The Mystery of Salt

Something is wrong with me. I have been seen perusing the magazine aisle at Giant...picking out all the cooking related publications. Who am I? What have I become?

One magazine really caught my attention "101 Tips for Cooking" ~ hey, I need all the tips I can get! What a great magazine! I'm learning so much...like the difference between chili powders (Pasilla, Ancho, New Mexico, Chipolte and Cayenne). This is good information for me to have because I own each of these and I'm not sure which one to use when!



However, the most intriguing tip, I have say, had to do with salt. Yes, I'm learning there is a big difference between salts and how to use them. For instance, reserve table salt for baking. Now I have two salt pigs (yeah, that's what the professional kitchen-people call the little containers you keep salt in) by my stove. One with Kosher salt and one with course Sea Salt. (shhh...I keep the fine Sea Salt in my cupboard. I don't have room for three salt pigs!)

Oh how I digress...Salt, it's a mysterious thing. It was a high commodity way back when. At one time Roman soldiers were paid, in part, with a ration of salt called solarium (from the Latin word "sal" which means salt.) If a soldiers performance was not up to par, it was said that he's "not worth his salt." Later, when salt was replaced with an actual money allowance to buy the salt, the allowance itself was called a solarium. Eventually, solarium came to mean the wages themselves, and this led to our calling one's pay a salary. You are now ready for Jeopardy.

My magazine says, "Salt has the uncanny ability to make food blossom into their full flavors but often it must be used at just the right time. Boil two quarts of water in two separate pots . Put two teaspoons of salt in one and none in the other. Bring both pots to a boil and place a couple ounces of spaghetti in each pot. Cook, drain pasta and taste. The pasta cooked without salt tastes dull and flat, not quite itself. No amount of salt added to a sauce or the pasta after cooking can compensate. Pasta cooked in salt water tastes not of salt, but of wheat coaxed into full flower by the mildly briney liquid. No one knows exactly how salt does this, how just a pinch boosts the flavor of almost anything from ripe sliced tomatoes to complex sauces and even sweets."

It was then that I had one of those "light bulb moments." In Matthew (5:13), Jesus says "you are the salt of the earth..." WE ARE SALT OF THE EARTH, PEOPLE! I never got that passage before now! Jesus tells me I am salt of the earth ~ in some mysterious way, as I interact with people, exposing them to the transforming love of Jesus, they then have the opportunity to blossom into their full flavor, or purpose. How incredible is that??? It's beautiful, and a bit scary - that is a quite a task.

As I look at my life and the interaction with friends and family, how can I be the salt in their lives? Jesus calls us to do this. So that we live in a flavorful world filled with His love. Awesome.

Live Into the Skin

You gave me bones,
You gave me blood,
You gave me skin,
You gave me spirit.
They should all work together
to be the me You created me to be.

Bones and spirit
encapsulated by skin.
My skin is what people see
with their eyes.
My spirit is what people see
with their heart.

My bones create the structure
that my spirit lingers in.
My bones give structure
for my skin to rest upon.

What is seen with the eye
is not the true me.
Not the complete me.
I am so much more than just my skin.

Help me Jesus to live
fully into my skin.
To be the me
You created me to be.

I feel I'm on the verge
of something big,
something of You.

Abolish my fears.
Murder my doubts.
Transform my hesitation
into confident action.

I desire to live fully into my skin.
And as I do - people will see You.

In the Dentist Chair

I was at the dentist last Wednesday getting my 6 month check up. The dental hygienist is really sweet and like most hygienist - she is quite chatty. (Why is that?) I love it, they ask you questions that need a response while your mouth is wide open with sharp utensils scraping near delicate gum tissue. I just hold my head still and answer her with facial expressions and eye gestures.

Not sure how we (she) got on the subject but the topic of certain religions that don't believe in medical care sprouted up. Listening to her rant and rave about the stupidity of such a thing, I laid reclined staring into the retina piercing spot light that was shining into my face. I suddenly recalled a memory that has been laying dormant in my mind for 30 years...

My mom married a man named Allen when I was quite young. He had been married previously and had three little boys. He was in the process of gaining custody from his ex-wife. As a little girl, I thought this was weird...kids living with daddy? I thought kids were only to live with mommy then visit daddy on weekends. Being a very curious eight year old, I probed for more information about this situation. I found out that Allen & his wife had been involved in a strick (cult-ish) religious group. Not sure, but I think he wanted out of it because it had gotten a little too weird for him. He divorced his wife and fought for custody of their three boys.

Jesse came to live with us first. Yay, a little brother! He was just a toddler and cute as could be. He was the youngest of the three. Then after some time, Matthew came to live with us - he was maybe kindergarten age. A little later, Jacob moved in - he was early elementary. I was the oldest by far - and my little sister, Kristin, was second oldest of us five kids.

On a rainy weekend day, all seven of us piled into Allen's big orange Dodge van and headed north. Again, being curious, I had to know where we were going. But that information was not divulged. What seemed like hours later, we pulled into the drive way of a strange gathering of buildings. We were in the mountains, away from any city. Being the oldest and with the most comprehension, I was told that we were there to visit Allen's dying mother. He never mentioned his mom before. "Why is she dying?" I asked. "She has cancer, honey. She doesn't have much longer to live." I wasn't sure how to act, I've never been around a dying person before,and I didn’t even know this person.

I remember walking into her room, not sure what to expect. Allen introduced me to his mother. She was very nice and spoke softly, like it hurt her to speak. The air was filled with a stench that I will never forget. I asked my mom about it and another person in the room responded that it's the smell of death. My new "step grama" was literally dying right there before my eyes. The cancer was eating her body and she was in her final days. This is why we made the trek, so Allen could say good-bye.

On the drive home my never still mind wondered about this lady who was lying in a bed at her house. My sister and brothers were resting and quiet so I crawled up to the front seats and wedged myself inbetween Allen and my mom. I asked why she wasn't in the hospital, getting better. Allen explained to me that his mom was also part of this religious group and they didn’t believe in medical care. He said that they believed that if God wanted to heal her, He would. If not, oh well. No doctors allowed. I didn't understand this. What kind of God is that, I wondered.

For days my mind raced vividly with thoughts of a God who would tell His "believers" not to seek medical care for the sick. This did not sit well with me. Even though I had no prior religious background in my short life, I knew this wasn't right. And who are these people that believe this stuff. A strange lady I met only once had made such an impression on me, and she was "one of them."

A week later, we went back up to the mountains to visit Allen's mom again, but this time - she had no life. My first funeral...and open casket. I had never seen a dead body before. My mom said I didn't have to go up to the casket if I didn't want to. My other siblings were not allowed. My curiosity and unexplainable compassion lead me to the long wooden box. I wanted to see this lady, the one who died because "her God said no." The closer I got, the more my heart pounded. Finally, I was standing right next to the box. Stretching up on my tippy toes, I slowly peered over the edge and there she was. But that didn't look like her. I was astounded by the difference one looks like with life inside and one with no life inside. Wow. Something huge happened here!!!

My little mind began to ponder deep thoughts for an eight year old girl. Big thoughts about mortality, God, beliefs, and how people differ in their views. Who do I believe God to be? How could I find out who He is? However, my heart sensed that God is a loving person, one that would want His people to be healthy even if that meant seeking medical care. So, is there more than one God? The God of my step grama and the God I sensed speaking into my young soul, even then... Through this experience, odd as it was, God was wooing me to Him through that short encounter with my dying cult-religious step grama and the curiosity He planted in me before the beginning of time. It was at this time that I began serious dialog with God: I talked - He listened. I can't tell for sure, but I think that was the beginning of my spiritual journey...

It's funny how a simple thing like listening to my dental hygienist vent about something she thought was absurd can crack open a long buried memory asleep in the neurons of my mind.

Nothing.

I haven't posted anything to my blog in over one month. What's up with that? And then tonight, I actually have time (my oldest son is on the phone with his girlfriend, my younger son is playing a racing game on XBOX and my husband is still at work) and here I sit - in front of my screen wondering what the heck to write about. It seems that I should write something of deep meaning or extreme interest or a revelation I've had about God, myself, someone else - anything. But here I am, staring at the little toolbar on the bottom of my screen. You know what I'm talking about...on the far right is the clock, then a little envelope signaling that an email has entered my Outlook inbox. I see an icon I've not noticed before, I don't know what it means or where it came from. I must investigate.

I feel as though I'm living a Seinfeld episode - the show about nothing. Maybe I'm tired. Maybe I'm uninspired. Is it possible to loose the creative juice? "Use it or loose it." I wonder if that applies to me right now. Writing is much like going to the gym. Once you go, you feel awesome! But it's the getting there that is painful. You make every excuse not to go and before you know it, you're out of shape and have gained a few pounds. Yup, that's me.

Now I totally understand the importance of writing on a regular basis. Writing alone keeps you sharp, interesting, it allows the creative juices to keep flowing - although, sometimes it's only a trickle. I'm out of shape. I'm out of routine. I need to live by the Nike ad - "just do it." I need to take my own advise, practice what I preach! Maybe I need the accountability of a gym partner?

Ah, I don't know... I just need to buck up and WRITE. Even this incessant rambling, made up of pixels and other technological things that I don't understand, is beginning the journey back to finding my hidden voice.

Do you ever get to this place? Wondering where your voice is...wondering if it's changed, or if it's changing. I guess it's all part of the creative journey, and I'm just on an unfamilar part of the path...but it's all good...

Cabining: Axe in Hand ~ Continued...

While I was all sweaty and dirty after my run, I figured I’d try to split some wood for the rest of our stay in Cabin H. I was nervous. I’ve never done that before, or at least it’s been a long while and my back is not in its 20’s anymore. I grabbed the axe and the sledge hammer from the car then reluctantly confident I headed to the massive pile of rain soaked logs. I tried to replicate what David did when we were here last time. Now I was the Lumber Jack and had to provide fuel to keep humans alive. I never knew how heavy wood could be after lying in the rain for days. I muscled one good size log onto the designated and well used chopping block only to have it slip off the edge. I also learned that rain soaked logs are very slippery. But I just laughed at myself and was thankful that there were no other people with in sight.

“Okay, this can’t be that difficult. Just hold the axe over my right shoulder and swing it over my head with all my might!” Smack in to the waterlogged log the axe head went, getting permanently wedged into its grain. The log would not let go. This is when I discovered the use for the sledgehammer. If I couldn't pull the axe out then I’m going to pound it down as far as I can into the log and hope that it gives way and releases my tool. With the sledgehammer in hand I tapped on the back of the axe head. I learned tapping doesn’t work. No, one must use great force and pound metal upon metal, teeth shattering pound after pound. Slowly I was making headway – the axe was making its way through the grain with each bone jerking blow I made with the sledgehammer. Then VICTORY! The waterlogged log succumbed to the abuse and let go of my axe as it split into two large pieces. My joy was visibly evident. I had conquered nature, I had created burnable sized pieces of wood for fire that sustains lives, human and critters alike.

Then an obsession formed. I couldn’t stop myself from splitting wood. The work was hard and back breaking, literally, but it was extremely fulfilling. Put a log onto the chopping block, a mighty swing of the axe and then there was two pieces of log. Then there were four pieces of log. And in some cases, there were even six pieces of log. Finally, a project I could see progress with each swing of the long wood and metal tool. Start and finish in one single event. Now that massive wood pile is not so massive after Lumber Jack deAnn came into its life.

We’ll be warm tonight. And the next campers of cabin H will be warm too. Maybe even the campers after them as well. It was a good day

Cabining ~ Saturday Morning 11/10/07

A cloudy sun peeked out from behind the light blocking roll shades in my room and I figured I needed to finally get up and try to get the fire going again. The cabin had chilled off to nearly the pre-habitation status of our arrival. Deb, still in bed, I tried very hard to crumple newspaper silently while working fast enough so that my fingers would not freeze and fall off. Scraps from trim molding went on next and for a dynamic scene, I threw on not one, but two of the Quick Start logs. Lit a match and before I knew it – I had once again created fire. It’s a neat feeling to create something, especially fire when the cabin is so cold you can see your breath as steam puffing from your nose and mouth. I created fire, I created warmth that sustains human and critter life. I was rather proud. However I was rather cautious of the amount of wood used as we were nearly out and had to get through the whole day and night and morning of Sunday.

Coffee was next on my list. I needed coffee now to warm me from the inside. French press coffee while camping tastes so amazing, one could probably trick me and use Nescafe or Folgers and I’d think I was having the best cup of joe ever. Deb got up, she said that she heard me crumpling newspaper so she got out of bed. Guess I wasn’t as silent as I thought.

Snow was no longer falling; instead it was its fully liquid kissing cousin. It was gently falling on the roof and the sound practically lulled me back to bed. But I resisted! I donned my running gear and set out to conquer the cold wet morning. Which I felt I had earned the right to do, since I did create fire after all. The run didn’t last too long. Only 2 loops around the camping ground road. The air was really damp and quite cold, my face felt as if it was beginning the first stages of frost bite. I knew there was a second cup of French Press waiting for me so I cut the run a bit short. Wimp.

(more from this cabining trip to come in a future post...)

Memories, The Best of Presents

I loved Christmas as a little girl. Not (only) because I got presents. But my family had some neat traditions and every year I looked forward to them.

My younger sister and I would help Grams bake cookies every year. This ritual began in early December so that she could pack them up into cute little packages then give them to her best friends, the Bridge club, and her golfing buddies. There were always just enough left to keep in the pretty Christmas tin that sat on the table next to Grampa's chair.

Then there was the annual Smith Family Christmas Tree Hunting Trip. We'd get permits to cut down 4 trees in the deep forest near Mount Lassen. With our 4x4 vehicles, my aunt, uncle and cousins, my whole family, and Grams and Grampa would convoy up to the snow line. When the time was right, we'd turn down an unpaved snow-covered logging road. Our noses pressed to the car windows, "there's a pretty one!" we'd yell hoping we'd stop to take that tree home. But my dad, he was an explorer, would drive deeper into the woods to find the perfect spot. Once found, we'd stop our vehicles, pull on our snow boots, bundle up and start our search. I always remember how peaceful and quiet it was way up on that mountain. Only the wind's voice could be heard as it passed through the pine needles on the tall swaying trees. I'd close my eyes and take in natures silence, wondering what it would be like to sit at the top of the trees, feeling the sun's warm rays on my face. I miss those days.

The night time street fair in Nevada City, I walked around holding hot cocoa just to stay warm. Men in tall black top hats played my favorite Christmas song on their hammered dulcimers. I stood reverently next to strangers as we gathered around the gifted musicians. No words, just the beauty of their talent created the most captivating arrangement of "What Child is This." The sweet and mysterious notes radiated from their tandem stringed instruments brought swollen tears to my eyes. I will never forget that beautifully cold evening.

Christmas, it's so much more than just presents. What wonderful holiday memories am I providing for my boys? What will they look back and remember when they are married and have children of their own?

Memories last, presents do not. Memories are stories and must be told, that keeps them alive.
Merry Christmas ~ this season, may you and yours be amazing creators of lovely and lasting memories, the priceless gift.