Bread, Part Two

          I almost forgot about the post I made awhile back about bread.  With the weather getting warm, I haven't been as inclined to fire up the oven as I am when it's cold outside.  But there was a portion of dough in the fridge, and Evie was at her grandma's for the afternoon, so I decided it was time for fresh bread with dinner.

          This is also the time of year when my late father-in-law is on my mind a lot.  Mike was a wonderfully kind, loving guy who always seemed to be smiling or laughing about something.  He was also one of those few individuals I've mentioned who radiate Christ's love like a holy wood stove.  He also died in the spring of 2012, a week before I discovered I was pregnant.  Every time I see spring flowers, I remember the way I first saw them after Mike had passed; fresh, saturated with color and scent, and so damn beautiful it was like they didn't know he was gone.

This was one of Mike's favorite Bread songs, and it's still one of ours.  I always feel like crying a little when I hear it.  Not a painful cry, but a good refreshing one.  I really would give anything to have Mike back in our lives, but until we do meet again, there's the comforting power of music.  And good food. 

Chicken piccatta, minus the capers, with fresh oregano.

The second half of bread making is as easy as the first, using the method I started outlining in the first Bread post.  This one picks up where that one left off, after the initial counter rise once the dough has had some time to chill out in the fridge.

It's not essential that the dough be cold, but it is a lot easier to handle and shape that way.  So first you pull the dough container out, sprinkle flour liberally on top, and dust your own hands with some flour as well.  Then, for a medium-sized loaf, you take out a grapefruit-sized hunk of dough (if it's stretchy
and hard to tear, just cut it with scissors).  



Here's the tricky step, called cloaking.  You hold the dough in one hand, then use your other to gently sweep the doughy surface out and under, from the top on down.  Rotate the ball a quarter turn, then do it again.  You repeat this for about 30-45 seconds, then rest the loaf on a prepped pizza peel.  I use cornmeal on mine, but you can use flour if you like.  The main idea is to have enough on the peel to keep the loaf from sticking when you go to slide it off.

 Once you've got the loaf shaped and on the peel, it needs to proof, which is just a fancy word for rising.  While it's rising, go ahead and heat the oven up to 450 degrees Fahrenheit, with two racks inside; Top one for the baking stone, bottom for a broiler pan or similar metal pan. 

After about 30 minutes, the dough will be ready to bake.  Dust the top liberally with flour, then slash it with a serrated knife.  You can do a simple cross cut, or a tic-tac-toe pattern or scallop it, it doesn't have to be fancy.  Then, get a cup of water ready nearby.  First, slide the loaf off the peel and onto the hot stone (this takes practice-believe me!), then dump the cup of water into the hot pan and quickly close the oven door.  The pan will hiss and steam, but you want that.  Steam helps the crust to form. 


 Set the timer for 30 minutes, and watch the magic! After 30 minutes, check the loaf by thumping the crust.  If it sounds kind of hollow, it's done.  If not, let it go another 5-10 minutes.  It's always better to overbake and get the crust a little more brown than to be chewing on a doughy, half-gooey bread. 

When it's finished, take it out with the peel (again, this takes practice!), and put it on a rack to cool. Then grab a bread knife and some butter and honey, and Cut.  That.  Sucker.  Open.  I promise you'll never eat store bread the same way again, ever.  That, and this will make your house smell amazing. 

This is the regular white artisan bread, but there are hundreds of variations involving different types of flour, herbs, nuts, you name it.  For more information from the Artisan Bread in 5 website, click here:Artisan Bread in 5 Minutes a Day

The best part, is that homemade bread is good with just about anything you can think of.  Soups, salads, roasts, pasta, or even by itself.  We've spent many an evening making passes through the kitchen to snag another slice of jam-covered goodness! 

When things are going well, or poorly, or only so-so, bread is a wonderful constant.  It not only fuels us, but keeps us grounded to the earth, our family, our foundations of life.  As a kid, I always imagined the manna from heaven must be sweet like cake, but I think it was probably more like this.  You'll have to decide for yourself.

Much love from the kitchen!

Simple Gifts

          I was going to post something else tonight.  I was going to post about the usual family stuff, along with photos and a recipe for the panko-breaded pork chops I made for dinner.  And I will, another time.  But my heart is pulling me in another direction, towards a man and a particular brand of faith in God that has influenced my spirituality since childhood.

         Let me back up and explain.  After my mother left my father when I was six, we lived with my aunt and uncle and five cousins for a year before moving into a tiny 1-bedroom apartment in Milford, New Hampshire.  We'd been attending a couple of churches before then, and now started going to First Baptist Church there in Milford.  It was different from the Baptist churches I've been to in the South, closer to the roots of American Christianity.  A little more "old school".  It didn't sport fancy screens to display worship lyrics, or even really have a worship band.  It had a grand, beautiful pipe organ that reached all the way to the ceiling, wooden pews with long, dusty-smelling cushions, and a giant teddy bear of a man for a pastor.

           Especially from a kid's perspective, Pastor Miller was huge and dignified, almost stern looking.  My sister Mandi told our mom she couldn't invite him to dinner because he was too big to fit through the door.  But the first time I ever heard him laugh put those preconceived ideas to shame.  He didn't laugh; he boomed with a deep, rich laughter that almost matched his singing voice.  He'd once served in the Marines, and sang in their choir.  So every Sunday, you could hear his opera-worthy voice accompanying the joyful tones of the pipe organ in worship.  He was also a police officer, and would always smile and wave from his patrol car when we saw him in town.

            Like pretty much everyone at that church, Pastor Miller never failed to give me and my sister big bear hugs at church.  As a child of divorced parents, I savored every single one, because I knew without question that this man loved and accepted our family, regardless of where we'd come from.  He wasn't a man who flaunted his clergy status, but went about his ministry with a simple brand of love and kindness that I'm still chasing to this day.

            He spoke the same words of welcome and benediction nearly every Sunday, but always with the same intonation of goodwill to the people he was praying over.  I distinctly remember one funeral service he performed, the father of my best friend Shana.  He was a Hindu from Ghana who'd converted to Christianity and then died of kidney failure.  I wasn't sure what to think of his relatives who'd come to mourn; they were mostly Hindu, and a couple of them liked to wail really loudly as part of that mourning.  Pastor Miller offered a communion service that day, as always saying that we were free to partake or free not to.  But here's the thing; he always said it with a gentleness of spirit that said you were welcome regardless of whether or not you took it.

           He was so warm and understanding that day, that the memory has become a gift in my heart.  I've only met a precious few examples in my life of genuine Christlike love, and only one or two of those have been pastors.  If you've ever met these people, you've seen this pure, unfettered love and compassion pouring from them like spring water.  To Pastor Miller, it wasn't the formal trappings and rituals of a church that mattered, or how many people he converted, or even how much got put in the collection plate.  To him, it was people who mattered.  And he was so like Christ in that respect, that I find myself wishing I'd paid closer attention to what he said from the pulpit.

           I hadn't seen or spoken to Pastor Miller in 16 years, but when I heard he'd died today, I still felt like crying.  Even though he's home with the Lord now, I feel bad for the people still here on earth that they don't get to hear his belly laugh or know the profound words of love, mercy, and grace he gave to the people around him.  Hopefully he can read this from Heaven, and know that I'm thankful for the love he showed us and the spiritual wisdom he imparted.

             Now I have a feeling I'll spend the rest of my adult life trying feebly to do the same.

Hello, Tornado Season, Goodbye Sanity

         Springtime in Arkansas can get, shall we say, "eventful".  I'm not talking about trees and flowers blooming, or fishing, or Easter egg hunts, or any of the typical springtime activities.  Nope, now is usually the time of year I start keeping a pair of shoes and a flashlight beside the bed in case we are woken by that magical siren less than a block from our house. 

          You see, tornado watches and warnings are standard here in western Arkansas.  The moisture and warming air make for perfect tornado conditions, though we really only worry if the sky turns a pea-soup green.  I never used to fear tornado weather, until I had kids.  Now I picture a twister ripping the roof off our house and debris flying everywhere while we huddle in the bathroom. 

           It doesn't help that we are now in full-on potty training mode with our 3-year-old daughter.  So far, she's done very well with only a few accidents here and there, but we're not out of the woods yet.  So in addition to dealing with a toddler wandering out of her room 10 times after lights out debating if she has to pee or not, I have the extra delight of trying to settle a 4-month-old infant down to sleep.  And by "sleep", I mean stay still and quiet long enough to grab a bite to eat, a shower, or *GASP* some time alone!

           While these struggles are pretty standard for parents, it can be bedlam for a railroad family like ours.  Case in point: Jon was recently called to Shreveport on a trip, which typically lasts 2 days before he comes home.  He was stuck in the hotel down there for 3 days, gone for 4 total.  That meant 4 days mostly alone with a potty training toddler and a clingy baby obsessed with my breasts.  Easter Sunday we were sitting in a pew with my mother, stepfather, and mother-in-law, and everyone was so happy and joyful.

           Except me.

           Don't get me wrong, I tried to put on my best happy face and hide the fact that I was a depressed, exhausted mess.  And deep down, I was truly happy and grateful for the Resurrection and the knowledge that Christ chose us, chose people like me.  But I just wasn't feeling the ambient cheerfulness of all the brightly colored flowers and Easter clothes around me.  I was on my battleground, trying feebly not to let the depression win.

           You have to understand, thanks to medication I'm okay most days.  Life is still bonkers, but I can handle the bonkers with a much more level head than I would without the medicine.  But some days, when Jon is far from home and there's no end in sight, I get pretty damn lonely without my partner, my teammate.  There's no doubt I would not be able to hack it as a military wife, not without a close web of other military wives around me.

           Now that Jon is home, I'm a little better but still being a neurotic little ball of nerves.  Today we agreed that once he got home from his rules testing, I would have uninterrupted mommy time.  But even while trying to relax, my little hyperactive June Cleaver brain is so busy obsessing over chores that need doing, I can't enjoy it.  Not even a little.  Instead, all I can think about is how disgusting the bathroom is, the clean laundry in the living room waiting to be folded, and how all that has to be done before the girls' play date tomorrow afternoon. 

           Fun, huh? 

          No wonder I've been shedding my hair like a Saint Bernard lately.  Not much left to do but polish off my hard cider and loaf around a bit more.  But if you hear a little mouse getting up at midnight to scrub the toilet...don't check on it.

Tip # 2- Find Your Happy Place

           Remember the movie Finding Nemo, where the terrifying little girl taps on the fish tank and the little starfish tells herself, "Find a happy place! Find a happy place!"?  Oh, how many days do I feel like that poor little starfish stuck in a glass box getting tortured repeatedly by small children!

           Before writing this, I was convinced my one and only happy place was my garden, but that's not entirely true.  The happy place is a state of mind, reached through things like the garden, and writing, and consuming obscene amounts of baked goods.  In the wee hours of the morning, the happy place is snuggling the baby on my chest while I burp her, fuzzy warm head nestled under my chin.  Sometimes it's my kitchen, particularly when I'm joined by my husband and the girls and we're all in a relatively good mood. 

           There's certain times when I've been in such moments and taken a step back in my own head, looking upon the scene and realizing it's one of those I'd thought about way back in my single days.  Just being present in the moment with my family has brought me tremendous joy.  Of course, it also brings me tremendous stress when Mommy is due for some alone time.  That comes with the package of Mommyhood.  But to be present in the moment, it means letting go of preconceived ideas, or worries over how your hair and clothes look, or the never-ending list of chores in your head. 

          It's about not worrying over the mess when you're baking with your kid and the two of you wind up getting flour everywhere.  It's piling on the couch watching Tom and Jerry cartoons while the baby drools on your arm and the older child insists on taking pictures of you with her toy camera.  It's reading stories for the hell of it, not just at bedtime. 

          I understand so well how important it is to have Mommy time, to have something to do that doesn't involve snotty noses and poopy butts.  But I'm finding more and more that the key to the happy place is to relax and enjoy the ride sometimes.  In fact, it's part of why I named this blog.  Just by doing our best to do right by our families, we've already won.  So whether it's snuggle time, movie night, a private bubble bath, or a coffee-fueled shopping trip, find your happy place and visit often.

Dirt Won't Hurt!

I doubt many of these will actually make it to the kitchen.

Doesn't matter if you're a veteran gardener or just starting out, late winter is prime time for the condition known as Spring Fever.  Symptoms include poring over seed and plant catalogs and pining away for the colorful beauties that you're sure would make your yard look like a magazine cover.  Personally, I like to hoard seed packets like other women hoard shoes.  I'm not that interested in stilettos or wedge sandals, but get glassy-eyed over heirloom tomatoes and flowers. 

Rosemary by the garden gate. 

Every year I do my best to plan carefully, as my raised beds have limited space and the greenhouse will get unbearably hot around May.  The grow boxes are a wonderful solution to the limited shelf space and variable greenhouse conditions.  I know the temperature will stay consistent, and the seeds will get plenty of light. 

Still, there's plenty of room to stay flexible.  For example, the baby lettuces I've transplanted in the greenhouse are already looking a tad wilted.  They're tender little things, and hate too much heat.  So unless there's a freak ice storm coming, they may have to go into a raised bed faster than expected. 

Gotta love Arkansas weather.

I really shouldn't complain, knowing that some folks up North won't be able to put things out for another month, and even then it's a big gamble.  I've grown collards and kale over the winter in the past, never really worrying about them succumbing to the cold or snow.  The snow melts off after a day, anyway.  And one ice storm a season won't kill my year-round residents.

With Jon being home a few days this time, it's refreshing to get out in the light and fresh air.  It's even exhilarating, with a cold drink on hand and Credence Clearwater Revival blasting on my outdoor speaker. 

Tulips starting to peek out of their mulch blanket.

Mostly, it feels damn good to be doing something creative and constructive that doesn't involve wiping someone's butt.  I love my girls, but being cooped up with them in the house the past two months was starting to get to me.  I don't mind having babies in winter, but it does make for some serious cabin fever.

So I brought Evie out with me once she got up from her nap.  Even wearing play clothes, it took awhile to convince her that it was okay to get dirt and water on them.  She then proceeded to snitch my tools for the very important task of digging for worms, before helping me sow radishes and sugar snap peas.

Growing things in the garden was one huge tradition I couldn't wait to pass onto my kids.  Even living in an apartment building with only four to eight square feet of dirt, my mom always made sure we had something planted.  In fact, my sister and I used to hunt nightcrawlers there and sell them for bait to an older neighbor of ours.  It was one of those spaces, no matter how small, that are very evocative of childhood for me.  And when I got married and started having kids, I made the same vow:

No matter where we live, or how rich or poor we are, we will grow things. 

And so, the greenhouse and grow boxes are full of good things waiting to happen.  Mistakes will be made, like they are every year, and wonderful discoveries will be made.  The best part, is that this time around, I get to see them through my daughter's awestruck eyes.

Tip # 1- You Don't Have to Like Being a Mom

            I'm feeling particularly maternal and content this evening, after a good time at homeschool co-op and a relatively peaceful afternoon and toddler bedtime.  I try and savor the feeling, because it tends not to last very long.  And for those of us on this crazy mommy journey, it's sometimes the only payment we get for our labors.

            I'm even drinking a cup of motherhood tea; an herbal blend of fenugreek, fennel, coriander, anise, and blessed thistle that's supposed to help you lactate more.  Since starting my birth control a few weeks ago, I've noticed a significant drop in the amount of extra milk I'm able to pump.  And though I still make enough to feed my cute little beastie, Mama sure does like having extra milk in the fridge so she can get out once in awhile.

           Before Jon left on his last work trip, I confessed something that had been bothering me all day.  As usually happens when I clam up and don't confide in him, I started getting snappy with the three-year-old and was nearly in tears for turning into the Mommy Monster again.  I told him this, and he said it bugged him the entire trip:

Some days, I really don't like being a mom.

          You'll notice I didn't throw in the towel and say I didn't want to be a mom anymore.  Nope, whether we admit it or not, we don't like being moms all the time.  In fact, some days it downright sucks.  You've got very unreasonable small people demanding constant care and attention, all the while trying to juggle a home, husband, job, activities, and Lord only knows what else.  Add that to the sheer, skull-breaking exhaustion and sleep deprivation, and you've got a recipe for a mental breakdown.

          It took me awhile to learn that this feeling is normal, that it's okay to not like motherhood all the time.  It's okay to silently scream and curse in my own head when I feel like giving up and shoving my little darlings in daycare.  It's okay to give myself a break and not have a guilt party to add to the jaw-numbing depression I'm already battling with.

          It's okay to not like it.

          It's okay to not be great at it.

     Just so long as you do it the best you can, even if that best means PB and J's for dinner and letting the kids watch Frozen so you can go have a cry in privacy.  It's okay to beat the pillows and bitterly wish, just for a moment, that you could do anything else.  It's okay to let the house go a little so you can cuddle your baby through a colic episode, or let your toddler pick out mismatched clothes.

     We all have those days, and my God, I'm amazed at how strong we are.  When people talk about the family unit being the foundation of our country, I think they really mean mothers.  We are the rock and cornerstone of our families, even on our weakest days.  So long as we rely on God, and especially one another for help, we can learn to like and even love being moms.

Promise Made, Promise Kept

       I can't remember which book this post title is from, but I distinctly remember this phrase appearing several times whenever a promise was fulfilled.  One chilling scene was when one character finally got his vengeance and said it while running his enemy through with a sword.

       There's a long history of broken promises in my life, so I'm very careful not to make one unless I can keep it.  Christians always like the story of God putting a rainbow in the sky as a promise to Noah, but my favorite of God's promises are the ones that pop up in the spring.  Namely, seeds and bulbs.

     Every year, like so many gardeners with the winter blues, I start poring over seed catalogs with starry eyes and dreaming up ideas for spring.  Since my greenhouse is still too cold to keep seedlings in, that usually means crowding a sunny window with seed trays.  Some of those babies make it, but mostly they grow long stems and shrivel mysteriously.  I recently discovered that this is caused by seeds being too far from the light source, and growing "leggy" to reach it.

Big, fat DUH moment.

So I needed a cheap solution.  Something that would allow me to get a light source close to the seed trays.  Some gardeners have grow closets with racks and shelves rigged with lighting, but Mama doesn't have that kind of time or money.  So I found an alternative, one that has worked beautifully and didn't break my wallet.

I found a tutorial on YouTube from another blogger on how to make a grow box with a plastic storage tote, aluminum foil, and a clamp light. (Full list of supplies are below with instructions.)  And oh, baby, was it easy!

It's been about ten days since I planted the seed tray, and within three or four days I saw sprouts.  In
fact, as of this post, most of them are ready to be transplanted.  For that, I bought a bigger tote to hold a bigger pot tray so the babies could still have their light.  Y'all, I'm pumped.  Even more so than usual this time of year, because now it looks like I might actually have a good shot of success at growing things like lettuce and cabbage and cauliflower before the summer heat fries them.

If you've got a few bucks to spare and a half hour to put this thing together, it's highly worth it.  I'd like to give a big thank-you to Gary Pilarchik at The Rusted Garden for posting the how-to and making it idiot-proof for people like me. He's got a very informative, active

 blog worth checking out

And with that, here's the materials list and directions:

Materials
 1 18-20 gallon plastic tote
 duct tape
 aluminum foil  
 1 light bulb, 100 watt CFL (1600 lumens, 5000 kelvin)
1 8.5" clamp light
1 12' household extension cord, if needed

Directions
1) Tear off vertical panels of aluminum foil deep enough to cover the insides of the tote.  Tape them in place with the reflective side facing toward the middle.

2) Cut a square hole in the middle of the lid big enough to fit the cord and top of the clamp light through.  Then, cut a line to the side as long as the clamp itself, and a smaller line perpendicular to that. (The following video demonstrates it in better detail)

 3) Carefully screw in the bulb, plug the light into the extension cord, and turn it on to make sure it's working.  Then turn it off, and insert the clamp light underneath the lid, fitting the clamp onto the small line cut.  

Thanks, Gary!

UPDATE: Since I started this draft, not only have my little seedlings flourished, but I've made a bigger version of this box to fit a flat of 4" pots with transplants in them.  Here's how they turned out!