written by Liz Smith

Sunshine dancing on the leaves of a giant spider plant, the kitchen sparkling, and my excitement building as I waited for that magical hour when the baking would begin. “Two mugs full of flour. A pinch of salt. Crack the eggs on the counter, so the shells don’t fall in the bowl.” My grandmother’s gentle guidance in my ear, as we stirred the batter in our mismatched floral aprons. The recipe card was there, but we rarely followed it. Sometimes our cookies were amazing, sometimes we forgot the sugar. 

My Italian grandmother, on the other hand, taught me that cooking was a science, a passion, and if done correctly, a way to love your family well. Learning to make sauce for Sunday dinner was vital. Pesto was a pleasure, and cannoli could solve most problems in the world. Taste and balance were paramount, and one should never pour salt in the measuring spoon directly over the bowl of ingredients. A lesson learned the salty way. 

If something was too bitter, we added a bit of sweet, if the sauce was too liquidy, we cooked it longer and longer…FOREVER, in fact. And then out of nowhere, fabulous flavors would emerge at the bottom of the pan.

I love all these kitchen memories and recall them often. The successes and the failures. The moments that sparked my own curiosity and creativity in the kitchen, and the gratitude I have towards both my grandmothers for introducing me to two wildly different cooking styles. To go off recipe still feels so adventurous, so rogue. To follow a great recipe with rave reviews from my tasters can still invoke that feeling that all is right in the world. I find myself cooking in both styles depending on my mood and level of creativity that day. Both developing my own recipes and always on the hunt for the best cookbooks on the market. 

As my husband and I have embarked on a season of life changes (new careers, new marriage, and a large move across the country). I find myself reflecting on those old lovely memories, as I wake up early on a Saturday morning to bake experimental cookies and cook my grandmother’s sauce, in an effort to bring a sense of comfort and normalcy to our new lives. 

Grandma’s Sauce Recipe:
1 tbsp. olive oil
2-3 cloves garlic, minced
1 28 oz. can of tomato purée
1 of the 28 oz. can filled with water
18 oz. (3 small cans) of tomato paste
3 paste cans filled with water
1 tsp. dried basil
1 tsp. dried oregano 
1 large bay leaf 
2 tsp. salt

In a large sauce pot over medium heat, add 1 tablespoon olive oil and minced garlic. Cook garlic until translucent. Add tomato purée, then fill the tomato can with water and pour in the pot. Add the tomato paste and 3 small paste cans of water. Add the dried spices and salt. Stir to combine. Bring to a boil, stirring often so the bottom of your pot doesn’t burn. Once the sauce comes to a boil, turn heat down to a simmer. Stirring as needed, cook for approximately 2 hours or until desired consistency is achieved. Remove the bay leaf. Serve over pasta and enjoy! A single recipe makes 4 servings. 

*As a twist on the original recipe, we often use crushed tomatoes or fire roasted petite diced tomatoes in place of the purée.

We are in the midst of a very hot week here in the metropolitan Phoenix area. This is the time of the year often referred to as the “Dog Days” of summer, which conjures up images of hot and humid days where dogs laze around in the shade, just trying to stay cool. Here in the Southwest it’s actually too hot for dogs even to go outside, let alone laze in the shade.  These are the days when I used to walk my corgi, Chip, at 4:30 in the morning, so he’d not overheat or burn his little feet on the sidewalk. The Dog Days of Summer necessitate slowing down a bit and taking stock of life.

The term “Dog Days” actually comes from ancient Mediterranean cultures that watched the sky for the appearance of the star Sirius (roughly between July 3 and August 11 in the Northern Hemisphere), when days were hottest, and the heat drove dogs and men crazy. Sirius is known as the “Dog Star,” because it is the brightest star in the constellation Canis Major (Latin for “Greater Dog”).

These are the days when things are a little quieter around the church. People choose this time of year to be anywhere else but here, vacationing in the mountains or at their summer homes in the upper Midwest. Even pastors tend to take vacation around this time of year, whether in New England or Jolly Old England.  This can be a time of restoration, and if we’re sticking around town, we’re lying low, avoiding doing things outside while the sun’s up.

Though it’s a bit quieter, life goes on. People still come to church! That’s amazing. We still have opportunities for fellowship and learning. And, it’s also a time when pastors can catch their breath. One of the things I have realized lately is that I spend so much time being professionally spiritual, leading others in their personal growth in faith, that I neglect my own spiritual path. The Dog Days of the Summer is a good time for me to step back and assess my spiritual health. Just like a child’s report card that says, “Johnny plays well with others,” I think my faith report card would say, “Little Mikey prays well with others…but he avoids praying on his own.”  So, in these recent days, I’ve decided to reconnect with my own prayer life. Because it’s light so early and because I tend to get up with the sun, I definitely have ten minutes to “tune in” to God. It feels rusty now to do so.  It feels like I’m in a rut right now with prayer. And I can get a bit discouraged, especially when, as soon as I sit down to “listen to God,” I hear about all that’s going wrong in the world. Yet, if I am able to discern anything from God right now, it’s, “Keep listening. I know you don’t hear anything right now, but keep tuning in. Just relax. It’s the Dog Days of Summer. Lie low. Rest up. Don’t think about being in a rut…think more that you’re in a groove. A well-worn groove…where you can go a bit into auto-pilot mode, and let go. Rest up. Fall is coming. There will be plenty to do. I am restoring you as you rest up. There is always more to do. During these Sirius Days, be a little less serious. Breathe, and rest in my shade…and enjoy the summer with more childlike wonder.”

Sounds good to me.  Happy Dog Days!

Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.” ~ Psalm 91:1-2

With each image cut out, I fought the thoughts as they popped in my head. Picturing them like a bubble; I pop them to get rid of them fast. As I quickly use scotch tape to affix each picture on the page, I realize it’s too late. Despite my best efforts, it made its home in my head. And by the time I hand over the packet to the preschool administrator, I have tears in my eyes. The dreaded thing was in full force. 

Ashamed of the finished product I created for our soon-to-be preschooler; a “Me Book”, a scrapbook she’ll use to share her life with her teacher and fellow students throughout an entire school year. “She deserves better,” I kept saying to myself. I imagined the “Me Books” of other students. They probably had real pictures printed on photo paper or at least cardstock. Not printer paper using a printer on the brink resulting in faded and fuzzy images. Their parents probably use glue dots discreetly on the back. Not uneven pieces of scotch tape. Shoot, their family pictures are probably up to date too! Not eleven months old. Have you noticed how quickly kids grow?? And how do we not have a single family picture in nature where my husband is wearing a shirt? Well, we at least have that going for us – he’s a handsome Dad. 

Welcome to my inner thoughts. It can get scary in here. I do my best to think logically about all of this. In the scheme of things, this is minimal. Why would this project make her think you love her less? You’re most likely not the only mom using scotch tape. I know I’m not the only mom who thinks like this. 

While I was trying to blow these bad thoughts out of my mind (that’s what my Yoga teacher mom tells me to do) I remembered a morning spent with a friend. A few years back, before I had a child of my own, I sat at her kitchen island while she made her son’s class snack. I watched as a completely amazing, loving, intelligent and accomplished mother, quickly unraveled over how to tie individual boxes of milk in a cute and exciting way. I remember thinking, “It’s too early for a drink, but maybe we should anyway because it’s just milk.” 

But now, with a child of my own, I understand completely. There’s this super ugly, unwanted, and dreaded thing that comes with having a child–mom guilt. You can feel pretty good one minute and the next, you’re the worst mom ever. Why do we do this to ourselves? I called that friend this morning to see if she knows why. We threw around a few thoughts: 

1) Expectations we place on ourselves. Maybe because of what we thought we’d be as parents. Maybe because we wanted to parent differently than our parents did. Or maybe because we thought we could do better on a certain task which brings us to a second thought: 

2) Comparison. Thanks to social media and Pinterest, there are literally endless opportunities to compare how you measure up to another mom. They say comparison is the thief of joy. So you too can have endless opportunities to lose joy if you let yourself go there. 

3) Some shift in brain chemistry happens through becoming a parent and now you produce guilt. It just oozes out of your brain. Ok, so this might not actually be science but we threw it in there anyway because why else does this happen. 

If you struggle with the dreaded, no good, ugly mom guilt thing too–have you stopped to consider why? What are your techniques to combat it? I have no good answers. No promises of sure fixes. Though I can promise you there are moms out there talking each other off the ledge. Providing a tight hug, a warm coffee, a good laugh, and a reminder that you are a great mom. A mom who loves their kids tremendously with a love that cannot be challenged by the quality of a “Me Book” or how creative you can wrap a milk box. And your child needs exactly who you are.

There's an essayist whose writings I've enjoyed named Will Hoyt.  In one of his essays he writes about how he learned to read.  Nothing there about how old he was when he learned the alphabet.  Nothing about "Bob Books" or other series used to teach kindergarteners.  Nothing about techniques at all.  Instead, he writes about hiking.  He says that it wasn't until he learned how to really hike—how to pace himself, what to look for, conserving energy and expending attention, looking up and looking down, appreciating the direction of sunlight and the flow of a day's heat on the climb, anticipating inclines and flatter lines, experiencing the same hill in different ways on different days—that he learned how to move through a book.  It was after becoming an experienced hiker, he said, that he learned how to relate to an author too.  So by this account, it wasn't until he was an adult that he learned how to read. 

I like to hike when I can, but I'm no hiker like Will Hoyt is.  But I get what he's saying.  I understand, intuitively, that reading—at least as it's been understood in Western culture until recently—is about more than processing information inscribed in words, sentences, and paragraphs.  But it took me a long time to learn that, too.  And I had to learn it in my own way.  Reading is a work, a relationship, an adventure, a discipline, and a gift.  And it's also an environment, in its way.  

I think my first glimmer of all of this came from growing up in a house full of books.  My father enjoyed reading and always had a book or two in the briefcase he took to work.  But my mother was the lover of books.  At any used books sale she could find she'd buy all kinds and sorts of them.  And she read most of them.  When I was a toddler she bought a metal hanging system and unfinished wooden boards (which she carefully sanded and stained) so she could install shelves in our little living room wall.  I watched her.  She took down and put up those same shelves in every house she lived in from then on--for six decades and five houses.  And more were added, room by room.  Bookshelves became images of access to a larger world.  

I suppose a screen can work like those shelves, but it's different.  Maybe there's a trace of that difference in how I decide whether to buy a digital book for my iPad or a physical book for my own shelves.  I tend to make the decision by how I think I'm going to relate to what's inside. It's not perfect, but that's pretty much how I do it.  If I think my relationship to the words will be instrumental, meaning there's some information I need that I'll simply process and use, I'll buy a digitized copy.  It's so much more convenient.  However, if I think I might savor something, read and reread parts of it, argue with an author or consider her ideas in a way that's different than just processing words, I'll likely buy a physical book.  I'll hold it in my hand.  I'll catch my breath a bit before I decide whether I'm going to write in it or not.  I'll put it on a shelf alongside other books (not just thumbnails of title pages on a screen).  But I might be a fossil in this.  I doubt my children make the same distinction—at least not yet.  

Yet I still think there's something to a physical book, even if there are some advantages to screens.  Words on a page and words on a screen just aren't the same things, and the way we approach the information within them is different—even if they influence each other.  Not better or worse.  Just different.

When my family recently faced the inevitable challenge of deciding what to do with my mother's massive library, we ended up filling six medium sized Home Depot packing boxes with just cookbooks.  Just cookbooks—and my mother, to be honest, didn't really cook!  I mean, she made meals—and sometimes quite carefully.  But she didn't cook in the way Will Hoyt hikes, or the way she read.  Yet she still had all those cookbooks.  I wondered why.  I was tempted to think it wasteful.  I chuckled and thought how quaint (and burdensome) those boxes feel in time when all I need to do to get a recipe for an Ethiopian dessert is go to Google or search the New York Times cooking section online.  Cookbooks are passe, I figured.  I don't want any of them.  And so we packed them up, commiserating about why she had so many in the first place.  

After a while, though, I began to realize that these cookbooks weren't shelved in her kitchen to be used—even if a few of them were used now and then.  They were there as windows, thoughts, connections, blurred lines between place and adventure.  They were living reminders that her experience of life is not the only experience of life.  And they were symbols of possibility.  To see the spine of a glossy pictured volume that reads Soups of the Orient next to a paperback Heart Healthy Lunches is a kind of invitation to a hike, I guess: what to pack and what to look for.  Maybe one of the volumes would get pulled off the shelf on a lark, for a looksee, or inspire an experiment the next time some friends came by.  Maybe the old, stained and breaking Betty Crocker in the same line of vision as Keto Forever helped keep the present moment in perspective—and gave depth to time.*  Maybe all those cookbooks were more alive for her than I thought when I'd chuckle over them on visits.  We read our shelves as much as we read the books on them.  

Maybe all of this is why I'll look up a passage of scripture on my iPad or iPhone if I need it quickly for some reason, but I'll never read scripture from a screen when I'm leading worship.  I hold a bound Bible in my hand, to remind worshippers that the passage I'm reading is part of a diverse library of revelation.  And maybe all of this is why every once in a while I'll start a book and actually finish it—when for a reason that still has some mystery in it, it becomes something more than a source of information I can pick up and put down.  When it becomes a conversation partner.  

Maybe hiking is how we learn to do it.  Or perusing and sightseeing.  Or conversation.  Or discipline. Or study.  Or worship.  

Take up and read.

* I made up those titles (except for the Betty Crocker), as the boxes have been donated to the local public library, but I think you get the point. 

written by: Tommy Strawser

This month, I celebrate the 10th anniversary of when I was supposed to leave Arizona and return to my home coast where I left family, friends, and the familiarity of how the world worked. With my small four-door car packed with life essentials and a small library of audiobooks (which I listened to all of half a chapter), I began a road trip to a new home that would place me farther than the five hour driving radius of the town I grew up in. 

Upon finishing my master’s degree (one of the main reasons for my initial move), I didn’t immediately go from my commencement walk back into my overstuffed sedan and return to the life I knew. And I had every reason to leave; birth of my sister’s second kid, death of my grandfather and a best friend, weddings, family vacations, a personal library filled with actual books, performance opportunities, and an understanding of who/what/why I was.

But with all these things pulling me east, I didn't leave. I stayed. And stayed. And kept staying.

Now throughout my studies in music and theatre, there are two methods that I have built not only my performance career around, but also the way I approach the world (any world) I interact with. The first is Body Mapping, based on the Alexander Technique,  which is the ability to align one’s body in order to reduce injury through the repetitive motions of music making. The second is any and everything written by Anne Bogart (lol), but more specifically her and Tina Landau’s actor guide in The Viewpoints Book. 

In body mapping, I was taught “the part is connected to the whole” and we need to keep an awareness of our body in the space it is occupying. In Viewpoints, I learned to develop an “inclusive awareness” meaning no matter what we focus on, we also notice what lies on our peripheral vision or “soft focus”. Combining these two techniques (and a few other teachings I’ve learned along the way), I have yet to feel lost when faced with any challenge…on or off stage. 

So. Staying in Arizona.

After my first year in this desert, I noticed my body was adapting to the climate famously referred to as “dry heat”. I didn’t need to carry my gallon water jug everywhere I went (including my bed), my breathing got used to the arid air, and I could go a full day wearing a single outfit.

By year three, I decided to bring my soft focus into focus. I noticed more of nature by taking up hiking, started to explore neighborhoods during my show tours, and visited arts and cultural events I wouldn’t typically attend. 

As I started to shift focus on where I was and what was around me, I found myself more open to experiences in the present moment. It has led me to wonderful work opportunities, an amazing family, and (in general) a lower stress life. 

I am looking forward to what the next ten years will bring.