Video

I did have a video (that worked) posted here last night but it doesn't seem to be working this morning. I'll see if I can do some of my skilled and brilliant technical repair work (ha) and get it up again soon.

Rebuked By Potatoes

Our family was sitting around the table on a Sunday afternoon, eating a takeout meal from a chicken place. Most of the food had been passed and it was finally time for the little container of potatoes to begin its way around the table.

It started with my son, went to my husband, passed by my parents-in-law and finally came to me.

I was so incredibly happy to see the Potato Container wending its way in my direction because I love potatoes and gravy. I long for potatoes and gravy! I live for potatoes and gravy!

But alas! When I finally got my greedy paws on the Styrofoam bowl and peered into its depths, I saw to my everlasting horror that there was just one small scoop of the delectable, white stuff remaining.

One scoop.

I looked to my left and noticed that my daughter, Sarah, had not yet gotten any potatoes. I looked at the potatoes again. I looked at Sarah's plate.

I wrestled with my conscience. I wrestled with my soul. I wrestled with the Unselfish Mother DNA that was rising up in full force. I wrestled with the Selfish Becky Smith DNA that was rising up in even fuller force.

I pondered. I ruminated. I looked at the potatoes one more time. And then, as hard as this is to admit, I helped my selfish self to the last serving of potatoes.

And then I had the nerve to pass Sarah the empty container and say, "Sorry, sweetie. The potatoes are all gone."

Sarah looked at my plate. She looked at her plate. Her face filled with the pitiful pathos of a potato-deprived princess. She looked back at me once more and said, "You took all the potatoes?"

My first instinct was to be proud of myself, to be glad that I had stood up for myself and had not cowed to what I should have done. I was a strong, independent woman who could have the last serving of potatoes if I jolly well wanted to. I was not enslaved by the expectations of my children, I was not constrained by the compulsion to please everyone all the time, and I was not obligated to fulfill the needs and whims of those around me. I could partake of the last bit of potatoes if I wanted to, thank you very much!

I spent a few glorious moments reveling in my rare foray into the realm of self-indulgence. I rejoiced that one of my all-time favorite foods in the world was nestled on my plate, waiting to be doused in my gravy, waiting to be forked into my lips, waiting to attach itself to my hips. (Oh wait. Forget that last line.)

Sarah didn't do anything to make me feel guilty but I did notice a look of slight confusion cross her face that said, "Who is this woman and what has she done with my mother?"

I sat for a few moments pondering The Look. I also pondered The Potatoes.

And then suddenly, right smack dab in the midst of all my pondering and reveling, my brief flirtation with my giddy greediness started to lose its appeal. I stared at the potatoes and they stared back at me with one white, accusing eye as if to ask, " Why have you stolen food from your poor child?" I stared back with some small attempt at bravado but it was useless.

What's a mother to do when she's being rebuked by potatoes? She caves in. She gives up. She capitulates.

I picked up my spoon and scooped up the pile of potatoes. I held them aloft for a few shining moments of fond farewell and then reached over and plopped them on Sarah's plate.

I said, "Here, Sarah. I don't really need these." (And if you were to take one glance at the expanse of my "back forty" you would doubtless agree.)

And then, with a light heart and a potato-chewing princess at my side, I made the wonderful discovery that if you split open a biscuit and put gravy on it, it's even better than potatoes!

Although the selfless uniform of motherhood seems to fit me just fine most of the time, I was still glad for the opportunity to briefly dip my toes into the shallow pool of selfishness. It helped me realize that making it all about me isn't all it's cracked up to be and it reminded me that giving gifts to people I love brings me far more joy than hoarding things for myself.

But when it comes to sharing my chocolate? All bets are off.

The DMV. Grace and Peach

Today I went to the (very) small and (very) quaint DMV here in Manteo to get the address on my Driver's License changed. I've gone through this scintillating process in large cities in the past and remember very well the whole rigmarole of signing in, standing in line, sitting and waiting, filling out forms, and standing and waiting some more.

Not so in Manteo!

I walked in. I was called back. I sat down. I was back out the door in 5.7 minutes.

But wait! There's more!

After I had been seated at the Official Address Changing Desk, I handed the lady my old license and answered a few questions. She typed everything up and then said, "Okay. That will be ten dollars."

I got out my checkbook and wrote out the check. I handed the check to the lady. And then (out of habit) I came this close to saying, "Do you need to see my driver's license?"

I am so very, very glad that I clamped my mouth shut at the very last nanosecond and did not ask the Driver's License lady if she wanted to see my Driver's License.

Would that have been embarrassing or what?

And now for Part Two of today's post:

I just received an e-mail from the Official Pastor Person in my life who just happens to be my own Personal Husband Person. He had sent out an e-mail to me and the other staff staff members at our church.

No biggie, right?

Well, it was no biggie until I got to the end of the letter and saw, to my great amusement, that he had inadvertently signed the letter, "Grace and Peach."

Grace and Peach?

I know he was going for "Grace and Peace," but I really sorta like Grace and Peach. It sounds a little bit like a female folk duo from the 60's!

Okay, I'm signing off now. And as I do, my sincere hope is that the rest of your day will be filled with grace.

And peach.

(Hey, it works for me!)

Haiti. Tears. Beauty.

Yesterday morning, the eight members of our worship team gathered to spend time praying before rehearsal, as is our custom.

The subject of Haiti was brought up and we all agreed that the country desperately needed our prayers. As we began to pray together, it was incredibly moving to sense palpable love, to feel genuine compassion, and to see real tears.

We were a group of sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, gathered in a circle on a small island in North Carolina. We had gathered to pray for sons and daughters, sisters and brothers on another island whom we had never met. And never will meet.

But the human connection was there. The family connection was there.

We were all thinking, “How would I feel if it were MY daughter screaming in the chaos? Or MY mom’s body being piled on a truck, to be hauled off to a mass grave?”

Our hearts hurt simply because fellow human beings also had hearts that hurt.

And as we prayed for those precious people in pain, beauty emerged. The beauty of tears, that showed compassion. The beauty of time taken to pray for people whose pain is beyond imagination. The beauty of understanding that the labels “Haitians” and “Americans” don’t really exist. Not deep down where it counts.

No. Deep down where it counts, the only labels that define us are sons and daughters, sisters and brothers.

Humans.

All of us in need of miracles in many sizes and shapes. All of us in need of a Heavenly Father to comfort, to protect, to heal, to wipe our tears away.

Beauty came to church yesterday morning. Beautiful hearts prayed over broken lives. And wept. And cared. (And later in the service, also gave.)

Haiti. Tears. Beauty.

Not Happy With The Pioneer Woman

I am taking a break from sugar.

For a month. An entire month. Thirty whole, entire, long, gruesome, horrible, sad, sugar-less days.

Why?

That’s a very good question.

Partly as a spiritual discipline. Partly as self discipline. And partly to lose a few of the Christmas pounds that crept over and uponst my body when I wasn’t looking.

And WHY wasn’t I looking? Well, I wasn’t looking because it’s hard to look AND eat sugary desserts, all at the same time.

So far, my little ol’ sugar break has been going pretty well. We went to a church member’s house for dinner last night and she served homemade chocolate meringue pie AND homemade cinnamon rolls.

But I was strong. I was disciplined. I was fabulous. I Just. Said. No.

And today, I was also doing pretty well, even though our dear wonderful hostess opted to send half the pie AND some cinnamon rolls home with us!

I was doing pretty well, that is, until I logged onto The Pioneer Woman..

THAT was a mistake. That was a BIG mistake.

Because today, Ree Drummond (AKA The Pioneer Woman and one of the best bloggers alive) shared her recipe for pound cake. POUND. CAKE.

Now this is not a fact that is widely known throughout the civilized world, but I’m just going to share with you right now that the reason that Pound Cake is called Pound Cake is because every slice you eat adds (at least) a pound to your body. I know this for a fact.

In fact, I have done personal, irrefutable research on this topic and am now a world renowned expert on the subject of how personal human poundage is caused by the personal partaking of pound-inducing, pound-producing Pound Cakes.

Pound cakes are crispy on the outside and soft and moist inside. They’re good warmed with ice cream. They’re good plain, and they’re good cold, and they’re good hot and tepid and lukewarm and every other temperature that has ever been recorded in the Annals of Pound Cake Temperature History.

And so that is why I am not happy with Pioneer Woman. Because when I was at my very weakest, she posted this photo.

And she had the temerity to post this recipe.

• 3 sticks Butter
• 3 cups Sugar
• 5 whole Eggs
• 1 teaspoon Butter Flavoring
• 2 teaspoons Lemon Flavoring
• 3 cups All-purpose Flour
• 1 cup Sprite, 7-UP, Or Sierra Mist

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Cream butter. Add sugar, 1 cup at a time, mixing after each addition. Add eggs, 1 at a time, mixing after each addition. Add butter and lemon extracts and mix well. Add flour, 1 cup at a time, mixing well after each addition. Add soft drink, then mix together until combined. Scrape sides of bowl, then mix briefly.

Pour into a greased Bundt pan and bake for 1 hour to 1 hour 10 minutes, until the cake is no longer jiggly.

Remove cake from oven and invert pan until cake drops out. Slice and chow down.

After I saw the picture, and read the recipe, I was NOT amused. Or impressed. Or appreciative. Or happy.

In fact, I may be mistaken but I think that I gained two pounds just by looking at the poundage of the aforementioned Pound Cake.

Sigh.

I guess I should stop whining about this, sign off, and go have a dish of yogurt. Or something.

I mean, if I use my imagination, vanilla yogurt is sort of, kind of like Pound Cake. Isn’t it? I guess the only difference is that it doesn’t have three sticks of butter. Or three cups sugar. Or five whole eggs.

But other than that? They’re exactly the same.

So. I’m off to have some (almost like Pound Cake) yogurt.

And to regretfully rue the reading of Ree’s blog.

Snowy Goes To College

Last night, Sarah, Snowy and I had an adventurous, alarming, entertaining, exhausting, and exhilarating outing.

We went to Dog Training Classes. (Otherwise known--in our family, at least--as College.)

I am hereby here to report to you that Snowy distinguished himself at College in several different ways. (And I use the words “distinguished himself,” in the nicest possible way.)

Here are the unique ways in which Snowy became the most “notable” student in the 2010 Class of Canines:

1. He was the very first dog to have to be sprayed in the face with water by his wise instructor for refusing to stop barking hysterically at the other four dogs in the room.

2. He was the first dog to cause the instructor to have to switch from the bottle of water to a spray bottle of “yucky stuff.” (This was sprayed near Snowy’s mouth to get his attention and short circuit his barking frenzy.)

3. Snowy was the only dog whose owners were presented by the teacher with their very own personal spray bottle for ongoing “barking discipline” as the teacher was talking. (I know the other dog owners must have been incredibly jealous that we had been chosen for that singular honor.)

4. Snowy was the only dog in the room to bite the instructor. (It was just a little nip which the instructor took in stride, but he was still the only doggie to do it.)

5. Snowy was the oldest dog (by far) in the room.

6. Snowy was the smallest dog in the room. (The largest was 120 pounds and he was looking at Snowy as though he might be suitable for a tasty appetizer.)

7. Snowy was the only dog in the room who’d never been around other dogs; as a result, every time another dog came near him, he burst forth into a frothing, frantic frenzy, the likes of which have never before been recorded in the annals of doggie history.

And speaking of annals, that seems to be a good transition into a similar word.

Which is anal.

As in, “dogs sniffing the anal areas of other dogs.” (Bear with me, please. I’m trying to phrase this as delicately as possible.)

But the truth of the matter is that last night, Snowy was introduced to the fine art of behiney sniffing. (Which, I must say, was a riot to watch.) The instructor said that it was important for Snowy to discover what it feels like to be part of the pack, so to speak, and for him to realize that it really isn’t necessary to explode into hysteria every time another canine came near.

And so, to facilitate the Introductory Sniffing of the Behiney Ceremony with minimal trauma to the sniffer and the sniffee, Sable was called into action.

Now before I go any further in this highly edifying post about canine behineys, let me introduce you to Sable.

Sable was, quite simply, an amazing dog. She’d been neglected and abandoned before being adopted by our teacher. When all of us owners and our dogs (there were four dogs in the class) walked into the training room, she was already in there, lying contentedly on her rug. She lifted her head to look at us, gave a cursory glance around and then calmly put her head back down on her paws to await further development.

Now let me just say that if Snowy had been lying on a rug and four dogs had suddenly entered the room (especially if one of the dogs weighed 120 pounds), he would have immediately levitated three feet into the air and flailed around with great alacrity, barking, hyperventilating, and having the next thing to a nervous break down. (One of Snowy’s problems is that he doesn’t know he only weighs six pounds; he really believes he weighs two hundred pounds, and no one has the heart to tell him any different.)

As it turned out, Sable was there to be the role model dog for the evening. She kept her eyes fastened on her master (our teacher) at all times, and even when the other dogs came within inches of her face as they were being led around the room, she maintained an absolutely amazing aura of imperturbability.

She and her master showed us all about staying, and heeling and other tasks that will be learned in the weeks to come. And then, in the highlight of the evening (for Snowy, at least), she was called upon to allow her regal self to be sniffed by a certain hyper, happy, anxious, eager-to-please, scared-to-death, beloved teacup Maltese.

The instructor brought Sable near Snowy (by this time, Snowy was being much less reactive to the other dogs) and lifted Snowy up to engage in a bit of polite sniffing. (If sniffing some ones’ behiney can, indeed, be called polite.)

And then it was Snowy’s turn to be sniffed at a bit, which he coped with in an admirably calm and genteel manner.

And so progress was made.

Snowy began to understand that the other dogs in the room were not his sworn enemies, but instead that they were all a part of the College Pack. He began to realize that he didn’t have to give into dismaying and dire doggie distress every time one of them came within three feet of his royal personage.

At the end of the evening, he was calm and happy, and he and the trainer had become great friends. (The trainer said he understood that Snowy had nipped at him earlier because he was scared senseless by all the newness and strangeness of the evening.)

By the time we all left the building that night, Snowy and both of his accompanying ladies were exhausted. He slept the entire 25-minute trip home and then slept in till almost 7 this morning, which is very late for him. It seems as though all the spraying, biting, learning, studying, heeling, and hiney sniffing that goes into being a Canine College Dude was a just lot for him to cope with.

And just to further illustrate what our dear and darling doggie went through during his first day of college, here are a few closing pictures.

Snowy trying to stay clear of Ye Olde Horse Doggie on the rug next to his.

When Snowy wasn’t looking, Sable (at the back of the room) and Coco were showing a good deal of interest in him. (Were they possibly thinking, “Snack?”)

However, when Snowy turned to look at them, they nonchalantly found something else to stare at.

The attention focuses on Snowy once more. Snowy shows remarkable self restraint and turns the other direction. (I wanted to say that he “turned the other cheeks,” but I would never say such a thing on this blog.)

Finally, Snowy decides to let the Big Guy know that he exists. And that he ain't scared of nuthin’!

Um. Except maybe having a creature twenty times his size hovering over him.

And so ends Snowy’s first day of College. We’ll keep you updated as his college career progresses.

In the meantime, he is spending today taking a lot of naps to recover from the trauma of being a College Dude.

___________________________

From the Comments Section:

Traci said her husband wanted to know what planes Steve’s Dad flew in the Air Force. Here’s the line up:

T-28, T-6, T-33, O-1, F-84F, F-84G, F-100F, F-111D

Of course, none of those letters or numbers mean a thing to me, but all you airplane buffs out there will understand!