Spring to soon! Sprung!

I would write about Lent, but I'm not quite there yet. Something about it being half term makes Lent seem unreal - a desert in the holidays? I have never traveled that far.

This morning I thought it was spring. I woke with the dawn sunlight and bounced out of bed ready for activity. Then I looked at the clock - it was 6.45. Figuring no one else would want to be up yet I drank some apple juice, ate a banana and began to make plans.....

I would take my race bike out for a spin, the first of the year. I could see the sun breaking through the mist, and imagined that the hills of the Cotswolds would be magical. I could drop in on my parents and visiting family, hang out for a while doing some crochet, and then whizz back through the hills during a glorious sunset. It would be a long day - 50 miles on the bicycle - but nothing a taste of spring could not bring me too.

I dressed in my bicycle adventure gear, packed my panniers with a change of clothes and my crochet, went outside and uncovered my race bike. It was in much need of attention. A winter in pyjamas had left it stiff, with flat tires and cobwebs. I set to work. By the time I was ready to go it was nearing 10am. I whizzed a mile along the main road before I realised. It was FREEZING.

This was no day to be adventuring on a bicycle! TURN BACK!

Turning around I came to terms with the fact that the task I had set before myself was not going to be completed. It was too much of a challenge. I do not like to come to terms with such realisations.

On reaching home I made a new plan. I put on my running shoes and set off towards Port Meadow. The floods had receded enough to make my normal running route accessible. It was beautiful. Ice had formed on the blades of grass, and in the undulating lowland where the water collected. As the sun struggled to reach each corner of the land it melted and glistened. I ran along cheerily, and thought to myself, 'I should run more often'. I love being outdoors. Running time is 'me' time; it is prayer time, thinking time, God time. I never get to it though. I am always too busy or too tired, or it is too dark. Quite obviously it is much easier for me to make time for running than to make time for 50 mile adventure cycles. 

Today spring sprung. Today there is time. Today doing a little something is possible. Nothing too much, no 50 mile dashes. Just time to run and think and be. Just the time to see the world waiting, the spring springing. It begins. 

Rhubarb Pie with Cream and Ice Cream

This is what we had for dessert on Sunday. It was delicious. And, it was perfect for the time of year. My Ma makes it, so I am not sure there is a formal recipe.

3-4 sticks of rhubarb

sugar to taste

sweet pastry

butter

cream and ice cream to serve

Grease a good sized pie plate with butter and pre heat the oven to 180C. 

Thinly slice the rhubarb and add it with a knob of butter to a pan to soften. Add sugar to taste. Once softened, cool. You could add a handshake of sultanas.

Roll the sweet pastry to line the pie plate, and roll a good sized lid. Fill the pastry with the filling, and top. Pinch the lid to the bottom casing carefully. Pierce the lid to allow the air out. Glaze and place in oven for 20 - 25 minutes until cooked. Serve warm with cream and ice cream.

Lenten Poems

This is a re-post. When I first found these poems I was readjusting to life in the 'city' of Oxford. I thought the place too busy and fast for my nature, and I longed to be back where I belong, among the woods and the trees, with the animals, the birds and the insects. I found life moved too fast.

Now, I am working in Slough, and commute everyday down one of the busiest motorways in the UK. I cannot say this gives me pleasure. But, working in the school I do, and teaching the children I teach energises me. I love my job. In the course of the day I move in a whirlwind of activity, and only rest in the calm of the evening, or the luxury of a 'no alarm' Saturday.

Of course, I wish I lived closer to school. I wish I lived in a country cottage with a few cats and dogs, chickens, a bird table, and perhaps a pig in the garden. I don't though. So for the moment, I remember. I remember what it was to walk so slowly I noticed the seasons. I remember and I wait. I wait for each weekend to look, I wait for each sign in the trees, each glimpse of change from the window, each battling sign of life I see through the impassive concrete. I watch, and I thank God when I see it.  

"In my parents garden the birds are feeding, the snowdrops are out, the sun is shining, but the trees are still bare, lagging behind in the depths of winter. This can only mean one thing: Lent is upon us. But today, I am going back to the city for the first time in a few months, and although Oxford is full of parks and meadows in which to spy the seasons, there is also always, for me anyway, a sense of detachment there. It is harder to spot the subtle signs of change amongst cold stone buildings.

Lenten Signs

Here in the city

where impassive pavements

light no signals for seasons,

fingers of woodland

point to the river

Mottled ivy

wipes off winter dust,

burns greener: a thorn tree

is beginning to sweat

white tears

Gnarled japonica

bursts into globules of blood,

beading leafless bones;

sunshots dazzle

through crossed boughs

of park lopped trees

and tearing nails of briars.

Robins extemporise

red warnings

of outrageous spring

Joyce Weldom-Searle

20th Century

Lent

Lent is a tree without blossom, without leaf,

Barer than blackthorn in its winter sleep,

All unadorned. Unlike Christmas which decrees

The setting up, the dressing up of trees,

Lent is a taking down, a stripping bare,

A starkness after all has been withdrawn

Of surplus and superfluous,

leaving no hiding place, only an emptiness

Between black branches, a most precious space

before the leaf, before the time of flowers;

Lest we should only see the leaf, the flower,

Lest we should miss the stars.

Jean M. Watt 20th Century"

Books for Lent

Everyone should have a book for Lent. It is a way of making space for God, for self and for reflection. The Dominican brethren have published their list for this year, and a fine compilation it is too. Seeing it made me think of the different types of volumes I might like to read this year. I record them here, for posterity (I cannot read them all in 40 days), to share (maybe you might like them) and as a shared love with friends of the books that we treasure.

The monks of Tibhirine: Faith, Love and Terror in Algeria - The story of a brave group of Trappist monks grappling with the challenge of living the Gospel in a mixed community of Muslims and Christians. The monks set a powerful example of the brotherhood of humanity, whilst political forces spread religious division and terror. Forgive this book for being written post- 9/11, it's narrative pre-dates and moves beyond the tripping points of contemporary religious-political dialogue. The story of these seven Trappist monks inspired the film "Of Gods and Men'. As always, the book is better.

The Intimate Merton: Thomas Merton's Life from his Journals - Every entry to Thomas Merton's diary is a view into the heart of what it means to be human. He hides nothing: forbidden love, agape, love of God, love of God's creation, a desire to be with someone, a desire to be alone. Thomas Merton is honest, refreshing and beautiful. For this, I love him.

Mother Teresa: Come be my light - I have not read this properly yet. I have owned it for years, but have consistently sneaked out of reading it in full. The snippets I have read tell me that Mother Teresa takes no prisoners in describing the religious life. God is with her, but she cannot see Him, He is present, but she cannot feel it. As if abandoned, she carries on, in faith. If this is all it purports to be, it is the story of faith when hope is lost, and courage where only weakness remains.

The Duty of Delight: The Diaries of Dorothy Day - An unsung heroine deserving recognition this one. Dorothy Day achieved countless victories for those society likes to ignore, and she paid dearly for the privilege. This is the story of a woman who loved. She loved without concern for the consequences. She loved before she was married. She loved the child born to her. She loved the homeless on the street, the alcoholics, the unemployed, the mentally ill, the dangerous and the unloveable. She loved them, and she welcomed them into her home - founding the Christian Worker Movement. For her determination and her bravery she deserves to be remembered.

There, I could go on, but two men and two women seems an adequate selection of heroes, heroines and saints to see us through 40 days in the desert. Lord knows, what trials and tribulations came to their lives lasted longer than that. I love to read. And, I love to read the letters, papers and intimate thoughts of those who have grappled with the most difficult challenges of life. Why are we here? How do we love our neighbour? Where is God in suffering? Does God speak? None of these books offer easy answers, but they are honest reflections from intelligent, honest people. For that I value their wisdom, and am fascinated by what they have to say. These people are the human side of religiosity, and they teach that, for us, the human side is the only side.

A tending heart

 Sometimes, when I am teaching, a student will be so shy of speaking out in class I'll have to lean forward and strain to hear their voice. Experience tells me that it is often these students that need to be heard. Their thoughts often comprise valuable, well thought out, reasoned ideas.

There's an elderly couple in my church. I think they are both hard of hearing. They strain to hear each other too. Reminiscing on a lifetime spent together they lean their heads together as if whispering, looking deeply into each others' faces. Then they almost shout to each other, holding their hands to their ears to focus the sound. It seems clear that the most important thing for both of them is to hear the voice of the one they love. These days I know quite a bit about their marriage and their fondest memories. I love them.

I wait patiently to hear from those I love. I long to hear the thoughts of my friends and family. My heart tends towards them. It waits to hear what they have to say. This is all the more important when there has been a misunderstanding. Or when there is important news to learn. Or just when it has been a long time.

I say all of this because I have been reading about an unpopular word: obedience. Sometimes, in usage it sounds as though people associate obedience with megalomania. As if it signifies a relationship between someone who barks orders, and another who jumps into line: think obedience school for dogs, army discipline, power hungry authoritarian leaders, fear, suppression, repression. If this is what it does mean, it is indeed an ugly word. However, I do not think obedience is an ugly word. 

Of all the qualities I value in others, and long to cultivate in myself, a willingness to listen is paramount. I long to be the sort of teacher of whom pupils might say, 'she listens'. Of course, I hope I am always there to listen to my friends. I aspire to have patience to listen to the politics of those who govern. I wish for the humility to listen out for, accept, understand and, when appropriate, act upon advice from others. Looking for a name for this quality of active 'listening', the theological word that emerges is 'obedience'. 

In the Hebrew Old Testament, shama, means, quite literally, 'hear'. Hence, we have the translation of Deuteronomy 6:4: 'Hear, O Israel, the Lord you God is one....'. In the New Testament the Greek word hupakouo is also rendered 'to listen'. Here it often associated with 'seeing' a situation 'as it really is' rather than a physical sense of hearing. A person can 'listen' to themselves, their reason, their thoughts. Jesus is 'obedient' unto death - He listens to the voice of God within himself. We are called to listen to (obey) the law 'written in our hearts' (Heb. 8:10; 10:16). In Latin oboedire means, quite literally, to hear or listen towards (ob = towards; oedire = to hear). 

Obedience then, is the grace of a 'tending heart', a heart that leans into another, strains to hear their voice above the din of noise and distraction all around; obedience has that sense of leaning inwards to hear with clarity, waiting for a complete explanation. Obedience, in this sense, is rooted in love and care; it is a process, a relationship; it takes time, patience and practise. To play with language, obedience is to 'attend' (give attention to) and 'tend' (care with love).  It is, in every sense, a virtue.

Why this post today? Why now? Well, I have been re-reading some of my scribbles from my undergraduate degree, and amongst those I found the makings of this post. Looking back it is clear to see that re-evaluating my thoughts on 'obedience' profoundly changed my attitude to all those most difficult things in faith, the Bible, Church Teaching, controversial debate, interpersonal relationships, etc . I'll not bore you with all the details of that now, but I thought the scribbled notes worth a look. 

Thoughts in Solitude

“My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.”

― Thomas Merton (31st January 1915 - 10th December 1968), Thoughts in Solitude

At a word...

 I have missed a few very important people of late. Not only the important feasts of saints, but also the important feasts of those saints who are patrons of important people, people I care about. Mea culpa. I have been, as usual, snowed under, literally and figuratively.

So, in order:

January 17th - St Anthony, Abbot. I love this man. He is a man of his word. His parents, sadly, died when he was 18 years old. He was left with responsibility for a large wealth of land and the care of his younger sister. He went to Church to pray. Matthew 19: 21 was read: "If you wish to be perfect, go, sell your possessions, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me." Anthony went out and gave his fortune away, keeping only enough for the upbringing of his sister. Then he went to Church again. This time the Gospel was Matthew 6: 34: "So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today's trouble is enough for today". He went out and gave the rest of his inheritance away, and allowed his sister to be cared for by a local convent. He left public life in order to   pursue a life in which he lived out Jesus' teaching. That deserves respect.

I'll tell you why. I am unlikely, God willing, to walk out on the world of commerce, capitalism and living as we know it.But, God knows, I wouldn't want to be called to it. Anthony was called to it, and he had the courage to respond positively. I'd be more likely to turn "Jonah" - you'd have to drag me in the body of a whale.

The Feast of St. Anthony, Abbot, inspired and inspires me to to pray for those incredibly special people who have the courage to respond to God's call. Every single one of them, no matter what their calling, is a hero.

January 25th - After that came the Conversion of St Paul. Another hero without a doubt. I have my 'debates' with Paul. He and I are sparring partners. Honestly, we fight. But, I respect him. Mostly I respect him because he took God at his word. If I had fallen from a great height, heard a voice from heaven and been inspired to change the direction of my life so totally, I might have been humiliated. Pride might have got the better of me. But, here is Paul. He stands up, changes, and gets on with it. Doing so he finds strength and happiness - but no end to the struggle. I know that feeling. I have changed my course of life, found my home, and discovered happiness without end to the struggle. The struggle goes on.

January 28th - Lastly, for now, came Thomas Aquinas. He is my hero. I love him. I could love him for all he taught. I could love him for his great wisdom. I could love him for the Summa Theologia. For all of these things I respect him. For all of these things I believe him worth listening to and obeying.  But, I love him because, after all his work was done, he thought nothing of it. After a life devoted to the divine he was finally granted a mystical experience of His presence. Afterwards, he said: 'The end of my labors has come. All that I have written appears to be as so much straw after the things that have been revealed to me." Thomas Aquinas never wrote another word. When later asked to return to writing, Thomas explained, "I can write no more. I have seen things that make my writings like straw." It takes courage to say such a thing. Courage and faith in the mercy of God. Humility to know our human knowledge of the divine is 'through a glass darkly': we do not know Him as he really is.  

I love all these people because they keep their word. They respect the fact that language reflects reality and experience. They understand that truth telling is about actions as well as words. They are never afraid to retreat upon a misunderstanding. Each of these saints understands the importance of the fact that we have two eyes, two ears and one mouth - they look, think and reason before they speak, and never assume that once they have spoken they are right. Each of them have the humility to listen to others and to God. May I, one day, be the same.

There should be dinner attached to this. I do not know what to cook for those who spoke and lived with integrity, for those who never allowed there to be a gap between their thoughts and their actions. It is a rare, rare quality. Perhaps, there should be a rare, rare food to match? Or, perhaps, what is called for is honesty and integrity. A dinner that inspires truth telling and openness. A dinner that does what 'it says on the tin'. Something simple, something straight forward. If that were the case, you know what? I'll not write a recipe, I'll suggest something: Ham, egg and chips.

Start as you mean to go on......

On New Year's eve my flatmate made  a most delicious meal of mulled lamb. It had featured on Nigel Slater's Twelve Tastes of Christmas. What Nigel had said about this dish was true. It does taste of Christmas! And it was the most scrummy start to 2013.

January 1st began slowly. I washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen to the music of 'Ave Maria' by Gounod, Schubert and Caccini. I love the fact that the first day of the year is devoted to the Mother of God. It is a reminder that salvation began its path on earth through the fiat of a young woman faithful enough to agree to God's plan for her life. 

My parents were joining us for lunch, and I was going to prepare another recipe by our dearest Nigel. This time it was his Pork Chops in a Mustard Sauce. I served them with fresh spinach and hassleback potatoes. Then we took a stroll down to Port Meadow and I petted the 'wild' horses down there and admired the floods. It was beautiful.

I am all into starting the year as you mean to go on. This year, among my many resolutions to drink less, take more exercise, spend more time at home and cook and eat frugally beautiful food, I also have a resolution to 'do good on impulse'. So often we get distracted by thoughts such as, 'it's not the right time', 'people will think that odd' or 'I'll do it tomorrow'. My patron for this year is Saint John of God - I'll write more about him later, but suffice to say, he never waited around to do good.

Elizabeth Ann Seton is the first of my friends' patrons to be remembered this year - her feast is on 4th January. She was a woman who knew her own mind, she was cultured, educated and a pioneer. She was married and the mother of five children, the first American - born person to be canonised. Elizabeth Ann was a pioneer of education, and she and two of her friends worked hard to establish the first free Catholic school in the United States. Elizabeth Ann is a reminder that anything is possible if you only agree to try, and so she is an appropriate beginning to a New Year, a year in which the answer will always be "Yes",  fiat.

PS:  You can still choose your patron! Click here.

Pork Chops in a Mustard Sauce: The Kitchen Diaries

Page: 51 – February 13th

[The recipe below is an exact copy from the book, no alterations have been made]

Pork spare rib or chump chops – 2 large, about 1cm thick

butter – 25g

olive oil – 1 tablespoon

garlic – 2 large unpeeled cloves, squashed flat

a glass of white wine

double or whipping cream – 150ml

grain mustard – 1 1/2 tablespoons

smooth Dijon mustard – 1 1/2 tablespoons

cornichons – 8, or half as many larger gherkins 

Rub the chops all over with salt and pepper. Put the butter and oil in a shallow pan set over a moderate to high heat and, when they start to froth a little, add the flattened garlic and the seasoned chops. Leave to brown, then turn and brown the other side. Lower the heat and continue cooking, turning once, until the chops are no longer pink when cut into.

Lift out the chops, transfer to a warm serving dish and keep warm. Pour off most of the oil from the pan, leaving the sediment behind, then turn up the heat and pour in the wine. Let it boil for a minute or so, scraping at the sticky sediment in the pan and letting it dissolve. Pour in the cream, swirl the pan about a bit, then leave it to bubble up a little before adding the mustards and the chopped cornichons.

Taste for seasoning; you may need a little salt and possibly black pepper. The sauce should be piquant and creamy. If you want, you can sharpen it up. Pour the sauce over the chops and serve. Enough for 2 with mashed or unbuttered new potatoes.

Choose a Patron

It is time to take the challenge of choosing a Patron Saint for 2013. Last Year I drew St. Ulric of Augsburg, which was rather confusing, as his areas of expertise included protection from birth complications, dizziness, faintness, fever, frenzy, and the infestation of mice and moles! He is also the patron of pregnant women, wanderers, weavers, winegrowers and a happy death. Around the time of his feast I took time to consider how any of that little lot could be relevant to me and concluded that: 'I would love to weave, would do anything to have the opportunity to make wine, and hope one day to have an 'easy birth' or two, or three, or four..... Eventually, with a tribe of family around me, I hope to die a good death, around the age of 99 or so...' Perhaps, this year I have set the foundations for some of that, who knows? I am currently crocheting a blanket...

Choosing a Patron Saint for the year used to be a custom amongst religious communities for New Year's Day, and perhaps, in places it still is.  Modernity has caught up with this ancient practise by means of a Patron Saint Generator by Jennifer Fulweiler. 

St Faustina, of Divine Mercy fame, shows that this custom was alive and well in the 1930's with an excerpt from her diary:

“There is a custom among us of drawing by lot, on New Year’s Day, special Patrons for ourselves for the whole year. In the morning, during meditation, there arose within me a secret desire that the Eucharistic Jesus be my special Patron for this year also, as in the past. But, hiding this desire from my Beloved, I spoke to Him about everything else but that. When we came to refectory for breakfast, we blessed ourselves and began drawing our patrons. When I approached the holy cards on which the names of the patrons were written, without hesitation I took one, but I didn’t read the name immediately as I wanted to mortify myself for a few minutes. Suddenly, I heard a voice in my soul: ‘I am your patron. Read.’ I looked at once at the inscription and read, ‘Patron for the Year 1935 – the Most Blessed Eucharist.’ My heart leapt with joy, and I slipped quietly away from the sisters and went for a short visit before the Blessed Sacrament,where I poured out my heart. But Jesus sweetly admonished me that I should be at that moment together with the sisters. I went immediately in obedience to the rule.”

Excerpt from “Divine Mercy in My Soul, the Diary of St. Faustina”

The ways of the future are unknown, but this year the patron chosen for me is St. John of God, whose feast falls on 8th March. His patronage is listed as follows: Against Alcoholism; Against Sickness; Alcoholics; Booksellers; Dying People; Firefighters; Heart Patients; Hospitals; Nurses; Publishers; Printers; Sick People.

I'll write more about him in time, and invoke his intercession throughout the year. 

Do you dare or care to find a Patron for 2013?  Just click here: Patron Saint Generator. :-) 

Let me know, via comments or via Facebook, who is chosen for you and their feast day, and I'll be sure to write a little something for you during the year. 

xx

Hold on

I am quite sure that 2013 will contain many adventures. I am very nervous of some of them, and some of them fill me with hope. I cannot see the road ahead any better than anyone else. But, hopefully, the grace of Christmas will light the way.

Any reader of this blog will know that I love to cook, and indeed, I spent much of Christmas Day cooking. However, Christmas Day is not my favourite day of Christmas, there are other quieter moments I treasure. When all the crowds have gone, I love to creep down the side aisle of my local Church to visit the beautiful crib scene. The figures there look real to me, I am child enough in my heart to make-believe them alive. The Christ-child reaches up a tiny hand, and I imagine that if I were to place my finger near he would grip it tightly, the way babies often do. I wonder what would happen if I did such a thing? What would happen if I had the courage to hold on? 

Then there are the other quiet moments of Christmastide. The night I get to stay up later than everyone else and look at the tree. The winter walk with a loved and treasured friend. Time to sit and crochet little granny squares for the blanket of my dreams. I adore those moments, when all the talking has been done, and there is time to settle down with loved ones and say nothing. Too much of my daily routine is spent amongst hustle, bustle and noise. I like to turn off the telly, the radio, and yes, even the internet.

And in the quiet, this:

260ml semi skimmed milk

1tsp English Honey

60g dark chocolate, grated

Place the milk in a saucepan over a medium heat. Add the honey and bring it to a simmer. Whisk the grated chocolate into the hot milk until the chocolate has melted and the mixture is smooth. Simmer for one minute more. Serve.

Add Brandy for a festive treat.

Tuck up into the sofa and relax.

The tender time of Advent

When a woman is carrying a child she develops a certain instinct of self-defence. It is not selfishness; it is not egotism. It is absorption into the life within, a folding of self, like a little tent around the child's frailty, a God-like instinct to cherish, and some day bring forth, the life. A closing upon it like petals of a flower closing upon the dew that shines in its heart. This is precisely the attitude we must have to Christ, the life within us, in the Advent of our contemplation.

By his own will Christ was dependent on Mary during Advent: he was absolutely helpless; he could go nowhere but where she chose to take him; he could not speak; her breathing was his breath; his heart beat in the beating of her heart. Today Christ is dependent upon us.

This dependence of Christ lays a great trust upon us. During this tender time of Advent we must carry him in our hearts to wherever he wants to go, and there are many places to which he may never go unless we take him to them.

The Road of God - Caryll Houselander, 2006

I thought of this reading the moment a friend of mine posted a striking and completely absorbing image of the visitation on her Facebook page. It has taken me this long to dig it out. I love these words - I love their tenderness, and their femininity. I love the gentle grace of which they speak.