Merry Christmas

It's a blizzard outside.  Snow falls in a whorlwind of dust, sweeping through like icing on a cake. It falls and spins, whipping the trees back and forth. Each flake is a memory of winters gone by.  I remember my first snowman.  A faithful helper to the family I was, dashing into the house on a quest for a carrot nose.  A baby carrot would have to do; it was that or a stick of celery. I fondly remember hours of mom readying us for a day out in the snow.  Only then, after bundling up so well, we would inform her that we had to use the bathroom.  Snow suits were the worst. Those colorful pants, bright pink or green, that made it impossible to walk. Yet they provided a soft cushion for harmless snowball fights and falling icicles. I loved the way our yard was unrecognizable in the white array of splendor, and the skating rink of a driveway that carried us down to the mailbox in one slide.  We would throw snowballs at the icicles hanging from the gutter like stockings above a fire place. Best of all, my brothers would spend countless hours building an enormous snow mountain in the back yard with all the snow they could find.  It reminded me of an upside down ice cream cone covered in white chocolate and sprinkled with coconut. Or a giant snow mountain. It would last until all the snow in the neighborhood had melted, and then some.  I like snow because it's beautiful and falls like powdered sugar on a tray of brownies.
http://pinterest.com/search/pins/?q=snowing

Living on the Edge

Sometimes I like to think of all the crazy things to do before I die.  Skydiving, snowboarding, scuba diving, hand gliding, sitting through a Broadway show, or playing in Carnegie hall. A bucket list brings out my creative side.  Many things appear on my bucket list of which I'd never dreamed to do.  But the fact that they're there invites and allows the possibility. It takes a step of courage, a leap of faith, and a bit of insanity.  Every summer my family drives up to the wooded moutains of Northern New York.  There among the great lakes and dangerous cliffs my grandparents own a log cabin.  Down a steep cliff and across a lapping river sits a train bridge, so rustic and old that no trains care to use it. Like a pack of wild natives, my siblings and I climb into conues and make our way out to the bridge. From the bridge you can see the log cabin peeking out of the thick woods high up on the mountain. A broad American flag sweeps back and forth in the breezy autumn wind. Climing the concrete steps up to the bridge ties a knot in my stomach.  Easing my way out to the middle of the bridge only tightens that knot.  I see my self in the reflection peering down at my doom.  The water calmly passes by beneath me.  I peer out over the water.  I see the dock from wence we came.  Beyond that is the forest of trees whose leaves laugh in the wind at my fear of jumping.  In a gust of courage I suck in a breath of air, shut my eyes and jump. It takes a step of courage and a leap of faith...and a little bit of insanisty. But in the end, the thrill is worth it. 

 Check out my brothers cycling video.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLtF3zwvLyc

Study Spoof

Finals week was a hassle.  Late nights. Cups and cups of coffee. I soon found my favorite study spot in the library.  It was on the second floor, deep in the book shelves, and beside the giant glass windows that looked over the atrium. Sometimes it seemed I spent more time there than in my room.  Hours would fly so fast. Yet distractions crept in like a late student in lecture hall.  When I was supposed to be working on a chemistry problem I would be giggling over endless YouTube videos.  "Must focus," I told myself, after slamming my lap top closed and pulling out my calculator.  Every now and then a pleasant voice would call over the loud speaker announcing fresh coffee and cookies waiting at the front desk for those in need of a study break. The coffee table soon became a socializing table.  I normally don't drink coffee, but for the chance to stretch and a shot of caffeine anything was acceptable. And now I must recount of a most interesting study evening.  Through the cold dark of December I walked.  A brace of warm air welcomed me as I pushed through the library doors. All was quiet.  Up the stairs I stormed with my heavy backpack weighing me down.  The second floor was even quieter, and nearly every study spot occupied. At last I found a table all to myself.  My books came out of my bag, my lap top flew opened and I went straight to work.  The silence was overbearing.  I put my headphones on and started up some Christmas classics. After some time passed, I noticed the girls at the table across from me were peering around the room as if in search for something.  The girl with her back to me glanced a few times directly at me.  Taking her for one easily distracted, I simply typed away at my eight page paper.  The song was O Holly Night, with a grand orchestra playing behind the choir. At length the girl turned around and caught my attention.  "Could you turn your music down?"  She demanded.  In seconds I pulled the plugs from my ears.  The music continued to play.  Glancing down at my computer in horror I realized my headphones were never plugged in.

He came last night.  Jack Frost.  The frozen ground  glistened in the early morning sunshine like a field of crystals.  The once lush and green grass was now hard and tinted blue. Little specks of ice adorned the grass blades and crunched beneath my feet. Winter is upon us.  I observe my surrounding on the journey to breakfast.  The sky is vast, clear, and silent.  Sleepy stars fade away with the moon while heavenly rays of sunlight pour over the frozen horizon.  I see the lake. The waters move slowly enjoying their bit of freedom before they too solidify. The forest is bare and empty.  It's branches are as naked as a newborn.  Nothing but simple shadows fill their dark pathways.  Where are the leaves, those once healthy and green, those once crisp and orange.  Nothing remains.  Winter is upon us.  Smoke billows from the top of the Dinning Commons.  Or is it steam? My own breath is visible.  I breath heavily and watch it disappear in front of me.  All is still, all is calm.  The wind does not howl; the trees do not move. But here's a word of encouragement.  Take it as a challenge while we embrace this cold weather.  Our Creator exhibits his power to us in a chilling way giving us frost and snow and visible breath.  And what do we do in return.  Complain about how cold it is? Bundle Up! And take note that there is beauty in winter.

It's ok to cry

It's ok to cry.  Hardship and sorrow surround us as frightening waves knock against a sailboat. For students it's often homework or deadlines. For Dad's it's work and bills. For Mom's it's worrying about their children.  Professor's worry about grading papers and Music Instructors, their upcoming concert.  Deadlines spring out of your syllabus or calendar ever reminding you that time is ticking. Tears tend to come when time slows down.  When you actually have a moment to think about things or talk about them,they billow over your eyes like Niagara Falls.  I admit crying is painful and embarrassing.  But it's ok to cry.

Tears come from loneliness, fear, joy, and pain.  Some people go for days without crying and others cry everyday. But the beautiful thing about tears, is that God catches everyone.  He puts them in a bottle, the scriptures say, and keeps them in a safe place. Psalm 56:8 "You keep track of all my sorrows.  You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book."  God knows each one of our sorrows and the hidden reason behind all of our tears. A thought never crosses his mind of why we are sad. Though he knows our pain, we must tell him.  Prayer is for our own benefit. But God's role is not simply to catch our tears.  Our tears are the result of him working in our lives.  So, cry and pray.  Let the tears fall like a cool autumn rain.  And remember that you are not alone.

Boarding the Right Plane

What I love most about being here at Taylor is the huge amount of support and encouragement I receive everyday.  A day doesn't pass without someone offering to help me with homework or asking for prayer requests.  The community is so tightly knit and everyone so kind and generous.  It's a struggle to switch majors halfway through the semester. By then It's too late to drop classes.  In some ways I feel like I've boarded the wrong plane headed towards somewhere I don't want to be. My fellow passengers know exactly where they're going with supplies and appropriate baggage. I am resolved to constantly remind myself that God is in control.  I ignore the odd expressions when I explain my change of majors.  I study and do labs in the Science complex all the while knowing it's only for a semester.  Though my connecting flight will take me in the opposite direction, I am so glad to be at Taylor.  Studying Science or Studying Professional Writing, I can see the hand of God on this campus. It moves people to tears in chapel.  It stirs laughter and good fellowship in the Dining Commons.  The semester is half over, yet my time here seems but a few weeks.  When I measure my spiritual growth I realize how far I have come.  God is good in all things.  Every good and perfect thing comes from him.  And even in my darkest hour, He is always there.  The days of turbulence are difficult but scarce.  In God's hands I feel like I'm sky sailing.

There's More to Explore

You know that time of night when the sky is completely dark but so clear that little stars pop out like holes.  The sky is a blanket spotted with holes of light that twinkle.  Stars are amazing. As a sleepy sun falls over the horizon they emerge one by one.  The biggest are the boldest; they appear first. And they stay there all night before darkness turns to light. There is a point on campus between the dining commons and my dorm where the walkway is completely dark.  Your eyes can't help but lift to the heavens.  And you see stars, bright pockets of light.  They twinkle, play, laugh, some even dance.  At this point you realize they are endless,  millions in every direction.  Suddenly you feel small, a mere molecule in a vast complex organism.  The Lord stretches out the heavens with the span of his hand.  What a mighty God we serve.  With one hand he can reach across the heavens and hold the stars.  With the same hand he holds you.

Parent's Weekend

A weekend to show your parents around your new home.  A few days to tell them about your college life.  A few hours to explain what you are learning in school.  A brief moment of hugs and goodbyes.  And then they're gone.  Your dorm room feels just as empty and lonely as when they first dropped  you off. Though my family was only here for an evening, parents weekend was nonstop fun and excitement.  Friday night consisted of a play performance, a soccer game, and a concert in the chapel. Due to the cold windy rain I chose the concert.

 Rain showered down from the dark night sky as my roommate and I splashed across campus huddled under umbrellas.  My heavy boots kept my feet more dry than warm. Inside the chapel the air was crisp and chill.  Musicians crowded the stage making all kinds of noise.  A little conductor found his way on stage and a hush grew over the auditorium. My eyes were closed before they even started and the sound of applause woke me up a short time later.  It's strange in college how the first moment you get to rest your eyes, they refuse to open.  Though my eyes gave out on me, my ears did not.  The music was pleasant consisting of a variation.  It trailed from American big band music to sweet traditional hymns.

Sleep overwhelmed me and forced me to leave at intermission. The cold rain accompanied  me back to my dorm. The following morning I planned to run a 5K.  Running used to be my passion.  It would motivate me to get up at 6am so I could get enough of it before school. When I ran, the world seemed like such a beautiful place.  I heard birds more clearly and saw nature from a different perspective. The following morning was far from pleasant. A biting cold surprised my running partner and me.  We scuffled over to the track and signed up for the race.  Half an hour later found us in a mass of people waiting for the gunfire.

 To my disappointment a man simply shouted "GO" and we were off.  No gunfire.  A sleepy sun peaked out over the horizon shooting brilliant lights of color into the sky.  My hands were frozen.  My feet were numb. The wind tugged at my hair and beat against my hoody.  The mass of people spread out rather quickly.  We walked and ran, walked and ran some more.  Then came the softball field, two inches in water. The ice cold water leaked into my shoes.  We ran faster to quickly end this miserable experience.  In the last 200 meters I was glad I ran the 5K. It's all worth it in the end. In the end I was just happy my asthma didn't act up.
My family arrived that evening.  Their faces lit up my own.  It's funny how absence, though it makes the heart grow fonder, causes you to appreciate your family so very much.  

Falling into Autumn

Does college kill a person's imagination, or do my best blog ideas simply disappear when I have the time to write them?  The best blog ideas happen during lectures.  Dr. Whipple, peeking over his enormous beard, sketches away at the cytoplasm of a cell.  I frantically try to take notes.  My blue pen scribbles a mess of cell parts here and there.  It always happens that my mind wanders elsewhere during lecture. As soon as my eyes find the window, I'm gone.  My eyes journey back to my page, but my pen has strayed from taking notes.

 It finds  an empty corner and begins sketching little pictures of cells.  Happy cells, sad cells, hungry cells.  I pipe grass along the bottom of my page and sprout flowers.  My pen forms rigid tree trunks which evolve into long branches.  Leaves appear and my pen gives them a tainted autumn color.  Some of the leaves glide down to the sitting cell faces.  The hungry cell now has something to eat.

In the span of our 50 minute class, little pictures clutter the white board. According to upperclassmen, whatever Whipple puts on the board will be on the test.  But why do his ribosomes look like corn on the cob, while the cell membrane takes the form of a juicy steak. Cell Bio is just before lunch, unlike Cell lab which is right after lunch.  Lab is meticulous but fun.  At some point I hope to explore stream water under a microscope.

On my way to class everyday I walk across a laughing brook.  Gurgling water races over rocks and sweeps through seaweed   It makes the flowers dance and paints the stones orange.  The water is clear and loud.  I love hearing it splash.  A gust of wind carries a painted leaf down from the trees. The leaf mirrors its reflection in the water until the brook catches it up.  And then it's gone,  faster than a college weekend.  Fall colors are not all that visible right now.  Walking across campus you see a clearing over the countryside. But it's really the trees that catch your eyes. They are as noticeable as TU's famous bell tower.  They wave their strong branches showing off their rich dark colors. The colors have appeared so fast that it's almost like little fairies have come in the night.  With paint and brush they have decorated the trees with brilliant colors.

cupcake candles

I spent a day at the Johnny Apple Seed festival in Forte Waine Indiana.  It was insanely big, with unending tents of merchandise and food.  The vendors were dressed in bonnets and dresses, the women that is. The men were decked out in straw hats, overalls, and leather boots.  A few minutes after getting there I smelled cooked apples and simmering hot caramel. 
There, in the middle of a bedlam of buyers and sellers, sat a man stirring a pot of caramel.  It was thin and soupy, with a light brown color.  Next to the man sat a little boy with the biggest chubby cheeks and the widest eyes.  He chewed his lower lip with anticipation before looking up at me. His cheeks folded in half as he gave a wide smile. Luckily, later on I got to try some caramel and apples.  It was sticky and sweet and full of flavor.  At lunch I munched an apple and observed the people around me.
The crowd was mostly families.  Dads pushing strollers, Moms snapping pictures, and Grandparents strolling along, so carefree, as if they hadn't a care in the world.  Off in the distance I heard bagpipes.  Men in Kilts found their way over to my grassy hill.  They played music that turned the heads of everyone around me. As sweet apple juice ran down my forearm I thought to myself, Summer is gone and autumn is here =D

The cutest thing I saw at the festival, something I had to blog about, was a candle.  It was shaped like a cupcake piled with icing.  What a brilliant idea.  A cupcake candle.  I would have bought one but dorm rules wont allow it.  Instead my roommate and and I bought something called smelly jelly. It's a sticky colorful substance that gives off a pleasant apple cinnamon scent. Warm apple cinnamon reminds me of the apple pies I use to bake every weekend last fall.  So I guess I'll have to live with the smell of apple pie instead of the presence of a cute little cupcake.

Spiritual Renewal

One of my college Gen Eds is Fit for Life.   My most recent assignment was to research a disease and give a decent explanation of what it is. I would much rather research a recipe and find a way to improve it. that would most likely be an assignment for a course called unfit for life. Nonetheless, I chose Asthma, a disease I've lived with ever since I can remember.  It's a part of who I am, nothing foreign or strange.  Taking my inhaler is second nature, like brushing my teeth or making my bed (though it is incredibly hard to do when I'm late for class.)  I've really enjoyed my research so far.  I discovered that my primary asthma trigger is cold weather. 

On a chilly September morning my lungs become inflamed and my airways start to shrink.  This is only when I am actively moving around.  Running is the worst.  This morning ran along a straight road just parallel to campus. I passed by the Taylor lake in all its shimmering glory.  The lazy clouds peaked down at their reflection in the water.  I felt my chest getting tighter.  

I persisted for a while longer.  In no time I came upon a beautiful country house.  hanging potted plants decorated its wrap around porch.  At the top of the driveway stood a deer. His antlers suited him well.  We examined each other.  A fearful thought entered my mind of whether or not he would chase me.  I laughed it away uneasily.  A mad dash for my dorm would most definitely result in an asthma attack.

In some ways identifying a disease and learning about it is like identifying a sin.  I've mastered the way I should take care of my asthma.  Sometimes I forget I even have asthma. But have I mastered and overcome the sins in my life?  Living with sin is like living with a disease.  It's chronic.  But like asthma there is a medicine that though you have a sin nature, will free you from the symptoms.

 With inhalers I barely ever wheeze.  On occasion I struggle to breath, but it's nothing a few puffs of medicine can't cure.  What are the inhalers of your life? 

Back to Joy

When you find yourself in a strange place, you normally look for a friend.  It could be a person or a personal belonging.  For many freshmen at Taylor University their friend and security is their phone. It lights up their face in the dark chapel auditorium.  It captures their attention when lectures grow dull. For some people its their laptop.  They hide behind it during class as if the professor might think they were taking notes.  Yet another "friend" could be something as simple as a cupcake.  A cute cupcake is sweet and delicious. It's soft and soothing to the soul and stomach.  It brings a since of comfort.  Though I didn't know it at first, my violin is actually my comfort and security.  Opening my case is like being reunited with an old friend.  A best friend.  Each scale or etude is a conversation, a how are you, a how have you been.  And when I play a familiar tune I'm back home.  Music is a window to another world.  I peer in with excitement while a world of memories unfolds. I think God gives us these comforts to bring us back to joy when we're down.  Find your "back to joy" so that when bad days come, you have something to cheer you up.

Bio Labs No Different Than a Recipe Book

OUR  Bio Labs here at Taylor are fantastic.  We come into lab on our own time and do the work.  Not much different than home schooling.  Black counter tops serve as platforms for the most expensive microscopes I've ever seen.  They're about $2,300 dollars each! The whole laboratory is beautiful.  Each counter top has a jet like sink. It takes pleasure in getting you wet at every chance. Our chairs have wheels and seat adjusters.  Five enormous windows give us sunlight and a gorgeous view of the Taylor campus.  Trees surround us for miles and miles.  Looking past the little green sprouts that the plant bio class is growing, I see the prayer chapel outside.  Not far from that is the TU bell tower.  It plays the most beautiful music before Chapel. I'm taking Cell Bio this semester, so what else would we explore but cells.  Though we come into lab on our own time, we follow a lab manual. At first I didn't know what to expect.  A thin sliver of carrot under a 40X lens meant nothing.  Little did I know that I was about to enter the amazing microscopic world.

Following a lab manual is no different than following a cake recipe.  You read it over a few times to get the idea and just follow the steps.  My favorite thing to observe in lab this week was an onion.  The sliver I cut was so thin that I would see clear through it.  Under the microscope I saw a million little cells squished together, all different shapes and sizes. I put a few drops of blue dye on my slide and watched it seep under the cover slip.  Like a rushing river I watched the dye collide with the water covered onion. Gazing through my oculars, or lenses, I observed swirling waves like those under the deep blue sea.  I half expected to see little whales causing the swirls.  The dye enhanced the onion cells as a beautiful, colored, piping design enhances a cake. I must admit it was hard to take my eyes away.

Baked this before I left for school.  Here in college life is a mass of ticking clocks and moving digits. I watch the clock more than ever. Time is ever and always running out.  Time to sleep, time to read, time to practice, and time to study.  But all the same each day is like a week, and each week a month.  Upperclassmen warn us that freshman year will fly faster than Santa's sleigh during Christmas break. Time will tell.  I just realized that come Olympics in Rio I will be graduated from college!

Today I biked by some gorgeous landscape.  Lush green grass surrounding healthy maple trees.  Trees so tall that your eyes get lost trying to find the top.  Their sturdy branches knock together in the August wind, enjoying these last weeks before they change color.  Who would have known that this place was in a drought?  Just weeks ago the grass, if there was any, prickled your bare feet as it glared up at the sun.  The sun was ruthless and the clouds even worse.  I suppose they were on vacation.  No.  I remember the clouds this summer.  They were heavenly.  But at times it seemed like they taunted the thirsty ground.  Drifting slow enough to give a little rain, they would pass by without a drop. But in the past couple of days, the thunders came and the rain fell. It woke me several times in the night.  Lightening so violent and terrible lit my room.  Thunder loud and startling, fierce and angry drove me under my covers.  But when it came at last,  the forever desired rain storm, who could not help but stand in its showers?  They were welcome and wanted.  They brought life back to our dry and thirsty city.  Everyday I hear another lawn mower.  It sounds as if it's been longing to be out. Plowing down the fresh green grass it sends off that midday summer scent.  That smell of cut grass at a baroque where the hamburgers sizzle and children play volleyball.  Though the summer has ended, the green grass makes me feel like it's just begun.

chocolate marshmallows or cookies?

A good cookie baker reads a recipe and follows directions.  An OK baker looks at the picture, glances at the recipe and does her best.  A great baker reads the recipe aloud and the creation takes form on its own.  Imagine if you could  read a recipe aloud and it would come to life. Imagine was all I could do when I attempted to make brownie clusters yesterday.  I forgot to take note of the chemical reaction of egg whites when I whipped them up.  Puddles of chocolate batter went into the oven while mushroom tops came out. I'm afraid they tasted worse than they looked.  A heavily burnt marshmallow with a hint of chocolate. I suppose you could call it a chocolate marshmallow with a third degree burn.

When I was little I wanted to be like Amelia Bedelia.  What little child doesn't remember the maid Amelia with the funny, daisy covered bonnet. Unfortunately as a maid who's suppose to clean and do laundry her only strength is baking.  In the end of every book she wows her accusers with some amazing delicious creation.  And even if she had turned the whole house upside down, she is still adored for her baking.  All she ever did was put in a little of this and a pinch of that and something amazing would come out of it.  But I'm no Amelia Bedelia.   I'd rather glance at the recipe instead of follow it meticulously.  It's fun to try new things until you fail.  But what is failure but an opportunity to find success.

Like A Baby Without A Diaper

Spent the afternoon baking these! They're a little gritty because I added coffee grounds  straight from the can.  Next time I may grind the coffee a little more before adding it!  While baking, I took a taste of batter just to see how it was.  The bitter taste was no surprise in light of the smell.  Vanilla.  It's the one ingredient I forgot. With chocolate chip cookies, I never use the recipe.  It's engraved in my mind like a signature on a painting. But now and then I forget something, like vanilla.  A cookie without vanilla is like a flower without a smell, a diver without a splash, a baby without a diaper!  Well maybe not the baby, but definitely the flower. Vanilla gives off such a delicious scent that my sister and I use to take a whiff just for fun. Since the coffee smell was so strong and bitter, I put in a whole tablespoon of vanilla extract. Don't ask me, but that could be as risky as putting diesel fuel in a your mini cooper!  Though they came out fine, I'll grind the coffee a little more next time. 

Skyline Cupcakes

Today was wonderful. Yes the clouds were beautiful and the weather was perfect. But that's not what held my smile when I arrived at work.  The first thing I saw when I walked back to clock in was a pink box of cupcakes.  I leave for college next week and my coworkers decided to have a goodbye party! Red velvet with cream cheese frosting, chocolate with peanut butter and good old vanilla on vanilla.  It was such an uplifting day.  I bagged sweets, helped costumers, and swept floors.  I love helping costumer who are about to leave on a long road trip.  They need sweets or bread for the road.  I always suggest muffins. They don't crumble like scones do.  When I'm packing a sandwich for someone on the go, I get so excited.  They are someone I don't even know, but somehow I am a blessing to them by making and wrapping their sandwich. It's kind of a motivation to make it the best way I can. But the costumers I like best are the one's buying bread as a gift.  They are so precise in how they want me to pack it.  The jam they want wrapped in paper and bagged first.  The cookies they want placed in a paper bag with the largest one's on the bottom. I love when little kids come in.  They stare threw the glass at a chocolate chip scone biting their bottom lip with anticipation.  I slip on a glove, grab the biggest one in their view, and slip it into a brown paper bag.  The paper crinkles as I carry it over to the register.  Mother pays. She grabs her bag of bread and hands him the scone.  And they disappear out the door.  People come and go so quickly that I sometimes help the same costumer in the same day without knowing!  I think I'm going to miss helping costumers when I leave for college.

Why do we have bad days?

What do you do when a bad day just gets worse?  The buzz of your phone on vibrate wakes you up, and it's your boss asking you to come in three hours early. So you scratch that two mile run you were supposed  to take, and try to find breakfast. When you arrive, work is dead silent and as peaceful as two swans in a lake.  Then you realize your presence is as necessary as a watering can in a thunderstorm. Why were you called in?  Because somebody got sick.

 A hassle to get sandwiches ready for a catering order gives little time for even a sip of water, let alone a glance at the clock.  When the time comes for a water break you realize coming in early leaves you a 9 1/2 hour shift instead of 6 1/2. A bad day of slipping on tomatoes and refilling empty coffee pots only get's worse when lunch break rolls around. You try to recreate that delicious tuna melt you  made last weekend, only to find that too much tuna makes the bread soggy and there's a live ant worming it's way through your sandwich.  The sandwich goes in the trash: tuna, Swiss,  avocado, bacon, insect and all.

It's after six hours that  your feet feel as heavy as cinder blocks.  Your brain can't take another song by Jason Mraz or Michael Buble. And just to make you feel all the more irritated with the radio, Call Me Maybe comes blaring out of the speakers. You ask for Saturday off, but your boss says no way.  So you work all the more, giving 110%, and watching the clock like Michael Phelps after a race. When your hands are red and hurting from washing dishes, your stomach is still sick from lunch, and the only thing that seems comforting is a giant bed, you think of your creator.  He sees it all.  He cares. Sometimes it seems like bad days are a glitch in God's radar. But maybe they're just there to humble us,  or to help us learn to trust Him?

You know that moment when you've been on the interstate for a long while and the sun is just coming up?  The sun's heavenly rays break through the clouds like Sherlock Holmes flashlight in the foggy streets of London. The first rays of daylight dwindle down to the dewy fields of barley where pretty blue flowers grow along the roadside.  In a moment your eyes grow wide while a smile creeps across your face.

 The same expression and excitement appears right before you go on stage. The heavy red curtains hide the faces of an anxious crowd. You wait for the lights, and when they fire up, a sense of breathless awe captivates your mind in just a moment. And yet again that breathless sense of awe appears as you listen to or play an amazing composition of music. A college senior recital or an orchestral concert captivates both your eyes and ears.  The music takes you on an adventure and you never leave your seat.

It may seem difficult to liken baking to any fantastic moments.  But when you really think about the chemical reaction of baking, it is fantastic.  It's that moment when a tray of raw cookie dough slides into the oven, and slides out soft, crisp, and chewy.  At Great Harvest we have the most exciting cookies for this month.

 Who knew that adding a half cup of roasted ground coffee beans to a chocolate chip cookie would create a taste of heaven?  They're called mocha chocolate chip cookies. Their dark color gives them a warm personality. I find that everything we bake at Great Harvest has a personality.  From the pumpkin chocolate chip muffins, to the grainy, seed covered dakota bread, they give our costumers a wide range from which to choose.

Look for what brightens your day in just a moment. Captivate it and savor it. In this world where things change constantly, and you feel like a bubble surging down a drain pipe towards the ocean, it's good to stop and savor the precious moments around you.

Virginia Brasier 

This is the age

Of the half-read page

And the quick hash

And the mad dash

The bright night

With the nerves tight

The plane hop

With the brief stop

The lamp tan

In a short span

The big shot

In a big spot

And the brain strain

And the heart pain

And the catnap

Till the spring snaps

And the fun's done.

Just a part of my home town

Work was hot and tiring yesterday.  After an accident of 12  burned cinnamon swirls the oven made us all pay for the Baker's mistake. Though I arrived closer to closing, the ovens were still cooling down while fresh baked swirls did the same.  I pushed back my sweaty hair as I hurriedly swept the dusty floors.  A costumer would come in and I would grumble. There was so much work to do, I didn't have time for them.  Of course I had time for them, it just meant I would still be cleaning up after closing.   Dishes cluttered the sinks, lettuce mayo and squashed tomatoes dirtied the sandwich area, and the trash waited for me to empty it.  Some how I managed to finish up at a decent hour. A tiring afternoon turned into a fun night as my family zoomed off to the state fair.

Its the same fair every year, but different.  Back then I was terrified of the fair.  People were everywhere and they smelled like deep fried dough.  The loud crazy rides with flashing lights and screaming people scared me to death. Now I see a place that's just a part of my home town. The deep fried dough is actually good if you taste it.  I wasn't allowed to as a kid. The rides are not meant to scare you but to give you a thrilling experience. And the crazy people screaming? Well they just do that for attention :)

We saw tractors and mowers, farm equipment and farm animals.  We saw people play games to win prizes, win money, and to just embarrass themselves.  But the most memorable event we saw was the horse show.  At least that's what we think it was. The familiar Pepsi Colosseum was coated with fine dirt while little ponies, pulling little chariots, trotted around.  They diligently followed the instructions on the loud speaker. My sister and I slid down into our chairs with embarrassment as our little brothers cheered on the dead silent show, as if it were a horse race. The audience was so quiet you could hear the horse hooves. But my little brothers put an end to that. "PASS HIM ON THE INSIDE!" They would holler.  "YOU'VE GOT THIS! JUST STICK WITH IT." Another would chime in.  Even my five year old sister joined the commotion with a loud, "LET'S GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD!" You've got to love a big family. We all bring something different and unique to every situation.

How's that for inspiration?

It's a hot day and I'm sitting in traffic.  The air is on but the car won't cool off.   The windshield is a magnified glass cooking me like an omelet. The traffic lights plot to trap me.  My car creeps along the road and passes a 40 mph limit sign.  Why is it so crowded?  Time would tell.  So I thought.  Time lied.

My sister and I went out shopping because I had the day off.  Little did we know, everyone else in Indianapolis had the same idea. Cars were lined in every which direction making me feel like a gumball in a jammed machine. Then a saw it, a little frozen yogurts shop: Orange Leaf Frozen Yogurt.  Now I wish we had stopped and tried some.  It was only this summer that I discovered how wonderful frozen yogurt is.  It's the yogurt shop experience that makes it fun.

Just down the street from Great Harvest is a Yogurts shop.  I pass by it everyday contemplating whether or not I should make a stop.  Turns out the yogurt would come to me. One of my coworkers brought in some one afternoon right when I needed it. Swirled beautifully in a pink cup were two delicious ice cream flavors: cake batter and cupcake.  I slowly ate the creamy goodness, savoring each cool, sweet bight. I would much prefer working at a cool fro yo joint all summer than a hot bakery.  Speaking of cool, the 2012 Olympic games had one of the coolest things I've ever seen.

A double amputee from South Africa raced in the Olympic stadium. How's that for inspiration!! I can't get enough of the games.  Each night of watching swimming, track, or gymnastics sparks a desire to do hard things.  It's at the Olympic games that I see the impossible become possible.

Sunday Afternoon

Sometimes I feel like the world is moving too fast for me. Things like technology and fashion change faster than ever; and I ask myself how am I supposed to keep up with this?  I am a child on a moving merry go round, fighting to stay on. But today I saw something different, something that made me smile and think, not everything changes.  Today I saw something that since the dawn of time has never changed, and will never change.  Or so it seems.

After a long Sunday service of sitting still and quiet, the little children went out to play.  I was seated at a picnic table with my brothers and sisters, shaded by a huge pine tree and enjoying a familiar church meal: Sloppy Joe.  And then I saw them,  a crowd of boys and girls running across the yard chasing a frog.  I couldn't even count the number of screaming children.  Of course my little brother Isaac was among them, moving faster than ever with a styrofoam cup.

They cheered and chased: down the dry gassy hill, towards a low creek, and around a small pine tree.  Little boys had loosened their ties and rolled up their pants.  Little girls with long dresses held up their skirts and squealed with pleasure, following close behind.  The mob of children moved this way and that, with a long legged frog hopping for dear life. The whole scene was a chapter out of Tom Sawyer or To Kill A Mocking Bird.

I remember too well the long sermons that melted into long prayers.  O how I longed for the pastor to say You Are Dismissed.  Every Sunday afternoon was a new adventure of running through the woods, splashing in the creek, or climbing the huge birch tree by the south entrance.  Thankfully I find Sunday morning sermons a great blessing these days.  A sermon is often a cool drink of water, refreshing to the soul and mind.  Or like today, a reality check,  studying the wrath and anger of the Lord. Change is good when it's maturity and growing in Christ.  But some things don't change, like little kids after Sunday service. And to me that is a pleasant truth.

What Makes You Smile?

Jordyn Wieber drops out while Gabby Douglas makes it to the all arounds.  The Olympics is so unpredictable.  I certainly thought Michael Phelps would get another gold medal but Lochte slammed the door in his face.


 Sometimes at Great Harvest we do a monthly theme for the holidays.  I sure wish we could do a 2012 Olympic theme. Right now we're stuck with Christmas in July. Our specials are: Cranberry Orange Bread,  Cranberry Orange Scones, and Chocolate Cherry Cookies. The scones are to die for.  January always finishes them off with her citrus glaze that makes them glisten. Oranges are best in winter. But a taste of winter in July is like getting a gift on your half birthday.



For my Dad's birthday this year I made him a vanilla orange cake.  Believe it or not the recipe actually called for orange juice in the cake after it was baked!  My sister and I eyed each other with hesitation as we pierced a whole in the top layer.  The sugary juice mixer funneled nicely into the cake giving it a moist texture.  I topped it off with some gourmet decor.  But this of course was in April, months ago.  Lately I haven't baked anything too extreme supreme.  Watching the Olympics makes me want to work out and get in shape, not bake and eat sweets. I mean, what Olympian eats cookies everyday?  It's almost too funny to see MacDonald's commercials during the Olympic Games.  Next to gymnastics, my favorite event is the synchronized high dive.  Maybe it's this summer heat, but diving into a pool of water from fifty feet up looks so refreshing.

On the topic of movies

Tears streamed down my face.  They stung bitterly as I blinked them away.  My eyes burned as if I were standing in the windpath of a smoky camp fire.  But I was not.  I stood in my kitchen chopping away at a board of onions.  I thought if maybe I chopped fast enough, I could finish before the tears came.  Nonetheless they flooded my eyes as soon as I began dicing. It reminded my of the movie, Julie and Julia.  In one scene, Julia Child is chopping an enormous pile of onions with bitter tears.

On the topic of movies my sister and I were watching The Help staring Emma Stone. Emma plays a southern girl from Mississippi named Skeeter. Aibileen is one of the Help, or maids.  She tells Skeeter that holding a match between your teeth while chopping onions will keep you from crying. Now whoever thought of that?  While watching The Help I got the notion to make a chocolate pie. That notion disappeared faster than a child running from a bee at a summer barbecue once I finished the movie. Pies are fun to make. Chocolate pies sound delicious, but after watching The Help I had no desire.  If  you don't know what I mean, watch the movie for yourself.

Minney is another maid in the movie.  She tells her mistress, Miss Celia, that Crisco is the best invention since Mayonnaise in a jar.  This amuses me because today who uses Crisco in baking?  I never see it on Rachel Ray or Martha Stewart.   But maybe that's just me.  I would substitute butter for Crisco in a heart beat. The only thing for which I use Crisco is greasing a brownie pan. There is something odd about putting Crisco in a batch of cookies that makes it taste fake. Though some would argue that Crisco makes cookies soft on both inside and out while butter only makes them soft on the inside, I have never noticed a difference.

Naturally Inspired

The past couple of days I was on vacation. Seeing nature at its fullest allowed me to see its power. The beauty of nature is inspiring. When I look at nature, I want to be more creative with my baking, such as using more colors or shooting for perfection.  With baking there is always room for improvement.

  Some of the things I saw were rushing rivers and bubbling waterfalls. Bog River Falls is a popular swimming area in Tupper Lake New York.  The rushing water and smooth rocks create a perfect natural water slide.  It's scary at first plunging your body down in the cold water and scooting towards the falls.  Before you know the water has swept you down stream and all you can do is plug your nose.  The water is loud as it gurgles around you.  This year the falls was a bit more shallow due to the lack of rain.  Normally after gliding over the smooth rocks, you surge down into the water and it covers your head.

 Up in the mountains there are huge boulders everywhere.  The beautiful thing about them is the lush green moss that adorns them.  It is moist and soft and also slippery.  The boulders are tempting to climb, but the danger of slipping on my way down kept me from being too adventuress. I did climb a mountain though.  It was only a mile up, but the peak held a perfect view of the Adirondack mountains.

A Peachy afternoon

Sometimes I feel like I could eat nothing but fruit!  It's the best snack and probably the healthiest, besides broccoli.  But I hate broccoli.  Peaches are more appetizing.  Yesterday I made a peach cobbler for my Grandpa.  He wanted it with a crumb topping but also a bottom crust. Pie crust is so fun.  It's also a challenge because you've got one shot at making it perfect. We did the cobbler in a 9 by 13 yellow vintage baking pan. As Buddy from Cake Boss would say, "We're old school." The peaches were golden and slippery.  The peel of a peach comes off much easier than that of an apple.  What's fun to do sometimes is try and peel an apple without breaking the peel.  I took this idea from watching the Andy Griffith show.  It's such a Mayberry thing to do. But I was peeling peaches not apples. The trick with peaches is that they're so soft and juicy that it's easy to accidentally take off too much flesh with the peel. I rinsed my sticky fingers after letting my sister take over slicing the peaches.  Time to work on the crust.  I kneaded the dough and and rolled it out in two squares.  They fit perfectly in the yellow pan.  Normally with a crumb topping I use a pastry cutter and the crumbs are pea sized. This time I used two butter knives because the pastry cutter was on vacation.  Not really, we just couldn't find it.  The knives made my crumbs the size of cherry tomatoes. This apparently was a good thing because we didn't  have enough peaches. The over-sized crumbs filled in the peachy gaps nicely.  So I snapped a picture of the unbaked cobbler but it was eaten up too fast for me to capture it fully baked. 

Light to the Lost

I've been thinking a lot about light, and sharing the gospel.  Light is the sun, the reflecting moon, and the fireflies on a warm summer night.  Darkness is the absence of light, and darkness is a lonely place. Sometimes the burden to share the gospel hangs over me like a heavy blanket.  I am distressed that unbelievers have no salvation and I so wish for them to know Christ.  Yet I am afraid.  How will they respond?  What will they think of me?  My pride gets in the way. But then I remember the light that burns inside of me.

 It's not up to me to save the lost and bring them back to the Father.  I am just a tool in my Creator's hand.  He will guide me like a stick leads the blind.  He will help me as a mother deer guides her young across a slippery river. It's exciting when you think of the hope you can give to others. There is life and purpose beyond this world.  There is a life after death if you give yourself to Christ. But at the same time sharing the gospel is scary. What if I don't explain it right? What if they start asking hard questions? Nonetheless it is my call and purpose in life, to glorify God and enjoy him forever.  What better way to glorify him than to share the gospel.

 God has comforted me lately with prophetic words from Isaiah.  "I will make you as a light for the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth" Isaiah 49:6.  He puts the light in us. In Matthew He says,"You are the light of the world, a city set on a hill can not be hidden, neither do men light a candle under a bushel but on a candle stick and it gives light to all that are in the house" Matthew 5:14.  We as Christians must spread the good news. Not as a chore and not out of fear.  But as a joy, as joyful servants serving the most high. "Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven." I want to be a candle in a dark room burning steadily for all to see.  I want to shine brighter than the sun, not for my own glory, but that others may see He put the light in me.

Indiana French Toast

The other day I was helping a costumer.  He wanted a breakfast bread, so I suggested Cinnamon Explosion.  When he tried some off the bread board he said it was too sweet.  I tried to convince him that sweet is what you need in the morning.  Unmoved by my slight protest, he settled with plain Country French bread. As I sliced the bread I smelled french toast.  It was a weird sensation.  I slice this bread everyday, but today I smelled french toast and craved it.  I could already taste the chewy toast  as I plotted to make it for breakfast with Country French.









 Cracking eggs was the high light of baking when I was little. Now I don't know why.  Maybe it was the sensation of breaking open a shell that I could only break open once, a shell that had never been cracked.  At the present, I hate the sticky yolk that drips down my fingers. Six eggs seemed like enough.  Mom suggested I add some water and cinnamon as I whisked them up.  The buttered pan sizzled beside me with the butter melting slowly. It sizzled and crackled even more when I plopped down a piece of bread. I ate the toast with syrup though I would have liked to shower it with powdered sugar. Powdered sugar is such a beautiful decoration.  It hides the burnt section of a pan of brownies, and brings out the red in a strawberry shortcake.  At work, January sometimes sprinkles her chocolate chip banana muffins with powdered sugar. The syrup proved to be a good sweetener. Nope, eating toast didn't take me to France among the strange and foreign foods. Then again I've never been there so I wouldn't know if it did or didn't.  Perhaps it did and if so, France smells delicious and tastes even better. 

Country French Corn Clouds

I throw a loaf of Country French bread in the slicer and hit the switch.  The motor starts like a machine gun.  As the pieces slide through the cutter I peer across the counter out the window. I look up at the sky.  It is my escape from bakery stress and chaos.  The sky is bright and blue holding wisps of cirrus clouds.  It looks as if God himself artistically painted them.  But far off in the distance beyond the cirrus clouds is a lonely cumulonimbus. But it is not so lonely, for the sun bathes and lavishes it with light.  The bread slides through evenly, and I toss in another loaf. I claim the cloud as my own.  If I could have a cloud to myself, it would be him.  I name him Claudius.  Imagine if he were as firm as a bed pillow?  At top speed I would race down his fluffy hilltops and paw through the snow like rivers.  My cloud would smell like strawberry short cake and taste like raspberry sorbet. But clouds aren't real.  They are but gas in the sky that give shade, and water crops.  The thirsty crops watch me drive to work every day.  They were little corn stalks when the summer began.  Each day they grew greener. Each week they grew taller. Sometimes on my way home, when the lazy sun is drifting in the clouds and the windy high way whips the corn back and forth, I wish to join it.  Like a small child under the kitchen chairs I would silently sneak through the green corn.  And once I had reached the middle of the field I would lay on my back and stare up at the sky. The world would be silent, all but the cars.  And there I would listen.  The sounds of summertime would enhance me with their music.  The winds and waving trees and chirping birds and rustling grass would be a symphony to my ears.  And God himself would be the conductor. But who has time to sit in corn fields listening to the sounds of the earth? No one.  And that is why I write about it.

The Power of the Pen

When we were kids, getting the mail was the most exciting part of the day, next to dad coming home. Five or six of us kids would race out to the mail box, tripping over each other and laughing.  The older ones would reach it first with the little kids tagging along excitedly. I can smell the freshly cut grass and feel the gentile wind of a coming thunderstorm. Only on a rare occasion would their be mail for us.  The majority of letters, bills and advertisements were for Mom.  Sometimes I would get a letter from a distant pen pal.  She always said the same thing, and I always responded with the same questions and answers.  It went something like this.

Dear Tabitha,
How are you? I miss you.  Thanks for the letter. Sorry I haven't written in a while...


I was of course a terrible writer when I was eight, and my spelling was even worse.  But all my letters started out the same way.  I normally answered all her questions, and asked her the same in return.  Nonetheless  I am thankful for childhood  pen pals.  The task of writing letters came in handy shortly after Christmas last year.  To bless my hospitalized grandmother I began writing her lengthy descriptive letters about our family.  I explained to her what it was like in our house around Christmas time.  Words flew from my mind to my fingers as I frantically typed about the scented Christmas tree, the soft white snow banks, the baking gingersnaps, and the hanging stockings.  From her shaky but readable responses I learned she thoroughly enjoyed my letters.  It was almost like she was looking through a window and watching her grandchildren going about their day preparing for the holidays. I am so happy that I wrote those letters.  Winter melted into spring and I told her about the blooming flowers and heavy rains.  I brought more and more of my world to her's.  Just weeks ago my Grandma passed away.  She battled cancer for ten years before God told her it was time to come home.  I rest at peace knowing my letters were a blessing to her in the hospital.  Words are a gift.  Use them for more than a status update or spontaneous text message.  Use them to make a difference.

Home from work hoping they haven't baked Noah's birthday cake.  There on the counter sits a box cake just waiting for me to rip it open.  A plain white cake mix with plain vanilla icing?  A drop of food coloring and some decorative piping tips soon spark some creativity.  Happy 17th birthday Noah!

The Childish Baker

Bursts of color and light explode on the dark horizon.  They are so much more beautiful from a distance.  Their bright magical colors linger just a while longer infusing awe in everyone's eyes.  Fireworks from the fourth inspired me to bake with my little sister yesterday.  I was more in the mood for decorating so we whipped up some simple drop sugar cookies.  With a toothpick I drew little faces in the balls of dough. Some where smiling as I skillfully poked little eyes and a curve of a mouth. Others were sad or sleepy, or afraid of the hot oven.  Olivia laughed as she made her cookie into a Veggie Tales character.  I went with a thin icing, flavored with a little honey and vanilla soy milk. The sprinkles are always the fun part.  I love how little kids take no note of being careful.  I instruct Olivia repetitivley to hold the sprinkles high above the iced cookie.  This way they land evenly. She infoms me that she's got it.  Then she goes and dumps an avalanche of red cristles. 


Baking is one of the best things to do with little kids.  When I was little Mom would let me hit the switch on the mixer.  I loved having the power to blend up something that smelled so delicious. My older sister Katie used to tolerate me in the kitchen when she baked.  One hot midsummer afternoon we baked some inside out chocolate chippers.  I danced playfully around the kitchen so excited to be helping. While she occupied herself with the butter and sugar I attempted to sift the dry ingredients.  This was of course years before my high school chemistry lecture on the importance of units.  I glanced at the directions and saw half a tsp. of salt.  In my childish eyes everything was measured in cups and so I completely disregarded the tsp.  "Katie should I put in the half cup of salt?"  My older sister, otherwise occupied, confirmed my question with, "Whatever its says Jules."  Out of its little spout the salt raced from the container.   I grimace now thinking how I generously poured that salt into the mixing bowl.  I can honestly say Katie and I both nearly threw up tasting that awful cookie dough.  With Mom not home from grocery shopping, we sought a way to get rid of the batter. Down the drain seemed like the best idea. The dark chocolate dough found its way down the sink until it got clogged. In the end we ran water untill the sink overflowed and we broke the garbage disposal. Memories like this remind me to take it easy when baking with little kids :-)

That Darn Sour Dough

I sliced my finger yesterday at work.  Luckily the bakery was empty and no one but Sallymae witnessed my accident.  I was surprisingly calm.  That is untill I saw the split nail.  It was a stale loaf of sourdough that caused the slip. I heaved pressure on the hard crust and sawed back and forth.  The knife slipped like a guilitine and the blood gushed like a popped water baloon. After we wrapped it tightly in a bandade my finger gave off a swift steady pulse. The sight of the bread, the knife and the blood made me loose my appitite for the rest of the day.  We closed and I went home with a box of 4th of July sugar cookies. I wasn't even tempted to try one.

After an injury you realize how amazing the human body is.  My finger throbbed with pain as  I felt the cells racing through my body to heal the wound.  How do they know to do that?  My nervouse system kept me from flexing my finger by emitting a sharp pain everytime I tried. How does it know my finger can't properly heal if I attempt to excersise it? My finger begged for pressure to keep the blood from spilling  out.  Even now I feel the aid of a steady pulse.  How intelligently made my body is. What a thoughtful and precise creator I have. My five year old sister came to Mom last night with a question, "Mom" she said crawling into bed. "If people dont believe in God, than who do they think made them?"  It's plain even to a five year old that humans were created and inteligently designed.
Happy Fourth everyone.  Remember our greatest freedom is our freedom in Christ.

My hands are dried out from washing dishes. Our dishwasher is broken so the only solution at this point is to do it by hand. I don't mind it so much when I have a clean dish cloth and plenty of dish soap. Of course washing one's own dishes is a mindless simple task, but when your six little simblings leave their dishes for you to wash, it becomes a bigger opporation. When I close at Great Harvest I have to wash all the bread knives and sandwich spreaders. Three giant wash sinks sit in the back wash room. One is filled with steaming hot dish water. I always brace myself when I plunge my hands into the scorching hot water to find the hidden dishes. A thin layer of bubbles hides the dishes. The other two sinks are for rinsing and sanitizing. As I wash the dishes and the clock winds around to closing time, Sallymae brings back more and more dishes: cutting boards, cookies sheets, pans, tubs, soup dishes, ect. I am in the company of so many dishes, and gallons of water, yet I am alone. All the same it's here in the washroom that I learn what all the dishes are and how the bakers use them. The most difficult dish to wash is the dough press. It looks like a piece of an airplane engine, and weighs more than half the luggage you bring on an airplane. The bakers use the dough press to divide cookie dough into equal portions. The very best part about doing dishes, is spraying out the dirty sinks. I clean out the sink With a giant hose like sprayer, which hangs by a spring above me. I smile with pride as I see those sinks shiny clean. I know in just a few hours the bakers will be back to start the process all over again. I rub my sore red hands, everything hurts from standing all day. Buts it's nothing a good apple crumb bar can't cure!

lazy baking

Baking is the best way to spend a lazy sunday afternoon. After church this sunday I spent the day baking at my friends house. Sometimes it's aggravating to bake in someone else's kitchen.  "Where are the spices?" I find myself asking.  "Where are the measuring spoons? And why don't you have a microwave?" We discovered that leaving frozen butter out in the hot June sunshine proves more profitable than microwaving it.

Microwaves aren't always good to me.  I've learned to keep my eye on that rotating stick of butter.  One minute it's a dry pasty stick, the next minute a pool of golden liquid. To keep it from melting completely I normally watch the top center.  When it starts to sink like a whorl pool, I take it out.  All the same we managed without a microwave, and softened enough butter to cover three loaves of Country French bread from work.  But of course we didn't soften the butter for toast.  We used it to make some two dozen cookies and a delicate white cake.  It sounds easy enough when I put it that way, but for a long silent while, we sat at the kitchen table searching through recipes.

I was surprised at the number of cookbooks they had.  Some were even from the 1940s!  But O how I love looking through cookbooks. The smell of cake flour resinating from the pages gets me in the mood for baking.  I stroke the thin, white, printed pages between my fingers.  I think about where this cookbook has been.  What dusty shelves has it inhabited? What little child's fingers have pawed through it, looking for delightful pictures? And most of all which of its recipes have inspired some of the most extravagant cooks and bakers?

We lingered a little longer around the table before we finalized our decision.  Two cake pans came out of the corner cabinet, while a mixing bowl came down from the one above it.  We beat butter and sugar, separated eggs, and fished out the accidental yokes. I toyed with the egg shells, tossing the yolks back and forth between shells.  The stubborn egg whites separated from their yokes reluctantly.  With a handheld mixer I whipped the whites.  The rapid spinners threw my arm back and forth.  I took a tighter grip.  A few moments later I checked for a stiff peak.  The frothy whites where Colorado's snowy slopes.  Maybe more like Alaskan slopes or an arctic waste land.  They folded perfectly into the ready cake batter.  The batter was unusually thick.  While folding the whites, the batter climbed up the mixer with intensions to destroy the machine.  We giggled and laughed at the seemingly alive batter.  The mixer fought back seeking to keep the cake batter in it's place. A little while later found the cake baked and cooling on a rack. To top it off, we iced it in black and white.  White frosting piped in chocolate icing.

Salmonella Poinsoning, Fact or Fiction?

Eating a warm freshly baked cookie is delicious. But eating cookie dough is even more so. We all grew up eating cookie dough while baking. Aside from enjoying the sweet batter, tasting it was part of the baking process. You add a little flour to a creamy batter and taste it. With my chocolate chip cookies, I taste it to know if they're ready to go in. But research shows that eating cookie batter has high risk of internal infection. Everyone has heard this statement at one point, and since I've never gotten sick, I thought it was just parents trying to kill the fun. Salmonella poisoning is the most popular infection. But what exactly does that mean? Salmonella can get into raw cookie dough because it can contaminate the eggs used to make the dough. It's a bacteria that can cause atrocious symptoms like vomiting, nausea, cramps, fever, diarrhea and headache.  About 142,000 (reported) Americans are infected each year with Salmonella poisoning from chicken eggs, and about 30 die. Should this scare you? Maybe so. But living in fear of catching some disease all the time is no way to live life. If doctors say don't eat it, we may say, then why do you put it in ice cream? Anyway it's not just the raw eggs that carry this infection. A friend of mine said her mom got Salmonella from eating unwashed lettuce! Other reports say uncooked flour may give you infection! Take precautions, do some research, think twice before you take another spoon of cookie dough. But don't live in fear of bacteria contaminating your body. Remember the one who's in control of all the molecules and atoms that make up this world. http://melissaraydavis.hubpages.com/hub/Eggless-Chocolate-Chip-Cookie-Dough-Recipe-VeganDough-Recipe-Vegan Check out this recipe I found! ^

http://www.delish.com/food/recalls-reviews/danger-of-eating-raw-cookie-dough-can-result-in-e-coli