"They say bread is life and I bake bread, bread, bread..."-Moonstruck

So I'm sitting in youth group and our leader, Emily, says that she's about to put me on the spot. In situations such as this, I can usually deduce that she's about to ask me about food or Judaism. This time it was about Judaism. I was then asked to briefly describe the Passover seder to a bunch of teenagers.

I talked about the haggadah, the seder plate, the songs, the cups of wine, the blessings, and the Exodus story that the meal centers itself around. (I get very excited and rambly whenever I talk about Judaism, so I'm not sure what the kids got out of it) Emily then connected the Passover seder with the Last Supper of Christ and the act of taking Communion. Naturally this brought to mind my own experiences with Communion in the Catholic church that I've relayed in prior posts. When Emily's husband Phil brought up the Biblical principal stressing the importance to resolve personal conflicts before taking communion, Emily shot me a knowing smile.

Months before, we were doing a youth group lesson on anger with our kids. I told them a story about when I was younger, maybe 8 or 9 since that seems to be the brattiest of ages. I was particularly mouthy to my mother one Sunday and it just happened that our church was serving Communion that day. I think it is a universal agreement amongst children that Communion Sunday is the greatest of all Sundays. Back in my day when children of a certain age were expected to sit through sermons, Communion was like the consolation prize for being bored out of your mind for three out of four Sundays of the month. I would draw pictures on every spare space of the bulletin, just hoping that someone would send a cube of bread and an ounce of grape juice my way. On the Sunday in question, the bread and juice made their rounds and my mother deliberately passed the plates over my head to the family next to us. This was the greatest of all wrongs in my book. I had EARNED that cube of bread with four Sundays' worth of long winded stories, bad jokes, and the occasional old guy speaking in gibberish (Pentecostal upbringing). My mother told me that in light of our fight that morning, it would be a sin for me to take Communion.I must have felt truly wronged because I've remembered this story ever since, although for slightly different reasons. In retrospect, obviously my mother was completely in the right. So yesterday, as we all discussed the significance of both the Passover seder and the act of Communion, I really dwelled upon the relational element of both.

Passover, for me, has always been a no-brainer on the food and people level. I fell in love with Passover around the same age and church as the Protestant Communion debacle. A Messianic Jewish pastor was visiting our church and showing our congregation what a traditional Jewish Passover seder looked like. I was absolutely enthralled with a religion that celebrated all of its major holidays with big meals. After the seder ended, we were invited to come up and try the different foods on the seder plate. If you're unfamiliar with the elements of a seder plate, you should know that there are two foods that are always present that, coincidentally, happen to look nearly identical to the untrained eye: charoset and horseradish. Charoset is basically apples, nuts, honey, and grape juice that are pulverized in a food processor. Horseradish is...well, horseradish. It burns. So with all the tenacity that a 9 year-old chubby kid can possess, I grabbed the nearest spoon, scooped up a heaping tablespoon of charoset into my mouth, and swallowed. Except that it was actually the horseradish. And it burned like only a heaping tablespoon of horseradish can burn. I can honestly say that even now, nearly two decades after the event, I still have an uncanny sense of smell. Once again, however, it's the painful story that has stuck with me. In fact, the fire of the horseradish somehow morphed into a firy passion for all things Jewish. I'm already making preparations for this year's Passover Seder which happens to fall on the very last day of the Lent(il) Project itself. I find it quite fitting, actually, that the project which began on a holiday of repentance and personal sacrifice should end on a weekend full of Jewish and Christian holidays that celebrate freedom and redemption.

It's kind of a joke amongst my friends that my love language is food. Compliments on my appearance and writing usually make me feel awkward, but I genuinely need a compliment on my cooking. I'll even take a criticism if it's from the right person. The point is, I cannot disconnect the relational element of food anymore than I can disconnect the relational element of God; they are one in the same, which is probably why I'm so apt to celebrating both traditions of Passover and Holy Communion. Yesterday, after the discussion with the youth group about Passover and Communion, I actually went on to make bread for that evening's dinner. It wasn't even a planned thing. Homemade bread consists of like 3 ingredients and so I started the dough on Saturday night so that by Sunday evening, I literally broke the bread with my community of loved ones.

Mind. Blown.

Day 2: Jello Shots and Booty Pops...guess which one I did?!

Today was one of those crazy days where, if I was 30 days into the Project, I would be in big trouble because of my lack of planning. As it is, though, I fared well because of luck and leftovers. Hoo-rah!

I was in a rush to run an errand for work and in my hurry, I didn't make breakfast or lunch for myself. I also knew that I had Zumba at 5:30, so I wasn't sure how dinner was going to materialize, either. As it turns out, I completely forgot about my stash of protein shakes in the trunk (Don't laugh, but yes I have a protein shake stash. Right next to my emergency roadside kit, sleeping bag/pillow, and saucer sled. It's important to have all the essentials).

I had to stop at one of the Pat's Pizzeria stores on my round of errand-running and was given my very first free lunch (And yes, there IS such a thing as a free lunch...when you have board meetings with the owners of pizzerias). Obviously with the Lent(il) Project, I wasn't about to order food at a restaurant, but the manager actually told me that the owner insisted I have a complimentary lunch while I waited for some papers to be signed. Seeing as this didn't compromise the Project and may have actually been Providential (because I literally turn into the Devil when I don't eat), I ordered a cheese sub and worked on my menu plan for the upcoming weeks.

And the food gifts kept on coming! At Zumba class, the instructor's mother was present and it was her birthday, so everyone passed around cupcakes and jello shots. I thought this kind of out of place considering we were about to intensely booty pop for the next hour, so I declined on this less-than-Providential food offering. I mean, cupcakes and jello shots in a Zumba class? If that's not the devil wearin' white, I don't know what is... After class, I ate leftover broccoli rabe over basmati rice. I didn't care about the garlicky burps so much tonight, since I was keeping company with three boys under the age of ten.

As strange as this may sound, I actually did quite a bit of reflecting during Zumba. It's hard NOT to jar something when you're shaking so much of yourself. Anyway, there I was, dancing my with my entire body and(mostly) free of all insecurity and inhibition when it sort of hit me (to a Latin beat) that not spending all this time and energy into buying food was its own kind of freedom. Much like having a shimmy off with my Zumba classmates is a kind of freedom. Now keep in mind, I'm not a person who would say they 'eat to live'. I should be that kind of person but I'm not. And frankly, I'm not even sure if that's a wholly Biblical perspective on food, either. I mean, for Pete's sake, Song of Solomon consists of food/sex metaphors. Solomon was clearly not just eating to live. I'm just saying food can be more, just not everything. And I am struggling to find the balance. So yeah...this is what I think about when I'm booty popping. Biblical metaphors.


Anyway, here's what I ate today:

Breakfast: Protein Shake (courtesy of the Buick's junk in the trunk)
Lunch: Cheese Sub (Free!)
Dinner: Leftover broccoli rabe served over Blossom House style basmati rice (lots of nutritional yeast, bragg's, and Earth Balance)
Snack: Homemade yogurt with honey, granola, and frozen blueberries


P.S. In the spirit of food gifts, I accept any and all gifts of broccoli rabe.

Day 1: In which I realize that I've been spending way too much money on mediocre yogurt

Day 1 went pretty well, but I never expected this day to be the real challenge. I'll know what I'm really made of when I'm staring down a marscapone cannoli in Isgro's bakery on Good Friday, desperate to buy a dozen, but settling for just the incredible smell.

One thing this project has already begun to teach me is to become completely dependent upon my cooking skills, and especially later on, my creativity with the ingredients that I already have. Today, for instance, I made four quarts of organic yogurt, two quarts of homemade granola, and a large batch of sauteed broccoli rabe with loads of garlic. I've got to admit, to say that I was impressed with my first gallon of homemade organic yogurt and my two perfect quarts of granola is putting it mildly. I was actually bouncing when I showed my friend Mike my culinary accomplishments, saying, "See?! Isn't this impressive? And this is just Day 1, Mike!" To which he responded, "Greeeeaaat..." But I come from a long line of adventurous cooks. My sister Kim actually made an entire vegan "turkey" out of vital wheat gluten and wrapped the whole thing in the skins that formed on the top of cooked soy milk. It sounds gross, but it actually tasted fantastic. My sister Christina is infamous for having made soup using pretzels instead of noodles. That tasted...interesting...

The broccoli rabe kind of backfired on me, though. When you take a burp-inducing vegetable, saute it with lots of garlic, and then go to work out for an hour, you will _NOT_ be popular with the gym crowd. It doesn't matter how many times you discreetly blow said-garlicky burps out of the corner of your mouth...that stuff peeeeeermeeeeaaaates. But I really can't feel too bad about it because the dish itself was worth every look of disgust that the Villers shot my way.

Anyway, here's what I ate today:

Breakfast: Oatmeal with maple syrup
Lunch: Peanut Butter sandwich with Ezekiel bread; apple
Dinner: Sauteed broccoli rabe with garlic and chili flakes served over brown rice fusili and topped with parmesan cheese.
Snack: homemade organic yogurt topped with frozen blueberries, frozen cherries, and a sprinkling of homemade granola and honey

In case you're wondering, homemade yogurt is totally worth the effort

The Means to an End

It's 7:30 AM at Corpus Christi. My dear friend Rhonda and I have just gone through the line to receive ashes on our foreheads, and you can hear the sound of a camera clicking over and over as the Mass progresses.

Rhonda (out of the corner of her mouth): Angie...
Me (whispering): Hmm?
Rhonda: Angie, why do I have a feeling that we're going to be on the cover of the Salem Sunbeam with the headline reading "Methodist Sighting at Catholic Church"?
Me: Come on, Rhon, what's the likelihood that out of all these people, we're the ones who would be photographed?
Rhonda: Angie, out of all these people, we're the only ones under 80.

I can't predict what will appear in the Salem Sunbeam (or whether or not they even spell "Wednesday" correctly, for that matter) but I can tell you that this year's service was delightfully uneventful. Like I said, I went with my friend Rhonda and her very presence made all the difference in the world from last year's incident. Rhonda grew up Catholic but currently attends the Methodist church that I do. During the Ash Wednesday service, I'd like to think that she was the Sacajawea to my Lewis & Clark expedition through the Catholic liturgy.

As we, the parishioners, gave our responses to the priest's lines (I'm at a loss for a better word), I sat beside my supportive friend and looked across the sanctuary to see the Old Lady Nudger of Ash Wednesday 2011. She was sitting serenely, black kerchief pinned atop her head, and looking so much like my Aunt Lori that I actually felt a wave of joy at the sight of her. Seeing this lady reminded me of my childhood church, First Assembly, where everyone was my aunt, uncle, or grandparent; literally and figuratively. I remembered that last year, I specifically sat next to her because of this resemblance. ...but then of course, I carried Jesus' body back to my seat and lost her favor.

When I walked out of the service at Corpus Christi, I looked across the street and there stood First Assembly of God, looking exactly the same as it did when I was a kid. I was literally and figuratively in between the two distinct worlds of family and tradition that make up a good chunk of my faith. To be perfectly honest, I didn't go to Church this morning because I find this particular sermon riveting and the smell of mushy ashes appealing; much like I don't light the Chanukkah candles and make charoset for Passover each year because I think that these actions define my relationship with God. These are just motions, just...religion that, left on its own, does not mean anything. To me, religion is a means to an end, not the end itself.

And then there's Rhonda standing next to me, cracking jokes, praying, speaking, and just being the lovely supportive person she is. She's family to me, just like First Assembly was my family when I was a kid and how Sharptown Church is now. But again, on their own, these people are just people. People are very limited, very broken, and very flawed. But when you put these people in the context of God, you've got more than just a bunch of messed up individuals, you have a community. A family. And I'm just lucky enough to have a very big one. So here's to the next forty days and all that they will entail. Let me just say in advance that I know for a fact that I wouldn't be eating canned beans for six weeks without God's help and my family's support.

Soy to the World

I'm not sure how, but there must have been about seven or eight instances in which I stood before an aisle in the grocery store and thought "I don't think I have any beans..." I must have returned home, tote filled with assorted legumes, only to discover bags and cans of the stuff already on my shelves. My brain must have then quickly repressed the entire incident before the next grocery store trip, where I then repeated the whole process over again. This is the only logical explanation that I have for owning 10 lbs of assorted beans. It doesn't even end with the dried beans, or the cans, either. In my freezer I have six bags of edamame (soy beans) and three bags of frozen peas to boot.If there are any of you who may have concerns about my protein intake during the Lent(il) Project, what with my being a vegetarian and all, I sincerely hope this minor revelation has put you at ease.

Looking at all those beans, I remember my early days as a vegetarian. Giving up meat was the first and only of my New Year's resolutions that has ever actually stuck. My old standby of "losing weight" has always pretty much been obliterated by Groundhog's Day and by Valentine's, I usually make it a point to lose myself in a Jane Austen-induced chocolate coma. So when I made the decision to become vegetarian, I made sure to load up on my mother's standard New Year's Eve fare of meatballs, shrimp cocktail, and chicken cutlets. I didn't know how long I'd go on not eating meat and I sincerely doubt my 23 year-old self ever expected it to last as long as it has.

In those early days I basically replaced every meat dish that I dearly loved with its soy alternative. I moved to Portland, Oregon three months after becoming a vegetarian and in that city I found a meat-free utopia of restaurants and markets. I was given a whole dictionary's worth of new food terms such as: soy curls, tempeh, seitan, textured vegetable protein, vital wheat gluten, Bragg's Liquid Aminos, nutritional yeast, quinoa, wheatberries, kombucha, seaweed snacks...the list goes on.

After nearly a year of soy-in' it up in Stumptown, however, I made a very important discovery: Soy mimics estrogen. Not a lot if consumed in its whole form and in moderation. But let's say you're eating cereal soaked in soy milk for breakfast, baked tofu for lunch, and meatless meatballs for dinner. And you do this, with a few variations in the menu, every day for about a year. If you're like me, you will find yourself looking down one day and realizing that you can't see your feet, or even your loathed stomach rolls. All you see is boobs. Genetically modified soy boobs that are two cup sizes and a decade late to be welcomed with open arms (no pun intended). The processed soy in MY body wasn't just mimicing estrogen, but apparently Dolly Parton as well.

After that, I changed things up a bit and took great pains to have a more balanced diet. Enter the beans, the nuts, and eggs raised by a ridiculously good-looking Egg farmer who put an end to my veganism with one flash of his wolfish smile. My vegetarianism matured and varied as I did. I became obsessed with the local farmer's markets, to the point where I knew almost every vendor by name and they knew mine. And what began as a simple, holiday-timed decision blossomed into a greater awareness of how my decisions affected my life, my health, and my world. In additon to all the aforementioned, trippy new foods I ate, I also learned about terms such as "locally grown", "sustainable", "fair trade", and "seasonal".

When I look at my cupboard now with all its assortment of beans and the obvious imprints of my life back in PDX, I wonder what this, my Lent(il) Project, my simple, holiday-timed decision will mature into. Will I become a person who understands that with every bean I buy I am casting a vote for a way of life that is sustainable not just for myself, but for everyone that, as a follower of Christ, I am bound to love? When I look at my cupboard, I am thankful to God for the following:

-That I can cook. This is a skill that I cannot ever take for granted, especially when it comes to the art of making bread, yogurt, and cheese

-That I am fortunate enough to live in a county that has an abundance of farms and local produce. It is because of people like the Buzbys that I will be able to enjoy frozen strawberries, corn, and tomato sauce during the Lent(il) project

-My amazing community of supportive family and friends. They are with me every step of the way and for that I am eternally grateful.

A Communion of Errors

As I mentioned in my first post, I had a pretty memorable first Ash Wednesday service at Messiah College. What I failed to mention, however, was my most recent Ash Wednesday service experience (last year) which was equally memorable.

Since I can't very well commute 2 and 1/2 hours to Grantham, Pennsylvania for the Ash Wednesday service at Messiah, I had to root out my own services here in Salem County. For the first couple of years, I went to the local Catholic church. Having been raised Protestant my entire life, I had a simple philosophy to get me through all the unknown Catholic traditions during a service: do whatever the little old ladies with head coverings do. When they sat, I sat. When they knelt, I knelt. When they crossed, I crossed. Those first few years of services were pretty packed, so I blended in fairly naturally with the other short, Italian women who dressed like librarians (no offense, Trish). One year I actually double dipped and went to an Episcopal service about 15 minutes after the Catholic service had ended. I'd like to say that I did this as an act of dedicated, religious discipline but, in the spirit of Catholic tradition, I have a minor confession to make: when I spoke with the Episcopal church secretary to inquire about service times, she maaaaay have mentioned a hot cross bun afternoon tea following the service (hangs head in shame). Needless to say it took me all of 30 seconds to cross myself out of the Catholic service and book it across town where I quickly wiped my forehead off (along with most of my dignity) before walking into the small Episcopalian parish. I'd also like to say that I felt deep remorse over two-timing the Catholic service, but I have a very long and complicated history with refined carbohydrates and the hot cross bun incident was just the tip of the iceberg, really. I spent my Episcopalian tea surrounded by a dozen old ladies who were more than happy to stuff me with big, gloppy hot cross buns and offer up their eligible great-grandsons. They absolutely loved me and were fascinated as to how I, being raised Pentecostal and later Methodist, knew so much about the Episcopal church. (Answer: The Mitford Series) Despite having attended two church services that both emphasized repentance and fasting, I'm pretty sure I gained about 20 lbs that Lent. All I can remember are gooey buns with big white crosses made out of frosting. It all gets a bit blurry after that...

The following year, I decided that attending Ash Wednesday services with the Episcopalians was too dangerous, so I've been attending the (healthier) Catholic services ever since. Which brings us to last year's debacle. In retrospect, I have no idea how my Methodist self managed to slip by undetected by so many devout Catholics for so long, but last year I got my comeuppance. I went to church early and followed my usual regimen: Follow the old lady with the head covering in everything she does. Everything was going fine until the call for Communion. I lined up for my little wafer'n'wine and waited my turn. And then, when I took my wafer, I did my cross/curtsy before the Crucifix, paused, and then sat back down. With the wafer. You see, in the Methodist church (which I attend), you get the Wonder Bread and wait until you're given the thumb's up by the pastor before you eat altogether as a congregation. Clearly this is/was NOT the case in the Catholic church. With my wafer in hand, awaiting the go ahead, I received a very sharp nudge by the old lady beside me.

"Did you not eat the body of Christ?"
"Um, I'm waiting to eat it"
(gasps) "...that...is the BODY. OF. CHRIST. You will eat it NOW!"
"Oh ok (stuffs the wafer in) Mmfpphsorrymmmpf...We do it different at my church"
"You're not part of the 'mold', are you?"
"Yes. I am. I am in...the mold..."
"The CATHOLIC mold?"
(Mentally debating that the definition of 'catholic' is 'universal', so what I'm about to say isn't technically a lie. On Ash Wednesday. The day of repentance. In a church.)
"Yes. I am part of the catholic church."
(Eyes me suspiciously before walking over and lighting several deliberate candles in my direction)

I'd like to say a couple things about both stories. First, it's clear that bread and I are often not...well, "simpatico". Second, this actually isn't the first time I've been scolded about disrespecting the Body of Christ. Years ago, I casually threw a muffin across the table to my sister and my mother yelled at me for throwing bread, in particular. When I asked where the harm was in tossing a muffin, she said, "Because bread represents the Body of Christ. You do not throw the Body of Christ across the kitchen table!". This opened up a huge family debate as to which breakfast food really constituted as "the Body of Christ". I mean, did this rule encompass pancakes and waffles as well? How did she feel about French Toast? Or cereal, for that matter? I later learned that the "No Throwing the Body of Christ" rule originated, not surprisingly, with my great-grandmother Carmela Racite. Who was Roman Catholic.

Finally, I should state here that I don't tell these Ash Wednesday anecdotes at the expense of the Catholic church. I tell them at the expense of my own ignorance and occasional gluttony. In fact, whenever I recall this story to my Catholic friends and family, they all immediately gasp or say "You TOOK the wafer?" and burst out laughing at my ridiculously obvious blunder. And I didn't fare any better with the Methodists either, because a week after my Body of Christ debacle, I was scolded at my own church for eating the Wonder Bread cube before Pastor Doug gave the go-ahead.

Like I said, carbohydrates and I have a very long and complicated history.

Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday is probably the least fun of all the Christian holidays (which would partially explain why so many denominations don't even bother celebrating it) and yet it happens to be my favorite. Unlike Christmas or Easter, you can't really sex up Ash Wednesday with a make-believe character or a pretty story to make it more digestible for small children. You won't see Dusty the Former Palm Sunday Branch blowing around giving little children kisses on their foreheads, and leaving them with small presents of communion wafers. No, Ash Wednesday is what it is. It's a day for fasting and repentance where you attend a church service, hear some very difficult liturgy, and have your forehead marked with ashes. It is the beginning of Lent, the forty days in which we commemorate and emulate the time when Jesus wandered into the desert with no food and only the Devil for company.

My history with Ash Wednesday has been short but significant. Basically, I was a freshman at Messiah College and I needed chapel credits. I wish I could give you a more pious motivation for attending an Ash Wednesday service, but the simple fact is this: my credits were low and the service ended just before I could have my buffet-style dinner in the cafeteria. I gave very little consideration to the significance of the day itself. To me, Lent had always been like one long, Christian equivalent of a New Year's resolution. When I actually remembered the date Lent began, I would always resolve to "give up" things like potatoes, bread, or chocolate (clearly I grew up during the Atkin's diet craze) but about two (one) weeks in, I'd shrug my shoulders and eat as I pleased.

But when I went to that first service and listened to the minister speak about repentance and sacrifice, something stuck with me. I'm not talking a happy epiphany with celestial music and a brand new outlook on life. I'm talking about something small, yet significant, that irks you the rest of your day, like a popcorn kernel in the back of your molar. You see, my whole life I grew up with these over-the-top, excessive holidays of Christmas and Easter. It wasn't a legitimate holiday in our house unless you had to empty half of the attic and spend the entire day decorating downstairs. But here at this short service I finally met a day whose idea of "decoration" was a black mark upon my face. A mark of shame, repentance, sorrow, and fear of God. Here was a day in which the minister not only called me to suffer, but to take joy in the process. And I've been celebrating it ever since!

I don't know why I love this day so much. Perhaps it's because every day of my existence is one of comfort, security, nourishment, and ease. This day is a reminder to me that at the center of my faith is a cross, a historical symbol of torture, suffering, persecution, and humiliation. Ash Wednesday reminds me that the cross' historical "attributes" continue to exist in the world today. When I "suffer" through a day without food, I am in relationship with those in the global community who suffer daily.

Most importantly, though, Ash Wednesday asks me to refocus my reliance on God again. You go 27 years of never wanting for anything, you sometimes (always) take for granted what you need, which is faith. I put so much of my energy into thinking about food, buying food, making food, loving food, giving food...that it has become my identity, my love language, and my religion.

So starting next Wednesday, Ash Wednesday, I am starting the Lent(il) Project. For forty days I will not buy a single piece of food, nor will I patron any restaurants. I will eat everything that is in my cupboards, refrigerator, and freezer for the entire season of Lent. I'm calling it the Lent(il) Project because *SPOILER ALERT* after a brief inventory of my cupboard, I discovered that I have about 10 lbs of assorted beans. As the Lent(il) Project progresses, my goal is to give a more detailed description of the Project itself, what I hope to accomplish, what I'm working with, and you know...funny anecdotes that go along with spending forty days eating beans.

If you would like to accompany me to an Ash Wednesday service at Corpus Christi (Carney's Point, NJ), the service begins on February 22nd at 7:15AM. If you're reading this, it's likely you have my number or email. Happy Suffering, everyone!