thanksgiving 2016

I'll never forget the Thanksgiving that I woke up and realized my left eye was swollen to the size of a ping pong ball and people from church were coming over for the meal. 

Ahh. 

Memories. 

     

 This year, my farmer and I hosted Thanksgiving for the first time. We felt like grown-ups.

And none of our eyeballs were swollen.

I'd consider that a success.

As a child, I spent a fair amount of Thanksgivings watching my mom whip up delicious meals in her red kitchen or staying out of my grandma's way while she made dish after dish after dish. It was like the food never stopped coming when it came to either one of them. 

One of my grandma's staples, and a favorite of mine because we never had it at home, was creamed corn. I was convinced no one could make it like my grandma could. 

Until one Thanksgiving I saw her pouring creamed corn out of a can. 

OUT OF A CAN. My world was upended.

I had no idea such deliciousness could just be gotten at the grocery store. It changed everything. 

So what we've learned thus far is this . . . normal-sized eyes and creamed corn: It doesn't take much to keep me happy. 

Beforehand we had wine and a charcuterie board with salami and Vermont cheddar and olives and goat cheese.  

We also nibbled on a new tradition: the Thanksgiving pumpkin cheeseball.

And by "tradition," I mean this is the second year I've made it. Does that make it an annual cheeseball now?

And really, isn't the goal of any appetizer just to hold your guests over long enough so that you can finish the rest of the meal? 

Or try to salvage the turkey if you wrecked it?

Both maybe?

    

Thankfully, these appetizers were just for fun. Once we prayed, we started passing the good stuff.

We started with a spinach and pear and pomegranate salad, mashed potatoes and gravy, and creamed corn.

Not the can kind.

The kind that involved three sticks of butter and two cream cheeses.

Sorry, arteries.

My farmer did a bang-up job of cooking an Alton Brown-approved turkey, and our dogs though the neck and the carcass were the best Thanksgiving feast they'd ever had.

So everyone came away a winner on that front.

We also had butternut squash and cranberries with honey and cinnamon and feta . . . and some sweet potatoes from our garden thrown in for good measure. 

It was like farm to table . . . except we were still on the farm so . . . farm to farm?

Did I mention the turkey was super moist? Alton Brown's theory is to go high heat--as in, 500--for a short time to basically sear the skin and hold all the juice in. And it worked. 

We had a cranberry-walnut-apple salad, green beans wrapped in bacon, stuffing, rolls and pumpkin cornbread, deviled eggs, a heart attack. 

Whoops. How'd that last one sneak in there? 

And maybe don't ask me if I got juice from the cranberries and apples all over the front of my cupboards--the night before Thanksgiving--while I was grinding the two in my KitchenAid.

Because I totally didn't. Not at all. 

I didn't even contemplate sitting down on the floor and crying. Not even for a second. 

I'm also a really bad liar.  

We moved past the cranberry and apple juice incident by eating delicious desserts, because when you've eaten your allowable caloric intake by the time you get through the mashed potatoes and pumpkin cornbread, why not go for the gold?

We had a hot cocoa bar, even though we were basically all so stuffed at that point that the thought of more decadent calories made us want to . . . well . . . let's just say we were full. 

    

We also gorged ourselves on slices of pecan and pumpkin pie, chewy brownies with hunks of dark chocolate, and a salted caramel pumpkin cheesecake, which the recipe swore wouldn't develop a crack if I left the oven door closed for an hour and a half after baking. 

It promised. 

IT LIES. 

But better than all of that, we gave thanks for one another, learned more about our family traditions, and even managed to talk theology and the election . . . and no one slung mashed potatoes or flipped the table or tossed a glass of wine . . . or went home with a bugged out eyeball. 

Sometimes, even on Thanksgiving, it's the little things.

christmas in the country 2015

We have four dogs -- four -- which is roughly three more than I ever planned on having. Chris takes two of them with him to the dairy. Two stay at the house with me. But when we're gone, and they're all at home, all four love to eat packages left by the UPS man, the FedEx guy and the mailman. 

Like the time Blackjack ate through a box and then took a bite out of a cutting board meant to be an engagement gift. 

Or chewed up some pictures. 

Or Winchester and Colt ripped up a dish towel. 

Or Wally gnawed up a box and carried around the coffee cup inside it. 

It's really kind of a pandemic. 

So when a Christmas in the Country 2015 package ended up in our garage -- hidden but in one piece -- it was nothing short of a Christmas miracle. 

Christmas in the Country is the brain child of four bloggers who encouraged women involved in agriculture or farming to sign up, swap gifts and make friends with other women in the same field. 

I received the loveliest package from Darcy in Idaho. She's expecting her own little one! And knows all there is to know about cows! And takes gorgeous pictures of her life on the farm! And puts together the sweetest box of goodies! 

All the exclamation points. 

She included a beautiful Christmas FiestaWare tablecloth (which I have already put to use during Advent and the 12 days of Christmas . . . with our FiestaWare, no less), a Christmas print made by a local gal (which promptly found its place on our piano) and a gift card complete with book recommendations. 

On top of that, she added peppermint bark (which tastes pretty darn amazing frozen, just FYI) and delicious smelling vanilla candles and the kindest note from a fellow sister in Christ. 

Her care and thoughtfulness were a true treat . . . and not just because the dogs didn't demolish them first. Farming can sometimes seem like lonely business -- especially when your Great Pyrenees tries to eat coffee cups -- but thanks to Christmas in the Country and a new friend gained,  the agricultural world just got a little smaller . . . and I wouldn't have it any other way. 

You can head on over to the blogs of the four ladies who hosted the event -- Jamie, Lara, Laurie and Kirby -- to learn more about the ladies who were involved in the swap. I put together a little vintage-esque package for Kelly at Old Blue Silo, another blog you should probably just go ahead and bookmark right about NOW.

And Darcy, again, thank you! 

if Christmas is hard for you or those you care about this year . . .

"Let us spare no effort to remind ourselves and teach our children to look upon His coming with both awe and reverence once again. Advent gives way to Christmas and the perfect gift is given. For those among us who grieve and suffer, there is Good News too, and we can seek to comfort them. No matter how one's heart may ache, worry or grieve, the 'hopes and fears of all the years are met' in the perfect God-Child, and the dear Christ enters in. It is Christ, the perfect Gift, who gives us His peace in the face of all travail, sadness and uncertainty, forgiving us all of our sins and providing everything needed to sustain us one day at a time through each of the days of Christmas and beyond. Christmas is an awe-full time indeed. Come, Lord Jesus!" - Dr. Beverly Yahnke

Read more here. 

in defiance of tyranny

This week, you will be tempted.

You will want to give in, give up, give out.

You will endure one of the most intense situations you will ever encounter in this life.

The very fiber of your being will be tried in a Jack Bauer-esque struggle of epic proportions.

This week, you will be tempted to give in to . . . Christmas.

The day after Thanksgiving, your fingers will twitch, your ears will roar, your legs will become unsteady as you move slowly towards the attic, drawn inexplicably to the Christmas decorations stored there, sultry sirens calling your name, begging you to skip right over Advent and dive headlong into Christmas.

This week, though, you get to fight. You get to do battle with the world’s mad dash to Christmas. You get to engage in hand-to-hand combat with consumerism, mommy bloggers’ Christmas projects, and Pinterest boards of Christmasy goodness.

Instead, you get to confess Christ boldly. You get to wait. You even get to work yourself into an Advent frenzy with William Wallace-like bravado. FREEDOMMMMMMMMM!

Fight and you may die. Run and you will live at least awhile. And dying in your bed many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the days from this day to that for one chance, just one chance, to come back here as young men and tell our enemies that they may take our lives but they will never take our (Advent) freedom!

Ok. Well. Still.

This week, you get to reclaim what is yours: the season of Advent, the Advent wreath, the waiting, the anticipation, the measured pace through the next few weeks, the looking forward.

We Lutherans ought to be good at Advent. {Heck, we’re the ones who created the Advent wreath, after all.} We don’t move quickly. We’re often quietistic. We don’t like to make up our minds too quickly.

And so, this year, let’s play to our theological strengths. Let’s wait. Let’s not be rushed. Let’s take our time. Let’s be slow and deliberate. 

Like salmon swimming against the culture’s current, let’s measure our pace, take a deep breath, and focus on waiting for our Lord.

The anticipation of Christmas is a picture of the Church’s faithful waiting for our Lord’s coming again. “This Jesus, who was taken up from you into heaven,” angels tell the disciples on the Mount of Ascension, “will come in the same way you saw Him go into heaven” (Acts 1:11), namely, openly, for all to see. Ever since, God’s people have been “on the lookout.” We “look for the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come,” all of which will take place when “He will come again with glory to judge both the living and the dead” (Nicene Creed). {Read the full article by the Rev. Dr. Herbert Mueller here.}

Let’s not tick off the days in exasperation, anxious to get to presents. Let’s go in our own way: Sundays in Advent, candles in purple and rose, days, weeks, time.

Let’s look to Christ, who is never rushed, never impatient. Let’s wait with the whole Church on earth, methodically and with grace. Let’s pray the O Antiphons. Let’s sing Advent hymns. Let’s look forward joyfully.

Advent is not pre-Christmas. It is not a series of mini-celebrations of Christ’s birth. But Advent is a season of hope, a season rooted in waiting for the arrival of Christ’s mercy. . . . Advent is always there to build you up by showing you the love of the Savior for whom you wait. {Read the full article by the Rev. Hans Fiene here.}

This week, eat turkey. Gorge yourself on mashed potatoes. Give thanks for our Lord’s love and mercy shown at your table on Thanksgiving and at His each Sunday. And then sit back in your recliner. Breathe. 

And like Mary, ponder it all in your heart: Christ’s second coming, His forgiveness for you, and Christ Himself, whose timing–slow and measured–is always, always perfect.

pumpkin pie and conversation

When most families are busy planning what day they'll show up for Thanksgiving or whose house they'll stay at for Christmas, mine is busy sharing recipes. 

Our holidays, it turns out, center around food. 

Mostly. 

Requests for favorite recipes fly back and forth. Husbands clip recipes from magazines for wives to try. Moms and daughters check to see if others have random ingredients needed for one dish. 

Some people order their lives by days or hours or events. 

We order ours by . . . uhhh . . . food. 

People say that farmers just eat meat and potatoes, and while we do serve up plenty of beef and bacon, we also believe homemade food, a big table and chatty families are some of the best ingredients for a good meal. 

My parents made sure that we ate supper together every night. We had to try everything our mom served, even if it was just a bite or two. We cleaned our plates. We asked to be excused. 

And we were always mentally prepared not to give a wholly honest answer when our dad asked, "Have I ever made you taste something you didn't like?" 

(Hello, split pea soup!)

This Thanksgiving is no different. While we won't all get to be together, we're still swapping recipes, still pulling out our grandma's handwritten recipe cards, still getting out our fat pants so that we can feast on all the deliciousness the cooks have prepared. 

And we're still planning our time together around the fellowship that happens at the table: the jokes, the political debates, the theological discussions. 

And the food. 

But mostly the food. 

Sugar Cookie Recipe

3/4 cup butter

3/4 cup sugar

2 eggs

1 tsp. vanilla

2 3/4 c. flour

2 tsp. baking powder

salt

Heat oven to 400. Cream butter and sugar. Beat in eggs and vanilla. Add powder and salt, one cup at a time, until the dough is stiff. Divide into 2 and roll out one half of the dough at a time on a floured surface to 1/4 inch thick. Do not refrigerate the second half. Cut out cookies and place on an ungreased cookie sheet for 6-7 minutes. Cool slightly and remove. 

Icing

3 egg whites

4 c. powdered sugar

5-6 tablespoons water

Beat for 7-10 minutes until stiff peaks form. 

babies and mustaches

"Hard work, honesty, integrity, faith, family, love, forgiveness." 

That's what we're about . . . and something tells me, that's true of a lot of other farmers too.

PS Oh yeah, and Baby and my farmer's mustache make appearances too. 

all the things

After I got married, I felt awkward talking about marriage because I was the girl who, quite literally, wrote the book about being single. I know what it's like to be the single girl who wants to be married, the one who listens politely to all the relationship talk but secretly wishes someone would just put her out of her misery so she can extract herself from the conversation. 

And now that my farmer and I are expecting our first baby, I feel awkward talking about having a child, because I was the girl who prayed and waited for the Lord to give the gift of a baby and was so entirely over having to see pictures of babies and announcements on social media that I about found a wall to smack my head against. 

So if you are single and not married, or married and wish you were pregnant or had kids at home, you can skip reading any farther. Don't put yourself through it. I used to, and it just caused undue angst. Don't do that to yourself.

But before you go, know this: The Lord has a good and perfect plan for your life. It may not feel like it. It may not seem like it. But He is -- patiently and methodically -- working all things for good, drawing you close to Him, causing you to trust in Him alone. And that's better than any husband or baby out there. You can bank on it. 

_________________________________________________________

In this house, we love babies. A day old. A month old. A week old. Pre-born. Born. We've never met a baby we didn't like. Simply put, we believe they have value and worth regardless of their size. 

And we are so grateful to be surrounded by others who believe the same, which is, I'm convinced, why there is not a thing that our baby could still possibly need. 

Well, except for prayers. Baby will always need those. 

day 17 of farmacology: we go to church

One of the things you may not know about farm folks is that

we go to church.

Heck, half the time our ancestors founded churches!

As in, if you drive to my little corner of Iowa, you'll find a massive maple tree randomly left standing in the middle of a field. It's where the Lutherans who settled in that county first met for church a hundred-plus years ago. 

Farmers since then could have cut that old tree down, but they leave it as a reminder of the men and women who came before them, their fervent faith in God and His mercy, and the reality that they built churches before they built stores or schools because what happened within the walls of those buildings mattered to them.

Or consider that, a couple of years ago when my farmer and I stood on the steps of the Supreme Court, waiting for the justices to announce their decision on the Hobby Lobby case, we stood next to another farmer. He was in town to testify on a Congressional committee and had made his way to the Supreme Court because he believed strongly in religious liberty and his ability to live and worship as he saw fit. 






So, lest you wonder, yes, we're farmers. And we go to church. 

We're Christians, and more specifically, we're members of The Lutheran Church--Missouri Synod. 

We believe in the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. We believe there's nothing we can do to earn our salvation, that it's all been accomplished by Christ on the cross. 

We believe we're sinners and that our Heavenly Father forgives all our gunk and junk on account of Christ. We believe that the Bible is God's Word, not just that it contains it. And we believe that we live in and by His grace alone.

We believe, as one of my former pastors wrote, "Jesus will not be pushed far away. He becomes one of us to be most near us in every part of our lives. He is like us, and therefore, knows us. Although God is no sinner, He takes our sins on Himself and dies for them on a cross. In that moment, God is the most sinful of us all."

"God dies in our flesh, His flesh. He comes in our flesh to save those who have flesh, those who suffer from their flesh and those who sin in their flesh. He does this because of His compassion for those who are like Him. God is a great lover of sinners. That's Jesus."

And we believe that makes all the difference. 

Want to read more of my 31 day farmacology writing challenge? Click here.