Grandmom’s Oyster Dressing

Posted on November 21, 2015 by Deborah Newell

One of the traditions at our family Thanksgiving dinners, and Christmas as well, is actually a dish that not everyone likes. But it was always on every holiday dinner table when I was growing up, as well as our holiday dinner tables now.

Growing up on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, which is one of the greatest seafood areas in the country (yes, I will argue with anyone on that!), we always enjoyed a some of the best blue crabs, clams, oysters, and fresh fish I’ve ever had. One of the traditional Eastern Shore holiday side dishes was what we called Oyster Dressing, also known in other areas as Scalloped Oysters.

I’m not an oyster fan per se, but this dish is something I very much enjoy. Unfortunately my husband doesn’t share my enthusiasm for it, especially since he’s allergic to oysters, but I’m thankful our son-in-law loves oysters, so I can still make it and have someone join me in eating it!

Traditionally my aunt always made the dish, and would bring it to my mom’s house just about ready to bake, so it would be piping hot when served. Since it’s just oysters, crackers, butter, and milk, she’d always bring her own quart of milk to pour into it right before she stuck it in the oven. Because she had to make sure the liquid covered all the crackers thoroughly so it wouldn’t be too dry, she always used a glass casserole dish. When we were kids we used to be fascinated by her pouring the milk in and getting the texture just right. Why, I have no idea; it was just one of those things we did…we were kids! And we didn’t have to help cook!

So for all of you who are curious, and sea food lovers, I’m happy to share the way we made this dish, and still do today. And please, use a round glass casserole dish…trust me, it’s easier!

Here’s all you need:

1 quart fresh oysters, rinsed and drained (check for any bits of broken shell!)
1 box of saltine crackers
softened butter
milk

Butter the bottom and sides of a round 1 1/2-2 quart glass casserole dish.
Crush some of the saltines and put in the bottom of the casserole dish, at least a 1 1/2 inch or so thick.
Place about 1/3 of the oysters on top of crackers, sprinkle with pepper, and dot with butter.
Repeat the process 2-3 times, ending with another layer of crackers, dotted with butter.
Cover with wax paper or saran wrap and refrigerate until ready to bake.
Just before putting in a pre-heated 350 degree oven, slowly pour in milk in a circular pattern until crackers are soaked. (We sometimes used a knife to cut through the crackers to be sure everything got soaked really well!0
Bake 40-55 minutes until done. During baking watch to see that it doesn’t dry out; if so, add a tiny bit more milk.

Serve hot! And if you have leftovers, cover and reheat in the oven or microwave.

Where Are Your Tears?

Posted on November 19, 2015 by Deborah Newell

My mother had a difficult time crying. She told me years ago that she’d cried so much when my father died that she had no more tears left. And now I finally understand what she meant.

I’ve probably cried a river, at least, of tears. Maybe even an ocean. I look back at those times of deepest sorrow….when my father died. When my beloved uncle died three days before my husband and I were supposed to be married. All the times I’d tried to get pregnant, and the answer was “no”. When I had my miscarriage and tubal pregnancy. And sitting in the car in my driveway after I had driven back from Maryland after the last time I saw my mother alive, just crying uncontrollably and inconsolably, because I knew in my spirit that I wouldn’t see her alive again on this earth. All those tears….that night alone I think I soaked my sweater so badly it shrunk. I felt like I’d been deserted, even though my husband came out to the car and sat with me and held me, and then our daughter came out and sat on the other side and cried with me, too….

I think I’ve cried so many tears in my lifetime, I don’t have any more left to cry.

All those tears. My sorrows. My heartache. Gut wrenching pain. And not ONE of them wasted. Because in my sorrow, and my lowest hours, the Lord was there, and He had his bottle out and caught each and every one of them, because He never wanted to forget the pain I was experiencing. Because He was there to make it better. As someone said, He doesn’t need our tears, because He has enough of His own from when his only son Jesus was crucified.

I find myself wondering at times what my bottle of tears looks like. There’s nothing I’ve found in the scriptures to actually describe what our own bottles of tears look like, but after reading the descriptions of heaven, I can imagine a beautiful crystal bottle, with hundreds and hundreds of facets, so many that we can’t count them all. And it reflects like so many rainbows that we can’t even count them all. We know that Heaven is filled with wonders and colors and beauty we can’t begin to imagine in our earthly minds.

Our bottle of tears is like that. Because God loves us so much, He takes our earthly sorrows and turns them into immeasurable joys when we finally get into His presence. Sometimes I wonder how in the world one bottle can hold all the tears I’ve cried. Surely some of them have evaporated, or been missed. But God in His infinite mercy and love has saved each and every one, and that one bottle that each of us has with our name on it holds each and every tear. If a day is His presence is like a thousand years, and a thousand years is like a day, can we expect any less?

Because I love the beach, I imagine my bottle of tears has tiny starfish and seashells pasted on a delicate sea foam blue glass bottle, with a bit of sand in the bottom, and tied with a narrow string of rope.

But I know that whatever the Lord has used for our individual bottles of tears, it’s perfect. Because He selected it especially for us, and has engraved our name on it.

What does your bottle of tears look like?

Memories Lighting My Mind

Posted on November 16, 2015 by Deborah Newell

But what if the memories suddenly start fading….or if the light doesn’t always come on any more?

Most of us, if we are fortunate, will have our parents live long enough that some (hopefully only a few) of their memories will start to blur. It’s not something they can help, and trust me, they are just as upset over it as we are. Maybe more. Because these are their memories. Memories of days before we were ever born; before we were ever even thought of, because they were still children at the time. Many of their stories take place before they even met the person they would share their life with, and eventually become the two parents that made us.

We all have memories that we don’t want to fade. Memories of growing up. Fun times and special dinners with family members and friends when we were children…when we had no idea what the world would bring when we grew up. We remember high school, our first love, our prom, our graduation, and other special events.

Our parents remember those things, too. If only I had known years ago how precious those thoughts and memories were. If only I had asked the questions then that I want to ask now. And can’t.

Unfortunately, life intervenes, and we don’t always do and ask the things we should.

As our parents age, unless they, and we, are very lucky, their memories do start to fade somewhat. Sometimes they recognize it and talk to us about it, and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they try to avoid the subject and try to go on as if nothing is happening out of the ordinary.

Ask questions while you still can, and help your parents cherish their memories. Write down the answers, maybe in a special journal you’ve bought just for that particular purpose. One day you’re going to want to be able to remember those stories, just as your parents told them to you. Because as they relate those stories, if you close your eyes, you can almost see in your mind the pictures they are re-living through their words.

Artists paint pictures on a canvas for us to see with our eyes; writers are artists who paint with words and create pictures in our minds. Our parents should be the artists we most want to paint for us while they are still able to do so.

What pictures do you want your parents to paint for you? What pictures do you wish they’d painted for you before they left? Take those pictures still in your mind and remember them before it’s too late.

To the Man on the Sidewalk

Posted on November 15, 2015 by Deborah Newell

I did not write this. I do not take credit for it in any way.

I wish I had, but I didn’t. This was written by Julie Nelson, anchor of the 5:00, 6:00 and 11:00 news on KARE-TV in Minneapolis/St. Paul Minnesota. I do not know Julie, and had never heard of her until I read this, but I admire her and her heart. She had written and posted this on her Facebook wall in the early morning hours of November 14, 2015, just hours after the horrific and senseless massacres in Paris.

Those events have shattered our hearts and our very being, and brought to our minds once again how short life really is. As many of us have said, “tomorrow is never promised.”

Julie, very well said. May you never have to write anything like this again. My heart and prayers go out to all who were affected by this senseless tragedy.

11/14/2015
“To the Man on the Sidewalk in Paris:

He had a plan. That is what strikes me. The man lying cold and unmoving on that Paris sidewalk.

He had a plan…for how he would spend his Friday night, his weekend, his 401k. He had people to call and texts to return but first, a pause, a delight…really…a dinner on a sidewalk café in Paris.

I wonder if he felt blessed as he put on his ironed, starched white shirt, the cuff of which would soon peek out from under a white sheet on a picture that would be seen around the world.

Did he feel relaxed, full of life and the senses that only a dinner in Paris under the lights can bring? I mean, really, is there anything better than dinner at a café in Paris?

And yet, there is was, his form. Outlined under a shroud, the curves and the concave, the faceless mound on a sidewalk where life should’ve been busily passing by.

I see you. I want you know, I see you. I see that you had a phone full of contact numbers, a calendar full of events. A life.

You didn’t know that here you’d be, under a sheet, concealed and yet, so exposed. To a woman across the Atlantic. How could you have known that she would see you and hurt for you and wonder: What were your plans? Did you feel blessed? I think yes, judging by so little…not much more than the desire you had to be out living on a night in Paris, wearing a white, starched shirt.

I see you.

And I am desperately sorry.”

Julie Nelson
Anchor, KARE-TV (5,6 and 10:00 news)
Minneapolis/St. Paul, MN

Mom’s Cinnamon Buns

Posted on November 14, 2015 by Deborah Newell

My mother was an excellent cook. She made all kinds of wonderful dishes and over the next several months I will share some of our family recipes. But by far her most memorable accomplishment were her cinnamon buns, which are even mentioned in my forthcoming book, “Memories in a Daughter’s Heart.” Yes, they were that good!

My mother perfected the art of making these wonderful buns, a mixture of sticky, gooey cinnamon sweetness rolled up in a soft doughy roll, and most delicious when just about ten minutes out of the oven. (Just long enough for the hot brown sugar and butter icing to firm up a bit and not burn your mouth!) She made them for every family dinner as far back as I can remember. When all of her brothers and sisters and their families got together and decided what everyone was bringing, there was no question when it came to my mother’s contribution! And usually, one pan wasn’t enough!

I remember many dinners with my two favorite uncles joking each other about who was going to eat most of them. We kids loved it when Uncle Jay and Uncle Fowler would have a “contest” to see how many they could grab at one time! Yes, those were some wonderful times, and great memories! And of course, really good eating! And the calories? With these culinary delights, who cared?

Our daughter Ashley loved to help her grandmother make the cinnamon buns, and fortunately for our family, Ashley has now taken over my mother’s role of “cinnamon bun chef”. She makes them for every holiday meal, and I have to say hers are just as good as the ones my mother made. Probably because of the love and memories that are baked inside each pan. And now that Ashley is married and hosting Thanksgiving dinner for the first time, you can be assured that her grandmother’s cinnamon buns will be on the menu!

So that you can also enjoy part of my mother’s legacy, here is the recipe for her cinnamon buns. If you try it, let us know in the comments below. We’d love to hear your feedback! And if you have questions, be sure to let us know and I’ll try to help!

My Mother’s Cinnamon Buns (Rachel’s Cinnamon Buns)

1 Box Pillsbury (or other brand) hot roll mix – make as directed but add 1/2 c. sugar. Knead well, and be sure to coat your hands with flour when kneading. Let dough raise in bowl until doubled in size. (Note: We put the bowl on top of our gas stove with waxed paper or a dish towel over the top.) **

When dough is raised, roll out on counter top, with dough about 1/4-3/8″ thick. Should be approximately 8″ wide and 18″ long. (I never measured, I just eyeball it! You’ll get the hang of it.)

After dough is rolled out, smear softened butter over the top of the dough, then heavily sprinkle with light brown sugar (we usually use the entire box!) and shake ground cinnamon over the top of it all. Roll the dough up jelly-roll fashion. Cut into rolls (about 1 1/2 – 2″ thick) and place in a buttered 9×14 glass baking dish. Dot top of each bun with butter, place waxed paper over the top, and let raise again until doubled in size.

Bake in pre-heated 350 degree oven for 20 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool in pan no longer than one minute. Invert quickly (and carefully) onto serving plate, spooning the syrupy brown sugar over buns to get every last drop! And then enjoy, enjoy! If there are any left, be sure to wrap them up tightly in saran wrap or tin foil for the next day. (Note: they’re good for breakfast heated in a paper towel in the microwave for about 15 seconds)

** Many stores don’t carry hot roll mix any more. If you can’t find it, here’s a trick to make your own:
Combine – 4 c. flour, 1/3 c. sugar, 1 tsp. salt, and 1/4 c. instant nonfat dry milk.
To make the dough dissolve 1 pkg. yeast in 1 c. warm (120-125 degrees) water. Add to dry mix along with 1 egg, 2 tbl. soft butter, and an additional 1/4-1/2 c. sugar. Knead as directed above.

The Price of Freedom

Posted on November 11, 2015 by Deborah Newell

The price of freedom cannot be measured monetarily. It is measured by the sacrifice of the lives of the men and women who defend it.

Today is Veterans Day. The day we thank all of those who have served and are currently serving in our military. Their bravery and dedication to duty is not appreciated nearly enough.

My father served in the Army during World War II, however, because of a bad knee that he had originally injured playing football in college, he was sent home with an honorable discharge and a knee brace.

My uncle also served, however, he did not get home until the war ended. He was quite fortunate. Although I do not know his entire story, I will relate what I know of it, because in my eyes, he was one of the heroes.

Fowler Cottingham joined the Army as a young man barely 18 years old. He was trained as a crewman on the fighter planes, and consequently sent to Germany, where he flew in several successful missions with his crew.

The morning of the day he flew his final mission was most likely just another day. Clear skies; light wind; a perfect day for flying. I can imagine the crew loading the plane, going through their pre-flight checklist, making sure their parachutes were ready, and most likely cracking jokes and talking about what they’d do when they came back from their mission.

Flying over enemy territory was never safe. Most of us have probably seen movies of the allied war planes heading out for missions over Germany. What the movies don’t adequately show is the danger our men faced during each of these missions.

They didn’t have all of the sophisticated equipment in 1945 that our armed forces have now. There were no computers, no GPS; only a navigator with paper maps showing where they were supposed to be flying. There were gunners who fired their weapons without fancy electronics to assist them. They had to judge where to aim, and when to pull the trigger, based on what knowledge the officers and ground troops had been able to discern. It was much different than today. But they had courage, and a sense of duty. They had volunteered to serve, and knew the risks involved.

I’m not sure exactly what happened, but my uncle’s plane took a hit from a German warplane. Fortunately they were all able to parachute out, and landed in a wooded area somewhere behind enemy lines. They had only a few supplies, and had no idea where they were. And no idea whether anyone else had any idea where they were, or even if they were alive.

Shortly afterwards they were captured by German soldiers and marched to one of the POW concentration camps. Capture was certainly better than being shot, which I’m sure they were all afraid, would happen. As brave as these men were, just remember, they were all in their early 20’s, the beginning of their lives. They all wondered if they’d ever see home and family again.

Over 93,000 men were held as prisoners in the German POW camps in World War II. They were held in drafty wooden buildings, with uncomfortable cots, and only a thin blanket for warmth. They were fed one or two meals a day, usually some type of thin soup and stale bread. Their only utensils were a tin spoon, and a tin cup for water. One day they were given a treat…candy bars which they quickly bit into. And then saw the worms inside.

My Uncle Fowler and his crew spent six months in that camp, guarded by armed soldiers and German shepherds. They never knew when or if the guards would come for some of them to question them, torture them, or kill them.

There are some experiences that are just too terrible to discuss because they bring back too many nightmares. My uncle would never discuss any of what happened, other than what I have written here; not with his parents, his wife, or his two sons. After his return, and until the day he died, he was scared of German shepherds because he had seen them tear hands and arms off of prisoners who were trying to escape.

How did these men survive this ordeal? And where was the Lord in this? I’m sure the men wondered many times where He was. Even at the young age of 20, when he was captured, my uncle was a man of faith, and I’m certain his faith helped sustain him.

Jeremiah 29:11 reminds us: “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” The Lord was watching over them the entire time.

Yes, their plane was shot down, but the crew survived. The Lord directed the German bullets away from the fuselage so that the plane didn’t explode, which would have killed them all. When they landed in the woods, they had no idea where they were, and no idea where to go. The German soldiers could have killed them, but instead they were captured and allowed to live. Many other soldiers spent years in these concentration camps before being freed; these men only had to endure for six months. Many died in these camps, but these men all survived, because the Lord had plans for them. My uncle had a young woman, my aunt, waiting to meet him, fall in love, and marry. The Lord had plans for all of them and made sure those plans were carried out. Prayers for safety were answered; just not the way that was expected.

I wish I knew the names of my uncle’s crew members, but I never had the opportunity to find out. I would love to thank them as well for serving with him, and being part of his support system while in the camp.

And again, to all of our veterans and those who are still serving, and their families, Happy Veteran’s Day. Thank you for your service. May God bless you all, and keep you safe.

Dreaming of My Mother’s Wedding

Posted on November 10, 2015 by Deborah Newell

Hanging in our guest room closet is a yellowed and torn lacy dress that has undoubtedly seen better – and happier – days. And it carries memories that I wish I could see and hear. And since today is my husband and my wedding anniversary, I thought it appropriate to post this story today.

I found the dress in my mother’s attic many years ago. It had been hanging there since my mom and dad moved into their first and only home sometime back in 1940 or so. They were married on June 18, 1938. 77 years ago. And the dress hung there until I had to clean out her home eight years ago.

I have this one picture of her and my dad on their wedding day. And I cherish this photo.

I wish I knew more about their wedding day. But my mother was an extremely private person, and as much as she loved my father, I don’t know a lot about their early days together. I never had the nerve to ask, because my dad passed away when I was only eight years old. And even though I was an adult in my fifties’ with a teenage daughter when my mom left us, I had never asked her much about her wedding, because I knew the memories would make her cry. Because of all the special times she never got to share with the only man she ever loved.

And although I don’t totally know all of their story, I want to share some of what I know, and some of what I can only imagine.

My mom fell in love with my dad the first time she saw him in high school. I can imagine them laughing together after school, and him coming over to see her at my grandfather’s farm. I’m sure they spent a lot of time together on that big front porch, and rocking in that old porch swing I wish we still had! Times were different in the 1930’s, and I can imagine that my grandfather kept a close eye on the young man who was “courting” his daughter.

I’m sure when my dad left for college, my mom was unbelievably lonesome for him. She went to college at a school close to home, but he attended college in Williamsburg, which back then was a long way from their homes! Although I’m sure they wrote letters back and forth to each other a lot, since phone calls were so expensive, one of the regrets I have is that I never found any of their letters to each other, and my mother kept almost EVERYTHING. What a treasure that would have been!

It must have felt like an eternity for them until college graduation happened. And my mom and dad were finally able to start seeing each other regularly again, in between her teaching school and my dad working as a salesman for his uncle. Obviously, they both knew they were meant to be together. And like every young girl totally in love, she dreamed of her wedding day!

On Christmas Eve, 1937, my dad brought her Christmas present over. She was expecting (and hoping for) a ring. And I can only imagine the disappointment on her face and in her heart when my dad handed her this big box, beautifully wrapped I’m sure, that was her gift. My mom being the lady she was, opened it, and tried not to show her disappointment when she saw it was a hand-crocheted pillow with the initial “C” on it. (Since her name started with an “L” she should’ve known something else was coming, but…) Evidently her disappointment really showed when she told my dad how much she liked it, and he asked her what was wrong (smiling to himself, I’m sure). And then he pulled out the REAL gift! And that ring was…and still is…beautiful! Because I have it now (and the pillow)!

Knowing my dad, and the times they lived in, I’m sure he’d already talked to my grandfather and had his permission. And he’d probably been a lot more nervous asking him than our future son-in-law was when he talked to Ashley’s dad! So now they were officially engaged! And here’s the young bride to be!

From that evening until their wedding six months later, I’m sure all my mom did was count the days until she was a bride. Her two brothers and her older sister were already married, and I’m sure she’d dreamed of her wedding day since the day she first saw my dad.

Weddings in that era were usually quite simple and for the most part, included only family members, and maybe a few close friends. Being a farming community, money was tight, and wedding expenses were kept at a minimum. A few flowers, a wedding cake, and food made by family and friends, and that was basically it. Sometimes there was another couple standing up with the bride and groom, and sometimes there wasn’t. And even more unfortunate, there were very few wedding photographers to memorialize the day. I’m happy to have the one picture!

Mom and Dad had a small, simple wedding, but nonetheless perfect for them. I do know a few bits and pieces, but here is where my dreams step in, as I imagine her on her wedding day as a young woman of 25, the same age as my own daughter….

My mom was an excellent seamstress, and most likely she made her wedding gown, sewing every stitch carefully because it was the most important dress she’d ever make. (I so wish it had been better preserved.) She wanted to look absolutely perfect when she stepped down the stairs to meet her husband-to-be.

I’m sure she woke up that warm and sunny morning quite early, because she was so excited. Downstairs, her mom, and probably some other relatives, were already preparing food for after the ceremony. I’ve never found a picture of their wedding cake, but I can imagine that someone in the family, most likely her sister-in-law Ruth, who was an excellent cook and seamstress, made it herself as a gift for them.

As the bride-to-be, I can imagine my mom sitting in front of her vanity mirror, carefully arranging her hair and putting on just a touch of makeup. Her hands probably shook a bit, and even though I never remember my mother wearing nail polish, I can see her applying it for that day. After all, her engagement ring was about to receive its mate!

The wedding was set for early afternoon, at my grandparents’ house. Her older sister Mary was there, wearing a light blue dress, and would hold her bouquet for her during the ceremony. Although she would have been called the Matron of Honor today, back then she was just there standing with her sister, and most likely her husband was standing with my dad.

How I would love to have heard the conversation between the two sisters that morning! It’s hard to imagine my mom as the young woman she once was, and I’m sure she was just as nervous and scared and excited as brides are today. I can also imagine their younger sister, who would have only been 13 at the time, rushing into the room and wanting to be a part of the action as well. And most likely being shooed away because they had important things to discuss that she was too young to hear!

As she put on her wedding gown, and her sister helped her zip it up, I can picture her turning to the mirror and watching as her veil was attached, and wondering who that woman in the mirror was. She was becoming a different person…no longer a single lady, but now a WIFE! Wondering what changes that would bring…

Rachel and Clay were married in the living room of her childhood home. Everyone was standing, because there wasn’t a lot of room for extra chairs, and she had a large family, who were all in attendance. I can picture her walking down the stairs on my grandfather’s arm, dressed in his best Sunday suit, nervous but smiling, my mom with her veil over her face, and carrying a huge bouquet of roses, as was the style for brides at that time. All she could see was my dad’s face. And as she walked down the stairs, all he could see was her.

And they were married. No fanfare, no row of bridesmaids or groomsmen. No sit-down dinner with champagne toasts and dancing. No elaborate decorations. Just a simple ceremony, cake cutting and pure happiness. A dream come true for a young bride and groom. A brief honeymoon, and then on to start their life together.

And yes, until his premature passing a brief twenty years later, they did live happily ever after.

Photo Sources: Personal files

Grandmother’s Pumpkin Pie

Posted on November 7, 2015 by Deborah Newell

I come from a family of good cooks. My grandparents owned a farm, and my grandmother Lang was always cooking up big farm meals for Granddaddy’s “hired help” as well as the rest of the family. And she was a great cook! (And for those of you who know me well, you know that cooking is not my favorite pastime. Although I do like to bake!)

I still have some of her recipes that were handed down to my mother, but unfortunately only a few are in her own handwriting. Of course, after trying to read some of them, I’m actually glad my mother copied them over! Grandmom’s handwriting was a very flowery style, so instead of trying to read them, I’ll keep them in my special scrapbook of memories.

It was always a treat to go to my grandparents’ home for family dinners and holidays. The food set out on her heavy carved oak dining table was a feast fit for a family of fifteen, because that’s about how many of us were there back in those days. Sure, us kids sometimes had to eat out in the kitchen because there wasn’t enough room at the table, but there was always plenty of food for everyone!

At this time of year it’s certainly appropriate to talk about her Thanksgiving dinners. Although I don’t remember quite as many of them being held at the farm, since my mother’s dining room was bigger, my grandmother always supplied the pumpkin pie! And it was delicious! Every bit homemade, from the piecrust to the filling! She usually made at least two, because everyone wanted some of it. So I thought I’d share a bit of Emma Jarman Lang’s special pumpkin pie by posting the recipe for you.

2 cups pumpkin (yes, she actually used canned pumpkin)
1 cup sugar
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp ginger
2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp allspice
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/4 tsp ground cloves

Mix all ingredients together, and add gradually:
2 eggs, beaten
1 3/4 c milk
pinch of lemon juice (no more than 1/2 tsp)
**I add 1/4 tsp of almond extract as well (I had to contribute something!)

Mix well and pour into unbaked pie crust. (I don’t have her original pie crust recipe, but pre-made ones are fine!) I like using a deep dish 9-10″ crust, because you usually have some filling left over, which of course is always yummy to bake in a little casserole dish to enjoy before the main meal!

Bake in preheated 425 degree oven for 15 minutes, and then turn down the oven to 350 degrees and bake for another 45 minutes. Cool on a wire baking rack.

And of course serve it with whipped cream! Real whipped cream if you have time to make it!

What special recipes do you have from your parents and grandparents? Feel free to share them with us! And from time to time, I’ll publish more recipes for our special family treats.

Celebrating Rain

Posted on November 5, 2015 by Deborah Newell

I woke up one morning, and the first thing I heard was rain falling on our skylights. Not a gentle rain either, but a steady downpour. That meant extra traffic going to work, more accidents from people driving too fast on wet roads, and most likely, the dreaded “Bad Hair Day”! Not to mention the weather forecast calling for rain all day, which meant since Daylight Savings Time has ended and the days are much shorter, I’d be driving home from the office, not only in rain, but in the dark!

Maybe I should pull the covers back over my head and stay home instead of facing this dreary day ahead of me?

How many times have we all felt like doing that?

Then I was quickly but gently reminded by a soft voice that can only come from above, that rain is one of God’s special gifts to us. It’s not something to dread; or something to be upset over. Certainly, there are days when we really, really don’t want rain to mess up our plans for a summer picnic, a day at the beach or theme park, or even more important, someone’s wedding day! But those reasons are for our own personal interests. We don’t stop to think that somewhere a rain shower is vitally needed, and an answer to someone else’s prayer.

Job 5:10 “He gives rain for the earth and water for the fields.” (NLT)

The Lord sends rain when the land is dry and needs to be nourished. Without it, our crops wouldn’t grow, and we wouldn’t have food to eat at that picnic or on the beach; the flowers wouldn’t bloom and their colorful beauty wouldn’t be available to adorn the bride and her bridesmaids; trees would wither and die, and we wouldn’t be able to enjoy their leafy shade in between rides at the theme park. The rain also replenishes our streams and wells, which in turn provide the water necessary for us all to live.

We are so accustomed to our own surroundings being filled to abundance with green grass and flowers and bushes and trees, we don’t stop to think about other places that are not so fortunate. Look at the desert; dry and barren, and a harsh place to try and live. Rain doesn’t come very often. An occasional flowering cactus can be spotted in the sand every so often, a plant designed by God to live in the arid land only by storing water in its fleshy tissues to be used as nourishment in between the rains. But even cactus cannot survive forever without water. When we complain about a bit of rain ruining our day, there are many more people waiting and praying for the blessing of a cool rain shower.

It’s the same way with the word of the Lord. Life often gets too much for us; the stress of daily living overwhelms us to the point of exhaustion, and circumstances threaten to consume us and steal our joy. That’s when our souls, our very lives, become dry and in need of nourishment. We need His words to come forth like rain to bless us, revive us, replenish our spirit, and give us hope and encouragement when we need it most.

“Rain and snow fall from the sky and don’t return without watering the ground. They cause the plants to sprout and grow, making seeds for the farmer and bread for the people. The same thing is true of the words I speak. They will not return to me empty. They make the things happen that I want to happen, and they succeed in doing what I send them to do.” Isaiah 55:10-11 (NCV)

Seeds will only sprout in the earth when they are watered; without water the seeds remain dormant, and will eventually die without that life-giving rain. Similarly, the seeds of hope and comfort, joy and forgiveness, which have been planted inside each of us, can only burst forth and thrive when watered with God’s word.

As a writer, the thoughts within me also need watering to come forth as words and sentences, to help them burst into life on paper or the computer screen in order to encourage others. Sometimes it takes a small rain shower, and sometimes it takes a storm to bring forth the ideas that are buried within.

“For the earth which drinks in the rain that often comes upon it…, receives blessing from God.” Hebrews 6:7 (NKJV)

The next time your day starts with rain, think of it as a blessing from the Lord…a gift He has decided to give on that particular day. And remember that a rainbow, the symbol of hope and promise, usually follows that rain.

What Kind of Shoes Are You Walking In?

Posted on November 2, 2015 by Deborah Newell

You’ve heard it said many times that unless someone has walked in your shoes, they can’t know how you feel. Those shoes fit differently on everyone, and we all walk through our lives in different shoes. As a young child we walk and run around in comfortable shoes, shoes that aren’t meant to last forever. As we grow we’re always getting new shoes to replace the ones we’ve outgrown.

When we’re grown, we end up wearing lots of shoes, in different styles and colors. We have different pairs for different lifestyles. The ones for the workplace are different than the ones for home. The ones for work are stiffer, and more confining, but look really good on us, because we have to look good for our co-workers. They don’t usually hurt our feet; we wouldn’t be able to wear them too long if they did. We have a few pairs for dressier occasions, and they always seem to hurt. We don’t wear them much because of it. Then we have other pairs of shoes for casual wear. They’re comfortable, and while they may not always be stylish, they feel good, and make us feel good.

Most new shoes hurt your feet in some way for a little while. Some are even so uncomfortable you want to rip them off and throw them away. These are the shoes you find yourself wearing when your loved one dies. You have no other choice but to wear them, because they’re the only ones you have at that time. They aren’t necessarily pretty. They hurt not only your feet, but your spirit. They pinch and rub your heels and squish your toes until they’re numb. Gradually they start to stretch out a bit and don’t seem to hurt quite as bad, because you don’t notice any more.

When I was wearing those shoes, I actually started getting used to the pain. I thought all new shoes were supposed to feel like that. Then I noticed I wasn’t walking as well when I wore them. I couldn’t walk as fast as I used to because the shoes were too heavy. My steps were tentative instead of strong; the shoes were holding me back. I couldn’t go where I needed to go.

One day the Lord took those shoes off my feet. He washed my poor tired and aching feet and replaced those ugly, painful shoes with beautiful new ones which were as comfortable as an old pair of squishy slippers. And I was able to walk better. Not immediately, because my feet still hurt, but without those ill-fitting shoes on, my feet were finally able to breathe and relax, and start to take me where I needed to go.

As with those uncomfortable, ill-fitting shoes, once they’re removed, walking and everyday living gets easier. It’s the same with grief. At first we can’t imagine ever feeling happy again. Ever feeling like smiling again. Ever feeling a world without sadness. We can’t imagine not missing our loved one every minute.

Then one day we actually go several hours without grieving. The next day it goes a bit longer, and so on. We begin to feel guilty because we feel that way. Aren’t we supposed to be sad? NO! We go on because our joy is in the Lord. Our loved one is there with Him. We should rejoice, and also know one day…..one day….we will be there as well!

“Weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” (Psalm 30:5) It may seem to be a really long night, in really uncomfortable shoes, but you do get there, and the shoes you find yourself wearing on that morning are some of the most comfortable you’ve ever had.

Falling Leaves and Pumpkins

Posted on October 31, 2015 by Deborah Newell

It’s that time of year once again. The time when there’s that little nip of coolness in the air, especially first thing in the morning. Even the sunlight is crisper, giving us a hint of the chill that’s soon to follow. Yes, it’s the end of summer….

We can almost see the chill in the trees around us, as the leaves are slowly changed from multi-hued shades of green to vivid tones of red and yellow and orange, as the Lord uses His heavenly paintbrush to color the landscape for us. Gradually those leaves begin to fall from the branches and rain down on us all, forming piles of crackly color that we suddenly want to rake together into a big pile so we can jump into it, like we did when we were children!

Then there are pumpkins. It seems like they’re everywhere. Sitting on displays in stores and along roadside stands, surrounded by colorful fall leaves. Some have carved or painted faces. There’s pumpkin spiced coffee, pumpkin bread, pumpkin cookies, pumpkin pie…you name it! Fall presents us with an invasion of pumpkin everything! With a little apple cider thrown in!

There are bales of hay in the fields, as well as those triangular stacks of corn twisted to resemble Indian tepees. Bonfires are scheduled, and high school football games are big news every weekend!

Yes, it’s fall!

Now here comes the” back in the day” stuff….

When I was growing up, fall signaled the beginning of back to school, for both my mother and me. As a teacher she had bulletin boards to decorate, students’ names to learn, and lesson plans to prepare. I had notebooks and pencils and book covers to buy, and homework to do.

The grapes on our two grape arbors suddenly became ripe and lusciously edible. The trees in the woods behind our house turned beautiful colors and dropped their leaves for us to run through on Saturday afternoons. We never gave a thought about the copperhead snakes that could be out there hiding under those leaves.

My uncle always made the most beautiful jack-o’-lanterns. Over fifty years ago, he was painting faces and other designs on pumpkins rather than carving them, because they’d last longer. My hometown had an annual Halloween parade, with several of the main streets blocked off so the participants could march around our little business district and the county courthouse. Children and adults paraded around streets in costumes and competed for prizes, and the streets were filled with onlookers. My aunt and uncle actually won first prize in the adult division one year, dressed as Raggedy Ann and Andy. (How many of you know who they are?) And if memory serves me correctly, I think some of the local churches sponsored the parade and contributed the prizes!

Believe it or not, I’m not a lover of the fall season. I like my sandy beaches and sun and warmth, with seagulls squawking as they try to steal a French fry here or there, and the sound of the waves crashing in the surf. I like my flip flops and bright beach towels, floating in my pool on a hot afternoon, and eating grilled hamburgers outside in our screened-in porch.

If I had it my way, it would be summer all year round. But I don’t make those decisions; I don’t even get a vote.

Genesis 8:22 speaks to us about the seasons changing and reminds us there will always be “planting and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter.” It’s a natural progression. Fall is necessary to bring the harvest in, and without the harvest, how would we survive the winter? Even though we now get food year ‘round from other countries whose harvest times are different than ours, we still must rely on the harvest to complete God’s plan.

Whether I like it or not, like the seasons in our lives, seasons end, and new seasons begin. Fall follows summer, winter follows fall, and then finally spring comes back around! It’s His divine plan. Who am I to question?

So bring on the pumpkin pie…with a generous dash of whipped cream!

There Is A Door

Posted on October 30, 2015 by Deborah Newell

“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.” Matthew 7:7-8 (NIV)

I heard the Lord tell me one day, “I have a door that is getting ready to open. Be patient, for what is behind it is not quite ready. I want my gift to be perfect. When the gift is ready the door will open. And no man will be able to shut it. I have not forgotten you. And what I have prepared for you will amaze you!”

I must admit I’m waiting for something. An answer to a prayer I’ve been praying for quite some time. I know that verse very well. I’ve quoted it many times, and prayed it many times, both for myself and for others. But the door hasn’t opened yet. I know it will. I just don’t know when. And I don’t know how long I will have to hang on, and hold on, until it does.

And yes, I’m getting impatient. I’m to the point of wondering, “Lord, have you forgotten that promise to me?” Yes, I’ll admit I’ve sort of said that. Several times.

Then Sunday morning, what verse does our pastor preach about? Hebrews 6:10. “God is not unjust; he will not forget your work and the love you have shown him as you have helped his people and continue to help them.” (NIV) Four days later, what verse does a friend of mine quote on her Twitter feed? Hebrews 6:10. Obviously, the Lord is trying to tell me something.

He hasn’t forgotten me, and He won’t forget me. I have to remember that. I know His promises are true, and I know He always answers our prayers. Always. It’s just very difficult when we have to wait for our answers. We want them in our time frame; which is usually NOT His time frame. And even when He answers our prayers, sometimes we don’t like the answers we get; because sometimes the answer is “no” or “not now” or “I have something better”.

When I was growing up in the 50’s and 60’s there was a TV show called “Father Knows Best.” I’m sure most of you have seen it, even if it was as a rerun on an oldies station. The father was the undisputed head of the household, who always gave the best advice. You could count on his wisdom, because he knew best.

Just like our heavenly Father. He always knows best, even when we doubt Him, question Him, even argue with Him. Just like He knows we will do. But He has a reason. We may not know what that reason is, but in the end, it’s a good reason. Because He has a plan for us that is so much better than we can ever imagine.

I know a door is going to open, but I don’t know when. I don’t know how. And I don’t know what’s going to be behind it. It may be what I’ve asked for, or it may be something better. I won’t know until it opens.

Is there a door you’re waiting to have opened? Do you think the Lord has forgotten you? Take heart, because He hasn’t. He won’t. Our faith tells us that, and His word tells us that.

I know when that door is opened, the gift behind it will be amazing beyond anything I have asked for. And it will have been worth waiting for.

Just Living Life

A journal of advice, stories, and ideas from years of living

Yearly Archives: 2015