Even though this isn't a cooking blog.

Let me detail for you my cooking experience prior to September 1, 2012.

• scrambling eggs
• making mac and cheese from a box
• boiling a chicken (which I had done exactly once)
• microwaving cereal and marshmallows (and yes, I still feel good about this decision)

This is no exaggeration, people. 

Our first weeks here consisted of some... experimental?... meals. The highlight was peanut butter potatoes and broccoli (affectionately known as PB&PB). For the record, our creation was inspired by an international cookbook. Did they recommend making a sauce out of crunchy peanut butter and strawberry yogurt? Not exactly. But Ryan and I rocked out with what we had.

Obviously, we've gotten a little bit better about planning ahead. And, you know, working from better recipes. Also, we discovered the DeKalb Farmers' Market... AND QUINOA. And in light of all that exciting progress, here's a recipe from our kitchen this week. 

Thai Veggie Quinoa
makes about 6 servings

broccoli
snow peas
green and red peppers
3 cups quinoa
6 cups chicken or vegetable broth
3/4 cup Italian dressing
3 Tbs peanut butter
2 Tbs soy sauce
2 Tbs honey
1 tsp red pepper flakes

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Chop your veggies. Cover a cookie sheet with aluminum foil, spray it with Pam, spread out the veggies, coat them with Pam, and then douse them with soy sauce. Roast them for 25 minutes, or until they're crispy. Bring the quinoa and broth to a boil, stirring. Cover it, turn the heat to low, and let it simmer for 15 minutes, or until the quinoa has absorbed all the broth. Whisk the remaining ingredients. Mix the vegetables in with the quinoa, pour the dressing over it, and stir. Done. Yum.

Notes:

• Frozen veggies work if you don't have fresh ones. You don't have to defrost them.
• If you don't have time to roast the veggies (like if you're trying to catch the next 42 bus in the middle of a thunderstorm because you want a milkshake), just put them in a covered container with a tiny bit of water and microwave them for 10 minutes, give or take.

So what's cooking in your kitchen? We're always looking for new recipes!

ode to marta

in honor of the many bus drivers who've waited for me as i've run to catch the bus

you're early-morning-pumpkin-muffin orange

banana-just-ripe yellow

bright-blanket-keeping-me-warm blue

and i'm

running

out the door

down the street

coat flapping

backpack bumping

hair in tangles

neighbors are laughing

yelling

cheering

it's coming

run!

as i step up

it's a half smile and fingers through hair

my pass beeping

falling into the seat

some mornings we're packed 

like sardines in water

or in oily drops of 

memory

frustration

anticipation

longing

other mornings

there's more space to thrash

and flash our fins

in each other's salt-laden, oxygen-rich brine
and
breathe

on weekends, marta,

on weekends you're

burnt orange like late afternoons

the mustard of turkey sandwiches carried to the park

or corndogs fried up for dinner

blue like summer sky

like little-girl eyes
(though who's a little girl anymore?)

oh

but i'm still
always

running!

When Washing Feet Isn't Cheesy

Lights are low (if we're really taking this seriously, candles are involved) and shoes are coming off. We're probably cross-legged on a cabin floor at a retreat center, but we may be itching in Sunday school dresses or sitting tall in the plastic chairs of the youth group room. Soft giggling and uncomfortable snickering harmonize with unhurried guitar chords. The buckets come out. It's that night. We're washing each other's feet.

Because Jesus said to, y'know?

And because the adults think it's fun to make our awkward teenage selves feel even more uncomfortable with our bodies. (Mmhmm, we saw you laughing in the back.)

And because we are bodies, and we need these images, these sacraments. They invite us deep into the reality of purifying water and cleansing Spirit and kneeling-down humility.

But behind the crossed legs, giggles, and guitar is an utterly subversive narrative. A Jewish carpenter-teacher steps away from the table to wrap a towel around himself and get intimate with dirty feet.

I've got my hands on my knees, and I'm poised to step out of my chair. I'm taking a deep breath and pushing myself up. But the towel isn't around my waist yet. Because, y'all, this is hard for me. It's embarrassing to uncover the ways my misconceptions and prejudices have kept me from serving my sisters and brothers with humility. It's bewildering to transition from standing and teaching to kneeling and listening. My cheeks grow warm and I twist my hair around my fingers and I can't maintain eye contact because all of a sudden I'm friends with people who are shattering the boxes I've believed in.

But like I said, I think my hands are on my knees.

I think that for me, right now, that looks like spending 2013 reading only books from women, people of color, and the LGBT community because God and the gospel seem to come into focus in the midst of diversity. It looks like speaking out when my friends are called or treated like "dirty whores," "violent Muslims," "Bible-hating feminists," or even "close-minded fundamentalists." It looks like eating on $2.41 a day as part of living in solidarity with my neighbors. (Though I gotta admit that since my wonderful roommates still let me bake all the time, it's hardly even a thing. Haha. Love you people. :) ) It looks like living in a neighborhood where eating on $2.41 a day is part of solidarity, because before all this foot washing can happen, I've got to get to know some more of the "one another's."

And I trust that in the middle of my embarrassment and bewilderment and growing, the Spirit is breathing new life into my lungs and pouring clean water over my filthy, redeemed feet.

Come and See

Once upon a time, there was a happy family with a mom, a dad, and two little girls. They all lived together in the sunshiney state of Florida.  

(Just pretend Emily is in this picture! Also, pretend that it's in Florida.)

But then, one day, one of the little girls realized she wasn't so little anymore. She decided she would move to a new city where she would live with new roommates (who REALLY like to floss their teeth, apparently)...

...and make new friends (some of whom like to suck on unreasonably large pieces of hot dog... see those chubby cheeks?).

They would eat chili dogs together.

And potato chips. The wavy kind.

And 1158 would become a place for people--quirky, honest, opinionated, inspiring, gentle people-- to gather for awkward, hilarious, uncomfortable, and sometimes beautiful moments. 

It's hard to say if everyone would live life happily ever after. But one thing is for sure. They wouldn't live life alone.

Nobody Got Time

White girl, nineteen, has quick answers to questions of how to load a dishwasher and heal a heart.

Ain't nobody got time for that.

Sunday school girl, there every week, talks more about the grammatical significance of the conjuctions than about the jealously tearing her apart.

Ain't nobody got time for that.

College girl, aching to teach, too busy fitting the world into her mind to let the wide expanses of green and blue and brown and gray woo and win and lay waste to her.

Ain't nobody got time for that.

New girl, unfamiliar with the streets that twist and narrow, unfamiliar with the syrupy Southern words that melt into each other and race away. Forgets plans. Assumes too much. Comes over without calling. Tells instead of asking. Projects her insecurities. Realizes what she's doing. Apologizes. Apologizes again. And comes back.

Mmhmm, come on over and rest your feet a minute.

Sacramental Living

Here I am to worship.

Here I am to bow down.

Here I am to walk to the store to get sour cream to bake a pound cake.

Here I am to stop on the way to the store to set up my neighbor's voicemail.

Here I am to give up on the sour cream and bake a yellow cake instead.

Here I am to spill sugar all over the floor of our tiny kitchen.

Here I am to share the still-warm cake with hilarious and beautiful roommates.

Here I am to take the rest of the cake down the street to a friend.

Here I am to sit with her, watching crappy Lifetime movies and talking about the weather and landlords and love.

Here I am to see her off to her hair appointment while I walk to the porch of an abandoned house where another friend is teaching me how to crochet.

Here I am to have her send me home a few minutes later because it's cold out and WHAT WAS I THINKING not wearing my coat?

Here I am to walk back to my own porch with yarn, hook, and thankful heart.

Here I am to steam broccoli while we wait for neighbors to come over for dinner (it's hot dogs again, and no one is complaining).

Here I am to boil water for tea and hot chocolate as our company lingers in the after-dinner hours.

Here I am to giggle with gratitude and exhaustion as I start to fall asleep on the couch and then stumble back to my creaking, squeaking, lumpy, and yet still inviting bed.

Yes, here I am to worship.

On that Day all the horses’ harness bells will be inscribed “Holy to God.” The cooking pots in the Temple of God will be as sacred as chalices and plates on the altar. In fact, all the pots and pans in all the kitchens of Jerusalem and Judah will be holy to God-of-the-Angel-Armies.
-Zechariah 14:20-21

Chit'lins

Ain’t nothin’ pretty ‘bout chit’lins. From the frozen block in the plastic bucket to the slowly unfurling curls defrosting in the sink to the way the smell spreads down the hall and into your fingers. But when a neighbor passes away and her best friend is grieving, what can you do but dump your joys and sorrows and chit’lins all together in the sink and just sit with them for a little while? What can you do but tenderly pull apart each piece of meat and memory, holding it for a moment before setting it aside to keep?  What can you do but let the scent of vinegar and peace into your body as you breathe, and breathe, and keep on breathing? And somewhere among the joys and sorrows, memories and meat, vinegar and peace, you know that this too is beautiful because God is here.