Month: March 2019

BEST MEAL EVER

            As soon as I walked through the back door, I began smiling. My nostrils came to attention and drank in the crispy aroma of Mom frying chicken. The popping and crackling of the flour-drenched oil played a sweet sonata on my taste buds. I savored the succulent, meaty goodness before even taking a bite.

            I kissed Mom on the cheek, thanking her for making my favorite dinner. She lifted the lid on the black cast iron Dutch oven resting over the gas flames. As I leaned over it to inhale the fragrance, a drop of oil burst and stung my cheek. Still I breathed deeply before backing away.

            Potatoes boiled on the adjacent burner. They were almost ready for mashing. Milk and butter stood at the ready, offering themselves for both the potatoes and the gravy.

            I ran up the stairs to my room and quickly changed out of my school clothes, before thundering back to the silverware drawer in the kitchen. On fried chicken days I didn’t need to be asked even once to set the table. Finishing that task, I played a game with John as we waited for Mom and Dad to drink their Manhattans as the chicken continued to fry.

            Finally, Mom called us to the table. A platter stacked high with golden, “goopy” fried chicken sat on the blue-flecked Formica table between Dad and me. I impatiently waited for him to spear a breast before I stuck my fork into a leg and plunked it on my plate.

            Mom reminded us that we needed to say grace. As soon as “Amen” left my lips, I scooped some corn onto my plate and passed it to Dad, who was placing a leg on John’s plate. After Mom served herself mashed potatoes, she handed the bowl to me. I plopped a generous helping onto my plate, then passed the bowl on to Dad.

            As I waited for the gravy to make its way to me, I prepared my potatoes. Using my fork, I carefully made a hole in the middle and built up the sides around it. taking the gravy ladle, I poured two or three large spoonfuls into the “swimming pool” I had created.

            The first bite of the chicken tasted better than the first sip of morning coffee. The golden flavor of the skin filled me with joy. I could have eaten a hundred pieces had I been given the opportunity.

            I sprinkled some pepper on the gravy, then sampled the potatoes. With precision I ate away the side of the pool. I knew the gravy was perfect when it failed to escape through the opening. Mom’s gravy was so thick that it didn’t move at all. I shoveled a forkful of the white, glue-like gravy into my mouth. The taste of milk and chicken dredgings lingered on my tongue.

            Chicken, potatoes, and gravy circulated around the table until there was no evidence, except for the bones picked clean of any meat and the empty bowls, that there had been any food at all. Laughter and sharing of the day’s events were digested along with the protein as we lingered around the table.

            One day, when I sit at the heavenly banquet, I’ll be feasting on Mom’s fried chicken once again. And the platter will always be full.

MY FRIENDSHIP WITH BOOKS

            I’ve always trusted books to be my friends. Growing up, I moved around a lot while Dad was in the Navy. When I learned to read, my world opened up in countless ways. I remember I got my first library card at the bookmobile that stopped on the street where I lived. I was 6. I crawled into the stories, was transported and transformed by Babar the Elephant, Nancy Drew and the orange-covered biographies of Ulysses S. Grant, Virginia Dar4e and Woodrow Wilson.

            I felt alive when I entered these worlds, totally engulfed in the “Mystery of the Clock Tower,” as I crept through the dilapidated mansion with Nancy. My book on world cultures introduced me to the mountains of Nepal, the colorful clothing of the people of Peru and the wonder of deepest Africa.

            I trusted the welcoming pages who nurtured my imagination and encouraged my creativity. Whether I rode with Roy and Dale or picked blueberries with the Bobbsey Twins or marched with cadets in the West Point books, I was there with my friends. No one laughed at me or excluded me between these covers. I became an integral part of the stories. I belonged.

            As a teenager, I spent hours several afternoons a week nourishing my soul on a diet of history, fiction, and poetry. ee cummings taught me that capital letters are overrated, Madeleine L’Engle introduced me to Meg and Charles Wallace as we tessered through a “Wrinkle in Time.” I pictured Clark Gable as Rhett Butler long before I saw the movie. My heart throbbed rapidly with Pee’s “Telltale Heart? I wept when I finished reading “Flowers for Algernon.” I was the happiest person in the world when I was hired to work there two afternoons a week. The library actually paid me to work in my happy place.

            I never finished cleaning my room because I would start by picking up the books strewn across the floor and was immediately captivated by “Seven Days in May”, a Robert Frost poem or a book on communism in the Soviet Union. To this day, my house often looks cluttered for the same reason.

            Books allowed me to roam the planet, meeting fellow adventurers as I shivered with fear or plotted our next move.  Books carried me far away from the hurt and confusion of teenage angst and offered continuing possibilities for my own real-life journey.

            In my mid-twenties, God called me into pastoral ministry, where my love of books served me well.  Introduced to the world of theology and Biblical studies, I gobbled up texts on the Old Testament and struggled to understand the theology of Moltman and Bultmann. At seminary I introduced myself to life-long friends and mentors: Frederick Buechner, Henri Nouwen and Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Buechner showed me that faith was not a destination, but an adventure. Nouwen taught me compassion and cracked open a door to God’s heart. Bonhoeffer challenged me with the “Cost of Discipleship” and the concept of cheap grace.

            Books encouraged me to write my own stories, sing my own songs, and experiment with my own creative spirit. Now, whether I read or write, I find a home, a haven, a welcoming smile.

            Jesus said that he was going to prepare a place for us, that in his kingdom, there are many rooms. On my moving-in day, I envision myself in a mahogany paneled library with floor to ceiling bookshelves and a large picture window opening onto the ocean. As I study the shelves, I find all my old friends are there waiting for me. I pull one out at random.

            As I open it, Madeleine L’Engle steps out from the pages, as we sit and share a cup of coffee, we speak of the magic of imagination and the craft of writing. Together we visit the Austin family, sing with the stones, and wait for a dragon on the wishing stone. Later Miss Marple shows me around St. Mary Mead and we puzzle over the latest murder which she is investigating. Roy and Dale invite me to ride with them over the hills where we capture some outlaws. As they ride off on their “Happy Trails,” I dine with Buechner as we share the secrets that both froze and empowered us.

            The next day, I think I’ll drop in on Perry Mason to see what case he is solving or step through the wardrobe into Narnia to meet Aslan face to face.