Blog Food Life

Confessions of a Failed Food Blogger, Part 2

March 17, 2016

We’re back for more.  You know you didn’t get enough the first time.


From: So, I Killed My Sourdough

I tried. I watched that starter like it was my firstborn son.  I watched it bubble and expand, and I sang lullabies over it.

I made a loaf of bread.  I let my little neighbor boys taste it.  I have a guest in my tiny apartment right now, and she happened to bring her medium-to-large sized dog, who just happens to have a taste for bread.  He helped himself to the whole loaf (minus what the little boys ate), on Sunday during church.

And then my starter died.  It separated, and stopped bubbling.  I swear, I followed Ruth Allman’s directions to a T!

Seriously.  This is like my garden.  My old roomie used to tell me that I didn’t have a garden, I had a plant hospice, to help them transition to being with Jesus.  That was the year I killed 3 cactus, an entire herb garden, peppermint (which grows as a weed in Colorado!), 5 tomato plants, and a few clean air plants.  Seriously.

So, I have moved on to killing sourdough starter,  and I’m terribly disappointed.  This was starter I had taken from work, so thankfully there’s more of where it came from.

As I write, determination bubbles up in me.  My starter may not be bubbling, but I am!  I will conquer this bread.  And I will make it taste good.

I will NOT succumb to being both a plant and a sourdough killer.

2014-09-06 11.04.09

From: In My Kitchen, We Love Jesus

I walked in early on Sunday morning to start breakfast, and the boys were already up. They had their chairs all lined up together in the dining room, watching some Alaska hunting show, looking like little boys on a Saturday morning with their cartoons. But they’re 45 years old.

Biscuits and gravy, bacon and eggs, lots of coffee, and moving on to some Sunday football….it was a good morning.

It’s snowing again, and I love it.  I am also grateful that the boss man lets me borrow his 4wheeler on nights when I have to come in before it gets light. He knows my fear of bears is very great…and rightly so. I have no gun, just a can of bear spray, and they are still moseying through the village on their way to hibernate. Bears are very much a part of life here, and I have a healthy respect for a creature that could rip my head off.

A few times last week, I ended up 4wheeler-less, and it was no good.  To keep my fear from overtaking me, I walked to work (no more than a half mile away), headlamp on, bear spray in hand, singing old hymns at the top of my lungs. If I happened upon a brown bear, he’d at least get a good rendition of “Great is Thy Faithfulness” and some prayer.

I love my Jesus. In my kitchen, we talk and it is wonderful. We talk about character while I scour pans, we talk about loving and serving when Robert, the grumpiest old boy I’ve ever met bites my head off at a meal. I sing a lot while cooking, a lot of Hillsong and Bethel and Kari Jobe music, and I’m certain it makes the food taste better.  I listen to Johnny Cash reading the New Testament in the early morning often times, and that makes the day pretty good as well.

On Sunday nights, we have a church gathering at the lodge, after dinner, with a few families in my community. The boys haven’t come yet, they just go up to their rooms.  But I get to lead us in worship, sitting on the hearth by the wood stove, and it is my favorite time of the week.

In my kitchen, love goes into the food. I am loved by Jesus, and therefore do my work heartily and with good humor (mostly). I want the boys to feel loved. To know that this place is different than others.  I want whoever walks into the dining room to know that this place is safe, and there is a listening ear, if needed.



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