Lamb’s quarters

If you have jumpy little black bugs in your garden, and if the arugula you planted has holes in it one day, is shriveled the next, and totally gone the third day, you might have flea beetles. I love arugula, especially with feta cheese, toasted pecans and cranberries, so I plant it every year. This year I planted it twice–both times the seedlings succumbed to flea beetles resulting in my sixth consecutive arugula crop failure. Which of course doesn’t matter one whit when I consider real crop failure and livelihoods on the line, but in my little world it is something to take note of. Don’t plant arugula…will not survive flea beetle.

Besides the arugula fiasco, I’ve taken note of something else. Just about the same time my second planting of arugula went down, lamb’s quarters started elbowing out the Orca beans. I always have these weeds in my garden, and I often munch on them before pulling them, but today I had an idea. Why don’t I let a few of these silver-powdered plants reach maturity, harvest their seed, and dedicate a whole plot to them next season? It’s a nutritional powerhouse, doesn’t cower to the flea beetle, and best of all, grows like a weed!

Once upon a time, lamb’s quarters greens received more respect. Their ancient name was “all good,” and all good they are. They contain more iron and protein than raw cabbage or spinach, more calcium and vitamin B1 than raw cabbage, and more vitamin B2 than cabbage or spinach.  According to Joan Richardson’s Wild Edible Plants of New England, lamb’s quarters “even outclasses spinach as a storehouse of protein, calcium, phosphorus, iron, vitamin C, and great amounts of vitamin A, not to mention all the minerals pulled out of the earth by its strong taproot.” (from Maine Organic Farmers and Gardeners Association)

What makes arugula so much better than lamb’s quarters anyway? I did a taste test with the greens I harvested from my garden today (butter crunch lettuce, red leaf lettuce, spinach, and lamb’s quarters) and enjoyed the young lamb’s quarters as much as the rest, if not more. The nutty flavour is not as bitter as the lettuce and will go fine with pecans and a balsamic vinaigrette. I’ve read the seeds are also edible and can be ground into flour or cooked whole (like quinoa), but will update you further when I have some more first-hand information!


Our annual skip-school day is a sacred tradition the girls talk about months beforehand. This year I send them ahead with Shelly while I stay home for Vivian’s first nap, hoping she will be well-rested and ready for the dunes just like her big sisters. While she sleeps, I ready the back-pack carrier and envision walking for miles along the shore, like always. I grab wieners and anticipate roasting a perfectly salty hot dog. Like always. I fold my towel and look forward to laying in the sun, water evaporating off my freshly cooled skin. Like always.

When we arrive at the dunes the sun is high. It’s just past noon and Vivian is starting to get hungry. Should I feed her now or put sunscreen on her or try to build a lean-to shelter for shade? I set her down to look for baby food–which I forgot to bring, while she cries and eats sand. There are tent caterpillars everywhere; on our blankets, our water bottles, our sandals, and our legs. I flick one out of Vivi’s hand and try to cover her up from the sun with my long-sleeve cotton shirt. It doesn’t work. She crawls forward and bungles her knees in the fabric, the sun beats hard, and I’m wondering if it’s okay for her to eat chips all day. I’m also wondering how long we can last.

This isn’t like I planned and doesn’t match my memories of visiting with the other moms, laughing while kids vault off sandy cliffs, and joking with them about what “all the children in school are doing”. I haven’t taken one picture of the girls jumping off the dunes or heard any of the conversation around me, much less contributed to it. I am too worried about Vivi, the worms, the wind, getting her to sleep again and why this feels so different than last year. After nursing her awhile with her fleshy white legs jutting out from my sweaty belly, I know we need shade. I walk down the beach while the wind pushes hard against me and dig my heels into the sand. Towel whipping in the wind and cooler tugging on my shoulder, I yell back to my mom trudging behind, “The ambiance isn’t quite like I’d hoped!”

It’s true, the ambiance is different with a ten-month-old. My mom and I whisper about it while Vivi snoozes on the blanket beside us; how this summer will be hard and so will the next, and then maybe, by the time she’s three, things will go back to normal. How relaxing at the beach really means multitasking: conversations that ebb and flow while chasing a little one, filling up buckets of sand, monitoring liquid intake and readjusting sun hats.

When I worked as a liaison with high school exchange students, their orientation manual included a section on making judgements and how things don’t have to be “better” or “worse”.  Sometimes they are just different. Now, like the exchange students, I am learning about my new landscape; calibrating expectations so my internal gauge reads different instead of worse. Instead of leisurely roasting my own hotdog like I imagined, I go without until Belén finds us in our new spot. She comes back shortly, kicking up sand and running with a sizzling wiener at the end of her stick, cooked just for me. Later, Susanna and I count to three and dive under the water. It feels like freedom and I manage a few strokes before my Vivi radar turns on. I look back to see her with my mom at the water’s edge. They are just fine.

Back on shore, the day stretches into its finest hours–the wind dies down and the sunshine sweetens into a gentle heat. Belén is dangling her feet from the dinghy and Ainsly floats beside while they make up terrible jokes in a secret language. Susanna is throwing a football with Jack, and Shelly sits nearby in the sun. I watch water droplets disappear from her tanned shoulders, instead of my own, while sitting with Vivi under the shade of a poplar. Vivian is bare-bummed (sure to pee any minute), her mouth is mustached with grit, and I just gave her another potato chip, but she is quiet. Perfectly still. This is when I decide we can stay just a few minutes longer. Everything is going to be okay.


My mom and Vivian



PS. Here’s a quote I forgot to add to my last post. It’s one of many I highlighted in Ueland’s book:

“Art is infection. The artist has a feeling and he expresses it and at once this feeling infects other people and they have it too. When I read this in Tolstoy it seemed like a great flashing discovery. But perhaps I would not have been so struck by it if it had not been for my class. I saw in their writing how whenever a sentence came from the true self and was felt, it was good, alive, it infected one no matter what the words were, no matter how ungrammatical or badly arranged they were. But when the sentence was not felt by the writer, it was dead. No infection.”



Dandelion Root Coffee

I planned on encapsulating the meaning of life in a jaunty essay this morning but I haven’t had enough sleep for that. Instead I’ll drink a cup of dandelion root coffee and go back to bed. Here’s my post from last season on how to do it. It’s worth it just for the yummy smell of the roots roasting. The taste is coffee-like; try experimenting with the steeping times if you are not immediately won over. Goodnight!

Experimenting as we grow

DSCN7858_ dandelion root coffee

What sort of extras do you have time for? Yoga? Scrap-booking? TV? Floor mopping? Puzzles? Going to the gym? Movies?

I’m afraid I don’t have time for any of those things. My life is too fast-paced for such indulgences and I’m simply much too busy. Busy picking dandelions. Isn’t it wonderful most of us have some choice in what we do with our time–even if it’s just a half hour a day? I think yoga must be terrific but I don’t know how I’d ever squeeze it in at times like these when digging dandelions roots is absolutely urgent.

I read somewhere that millions of French children, women, and old men feel the same way I do. Though I’m not sure this is true, I like to imagine the French roaming the countryside en masse in pursuit of the aptly named pissenlit. Besides it’s diuretic action…

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Why I can’t invite you over


Dear friends on my “to-invite” list

One of these days we have to get together
I think we’d get along
We want to get to know you better
but there’s a problem
I can’t invite you over

Can’t pick up the phone
Can’t set a date
Can’t plan for 5:30
Can’t say dinner would be great
Can’t invite you over

Because I know 5:30 around here
It’s laundry on the couch
backpacks blocking the door
lunch left-overs on the table
and a baby with dried snot in her eyebrows

Five-thirty is look-at-this-house! time
How-could-I-be-so-unproductive? time
It’s towels on the bathroom floor
a clatter of cans waiting to be recycled
and piles of junk-mail in the kitchen

If I call you for dinner it will be grand


My husband will be later than expected
All smiles for company but grimaces for hubby
I’ll forget about drinks and only offer water
When the food is finally ready I’ll have to nurse my baby
then finish setting a mismatched table

No, I cannot invite you over
Can’t offer my home
Propose a meal
Or promise perfection
We simply cannot get together


You show up at my door unannounced
The surprise, my alibi
An excuse for cans and clutter
I’ll move the folded underwear and offer you a seat
You will stay for supper because there is always enough

I will offer you a glass of water in a jar
because all my cups will be in the dishwasher
It won’t tinkle with ice-cubes but it will be wet
Nearly perfect
And I’ll be so glad I didn’t invite you

Janelle’s Soup


Clayton and Mary Lou


“Come give your aunty a kiss!”


Stan with his brother and sister

When we holiday with the Reed side of the family it takes months of planning; airplane tickets need to be purchased, work schedules accommodated, vacation-rentals booked, meal-plans and grocery lists posted on-line, and last year’s missed Christmas gifts bought and wrapped. After all the organizational effort we still need to get on location. Some drive 2300 miles, others fly across the country. Our own itinerary includes car, plane, and ferry travel.

While exploring our 5-bathroom home for the week, the older cousins run through bedrooms scoping out sleeping spots, as if rest is one of their priorities. They aren’t the only ones who sacrifice sleep; with a two-year-old and baby in the mix–each from different time zones, night-time is more of a brief intermission between activity than a prolonged rest.

But we don’t care much about that. Not when there are gulleys to rappel, creeks to explore, mountain ridges to hike, tide pools to discover, songs to make up, stories to tell, cougars to spot? and bowlfuls of Janelle’s soup to eat.


Stan and his mom, hiking on the trails around the home we rented.


At the gulley before the rappelling lessons from Stan


Tide pools at Salt Creek Recreation Area in WA




Cousin Trevor

image image It’s easy to notice how much the children have changed since the last time we were all together. Then we had to watch Maeve carefully while she toddled around the fire, and was it Simon who was still taking naps? It’s different now; Maeve digs her heels in and clings to the rope during a tug-of-war to pull the girls to victory, and Simon keeps up with the oldest three, balancing on logs and testing out carabiners. Both of them perform an original ballad, written for their grandma and grandpa, with their very serious older cousins. (Though I notice Maeve making faces at Simon during the chorus). Next time it will be Lucy who graduates to the senior ranks, and then Vivian. The memories from each vacation are like marks against the wall–only instead of measuring in feet and inches we have anecdotes to reflect growth.


Hurricane Ridge, Olympic Park, WA


My sister-in-laws and me


Is Maeve fleeing from our harmonies?

image Our last day together we go to Hurricane Ridge in Olympic Park. We walk until we find an open meadow with an expansive view which moves us to song. After a hymn, How Great Thou Art, things quickly degrade; it’s impossible not to conjure Julia Andrews in these surroundings so we try our best. The moment, if not entirely musical, is memorable and we stay as long as we can overlooking the mountain panorama. By the time we get home we are hungry again. Happily, it is Janelle and Jon’s night on supper duty and they make this soup for us. A few days after we return home both Anne and I email Janelle separately for the recipe so we can recreate it ourselves. I’m not sure if it was the scenery before eating the soup, the anise flavour in the Italian sausage, or simply the fact I didn’t prepare it, that made it so good. Give it a try to make up your own mind…

Janelle’s Italian Soup

3 cloves garlic

1 medium onion

olive oil

1 lb Italian sausage, casings removed and crumbled

3 15.5 oz cans of great northern beans, rinsed and drained

2 14.5 oz cans Italian diced tomatoes

1 14 oz can chicken broth

rosemary, salt and pepper to taste

Saute onions and garlic in oil and then brown the sausage. (I tried it with farmer sausage and it didn’t work. You need the herbs in the Italian kind.) Add the rest of the ingredients and simmer. Go somewhere really beautiful, then come back, and eat.

What We’re Into

Poetry: Last week I went to a poetry workshop titled “Poetry Everywhere” where I learned about found poetry. The facilitator, a performance poet, suggested we not only think of ourselves as creators, but curators; collectors instead of isolated composers. If we listen to the world around us–the bus plowing through slushy puddles, a conversation overheard at the gas station, the father singing a lullaby–and record what captures our attention, poetry will emerge. Our task is to be present, almost meditative, then re-arrange and select the words from the raw verse that already exists. Found poetry is harnessing the lyrical energy of the world around us. It is capturing the poetic potential of everyday life.

One activity during the session was to build a poem from random phrases that we pulled while flipping through the pages of a book. Next, we listened to the radio for ten minutes while jotting down words that jumped out at us. After listening, we had 5 minutes to shape a poem from the words we had scraped together. The segment on air (an interview on Pharmacare) wasn’t particularly suited to poetry, but when everyone shared what they had written, meaning was found. Our instructor* told us about working at a festival collecting poetry, by eavesdropping and paying attention, and then performing it at the end of the event. Imagine the possibilities! Besides arranging a photographer for your wedding, anniversary, funeral, or big party, you could hire a wandering poet. Someone who would note spoken bits and pieces and form it into something beautiful (or witty/sad/funny/smart) to capture the spirit of the celebration. Or you could do it yourself!

Inspiring, huh?

But here’s the kicker. (And you know by now there’s always a confession, or ironic detail, lurking in the shadows of every blog post ever written.) While I write this I’m wearing ear plugs; the fluorescent orange sponge is slowly swelling in place to block out life around me. I know. I couldn’t be more hypocritical even if I tried. Sometimes the poetry of our circumstances is more abrasive than we’d like; more gangsta rap than Robert Frost. But don’t let that deter you. Go ahead and try this at home, maybe during supper hour at the table, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Ropes and Carabiners: Lately, there’s been a lot of knot tying, harness rigging, and literal hanging-around happening here. It’s inspired partly by Stan’s nostalgia for his days on Denali, the kids’ natural love of climbing, and an up-coming trip…

DSCN9823_ DSCN9834_ DSCN9864_ DSCN9871_ DSCN9877_

Ratios: Have you seen this book? I ordered it for Susanna so she can take her experimental cake-baking to the next level. Both the cake we made on Saturday and the pancakes on Friday morning turned out great. And, they were gluten-free.**  The book is written for conventional wheat baking and cooking but I’m learning about the chemistry of food and how it translates to gluten-free ingredients. I think we may have to make a painting of the wheel on the cover to hang in our kitchen.


Easter: We started celebrating Easter a little early this year by attempting GF “resurrection rolls”. They failed miserably. While Belén and Susanna peered through the oven door, surveying the mess on the cookie sheet, I reminded them that just because our rolls didn’t turn out with perfect airy centers didn’t mean Jesus didn’t rise from the grave. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt comfortable comparing Jesus to a marshmallow anyway; the power of a metaphor only extends so far.

Also, on Saturday night we included our kids for the first time in a tradition Stan and I have been following for years. We read one whole book of the Bible out-loud, from start to almost finish. We always do Mark, because it’s the shortest, and because it’s a good one to see what the main character of Easter is about. (But mainly because it’s the shortest gospel.) And we always eat bread and olives and drink wine.  Every time we do it we have lots to talk about; there are things we’ve forgotten, questions to ask, and exclamations to make. We stop reading right near the end, after Jesus is crucified, and leave our open Bibles on the table. The excitement is almost like hanging up a stocking, but different. Then the next morning we finish the story. Because the ending is the reason anybody remembers what happened and why the whole world is still talking about it.

Looking for poetry and Easter everywhere,


*To learn more about Shayna Stock check out her site. She is based in Regina,SK but she travels and is willing to work remotely.

** My latest efforts with an all-purpose GF mix include 40% whole grains (millet, buckwheat, and sorghum) and 60% starches, by weight. I am finally hooked on using a kitchen scale for baking.

Slippery Elm Lozenges and a Winter Holiday


When I’m feeling healthy I don’t think about swallowing. I just do it. There, I did it again–without thinking or wincing. Isn’t it amazing how we appreciate even the simplest functions when our body isn’t working the way we are used to? When I have a cold, and daggers line my throat, I wonder how I could ever take good health for granted. Then I get better and forget all about it. Until the next virus shows up–when I’ll search my site to find this recipe again. These homemade cough drops soothe the throat, don’t contain refined sugars* or artificial colourings* like commercial lozenges, and are easy to make.

Recipe for Herbal Lozenges

1/2 cup slippery elm bark powder (mucilaginous herb useful for treating inflammations)
1 tablespoon cinnamon (an antibacterial and antiviral)
1/2 cup licorice root tea (treats sore throat and cough)
4 tablespoons of honey (for flavour and antibacterial qualities)

Boil water, brew licorice tea, and sweeten it with honey. (This tea is extremely sweet–be sure to taste a drop before you add it to see for yourself.) Mix with elm powder and cinnamon and shape into little balls. Keep some powder aside to help roll the dough (dip the balls in it while you are forming them) as it will be sticky. Place lozenges on a cookie sheet and leave to dry. You can dehydrate these or place in a warm oven to speed up the process. When they are dry they will not be as hard as conventional cough drops but they last just as long in the mouth.

Belén and I love the way these taste and eat them like candy. Susanna, on the other hand, won’t touch them. When I offered some of my last batch to Stan he responded with, “Do I have to?” I kind of don’t blame him, they look a lot like deer droppings. But they seem to help and that’s good enough for me.


*Disclosure: I avoid all artificial colours and sugar unless they happen to be in Skittles, or anything else I want to eat. I’m also the kind of person who drinks my kombucha with hotdogs and potato chips. Just so you know.


We’re at the fiddle contest and I’m trying to jiggle Vivian to sleep at the back of the hall, when I spot two other little girls heading for the water fountain. Arms linked and tripping over each other’s winter boots they whisper and giggle, the way most nine-year-olds do. Except they’re doing it in French. Later when Belén and I are waltzing in the swirling crowd of dancers she hears it too. Young people, middle-aged people, and old people, all speaking the language of instruction at her school. And they’re doing it voluntarily. On the drive home from Winnipeg I ask the girls if they noticed it.

“Yes,” Belén says, “And I kept wondering why they were doing it when nobody was making them speak French.”

Which is one of the reasons we like to go to the Festival du Voyageur; so our girls can hear people singing, dancing, partying, and joking in French–a language they associate with math and science, teachers and textbooks. This time we went with my parents and made a little vacation of it, skating on the river, going to the Canadian Museum for Human Rights, staying in a hotel and eating out.


At the Museum for Human Rights. I love this picture of my dad and Vivian. My mom is to the right of my dad.


Our favourite group at the festival–Bon Débarras


I got them to look at me for the photo but they mostly entranced by the step-dancing on stage.

My parents at one of the Festival snow sculptures

The sky darkens and our bodies are starting to ache from the cold when the next singer comes on stage. She strums a few chords then yells out to the crowd, “If I were you, I’d have stayed home tonight!” The tents are warmed with huge propane heaters but we can still see our breath and can’t shake the chill of spending the day outside. A few more notes ring out from her guitar. “But I had to come because I’m playing!” The crowd laughs and claps with mittened hands. Soon we’ll go back to the hotel where I’ll run the hottest bath I can handle, the older girls will run back and forth between Grandma and Grandpa’s room and ours, Vivian will finally be able to nurse without distraction, and Stan can kick off his boots after accomplishing another day’s holiday. Which is a bit what it feels like as we get used to traveling with an infant again. She’s been mostly content but it’s not like we haven’t noticed her, and that’s good, but still harder. In Vivian’s defense, she hasn’t had much time to be a baby; like lollygag in her playpen or suckle in a quiet corner. There is too much at the museum to see, maple syrup taffy to taste, and too many miles to skate.


My parents with B and S behind


Skating on miles of river trails. They had wooden chairs outfitted with skis to give people a break:)


Vivian is under that pile of plastic and blankets in the stroller.


 Stay warm,


Steamy Kitchen Windows

The temperature has plummeted overnight, but it’s cozy inside our kitchen and already the windows are starting to fog up. We’ve been busy at the stove, starting the morning off with french toast and tea. Even though I smother my pieces with peanut butter, bananas, real whipped cream and maple syrup, I notice the poppy seeds on the crust. I like the nutty flavour and make a mental note to buy the same kind of bread again. It’s that easy. I taste something I like and decide I want it again without thinking twice. No problem.

After breakfast, Stan sends the girls downstairs to get potatoes for Edna Ruth Byler’s Cinnamon Roll recipe. While the potatoes soften in our pressure cooker, my husband stands at the kitchen counter, hands poised at the keyboard ready to re-vamp our meal planning. At my request, my sister sent me the running record she keeps of all the meals she’s made for her family. The entries are divided into categories (beef, chicken, vegetarian, other, etc.,) so Stan reads off the recipes and waits for our responses. “Asian salad bowl? What’s that?”

“Yes! Leave it on. It’s like fresh spring rolls,” I say, bouncing Vivi on my lap, waiting for the next one.

“Mushroom Quinoa Lasag…”

“Nooooooooo!” the girls interrupt in unison, while dancing on the couch for their sister.

The keyboard clicks in response.

When we finish with the revised list I’m tempted to appear casual and nonchalant. It’s taken Stan ten years of suggestion to bring me to this level of organization–and I’ve resisted it the whole way. I’ve often countered his attempts with a superior tone, pointing out how I’m free-spirited and thrifty; able to think on my feet in the grocery aisle, and creative with discount items. But now that he’s still buying the groceries he figures he’s got a little more leverage and so here we are, reviewing a list including everything from chickpea coconut curry to enchiladas. The maddening part is I’m pleased. I can’t even pretend my fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants method is easier, or even tastier. I’m also reminded how much choice we have in what we eat. Mexican food one day then Tanzanian the next? Fruit from all corners of the globe? Fresh vegetables even though it’s -40? No problem.


The potato dough is soon ready to knead and while Belén, Susanna and Stan have a circus with gluten, I start chopping onions for the slow cooker. We’ll have beef vegetable stew flavoured with rosemary for tonight’s supper. They fold and stretch the batter until satiny, while I wonder how much meat to add. One pack isn’t quite enough so I open up the other package I pulled out of the freezer. No problem.


And then, because the smell of cinnamon and sugar and yeast (this is their annual bake-with-wheat-flour event) almost drives me crazy, I start working on my own gluten-free version. I’m not sure I have all the ingredients–the pecans are the best part of this recipe–so I go to the pantry to check. There’s a kilo of pecans on the bottom shelf. No problem.

While dough rises we start watching Living on One. I thought we might be able to clean up while listening to the documentary in the background, but now that the film is rolling, all of us are standing stock-still, eyes on the screen. Created by four college students, the documentary shows what it was like for them to live on one dollar per day in rural Guatemala, “battling hunger, parasites, and extreme financial stress but find[ing] hope in the inspiring lives of our neighbors.” I’m skeptical at first–what good can privileged 19-year-olds who go “camping” for a couple months do?–but am soon softened by their storytelling. Much of it reminds me of our years spent in Bolivia; the diarrhea, the fleas, and hitching rides through lush canyons. Like them, I also benefited from my neighbours generosity: Doña Sabina and the warm tamales from her clay oven, Doña Estela teaching me how to wash clothes by hand, and Don Juan’s stories of indentured servant-hood for Spanish hacienderos. At one point during the movie I tear up and Belén turns to study my face. “Are you crying, Mom? Why are you crying? Wait. Guys! Mom’s crying.”

I’m thinking of Dona Lucia’s resilience when she admitted she doesn’t always know how she will feed her children the next day. I’m thinking of Antonio’s laughing eyes when he told me he knows what it’s like to fall asleep with an empty stomach. I’m thinking of the fourteen and fifteen year-old mothers who will never see a high school textbook or read a novel. But I’m also thinking of wild honey found in the woods, the peanut harvest, fresh eggs, wandering chickens, wild horses, waterfalls, watermelons, and women who bathe, cook, tend children, do laundry, pick lice, gossip, laugh and do all of life together. In fact, I can’t really explain why I’m crying. It’s not pity, exactly. I understand material wealth, education, and opportunity don’t guarantee well-being. All I know is my kitchen windows are steamy with abundance, while brave and wise people, real people, go without enough.

A while later Susanna says, “Sometimes I just want to rush out and give everyone money. Everyone who needs it.”

Her dad says, “That’s nice; I just want to clarify though… Whose money?”

“Your money,” she responds without a beat. And then, “But I don’t know where to find them.”

I know what she means. When people, like us, can reach for anything we need, no problem, while others reach but grasp nothing, there is a problem. And yet, what can we do? How do we find these people? Which causes do we donate to? Does the money even get there anyway? If it does, might it do more harm than good? And shouldn’t we be investing in the needy close to home? The marginalized in our own neighbourhoods?

The cinnamon buns are ready. We have a taste test; mine versus theirs. “Oh, it’s so close. Neck and neck,” Stan reports after trying them both. “I’d say it’s a tie.” If he’s feeling amorous, he’s in luck. That compliment takes him to first base at least. I love it when people pretend my gluten-free baking is delicious.


Gluten-free cinnamon bun ring with Edna’s rolls in the background. See highlighted link for recipe. It’s a winner!

The next day we will wake up to full cupboards once again. We will pick one dinner, out of the 72 options we’ve typed out, and then sit down to our meal made for four–though we could stretch our food stores to feed 140. But we will be thankful. We will pray. Susanna will go on-line to look for another sponsor child. We will feel content with our square footage, with our furniture, with our opportunities. We will remember what we watched and talk about it again. We will give. We will feel life is unfair. We will feel lucky. We will feel helpless. We will feel burdened. We will feel ourselves slip into the sea of everyday excess. We will go down with our eyes open to keep from drowning in our comforts and the apathy that runs deep. We will hope some of this makes a difference. And we will eat cinnamon buns.