This dish was a happy accident on a what-in-the-world-are-we-having-for-dinner-tonight day this week. Our plans with extended family fell through and I had zero time to hit a grocery store, so I rummaged through the freezer, grabbing some chicken breasts and mango chunks, and a lonely jar of salsa in the Lazy Susan. I threw it all in the slow cooker and hoped for the best. Continue reading
The last few weeks have been pretty intense for our family.
My husband is transitioning from one career to another, so we’re in that place where it sort of feels like he’s working two jobs.
I am homeschooling our three boys and working two new part-time gigs as a kitchen teacher at our homeschool partnership and a preschool specialist at our library.
We’re feeling the pressure of projects that need completion before the snow flies. Chad and our neighbor spent hours building a new railing along our front steps so we have something firm to hold onto in the icy months ahead. We have squash and carrots to harvest and tilling to complete in the garden and we probably oughtta make room in the garage to actually park our cars in there? Continue reading
Take your busy heart to the art museum and the
chamber of commerce
but take it also to the forest.
The song you heard singing in the leaf when you
were a child
is singing still.
-From “What Can I Say” by Mary Oliver
This evening, at what should have been supper time, I felt called down to the river.
I stifled the urge for a few minutes, knowing there was laundry to be folded, lunch dishes piled beside the sink, books scattered across the dining room table from the day’s lessons.
But the murmur of the river is persistent. It drowns out the beep of the answering machine and the swoosh of the washing machine and the buzz of the neighbor’s weed whacker.
Something big happened last Sunday.
When I came downstairs after blow-drying my hair, I nearly fainted.
*Featured image by Amy Vivio photography
Read more Personal Essay here –>
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Happy Friday, Friends! Start your weekend off right with a few laughs from these little ones…
Recently, I came home from the gym, and my three-year-old approached me, asking, “Can you talk like Yoda now, Mommy?”
Wondering if I’d understood him, I repeated, “Talk like Yoda?”
“Yeah! You were at ‘Yoda class,’” he answered, pointing to the rolled-up yoga mat hanging from my shoulder. “Can you talk like Yoda now?”
The lake was calm, except for our speedboat with you and your noisy brothers in tow. You requested more chips, then scoffed at my expected Eat-some-more-grapes-first reply.
“Is it time to swim yet?” you asked.
“We’re heading to the swimming hole now,” Daddy answered.
In the glare of late-day sun, I noticed something on the water ahead. Squinting, shielding my eyes, I called to your father to slow down.
“What is it? he asked.
“I can’t tell – some kind of birds.”
Welcome to The Book Basket, a place for sharing seasonal reads and other literature we’re enjoying in our home.
This summer, we’ve been reaching for All the Places to Love, written by Patricia MacLachlan (remember Sarah, Plain and Tall?) and illustrated by Mike Wimmer.
I know. I’m a thirty-something white-privileged woman who grew up in the rural Midwest culture of hunting and fishing, drinking, and football. The most common threats I face are wild animals, snowstorms, and drunk drivers.
I’m not here to tell you I get it – the complex layers of race issues in America, the history and the causes and all of the intense hurt surrounding injustice.
But please don’t think, because of my status, that I’m unaffected. Few people are unaffected these days by such sad times in our country.
Yes, racism exists. I knew it long before the formation of Black Lives Matter. I knew it before it was on the news every single day — before we knew the names Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown and Eric Garner.
I knew it when I was twenty and I exited the interstate in downtown Chicago rush hour traffic in desperation for a public bathroom. I found a fast food restaurant and walked in, quickly noticing that I was the only white person there…
Just around the time my middle son turned five and morphed into a loving, funny little human capable of logic and reasoning, my youngest turned three.
I should have seen this coming – the “threenage” years. I should have prepared myself for the onslaught of destruction and nastiness and upheaval that comes with the threes.
Come on, Harrison! Get your head in the game. Ear plugs. Fresh tennies. Rubber gloves, stat! Continue reading
Marriage is hard. It’s hard because life is hard. Because relationships are hard.
My Love and I are celebrating a decade of marriage today, and I mean CELEBRATING, because honestly, there was a time or two we didn’t know how we’d make it.
I’m dishing out truth today at HVFH about how two broken people kept their marriage from breaking.
Cheers to ten!
*Featured image via Canva