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“I’m thuper thtrong, Mom!”

Villains, beware.

I don’t look forward to the kids outgrowing their mispronunciations.

Last week I had a perfect opportunity to get a shot of my son in his hand-me-down spiderman pajamas and blanket cape. He was being a boy, chasing his shrieking sisters like a true superhero. I passed the moment by, probably because the floor didn’t look picked up or mopped enough to be in a photo.

Yesterday (having worked on everything this past week except my Wednesday post – or mopping) I decided to recreate the scene so I could photograph it.

This type of plan rarely works.

This was not quite what I remembered.

I told him to make his FIERCEST, STRONGEST superhero face.

I was shaking in my slippers.

Not quite eliciting the feel of the previous superhero escapade yet, I had to use some ingenuity.

That means I bribed him with ice cream.

Got a good caption for this one? I debated between “Lohd Fahquad” and “Oooh, please cut my hair.”

The thoughts of ice cream in his head, combined with the relentless stage prompts from me, caused the situation to deteriorate rapidly.

That means the photo session came to a screeching halt.

We decided just to take an ice cream break. After that, he should be well fortified to play a FIERCE, STRONG superhero for the camera.

As the green superhero juice revived his powers, he went from this:

to this:

Yes, happiness comes in mint brownie flavor.

We were ready to try again. Fierce and strong!

This kid doesn’t get it.

I give up. What can I do when this is all I have to work with?

He may not be invisible, invincible, or indestructible, but he is incorrigible.

That means heartbreakingly lovable.

I’ll end with a candid shot of two other superheroes who routinely rescue me from my misguided self. This was taken in a hotel where my husband stayed over the weekend while he covered for a doctor in a small city that boasts the highest rate of death by drug overdose in the U.S.

Suddenly the rest of this post seems sort of irrelevant.

Here’s to a superheroic Wednesday. If you need an extra boost, you might try a cape. Or better yet, browse through Mom’s new Three By Fives section.

I think I’ll go hug my kids now and tell them I love them just as they are. Nobody has to be a superhero around here.

Photo edit actions by Pioneer Woman

Our family went on a rope-climbing trip on Camelback Mountain Friday afternoon, and I thought it’d be a good opportunity to introduce all of them onto the blog.

This is my husband, leader of many such expeditions. He’s a world history teacher, and runs the Adventure Club at his high school. Here, he gets his harness on, ready to climb.

My husband checks my oldest son’s harness. This is a big day: my son is facing his fear of heights. I already have my harness on, and will be the belayer for him. This son is passionate, good, reliable; loves Boy Scouts, football, baseball, history, reading, listening to a very eclectic music collection, and spending time alone in the back yard.

My lovely daughter is more often seen with a ballet bun than with braids. She loves taking pictures. Here, she leaps to a better position for a photo. She’s my ballerina, and loves writing, piano, American Girl dolls, Little House books, crafts, and cooking. She loves to serve and to organize, and if she were in charge, you’d all get your birthday cards (plus a hand-made gift) ON TIME.

My two little guys spent most of the afternoon chasing each other up, down, and around the rocks near our climbing spot. There were lots and lots of admonitions: “Get down from there; you’re not roped in!” We lost them a couple of times. I was tempted to get mad, until I discovered them…here:

Can YOU find it in your heart to yell at them? I sure couldn’t! They’d found this little cave, and spent quite a lot of time in it. Climbing is a lot of waiting: waiting while the ropes get set up, while people get roped in, while other people climb. The kids had a great time exploring the area.

My middle son made it all the way to the top! He is the only one in the family that I didn’t belay, so he’s the only one I got pictures of. He turned out to be quite the little climber. Lots of people freeze when they get about twelve feet off the ground, but he just kept on. He’s my extrovert, funny and cheerful and not easily offended. He loves puzzles and games, gets every math concept I explain to him on the first try, and then misses whole pages worth of problems because of those annoying little DETAILS.

And here he is, the four-year-old, not roped in. (Sigh) He is always trying to keep up with his brothers. He was born stubborn and driven and running at life headlong. On the way down the mountain, after this trip, we warned him not to run. He ran. We told him he would fall, and that it would be a bad fall. Not a deterrent. We told him, if he ran, he’d have to hold Mama’s hand. He walked. Real fast. He loves Star Wars. He loves playing Lego Star Wars and Star Wars video games. He loves drawing Star Wars pictures. And explaining every last detail of all of it to me.

It’s a rock. So sue me. It’s a really pretty rock with really pretty lichen on it. Amidst the noise of all the children saying, “Take a picture of me!” God whispered, “Open your eyes,” and there was this lovely little rock. Such a treasure.

One last picture as we were packing up our gear. Sunsets are never as pretty in photographs. Neither are daughters. Nevertheless, I’ll treasure this one forever.

This week marks the end of one phase of my life. Saturday, a moving van is showing up, so that my husband and I can load up our few belongings and transport them to our new home in small-town, south Kansas.

This week has been crawling by, feeling much like one feels at the top of a roller-coaster, knowing the rush is coming soon.

Paint colors have been picked, garden plans have been drawn (and re-drawn).

Our new place is exceptionally modest, with the house being the least of the reasons we’re buying. My husband is drawn to the massive shed, which he brags has 200 more square feet than the house itself.

I, on the other hand, immediately fell in love with the 5 acres, heavily shaded by dozens of huge, happy trees. These trees include apple, pear, apricot, plum, pecan, and black walnut, a lineup which any gardener would respect and envy.

Every ounce of my being is called to this little haven. It feels wholesome, earthy, healthy, and rich. It is a place to invest in the growth of grapes, bees, and children. It is home. So here is to next week and a new beginning.

Simple Plot

Of few acres, the owner
yet Midas knows not
my joy as the hone-r
of my humble lot.

My riches not golden
nor owning my land;
my treasure’s my pleasure
in tending by hand.

The morning dawns gaily
to gild my small home
with Life that comes daily
and Mercies unknown.

Oh! the beauty abounding
in life’s simple toil
give to Midas his counting
and me my rich soil!

Photos by People’s Bank
Elements/Actions by Pioneer Woman, NinaScraps, and Shadow House Creations

“I’m sowwy, Mom.” It was a tearful apology.

She shouldn’t have been climbing on the counter in the first place.

A Band-Aid for the pinprick of blood on her heel, a word of caution, and she was on her way – and off the hook.

I liked that cup, outdated as it was. I remember it sitting with its match on my dorm windowsill in college. Usually it was full of healthy herbal tea, which I sipped while chowing down an entire jumbo bag…s of peanut M&Ms to keep me awake during all-night cram sessions.

Balance is good, right?

I confess… I wanted to yell at her. My response, though, has been well-scripted over the years:

“It’s just stuff.”

How many times did our clumsy sibling quad hear those words as we cleared, washed, and put away dinner dishes? Mom leaned down to the planks of the kitchen floor, helping us pick up pieces and wash fragments from crevices.

Wasn’t Mom worried that we’d turn into incurably clumsy adults who purposefully smashed tableware?

I have to admit…

There are times I think it would be cathartic to fling plates against a brick wall.

This parenting business is tricky… reading motives, discerning discipline from exasperation, spending enough time to create opportunities for… “smashing” success…

🙂

I’d love not to shatter my children’s hearts over “stuff.”

While we’re talking “stuff” and taking photos in the entryway (for indirect light from north-facing windows)…

Anyone know how to get crayon out of unfinished pine? It’s been there a while – long enough that my younger daughter was shocked to learn that she was the culprit.

Is it just me, or do you see trouble ahead with that one?

I hope you have a mishap-free Wednesday.

If that’s not possible, at least have a merry one. I dare you to take time to raise a smile out of the mischief-maker in your life today, whoever that person may be.

Now, if I get several calls from people trying to raise a smile out of me today…

This week is a blogging “break” for me (really… you’re not seeing this post). No worries, there’s lots to read, thanks to other family members!

My brother set us up with our new self-hosted “spot” for the site, which really will make this blog’s existence so much happier in the long run. This week’s task was getting everything transferred from our old www.wolfewednesdays.wordpress.com to the NEW www.lettersfromtheloft.com. Thank you for taking the trouble to make the switch, too!

If that weren’t enough to warrant a break, a stomach virus hit the household in waves this past week and a half – in exact three-day incubation intervals, in fact. Sunday-Wednesday-Saturday-Tuesday. All I could think about was

bleach

Anyone who finds him/herself short on compassion needs to take a turn comforting a bewildered, virus-ridden, shivering child at 3:00 a.m. Just a common bug, with an expected end, is sufficient to make me cry mercy.

And for my part, I’ve had an abundance of mercy this week. My husband was at a beautiful hotel conference site in sunny Florida while the kids were sick. (Yes, this is related to mercy.) He sweetly sent me these pictures from his Blackberry:

just not right

Arg.

He came home just in time for my turn at battling the bug. The house was worse than it has ever been. He is not one to do housework, but this day, he simply gave me a hug, thanked me for taking care of the chores while he was gone, and then started unloading the dishwasher and fixing breakfast.

I’ve never seen more manly biceps than the ones lifting those plates out of the dishwasher. I felt my knees buckle under me in a swoon.

Or that may have been the effect of the virus.

More mercy came from my sisters, who have double-teamed with posts this week, so I wouldn’t be spending time setting up photos and editing them. I know that many people reading this love them (almost) as much as I do, and for similar reasons. Like the best of sisters, they remember my frailty even when I forget. 😉

And they offer a remedy far more life-supporting than bleach. Their camaraderie supports my natural, reaching efforts toward health, like a good dose of preventive medicine…

or maybe like a garden plot…

or the plot of an Epic Story…

While I’m off to take my break (really), please help me welcome:

Julie’s first venture into the blogisphere,

and Annie’s anticipated second gardening post!

Here’s to a healthy Wednesday!

My older sister and I have talked at random in the past several years about starting a blog together. I ended up starting this one last year, just to learn a new hobby and deal with the isolation of mountain life and early motherhood. It was only a matter of time, though, before I called and begged, “Um, Julie, is it time now?”

Julie cuts straight to the heart of a matter – be prepared! Grab a cup of coffee, sit back, read her story, and get ready to be cut to the quick.

And, by the way, Julie… this post calls for follow-up. Next week?

Eyes looking at a blank screen,
Hands frozen over the keyboard.
Frozen. Remembering, years ago.

1998
My whole self frozen.
Confused, numb, listless.
Frozen.
Why am I here?
What’s my life for?

I’m submitted,
Baptized: fully dyed-in-the-wool.
I KNOW IT’S ABOUT GOD.
But what does that MEAN?
Jesus, of course.
He died on the cross for me,
For my sins, which are many.
I KNOW – and I’m grateful.

But I’m supposed to be saved for something.
Life
Death is all around me
Inside me, too.
What is this Life thing?
It’s there, too, but it’s all lost in my confusion.

Shall I go find a… a… a… Mission? Work really hard at it, grunt and groan and sweat and say, “It’s all for the glory of God.”?

I’d really just be running away
From the horrifying, nagging conviction that all of my efforts can do nothing
Except bring glory to…
Myself.

I. Can. Do… Nothing.

I couldn’t find my way out of the muddle. For weeks, months, I’d get up, make breakfast for my husband, and go back to bed, often until noon, and then spend the rest of the day playing Solitaire at our old trunk-turned-coffee-table. At 4:00 I’d make a mad dash to shower, dress, and make supper, all in a lame effort to hide the level of my depression – and laziness – from my husband. Eventually we agreed that I needed some help.

A counseling session freed me from some misguided ideas. Like: The ideal Christian woman is a high-energy organizer of some kind, leading women’s or children’s ministries, or working with kids in the inner city. (It’s an understatement to say that I would NEVER measure up.) So whatever God’s will was for me… whew!… it wasn’t that. While I still didn’t have an answer (What is Life?), I could now explore my question more freely.

I gave up Solitaire. I journaled. I prayed. I read. Lots and lots of books, some helpful, some most definitely not.

I wandered blindly, innocently, into the book of Job. There I plowed through lots of philosophical conversations that seemed boring to me at the time. I have no idea why I kept reading, except that Job wasn’t getting his questions answered, and he was getting mad about it, and that interested me.

And then. And then, almost at the end of the book, God showed up in the middle of a whirlwind to talk to Job. He talked about the morning stars singing, about the sea bursting forth from the womb, and about numbering the clouds, and exploring the depths of the sea. He described the secret place where the mountain goats give birth. He said that he clothes himself in glory and splendor. I could sense his overflowing delight in all these things. All my life, I thought God had created the Earth as a dwelling-place for man, and all the things in it for man’s use. Now I saw – with spine-tingling awe – that he had created it for his own pleasure.

I imagined him watching the birth of a mountain goat, or the opening of a desert flower, knowing that it was his secret, and his alone: no human eye would ever see it. Its whole value was in God’s pleasure over it. I wanted to be invited to stand beside him and see it, too, to feel his delight, to let my heart swell with joy at his wisdom. I felt teased, wooed, beguiled, seduced. I had caught a glimpse of his glory, his wisdom, his beauty, and it was a drug. I was high. I couldn’t get enough. It was Life. Seeing His glory was Life.

The course of my life has been set. To know, witness, experience the glory of God. The years since then have been filled with lots of fits, falters, false starts – and plenty of beautiful times, too. I have long periods of self-aggrandizing efforts that land me, once again, in a pit of despair; and lovely, lovely times when I look once again to him, and find him… everywhere – in art, history, nature, mathematics, music – everywhere, in every thing, and I’m falling on my knees.

In “Sing on Saturdays,” I will share some of the inner workings of my soul as I encounter books, music, art, and life experiences that lead me toward (or away from) a fuller joy in who God is. I’ll be glad to have you join me.

As I was thinking about my beginnings in gardening, I suddenly felt an acute empathy for so many people in my life who claim that they simply “don’t have a green thumb.” Most of them use stories of pathetic, wilted, porch-grown tomato plants and neglected, forgotten, (and thus) deceased herb pots as evidence of their lack of the “gardening gene.”

I believe my empathy comes from deep understanding. Sewing is my nemesis. My early failures and giving-ups have just about squashed any desire on my part to take on the next pattern challenge. However, both my early success at gardening and my early failures at sewing have revealed a couple patterns that I would love to share. My hope is that they will be an encouragement to you all, or at least inspire you to examine your thumb to see if there might not be at least a hint of chartreuse?

To make a long story short, tending my Eden (first garden) was a joyous time of my life. My now-husband and I had just been dating since September, and after a long winter of staying inside and watching way too many movies and WAY too many sports news casts, we decided to start a garden together, come spring. It was such a marvelous time together. The work was fun, the sparks were flying, and it really brought us together as a couple. I think God must have known we needed lots of encouragement and few frustrations, because our first garden was a raging success and we obviously knew very little. Not only did everything seem to prosper, but we also stumbled upon what I will stubbornly claim is the world’s best salsa recipe, no joke. That first-time’s-a-charm completely hooked me on gardening. The feeling of success was empowering, and the bliss of walking amongst happy, fruitful plants was like an addiction, forever sucking me into the joy of growing and tending my plant “babies.”

Ok, on to the lessons:

• Set yourself up for success. My first sewing project was too big and complicated, frustrating me and making me feel like I couldn’t succeed. Start small and be firm in your resolution to take great care of those few plants. Then, if you like gardening, build from there. For instance, if you get the urge to adopt a tomato plant this year (not to over anthropomorphize!), try this: skip all of the new-fangled, expensive ways of growing tomatoes, like hanging them upside-down, or watering them in a special root-watering pot. Instead, hike up your britches, dig a hole, and take the time to pile up a ridge of soil all the way around your plant, which acts as a reservoir to hold in water. Finally (and the hardest part), when your plant is about as big around as a basketball, place a cage around it and stake it. You will be amazed at how proud you will feel when your well-tended tomato thrives under your care!
• Take time to enjoy your work. I loved walking through a freshly weeded garden, talking to the plants and feeling like a good “mom!” It does wonders for the soul.
• Only buy plants that you will use. It is an ill-use of your time to plant okra when you have never eaten a form of it that you can tolerate (hypothetically speaking).
• Plan ahead. If you are planting ten rows of corn, for instance, you will need freezer space and an afternoon dedicated to processing your produce.
• Last but absolutely not least…. DON’T EVER PLANT MORE THAN THREE ZUCCHINI PLANTS!

I hope you will enjoy pictures of my Eden.

I want to place in the caveat that although I had lots of success the first year, none of my other gardens have looked this grand, so don’t be discouraged. I keep reading, though, and someday, my garden will both dwarf and pale this one. (I think that’s the gardener’s creed…)

Someone asked for the deep-dish pizza recipe from this morning’s post (photos on that post). I’m cutting and pasting it from an email to my sister a couple years ago, with a few minor edits:

Annie,

Here’s my deep-dish pizza recipe. You realize when you ask ME for a recipe, you’ll get lots of details! 🙂

The pizza crust recipe I found online [I’ve made a couple changes to it]. The toppings are mine. It has morphed over the years, and we always say the most recent version is the best one yet – it has become tradition. This takes nearly 4 hours, start to finish, because of the dough.

Dough

Ingredients:
2 pkgs. active dry yeast
4 cups flour
1/2 cup warm water (120 degrees, based on yeast pkg instructions)
1 tsp. salt
1 cup warm water
Italian seasoning

In large bowl, combine yeast, 1/2 cup flour, and 1/2 cup warm water in a bowl and mix well. Cover and place in a warm, draft-free place.

Let rise for 30 minutes. (I use this time to prep toppings – see below.)

Stir down batter. Add 2 cups flour, 1 tsp salt, and 1 cup warm water and mix well. Gradually add enough of the remaining flour to form a soft dough. Turn down onto a lightly floured board, sprinkle generously with Italian seasonings, and knead for 10 minutes. Place dough in a greased bowl, turning to grease top.

Cover and let rise until double, about 1 hour. (More topping prep time.)

Punch down dough and roll to 16” round. Place in greased 14” round deep dish pizza pan and form a raised edge. (My notes: Pan should be greased with shortening, not olive oil spray! I learned that the hard way when I substituted for a guest, and the crust slid down the sides of the pan. I don’t roll the dough anymore, either. Just place in the pan and very gently flatten it around the pan, and press it up the sides. I like to make an indentation with my thumbs all around the bottom of the sides, to help prevent the dough from sliding down as it rises.)

Let dough rise in pan for 30 minutes.

Toppings

I prepare these during the first two dough risings:
Brown 1/2 lb. sausage.
Brown 1/2 lb. ground meat, seasoning it with black pepper, red pepper flakes, oregano, basil, and a little rosemary.
(The third meat I use is pepperoni.)
Slice green pepper, red onion, black olives, mushrooms.
Grate maybe 20 oz. mozzarella.
(I also use a little Parmesan.)
In a bowl, combine most of a 28-oz jar of spaghetti sauce with an 8-oz jar of tomato paste. Season with crushed garlic, lots of oregano, basil, and a little rosemary.

After the dough has risen 30 min. in the pan:
Remove top oven rack and preheat oven to 425 degrees.
Spray or brush dough gently with olive oil.

Then you start the layering! Here are my layers:
Set 1:
– Tomato mixture (spread a little onto bottom of dough)
– Half of the meat, half of the sausage, covered with a layer of pepperoni
– Layer of mozzarella (not very deep, or the pizza gets soggy)
Set 2:
– More dollops of the tomato sauce (spread it a little)
– Half of the green peppers, half of the mushrooms, half of the black olives, half of the red onion
– Layer of mozzarella
Set 3:
– More dollops of tomato sauce
– The remaining half of the sausage and meat, covered with a layer of pepperoni
– Mozzarella
Set 4:
– Tomato mixture
– The remaining half of the veggies
– Mozzarella
Top with a generous sprinkling of Parmesan.

Bake at 425 for 20-30 minutes until the crust and the mozzarella turn golden brown.

Hope you guys like it!

Love,
Debbie

For Valentine’s Day, I was planning to make dainty, heart-shaped, pink-frosted sugar cookies and photograph them. It was for the blog… but wouldn’t my own dear valentine be perfectly delighted, too?

I had a timely reminder this week, though, that the man I married is the type who will always prefer meat lover’s over milk and cookies, so I ended up making deep-dish pizza instead. It’s not the traditional February 14th (or 4th) fare, but I’m sure we’ll get past that. 😉

Homemade deep dish pizza isn’t frequently on the menu at our house. Not only does it take four hours from start to finish (including two hours of rising time), but we aren’t excessively attached to processed pepperoni. My husband, in spite of the occasional pizza fetish, usually will go for anything that can be passed off as home-anything: homegrown, home ground, home raised, home canned, home bottled, home plate, home run…

There is something about pepperoni, though, that hails back to the early days of our marriage, when we would get calls from the credit card company because we had Papa John’s charges two evenings in a row. What could we say… we needed something to sustain us through the all-night movie marathons! These days, when it’s not uncommon to find us zonked by 9:00 at night, it’s nice to pull out a pack of pepperoni on occasion. It reminds us that once upon a time we could each put away an entire large pie and have no trouble staying up until 3:00 a.m. hanging out together.

kneaded

Last Thursday morning, I heard a loud knock at the back window of the house.

ready to be filled

There was a strange man standing there, looking haggard, with a red face and white beard behind foggy glasses.

I debated how rude it would be if he saw me running for the phone before I answered the door. We live in a very rural area, complete with genuine mountain hermits.

plot thickens

I decided to take my chances, and I was glad I did.

It was my husband, his face so plastered with snow that I hadn’t recognized him. All my protective instincts rushed to the forefront of my thoughts… but this particular suffering hero refused to come inside until I had taken a picture of him, to commemorate a moment he hoped never to repeat. I considered posting the picture, but he looks utterly miserable in it!

It turns out his truck had stalled three miles from home, on his way to work (clogged fuel filter). Instead of calling and asking me to remember how to put snow chains on the van tires, he took it upon himself to walk back home.

love

His truck thermometer had registered around 20 below zero when he left home in the morning. The “snow” covering his face (and the front of his coat collar) probably was frozen moisture from his breath.

Because he was wearing only his hospital-issued sea green scrubs under his winter coat, we were concerned about frostbite on his legs. I remembered another reason I’m grateful he takes exercise seriously. Good circulation helps prevent lots of things, frostbite included.

After I had sufficiently fussed over him and we determined it was just a case of “frostnip,” we got to enjoy a rare steaming hot breakfast together.

cooking something up

I would leave that to the imagination, but remember that by this time of morning we had four kids clamoring for blueberry pancakes. That’s ok… We agree that life is a lot more fun around our house now than it was four or five years ago.

We enjoyed a kid-filled morning with blueberry home ground whole wheat pancakes, scrambled eggs a la Wolfe (with everything in them), plus the requisite bacon and orange juice for a truly hearty breakfast. Lingering around the table, listening to children’s perspectives on why everything is the way it is, warms the heart and reminds us how thankful we are to have them with us.

Eventually the cozy morning had to end, as we had a stalled truck to tow, among other things. But an unexpected breakfast at home with a person who has truly become my best friend through the thick and thin is the kind of Valentine’s Day treat that I will always prefer.

happy ending

And now…

I would really like to find a way to pass off my unused carton of pink frosting as “home grown!”

Maybe if I left it sitting out long enough… 🙂

Thanks again for “visiting,” and have a wonderful week.

P.S. Recipe here.