Bravery · Food Allergy Family · Peanut Allergy · Wrestling with Reality

“The Talk” and how I broke the news to Mia about what living with a peanut allergy really means

Dear Joey,

Mia came home from school full of stories yesterday, as always. Yesterday’s tale was enough to make my stomach lurch, my mind spin, and my silent prayer of “ThankyouJesusthankyoujesusthankyoujesus” audible to all the host of heaven.

“Mommy, guess what? Today at school some kids told me to eat a muffin they promised didn’t have any peanuts in it. I told them no, but then they kept saying eat it, eat it! It doesn’t have peanuts! So you know what? I ate it. And it didn’t have any peanuts in it.”

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I’m pretty sure I looked horrified as she told me this story, because her excited smile turned timid in a flash, and she sheepishly nuzzled up to me as I thanked her for telling me the truth, told her I was happy the muffin didn’t have any peanuts, and admitted I was disappointed she broke the rule. I stroked her hair and reminded her that until she’s a little bit older and responsible enough to read and understand food labels, she may not accept food from anyone else at school.

And then, we had the talk: the one in which I tell her that other peanut allergy kids have died because they have mistakenly eaten peanuts they didn’t know were in a treat. I’m not sure we’ve really had that talk before.

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The language we use around here consists of things like Peanuts make you sick and Here’s your emergency medicine just in case, but you won’t need to use it because no one will have peanuts around you. Sure, she knows she gets hives, and she is aware in a cognitive sort of way that they could make her tummy ache, throw up, give her an itchy tongue or make it hard to breathe, but I can’t put my finger on a time we’ve told her they could actually make her stop breathing. For a preschooler who is only ever in an environment supervised by myself or teachers at a strict nut-free preschool, this was sufficient. We haven’t needed to tread farther down the road yet.

But she’s not in preschool anymore. She’s a Kindergartener who eats lunch in a cafeteria at a nut-free table around which peanut butter and jelly sandwiches surreptitiously swirl. She’s on her own out there, and until yesterday I trusted that she would fervently obey our rule to only eat the food I packed in her lunchbox. I was mistaken.

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Shaken by her story, the whole truth about why her allergy is so dangerous spilled out of me like a confession: peanuts might make her stop breathing, and could ultimately take her life away from her. I told her it has happened to other kids like her, kids who mistakenly ate snacks with peanuts hiding on the inside, which is why it’s so important for her to not take food from any other kids at school–no matter what.

Her eyes fell, and they looked steeled against this new difficult truth like dams struggling to hold against the pressure of the river behind it. She burrowed into my chest, and didn’t say a word.

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I don’t want her to be bogged down by fear, but what choice did I have? How long can she scamper into the schoolyard, wide eyed and trusting that all other kids will take her allergy seriously if she doesn’t know the whole truth herself? It’s the fear I live with every time I wave goodbye to her: that food from sources unknown will cross her lips and enter her body, setting off a series of events more terrifying than I really want to tell her. Sending her into a place where peanuts swirl around her, where she is relegated to the nut allergy table, where she feels marginalized and left out because of something that is completely, 100% not her fault breaks my heart. But she had to know, didn’t she?

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The truth is this: lots of kids have peanut allergies. Very few of them die from them. Those deaths are tragic and infuriating, and I pray our Mia continues to live a healthy, happy life without so much as an unexpected bout of hives causing her trouble. But I have to remind myself that kids can live lead a happy, normalish life even with a peanut allergy. I have to be courageous as I begin to relinquish responsibility for Mia’s well being, choosing hope as I ease the truth into her hands, even as I wish I could carry it for her forever.

We never stop praying that Jesus will heal her from this allergy. We know He can. We don’t know if He will this side of heaven, although Mia firmly believes He’s already healed her. I pray she’s right, and glory hallelujah the party we will throw to celebrate if it turns out she is–and it could be as early as this month (because another scratch test looms in the weeks ahead). But until then, we live in that in-between place, doing the best we can to protect her, train her, and empower her until the healing is done.

Love,

Scratch

 

Back to School · Changing Seasons · main dishes · Motherhood · Paleo · Wrestling with Reality

Death (or Saying Goodbye) and Life (or Saying Hello), and Chorizo Spiced Pork Roast

 

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!”
2 Corinthians 5:17

Dear Joey,

It is fitting that school starts in the Fall: the classic symbol of change that is both beautiful and terrifying. Fall is death put on glorious display, isn’t it?

Ok so fine—a new school term doesn’t bring death, exactly. Forgive me for being dramatic. Most folks probably think of it as a fresh start, a reset button that puts things back to normal in an instant. But it does put an end to the carefree days of summer, and there is mourning for the loss of the freedom summer represents, isn’t there?

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The words of Paul are ringing in my ears this week: the old has gone and the new is here indeed. Death and life and renewal and starting over—all these things are vying for my attention these days, and all of them from a whole host of places, not the least of which is watching Mia put the final dividing line between herself and her babyhood while Addie insists on losing more teeth and inching her way toward my own height. This day has been a long time coming, and last fall brought with it a sense that life as we loved it was dying a slow death, and I wasn’t ready to face it. But life changed anyway, didn’t it? And here we are back at the start of another school year, saying hello to a new chapter in the life of our family. I feel more prepared for it this time because I know this fall season really is a fresh start.

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The girls seemed to feel the same way. Waving goodbye to us on the first day didn’t pose a problem for either of them. We walked them to the playground and helped them line up and followed them to their classrooms because we were sure they needed us. Mia tromped off with the rest of her Kindergarten class without so much as a backward glance at us. Addie saw tears glaze my eyes and bent down to hug me, saying “Don’t worry Mama, I’ll come home after school. I promise.” Saying goodbye to each other on the second day of school was harder. The girls’ pained eyes poked holes in my heart as I eased my fingers from their grip and urged them forward into the unfamiliar, terrifying reality of change. The idea of going to a new school this year seemed exciting right up until the moment they actually had to let go of my hands and walk themselves to the playground without us. In a flurry of tears and tentative hearts, they walked away from me, seemingly unsure of themselves. I waved goodbye to them as bravely as I could, wishing I could nestle myself in a corner somewhere, watching and waiting, ready to intervene on their behalf the moment trouble comes.

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I couldn’t help feeling this way, of course. I am a normal mother with a natural need to protect, nurture, and sustain her children. They couldn’t help feeling insecure any more than I could help wishing I could make everything better in an instant. Of course they felt timid and unsure: everything was new. The people, the buildings, the rules, the uniforms—even their backpacks and lunch boxes and shoes were new. Why would I ever expect them to feel completely confident to take on all the newness by themselves? In that moment of goodbye, I couldn’t do much else but smile through my tears and hope it helped them understand that new isn’t necessarily bad, and is often, in fact, actually good.

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We forget that new isn’t always bad, don’t we? I sure do, especially because it seems that when something is new, it renders something else old. Old things pass away, and death is difficult, so managing our feelings about losing the things we love gets tricky. We learn this lesson every year when summer ends and the leaves turn color and quietly settle into their final resting place. Soon fall slips into a quiet winter, a time of mourning that does eventually melt away, waking to the brilliant bloom of spring. The point? The promise of new life hinges on old things passing away, but saying goodbye isn’t the end. New life lingers just around the corner. Don’t you think we ought to say hello?

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This is happening in other places in my life this season, too. It is in the reality of living in this new place, of course, and the reality of how it feels to know that part of our story has ended. It’s showing up in friendships and projects and plans and food and any semblance of normalcy that I had before my health issues took an uncomfortable turn over the summer. Admittedly, it felt like this season held the end of life as I knew it. Control over my health slipped even further from my grip, I spent the summer sequestered at home managing my symptoms and squeezing in appointments and going in for blood draws and scopes and ultrasounds—and came out the other end with a few more questions to answer, as well as the relief that comes with a doctor who confirms my suspicions: that colitis is casting its sickly spell on my insides. It came as no surprise that I have a disease that needs my attention, and walking away from his office this summer, prescription in hand, left me wondering how to manage it in the long term. Clearly, gluten is a known problem. But it’s not the only problem these days, and the best way I know how to deal with the unpleasant reality is to say goodbye to simple gluten freedom. Embracing a new way of living isn’t easy or fun, exactly–but I’m encouraged, because the promise of renewal lingers just around the corner, sad as I may be about the reality I face.

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So this season, I’m doing my best to lift my eyes above my circumstance and say, “What’s next?” with the sort of grace that only comes from acknowledging loss and greeting a new reality with hope. What other choice do I have? Modeling this for the Goobies helps me believe things will get better: I leave the girls with a kiss and a smile as they skip off into a new school day without the support system to whom they are accustomed, but I assure them they’re going to be alright. This is new, but this is good, I say as I give them one last squeeze. And when I wave goodbye to those smiling little darlings as they head off to their day, it reminds me that we can’t bask in the beauty of anywhere new if we dig in our feet, refusing to leave familiarity behind. So by the grace of God, and with His help, we walk, together, waving goodbye to the old and hello to the new in one hope-filled gesture.

Love,

Scratch

Chorizo Spiced Pork Roast

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This is one of my go-to meals, meaning this: when I run out of creative steam to keep dinner new and exciting, I give myself a break, pull out my crock pot, and get a batch of this pork going. It’s fast, easy, and versatile (and inexpensive, to boot!). Plus (and this could be the most compelling reason why I love it so much) everyone around my kitchen table cheers for it. I make it for friends more often than they appreciate, I’m sure, but no one ever seems to mind. (In fact, most of them end up asking for the recipe, so if that is you? Here you go.) I’m especially fond of it now because as I transition to a Paleo lifestyle, I am thankful to have so many well-loved recipes that work within that framework. Shred it and fold it into corn tortillas (if you aren’t Paleo), lay it atop a baked sweet potato, or pile it high on top of a bed of cauliflower rice. Drizzle with some hot sauce and sprinkle on some cilantro and you’re golden. (Add more spice blend if you want a little bit more heat, but as written, this recipe does not wallop your tongue with a punch of heat.) The picture above shows a double recipe, which is just as easy as a single recipe (which is written below). Just double the ingredients–the cook time remains the same. And don’t skip the red wine vinegar! It makes the other flavors come alive.

Ingredients:
  • One 2 pound pork loin roast
  • 2 Tablespoons Chorizo Spice Blend (recipe below)
  • 1 medium onion–any color you choose, but I tend to use yellow
  • 1/4 cup water
  • 1 Tablespoon red wine vinegar
Method:

Spray Crock Pot with non-stick cooking spray (such as Trader Joe’s Coconut Oil Spray). Slice the onion and lay it on the bottom of the crock pot. Then, wash the pork roast, pat it dry, and lay it on top of the bed of onions. Sprinkle a thick layer of the Chorizo Spice Blend on top of the roast, then pat it to cover as much of the roast as you can. Carefully pour 1/4 cup of water into the bottom of the crock pot, around the perimeter of the roast. Do the same for the red wine vinegar, then put the lid on.

Cook on high for 4 hours; then turn to low and cook for an additional 2 hours (alternatively, cook it for 8 hours on low). Once the meat is fall-apart-tender, shred and toss it with its own juices and the onions and serve.

Chorizo Spice Blend

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This recipe is based on Diane Sanfilippo’s recipe in Practical Paleo, 1st Edition, which is super informative and helps make taking the plunge into Paleo not quite so daunting (Thank you Diane! You’re a life saver, kinda in the literal sense.) I keep a jar of this spice mix in the pantry at all times because I love it so very much. I’m sure you will too.

Ingredients:
  • 4 Tablespoons chili powder
  • 2 Tablespoons paprika
  • 2 Tablespoons onion powder
  • 1 Tablespoon garlic powder
  • 1 Tablespoon sea salt
  • 2 teaspoons ground black pepper
Method:

Measure all spices into a jar with a lid and shake until evenly distributed.

Faith Journey · Tale of Gluten Freedom · What I Love Lately · Wrestling with Reality

What I Love Lately: Hope and Healing Edition

Dear Joey,

Our apple tree exploded in blooms a couple weeks ago. Usually this time of year isn’t so rough on me. I didn’t suffer from seasonal allergies as a child the way I do now. So far it seems as though our kids suffer from them too. Drat that spring wind that stirred up the pollen and bewitched the air into a magic potion that transformed our eyes into spiky balls of wool and our noses into leaky faucets. We walk around woozy, dazed, and itchy. It’s miserable.

The timing is convenient: it’s a perfectly acceptable time of year for people to wipe away tears from allergy afflicted eyes every five seconds. The folks staring at me across the aisle at Target seem to say, “me too,” as they wipe their own constantly running noses. I admit I blame my watery eyes on allergies several times in the past few weeks because if people knew the truth–that I was really wiping away tears of fear or sadness or stress–I might not get the same sort of empathy.

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To be clear, I am suffering from allergies, and I finally broke down and bought myself a bottle of allergy medicine because the skin under my eyes was worn raw from all the wiping. But the deeper truth is allergies aren’t the only reason my eyes have been so teary lately. It’s not even the sadness I feel about moving away from our house. There’s more.

It all started in early January, after eating those delicious, fancy tapas that were supposed to be gluten free, and feeling as if I’d eaten poison.  I suffered for weeks with the pain that only ever comes from consuming that dastardly gluten. Usually when I “get glutened,” I’m wracked with pain and worry for about a week.  After that, the symptoms eventually subside as my body recovers, and I’ve gotten used to this super fun phenomenon.

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Except this time, my body didn’t recover and the symptoms intensified to the point that it was hard to go about life as usual. I was extra touchy; things I usually took in stride set off fits of frustration and anger, and I had a hard time thinking about anything but my own pain. The paranoia came back. Certainty that the doctors missed something–and that I was, in fact, dying–disrupted my sleep and hijacked my internal monologue for months. I grew increasingly feeble and needy and angry.  I was doing everything right: avoided gluten like my life depended on it, to the point that I’m sure I frustrated several food service workers in the process. I took my probiotics like clockwork, eventually cut out all grains and cooked everything at home. I hopped on the kombucha band wagon and went against my own no-dairy-drinks-in-the-house rule and sneaked sips of blueberry kefir when no one was looking. I defrosted bone broth I’d tucked away in the freezer and made meals and meals and more meals out of the stuff. I even dug out the grass-fed gelatin (that I stashed in the back of the pantry because the smell–oh the smell!–was too much for me to handle) and made homemade gummies and blended it into my morning smoothies. My symptoms eased up a little, but not by much. The pain was my constant companion and torment, and my fears grew. I went on as if life was normal, trying my best to smile in spite of myself, but on the inside, I withered.

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Stress made it all worse, of course, because that’s what stress does. It further twists the already tangled mess inside, holds a microphone up to the lips of fear and bids it speak, taunts an already broken spirit and tempts it to let go of hope, and in the process, makes every dark thought look an awful lot like the truth. With the pressure of birthdays and sickness and selling our house and kids who were increasingly stressed out too, things started to spiral. To make it all worse, the prescription I usually leaned on for flare ups like this one never got filled–not even despite our incessant requests.

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A good friend reached out to me in the middle of a desperate moment in March, randomly asking how she could pray for me that week. I don’t usually talk candidly about what really happens when gluten finds its way back into my body, but this time I told her everything–like, everything–about the inflammation and bleeding and how this time around the symptoms weren’t going away, and about how the paranoia returned and snatched my good sense away from me and made me feel crazy. And how on top of all that, life kept happening, demanding I get up out of bed and keep going. She understands the spin that happens when stress and fear stake their claim upon our hearts, and she promised to pray against it.

About a month later, in the morning after a particularly painful night, I choked out a tearful prayer for what felt like the hundred thousandth time since the symptoms returned in January and trudged into my morning routine, putting one foot in front of the other and trying to go about my day as if I felt fine, but I didn’t. Later that morning, after you left for work and the girls were both settled in at school and Emery was happily chattering away to his Mr. Potato head, I walked into the kitchen and noticed my jar of vitamins was out of place. It was sitting on the counter in front of the Keurig in a place where I couldn’t miss it. This wasn’t that unusual. You set them there for me sometimes when you get your own bottle of vitamins out in the morning.  But on that particular morning you hadn’t set them out. I’m sure of it because I walked past that coffee maker a dozen times before that moment, and they just weren’t there before. I’m telling you.

I shrugged it off as I popped a couple into my mouth, and as soon as I started chewing, my eyes glazed over the back of the bottle and I wondered, What if?

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I picked it up and right there on the label, it said Contains wheat.

CONTAINS WHEAT!

Stunned and appalled, I shook like a leaf as I spit those half-chewed vitamins out, tears dripping down my chin as I leaned over the sink. My hands trembled and and I shouted for joy and actually laughed, because in that instant I knew I wasn’t crazy. It was in January that I bought that big bottle of vitamins, right around the same time I got glutened by those tapas. And it was also in January when my insides ignited with pain again, barbed and raw and hot, like road rash on the inside. Healing didn’t happen in that instant; my body still hurt like hell, but suddenly–divinely perhaps–hope returned.

After I stopped taking those vitamins, my health improved dramatically. In the two weeks since then, things are improving, and those gut-healing foods I’ve been cramming into my body like a crazy person are finally getting the chance to make a difference in my damaged body. The constant screaming pain is down to a low, occasional whisper, because the healing isn’t finished yet, and I know from experience it takes awhile to get things back to normal. But my outlook, my perspective–my hope–it’s radically changed. I spent months feeling trapped inside of my own pain, afraid to talk about what was really happening inside because in my skewed sense of reality, either I was dying or I was crazy, and neither felt safe to admit. I felt alone.

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It was like when Addie got that high fever out of nowhere and it just wouldn’t go away. She was frustrated and fatigued and was just so over being sick, but the fever persisted to the extent that she had to have her blood drawn to check for something worse. She was stricken by the news. I would have given anything to take her place, but I couldn’t, of course. But I made sure she didn’t walk through the ordeal alone. I pulled her up onto my lap and cradled her there as we waited, spoke tenderly to her as the fear taunted her, and held on tight until after the pain pricked her tender little body. She shook and cried and held on to me, trusting that what I said was true: that I was there with her even during the worst of it, and that pain isn’t the end of the story.

Pain isn’t the end of the story for me either. In the middle of it, it feels like it is. The hard part for me is knowing this sort of thing will happen again. Gluten is sneaky and likes to hide, and when it finds its way into my system, it throws my good sense out the window and plays tricks on me. Pain and fear is all I see, so I have to keep my ears and heart open enough to keep hearing God whisper, the pain is not the end of the story.

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I don’t know why that prescription never got filled, but I’m pretty sure it’s because the medication wouldn’t have done any good anyway, and in His glorious, all-knowing way, God knew that and kept the stuff out of my hands. The vitamins caused the problems; no pills could offset the damage they did as long as I kept consuming them. I could sit here and ask time and time again why God didn’t help point me in that direction sooner–I could ask why He let me suffer–but I think I already know the answer. Because in this life, we will suffer. How could we not? Pain is part of our humanness, a result of the fallen world in which we live. But God’s mercy extended to me–to all of us–even in the darkest moments, like an anchor thrust deep into the dark and murky waters of tormented souls.

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The tumultuous start to this year taught me self-care is imperative, not to ward of physical pain, necessarily, or as a quick fix for deeper, chronic health issues, but for this simple reason: I am not able to care for anyone else when I am unwell. I have heard this for years, of course, but now, clearly, I understand. And so, whereas I used to scoff at the idea of spending any sort of extra money on things that I needed (because I’m a mom, and let’s be honest: moms often put themselves last on the list of priorities), I now shell out a few extra dollars for things that help me feel more … centered, important. Like choosing to stock up on Peet’s coffee at home because let’s be honest: I run on coffee, and I find I’m in a better mood when I sip a really good cup of it with my Bible perched on my lap and reading the stories of God’s love, rescue and redemption in the earliest hours of the day. And diffusing my favorite blend of Young Living essential oils (lavender, frankincense and Stress Away) without reservation, any time of the day just because I feel like it, and breathing them in slowly, deeply. Splurging on kombucha and taking a hot shower and going to bed early with a good book. Listening to songs by people like Ellie Holcomb, songs that make me weep and pray and dance and sing in one sweeping movement.

Today the rain returned and I’m hoping it will renew and replenish the air, give it a good scrub, and help us all to breathe a little easier in the next few days. Breathing easy sounds refreshing, doesn’t it? April Showers bring May flowers, after all, and I for one am looking forward to the life ahead.

Love,

Scratch

Breakfast · Dairy Free · Faith Journey · Gluten Free · Wrestling with Reality

Change Is Coming–Came, Really, and Pink Strawberry Pancakes (GF/DF/NF)

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.

Hebrews 11:1

Dear Joey,

I piled the Goobies into the car and drove through that windy canyon over to the other side of the hills to take the girls for a visit to their new school. It was a whole month ago now, on a Friday when another storm decided to swoop in and pound California with more rain. This particular visit was a strange combination of serendipity and providence. The Goobies’ were off of school that week, strangely, for Winter Break, and while so many other people (all the people, it felt like) were trading dank gray clouds for sunshine and fresh air, we hunkered down and spent a week cooped up at home for what felt like no reason at all-until that Friday when God used something ordinary to teach me a lesson in obedience and faith.

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Like most things lately, I didn’t have such a good attitude about it at first: just thinking about Winter Break and ten days spent inside with three spunky kids teased the last string of my already frayed sanity loose. I normally scoop those Goobies up into my arms as soon as we tumble through the garage door after all those hours spent away from each other, smothering them with kisses and cries of “I’ve missed you all day long!” even as they try in vain to hang up their jackets and backpacks. Imagining ten days of so much togetherness made me want to run and hide myself away until Winter Break had come and gone again.

Winter Break came anyway. The sun decided to poke its head out early that week and blue skies beckoned me to come out of hiding. Fantasies of setting up camp under a blanket in a quiet corner of the house (where hopefully no one would find me) evaporated, and before I knew it those Goobies stole my heart all over again as we spent those few beautiful days just being us, here, together.

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Winter break turned out to be a break in Winter, and that strange, out-of-the-ordinary week was a gift I didn’t know I would need: one last beautiful week spent here in our home before change became reality and took up residence with us. It was Valentine’s Day that week, and I decked out the table with bright colored hearts and pink Strawberry Pancakes, and we spent hours outside blowing bubbles and playing red light green light and flying upside down on the swings those Goobies love so much. I said yes as much as I could, and remembered the days before Emery joined our brood, the days when I spent everyday entertaining those girls here at home without the pressure or restraint of schedules. Those days slipped by without me really knowing they could, and I think I’ve had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that they are almost gone. For one lovely week, I got to experience that joy again, and remember.

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Friday came and winter came back with it, bringing another pounding rain storm. The week was over and reality set in and I put on my brave face as I piled those three pajama-clad Goobies into the car and drove West, weaving my way through a wet, windy canyon, toward change.

What a feat to pry those kids off the couch and settle them happily in the car before breakfast. None of them really wanted to trade their cozy little spot on the couch for a cold car seat and a long, gloomy drive through that windy, soggy canyon. On a day they could be marathon-watching Goldie and Bear and munching on chocolate chip banana muffins, they somehow managed to hear my voice above the din of Disney Junior and heaved their pajama-clad selves into the car without complaining. They munched on baggies full of dry Trader Joe’s O’s and listened to music and played quietly among themselves without arguing once.

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I couldn’t get over the fact that they didn’t complain. They complain in the best of circumstances, but on that particular morning when I forced them into the car without a warm breakfast in their bellies, and raced them toward a new unfamiliar reality, they kept quiet. These kids aren’t shy about letting us know when they feel insecure or frightened, so even though they may have been a little unsure about visiting a new school, they didn’t show any outward sign of concern. They were quiet. Their hearts were quiet. They were sure we were headed somewhere good and safe and they were certain I would get them there in one piece. They knew their job was to simply be still and let me do my job. They had faith in me. They trusted me.

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And then it hit me: I was not at peace with getting up and moving because I hadn’t been still and let God do His job. I didn’t really have faith in Him. It started months ago when uncertainty set up camp in my heart as I watched the future fly toward me faster than I thought possible. Instead of running toward it with outstretched hands, I wanted to yell “Duck!” and run away and hide. My feet were firmly set, my heels dug deep in the place I thought God planted us. I felt like a tree, tall and strong enough to endure whatever storm came. But last Fall, I realized just how weak I was. The mere idea of change–of losing this place and the life we’ve built up around it–undid me. I wasn’t seeing what I hoped for, really, and what I was certain about was everything I wanted was being taken away from me.

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Winter brought sadness, and I didn’t think peace or hope could ever really return. I took cover in the safety of familiar things I could count on–like God, and His goodness and love; and in you and this time we have with these kids, here, now. I clung to joy and pleaded for peace because change is scary and I was afraid. The new year came, just as it always does, and the soil of certainty turned soggy when the sky opened up and new things began pouring down. Your Midwestern roots keep you calm when thunder rattles the windows, me. The grumbling clouds unnerve me even while while their sad song is a symphony to your heart.

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Winter brings death, and Spring brings life. I know this very well, of course. Doesn’t everyone? But in the middle of Winter, everything seemed so dank, gray, and just so… final–even here in California where Winter just means cooler weather and leaf-bare trees outstretching their bony fingers toward barren gray skies, as if praying, and the hope of Spring seemed impossible.

This all lasted until that last Friday of Winter Break, when everything suddenly came into focus as my own children showed me what pure trust looks like as they let me lead them away from comfort and into the unknown. They didn’t really want to get up and go–but they trusted that something really, really good (like fluffy scrambled eggs and wind-up robots, and a visit to see a new school where they could see their Papa’s office from the playground) was on the other side of the journey, and they put their faith in action by getting into the car and letting me drive. That’s what God is asking of me: to listen to his voice, to get up and go, and to trust Him to get me there safely.

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Now, a whole month later, Spring is here. Blossoms appeared on the gnarled old apple tree this morning, suddenly, and the changes I saw coming so many months ago are very much here now. A big beautiful demonstration of new life stares me in the face, and I can’t help but see hope.

My feet are not firmly set anymore; they are loosening and small steps are leading to bigger ones as I walk in obedience and faith. And so, transition is taking up space all around us. The bare walls look like closed eyes now, as if the house has fallen asleep. I tiptoe through the hallway trying not to disturb it, and its echo reminds me that this place is ours only for a few more weeks, really.

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Every day another box gets packed and another piece of furniture disappears and the Goobies wake up to a house that looks increasingly less familiar and they ask, “Why does our house look so different, Mama?”  I wipe my eyes and smile through the tears, reminding them again and again we are getting ready for the big adventure God is taking us on- because in the end, isn’t that what this is? Most of the time they squeal with delight, but every once in awhile their tears come, too. “Will I get to take my bed with me? What about the swing set? Are you and daddy going to come with us? Will we ever come back to visit this house?”

Obeying isn’t easy, nor is faith. It’s hard. I would much rather stay where I am, nose nestled under piles and piles of blankets, comfy and warm, in a place I’ve grown to love more than I thought I ever could. But I’m swinging my legs out from under myself anyway because like you taught me all those years ago: faith isn’t just in the knowing, it’s also in the going. I know now the challenges ahead will be worth it because the God who is calling us to a new life this Spring is faithful and trustworthy. The Goobies reminded me of that on that glorious gift of a Winter Break. I am ready to head through that canyon again with you in the weeks that will be here before I know it, because I know who is doing the driving, and with Him, we are safe.

Love,

Scratch

Pink Strawberry Pancakes

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I spent Valentines Day with my Goobies at home this year, since they were off of school for Winter Break that week. But I hadn’t really planned a special breakfast and since it was the day before pay day, the pantry was a pretty sparse. But pancakes are an empty pantry wonder-food, and I used them as a canvas for coming up with a way to make the morning feel a little more festive (because if any day of the year calls for a little whimsy, it’s Valentine’s Day, right?). As with all my recipes, substitute real milk for the dairy free milk if you aren’t dairy free and use regular all purpose flour too if you aren’t gluten free.

Ingredients:
  • 1 1/2 cups gluten free flour blend
  • 3 teaspoons baking powder
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 2 eggs
  • 1 1/4 – 1 1/2 cups unsweetened (vanilla or original) almond milk (or rice milk, or regular dairy milk)–start with 1 1/4 cups and drizzle in up to another 1/2 cup if your batter seems to thick
  • 1/2 cup organic strawberry spread (or strawberry jam)
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
  • 1 teaspoon white balsamic vinegar
  • 3 Tablespoons refined coconut oil, melted
  • a drop or two of red food coloring (either a natural one, like this one from India Tree, or a conventional one from your local grocery store)
Method:

Whisk the flour, baking soda and salt together in a large bowl. Add the eggs, almond milk, strawberry spread and vanilla and mix well; then drizzle in the melted coconut oil and stir to combine. Drop the food coloring in little by little, and stir; add until you get the shade you desire. (Natural food coloring yields a paler, more earthy shade of pink, which is pictured above; conventional red food coloring yields a bolder, more noticeable shade of pink, which the kids prefer because the color is far more noticeable.)

Over medium high heat, warm up a griddle and spray with coconut oil cooking spray. Scoop 1/4 cup of the batter onto the griddle at a time and cook until the edges have set and bubbles emerge on top. Flip gently and continue to cook until golden.

Serve warm, with syrup or not. Sprinkled with powdered sugar or not. Topped with whipped cream and strawberries or not. The Goobies tend to eat straight from the plate without toppings, just as they are. Your call 🙂

Allergy Friendly · Side Dishes · Wrestling with Reality

Macaroni and Cheese–or, More Rightly: The Problem, and Vegan Creamy Noodles (GF/DF/NF)

“Look at the birds of the air, that they do not sow, nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they?

Matthew 6:26

“My God will supply all of my needs according to the riches of Christ Jesus.”

Philippians 4:19

Dear Joey,

We have a noodle problem in our house. More specifically, we have a macaroni and cheese problem.

I made a vow a long time ago that I would only ever make homemade macaroni and cheese, sans the box–you know, until I had two kids under two and time came at a premium. The less time I could spend in the kitchen, the better.

Over the years, I admit I got lazy. Boxed macaroni & cheese is easier to make; all you really have to do is pull the darn thing off the shelf and boil some water. The rest basically takes care of itself. Homemade macaroni and cheese involves a little bit more planning ahead, meaning you sort of have to know you’re going to make it and make sure the fridge is stocked well enough with milk and cheese to make the dish in the first place (milk and cheese turn sour and moldy. Boxed macaroni and cheese lasts forever.) Plus, taking the time to shred the cheese myself was a minor stressor that I didn’t have time for. For a season, I chucked the guilt and embraced Annie’s brand organic Macaroni and Cheese, thankful there was an okay-ish option out there for moms like me who were just too tired to make good on our virtuous vow to avoid overly processed convenient foods with an inflated price tag.

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Of course, that season lasted a little bit longer than I thought it would. Boxed macaroni and cheese is just so stinking brainless–the kids cheer when it shows up on the table every single time. When you’ve got picky eaters as well as food allergies and intolerances, having a no-fail meal waiting in the wings at all times is priceless.

After I figured out gluten is my enemy, I switched over to the gluten free version because cross contamination is a problem. And then, once Emery was old enough for big kid food, it got harder and harder to leave those garish orange noodles off his plate, especially when his sisters got so excited about them. He was not too happy to be left out of the party, and I knew the days of serving the stuff regularly were numbered.

Soon after that, I picked up a box of So Delicious brand gluten free/dairy free macaroni and “cheese” and quickly discovered how much Emery loved it. I figured Hey! This will appease the boy and provide a quick-fix for the days when my brain is fried! Woo hoo! But goodness, that stuff tasted (and smelled!) atrocious to the rest of us. For awhile, I bit the bullet and made him his own special box of it anyway whenever I made some of the gluten-free-dairy-full variety for his sisters, but it got expensive and tiresome and confusing juggling two different batches of orange noodles. Plus, I have more time to spend in the kitchen now–it’s easier to get dinner on the table than it was in those first bleary-eyed days of motherhood. My excuses for leaning on boxed macaroni and cheese were flying out the window fast. But Mia. She loves the stuff the way I love chocolate, and breaking the hold it has on her has been pretty much impossible.

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Clearly, I had a problem. And so, I did the only thing I really know to do when trouble stares me in the face: I prayed. I realize it might sound strange that I would talk to God about something so trivial as my macaroni and cheese troubles, but I believe He cares about me–about us, and that no problem is too small or insignificant for Him. Besides, at its core, the problem facing me is far deeper and more complicated; it is about so much more than macaroni and cheese.

The problem is about our food system and how broken it is and how someone like me who used to be so against all the mumbo jumbo of the food industry throws at us–even I am guilty of falling into the snare of quick and convenient. It’s about food allergies too, and about the simple fact that I don’t understand why the good food that God made to nourish and sustain His creation turned on our family, so to speak. It’s about how angry this all makes me and how trying to navigate the food allergy world is frustrating because I am not able to ditch the boxed stuff and turn to the normal real food standbys and say, “Problem solved!”

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After Emery’s scratch test, this all came to a head. I was bummed out about food allergies and feeling the sting of the grocery bills; I was weary of making two versions of practically everything at mealtime and tired of a picky eater who rejects just about anything I make for dinner unless it involves a noodle. I started talking to God about it, telling Him how ill-equipped I felt to do something so basic as feed my family well.

A few days later, the anger abated and I forged ahead with a little bit of clarity and in those moments God showed me something as I was unloading my current haul of dairy-free staples: God always provides. Time after time after time, in the great stories of the Bible and in our own, far smaller life story–it’s what He does. Truth be told, we have never gone to bed on an empty stomach, and neither have our children. My feelings are real and true, it’s not easy to juggle allergies and preferences and stretch our dollars, but we have allergy friendly options available to us and we have dollars with which to pay for them. Beyond that, I am equipped me with the things I need to make all this work: a passion for food and for feeding my family well. Kitchen know-how (enough of it, at least) and the willingness to try new things there. The kitchen never used to scare me–why should it now? It’s as if God reminded me of who I am and how He made me, and then urged me to look at our family’s food allergy reality as one to tackle with with courage and creativity instead of something to sulk about.

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And then my attention turned to the Trader Joe’s Vegan Cream Cheese I just restocked, the one that is one of many dairy-free building blocks with which I am learning to construct new recipes, and I thought about that Alfredo-like sauce I made a few months ago, the one I made up on a whim because creamy pasta sounded warm and comforting to me that night. I tossed it with gluten free pasta, grilled chicken and broccoli, and we didn’t have any leftovers to speak of. It occurred to me that a simplified version of that sauce tossed with gluten free noodles might make a suitable substitute for boxed macaroni & cheese. Turns out, I was right.

No, the creamy noodles I came up with do not taste exactly like their boxed counterparts (which is a good thing, when considering the vegan varieties pretty much taste like cardboard covered with cheese that went bad a long time ago, in my very frank opinion), but they do taste good. They are quick, easy, and everyone eats them happily (and the house doesn’t smell like feet when I make it). I didn’t go so far as to add vegan cheese-like shreds like I wanted to because our girls don’t like them (yet…), but for now this recipe works for me. For us.

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Mia does not love them the way she loves boxed macaroni and cheese, true, and often I will sprinkle a little bit of Parmesan cheese on top of her plate to really sell them to her (once Emery is strapped into his high chair, at least), but I am weaning her off of that because they really do taste good without it. Plus, Emery started noticing this minor little difference between his plate and hers and lets us know he does not like being told Sorry buddy, no cheese for you. The whole point of these creamy noodles is to make a dish everyone can and will eat, so the days of Parmesan cheese are numbered indeed.

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In the days since Emery’s scratch test, I came out the other side, in some ways. I am not happy about his allergies. I am not happy about Mia’s allergies either, or about my own issues with gluten for that matter. I realize now that this is not God’s fault. We live in a fallen world where human choice spoiled God’s good earth. In His sovereign kindness, God still provides even in the midst of this ravaged land. I do not believe food allergies were part of His good plan for creation. I believe our bad choices messed it all up (maybe not our family specifically, but humanity as a whole), yet somehow, in the midst of it all, He still takes care of us just like He promises He will.

There is still one lonely package of gluten free macaroni and cheese out in the garage, way up on the highest shelf tucked all the way in the back, but I don’t plan to restock the shelf. These creamy noodles aren’t the answer to every problem food allergies brought to our table, and perhaps they aren’t the most clean/whole/organic/healthy/perfect alternative out there, but they are a choice I feel good enough about, one that I know I will lean on like a reliable friend in the coming years.

Love,

Scratch

Vegan Creamy Noodles (GF/DF/NF)

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This recipe screams Allergy Friendly Flexiblity.  As written, it is free of gluten and dairy, but feel free to swap out alternative ingredients based on what your family can tolerate (if you are dairy free but can tolerate gluten, use wheat noodles. If you are gluten free but can tolerate dairy, use regular cream cheese, butter and milk. Or if you don’t have food allergies at all, use both–the recipe will still work.) We use Trader Joe’s Brown Rice Fusilli, but clearly, use your favorite noodles. Also, I cannot vouch for the flavor profile if you use other brands of Vegan Cream Cheese, but I think it’d be worth a try if your family likes other brands. We prefer the Trader Joe’s Vegan Cream Cheese, so that’s what we use around here.  To round out a meal for the kids, I sometimes add diced ham and frozen peas. Let your family’s preferences let your creativity soar.

Ingredients:
  • 8 ounces brown rice pasta (such as Trader Joe’s Brown Rice Fusilli)
  • 4 ounces Vegan Cream Cheese (such as Trader Joe’s)
  • 2 Tablespoons Earth Balance Vegan Buttery Spread (you can use a bit more or less if you’d like. No hard and fast rules on this one)
  • 1/4 cup plain, unsweetened Rice Milk
  • 1 teaspoon onion powder
  • 3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
  • 1/2 teaspoon white vinegar
Method:

Boil 8 oz. gluten free noodles according to package instructions.

Meanwhile, set a medium sauce pan over medium heat. Plunk in the Earth Balance and Vegan Cream Cheese and whisk until the two have melted together. Pour in 1/4 cup rice milk, vinegar, onion powder and salt. Whisk until smooth, then add the noodles to the pan. Toss to coat and serve immediately.

If you have leftovers, add a splash or two of rice milk to help re-hydrate the sauce when reheating the noodles.

 

Food Allergies · Food Allergy Family · Wrestling with Reality

On Emery, Eczema, and Allergy Tests

Dear Joey,

Before we met Emery, I wondered about him.

Mothers do this, of course–we can’t help it, nor should we. The soon-coming-child is nearly all pregnant moms can think about, really. Will this baby have your blue eyes or my own cinnamon brown ones? Will he have a temper? Will he like math? What about freckles–will he have any? And will he have all ten fingers? Will he be able to hear me ok? What if he’s deaf? Will I be able to breastfeed? Or what if he won’t take a bottle? What if he cries and won’t stop? What if he’s born with an incurable disease? Every one of these thoughts raced through my mind before we met our boy, but they were joined by another question, a question I had a feeling I already might know the answer for: Will he have food allergies?

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The first time I was pregnant, food allergies did not cross my mind. I was aware of them, in a detached sort of way, but worried about them? Not even close. Things were different the third time around, though. By then we were no longer strangers to the food allergy world, and I wondered where this third child of ours would land on the food allergy spectrum. There’s no way to tell for sure at first, of course, and so after he was born healthy and whole (and with hazel eyes, mind you) I didn’t give food allergies much thought again until his eczema just wouldn’t go away.

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His baby skin grew increasingly patchy and rough, riddled with sore, red splotches that pained me as much as they pained him. Behind his knees and around his ankles were particularly awful; they were cracked and bloody almost always. We lavished his skin with creams and salves and kept chemicals at bay, changed soaps and serums and asked the doctor what to do, but aside from gentle salves–she didn’t have much insight for us. Nothing seemed to help; his cracked skin continued to ooze and bleed. That old hunch about a food allergy returned, but I flicked it away like an annoying bug because this was an infant, and infants often have sensitive skin. I did wonder if his skin was reacting to an allergen in my milk, but his doctor didn’t seem convinced and the information I found elsewhere was inconclusive.

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It wasn’t until I gave Emery his first (and last) spoonful of yogurt that I gave this feeling inside my full attention. How could I not? It screamed See what I mean? when the hives started popping up around his mouth. It was instant, the reaction. His. Mine. Out came the Benedryl. I contacted the doctor and cried. The hives subsided quickly enough, but they were there, nevertheless–red and angry. He was six months old.

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When we took Emery to see the doctor about the incident, she offered us a blood test (easier on babies, but with an incomplete picture of said allergy) or a referral to an allergist, who she was sure would order a scratch test eventually (a more reliable form of testing, but longer and more irritating for children to endure–and not always accurate in babies). We ended up opting to put off the scratch test until Emery was a bit older. We really were only looking to confirm what we already knew to be true, really–that Emery was in fact allergic to cow’s milk.

After we got word of his positive result, I removed all milk products from my own diet to see what would happen. His eczema disappeared–not immediately, of course, but over the course of the next few weeks. If by chance I indulged in some ice cream, Emery’s itchy, scaly red splotches returned with a vengeance–and quickly. I was dairy free until I weaned him, because how could I not be?

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Since then, Emery’s been living just fine without cow’s milk–well, except that he has been to the hospital twice for emergency care after accidentally sipping from his sister’s milk cup and gnawing on my whey protein bar. But other than that, he’s been generally fine, unless he ingests a non-dairy product that happens to contain that dratted milk protein casein. Also, he couldn’t seem to tolerate sunflower seed butter either, and his reactions to it seemed to be far worse than Mia’s reactions to peanut butter.

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But–gah–the scratch test. This poor little guy has already been through so much, is deprived of so much (and is starting to feel the sting of exclusion that comes with being a food allergy kid), and while I knew we needed to take him in to get it over with, I just didn’t want to put him through it, and I think you felt that way too. We knew what the results would tell us, for the most part, and we knew the test wouldn’t be easy on him. We wondered if it really be worth it? We went through the process with Mia twice already, when she was tested for her peanut allergy, and remember how hard that was on her? So we sat on our hands and pretended it wasn’t something that mattered for our son.

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Except it does matter, and over the past few weeks we’ve started to remember why (other than the obvious). We have Sarah to thank for it. I’ve always wished to have a sister of my own, and now that I have kids that desire runs deeper. Having a stellar sister-in-law like Sarah who gladly ping-pongs kid questions back and forth with me helps because we’re on the same team, you know? Her questions about her own baby–our niece–and her suspicions and concerns about her food allergy symptoms gave us the push we needed to face the next formality in Emery’s own food allergy story. (So thank you, Sarah. We love you.)

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As expected, Emery hated the whole affair. He cried the moment the nurse called his name out across the waiting room. One look at her, and he clung to me. When she ushered us into the testing room, he wedged himself between my knees, burying his face between them and begging me through muffled tears, “Bye bye. Car. Bye bye. Car.” He knew something uncomfortable–perhaps even painful–was about to happen, and he resisted. The nurse’s kind smile was met with the distrustful scowl of an angry, confused toddler.

Goodness, I wanted to bolt. I wanted to turn around and walk that boy straight down to the car, strap him in and take him out for ice cream, a gesture that would both soothe his nerves, assure him of my love, and show that dumb allergy who’s in charge. I wanted to pretend that this wasn’t our reality, that we aren’t a food allergy family and we can go anywhere and eat anything and never have to think twice about the complications that food allergies bring to the table. But the snap of the nurse’s blue gloves bolted me back to reality. On went my brave face, out came my reassuring words, and up to heaven flew my plea to please make this all go away, and if it can’t go away, then please help it to go quickly.

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It went quickly. The nurse poked and prodded and Emery squirmed and squalled, even as I tried in vain to distract him with his favorite song. After a moment or two, he was free from my grip and distracted by books and cars and puzzles and fruit snacks. The tell-tale red splotches emerged quickly and confirmed–for the official record–what we knew to be true about him for his whole life, just about. The nurse measured and recorded the results, wiped away the pen marks and slathered cream all over his back to soothe the itch away. When they were gone, I picked that boy up and we left without much having changed.

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When we settled into the car, Emery said, “Daddy. Coffee,” nodding his head as he did so, and thus pretty much assuring me that is what would soothe him better than much else. And so, we drove across town and ordered fancy coffees for you and your team, and got a little box of apple juice for Emery too because goodness, the least I could do was get that little trooper a box of his beloved apple juice after such a challenging morning. By the time we reached you and you scooped that little shadow of yours up into a big bear hug, he seemed to have forgotten the whole ordeal.

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Me? I’m still reeling a little, to be honest. Not because it was terrifying or horrific–it wasn’t. It went pretty much the way I thought it would go. I’m just … really conflicted about it all. Saddened by it. It’s hard enough to have one kid with food allergies. It’s even harder to have two–and tougher still when they aren’t allergic to the same things. Worse when there’s another child without any food allergies (who just plain misses PB&J’s with a tall, cold glass of regular milk).  And then, when you add in my own problems with gluten? Sometimes it all makes me really emotional. This food allergy family thing? It’s hard.

I still wonder about Emery–not so much whether he will have food allergies (because clearly, we have that answer now), but I wonder how this food allergy life will shape him, how I will shape him with my own attitude toward food and feeding him. Will he be angry and bitter about it? Will my bad days paint a false picture of God’s purpose for our family? Or will not care one tiny little bit, and join with us in boasting about the goodness of God and His kindness and provision in the midst of a difficult, unwanted circumstance?

I pray it’s the latter.

Love,

Scratch

Beverages · Changing Seasons · Dairy Free · Wrestling with Reality

Letting Autumn Inside, and Classic Hot Chocolate (Non-Dairy Style)

“What is happening now has happened before, and what will happen in the future has happened before, because God makes the same things happen over and over again.”

-Ecclesiastes 3:15

Dear Joey,

Autumn is here again. I usually run out the door before she arrives, arms outstretched and ready to receive her warm, familiar hug, but this year I stayed inside as she walked toward the doorstep alone and started knocking. I wasn’t really ready for her to show up yet, and so I hid from her. She stayed out there a long time calling to me, her voice feeble and melancholy to my indifferent ears. My attention was elsewhere, and the poetry written in the changing color of the trees and whispered in the crisp evening breeze wasn’t making my soul sing.

Last week when September faded into October, I wanted to welcome the new month with the same sort of wistfulness Anne Shirley did in Anne of Green Gables when she says, “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn’t it?” But I didn’t. Instead, I sort of rolled my eyes.

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I tried to get into the spirit of Fall before October came. I bought a new banner for the mantel, hung my sunflower wreath on the front door and filled Grandma Adeline’s candy dish with the candy corn everyone around here has come to expect this time of year. I even made Baked Pumpkin Pasta with Sausage and Sage on the first day of Fall. That is as far as I got because when we turned the calendar to October, I didn’t have time for anything else. I was too busy stroking feverish brows with cool washcloths, refilling sippy cups with icy-cold white grape juice, wiping up the mess made by an upset tummy, and snuggling each child as much or as little as they needed. There wasn’t much time to day dream about what is usually my favorite time of the year, let alone enjoy it once it arrived.

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And so last Saturday night you practically kicked me out of the house once evening fell. Mia had crawled into bed on her own and fallen asleep a whole hour early, wiped out from the fever as she was. Emery practically skipped toward his crib when we told him it was bedtime, and once he was asleep you told me to just go–you didn’t care where. Several days spent at home tending to very-needy children drained my reserves, and you knew it. You saw it. So out I went, begrudgingly.

I drove to Starbucks and ordered hot chocolate instead of the Pumpkin Spice Latte you suggested when trying to convince me to get out of the house because I couldn’t bear the thought of drinking one that night. I knew I wouldn’t enjoy it, so I chose hot chocolate instead, and it soothed me and gave me a bit of perspective: I didn’t have to hurry up to be excited about all-things-Fall just because everyone else (whoever they are) is thrilling at the idea of apple cider anything and pumpkin everything. I usually do too, but this year, I am not.

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I halfheartedly walked over to the bookstore, and as soon as I saw its warmly lit windows my heart smiled the way it does whenever I see an old friend again. I sipped my way through its endless aisles and let myself get lost for awhile. When I got home, I unloaded my goodies and told you a little bit about each of them. You chuckled a little at my jumble of disjointed selections, telling me it was like that scene from the movie Dan in Real Life where Dan walks around the tiny old bookstore piling up book after random book in his arms, doing so just to be there, in that moment, happy. And I was happy in those few stolen moments, and even more so when I got to come home to you refreshed and ready to take on another day or two of the sick kids around here. Sunday’s blustery grey afternoon almost convinced me I would start enjoying Autumn the way I usually do soon enough, but even if that doesn’t happen this time around, there is always next year.

Perhaps I am feeling the melancholy some folks feel when the last luxurious unhurried day of summer waves goodbye and Autumn arrives with shorter days, bursting at the seams with busyness that makes it hard to be still and enjoy. Or maybe on some deep level the changing colors of my own heart are feeling like brown leaves blown off scraggly tree branches that sit decaying in the gutter, wet and forgotten. I wandered around the bookstore, plucking book after book from the crowded clearance rack, collecting them as if they were fallen leaves. I saw beauty in those cast off editions no one seemed to want anymore. New books come out all the time and with them new stories and new perspectives and new ideas that replace the old. I felt a sort of sorrow for those books, and so they came home with me that night.

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Having that stack of books hang around helped me come to terms with the fact that Autumn is here now because they are symbols of what has been and a reminder that new things will always turn up, but that those new things eventually fade into old things too. What has been, will be; and what will be, has been. And so I dug out bits and pieces of mismatched decorations yesterday afternoon and finally got around to putting them up, juggling a very clingy Emery as I did so. I finally let Autumn inside our home and my heart.

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Autumn is the season for gathering up all the beautiful bits of the year behind us and putting them on display, I think. It is a time to give thanks for what was and give thanks for what will be–because we all know another year is coming, full of new chapters to be lived whether we feel ready for it or not. I don’t quite feel ready to say goodbye to the year behind us because I am not sure I am ready to face the new chapters waiting for us just around the corner yet.  I think that is why the change in season was hard for me this year: change is here and more is coming because change always comes. I’m not quite ready to say I’m excited for what will be yet, but at least now I am ready to say Thank you for what was.

Love,

Scratch

Classic Hot Chocolate, Non-Dairy Style (GF/DF/THM S)

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A good cup of steaming hot chocolate soothes me unlike much else, perhaps because it’s something my parents used to make me when I was a child, and sipping on it now takes me back to those days when small things like making homemade hot chocolate were really the big, enduring things. Since Emery is allergic to dairy, I cannot make hot chocolate for him the way my parents made it for me, exactly, so I knew one day I would take on the challenge of transforming non-dairy milk into a creamy, satisfying cup of piping hot chocolate. My visit to Starbucks three days ago was the tipping point for me, and so today was the day I made it happen. For my Trim Healthy Mama friends out there, this is an S. For anyone allergic or averse to almond milk, use rice milk or soy milk (or whatever your non-dairy beverage of choice might be), but just be sure to start with the unsweetened kind otherwise the end result will be far too sweet. Of course, regular old dairy milk will do the trick here, too. This recipe makes one large 12-oz mug full, or two smaller 6-oz mugs. Double or triple it if a larger batch is necessary.

Ingredients:

6-oz. full fat coconut milk (from a can)

6-oz. unsweetened original almond milk

2 Tablespoons cocoa powder

3 1/2 teaspoons Pyure Organic Stevia Blend (or 7 teaspoons regular sugar)

1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon (optional, but essential in my opinion)

pinch of kosher salt

Method:

Warm the coconut and almond milks in a small saucepan over medium heat. Sprinkle in the cocoa powder, stevia blend (or sugar), vanilla extract and salt. Whisk constantly (and carefully) until the dry ingredients are fully incorporated into the milk. After that, continue to warm the mixture until steaming hot. Remove from heat and pour into your favorite mug to enjoy.