ANZAC BISCUITS

If golden syrup isn’t a regular in your pantry (Lyle’s is the brand if you’re in the US), you can substitute maple syrup or even honey. It will be a different flavour profile, of course, but it will work and still be very good.

Makes about 2 dozen.

125g (4½ oz) butter
2 tablespoons golden syrup
1 cup (90g) rolled oats
1 cup (80g) desiccated coconut
1 cup (150g) plain flour
½ cup (110g) caster sugar
¼ cup (55g) brown sugar
½ teaspoon bicarbonate of soda

Set your oven to 180°C (350°F) and line a baking tray (or two, if you have them) with baking paper.

In a small saucepan over low heat, melt the butter and golden syrup together. Remove from the heat and set aside.

In a roomy bowl, mix together the oats, coconut, flour and sugars with a wooden spoon.

Mix the bicarb with 2 tablespoons of boiling water in a small bowl. Stir into the butter-syrup mixture, then pour this into the oat mixture. Stir until all the ingredients are well combined.

Roll the mixture into heaped-tablespoon balls and place on the baking tray, leaving about 5cm (2 inches) between them. Bake for 12 minutes: they should be pale golden and quite soft. Leave on the tray for 5 minutes, where they will darken and set enough to be lifted to a wire rack. Leave to cool completely.

An Unlikely Birthday Cake

Divine guidance leads a pastor’s wife to find the perfect way to regift an unusual Father’s Day present. By Becky Campbell SmithPastor’s wife, church secretary and minister of all things miscellaneous. That’s me. I’d been in and out of my office since morning, running here, running there, checking on one thing or another, solving problems, most of them minor, thank goodness.Now it was evening and I still had one more obligation. I swung by the office to pick up some papers before racing off to our monthly women’s group meeting in the church hall. I rushed in, grabbed a folder off my desk and…stopped dead in my tracks.There was something unusual sitting on my desk, amidst the usual piles of paperwork. A plain blue card on top of a cake box. Had someone left me a cake? I couldn’t imagine why anyone would. It wasn’t my birthday. Or any anniversary.The only upcoming holiday was Father’s Day, and that obviously didn’t apply to me. I went over to my desk and looked at the card. There was one word scrawled across the envelope and it was written in all caps: GOD.Was I seeing things? I rubbed my eyes. It had been a long day. Nope, the envelope was still there. The cake too. It wasn’t the first time I’d found some random thing left on my desk by a parishioner. Usually it was a pamphlet, a note, or even something for the lost and found.I’d never found anything like this before. What was the protocol for opening God’s mail? I supposed as the church secretary it was okay for me to read it. I tore open the envelope. A Father’s Day card, signed by two boys who occasionally attended our church with their mom.Their dad lived out of state and was no longer in their lives. I opened the box and— sure enough—found a cake. “Happy Father’s Day!” it read. For a moment I was confused. Did the boys think I could get the cake to their dad? Then I remembered the name on the envelope.The children had trusted me to get the cake to their father in heaven! I know you’re with those boys, Lord, I thought. And you’ve seen the beautiful cake they bought for you. But now I had a problem. What to do with the cake? God wasn’t actually going to eat it.And I certainly didn’t feel right bringing home a cake meant for him. Maybe I should call the boys and explain, I thought. But what would I say? Sorry, kids, God’s unavailable for Father’s Day? It would break their hearts!Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to come up with a solution just then. The women’s group meeting was about to start. I left God’s cake on my desk and hurried to the church hall. One of our parishioners was already standing outside. “Happy birthday, Miss Edith,” I said, giving her a big hug.I was frazzled, yes, but a pastor’s wife always tried to remember birthdays. By the time the meeting ended, I was exhausted. I wanted nothing more than to drive home, kick off my heels and relax with a good book. Then I remembered that cake and card in my office, demanding my attention.I still had no clue what to do with them. I packed up and carried God’s gift to my car. Maybe my husband the pastor would know what to do. I’d gotten a mile down the road when I heard it. A quiet voice from within. Invite Miss Edith to your house for birthday cake.I shook my head. That was ridiculous. I was way too tired to entertain guests. And this was a Father’s Day cake, not a birthday cake. Think of Miss Edith, the voice seemed to say. She was a widow and her kids lived far away.What if she’s alone tonight? On her birthday… I turned the car right back around, and entered the church parking lot just as Miss Edith was pulling out. I motioned for her to stop and hollered out the window, “Miss Edith, do you like cake?”She smiled. “I sure do!” “Well, then,” I said, “follow me.” We arrived at my house and I led Miss Edith to the kitchen. “I’ll be right back,” I said. If we were going to celebrate her birthday, we were going to do it right.I ran upstairs and explained the impromptu celebration to my 12-year-old daughter. “A party!” she said. That was all she had to hear. She rushed off to find candles. Meanwhile, I got out the birthday napkins and plates, and set the cake up on the kitchen table.My husband arrived home minutes later. “What’s going on here?” he said. I filled everyone in. “Well, I’ll be,” Miss Edith said. “It’s not every day you get to eat a cake meant for God!” We turned down the lights and sang “Happy Birthday.”Miss Edith said she already had her birthday wish with our little party, and blew out the candles in one big, energetic puff. Everybody clapped. God our father had received his gift, after all. And he made sure we knew who to share it with.

Mexican restaurants white sauce.

INGREDIENTS

  • 6 Cloves Garlic
  • Juice of half a lemon
  • 1 tsp Oregano, Dried
  • 4 dashes Hot sauce
  • 18 Pimento stuffed olives
  • 1/2 tsp Cayenne pepper
  • 1 tsp Garlic salt
  • 1/2 tbsp Red pepper flakes
  • 1/2 tsp Salt
  • 1 tsp Cumin
  • 1/2 cup Milk
  • 1 cup Sour cream
  • 30 oz Miracle whip jar
  • 1 tbsp Olive juice from jar

INSTRUCTIONS

  1. Easiest recipe ever!!
  2. Just put all of these ingredients into your food processor and blend till smooth!
  3. Here is the MOST IMPORTANT PART!
  4. You HAVE to refrigerate this sauce for 12-24 hours.
  5. You have to give it that time to meld together or it will not taste right so make sure to plan ahead!!
  6. It makes a ton and is good on everything!

Trader Joe’s cowgirl bark

Ingredients

  • 1/4 cup peanuts
  • 1/4 cup slivered almonds
  • 18 ounces white chocolate chips
  • 1/3 cup dried cranberries
  • 1/3 cup Rice Krispies Cereal
  • 1/2 cup pretzels
  • 5 gingersnap cookies, broken into chunks

Instructions

  1. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
  2. Chop the peanuts and almonds, or grind in a food processor for 20 seconds.
  3. Over a double boiler or in the microwave, melt the chocolate chips until smooth and fully melted.
  4. Using a spatula, spread the chocolate on top of the parchment paper until it is about 1/8″ thick.
  5. Sprinkle the warm chocolate with the dried cranberries, Rice Krispies, chopped nuts, pretzels, and pieces of gingersnap cookie. Press down on the pretzels and cookie pieces to make sure they hold.
  6. Let the bark harden for at least 1 hour or until solid.
  7. Once the bark is hard, remove the parchment paper and cut into chunks.

The Night She Dined with Angels —Mari-Ann Mellville

I had just walked in the door after a long commute from downtown Toronto. The bus had been late, and I was tired. It wasn’t easy working three jobs and raising four active teenagers.Mine were good kids—three girls and a boy—but they were still a lot to handle. Especially for a single parent. I had hoped to come home and find them all quietly doing their homework. That was the deal. But they were running around with the five next-door neighbor children instead. I sighed.My oldest daughter rushed up to me. “Mom, can they stay for dinner?”I didn’t have much planned, just some leftover spaghetti with half a loaf of bread. And only six meatballs. I was already buying on credit from the neighborhood grocer. So a quick shop to fill out the meal wasn’t an option. I put down my things. Tonight of all nights, I thought. I had barely enough to feed my four, but all nine of them?I looked over at the neighbor children. I knew their family situation. They’d lost their mother only a few weeks earlier and needed all the warmth and support I could give. They needed a mother—if only for a night.Other people and prayers had seen me through bad times. A medical scare. Separation from myhusband. Finding a home to raise my children in. Angels hadn’t failed me yet, so I trusted them to get me through this too. I went to the kitchen and opened the cupboard. Please, let there be enough. I had a bit of extra pasta.“Well,” I said to the kids. “This will have to do.” They settled into homework mode while I triedTo work a miracle at the stove.I was still worried when we took our seats to say grace. I didn’t want to send anyone home hungry. At “amen,” the table erupted in a symphony of happy chatter and clinking forks. What a group! They had me laughing so hard, I forgot to keep track of who was eating what.By the end of the meal I felt so much better than when I had first walked through the door, burdened by my troubles. The children had licked their plates clean. We were all full and happy, and grateful for one another’s company. I moved to clear the table with my oldest daughter. My mouth dropped open. Two meatballs sat uneaten on the platter. How was that possible?My daughter put her hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong, Mom?”“Did everybody eat?”“It was delicious!” the youngest neighbor boy said. “The best meatballs we ever had. If you have any leftovers, can we take them home?”I was astonished. How had I managed to feed everyone? Had the kids cut the meatballs in half? Maybe some of them had only eaten pasta. Or had had a big lunch. There was no logic to it. There hadn’t been enough food at the beginning of the meal, and by the end of it everyone was full. We must have had unseen company, I thought as I said goodbye to the kids. Angels had shared our dinner.That night left me with an overflowing heart and great hope for the future. I sent the leftovers home with the neighbor children for lunch the next day. Things were hard now, but they would get better. For us. For the neighbor children. Because when you dine with angels, there is always enough to go around.

A Perfectly Timed Hymn

A Perfectly Timed Hymn Helped This Postman
by Jeffery Taylor

Overworked and stressed, he worried about his future until he heard a beloved song coming from a house on his route.

Finish this shift, get to the next job, study for midterms, practice the sheet music for church, tuck Matt into bed….

I walked from house to house, delivering mail and tallying the long list of things I needed to get done that day. There was no way I could do it all.

I was an undergrad at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, working two jobs to support myself; my wife, Angie; and our young son. One in the evening, doing retail inventory. The other, working part-time as a substitute postman. With midterms looming, things were piling up. I felt stretched thin. Even my church commitment was complicated these days. Our worship team was pushing the congregation to embrace some contemporary hymns I’d learned on the piano, but folks were reluctant.

I slipped a stack of letters into a mailbox and continued on my route. I had hoped my shift would give me time to sort things out as I walked, but all I could do was worry.

As I walked up the path to the next house, I heard something familiar. Music spilled from the house’s open windows and screen door. As I got closer, I realized it was the same new hymn we had been teaching at my church. I lifted the lid on the mailbox and peeked in through the screen door. A group of young people sat together, singing in harmony. An older man and woman led them, the man playing along with a guitar. It must have been a mission house for the local college.

I lingered on the porch for a second. The music washed over me. Their voices lifted my spirit higher and higher until I was singing along with them. I figured they were too engrossed in their praise to notice. As I sang, the stress I had been carrying subsided. for the first time in months. I felt calm and reassured. It was so perfectly timed, as if this moment had been set up just for me. The song ended in a final, resounding chord.

I quietly left the porch and continued on my route, still humming. My worries would return soon enough, I knew, but in that moment I was free.

The years passed, and with hard work and study, I completed college. After graduation, I continued working for the post office and eventually moved into management. A transfer relocated my family and me to Lancaster, Pennsylvania. But with that came a whole new set of worries.

The cost of living in Pennsylvania was higher than what we’d been used to. We were in temporary housing until we found something permanent, but our searches had proved fruitless so far. And we still needed to find a suitable high school for Matt. He’d taken after me with his love of music and become an accomplished saxophonist. Unfortunately, the school system where our temporary housing was located had a terrible music program. Matt was getting discouraged and thinking about quitting.

Once again, I felt weighed down by worries. Had we made the right decision moving to Pennsylvania? Would this place ever feel like home? I hoped that finding a new church would offer some stability. But that was proving difficult too. After visiting nearly a dozen, we still hadn’t found one that felt right.

“Let’s just try one more,” Angie said, looking at our list.

“Okay,” I said, feeling discouraged.

The pastor and his wife showed us around after we attended a few services. The church was nice enough, but I still wasn’t certain.

“How about lunch?” the pastor offered. “We can get to know each other better”..

As we ate, the pastor got on the subject of moments when God shows up in our lives. It felt like ages since I’d experienced something like that. Then I remembered that day on the porch in Birmingham, all those years before.

“I had one of those moments once,” I told the pastor. “A long time ago.” I told him about working as a mailman in Birmingham and how I’d stood on the front porch of a mission house. How the worshippers had sung a favorite hymn of mine, and how singing with them helped me during that difficult time.

“It was just a small thing, but it was a perfectly timed blessing,” I said. Actually, I could use another one of those now, I thought.

I stopped, confused by the look on the pastor’s face.

“Well, I used to work at a mission house in Southside Birmingham,” he said, “and I still remember the day, 11 years ago, when I heard the postman sing with us from the porch.”

Better than sex cake

Ingredients

  • 1 box Angel Food Cake mix, or one premade Angel Food Cake
  • 1 small box of instant vanilla pudding mix
  • 1 tbsp slivered and toasted almonds
  • 1 cup of sour cream
  • 1 ½ cups of milk
  • 1 can cherry pie filling
  • 1 tub Cool Whip whipped topping, or home made, whichever you prefer

Instructions

FIRST STEP:

Bake the Angel Food Cake according to package directions

Allow to cool and then cut into cubes

SECOND STEP:

In a mixing bowl, combine the sour cream, pudding mix and the milk and beat until smooth and starting to thicken. Set to the side

In a 9 x 13 baking pan, using half of the cake cubes, place a layer of cubes in the bottom of the pan

THIRD STEP:

Spread ⅔ of the cherry pie filling over the cubes

Place the remaining cubes of cake over the cherry pie filling

FOURTH STEP:

Spoon the pudding mixture over the cake and spread evenly

Spread the whipped topping over the pudding mix evenly

FIFTH STEP:

Garnish the top of this with the remaining cherry pie filling and sprinkle the toasted almonds on top

Chill for 4 to 5 hours before serving

This recipe can be changed up. Put your own spin on it with different cakes, puddings,nuts and pie filling.

GOD’S MOUNTAIN GARDENBy Bertha M. Sutliff

The best place to seek God is in a garden. ~George Bernard Shaw

I grew up on a farm in the mountains of northwest Arkansas. As children, my brother and I roamed every inch of the little mountain facing my parents’ house. We knew where every giant boulder and animal burrow was on that little piece of mountain bordering my dad’s farm.One day, my grandpa came to visit from his home several miles away. We sat on the front porch swing looking at the mountain, and he began to tell me a story. It was a delightful tale about him and me living in a little cabin on the mountain.”Can you see it?” he asked. “It’s right there by that big acorn tree. See it?”Of course I saw it. What eight-year-old child wouldn’t see what her imagination wanted her to see?”We’re gonna live in that cabin. We’ll catch a wild cow for our milk and pick wild strawberries for our supper,” GrandpaContinued. “I bet the squirrels will bring us nuts to eat. We’ll search the bushes for wild chickens and turkeys. The chickens will give us eggs, and we’ll cook us a turkey over the big ol’ fireplace. Yep, we’ll do that some day.”From that day on, every time I saw my grandpa, I asked when we would go to live in that little log cabin on the mountain. Then he’d once more spin the story of how the two of us would live in the cabin with the wildflowers and wild animals around us.Time raced on; I grew into my teens and gradually forgot Grandpa’s story. After graduating high school, I still saw Grandpa and loved him dearly, but not like that little girl did. I grew out of the fantasy of the log cabin and wild cows.Before long, I married and set up my own house. One day, the phone rang. When I heard my daddy’s sorrowful voice, I knew my grandpa had left us. He had been in his garden behind his house and died there, his heart forever stopped.I grieved alongside my mother for my dear grandpa, remembering his promises of the cabin in the woods with all its animals and flowers. It seemed I could once again hear his voice telling me the fantasy we shared. I felt my childhood memories being buried with him.Less than a year later, I went to visit my parents’ farm. Mama and I sat on the front porch admiring the green foliage of the mountain. It had been ten months since Grandpa had passed away, but the longing to hear his voice one more time was still fresh in my soul.I told Mama about the story Grandpa had always told me, of the cabin in the woods, the wild cow, the chickens and turkey. “Mama,” I said after I had finished my story, “would you mind if I went for a walk by myself?””Of course not,” was her reply.I changed into old jeans and put on my walking shoes. Mama cautioned me to be careful and went on with her chores.The walk was invigorating. Spring had come to the country, and everything was getting green. Little Johnny-jump-ups were springing up all over the pastures. New calves were following their mamas begging for milk. At the foot of the mountain, I stopped. Where did Grandpa say that acorn tree was?”Straight up from the house,” I thought I heard him say.I began my journey up the little mountain. It was steeper than I remembered, and I was out of shape. I trudged on, determined to find that tree.Suddenly the ground leveled out. I was amazed to see what was before me. Soft green moss covered a small, flat clearing. Dogwood trees, smothered in pastel blooms, surrounded it. Off to the side stood a tall oak tree ? Grandpa’s acorn tree! Scattered among the tufts of moss were vibrant colors of wild wood violets. Green rock ferns and pearly snowdrops were scattered about as well. I could hardly catch my breath.I don’t know how long I stood there ? several minutes, I suppose. Finally I came to my senses and sat down on the moss. In all my childhood wanderings on the mountain, I had never seen this magically beautiful place. Was this what Grandpa meant when he pointed out our special spot on the mountainside all those years ago? Did he know this was here?A squirrel darted in front of me. He had a nut in his mouth. I watched as he scampered up the oak tree. No, I didn’t see a wild cow or chickens. But in my heart, I knew they were there somewhere.I decided to go tell Mama what I had found. She would want to see it, too. Before I left I took one more look. It was the most beautiful place I could have ever imagined.It didn’t take me as long to get back to the house. I burst into the kitchen babbling about the clearing on the side of the mountain. Mama calmed me down enough so she could understand what I was talking about. Daddy heard the conversation and tried to convince me there was no such place up there. He knew the mountain and had never seen anything like that.On my insistence, he and Mama decided to go see the amazing place I was raving about. Once again I climbed the mountain straight up from the house. Before I knew it, we were at the top.”We must have missed it,” I told my dad.He just nodded and we retraced our steps. We searched for over an hour for that little place on the mountain. We never found it. I was devastated.On the way back home, Mama put her arms around my shoulders.”Sissy,” she said, “you know what you saw, don’t you?””Yeah, I know what I saw, and I know it’s there somewhere. We just missed it.””No, sweetie, it’s not there anymore. You saw God’s garden. Only special people can see that. Your grandpa loved you so much, and he knew you were grieving inside. Hold that memory in your heart.”I’m fifty-two years old now. Every time I go back to Mama’s house and sit on the porch, I remember the secret garden Grandpa told me about. But I no longer go out and look for it. No, I know just where it is.

THE JOY OF A SUMMER’S RAIN


At first the summer heat was just mildly uncomfortable. Next it
became tiring, and then, oppressive. By July, it felt a lot like
working in the kitchen on Thanksgiving Day — like standing in front of
a hot oven for six straight hours. Yet the temperatures continued to
rise, until finally, in the dusty, dried up days of August, the rain —
at last — came.
After day upon day of parched summer heat, the rain was such a
welcome relief! The children shrieked with joy and begged to go out in
it. I said “No” at first, almost automatically. But one look at their
crushed expressions and I reconsidered. It had been much too hot to
play outside lately — how could I say no now?
“Well… OK,” I said with a grin. “But stay on the porch. And
keep an eye on your little sister!”, I called to the back of their
heads.
As they headed out the front door, I felt an almost forgotten rush
of glee. Smiling to myself, I ran to get the towels and umbrellas and
soon joined my children on the front porch. There, they danced and
giggled, and leaned out as far as they could, catching the rain on their
hands. They squealed in approval whenever the wind blew the rain their
way. Only Abby was timid. She stayed safely near my side, and when the
wind tickled her face with moist spray, she shivered and clung tighter
to my hand.
After a while, I timidly stepped out from under the porch roof,
safely beneath the protective waterproof fabric of the umbrella. I held
my navy parasol in one hand and Abby’s drippy little fingers in my
other. Finally, I couldn’t restrain myself anymore.
In a burst of childlike impulsiveness, I tossed my umbrella aside.
Feeling like a kid again, I gathered my two-year-old and headed out into
the downpour. She blinked and scrunched up her wee nose in
disapproval. Before long, however, she was tilting her face to the sky
and catching raindrops in her mouth.
“Come on!” I called to the boys. “Come out here with us!”
Daniel and Thomas looked surprised (like Mom had gone a little
mad), but they didn’t argue. Eagerly they grabbed the big black umbrella
that had been their grandfathers. I watched them as they struggled to
raise it, and as they fumbled trying to share the handle. They squished
together, trying to make themselves fit under the very center of the
dome.
Something about my funny little boys and that big umbrella made my
eyes unexpectedly fill with warm tears, which ran unrestrained down my
already soaked cheeks.
The rain intensified. Still, we stayed. The gutter in front of
our house had become a small stream. It actually bubbled and rippled as
it grew and tumbled toward the water retention basin at the end of the
block.
Suddenly inspired, I sent the boys inside for a few supplies. In a
jiffy they returned from the house with a grocery bag holding the simple
construction supplies they had procured from the kitchen.
For the next hour we made makeshift tinfoil boats. Then we sailed
them, skippered by toothpick-and-scotch-tape men. Abby giggled with
glee as she watched her brothers and I race our shiny little vessels
down the river of rain.
Later that night, after warm baths and a nourishing dinner, I
tucked my children into their beds with a heart full of joy.
It had been an unforgettable day, thanks to a little inspiration
and a summer’s rain.

— Natalie Whitlock Walker

Easy Asian Beef and Noodles

What You’ll Need

  • 1/2 pound boneless sirloin steak
  • 2 teaspoons dark sesame oil, divided
  • 1 bunch green onions, sliced into 1-inch pieces
  • 2 cups prepackaged coleslaw
  • 2 (3-ounce) packages beef-flavored ramen noodle soup
  • 1 1/2 cup water
  • 2 tablespoons soy sauce

What to Do

  1. Cut steak diagonally across grain into very thin slices. Heat 1 teaspoon oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add steak and onions; stir-fry 1 minute. Remove steak mixture from pan; keep warm. Heat remaining 1 teaspoon oil until hot. Add slaw; stir-fry 30 seconds. Remove slaw from pan, and keep warm.
  2. Remove noodles from packages; reserve 1 seasoning packet for another use. Add water and remaining seasoning packet to pan; bring to a boil. Break noodles in half; add noodles to water mixture. Cook noodles 2 minutes or until most of liquid is absorbed, stirring frequently. Stir in steak mixture, slaw, and soy sauce; cook until thoroughly heated.

Pineapple and cherry dump cake

What You’ll Need

  • 1 (21-ounce) can cherry pie filling
  • 1 (20-ounce) can crushed pineapple, undrained
  • 1 (15-1/4-ounce) box yellow cake mix
  • 1 teaspoon cinnamon
  • 1/2 cup chopped walnuts
  • 1 stick butter, melted

What to Do

  1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Coat a 9- x 13-inch baking dish with cooking spray.
  2. Combine pie filling and pineapple with liquid in prepared baking dish; mix well.
  3. In a medium bowl, combine cake mix and cinnamon. Sprinkle dry cake mixture evenly over fruit. Top with walnuts and drizzle with butter.
  4. Bake 45 to 50 minutes, or until golden brown and bubbly. Serve warm or cold.

Rolling Down Summer’s HillsBy C. S. Dweck

We run through the August night with only fireflies lighting our way, feeling the freedom of time that only children of summer ever know. The echo of our laughter sails through darkness, while we chase each other in tag. Soon we become silent, hunting through the tall, damp grass punctuated only by the beating of our hearts. A hand pierces through the night, grabbing me. Our two bodies fall entwined into a huddled mass of legs and arms with her gaining the upper hand because I let her. She pins me down upon my back, her hands holding mine outstretched upon the moist grass. Straddling my chest with her knees, I sense her head slowly growing ever nearer. We’re so close that I can feel the ins and outs of her breath upon my lips. She covers my mouth with her own and I am lost in the newness of my first kiss. Before I can speak or think, she pulls away. Running off, she leaves me there dazed. That was how the night ended; this is how it began.It’s the summer of my thirteenth birthday, and I’m enjoying these majestic Pocono days. Our cabin overlooks the endless rolling hills carpeted by sweet-smelling grasses and black-eyed Susans. My younger brother Mikey and I climb to the highest point and then, lying down on our sides like two bowling pins, we close our eyes rolling wildly down to the bottom. It’s a dizzying sensation to feel the world spin around and around this way. Sometimes I lose control and go careening off into some unplanned foreign destination.And so it is when I first see Carly, hanging out among the other girls at Lake Wallenpaupack. I didn’t know then that I’d go careening off sideways and smack straight into her world.She hangs with this group of thirteen-year-old girls who’ve teamed up more out of convenience than common interest. Her long black hair falls in waves against her pale white skin, and she has this unique ability to smile at me with her eyes.My posse looks like an odd assortment left over in some thrift-shop clearance box. First off, there’s me. I had a major growth spurt this summer, and my limbs feel way too long. It’s weird to suddenly tower over your own mother, the person you’ve looked up to your whole life. Now a good three inches taller than she, I can easily pat her on the head. Yet no matter how much I eat, my pants hang low on my gangly, 105-pound frame. Everything is changing around me and inside me. I can’t even count on feeling comfortable in my own skin, which is now riddled with acne.Then there’s my ten-year-old brother, Mikey. He hasn’t found any other kids his age around, and appears to be going through severe Nintendo withdrawal. It’s my responsibility to watch out for all four fast-moving feet of him. We make an unlikely pair. Although only three years come between our ages, almost two feet separate our heights.Finally there’s Ron, who’s fourteen, a full year older than I and so much more wise in the ways of the world. He shoves his Mets cap low on his head to shield his eyes from the sun and any parent’s watchful gaze. In his left ear he sports a fake diamond stud, which denotes the coolness he envelops.Ron and I sit on the dock, dangling our feet in the water’s edge, while Mikey floats carelessly in his black inner tube. Once in a while we have the nerve to dart our eyes over to the girls who are taking turns diving into the water in their bright bikinis, giggling and trying to peek over at us as well.Ron shares his experiences with women and I wonder how much of it is really true, but I listen closely just in case it is. Some of his stories are funny, and others are just really gross, but I tuck all of what he tells me safely away in the annals of my mind for future reference.My only other experience hearing about sex was back in health class, and there it seemed like such a crude joke. There was this one jerk in the back of the room who’d laugh whenever the teacher mentioned anything sexual. He was the same guy who’d repeat over and over that there was going to be a “teste” on Monday and then die laughing at his own wit.At home, my parents speak in strictly medical terms. The way they tell it, the whole thing sounds more like a painful procedure for wisdom teeth removal than a pleasurable experience. Here, sitting on the dock with Ron, it seems a lot more real. I watch Carly in her red two-piece. Her shining black hair reflects the noonday sun, and I wonder what it would be like to kiss those peach-colored lips. So far it’s taken all the courage I can muster just to say hi as we pass each other every day at the lake.Soon, night falls and Dad calls us around the dinner table to have an informal family meeting. He says he wants to talk about our “future.” The cabin is hot and noticeably un-air-conditioned. The sweat on the back of my legs causes my skin to stick to the vinyl-covered dining chairs.My dad sits at the head of the table with his elbows resting on the yellow Formica. He hasn’t shaved since we arrived here, and the gray stubble on his cheeks and chin make him look old. My mother sits at the other end of the table still wearing the same swimsuit she wore earlier today down by the lake. She pulls the seat of her suit down over each thigh, fidgeting more than her usual calm demeanor allows. Mikey sits lazily dipping his Oreo cookies into a large glass of milk and then sucking them down over his wet lips.My dad tells us he’s been laid off from work – straight out with no beating around the bush. I can’t say I’m shocked; we all saw the writing on the wall. Dad’s a textile man, and the industry is dying. I know this because I’ve heard the hushed conversations between my mom and dad. With most labor now going overseas, there’s just not enough work to keep the U.S. sewing factories alive. It’s not as if Dad has a profession where he can just slip comfortably into a new opportunity. Finding another job at forty-six years old is rough.Mikey just keeps sucking down his cookies. He’s too young to understand that there is no magic that will make everything better, and that Dad doesn’t have all the answers.In between frantic thoughts, I hear Dad saying something about our home; using words like “scaling down” and “tightening belts.” All I keep wondering is, How is this going to affect me? Will I still be able to afford to go to the movies with my friends, or will I be left at home? And where will my home be? I hear Dad saying something about our horrendous taxes and the possibility of moving to a smaller apartment.I want to grab him and yell, “Stop! Don’t you know you’re ruining my life? I can’t move . . . this is where all my friends are . . . this is where I go to school. We had a deal, remember? You would take care of me, and I would never have to worry about these kinds of things, because I’m just a kid.”And then this feeling gives way to a sickening rush of guilt for being so selfish. I look over at my parents who seem small and vulnerable. Who are these pathetic imposters whose words change everything for all of us, and how should I react to these strangers that I love so much? Should I lie and tell them everything will be okay? And is that what they need to hear, or is that really what I need to hear? I suddenly feel like the parent.That night I run out to play tag with all those kids whose lives are still unchanged. I run through the night hoping to knock the wind out of myself – running to forget about my dad or maybe to stumble onto an answer that will save us. That’s when Carly’s arm reaches out to grab me. She kisses me, and I forget for one moment about all the uncertainty.Then she’s gone, and I lay there in the pitch-black darkness with my head spinning the same way it did when I rolled down those long summer hills. I feel that same dizzying disorientation lying there alone in the darkness, and I realize that sometimes there are no real answers, and life goes on.

License to Smile

A cloudy day is no match for a sunny disposition.~William Arthur Ward

Anyone who knows me well would almost certainly label me an optimist. I believe in embracing hope and finding something positive even in the most difficult circumstances. My own optimism stems from a strong, personal faith in a loving God who I believe is very interested in the personal details of our lives, not just the “big stuff.” I also believe that things happen for a reason and that if we keep our minds and spirits open, our invisible God often becomes visible, sometimes in ways that are quite humorous!With that being said, even optimists can temporarily lose hope. This was the case for me on a particularly cold and gloomy January day. I felt overwhelmed by the painful challenges I was dealing with in my personal life. Marital, health, and financial struggles had joined forces to create a tornado of emotion that threatened to crush my spirit. I felt angry, frustrated, burdened, and distanced from the presence of God. The weather seemed to reflect my mood—the gray sky blocked even a single ray of sunlight. As I drudged through my workday, I just couldn’t shake a sense of hopelessness and despair.About midway through the day, I left work to get some lunch. Still feeling pessimistic and negative, I noticed that the sun had come out for a brief moment. I began to think about my negative attitude and reminded myself that I was responsible for choosing my state of mind. While I could not ignore the pain I was going through, I could choose to dwell on the negative or I could choose to shift my thinking to a more positive focus. Even as I consciously reminded myself of this truth, I felt incapable of making the shift. So I gripped the steering wheel and prayed an honest, heartfelt prayer. “God,” I cried, my tears ready to spill out, “where are you? I don’t want to feel this way but I am miserable and hopeless today. Please lift me out of this dark, gloomy place!”As I stopped at a red light, I looked at the car directly in front of mine. The personalized license plate caught my eye—it read “SUNZOUT.” This brought an immediate smile to my face. It felt like a reminder from God that the sun was shining after all, and in the midst of the longest, darkest, coldest winter in years, this in itself was a blessing. But then my eyes moved to the car that was perfectly parallel to the SUNZOUT vehicle. The license plate on that car read “GROUCH.” So as I read these two license plates side by side, I said out loud “SUNZOUT, GROUCH.” This brought more than a smile to my face as I laughed out loud! Seeing the two very opposite license plates right next to each other at that exact moment in time also strengthened my previous recognition of my ability to choose my outlook despite my circumstances. I felt my spirits and mood lift as I made the conscious decision to choose a positive attitude.I returned to work and shared my story with several co-workers who responded with warm laughter at what I referred to as my “message from beyond.” I learned that day that when we are feeling too discouraged to bring ourselves out of a state of negativity, relief is only a prayer away!~Julie A. Havener

Cherry kuchen bars

What You’ll Need

  • 1 stick (1/2 cup) butter, softened
  • 1/2 cup shortening
  • 1 1/2 cup sugar
  • 3 eggs
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • 3 cups all-purpose flour
  • 1 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt
  • 1 (21-ounce) can cherry pie filling

What to Do

  1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.
  2. In a large bowl, beat butter, shortening, and sugar until creamy. Add eggs and vanilla; mix well.
  3. In a medium bowl, combine flour, baking powder, and salt. Slowly beat flour mixture into butter mixture until well combined. Reserve 1-1/2 cups of dough; set aside. Spread remaining dough in a 15- x 10- x 1-inch baking sheet.
  4. Bake 10 minutes. Remove from oven and spread pie filling over crust. Spoon reserved dough in small mounds on top of pie filling.
  5. Continue baking 25 to 30 minutes, or until top is lightly golden. Let cool, then cut into squares.

Black Jellybeans By Margie Seyfer

I’ve never read an official study on the matter, but I’ve Noticed that in animal shelters, black cats are the most overlooked. Black seems to be the least preferred of cat colors, ranking below All combinations of white, orange, gray, spotted and striped. Black Cats are still stereotyped as Halloween cats, creatures of bad luck, More appropriate on a witch’s broomstick than curled up on your Pillow. To make matters worse, in cages, black cats become close to Invisible, fading into the dark shadows in the back of a stainless-Steel cage.For eleven years, starting when I was ten years old, I Volunteered at an urban animal shelter. It always struck me as Particularly unfair that, time after time, I’d get to know Affectionate, adorable black cats, only to watch them be passed over By adopters merely because of their color. I assumed there was Nothing that could be done.One day, many years into my work at the shelter, I spent a fewMinutes petting a sweet, black half-grown kitten, who had been found As a stray and brought to the shelter. The slender thing purred Warmly at my attention, gently playful as she patted my hand with one Paw. I thought about what a shame it was that the kitten was already Too big to be adopted on baby-kitten appeal alone, and so solidly Black that most people wouldn’t even pause in front of her cage. I Noticed there was no name written on the informational card on her Cage. Since volunteers were welcome to name the strays that came to The shelter, I thought for a moment about what I could name this Black kitten. I wanted to think of a name that could give the kitten The kind of appealing “color” that might encourage an adopter to take A second look. The name Jellybean popped into my head, and I wrote It on the card, just as I’d named thousands of cats in the past.I was taken entirely by surprise when, later that afternoon, IOverheard a woman walking through the cat room say, “Jellybean! What A wonderful name!” She stopped to look more closely at the kitten, Now batting at a piece of loose newspaper in the cage. She asked me If she could hold Jellybean, and, as I opened the cage, I sheepishly Admitted that the kitten didn’t know her name, as I’d named her just Hours before.I lifted her into the woman’s arms, and the kitten leaned into The woman, looking up into her eyes with a purr of kitten bliss. After a few minutes, the woman told me that she’d like to adopt this Black kitten, and, when the paperwork was approved a few days later, She took Jellybean home.I was pleased, of course – adoptions were always what nourished My soul – but I chalked it up to a lucky break for one black kitten, And moved on.I was surprised again a few weeks later when the woman came back To the shelter. She found me refilling water bowls in a cat room and Said, “You were the one who helped me adopt that black kitten a few Weeks ago, remember? Jellybean? I know you were the one who named Her, and I’ve been wanting to stop back to thank you. She’s the Sweetest thing – I just love her to pieces. But I don’t know if I Would have noticed her if she hadn’t had that great name. It just Suits her perfectly. She’s so bouncy and colorful – I know that Sounds crazy. Anyway, I wanted to say thank you.”I told her I was touched that she had stopped by and thrilled to Hear that Jellybean was doing well in her new home. Then I explained How I thought black cats were often unfairly overlooked and admitted The name had been my conscious attempt to get someone to notice a cat Who would probably not have been adopted otherwise. She said, “Well, It worked! You should name all the black cats Jellybean.”I smiled politely at the suggestion, thinking to myself that thisWoman knew nothing of the harsh realities of animal shelters. JustBecause I named one kitten Jellybean and it had gotten adopted didn’t Mean anything – it had just been a stroke of luck. Black cats were Still black cats, after all, and most people didn’t want them.As the day went on, I kept thinking about the woman’s advice: “You should name all the black cats Jellybean.” As crazy as it Seemed, I decided I had nothing to lose. Pen in hand, I walked along The cages, looking for a black cat without a name. There was only One, a small black kitten alone in a cage, sleeping. I Wrote “Jellybean” on its cage card.Later that afternoon, someone came along and said they’d like to adopt that little Jellybean. Well, I thought to myself, that wasn’t really a fair test – it was so cute and tiny.A few days later, a nameless black cat came along, fully grown. I named it Jellybean. It was adopted. Days later, another. Adopted. The process repeated itself enough times that, after a while, I had to admit that maybe there was some magic in the name, after all. It began to seem morally wrong not to name black cats Jellybean, especially ones who had a bounce in their step and a spark of joy in their eyes. Although I’d usually refrained from using the same name for more than one cat, after a while, my fellow volunteers ceased to be surprised when they came across another of my Jellybeans.Of course, we’ll need more far-reaching solutions to ensure thatevery cat has a home. But for my black Jellybeans, sitting in sunnywindows, sniffing at ladybugs walking across the kitchen floor, snuggling in beds with their adopted people, a name made all the difference.”Jellybean” allowed some humans to see beyond a dark midnight coat into the rainbow of riches in a cat’s heart.

Lemon and blueberry bread

1-1/2 cups plus 1 Tbsp. flour, divided

2 tsp. baking powder

1/2 tsp. salt

3 eggs

1 cup sugar

1 cup sour cream

1/2 cup oil

1 tsp. lemon zest

1/2 tsp. vanilla

1 cup blueberries

~~~~~~~~~~

Heat oven to 350°F

Combine 1-1/2 cups flour, baking powder and salt in large bowl.

Whisk eggs, sugar, sour cream, oil, lemon zest and vanilla until blended. Add to flour mixture; stir just until blended.

Toss blueberries with remaining flour; stir gently into batter.

Pour into greased and floured 9×5-inch loaf pan.

Bake 1 hour to 1 hour 5 min. or until toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 10 min. Remove bread from pan to wire rack; cool completely.