in class.

I will not talk in class.

She reread the lines she had messily scribed and chuckled to herself with her little recollection. She had been surprised when the teacher did not think it funny, holding her page to a mirror in order to read, "I will not talk in class...." The teacher told her to do it over, written correctly, forward. Still in elementary school, headed to junior high, the balance between sense of humor and disrespect was instilled.

On this day, picturing 'quieting herself' as her teacher had clearly suggested she do, she, the woman, conjured what it was to be a child again. She looked at the rather illegible script she had attempted and turned to a blank page in her notebook and began again, as carefully as she could. Each letter, drawn out from her cumbersome, left hand, was beginning to form more easily. “In the name of the Father,” she wrote. The big, capital ‘F’ made her smile. She wrote lines and lines of them, as beginning-to-scribe second graders do, on dashed and lined paper.

F, F, F…

S, S, S….

A car door shutting from a neighbor's driveway nearby interrupted her quiet and patient practice. She wondered if this skill was really worth pursuing and closed the notebook. If anyone saw this, they’d think she was nuts. She knew taking care of herself was her job, but this seemed a bit extreme. With the break from granola prep, though, she did appreciate the moment to call to her God. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit… No good can come of any story of mine without Your Help,” she prayed.

The prayer’s lines “Give us this Day,” resonated down deep, “Thy daily Bread.”

Each line that she prayed seemed to bring vivid images to mind.

With an “Amen, thanks and a request for guidance," she looked back at her notebook. She had been preparing to teach a class about Lazarus, when the notes were written earlier, when right hand was still in charge. She re-read the hastily written words. It was as if she was scribbling dictation when she wrote it. Writing is out a second time now with her left hand, she watched the letters get more deliberate and more carefully scribed,

Thoughts like a river start to stream.. wait, slow down, she wanted to understand, to believe, life from dream.

THE STORY OF LAZARUS

Lazarus on my mind, no simple thing.

“The story of Lazarus,” what does his tale mean?

God gives us life, death. And life again.

He gives us absolutely everything in between.

Being Present, Being Friend.

In Turmoil. Able to Mend.

Health. Hope. Sickness. Pain.

Betrayal. Forgiveness. Want sun, not rain.

Are we Vulnerable? Are we Unsafe?

Or do these Gifts allow for Truer Faith?

Guilt. Comfort. Ego. Light.

Anger. Love. Day and Night.

His Word, Able to Read It.

Power to Question, Choice to Believe it.

Sorrow. Joy. Doubt. Awe.

Fear. Faith. Give thanks for it all?

Life to examine,

Excess and famine. Loss. Trust. Mountains Tall.

Lies. Truth. Giving thanks for it all.

Teacher-Turned-Student looked up from her notebook remembering how the steady stream of consciousness poured to the page when it all first all came out. She looked back to her notebook and read her thoughts from what was a beautiful time in her life....

She now wanted to flesh out this poem's lines. What did she know about each of them? Could their rhythm be the path forward, an outline... to the stories she so desperately wanted to share?

She read on through those earlier notes..

I picture reading Lazarus’s story to our Faith Formation class with my cherished friend and co-teacher, Linda, this coming Sunday. Thanks, so many thanks, that we have several days left to let the meaning settle in further. I truly love how the lessons come to us, rather than the other way around, and how working to understand, then to teach these important messages... all brings us both such profound light. Each week that we work together is made more beautiful when the week’s scripture is blended in. And, I love how our mentor in the program once described our approach as ‘living the scriptures.’

Lazarus? What am I supposed to learn from him?

What will I learn from hearing what the students ask. What will I learn from my friend?

Today I wonder if the lesson is also about Community, which encompasses everyone, young and old, those from north and from south, those in the city and those out, each with blessings, each with struggles...

I love our community. I love that reading the scriptures in Mass each week is done in great company.

Teacher-Turned-Student sat quietly and breathed deeply. She let the quiet of the day relax her, all the way from head to toe and too to mending wing. She did what few do. She did nothing.

Finally after following her thoughts, her mind wandered to another week’s lesson. She flipped a page in her book and read on. The notes detailed another week's lesson, her second reading.

THE SOWER PARABLE

Working in the Peace Path this Sunday afternoon, after “The Sower Parable” was read in Mass, I worked to prepare for the next week’s class. As I let the parable's meaning channel through me, I formed separate areas of the Peace Path’s entrance into the four types of soil from the parable.

A woman strolled onto The Path and walked to where I was working. Immediately recognizing the symbolism, the woman remarked how “The Sower” was one of her favorites. I was pleasantly surprised how easily the stranger had picked up upon what I was building.

“It’s quite obvious,” was the stranger’s reply. “Your bird, eating the seeds left on the earth there…” she pointed, “Is like evil fighting with goodness. Your briars, represented next,” she pointed to the thorny, branches piled high just beyond the bird, “Represents life’s constant challenge of keeping God in our hearts amidst the daily grind.” Pointing to the third part of the scene, she continued, “The seeds that land in shallow ground quickly take root, but do not produce real life, since soil lacking nutrients only leads to fleeting faith. Then, here, with your carefully prepared soil, with three, golden mums planted in a row, topped with fresh mulch, with watering can perched nearby, we see what happens when soil is fertile. And, your scarecrow seems to be in charge of what is created around him.”

“Besides!” the stranger continued with a smile and a wink, “I was in church today, too.”

“Oh! Obviously! I don’t think we’ve met. Hi! My name is Jen,” I said, with an out-reached hand. “I teach here. Have we met?” I wondered why I didn’t recognize the stranger.

“I’m not just from this particular church,” was the woman’s reply. “I met with The Sower on the other side of town today.”

Comforting a puzzled look, the woman continued, “We all hear The Same Word each week, no matter in which church we find ourselves.” And rather mysteriously, off she went.

I learned something in which I immediately found comfort.

The thought of all Christians, from all around the world, bringing the same message into our hearts every week gives me great hope.

I also now am understanding that I may land in each of these plots of earth from time to time. I'm just a student after all, even if some call me their teacher. I pray that I will always be worthy to be both, and I pray that my path always lead me back to fertile ground.

TWO NOTEBOOKS, BACK TO THE KITCHEN

Re-reading and re-living these memories, feeling quite filled, Teacher-Turned-Student flipped her notebook aside, and turned to find the recipe that she had cut and pasted. With her sore, swollen fingers seemingly useless, she awkwardly flopped the tattered and warn book open to the recipe. She went back to the ingredients. She had been experimenting with the recipe and wanted to add walnuts. With her left hand, she carefully poured them from a mason jar. She watched walnuts tumble onto the butcher block table. She gently spread them out and considered how to apply the sharp knife to them. Reinventing her craft of proper knife handling technique, she leaned onto the dull side of the knife to hold it in place with the hard plastic of her arm brace. With the point of the tool now in place on the table and her left palm around the handle of the knife, she rocked the blade in an up and down motion, gently guiding it into the walnuts. Whole nuts turned to bits. She enjoyed the symbolism of breaking a whole down into its parts. Too painful, she let it go.

She wondered when the knife would be natural again, the process thoughtless. How long would she need to heal the broken wing? With a pause, in the quiet of the kitchen morning, she became aware of each creature chirping outside her window. A fly buzzed by and went straight out past the paper-thin curtain. And yes, there it was again, that delicious scent of Lilly-of-the-Valley.

She lowered her reading glasses to her nose to check the measurements needed from her recipe. "He gives us everything," she heard the voice inside her again, "Blindness and sight.” Pressure rose in her chest as her sister's eye troubles entered her thoughts. Tears welled in her own eyes. She lowered her head to rest on the recipe book. She found herself talking with God again. "Why do gifts and peace get thrown around through all of His people so randomly? Why do some struggle when others seem to have it easy? Why do I have what I have? Why is it that I am witness to incredible gifts? Why do get to teach... and to learn."

She pictured the Corinthians lines about the body being made of many parts. What happens when one part is broken? Do the others stand up to help? Can there be too much of the body which suffers for the whole to remain?

She knew she did not deserve what she felt pour into her heart, but she let it enter. She breathed in Love, deeply, His Love, and imagined breathing It back out to all around her.

She practiced again: a deep breath in, slowly and gently, His Love, followed by a relaxed, intentional exhale. She assigned the breathe "His Love" and sent to all around her.

Just recently, to a beautiful, new group of young, lady Peace Path Gardeners, she had asked them, “Can you imagine what this room would be like if we all did a Breathe of Love In and then Out to everyone.. all at the same time?” Teacher-Turned-Student continued and explained that the breathing technique was a meditation that came to her after a most wonderful yoga practice, with a most wonderful yoga friend.

As today's breathes came In and went back Out, her mind recalled the group's dynamic and how honored she was that they wanted to listen to her story, "The Arrow."

She immediately knew she’d practice this breathe exercise with anyone who wanted to join her. And, she breathed in deeply, again. What if the whole town did it in unison? What if the whole world did it...

Recalling the tender moments from her time with the group, she remembered writing, "Live a life worth writing about." She smiled to herself and thought, but don’t lose the audience in the meantime, her tangents and sidebar stories were like little details swirling in her mind, like spices swirling into the pumpkin puree.

One cup of pumpkin seeds, one cup of raisons, a touch of sea salt, oh yes, a little bit more salt… the last of the dry ingredients went into the large bowl.

Back to Lazarus, her mind went, the dead was brought back to life. What is Jesus telling us? No hope,

then there is life?

Can I really hope for an answer?

Can I be feeling alone and searching..

then find faith?

She herself didn't have this faith when she was younger. She knew her aunts, mom and sister had it. How did she find it?

Then, she remembered Chloe and Banjo, just one week earlier.

She had a seriously, huge number of stories.

This notion made her laugh to herself.

CHLOE AND BANJO

Snow and ice were still on the ground even though the early spring weeks moved on. When would spring really come this year? Teacher-Turned-Student was walking Penny Lane around the block of the neighborhood. The air was frigid cold, so seeing a car pull up with both windows down startled her. The woman inside, eyes red, asked if she'd seen two beagles. As it turned out, the first dog was being watched at the second one's house, several towns away, when they both got out of the yard. That was two nights prior. The woman explained that both beagles had strong sense to get them back home, but in this case, traveling together with two different homes to get to, their scents were confused, and the prospect of them both making it back safely seemed hopeless.

Teacher-Turned-Student replied with an absolute belief from her heart to have faith. She'd help. Phone numbers were exchanged. A page with the dogs’ pictures was posted, and calls and prayer was begun.

“Chloe! Banjooooo….” was called out loudly into the street. Unsure why, she had an immediate kindred spirit with the searching woman, who nervously was driving her car slowly beside her. Maybe it was because of her own search for Penny Lane the week earlier. Maybe it was because of the sadness of the woman's eyes. Maybe it was because she had just been thanking her Lord for the beautiful but cold day, right as the car had driven up. Maybe it was that she had loved the name, "Chloe" for her own daughter when she first discovered she was pregnant, so many years ago. Regardless, the reason, she shouted out as the car drove away, "Have faith, friend!"

That was on a Monday. The dogs had been gone since Saturday.

Tuesday night, out walking in the neighborhood with Penny Lane, she looked into the dark yet star filled sky. She wandered so many familiar constellations with her eye. She pictured the two wandering beagles out in the same night air. She decided to share the image she had painted in her mind, and texted Chloe’s owner:

I'm picturing the beagles having quite the adventure tonight. Chloe and you will have a lot to talk about when she returns. Keep the faith.

And Teacher-Turned-Student prayed for the searching woman on the other end of the text. “Let her find peace, Lord, for her loss is overwhelming. Let her find hope, Lord, for fear is paralyzing. Let her find trust, Lord, for without it, there is emptiness. Please, let her find Your truth, Lord, for without You there is just darkness.”

“Chloe, Banjooooo…” was called again and again into the night air.

Wednesday came and went without word, and the communications were becoming a little less regular. Teacher-Turned-Student kept prayers alive and even took the prayers back to the woods, where she had searched for Penny Lane. Frighteningly, thoughts went to the animals of the woods that endangered the beagles. But comfort in her prayer quietly silenced the thoughts.

Late Thursday night, came a text,:

Banjo made it back home. No sign of my Chloe, but one is back.

It had been five days. In the woods. Would the smaller, younger female ever make her way back home? A message of hope was sent back:

You are not alone.

On afternoon walks, the praying would continue. On evening walks, the sky was a blanket of unknown.

With a pile of work on the table, several days later, Teacher-Turned-Student sat. Absorbed in her work, when the phone buzzed that a message came in, she hardly noticed the interruption. Rather routinely, she reached over to read the text message:

Chloe is home.

Against all odds, over a week after her disappearance, friend and dog were reunited. Back from the dead, almost, it seemed.

Oh, Lazarus!

Teacher-Turned-Student read more of the texts of thanks that kept coming in:

I feel the power of prayer...

was the final text.

WRAPPING UP IN THE KITCHEN

She added 1/2 cup of melted coconut oil, then the extracts. Oh! The extracts! Intoxicating scents of vanilla, maple, coconut and almond filled the kitchen’s morning. Her husband's homemade maple syrup was next. Just 2 tablespoons. The mixture’s colors got deeper with the liquids poured in. Then came the spiced pumpkin purée. One half a cup. Magically the mixture molded into clumps, as the wooden spoon went round.

Gently spreading the goodness onto the cookie sheets, and placing it into the oven, the writer once again reached for her pencil. “A blanket of the unknown,” was how the night sky was described. But this light of the morning gives undeniable hope.

Dear Lord, Thank You.

Thank You for making me a better angel, who is reaching out to You to hear Your voice. It is with You, with Your Son who teaches me, and with the Holy Spirit residing deep in my soul that I can become who You want me to be. And, oh my! Who You want for me is so much more beautiful than what I could ever conjure on my own! I thank You for my daily bread.

She smiled in thanks and sat back to the scents of granola, cooking at 275° for 15 to 20 minutes.