on being Ground Cover

One of the hardest questions for me to answer right now is, "So what are you doing these days?" 

I used to be able to answer that question which something cool and shocking, like, "Oh, you know, living in Africa... yeah, we have lions but I only had to worry about being eaten once when one escaped from a local, illegal zoo..."  Now that question throws me a bit and I respond, "Well, Monday is laundry day... and I vacuum on Tuesdays..." 

A friend of mine pointed out last week that I like to have things categorized and set in place. (Take one look at my linen closet and you will know that this is true.) So now that I no longer live overseas, I'm no longer a teacher and I'm not even a church janitor anymore, how do I categorize my life? What do I do now?

As I was working in my front yard one day, and wrestling over this question with God, I felt like He answered, "You're Ground Cover." 

You know, like grass. 

or hostas. 

Here's the thing... we have weeds growing in our backyard. Lots and lots of weeds. Big ones. Seriously, the spots around the house that never had a garden or bushes or flowers planted are beds of weeds... and they are at this moment attempting a hostile take over of the rest of the backyard. (I am readying my battle armor to wage an all out war early next week... lets see how they like my friends known as Vinegar and Boiling Water. They will rue the day they attempted to take over my backyard! Hahahahahahah... ahem, excuse me... sorry about that.) In my extended research (aka "I googled this a lot!") the advice that keeps popping up when you search under organic weed control is "plant more grass." Apparently, grass roots can grow to about 6 inches deep, while weed roots stay at a depth of 2-3 inches only. So with proper watering, your grass will grow and literally squeeze out the weeds. 

So I thought about this one day as I was weeding my garden, a place with no grass and lots of weeds.  

I think we all need Ground Cover in our lives... grass that grows and helps to "squeeze out the weeds." Weeds like temptation, or depression, or busyness... or even the momentary despair that comes from having something that you really like to do but never having time to do it.  So I'm Ground Cover for my husband... he gets home from work and I make dinner so he gets to spend twenty minutes playing guitar. (He always offers to help because he's awesome like that... but really, I just want to listen to the sounds of his music coming from the front of the house!) 

and over the past few weeks, I've been ground cover for a few other people... by baking cookies and holding babies and making grilled cheese sandwiches. These people usually feel bad that I "get stuck" doing these things and I want to respond, "No, this is fine, it's what I do. I'm Ground Cover." But it would take a lot of explaining and I'm afraid it would just make them feel bad... you know, me calling myself grass and all. But these people have been Ground Cover for me in the past... helped me survive scorching drought, a dandelion outbreak, grub infestation... so I can return the favor. Even if they hadn't, it's still what I'm called to right now. 

So what am I doin' these days? 

Oh, you know... I'm Ground Cover.  It's cool, and I don't have to worry about being eaten by a lion... they're carnivores after all...

ahem. sorry about that... again.   

in the Majority

I was going to write an inspiring, thoughtful post about weeds and grass and encouragement. I spent Tuesday at Kibby's Family Farm again, and that is always an inspiring thoughtful time of weeds and grass and encouragement.

Then Tuesday happened... and I haven't quite figured out what I feel about it.

Every Tuesday night I take a Zumba class at our church. It is usually taught by a very fit, very tan, very energetic woman, and there are usually a least a hundred not so fit, not so tan but just as energetic women taking the class. Ladies only, please! This Tuesday when I got to class, only about thirty women were crowded into the "sanctuar-nasium" even though it was already past our 6:30 start time. A woman next to me commented on the low attendance: "I hope this doesn't mean we have a sub tonight... and if we do, I hope it's not that one guy." When it turned out that we did have a sub and it was, in fact, "that one guy," she had a few more things to say before she, and a few other women, left.

I was taken aback.

Why were they so upset? Why did they leave? and why, above all, did that one woman feel like she had to share all of that information with me?

Then I realized... she thinks we're the same and he's different. I'm a white woman taking a Zumba class at a suburban church. I'm in the majority. Hmmm.

In Tanzania, I was a minority. I felt akin to the disillusioned, the voiceless, the despairing. I'm white and I'm a woman... not a position that demanded a lot of respect in an East African country. I was always different, I never fit in. Even when I developed a good group of friends and we used the same words to order "chips maya" at a local restaurant, I was still white and I was still different. I was still a "mzungu" (a term that originally translated "person who turns around because they are lost." Now it just means "white person.") And after three years, I was comfortable with it.

Now I have to get comfortable with not being a minority... as I sit in this coffee shop close to campus and type this blog on my mac with my hair done up in a messy bun... me and at least 3 other women in this place. I don't think I like people assuming that I will feel the way they feel simply because we're the "same."I actually liked Zumba on Tuesday... I think "that guy" did a great job! and because of the women who left, I wanted to run up to him, give him a hug, and let him know I thought he was great and that I'm not like those "other women." [I didn't because I couldn't figure out if this made me the same or different from "them"... plus, there was already a group of women crowding around him complimenting the class.]

In Tanzania, I had to fight hard to learn and adapt to the culture. Here, I'm starting to feel like I need to fight hard to not adapt to the culture. and I'm trying to figure out if that's true and how I feel about it.


on Friday I'll write about weeds and grass and encouragement.
I promise. :)

in the Kitchen

I used to teach Chemistry and Physics... now I make dinner. I used to wipe down lab tables... now I use baking soda to clean my bathrooms and kitchen counters. I used to edit and test lab demonstrations... now I fiddle with spices and make recipe changes.

So really, not a whole lot has changed.

Well, now an explosion/fire is NOT the desired result, but other than that, not a whole lot has changed.

I first learned to cook in my mom and grandmother's kitchens. I remember making my first apple pie when I was four... Mom would save the little pie holders from the Little Debbie single serve pecan pie snacks (when they still made those) and she would let me make a small apple pie when she made big ones. (When she taught us the alphabet, P stood for Pie, and being the great teacher that she is, she made us do "lab work" to really cement the concept... so we baked pies. Is it any wonder why I became a Chemistry teacher?) The apple pie recipe was never written down, but was simply passed down from grandmother to mother to me. To me, that apple pie recipe is such a part of my family history that we even had a few at our wedding reception!

Mom taught me the basics... how to boil water, the difference between making rice and making spaghetti, how to fry/scramble eggs, the fine art of cookie baking, how to make Chicken Cacciatore and, most importantly, how to follow a recipe. (We won't mention the time I accidentally used 1 cup of baking soda instead of 1 tsp. of baking soda in some bran muffins... oh wait, I mentioned it... oh, well.)

My first year of teaching, I had a housemate who was still in college. I would get home at 4:30, and she wouldn't get home until about 6. It was my job to make dinner so she would leave 4 ingredients on the counter and I would have to make a meal out of them. (Well, if one of the ingredients was chicken she wouldn't leave it on the counter... that would just be gross.) From these experiments, I learned a few things... mainly that with the right combination of spices, anything can taste good! (Well, not spoiled chicken... once again, gross.)

I've had a number of friends say to me that they could never be that brave in the kitchen so I thought on these "in the Kitchen" posts,  I would write about some of my favorite ideas/recipes that are easy to experiment with. (hmm... also realizing that I should probably start taking pictures of some of these things... this one might be boring for today.)

Eggplant Melts

3 basic steps to this recipe... Bread, Eggplant, Grilling.


Bread: 
I use the Honey Oat Beer Bread recipe found here. (I double the sugar and honey since we use strong tasting beer.) But really, any kind of bread would work. Got leftover Garlic Bread? Awesome. Sesame Seed Rolls? Great. Homemade Focaccia? Mmmm... focaccia...


Eggplant: 

• Slice a ripe eggplant into 1/4" - 1/2"thick rounds. (An eggplant is ripe if it is still firm but gives a little bit... the plant part at the top should be mostly green. If it is too mushy, it is starting to go real bad, real quick.)

• Dip into a well-mixed egg. (1 egg = 3 pieces of eggplant)

• Dip into breading mixture. (We like panko + basil + oregano. Store bought Italian Bread Crumbs? Why not. Beer batter mixture? Sure! Uncle Sal's secret recipe from the old country? I guess... if you have an Uncle Sal.) 

• Place eggplant on a slightly oiled cookie sheet and BAKE (yes, I said bake!) at 375F for 15 min. Flip and bake an additional 10 more min. (At this point, you can refrigerate these and use later.) (You can also pan fry your eggplant, but I find they get mushy if you try to refrigerate the slices later.)

Grilling: 
The grilling part is really just a fancy grilled cheese. Butter one side of two slices of bread and put cheese between them. But this time, also put a piece of eggplant in the middle! (To make the sandwich stick together, you will need a piece of cheese both on top and on bottom of the eggplant.) The following is our favorite combination:

• Colby cheese

• Eggplant

• Grated Parmesan

• Eggplant

• Colby Cheese

You can use any type of cheese you like. Then, we like to dip ours in a mayonnaise + pesto mixture. Seriously, yum. Other combinations? Marinara sauce. Spicy Mustard + Mayonnaise/Sour Cream/Yogurt. Indian Hummus. 

Don't like eggplant*? How about zucchini*? or squash? or broccoli?

*Helpful Translations for my British friends as well as those who are having a Dr. Who themed dinner... Eggplant = Aubergine. Zucchini = Courgette. 

Happy Experimenting!!

on Weeding

A lot has changed in my life... I'm no longer single, I no longer live in Africa or Cincinnati, I'm not legally a Connell anymore. But some things have stayed the same... I still like to play in the garden and a few "oak tree" friends have followed me into the marriage. 

Every Tuesday I visit with such a friend who owns a farm. (And by visit I mean we talk non-stop as we irrigate fields, build tomato cages and pull weeds.) She thanks me by filling a bucket full of veggies (which I have used to make cucumber relish, salsa verde, fried green tomatoes and bruschetta) but really, I do it to hang out with her. I only pretend to "do it for the veggies." 

Last Tuesday, we pulled weeds... lots and lots of weeds. (I've also pulled lots and lots of weeds from my new yard, but those are special weeds which will be blogged about in the future.) As we were pulling a tractor full of weeds (seriously, if you feel like you need more weeds in your life, become a farmer) I was learning things, a usual occurrence when I am working in the garden. Things about God, about myself and about where I'm supposed to be now. 

Here's the thing about weeds... they're actually plants. (I know, shocking!) Plants that have flowers, plants that reproduce in the usual plant like manner, plants that use chlorophyll to process sunlight. What makes a daffodil different than a daisy? Or a thistle different than a rose? ("This-tle!" she screams as she raises her fist in the air in memory of the battles fought and the victories both won and yet to be won.) Or crab grass different than ornamental grass?

"Plants give us fruit and vegetables!" you may shout, attempting to make your case for the superiority of plants over weeds. But I ask you this... if a volunteer tomato plant springs up in a row of watermelon, is it still a plant or has it become a weed? It is stealing nutrients from the watermelon plants, it is stealing water from the "purposely planted" plant, it is growing taller than the watermelon vine and shielding it from much needed sunlight... has the volunteer plant now become a weed? 

I say yes. 

It seems to me that the thing that makes a weed a weed is the fact that it's planted where it's not supposed to be planted. Sometimes this is fine... that day of weeding on the farm we came across a number of tomatillo plants that had "volunteered" in a row of zucchini that didn't survive the drought. We let those live since nothing else was trying to grow there. But the ornamental grass that was shading the cabbage and growing into the snap pea screen, we pulled up and I brought home and planted in a pot on my front porch. (Yes, I now have a "weed" growing in a pot on my front porch.)

So the insight that I offer today, as I am considering it on a daily basis, is where in my life am I planted and where am I just "being a weed?"