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!