the vg-r collective

I'm in the middle of The Magicians by Lev Grossman right now and it's been interesting to see something of a parallel between magic and a Reformed vision for life. I've grown up and worked in institutions that espouse a comprehensive framework for living faithfully in this world. Cue the Abraham Kuyper mantra: "There is not a square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is Sovereign over all, does not cry: 'Mine!'" In some ways, this vision is liberating, but I've talked with many who also feel the burdensome side of it. Accepting the significance of all things means you have to think about everything and do something about it in a faith-informed way--nothing is neutral. Exciting...or exhausting? Especially for students who have caught the vision and then are thrust into a world of few jobs and ballooning debt, it tends to be the latter.

The Magicians is about a smart, nerdy kid who's always been obsessed with magic, but assumed it wasn't real. When he's about to go off to college, he discovers that magic is real and ends up at a magical school. Where it differs from something like Harry Potter is that it's so much more acute in the area of young adult malaise. The main group of friends in the book graduates with a burden of magical responsibility, but they have no idea what to do with their lives, so they move to New York City together and basically start partying their lives away--all the while feeling guilty and restless because they know there's something more. The story has been resonating strongly with conversations we've had about the burden of the Reformed vision, how it's desirable and beautiful, but can also be a ridiculously demanding burden as we simply try to make our way in life. For an example, try reading this passage on two levels, the surface and the Reformed vision parallel:

When he left Brakebills for New York, Quentin had expected to be knocked down and ravished by the sheer gritty reality of it all: going from the jeweled chrysalis of Brakebills to the big, messy, dirty city, where real people led real lives in the real world and did real work for real money. And for a couple of weeks he had been. It was definitely real, if by real you meant non-magical and obsessed with money and amazingly filthy. He had completely forgotten what it was like to be in the mundane world all the time. Nothing was enchanted: everything was what it was and nothing more. Every conceivable surface was plastered with words--concert posters, billboards, graffiti, maps, signs, warning labels, alternate-side parking regulations--but none of it meant anything, not the way a spell did. At Brakebills every square inch of the House, every brick, every bush, every tree, had been marinated in magic for centuries. Here, out in the world, raw unmodified physics reigned, and mundanity was epidemic. It was like a coral reef with the living vital meaning bleached out of it, leaving nothing but an empty colored rock behind. To a magician's eyes, Manhattan looked like a desert.

Grossman even squeezes in a "square inch" as he describes the results of an education that's intended to open up an infinitely meaningful world, but instead imposes a weight of ordinariness that's almost too much to bear. I'm interested to see where the story goes, on many levels, and to reflect more on how to initiate college students into ordinariness with hope and humor.

My grandparents on my dad's side moved to Arizona not long after I was born and, while they came to see us in the Chicago suburbs every summer, it was only a few times that our family was able to make the long trip west to visit them. Rummikub, tater tot casserole, fresh oranges and grapefruit from the tree in the back yard, swimming in the community center pool--these things prominently punctuate all of my memories of those trips. But the one tradition I replicate most often now in my own home is making big batches of Six-Week Bran Muffins.

I don't know how often my grandparents hosted such crowds in their home as our family of six, but every time we came out, my grandma would mix up her famous bran muffins. With a batter that can be stored in the refrigerator, the recipe resulted in hot muffins every morning to accompany freshly-picked citrus fruit. And it's a recipe equally suited to feeding a household of just one or two, since the batter will keep for up to six weeks.

It's a testament to my grandma's coming of age in the processed food era that the main ingredient in her version was a box of Raisin Bran. My tweaked version substitutes plain old wheat or oat bran and raisins for the cereal. But I do honor her thrifty ways by making this whenever I have a substantive quantity of sour milk in the refrigerator, which happens quite regularly since we participate in a local herd share program and get a half gallon of milk every week, whether we need it or not (though I have recently begun making homemade yogurt as well, which will cut down on the sour milk supply).

Here's my version of the recipe, with some alternate suggestions at the end. It's quite flexible and, now that fall is on its way, I'm sure I'll be mixing up batches even more often. I've enjoyed customizing muffins on the fly according to guests' preferences (no raisins? extra walnuts?) and making huge batches to fortify groups on work days at the Imagining Space project. And every batch is a good opportunity to remember my grandparents' legacy and how I'm attempting to carve out my own life of generosity and abundance in their footsteps.

Six-Week Bran Muffins

2 ¼ c. oat or wheat bran
1 c. raisins
Add extra raisins if you like
1 tsp. salt
3 c. sugar or 1 c. molasses and 1 c. brown sugar
5 tsp. baking soda
5 c. flour
1 qt. buttermilk or sour milk
4 eggs beaten
1 c. oil

Mix all ingredients together and store in the refrigerator. Make muffins as needed. Bake at 350 degrees for 25-30 minutes.

More options:

• Leave out the raisins when you make the mix so that you can add whatever you're in the mood for (and have on hand) when you make the muffins--raisins, cranberries, walnuts, cherries, blueberries, almonds...


• Sprinkle flax seeds on top before baking.


• Substitute a cup of orange juice for a cup of the milk and include the grated zest of two oranges. You could also put a glaze on top--powdered sugar mixed with a little bit of o.j. and cinnamon.

One of the things I'm looking forward to most about being back in Three Rivers full time soon is being able to park our car most of the time in favor of walking and biking. As a small, rural city, one of the things Three Rivers has going for it is that for much of the year, it's quite possible to get around without a vehicle. Of course, it's nice to carpool for occasional trips to local farms and nature preserves or the Amish grocery store or the restaurant selection in Kalamazoo, but for daily necessities, two wheels or two legs will suffice for getting around. I was reminded by this Walkonomics piece that our friend Andrew linked to that walking is good not just for our bodies and our environment, but for business as well. Here's hoping that we in Three Rivers can work together to use our existing resources to enhance the city as an attractive, sustainable community.

P.S. The city code permits raising chickens on residential property within certain reasonable parameters, so all you urban homesteaders out there should come on over.

Rob and I have a herd share with a local farming family, which means we get a half gallon of fresh-from-the-cow milk each week. Not wanting to wasted any of the precious stuff but also not always able to keep up with consuming it fresh, I've been experimenting with a lot of sour milk recipes. I actually got to the point a couple of weeks ago that I was sad to be out of sour milk when we were off work and using more fresh milk.

Here's one of my favorite ways to use up sour milk, adapted from a random pre-printed recipe card I picked up somewhere. These are a very light biscuit texture, with an interesting twist of cardamom.

Sweet Cinnamon Biscuits

1 c. white unbleached flour
1 c. whole wheat flour
1 Tbsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1/4 c. oil
3/4 sour milk or buttermilk
4 Tbsp. butter, softened
1/3 c. brown sugar
2 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. cardamom

Combine flour, baking powder, salt and baking soda in a medium bowl and mix well. Stir in vegetable oil and milk. Stir until just blended.

Knead the dough briefly on a lightly floured surface. Roll the dough into a 15" x 8" rectangle.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Lightly grease a 9" round baking pan.

Spread butter over the dough. Combine sugar, cinnamon and cardamom in a small bowl and mix well. Sprinkle over butter. Roll up rectangle, starting from one long side. Pinch seam to seal.

Cut the roll into 1 1/2" slices. Arrange the slices in prepared baking pan. Bake until lightly browned, about 15-20 minutes. Remove from oven and serve warm!

There's a virtual discussion going on right now at the High Calling blog about a book that I have an essay in called The Spirit of Food: 34 Writers on Fasting and Feasting Toward God. It's a very neat collection that I'm still working my way through, like a bar of good dark chocolate!

I was super crunched for time when they requested a recipe to go with my essay and I tried to submit one for tomato soup, but they already had a similar one, so I ended up going with the uber-simple option of Grilled Zucchini. If I'd had more time to think and experiment, here's the one that I wish I could have submitted. I cooked this one up in the first week of January when my creativity was being refreshed by a much-needed vacation.

Grown-Up Tuna Noodle Casserole

I grew up loving the old standby that was simply a combination of a bag of egg noodles, two cans of tuna and two cans of cream of mushroom soup. I would guess it's second only to green bean casserole in the Campbell's condensed soup recipe empire. Our family always had buttered bread and apple sauce on the side, with vanilla or butterscotch pudding for dessert (one of only two meals ever followed by dessert in our house--the other was chili and chocolate pudding).

This recipe may seem like it has a lot of steps, but you're basically preparing four different elements to combine and bake into creamy, comfort food goodness: noodles, garlic cream sauce, crumb topping and a combination of sautéed ingredients. It's well worth the effort! And unlike some other comfort food reproductions, it really does scratch the nostalgic itch of four cans and a bag of noodles, but with much higher quality ingredients and an herby, lemony twist. Enjoy!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Then, in a large pot of boiling, salted water, cook until tender:

• 8 oz. thick egg noodles (I like Amish-style noodles myself)

Meanwhile, in a large frying pan, sauté:

• 2 Tbsp. olive oil
• 16 oz. mushrooms, chopped
• 1 lg. clove of garlic, crushed
• ½ tsp. salt
• plenty of freshly ground pepper

When mushrooms are nearly cooked through, add and briefly sauté just until heated:

• 1 c. peas (fresh or frozen)
• 12 oz. white albacore tuna*

Transfer mixture to large casserole dish and wipe out frying pan to use for next step: bread crumbs. In the frying pan, combine and heat:

• ¼ c. olive oil
• ½ tsp. dried dill (or more if you really like dill)
• ¾ tsp salt
• 2 tsp. lemon juice
• 1 ½ c. bread crumbs**

Saute and stir frequently until bread crumbs are crisp and beginning to brown. Remove from heat and set aside. Next, you'll tackle the cream sauce. In a medium saucepan, melt:

• 3 Tbsp. butter

Then, whisk in until it forms a paste:

• 3 Tbsp. white unbleached flour

Be careful not to let the mixture brown. Add all at once and whisk into flour mixture:

• 1 ¾ c. warm milk

Bring to a boil. Add:

• 1 lg. clove of garlic, crushed
• Salt and pepper to taste

Lower the heat and stir while cooking 2-3 minutes more as mixture thickens, then set aside. Last step before combining everything to bake--prepare:

• 1 c. sharp cheddar, shredded

Now that you have all of your ingredients prepped, stir the cream sauce and noodles into the casserole dish with the tuna mixture. Top casserole with shredded cheese and then bread crumbs. Bake at 350 degrees until bubbly and cheese is melted.

* I used canned tuna in water, but you could also substitute other varieties of fish--even leftover salmon.

** I throw bread ends, pitas, rolls, etc. into the freezer any time we have extra and then I use an immersion blender to turn them into crumbs whenever I need bread crumbs.

After much delay, I finally launched a relatively simple web site design for The Hermitage, a Mennonite retreat community in Three Rivers, Michigan. There are still several design and feature additions I'd like to make, but the site is now fully editable via a Movable Type interface.

Birthday cakes. An absurd variety of pies for Thanksgiving. Cookie time at the cottage on Bass Lake in Knox, Indiana.

I have no idea what the occasion for celebration was in the picture above, but it seems representative of my Grandma. She obviously loved her family and showed it through cooking and baking; she always seemed to be preparing for and then hosting special events--from holidays to birthdays to mundane Sunday night family gatherings.

Hand and foot. Scrabble. Pinochle. Bananagrams.

Grandma loved to play card games and word games with my Grandpa before he died and with her kids when they'd gather for parties. During summer vacations at Bass Lake, every night featured epic card games in the kitchen with my aunts and uncles while my cousins and I attempted to sleep (often unsuccessfully).

Oxygen. Dialysis.

Grandma moved in with my parents shortly after my Grandpa died. At that point, she needed an oxygen machine to help her breathe 24 hours a day and needed to go in for dialysis several times a week--both as a result of secondhand smoke. She was extremely tired and wasn't able to bake anymore, but she still played games with her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

My mom called this morning a little before 9:00 to tell me that her mother, my Grandma Deenik, had just passed away. She was my last living grandparent.

For a loooong time, I've been wanting to figure out an alternative way to store the bulk coffee we brew at World Fare. However, with such tight margins all the time, we haven't been able to afford one way valve containers and I didn't want to use disposable vacuum seal methods. We've been re-using and re-using one pound bags that one of our volunteers brought in, but the zip-lock seals have been coming apart, which sort of defeats the purpose of the one-way valve bag. They've started to look pretty crummy, especially when they're held closed with paper clips.

But...TODAY I finally found a solution that I could make with items we have on hand. (Rob says he came up with it before, but I just wasn't in the right brain space to hear it then.) I took jars that we'd purchased some time ago from Global Infusion and, after cleaning them thoroughly, drilled small holes in the lids. I then cut out the one-way valves from the coffee bags we've been using and taped them inside the lids. Voila!

Thanks to this web page for the idea! (And also Rob. :)

One of my first "unofficial" jobs was working for the billboard company for which my mom was an office manager. I swept floors, organized gallons of paint by Pantone color, and painted over old plywood panels and billboard flex (the large vinyl sheets billboards are painted on) for reuse. Not particularly exciting stuff ...

The painters, though, seemed to be really cool things, especially to my 14-year-old eyes. It was endlessly interesting to watch the art for ads go from small designs on paper in the office to huge paintings on vinyl in the cavernous shop. The one or two guys who hand-painted directly on walls throughout the city were especially revered (and you can see why below). In fact, our shop was the company that painted the famous Bigsby & Kruthers wall along the Kennedy on the north side of Chicago. During one of the Bulls' championship runs, Dennis Rodman was featured prominently on the wall and the painters would change Rodman's hair color on the mural every time he changed his; it became such a traffic nuisance, they had to remove it.

I was intrigued, then, to see "Up There," a short documentary about the dying art of hand-painted billboards in a new digital age. Watching the apprenticeship process and the years of training necessary to paint wall murals gave me newfound respect for the guys I worked with so many years ago. Though painting ads probably isn't what many of these painters would like to be doing with their considerable skills, their dedication to the process is fascinating.

My dad's mom passed away this week in Arizona and I won't be able to make it out to the funeral, but my thoughts, of course, have been there with my family all week. Here are some memories of my grandma that I sent over to my dad.

Rob and I have moved around quite a bit in the almost-ten years we've been married. Most of our possessions have found their way to us through thrift stores, garage sales, hand-me-downs, curb sides and dumpsters, so when we box up our lives, there are very few objects I'm overly concerned about packing well. Among those very few is a teapot Grandma Marge made for me in her ceramics studio.

Maybe it came from spending her formative years around so many men--her father, brothers, husband, sons--or maybe it came from having parents with deep roots in the sometimes dour world of Dutch Calvinism, but Grandma wasn't overly sentimental. And yet, her affections for her long-distance grandchildren found ways of coming through. I still remember the excitement of greeting her and Grandpa in the terminal in the days when such a thing was still possible. She'd be wearing white sandals with hose, an Arizona tan and all pastels. During her visits, she'd play with our hair and give an occasional hard squeeze or pinch on the cheek with her characteristic inside out laugh.

As Grandma and Grandpa grew older, so did I, and soon I was the one showing up on their doorstep with my overnight bag, ready to pick citrus fruit and play Rummikub, ready to enjoy tater tot casserole and bran muffins. On one visit, I admired the glaze on a set of ceramic coasters she'd made--a foggy blue gray misting over a brown background. Then, not too long after I returned home, I was browsing a thrift store when a set of four Chinese teacups caught my eye. They were lovely, but wanting for a teapot. I don't remember exactly how the conversation with Grandma went, but within a couple of months, a package quietly arrived containing a set of blue-gray ceramic coasters and a teapot to match.

This past spring, I unpacked my teapot to find its place in what will hopefully be our home for a long time: a second floor apartment above an 1865 storefront in Three Rivers, Michigan. The last time I talked with Grandma on the phone, she said she didn't think she'd be able to make it up the stairs to see our new place when she came to visit next. I doubted that was true, and told her so. I guess neither of us knew how very true it would be.

Over and over again, we humans prove true that even while we mark the deaths of our loved ones, they continue to live on in memory, in objects, in ways of being that make their ways through generations in both nature and nurture. In that sense, Grandma's here in our home every day; neither a cross country flight nor a flight and a half of stairs can get in her way. She and Grandpa watch over me from one of their wedding photos as I write at my desk; the massive flower bouquets and the ocean of a train on her dress are almost as big as their smiles. And of course, among the less tangible traits she's passed down to me through my dad, there's always the teapot, waiting to offer a hot beverage as a symbol of hospitality to our guests as they come in from the cold of a Michigan winter. And maybe some day, a cup of tea will be one of the concrete ways I demonstrate my love to my own grandchildren, along with laugh and a squeeze and a pinch on the cheek.