Soup Bone of Contention

Photo by Daniel Bartholomew
Cream of Swiss Chard Soup. At least I love it!

Cucumbers, scallions, stevia, pumpkin...from mundane to exotic, my garden is bursting its seams this August. Those 100-plus degree days didn't defeat it. 


I gathered blackberries for breakfast, made an omelet with Hungarian wax peppers and chives for lunch, and even made Baba Ghanouj from eggplant for an appetizer this week. 


"No thank you," said my family to the Baba Ghanouj.  "No thank you" to the omelet. And when I blended up Cream of Swiss Chard Soup yesterday, 18-year-old daughter first refrained from comment (through politeness), then told me it tasted like grass. 

Just one of the cookbooks I use to try
livening up meals. This book is edited by
 Janet Swarbrick.

Second sibling said "Thank you" and declared the soup "okay." No fireworks there. 


The 12-year-old liked it, maybe. No one cleaned their bowl voluntarily. 


Why did this soup matter? The more we eat from the garden, the lower my grocery bills. But that's not all. Swiss Chard is one of the most nutrient-dense veggies on the planet. My kids have largely scrounged their own lunches this summer and this pattern has emerged: peanut butter and jelly, Ramen noodles, grilled cheese. Day after day.


Thus, my attempt to squeeze a little nutrition into the party. My teens, tween and I actually had this conversation:


Me: "Just finish the soup, ok?" I had put minuscule servings into our smallest bowls.


Child: "I did finish it." 


Me: "Then why is it still in your bowl?"


Child: "Look!" Child shows me a half-inch ring above the warm, green pool below -- evidence that several spoonfuls were attempted.


Me: "There are potatoes in there. It tastes just like potato soup. Eat it until you can see the picture on the bottom of the bowl." (A winter Currier & Ives scene. But no matter.)


Child: "You can see the picture, look!"


I repeat. These were not toddlers, but a tween and two teens. Sigh. We even began our morning yesterday with a "Saint of the Day" and Scripture readings from the Magnificat. Double sigh. The meal ended with contention. I let some frustrated words fly. It's so hard to meet collective rejection over the no-brainer concept that fresh should trump processed.


Middle son explains his bias. "Mom, they're vegetables." At least half the nation would probably agree with him, since modern palate often craves processed fare.


But...what to do with a garden full of greens no one wants? 


Guilt doesn't work. I've talked about those starving kids in Africa. Coercion seems pitiful since we are talking older kids, here. "Eat your veggies and you can have your dessert." Please. Nagging is a nuisance and plunges pleasantries at the table into a scene from Shakespeare's "Taming of the Shrew."

Photo by Marianna Bartholomew
Veggies from my garden. Now, if people would only eat them!

Subterfuge seems the best ploy. Hide those nasty vegetables. I've tried tucking them into sauces with some success, although my husband and I are trying not to overdo pasta. I could make a meatloaf and hide the greens, but who wants to heat up the kitchen for an hour mid-summer? I juiced veggies a few days ago and loved it, but again faced the chorus of "No thank yous!" from the kids. 


"Just take one sip and try it," I'll usually say. This time, I didn't bother.


I did all the right things. Breastfed each baby and raised them on whole foods. I even had a little manual baby-food grinder, and steamed and pressed their first carrots and peas. 


Now, I'll place some garden fare on the table and watch eyes collectively avert to other quadrants. In exasperation, I'll finally say, "You don't have to like it. Just take some like a vitamin." 


The usual protocol in my house is to wait until the substance is cold and has been tracked across the plate, before donning a heroic face and taking it in a few dramatic gulps. The kids do eat some veggie eventually, because that's the rule. If I go to the trouble to prepare some dish, the least they can do is eat a respectable portion of it.


I can sauté delectable veggies in butter with a dash of lemon and sea salt, and the crew still grimaces downing the ration.

Photo by Marianna Bartholomew
Fresh from the garden tastes astonishingly real.

Of course, the kids aren't considering ramifications of diet choices to health and limb. All they know is that modern taste buds eschew too-real garden fare. I do sympathize. I remember staring at my childhood dinner plate at mounds of zucchini from our organic garden. Next day? Another mound. So, I do have some empathy. For heaven's sake, even my husband has texture issues. For him, if it's slippery or pureed, forget it.


Perhaps when the kids are grown and more savvy consumers, they'll think back with at least some affection to the steady flow of organic goods that visited their childhood table. 


But for now? It's a different story. Eggs straight from an Amish farm? No thank you, we don't like eggs. Milk from that same source? The stuff from the store is so much better. Fresh garden goods March through October? Ugh.


Year after year, dinner plate after dinner plate, the same old battle. Who wants to turn every meal into a food war? 


So, the boys came with to Costco last week and I caved. Corn dogs from the freezer? Now, we're talking.


"Look, Mom. They're natural. No msg!" 

Frankly, the lure of good 'ol American processed outweighs the appeal of natural for lots of the population. Even my veggie soul is visited by cravings for White Castles and the occasional bean burrito from Taco Bell. It's all about balance, with the ratio needing to heavily favor the good. Thank heavens restaurants are trying out fresher menu items. That vegetarian burrito I got at Qdoba today was great! But since our food budget doesn't allow for frequent dining out, I try my best to recreate the bliss at home. Thus, my angst when success eludes me. 

Photo by Marianna Bartholomew
At least garden flowers are
always appreciated.

I've heard of families where the kids take to veggies like barnacles to a submarine. Since this particular trait skipped the Bartholomew gene-line, say a prayer for me, the beleaguered gardener and cook. Say a prayer for my husband and kids, who are tired of the topic. And, if any reader has a positively fool-proof recipe that even veggie-haters love, please share! 


In the meanwhile, I'll count my successes:


*Including the kids in the planting, watering and food prep process gives them skills for the future.
* Grilling vegetables can be great, if you don't set them on fire.
* Inviting the family to find a veggie-themed recipe a week adds some dash to the menu. Middle son discovered a Greek-inspired meatball recipe with mint that was easy to prepare and delicious. Youngest son found a pesto sauce (from the cookbook pictured above) that rocked our garden-fresh basil. 
* Fresh thyme, chives and garlic folded into cream cheese, thinned with a little milk and sea salt, makes a fabulous dip.  Actually, any spices will do.
* Zucchini muffins and chocolate zucchini cake go down well (along with lots of sugar, alas). 
* My daughter used fresh basil in a chicken recipe yesterday and it gained general approval. 
* Now and then, a couple of my kids get brave and enjoy a few Southern fried green tomatoes. 
* Cucumbers sliced are always easy and inoffensive.
* Fresh tomato slices on a burger work.
* Loads of hidden veggies can be tucked into stew.
* Once or twice a year, I'll make beer batter veggie tempura. Yum. No one complains.
* Squash or pumpkin bread and pie are hits. And gathering our Halloween pumpkin from the garden is a blast.


Now, for those of you shaking your heads because your family positively loves garden delights, I've included the Cream of Swiss Chard recipe. I thought it was delicious and delightfully easy. It's pretty too. Don't you agree? (See top photo.) But I can't promise your family will love it!

“Cream” of Swiss Chard Recipe! - Recipes

See the bottom of this recent post for a listing of my most popular gardening posts: Garden Gift

Photo by Marianna Bartholomew
"Square-foot Gardening" helps me plant dozens of
vegetables on one-quarter of a city-sized back lot.

A for Arms

Photo by Daniel Bartholomew

On Friday, I recorded the following "Missionary Moment" for the SQPN-affiliated podcast Catholic Vitamins (the segment features Teresa Tomeo and went live yesterday). The theme for this Catholic Vitamin is "A -- for Arms." That night, my husband came home with the news about the horrifying attack on movie-goers in Aurora, Colorado. It just so happened that, in my reflection, I had talked about the "arms" of God, the "arms" of lovers, parents and friends -- and how sometimes people can "take up arms" against each other...


I dedicate this post to the victims, survivors and families of the Aurora massacre, and to all those across our nation and world grieving this tragic event. God's blessings on all.

Catholic Vitamins' Missionary Moment -- A for Arms:


I once interviewed a man who sabotaged the work of a technician at a southern California lab. The man’s name was Mercedes, which means “mercies.” This Mercedes was not living up to his name.

Every day, he watched a fellow lab technician whistle and sing at work. That got on Mercedes' nerves. He was far from his family in Mexico, had long since left the Church, and was a bitter, angry person. Mercedes decided to do whatever he could to needle his co-worker. He would turn a screw. Snap a wire. Fiddle with the equipment, until it went down for first, a day, and then, a week.

Instead of blowing a fuse, the co-worker patiently dealt with the delays. He must have suspected something. He asked Mercedes to come with him to a prayer meeting at his Catholic church. By some miracle, Mercedes decided to go. He came out of that meeting a different person, longing for peace and opening his heart to God. He eventually quit the lab and joined a group of Catholic evangelists that helped reignite the faith at struggling churches.

Reflecting on this Catholic Vitamin "A for Arms," I first thought about the arms of God -- how we’re called to rest in those arms each day. I thought about how the love of God flows out through people in our lives: about the arms of lovers who hold each other in marriage for 50 years or more...and the arms of a parent keeping a child secure. But then I thought about how we sometimes take up arms against each other, which had me remembering Mercedes.

Photo by Bobby Mikul

Another story came to mind. In the year 2000, I spoke with a priest who served five missions scattered over 1,000 square miles. He had grown up in the Deep South and had taken a lot of grilling from his Baptist friends. They accused him of worshipping Mary and told him he was going to hell. But he grew strong under these attacks and pursued the priesthood. Through the years, he saw strides made in the area as locals better understood and accepted Catholics. But he daily lived the reality of the deep anti-Catholic prejudice that still existed. I’ll call this priest Father Raphael, just as I did in my original story for EXTENSION Magazine. I need to protect his identity.

Back in 2000, he was regularly harassed as he prayed the rosary and walked the country roads.  He would pray and walk just after sunrise. A local man would drive up in his Thunderbird and keep pace with him for 20 yards or so, give him some menacing greeting, and then tear off down the road. I told this story in a recent "Missionary Moments" piece for Catholic Vitamins. But there’s more to the story. Father Raphael kept walking and praying, which is incredible because of something he told me about his past.

About 20 years earlier, he had spent the day driving all over creation bringing the Eucharist to shut-ins. He was exhausted when he reached home. He heated up a bowl of left over stew and was just dipping his spoon in, when pounding sounded at his front door. It was dim outside and the priest couldn’t see much of the man’s face under the porch light, but he could see his wild eyes.

The visitor let forth a stream of abuse against the Catholic Church. He jumbled up conspiracy theories and accused Catholics of everything from trying to take over the world to being cannibals, because they ate the flesh and blood of Christ.

The man flew forward and started pounding his fists into Father Raphael’s face and stomach. The priest was in his mid-40’s and of average build. But he was so taken by surprise he couldn’t defend himself much.  One last punch, and the stranger took off into the night. 


Father Raphael now faced a dilemma. Should he report the attack to police? He had spent years building up trust and smoothing down anti-Catholic prejudice in town. He didn’t want a random act of violence to unleash some unholy war between Catholics and non-Catholics. So he prayed for his attacker and went to bed.

A week later, the stranger returned. When he found the rectory empty, he drove on to another town and found the pastor there at home. He shot and killed the priest, who also happened to be Father Raphael’s friend. Father Raphael cried when he told me this story. Still 20 years later, he was asking those questions that can drive a person crazy. What if I had called the police in the first place? What if they had arrested this man? My friend would still be alive.

Father could have stayed paralyzed by fear and depression. Especially when he started facing harassment 20 years later, as he did his rosary walks. But he told me he would keep on being faithful and continue his missionary work, even if a whole fleet of Thunderbirds started tailing him. That is supernatural. A sign of him running right into God’s arms for strength.

One last image. I interviewed Joseph Cardinal Bernardin right after his cancer returned, in October of 1995. The Cardinal was another Southern boy. He said he grew up thinking the entire world was Protestant because South Carolina Catholics made up little more than half of one percent of the population. But his father was an Italian stonecutter and his mother a devout seamstress, also from Italy, so he grew up strongly rooted in the Faith. When I asked him if he ever found himself running from God during his illness, being overtaken by bitterness or fear, he said this: “Fortunately, my faith is such that I ran toward, not away.” It’s an incredible image, of this scholarly, gentle man, running right into those arms of God.

There are the tender arms of lovers. The comforting arms of parents. The hearty embrace and clap on the back from a friend. There are the times when people take up arms against us. And then there are those all-powerful, infinitely-loving arms of God.


If you go to a concordance and look up the word "arm," there are 67 references of that word in Scripture, many referring to the saving power of God’s arm. Psalm 77 verse 14 says, “You are the God who works wonders; among the peoples you have made known your power. With your strong arm you redeemed your people." 

The House I Live In -- Happy 4th of July

Frank Sinatra sings this moving tribute to what makes America great.

Celebrating Summer with Scones

Since school's end, I've been writing five or more hours daily, putting final touches on my young adult novel. Now that I'm free from regular teaching for a couple months, I write before the kids roll out of bed, again around lunch, and often burn the midnight oil. I'm not naturally an early riser, so hitting the keyboard by 6:30 -- 7:00 AM is quite a discipline. 

Two years ago, a friend gave us a raspberry bush
that was little more than a twig. With little care,
it has grown to monster size, yielding
berries for weeks. 

I needed fresh air and exercise after a lengthy writing session last week. Slipping out to the garden, I found my raspberry bushes laden. Fresh raspberries are luxury enough, but visions of fresh-baked raspberry-chocolate scones danced in my brain. What a great way to celebrate the official start to summer. I just so happened to have Ghirardelli chocolate chips in the cupboard, so...in they went, into the dough. 

Using freezer paper to roll out dough 

made clean up easier.

My daughter made Orange Pekoe and Pekoe Cut Black Tea (a fancy way of saying Lipton's). The boys helped mix dough, set the table, etc. Mid-way through, we realized we were one egg short. I trekked down the block to two different neighbors and finally returned victorious -- with an organic, free range egg, no less.

We sprinkled half the scones with refined, white sugar, the other half with raw. I preferred the raw. Frankly, the boys would have preferred all-aound more sugar! But my daughter and I loved the subtly-sweet taste, and the mix of moist raspberries and melted, bitter chocolate. We used a recipe from Rombauer's and Becker's classic Joy of Cooking. (Click on the link to see Rombauer's home in St. Louis and a "Joy" online community.)

Almost forgot to add the egg wash at the end. 

That simple step turned the scones a

delectable golden-brown. 

Graduation and birthday parties, community band rehearsals and concerts, choir recitals, my oldest teen's choir trip to Nashville, an emergency doctor's visit for a scratched cornea, a DIY remodeling of our bathroom, preparing the boys' bedroom for painting, sealcoating our driveway, hefty laundry loads (due to 90-degree-plus days), school record-keeping, arranging homeschool curricula for next year, registering two kids for high school classes, college visits  -- all these commitments and duties have kept us hopping. But dropping everything for an hour to bake scones and enjoy a tea party with my pre-teen and teens set the day apart. 

Celebrating summer by heating up the kitchen? It worked for us. Happy summer!

The scone platter is from our Pfaltzgraff set of wedding china. 

The raspberry bowl and teapot were resale shop finds. 

My 12-year-old son said he could do tea every day.

I agree.

Photos by Daniel Bartholomew

Garden Gift

Chicago weather's been hovering 90 degrees and higher this past week, but evenings are a different story. Two days ago, I frizzled in the heat gathering raspberries in my garden mid-morning (can't find my straw hat anywhere), then shivered in my denim jacket at an outdoor jazz concert by 9:00 PM. I overheard someone say it's supposed to reach 97 degrees today. We have to be flexible and hearty in these northern parts!

To refresh the spirit and get these photos posted before the first day of summer on the 20th, I present to you my men, with a spring planting project! At the bottom is a corral of my most popular gardening posts, for you plant- and nature-lovers.

Nothing like a little father/son planting activity. My
youngest boy is manning the camera.

Precision at work, here!

My husband surprised me with a crabapple tree this Spring.
I've always wanted one. Notice the brown shape on our lawn?
Bent Grass is invading our city. The brown eventually
turns green.

Son #1 throwing his muscle into the project.

Creating a rich, new habitat. 

Great fit!

I didn't have to lift a finger on this one...
I'll always associate my men with this tree. Good job, guys!

My gardening posts have been among my most-visited. Here's a corral of these posts: Spinach-planting Time; Walking With God in the Garden; Fruits of our Labor

Photos by Daniel Bartholomew

Medieval Monastery Book Helpdesk

Rise Above Judgment

Photo by Eddie Bartholomew

Judgment
i shrink
pinhead on white


big hands crush my footing
turn my world inverted


i sweat and pray


deeply
i know
the world's back
the tossed head
the laughter over shoulder


as my small
ball of a world
is tossed away


By Marianna Robin Bartholomew


In college, we laughingly called this type of poetry "Oh God I'm Suffering Poetry." Every writer probably has a drawerful. I wrote this one years ago. In high school?


I thought of this poem this morning because I was still raw from an event last night where two strong personalities judged and discarded me. As adults, we hopefully move beyond having our world rocked by  others' judgments. A priest on Relevant Radio talked about how, rooted and secure in Jesus, we should never allow another to disturb our peace. 


But, in a setting where people of faith gather to uplift one another, being treated with a lack of charity can react on one's spirit like a cold-water splash. 


My husband looks at me with his rich, brown eyes, and says, "Develop a thicker skin."


Last night, I was adjacent a church. I smiled, waved to a few people, then took a 10-minute sabbatical to step into the  candlelit, vacant dimness. I hope it was vacant, because I spent the next moments on my knees, singing to Jesus in the tabernacle. Songs from years ago, from my old prayer group: 


"I will give You all my worship, I will give You all my prai-ai-ai-aise! You are worthy of my worship. You are worthy of my prai-ai-ai-aise! I will bow down, I will bow down. Hail You as King, hail You as King. I will give You, I will give You, everything. E-e-everything!"


You know. The type of music some people poke fun at...The type of music I sing in the car, shower and on long walks, because my early reversion is all about that type of music -- and the Sacraments and Scripture, where that music led -- and the amazing, warm, motley, non-judgmental group of women, men and children who were re-converting and finding God, and loving me, as I loved them. 


In each other's eyes, we saw Jesus. An irresistible attraction. The attraction kept me going faithfully to "Wednesday Group" whether I was tired, crabby, over-busy, disinclined to drag my baby and two toddlers out to Mass and prayer group...


So, last night I sang my music, and had my moments telling God, "I'm glad You understand me. I'm glad You love me. And I'm glad in heaven, everyone, even all the prickly, judgmental, self-righteous ones -- and I know that includes ME -- will all understand each other."


Back in prayer group, everyone laughed once when I fervently exclaimed, "I can't wait to get to heaven, where I'll know everything!" All the mysteries explained, without a word, except The Word. And in a grand soul-infusion, we'll just know. All our pesky questions answered. And all the things we misunderstand about each other? Fully, blissfully cleared. We'll be transparent as Tiffany glass. Wait. Tiffany glass is largely jewel-colored. But this is heaven, and we'll be jewel-colored and transparent! I know it...


At a retreat once, I heard a priest talk about "The Sensitives" -- people open to the Holy Spirit. As we draw closer to Jesus in the Holy Eucharist, God the Father and His Holy Spirit, our hearts warm, open, expand, and become more sensitive. We feel empathy that should embrace and uplift the other.


Yet, we're advised to thicken our skins. Therein lies a conflict.


Part of the answer is to accept the pain that comes with artistic and soul-felt sensitivity, but then move on, and keep our gazes fixed far beyond Self. We should do our little self-examinations daily, resolve and pray to do better, visit the confessional for Actual Grace that keeps our faith vibrant and organic. Those are healthy resolutions. But beyond that basic self-tending, God and Other should be enough to keep us largely occupied.


I saw the humor last night, as I softly sang my praise songs to my Friend in the Tabernacle. I imagined a janitor in the corner, lurking, having a snicker or two at my expense. I know the janitor was stalking the halls last night, crabby, because our group was a bit boisterous, messy, and late in staying. 


In church, I had my moment to regroup, whether with or without the janitor, or some other hidden visitor, as my audience. I took a few breaths, felt God's Presence replace bitterness, then returned to the party, determined to have a good time.


Sometimes, community will burn, not sustain. But it reminds me of Mother Teresa's words:

Do It Anyway 

People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered.  Forgive them anyway. 

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives.  Be kind anyway.  

If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies.  Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you.  Be honest and sincere anyway. 

What you spend years creating, others could destroy overnight.  Create anyway. 

If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous.  Be happy anyway. 

The good you do today, will often be forgotten.  Do good anyway. 

Give the best you have, and it will never be enough.  Give your best anyway. 

In the final analysis, it is between you and God.  It was never between you and them anyway. 

-this version is credited to Mother Teresa