Play with the Child Jesus

Two days in a row to post on my blog...man that is quite the record for me. I feel inspired to write about my meditation I had in prayer today. I felt it was a divinely inspired thought, so I hope others can get something out of my words.

I closed my eyes after communion and made myself aware of the presence of God around me. The church was dark and quiet, as I like it. I had a meditation come to my mind (I would compare it to a daydream), and I saw a little boy, roughly around age 4 or 5. As young boys do at this age, he started playfully running and then looking back at me to see if I would chase after him. I naturally did chase after him, playing along with his game. I found myself running through long grasses, and he kept motioning me to follow him. He kept laughing and I kept chasing--this kid loved to play! Suddenly, he stopped and started to take long grass (reeds?) and stack them in a pile. He started to take mud between his hands and smash the grass and mud together. "Um, God, where are you going with this?" But the meditation continued. Next thing I know the little boy grew a few years old, and looked to be around age 10. He ran to a nearby stream and leaped into, gathering fish with his hands. I stood watching in awe, as he joyfully ran back to his makeshift pile of grass and mud and skillfully built us a fire. He took the fish and pronounced them on long sticks, and he slowly roasted the fish on each side.

Does even the little child Jesus always provide for me? I never posted this a year ago...(it was originally written in Jan 2011, and it is now Dec 2011) but I feel like as it is Advent, the Child Jesus wants to get reacquainted again. What can I learn from this little Child? Does He want to teach me how to be a child again? Does He want me to hold Him? Does He want me to learn how to play while I work? Yes, He enchants me--this little spry boy who catches fish and builds fire out of mud and reeds. Light a fire in this heart, o Little Child of Bethlehem, and teach me how to become a child who can play with you and love you.

Coffee...Bosnian style

So I bought this little golden pot from a thrift store about two months back, and always wondered what it was or what it did. I assumed it was a "chocolate pot" or a contraption to melt butter, as it was so tiny, and as I don't really do much with sugar right now, I resorted to using it for butter melting. The reason I bought the little lovely is because on the bottom it says "Made in Sarajevo"--so I HAD to buy it then, for love of all things Bosnian.

Well, after spending time drinking Joza's kava, I decided to make my own, as it is a snow day, and I can't exactly leave my house as the snow pummels down. My mother is giddy putting up all the Christmas decorations and hanging the boughs of holly and adding mini Santas to every spare inch of space, but I am dreary as I look for temporary jobs on the internet. Inspiration strikes: I shall make Turkish coffee. But how? I googled it--and it said you need an "ibrik." As I studied the picture, I realized...I actually have one of those. Weird. Although, I am not surprised. I found my little golden pot from the thrift store and happily followed these directions: http://www.howtobrewcoffee.com/Turkish.htm

It took easily twenty minutes, as I had to grind up my Trader Joe's gingerbread coffee grinds in a mini grinder (also a thrift store find) and then heat water slowly and let the grinds rest in the "neck" of the ibrik. From there, I slowly watched the foam rise, and I would remove the coffee from the heat and slowly stir in the foam. This process took longer than my patience would allow on a "normal day" and I was delighted once again by how Europeans make everything such an art. My mom even commented that in Europe you never see anyone ever walk down the street with a carryout container of coffee, as is so common in America that you can buy actual Starbucks-esque containers that LOOK like carryout containers to carry your coffee in. We value our grab-and-go ways--people to see, places to go, money to make/spend.

So, yes, I made my coffee. My mom said it tasted like "coffeehouse" coffee, as it surpassed her expectations, which is a big deal--trust me. It's nice to know you can bring the slow life to your fast life, and who knows, you may find an odd little pot in your cupboard and discover it actually has a use!

Mirepoix and Ironing your Underwear

Oh the joys of simple living. One reason I love Europeans is they know how to live simply, yet beautifully. You notice when anything is labeled "European" whether it be boots, coffee, or a car--you know that it's going to be unique in quality and style. Yes, Europeans do things a certain way--and I like it.

I went to visit my favorite Bosnian today--whom for privacy purposes I will call Joza. (Yo-sah). I find myself infinitely fascinated by her. She keeps her house in immaculate condition, as she is a Eastern European woman who was taught from the crib to keep a house tidy and orderly--something THIS American girl could learn from. I walked into her kitchen where she had a rising bulge of dough peeping out from under a big plastic bowl covered by a make-shift lid. I intently watched as she sprinkled dough on the counter and worked the rising mound into oblivion, shifting its shape into two, oblong loaves ready to be popped into the oven for a mere twenty minutes. I questioned her on her bread-making skills, and asked how she learned to make bread, and she merely scoffed and said, "Every European make own bread." They do?! But how? Do they pass recipes around villages, or is this passed down from babushka (Russian for grandma) to babushka? What's the deal with every Euro knowing how to make their own bread? I mean, making bread isn't so easy! If it was, millions of Americans wouldn't buy it every week...

But she just said she makes it when they run out (so, every two days) and I watched her as she aimlessly sprinkled flour into the large bowl and doused it with tons of salt, and carelessly let it rise all over again. She smeared it in oil, and asked if I wanted coffee (kava) and I eagerly said yes. Her coffee is one of a kind. Ever had "cowboy coffee" or "Turkish" coffee? It's the same thing in Bosnia. She laconically grabbed her tiny metal teapot, which is specific for making such coffee, and filled it up  high with water. She opens up her near-empty cupboards, which were only filled with the essentials: a special spice that is from Bosnia, which I've questioned her about before, and other spices, and a huge container of Folgers coffee. She took the coffee grounds by heaping spoonfuls (three, to be exact) and piled them into a mini grinder, and grinded the already ground coffee so it was as fine as gold dust. She poured the grounds into the wee pot, and slowly stirred the coffee grounds and water into a singular, thick concoction of caffeine and delight. I watched as she took the same "lid" that moments earlier kept her dough under control, and now transformed it into a tray to hold floral saucers, a dish of sugar cubes, and the wonderful pot of kava. I was delighted by her simplicity and her attention to detail. What ever happened to hospitality and doing things in a particular fashion? Don't toss me a Mountain Dew, dude...

And on to the topic of ironing...do you ever iron? Because I don't. I mean, yeah, if I have an interview or if my dress pants are atrocious, than I will iron them. Joza said her house was very messy, and then pointed to her ironing board with neatly stacked piles of clothes folded on top. I laughed and said it looked good to me, and then she told me she needed to still iron those clothes. I was horrified and asked if she ironed everyday, and she nodded definitively as if the question was obvious. "Do you mean to tell me, you iron all your clothes daily? Like, even t-shirts?" And she again nodded her head boldly, and I think my jaw dropped. Seriously? Am I missing a necessary skill that every person does to look groomed? She then said every Bosnian woman does this--and that they even iron their underwear. She told me has given up this practice, but it's very normal in her country.

And what's that little concoction, you say? It's mirepoix--every French cooks secret weapon. My mirepoix was both French and Italian, as I made it with both butter (French) and virgin olive oil (Italian). Mirepoix was named after the French chef, Mirepoix, who referred to the celery, carrot, and onion mix as the "Holy Trinity" of aromatics. I think the Thai would argue that scallions, garlic, ginger, and crushed red pepper would compete, but indeed, it is delicious. I made a pumpkin soup for a friend a few months back, and I followed a recipe that I vaguely remembered, and it was just awful. It was bland and not even liberal sprinklings of "garlic salt" could redeem it. But inspiration came as I remembered why my original try at pumpkin soup was so delectable--yep, mirepoix. It's the starting base for any decent dish--and the French, Italians, and Portuguese know it. That's why their cooking is a step above the rest. Well, the French certainly have their secrets hidden underneath their scarvess and berets, and one of them is mirepoix. It's simple, it's easy, and it makes every dish so much more savory. I almost died when I finished adding the pumpkin and chicken broth to the blend. Do yourself a favor--add mirepoix to your next dish and you will taste a bit of the good life.

Fin.