It seems whenever I rally the energy (or corral some time for it, more like), I also stir up a whiff of commitment to publish something with regularity — once a month, twice a month, every other month. I say whiff, because that is ultimately, what I always do. I swing. I whiff.
Last time I promised to write every other week, I even spent considerable time on an editorial calendar. I planned interviews with a practicing Hindu, an atheist, my own son (who once enjoyed 15 minutes of “fame” for a podcast he created with my husband; he has the most interesting thoughts and questions about God and existence in general). But without fail, every time I put some energy into a new publishing project, other things come up that steal me away. A new job. A baby. And this time, a book contract and an ordination. I suppose I haven’t so much as whiffed as swung for a different ball. Two different balls. Two satisfying cracks of the bat.
Still, this newsletter was on my mind while making dinner earlier this week. Later I checked my email and found a notification that someone had just started subscribing. A sign, perhaps, that my thinking was on track?
In the past six months, in between parish newsletters and sermons (I accepted an appointment as curate), I’ve been writing mainly about bread. My book, which will be published by Broadleaf Books, is an exploration of the life of bread, from soil to stomach. (Pretty sure that’s not going to fly with my publisher as a subtitle.) Each chapter is a spiritual meditation on a different stage of the life cycle of bread, from planting to harvesting to milling the grain to baking and eventually to breaking and eating. So far, I’ve written about death, wisdom, loving mystery when the world demands mastery, and the importance of sandwiches.
Some days it’s easier to talk about writing than to write. Some days it’s easier to write than talk about it. This is my first book, and all I can say about the process is that it’s coming along. I hope. I’ve copied a quote from Vinita Hampton Wright’s The Art of Spiritual Writing onto a pink sticky note that is the exact color of a strawberry flavored Starbust. It reminds that even though, especially lately, the writing has been difficult that there is a reason to write it: “This project you’re working on is the bit of the world that you’re holding in place for the rest of us.” No pressure or anything.
And so, I anticipate that this letter will continue to be only occasional. Hopefully, if you’re like me and your inbox fills every day, all day, with all the things you wish you had time to read, and you also pin them or mark them to read later before having a come-to-Jesus moment at the end of the week and then just archive them for later only to be forgotten 10 seconds later, well then you’ll appreciate this.
Table Talk
That dinner I was making when I thought about the newsletter was a mushroom pot pie with bits and ends of various veg that were wilting in the crisper (the irony). Pot pie of almost any variety is my ultimate comfort food, which I’ve found I’ve needed in more abundance lately. (One time, I was in charge of leading an ice breaker for work. I asked the group to share their ultimate comfort food, and at least a third of the people answered that they don’t have an ultimate comfort food because they’re not emotional eaters! I was aghast.)
I’d share the recipe, but the truth is I never use one when making pot pie. I just cook up things like carrots, onions, celery, potatoes and sometimes mushrooms or chicken (or leftover turkey after Thanksgiving), make a roux, add broth, get it thick and bubbly and pop a pie crust on top. But here’s a recipe for a chicken pot pie that works for weeknights (scroll half way down) from Dinner, A Love Story. If you don’t already subscribe to that newsletter, it’s one of the few that I do read every time it pops into my inbox. Just real, practical thoughts on making and eating food.
I even was able to make a real pie crust for the first time in years thanks to discovering that my formerly gluten-free husband can tolerate baked goods made with flour milled from heirloom wheat. (Doesn’t that make us sound insufferable?) It has changed everything because we’d been trying for years (seven!) to figure out if he had celiac. But now I order 10-pound bags of flour from Janie’s Mill and bake like I used to.
We gobbled up the pie before we could take a picture, but strangely, in addition to the “tableau” I shot while chopping veg (as if I know the first thing about food styling and photography), I took a weird picture after I slid the pot pie into the fridge before I raced off to pick my son up from school:
Signals
In spiritual direction this week, a theme emerged: noise. There’s just so much of it—the internal, persistent buzz in my brain; the everyday onslaught of emails, texts, phone calls; the last-minute construction that disrupts just about everything in the fall in Chicago. Amid all that cacophony, there are some signals that ring out louder, paradoxically stilling the din for just a moment.
I mentioned Dinner, A Love Story above but if you skimmed that, here it is again. I am a very late adopter to this blog-turned-newsletter, but I’m glad I finally gave it a chance. Many a successful dinner have come my way via the newsletter (just thinking about crispy eggplant with basil and Romesco makes my mouth water). My birthday is tomorrow, and I’ve been thinking about gifting myself The Weekday Vegetarians.
I recently started taking a writing course through Paragraph with Diana Goetsch thanks to the advice of a member of my writing group. The writing exercises have felt profoundly spiritual, as if I’m in a strange dialogue with the divine. I was an editor for so long that I don’t think I’ve ever given myself the room to let the writer inside free. This class is my freedom pass.
God Talk is an occasional newsletter about seeking and making meaning in the modern world. God is in the name but belief is not required for reading. If you enjoy this news newsletter or know someone you think would, please subscribe and share.