Of Course Boys Can Cook Too!

You may remember I baked cupcakes with his sister 

while Papa and the boys played outside.

When he came in he felt like he'd missed out on some of the fun

and I promised him that we'd have our own cupcake baking time.

So, I picked him up this week,

this time having to promise another disappointed brother 

that his turn would come soon.

Landon cracked eggs for the first time,

laughing as he did so.

He mixed them with sugar and added liquids.

Then he sifted in the dry . . .

I don't always sift, but I thought it would be fun and 

make the mixing by hand easier.

He stirred hard . . .

and tried to find the best way to fill each muffin tin.

After they were baked and cooled

we both spread icing

and he finished them off with sprinkles.

So simple and yet, such a delight to chat one on one

and see the care and pride with which he 

took home a tray of cupcakes . . . providing school treats for all of them.

A Picture of Summer Before it Passes

While we focus on the babies' first experiences together

we can't miss the excitement shared by the older ones,

running toward each other in greeting

and enjoying each moment like it's exactly the one they've been waiting for!

Ending off the summer with their Prairie cousins here to stay

has been the icing on the cake!

 

Mom's Perishky - the real recipe

Today's post is a confession about a family recipe on the blog and the cookbook.

If you own the first Mennonite Girls Can Cook cookbook

you will find this recipe on page 174 -

photos in the book are ones I was happy to take while I watched my mom bake.

In fact, the note with the recipe tells you that I have pretended

not to be able to make these, as they have always been Mom's special gift to us,

all the while knowing that one day I'd probably have to take on the challenge myself.

The day I decided it was time . . .

came a few years after the book was published.

I followed the recipe and they were just fine -

but not as wonderfully fine as hers!

So I called her and asked her why?

I read the recipe to her and she corrected me and

said she uses lard and margarine - not shortening and butter.

Oh . . . and then I remembered . . . me thinking it would not make a difference 

and it would sound better to use shortening and butter . . . 

so I changed the recipe . . .

Only to find out I should have taken her at her word.
(Butter is still okay, but the lard makes a noticeable difference in texture)

When I made them for the kids and told them my dilemma of 

having sent the recipe incorrectly to the printers,

there were some smiles.

They were happy to learn that the secret of Oma's Perishky is still with us

and now with you too . . . ssh ....

there have to be some benefits of reading my musings.

Two other things I would correct in the book, if I could . . .
One is that you really need more fruit (6 cups) and less sugar (1 1/2 cups) for the filling.
I tried to be exact and sometimes had to guess when she does not measure
Maybe cooks will figure this out as they go along.
The second thing is that it seems more practical (if doing long Perishky)
 to roll out a rectangle  (12 x 18 inches)  (as opposed to 16x16)
That way, when you cut it into four strips, they are a bit shorter but wider
and it's easier (for a beginner) to fold the pastry over the fruit to pinch.

And that's my updated version.
Crazy thing is they still don't taste as good as hers.

Love me when I'm Old

As an introduction to the poem, I have to say that we have come to experience not all parents age in the same way, ever charting a new path for us to navigate. With my mom, interaction has become an adventure in finding ways to appreciate the good moments and helping her face the knowing fear of forgetfulness and confusion. Time is a lurking pest playing games with her mind. It can frustrate you one day and it can make you smile another. We are in a season that makes me think about my own destiny and what it may be like. Alzheimer's is a disease that is truly shared by loved ones of the one suffering from it.  It is with that thought, that I write the following. 

Love Me When I'm Old

The day has come . . . I wish it not, 

but when age gives way to repeated stories, remember how our story-time began.

When I forget the details, remind me, fill in the blanks, stay with me.

When I forget the time you said you'd pick me up, call ahead, because you can.

And when I forget what day it is, help me get my bearings.

When my fridge is stocked with margarine containers of this and that

and anything but, remind me that you also have to clean your fridge.

And when expiry dates throw me for a loop - who knew they're everywhere?

Help me organize today and then next week again. I may forget.

When I have found a dress at MCC that the ladies said was made for me -

help me know if the fit is wrong. I really get confused whom I should listen to.

When my tablecloth is stained and my mirrors need a shine,

Do a quick sweep. You know I've always liked things clean.

When I forget your age or the spelling of the name I chose for you,

know that it was I who dreamed your dreams before you could,

praying for guidance and for the best in all of life for you -

your joys and successes ever mine to cherish.

And should today's stories and confusion overshadow days gone by,

making things that made you proud of me become a distant memory,

tell me who I am to you - remind me of those things again -

so I may know - the me I was - will ever be the one remembered in your heart.

Backyard Grape Harvest

No Longer a Slumdog

The name of the book caught my attention, and it was offered for free, so I ordered it. I expected heart warming stories of children whose lives have been transformed through the work of caring people, but what I did not expect was the astonishing revelation into the caste system and how it affects 700 million people in India. Despite being outlawed, it is difficult for the people to separate themselves from what their religion teaches about human value and their destiny regarding their position of hierarchy.

Today 50 million Dalit children, being born into the lowest rung on the ladder, still have a good chance of being sold into bonded labor or prostitution, working for pennies to pay off family debt that never gets paid off. This process repeats a life with no hope of ever changing, as parents grasp to the help their children can give them, simply to stay alive, with no chance of an education or basic human rights. The sad thing is that Dalits believe it is their birthright to suffer prejudice, abuse and mistreatment to pay off their sins from a past life.

The facts laid out, along with the stories of desperate parents selling their children, would pretty well make this the saddest book you could read, were it not for what the title of the book says about offering hope, one child, one family, at a time. In 2001 Gospel for Asia was founded, opening Bridge of Hope Centers where children get rescued from the streets and receive an education, a good meal, medical attention and hope in Jesus, with whom there is no distinction between Brahmin and Dalit. Children who are enrolled in a center, become a life link to their families, who are also changed when they see them practice what they are learning, things such as honesty, kindness and respect.

My H and I have both read the book now and have been impressed with the work started by J P Yohannan, a man who, despite the overwhelming numbers, has lived out the challenge he now passes on, namely to "not let what we can't do, stop us from doing what we can do." The stories of changed lives speak for themselves and I cannot help but share this.