Cobwebs

If my blog were a paper journal, it would have cobwebs and dust to illustrate its neglect. So imagine me blowing them off and dusting the cover with the my hand.

I would say that I long to sit and write my thoughts and adventures, to share them with my faithful readers and even with the occasional passerby. But I don’t think that would be true. If I did long for it, I would probably find time to do it.

In truth, these days, I rarely even think of my blog. Sometime I forget about it entirely. But then there will be a moment, a quiet moment, when I reflect on something wonderful, or even something mundane, that happened, and I will want to share it with you. Of course, when I get around to writing, I’ve forgotten what it was.

So, my friends, I am making a commitment. Not a commitment to write daily. I would be setting myself up for failure. But to write regularly. And to keep a list in the in-between times so I don’t forget what it was I wanted to tell you.

I want to connect better with my friends, my family, or even the stranger who chooses to drop in on my life.

Don’t give up on me yet. We have many delightful photos to share — from our beach trip, our dinner on the deck, our spring flowers.  We have stories to tell. Like how Daniela is going to her first dance tonight and wants to use her allowance to buy a pair of new shoes. (We are so alike sometimes, it’s frightening.) Stay tuned. Good things are on their way.

Ahhh.

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve loved to visit Mme. Cafa at the Fermathe hospital. She’s only about 4′5″ and nearly as big around. When we get to visit — and that’s not nearly enough — Mme. Cafa will wrap me in her arms and squeeze me tight against her. Then she holds me out a bit and takes a good look at me. She loves me very much. And I love her. But this story isn’t really about Mme. Cafa. This is about a story Mme. Cafa told my Grandma (another woman I love very much). And that is just a path to the story I want to tell you.

One day, Grandma walked into the prep area outside the OR and Mme. Cafa was busy organizing surgical trays to be sterilized. This is no small feat — especially when you consider that Mme. Cafa is not actually a nurse. In fact, she can’t even read or write. But there she was, putting the right sets of instruments into the right trays and keeping everything just so.

Mme. Cafa was with one of the nurses, and they two women were talking. Now, Mme. Cafa loves Jesus very much, but this nurse didn’t yet know Jesus. And Grandma said, as she is known to do, “Mme. Cafa, have you told your friend why you love Jesus and how Jesus loves her?” And Mme. Cafa said, “Ah, Mme. Wallace (that’s what she calls Grandma — Mme. Wallace) don’t worry. It’s like when you have to pee really bad and you hold it for a long time. When you finally go, it feels so good. She will know Jesus, and she will see just how good it is.”

This is true for very important things like meeting Jesus. But it’s also true for less important and somewhat troubling tasks like doing your taxes. And tonight, after holding it for a long time, we finally finished our taxes. And it feels so good.

!A la Playa!

We are all three off to la playa tomorrow to spend a week with our Bible study at a house in the Outer Banks. Roberto and I have never been to the Outer Banks, and Daniela has definitely never been. The beach is always a favorite destination for my two Cubanitos, and we are all looking forward to it.

 The house we are renting has wireless internet, so I can stay productive and earn my keep. What a country!

 This is the house we’ll be staying in:

Farmhouse Whole Grain Bread

This recipe was adapted from the “Farmhouse White Bread” in The Mixer Bible by Meredith Deeds and Carla Snyder. My friend, Leandra, saw some baking at my house and asked for the recipe. She thought it might be a good compromise for her, who likes white breads, and her husband, who likes seedy breads. (Not a reflection of his character.)

Elizabeth’s Farmhouse Whole Grain Bread

1 1/2 C whole milk
1/4 C butter, cut in pieces
1 package (or 1 1/2 t) yeast
1/2 cup warm water
2 T sugar
1 T salt
4 C whole wheat flour
1 1/2 - 2 C white flour
1 C wheat berry and millet sprouts (see note at end on how to prepare)

Add the water and butter to the milk and heat until the butter melts. Let the mixture cool to about 100 F (it should feel just warm to the touch). Add the yeast and sugar. Let sit 5 minutes, until the yeast starts to foam.

Add 2 C whole wheat flour to the mixture, 1 C at a time. Add the salt. Add the remaining whole wheat flour, 1 C at a time. Be sure to mix well between cups. Mix in the sprouts. Add the white flour until the dough forms the right consistency. (It should be elastic.)

Knead well. This is when I decide I really love my Kitchen Aid mixer.

Rub the dough lightly with oil (or butter). Place it in a large bowl and cover loosely with plastic wrap. Set in a warm place to rice for 1-2 hours (until doubled in bulk). I like to heat my oven slightly and keep the dough in there to rise — again, make sure the oven is less than 115 F.

Uncover the dough and punch it down several times until you’ve worked out all the air bubbles. Form back into a ball. Cover loosely with plastic wrap and let it rise again until it has doubled in bulk (about 1 hour).

Cut the dough in half. On a lightly floured surface, roll out the dough into a 10″ x 8″ rectangle. Roll dough up jelly-roll style (starting with long side) and fold under the ends. Pinch the seams closed and place in a greased loaf pan, seam side down. Repeat with the other half of the dough.

Cover the loaf pans loosely with plastic wrap and let the dough rise another 45 min to 1 hour, until it has reached the top of the loaf pan. Meanwhile, preheat oven to 375 F.

Brush the tops of the loaves with an egg wash or milk. Bake for 25 min to 30 min, until loaves are golden and reach an internal temp. of 200 F. Remove the bread from the pans and let cool completely on wire racks before slicing.

Enjoy! (I like mine with butter and honey. Mmm…)

*To prepare the sprouts: Add 1/4 C wheat berries and 1/4 C millet to a quart-sized canning jar (or similar container). Soak 12 hours in water. Drain. (Using a cheesecloth at the top of the canning jar works well for this. But a fine strainer also does the job.) Let sprout about 12 hours. Rinse. Let sprout 12 more hours, if possible. Rinse. Drain well. Use in your bread. This makes about 1 cup of sprouts.

So many things…

There are so many things I could write about. Our life seems to be bursting at the seams these days.

For example, I could tell you that Daniela is doing excellently in school — she has straight A’s and has managed to make at least half the school fall in love with her. The other half isn’t far behind, I’m certain.

I could also tell you that Daniela’s English is improving rapidly. She is picking up new words every day and using more and more complete sentences — and sentences don’t come easily to any 10-year-old, it seems.

Or, if I was thinking about work, I could write about how the Lord has blessed my business lately. I have picked up a couple of new clients, and exciting things are in the works — hosting a fundraising conference in June tops the list.

The magazine on my coffee table calls us to “Create Your Ideal Yard,” and reminds me of the 18 roses we planted a few weeks ago. They are starting to grow and will soon give us beautiful cut flowers to place in vases throughout the house. I’d love to tell you how we dug and planted in the drizzling cold, while we dealt with the guinea pig crisis and landscaping dramas. We also planted 1 climbing rose with a delicate trellis that day and have 2 more climbing roses that are begging to be planted. “Soon,” I tell them when I pass by. They, too, have started to grow — it seems they don’t want to wait for me.  I would love to take a moment and tell you about the book Daniela and I are going to write someday, inspired by our Saturday of planting — “Dieciocho Rosas” — or, perhaps, we’ll sell it as a screenplay for the next big telenovela on Univision. Stay tuned. So far, we have the title. The plot is incidental… as with any good telenovela.

And if I had nothing else to write about, I would tell you how I am learning to find joy in the daily domestic life at 10 Gray Fox Court. I have started to make bread. A certain chocolate princess’ lunch (and our budget) are to thank for this. At first, it seemed insurmountably intimidating. But after the (near) perfection that came out of the oven today, I think I can declare my victory to the world of yeast and flour. Even folding laundry seems to have a certain soothing rhythm to it these days. But please, don’t tell anyone — I have a reputation to uphold.

I am horribly behind on phone calls, emails, and everything else that keeps me in contact with the outside world. My days are overflowing, but not nearly as much as my heart. I know that I have felt nearly overwhelmed, totally exhausted, and blissfully busy for many long periods of time in recent years, but never have I been so totally full.

Gone are the quiet moments in the late afternoon, the lazy mornings filled with procrastination, and the utterly unproductive evenings. They have been usurped by this thing called parenthood… and they have gladly surrendered.

I could tell you all this and so much more.  There are so many things that long to appear in this blog. But my days have been taken over by the business of living. Really living. So I will “store up all these things in my heart” and someday, if you stop by for a coffee, between work, homework, and dinner, I will tell you about them.

History

The other day, Daniela and I were talking about all the old pieces (and by old, I mean old, not antique) of furniture that her daddy and I like to buy, find, fix, collect.

“I love used pieces because they all come with some history. Each one has a story, and I like to think about what it might be,” I told her, pleased with my lesson wrapped up in a mother-daughter moment.

“Why don’t you get new pieces and give them your own story?” she asked.

Little surprises

In my very short term so far as a full-time mom (and professional), I’m learning that there are few little surprises that creep up from time to time as if to remind me why I signed up for this.

On Sunday, Roberto, Daniela, and I were driving home from church when Daniela asked, what seemed to us out of the blue, “Can the priests in our church marry?” Simple enough. “Yes, they can.” “Why?” Ah, well, you see…And we proceeded to explain to her where the history of celibacy in the Catholic church came from. And we informed her that while celibacy is not a bad practice, it came about for very practical, earthly reasons, and as time has gone on, it has become more and more a spiritual discipline and sacrifice to help the priests focus themselves solely on the Lord. “You see,” we said, “It became very complicated for the Catholic church as it began to accumulate wealth. When the priests, who had married and had children, died, what would be done with property and the priest’s possessions? Did they belong to the church? Or to the priest? And if they belonged to the church, who would take care of the family?” These are very complicated matters. And they plagued the church for a very long time until some wise leaders decided it was best to leave family out of it all together. “Well, why didn’t they just share the property after the priest died?” And there you have it.

Space

There are very few times anymore when I remember that I am an other, when it is made clear that I am not from this country we call America. I did not grow up here. I am not a native. I am an other, of sorts. This feeling is so rare these days that when it does creep up on me, it takes me a moment to recognize it. It appears like a long-lost childhood companion whose features seem familiar, but I have met her out of context and can’t quite seem to place her.

I had this feeling when Roberto and I went to enroll Daniela in school. I felt unsettled, nervous, and totally inadequate. Neither one of us had ever attended elementary (or middle or high for that matter) school in the US. I was an other.

We could not have been treated more cordially or been offered more help. We were truly grateful, for we had absolutely no idea what to do. With the assistance of the kind people at the Centro Hispano in downtown Durham, we managed to enroll our daughter without any problems — they make it so easy. We have even managed to get her to school on time every day so far. (Though some days we cut it uncomfortably close.) Daniela’s backpack is like all the other children’s, as are her pencils, her binder, her lunch bag. Her lunch contents are even, for the most part, the same. (Though she prefers ketchup and mustard on her ham or turkey instead of mayonnaise. And she can’t stand pickles.) We have transitioned well into American school culture.

No, I hardly ever remember that I am not exactly from here. But every once in a while, an unsettling feeling creeps up, and I know that I should recognize it. I search deep inside my mind and scratch around for a hint. Eventually I’ll find it buried under a pile of assimilations and adaptations. There it is: the reminder that I am not from here. Not really.

Space. Americans have an especially keen love of space. Perhaps its because there is so much of it here. People don’t live piled on top of one another. You can actually go to a park and not see another living soul — even if pull out a picnic blanket, sandwiches, and a bar of chocolate. There is nobody around. You are totally alone. There are vast expanses of space in this country where not a single person lives. Yes, there is a lot of space in the US, and Americans are very fond of it.

They are so fond of it, in fact, that they love to give space in this country.  This is a term that was completely foreign to me until I started living here. “She just had a baby. They need their space.” “They are having marital problems. Give them space.” “He just lost his wife. He needs some space.” “I’m having a terrible day. Give me some space.” It seems that no matter how life-altering (or not) the situation, the adequate response is to give space.

I must confess that this makes absolutely no sense to me.

Aren’t these the moments when we most need one another? Shouldn’t the community of friends, family, and even just plain acquaintances come together to celebrate or mourn the everyday pieces of living?

I simply do not understand. And I do not like it. (sorry)

But lately, I have had to learn it. I have had to learn that those I love most feel compelled to give me space. They do it because it is what they know to do. Their intentions are only the best. They don’t know that I go to bed sorry for not having spoken with them. They don’t know that I do so want to call, but the minutes slipped away, soaked up by the daily cycle of “Time to get ready for school,” “Eat your breakfast,” email, projects, “Do you have homework?”, “What do you want for snack?”, dinner, family time, and “Time for bed.” They don’t know. They only know that the appropriate thing to do when someone you care about experiences something really big (or not so big) is to give them space.

I do not like this space. I don’t blame those who do it. I, too, am guilty of it at times because I don’t know what else to do. I am afraid to offend, knowing my friend in need is such a fan of space. But that’s it. That’s what I don’t like about it. We give space in this country because we don’t know what else to do. And I do not like that.

I do not want space. I want to be crowded in with friends and family. I want the phone to ring. I want to say “now is not a good time to talk. Can I call you later?” I want to open my inbox and find messages from friends who are just “dropping a line to say hi.” I want to spread out my picnic blanket, unwrap my sandwiches, eat my chocolate bar, and find my loved ones peaking out from behind the trees. I want people. I do not want space.

But I will take, with a full heart, what my friends and acquaintances know how to give. I will take it. And I will love them for it.

Cuba libre

It’s funny how one phrase can have two totally different meanings. It can be in jest, with a desire for good, or it can mean a complete change for a total nation.

This is the story of dos Cuba Libre — two Free Cubas.

____________________

Cuba Libre One:
Years ago, my friend Kezia and I went to a theatre party at Wake Forest. Neither one of us was a big partier, but we had been invited — a rare feat indeed for us — and we were determined to make an appearance. We arrived in style — knee high boots, short skirts, and sparkly tops — but we were missing one key accessory, which, apparently, was required at this celebration — alcohol.

We weren’t big partiers, mind you, and we were even less big drinkers. So we stayed the obligatory half hour and slipped quietly out the door to my dorm room. We laughed about how we didn’t like to drink, but then thought, one wouldn’t hurt. It might even help. After all, a half hour with the theatre crowd and we needed a good, stiff drink.

Kezia is half Cuban, half New Zealandese, and all world citizen. I, at the time, was in love with all things Cuban (one in particular). Not much has changed.

That meant there was only one drink of choice for us — a Cuba Libre.

What’s that, you ask. Ah, my poor, deprived child. A Cuba Libre is a Coke mixed with rum and lime. And it’s downright delightful. As delightful — almost — as a real Cuba Libre.

There we were, the two good girls, toasting to a free Cuba. We laughed about how we had to do our part. You know, as the good world citizens that we are. And so we did. We nursed one each, and giggled our way through every sip. It’s one of my favorite memories from college.

To Cuba libre! We toasted. To Cuba libre!

____________________

Cuba Libre Two
Roberto called me from work this morning with some good news. “Fidel se cayo,” he said. Three words and I knew what he meant. Fidel has fallen — forever.

Fidel announced his resignation this morning through a letter printed in the Granma, Cuba’s main political newspaper.

Cuba will be different now.

We don’t know what it means or what’s coming next. But it means something. And it’s something big. Even if nothing changes yet, it will change. Fidel se cayo.

In the mean time, we will celebrate tonight with arroz congris, tostones, and cafe cubano. And we will toast to Cuba Libre. You’re welcome to join us.

____________________

p.s. Here’s a recipe to make your own Cuba libre.

Happy Valentine’s Day!