A Husband for Christmas

This Christmas season, I've been thinking about one gift in the nativity story that often gets overlooked. It was God's gift to Mary. No, I'm not talking about Jesus. A baby is a wonderful gift, but babies come with a laundry list of responsibilities and--laundry. I'm talking about Joseph.

How sweet of God to make sure Mary had a husband! When the angel came to her and everything went down, she didn't have one. And for a while it looked like she wouldn't. Joseph found out about her pregnancy and was going to take the kindest route available to him under Jewish law--he was going to forgo the stoning and just divorce her quietly. What a relief it must have been for Mary when Joseph told her of the angel coming to him in a dream. No longer facing the prospect of single motherhood (what would that have looked like in Nazareth?), she was going to have her chosen husband after all.

How nice that God talked to Joseph, too. Mary had a pretty unbelievable story. God could have made Joseph believe it from Mary's account alone, but he didn't. He sent an angel directly to Joseph in a dream and explained everything. No longer was the burden of this child growing within her completely on Mary. And no longer was the responsibility of listening to God correctly squarely on her shoulders. God could talk to Joseph too. What a confirmation to Mary's faith to hear that God told the same story to him. What an assurance that God would probably talk to both of them in the future.

How considerate that God gave Mary someone to stand with her. I've directed our church's Vacation Bible School several times. One time by myself, other times with a co-director. I much prefer the latter. Having a co-director to share ideas, help plan, and to stand with me during the opening session (even if she was in the back) was a huge psychological boost. It's like using the "editorial we" when writing opinions--it's so much nicer to pretend there's a plural rather than exposing yourself in the singular. Leadership is lonely. During her pregnancy, I'm sure Mary was grateful she had Joseph by her side as they passed Nazareth's town gossips.

I'm sure Mary was grateful Joseph was with her through labor and delivery as well. When I was pregnant with Caleb, our first child, I was glad Dave came with me, toting a pillow to the childbirth classes. I was glad he was with me watching Caleb playing in McDonald's play place and timing my contractions before we went to the hospital to have Harrison. I was thankful he was with me in the hospital when, sans drugs, I went into transition with Laurel, our third. Even when there are doctors and nurses to assist, husbands are wonderful to have around when facing the scary prospect of delivering a baby. Joseph's role was not only nice, but necessary.

How wonderful that Mary had help raising Jesus. As our kids grow older, new situations arise that call for new rules and regulations. I'm always glad that I can run decisions by Dave and not have to make the call by myself. I can check with him to see if I'm overreacting. He can back me up. I'm sure Mary and Joseph did a good job raising Jesus, but I have to admit the story of them leaving Jesus at the temple makes me feel a little better about forgetting Harrison at the pool or the time we left Laurel at church.


I'm glad that God gave me a husband for Christmas too, 21 years ago. I remember that fall I would drive from Tabor College to Wichita to spend the weekend with Dave at his mom's house planning our wedding. Sunday nights became excruciating as I had to face the hour drive back to Hillsboro and the following week without him. How wonderful it was when we were finally married and could be together. Because that was God's plan for us. It was God's plan for Mary and Joseph, too. And it was good.

Adventures in Tutoring

This fall I took a job tutoring in the Wichita public school system. I work three afternoons a week at three different elementary school. I guess I'm easing myself back into the "traditional" work force (by that I mean a schedule where you have to be on time and submit hours worked).

I've learned a few things, and remembered a few things I'd forgotten. So here are some random observations:

• Those scary-looking people hanging around the building after school are the PARENTS.
• Much of school time consists of waiting in line, and waiting for kids to be quiet.
• Teachers today have to be excellent multi-taskers, because they have kids coming and going constantly from their classrooms for tier time, interventions, block scheduling, and tutoring.

Moments that made me pause:
My very first student ever, a 5th grader, happened to mention that his birthday was Sept. 27, which was exactly a week away. He also said he liked to skateboard.
 The next week on his birthday, I brought two cupcakes (my daughter Laurel helped me make them the night before), and "decorated" one with a miniature skateboard stuck on top, which was one Laurel happened to have that she didn't want anymore. It felt a little deviant having our own private party at the desk in the hall. He loved the skateboard. He said he'd have a party on the weekend.
 The next week I asked him how his party went. He said he hadn't had it because his mom didn't have money right then, but they'd combine it with his sister's birthday party--in November.


I asked a 5th grade girl what her parents did. She readily told me that her mom works at Wal-Mart stocking shelves at night, and her dad works at McDonald's. She said her mom has the better job, because she makes $9.40 an hour, her dad makes $8.60.

I was reading a book with two third grade boys, both of which are at or above grade level, so I'm doing reading enrichment with them. One is actually quite advanced (he told me he's currently reading "The Hobbit" on his own). In the story we were reading, the boy had to move and adjust to a new home and school. I asked them if they'd ever moved. The advanced one said yes, he'd moved four times. First they'd had a house with a porch. Then they'd lived with Grandma, Then they lived in an apartment. Now they're back with Grandma.

One sweet, enthusiastic brown-eyed first grader was telling me about her family. Something she said (I can't remember what) made me ask her if her dad lived with them. "No, he's in prison," she said.

When I first met one kindergartener, I thought he was a basket case--squirmy and clueless. I figured his teacher had jumped at the chance to have him tutored just to get him out of her classroom for half an hour. But the next week, he seemed to know most of his letters and the sounds they made. A couple of weeks later, he was telling me the names of pictures and figuring out how to spell their three-letter names with my Boggle Jr. set. I'd forgotten how quickly kindergarteners can learn once they settle in and get the hang of school.

On the other hand, another kindergartener can't count to ten. It's "One, two. . .three. . . five. . .eight?" I've worked with him for two weeks putting plastic blocks or dinosaurs one at a time into a pile as we count out loud. It seems like a foreign concept to him.

I've got a sweet little 1st grader, I'll call him "Juan," (because that's his name) who's reading above grade level, and I get to read with him for enrichment. I brought "Danny and the Dinosaur," from of a set of Scholastic Books from when I was in kindergarten. He showed so much excitement and pleasure in reading the story. We were interrupted by a fire drill and he couldn't wait to get back to the book.
I told my kids about how much he enjoyed it, and Caleb looked at me with an "of course" look. "Danny and the Dinosaur" is a good book," he said, remembering the countless hours I read to him growing up.
Well yes, it is. It's elegantly written with imagination and subtle humor, something that is hard to find in beginning readers.
When Juan read "Harry and the Lady Next Door" (also from my childhood set) on the part about the cows, he actually made a "mooing" sound when he read the word "mooing." So cute! It warmed my heart.

Pondering:
No Child Left Behind is a misnomer (among other things) because it implies that all the children start out together. Maybe it should be "Every Child Caught Up."

Any mom who feels she is "just a mom" and her life isn't counting for much should try to count with my little kindergartener, then compare with how her kids are doing.

Growing up, I wanted to be a teacher. However, I looked at some of the kids in my class who for one reason or another (dyslexia, probably) weren't "getting it" and were disruptive in the process. I didn't know how I could help them. I wasn't sure I'd have the patience. So I decided I'd be a writer.

It's no surprise to me that I look forward to reading with Juan, who stops at periods and reads with excitement and inflection in his little 1st grade voice. Or that I love reading "Where the Red Fern Grows" with a 5th grade student over his lunch hour (we take turn reading pages so he can eat. My excuse is he needs to hear reading aloud with expression so he can copy). Or that I am not all that excited when a teacher wants me to go over a whole worksheet of division with decimals.

Ever since that magical July day in 1975 when, cleaning up for Grandpa and Grandma's farm sale, we found Uncle Alvin and Aunt Rosalie's old Tip and Mitten readers and I sat down and discovered I COULD READ, I've been hooked. I'm trying to pass that on.

Beer rocks, please!

I grew up with German Mennonite parents and grandparents, and learned to cook and bake a lot of the traditional foods that go along with that heritage.

However, I realized early on that most of the wonderful dishes are often difficult and incredibly time-consuming, so I would rarely fix them. When I did, inevitably I would regret it halfway through the hours-long process. So over the years, my three kids learned to steer clear of the kitchen whenever mom was cooking veranika, or baking zwiebach, or making anything they couldn’t pronounce.

A few summers ago, I noticed “beer rocks” written in my son Harrison’s handwriting on my kitchen white board. I love when my kids leave me menu suggestions, but this one made me pause. Bierocks, which involves yeast, were part of my dreaded German Mennonite Pocket Trifecta. But I’d recently inherited a Kitchen Aid stand mixer with a dough hook. That would make it easy.

So I picked up a couple cabbages on my next grocery trip, and one afternoon decided to make bierocks. The recipe in the Ebenfeld Mennonite Brethren Church cookbook listed “your favorite sweet roll dough.” No problem. My mom had copied Grandma Epp’s “Rolls, Buns, or Doughnuts” and other family recipes for me for my bridal shower. After 17 years, I might as well try it, I thought. 

I used the mixer to combine the yeast with the other ingredients, “using enough flour to make a soft dough,” the recipe said. After four cups my flour bin was empty. I checked my pantry shelf for an extra bag. None. Darn. This was going to require more than a cup or two from my neighbor, so I headed to the store.  As I was in the checkout line (with a lot of other items I’d grabbed while I was there) my husband called my cell phone.

“Karen, your stuff is exploding all over the counter,” he said.

 

“I’m on my way.” 

When I got home, I saw the yeast-flour mixture had indeed risen and bubbled over the sides of the stainless steel bowl, and was spilling down the front of my cabinets onto the floor.

I cleaned up the mess and started adding flour. And more flour. I remembered the gigantic ceramic bowl Grandma used for baking on Saturdays, and the table piled with baked goods hours later. Oh no! I was making bread for a week!

I had plenty of dough for the double batch of bierock filling I’d made. After finally pinching the last pocket closed, tucking the ends under and placing it on the pan, I still had lots left. I rolled out the remaining dough and slathered on butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon and rolled it up for cinnamon rolls. I filled two pans.

But in the meantime my kids and husband had all at various times wandered through the kitchen, wondering when dinner would finally be ready. They’d all snagged a hot bierock or two from the cooling racks, which was fine with me. At that point I didn’t feel like having a sit-down meal anyway. On Harrison’s second trip into the kitchen, he noticed the kitchen in shambles and the exhaustion on my face.

“Mom,” he asked hesitantly, now realizing the enormity of his request, “are beer rocks German?”

“Yes,” I sighed, giving him a flour-dusted hug. “Yes, Harrison, they are.”

Bierocks are filled with seasoned ground beef and cabbage.

Get them while you can, they don't last long at our house.

The Lessons of Losing

One of my favorite amazing statistics:  On any given Friday night, of all the high school football teams who play, 50 percent of them LOSE.

Losing is a part of life. It happens. It happened to half of the teams who played last night. The problem is, North is ALWAYS in the bottom half.

But last night we had a chance. We were ahead! In the third quarter, we were ahead 18-9 against South. Then they scored, but we still were ahead 18-17. Then they had a chance to score but we held them FOR THREE DOWNS RIGHT AT THEIR OWN GOAL LINE. So, they kicked a field goal and got ahead 18-20 with a couple of minutes left. We took the ball almost down the field, but didn't even get a chance to kick a field goal of our own, and the game was over.

We lost, again.

And we knew it would be this way. Before Caleb enrolled at North last year, everyone told us "get ready to lose." But we wanted to stay with our assigned school. North has great tradition. We didn't want to jump through the hoops to get a special transfer so our son could play on the winning team of choice. We would tell people that if everyone would simply send their kids to their assigned schools, the teams would be more even. If the good kids living in North's district would actually attend and play for North, we could be competitive. And they would say, "Yeah, but you ultimately have to do what's best for your kid," with the implication that finding them a winning program was the way to go.

But last year we knew of some good players Caleb's age who were going to North. Their motto was, "We're bringing it back!" They won a few games as freshmen. Now those sophomores are playing varsity. They're trying. But they can't overcome an offensive line that steps aside to let the defense rush through. Players who have made mistakes are allowed to make them again and again, while others who have demonstrated they can do better are left on the sidelines or placed in positions where they are underused.

Because that's another problem with losing teams--poor coaching. Sloppy, unorganized practices lead to games like last night. Coaches who are not students of the game don't catch when the chain gang gives the opposing team an extra down on the first possession, causing them to score and setting the tone for the entire game (that was against Dodge City).

And of course, I'm speaking as a mother here, but last week playing fullback my son had 47 yards rushing on two carries (one two-yard gain, and an awesome 45-yard run in which he nearly scored. North did get one of their two touchdowns of the game from that series). So this week, did they even let him touch the ball? Did they even put him in as fullback? Of course not.

We know programs go through "rebuilding" years, but at this point we see no signs of construction. And don't get me wrong, the coach is a nice guy, but not all nice guys should be coaches.

So now we look at Harrison, who will enter high school next year (yikes). Should we take the advice of friends and "do what's best for our child' and seek out a high school with a winning program? I'd hate to do it, but faced with four more years of sitting through football games like last night, it's tempting.

Memory Lane

On our way to Wolf Creek Pass and Pagosa Springs, Dave couldn't resist turning in to Big Meadows. Dave's grandparents took him and his siblings camping and fishing there every summer.

The summer we were engaged I got to join the Franklin clan for a weekend. We've been back about a dozen times since then with our kids, family, and friends.We camped when I was pregnant with Caleb. The next year, we hung a johnny-jump-up in the tree to keep our 6-mo. old amused, and borrowed a baby backpack to hike with him around the lake. On Laurel's first visit, she was nearly a year, but not yet walking, so I spent the week trying to keep her from crawling through the dirt. A few years later, Caleb and Harrison were able to climb the Big Rock and leave their sister stranded, just as Dave and his brothers had done with Jennifer. That might have been the year that Caleb, who NEVER wet his bed, had an accident in his sleeping bag on night one of a four-night stay. (OK, not all the memories are good).

 The road wasn't paved, but we took it anyway. On the way, we spotted this deer wandering on the road.

Loud pipes save lives. This guy heard us coming and had no desire to become a Heritage Softtail hood ornament.

 The campground was closed! Good thing we hadn't planned on staying there. I vaguely recalled seeing a notice that it would be closed in 2011 when we were last there with our friends the Kraemer's in 2009. It will be open next year after campground renovations are complete. They're probably making the sites bigger to better accommodate the RVs. I imagine a new sign is on order as well.

 Ahh! There's the lake. Several people were fishing.

I take a moment to enjoy the view. Not sure what Dave was looking at.

 Here's proof that we were there!

Dave's grandpa Earl, who died in 1993, caught many trout out of this lake, and he loved this place more than any other place on earth. I had to take one last shot of Dave in front of the lake that hold so many good memories for him, his family, and for ours.

Living the Dream, or, The Open Road

Getting away for even just a long weekend is never easy. For us, summers are challenging because we have a lawn service, and it's our busiest season. However, our boys work with us, so they know what to do, and Caleb now has a driver's license.

So Dave arranged for the boys to take care of a few lawns on Friday and Monday, and suddenly we were free.

Dave had always wanted to ride his motorcycle on the scenic mountain roads in Colorado. We decided to put the Harley in the back of the truck and enjoy the AC as we traveled through western Kansas. We had put it in the back of the truck once before, when we drove the Harley to Dallas to pick up the truck which Dave saw on ebay. Still, it's a dicey operation. At home, Dave and Caleb managed to get the bike in the back of the truck without a hitch using our curb and ramps.

In the back of our minds, however, was a nagging concern about we were going to get the motorcycle back off the truck. Dave scoped out Salida, and decided the boat dock area near the river would work.

He lined it up, got out the ramps, and rolled it off as smooth as you please.

 We parked the truck in the alley behind the hostel where we'd spent the night, then loaded all the gear we would need for the next three days on the bike.

And we were ready to roll. As we got on the open road heading toward the mountains, I realized how worried I'd been about all the necessary details coming together. I thought, "We're actually doing it!"

Almost immediately, Dave said, "We're doing it!"
We were living the dream.

Dave Nearly Loses His Sole in Durango

I've got to skip ahead a bit on our trip because I can't wait to write about our evening in Durango. We decided to wing it and didn't book a hotel until we got into town at about 8 p.m. We found a vacancy (not an easy task) at an acceptable Knight's Inn. It was a little ways away from the historic downtown district, but Durango has a trolley, so we decided to take it.

This free trolley will take you downtown. 

Our hotel gal told us the trolley stopped running at 10 p.m., but we decided we could walk the mile and a half back. We got dropped off and enjoyed window shopping and checking out the night life.

After listening to a band for a while (more on that in a following blog), we decided to walk back to our hotel.

On the way, we saw a cool old Chevy Suburban,

and an old Honda Civic.

and this great rooster in front of a neat coffee shop in a renovated old home. That's when it all happened. Dave's trusty Keen sandal, which had lasted for four years, became a flapper. The heel portion of the sole came unglued, and it flapped with every step.

I was nearly lying on the sidewalk from laughing so hard. But we kept going, Dave flapping every time he lifted his left foot.

Then the flapper flopped into the street, making me laugh even harder. Dave had lost his sole in Durango.

Dave says he thought, WWJD? What Would Jarrod Do? Referring, of course, to my Hillsboro High School friend known for always carrying a Louis L'Amour paperback in his back pocket.

So, Dave picked up his sole and stuck it in his back pocket and continued on to the motel

with his new moccasin.

A Hostel and a Hike

I'd been to Salida several times before, but it wasn't until last year when we had to get our 4-wheeling licenses, that we actually got off the main (ugly) drag and down to the cute historic district by the river.

So I was pleased that the hostel Dave found for us to stay in was in the historic district, just a block from the city park that borders the river. This was the charming street we found after our long day of travel through western Kansas.

While Dave called John, the owner of the hostel, I took some photos.

This is the hostel, painted fun and funky colors throughout.

We enjoyed the cooler temps and the short walk to a restaurant that John recommended.

In the middle of the mountain in the background is the "S" for Salida.

It was nice to see people out enjoying the evening, after coming Wichita where people are hibernating next to their ACs to escape 100-plus temperatures.

On our walk, I notices the "S" on the mountain, and also what looked like a trail going to a lookout tower. Back at the hostel, I asked John about it. He showed me a map, told me how to pick up the trail. He said the hike would take a little over an hour. I was in.

So, at 6 a.m. (only 7 a.m. Wichita time) I got up and headed for the trail. I was a little confused on where it actually started, but I saw a guy with a marathon tech shirt (good sign!) and his recquisite dog (why do Coloradoans always have a dog or two in their vehicles?) in the parking lot, and he pointed me in the right direction.

On the side of the hill about halfway up, the sun just touching the tops of the mountains looking to the west.

Like lots of hikes, it was a lot more involved that it looked from the ground.

View from the top.

I made it to the lookout tower, but didn't bring my Sharpie to mark my accomplishment. I should have had a jogger who was there also take my photo for proof that I made it to the top. I guess you'll just have to trust that I'm the one who took this photo and not 'Dave. 

 

 

 

 

 

 
Here's the "S!" 

Rocky Mountain High

About two weeks ago, when Wichita was on day 20 or so of 100-plus degrees and we were getting tired of pushing mowers over crispy grass, my husband decided we needed to go to Colorado.

When Dave gets an idea, he makes it happen.

So, last Thursday we had the Harley loaded in the back of the truck (we decided we would really like AC on the trek through western Kansas) and we headed for Salida, Colorado.

We were nearly there when we saw there had been an accident.

This wrecker truck was attempting to pull out

Whoops! To the left of the rafts is an old school bus that overturned on this river access road while transporting a load of rafters.

the bus that is upside down. It had been transporting people to the river and pulling the trailer of rafts. Some people told us that out of the 50 or so people on the bus, only 6 needed to go to the hospital, and it didn't seem that anyone was seriously hurt.

 

So, we snapped a few pictures and continued on our journey. We had lots of adventures, so be sure to check back every day this week for a new installment!

Book Club!

I joined a book club this past February. Shortly after, I happened to catch a part of Oprah's show where her guest Dan Buettner said that joining a group that meets regularly and people remind you to attend gives as much happiness as earning an extra $75,000 (or something like that. I've misplaced my notes).

I'm not sure I agree with Mr. Buettner's assertions (after all, $75,000 is a lot of cash) but I will say that I have enjoyed my new group immensely. Four of the women attend my church, but since we have four services, I don't see them regularly, and didn't even know they were book lovers like me. Like Anne of Green Gables, I enjoy discovering kindred spirits!

Another gal, I learned, lived a block away from me for about four years, and our kids even attended the same elementary school! She now lives in a small town outside of Wichita, and we meet in book club. Small world.

On my first night, they said goodbye to the group's founder, who was moving to Arizona. In the parting gifts they referenced the books they'd read over the past two years, and I was pleased to see that I had read a number of them as well. I also learned who was the Kindle spokeswoman, who championed the classics, who liked sci-fi, and who relied heavily on wikipedia when she didn't have time to actually read the book.

One great thing about this group is the food. The hostess is charged with serving snacks or a meal that corresponds to the book we just read. So, when we read "Bridget Jones' Diary" Jade fixed a turkey curry buffet, since Bridget's mom was always wanting her to attend the Darcy's annual Christmas turkey curry buffet. When we read "Room" we munched on snacks that Jack and his mom ate in their five-year captivity in the room.  For "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil" it was a Southern-style spread, with chocolate pecan pie, a caramel cake, and tomato sandwiches with the tomatoes patted dry with a napkin, just as the best caterers would. For "The Hunger Games," we had fish and berries that Katniss would have caught, and a decorated cake Peeta would have been proud of.

This last month, however, topped them all. We read "A Homemade Life" by Molly Wizenberg, the creator of the food blog "Orangette." Jimi had everyone bring something from the book--or a special recipe of their own. Yum! Everything was incredibly delicious--butternut soup, with pear, cider, and vanilla bean; roasted tomatoes; meatballs with pine nuts, cilantro, and golden raisins; pickled grapes with cinnamon and black pepper; blueberry-raspberry pound cake and much more. After devouring everything, we took a picture with everyone wearing aprons.

Another great thing about this book club is we actually talk about the books--sometimes extensively. We always rate each book on a scale from 1 to 5, and give our comments. I think Erin nailed it this week. She admitted she isn't really interested in cooking, but she read the book because it was the book this month--and she enjoyed it. She said that's why she joined book club--to read things that she wouldn't normally pick up.

I guess that's why I'm doing it. But the food's good too.

The Best Prank Ever--Almost

Today I received a postcard in the mail reminding me that Saturday is the National Association of Letter Carriers annual Stamp Out Hunger Food Drive. That reminds me of the best prank I ever attempted. And it almost worked.

A few years ago, on a hot Saturday in May, I happened to be out in the yard when Steve, our mailman, came by delivering mail and collecting bags of donated canned goods.

This is Steve, our long-time mailman.

Steve has been our mailman for 15 years, and I was already indebted to him for jump-starting the dead battery on my van with his postal Jeep one morning when I needed to make an emergency trip to the doctor because four-year-old Caleb had wiped out on his bicycle and needed stitches in his chin. But that's another story, and one that Steve made me swear I'd never tell. Apparently the U.S. Postal Service frowns upon mailmen using their Jeeps to help stay-at-home moms in distress.

Anyway, Steve frequently visits with us, and always has a funny or sarcastic comment. This day, as he lugged the heavy canned goods to his truck he happened to mention that the food drive was actually not his favorite event. I tucked that little piece of information away in my brain.

The next year, I had a plan for the perfect prank: I would get a bunch of big food-service size cans to donate for the food drive. Then Steve would have to haul them all to his truck. The only problem was that our house is right by the corner where he parks his Jeep--the last stop before he unloads. So I got my neighbors involved.

I bought a dozen huge cans of corn, beans, and peas. The Friday before the food drive, I knocked on the doors of neighbors up and down the street who I thought I could convince to join me in my prank, and asked if they would set the large can out along with their donations the next morning. All of them agreed. My elderly five-foot tall neighbor, Eleanor, giggled mischievously. I couldn't wait to see Steve lugging all of those canned goods all along the street.

I had several large cans left, which I set out on my porch early the next morning, and I waited. And waited. We normally get our mail around 10 a.m., but 11 a.m. came and went--still no sign of the mailman. We left and came back--still no mail, and the cans were still there. Then it was afternoon. We left again and came back to an empty mailbox and my same pyramid of cans. Where was Steve?

Finally, around 5 p.m. a substitute mailman showed up. Through the curtains of my picture window I saw him take one of the food service cans. I watched him go down the block and work his way back to my house. By the time he got to my place, he didn't even bother to pick up my canned goods, or even drive his Jeep back by to collect them that way.

After a few weeks, I got the nerve to ask Steve if he'd heard anything about the food-service sized cans. He hadn't, but he enjoyed the joke, especially since he'd taken the day off and the joke was on me.

Baking the Mennonite Pocket Trifecta

My grandparents on both sides were German Mennonites. Like all good Mennonite women, my grandmas baked and cooked a lot. My mom did too.

I, however, was off the hook. I wouldn’t need to attempt those difficult and ridiculously time-consuming recipes.  I’d married a non-Mennonite.

What I’d failed to take into account was where I’d met my husband—Tabor College, a Mennonite Brethren school. Sometime during the four-and-a-half years he spent in Hillsboro, my city-dwelling husband-to-be tasted veranika, zwiebach, bierrocks, peppernuts, cherry moos, etc.--and his eyes were opened.

Shortly after we married he suggested we make veranika (cottage cheese-filled pasta pockets), and while we were at it, why not invite his family and several friends?

I sighed heavily and rolled my eyes. “I’ll help,” he said. I called my mom and copied down the recipe. I used my new veranika cutter that Grandpa Epp had made for all of the women at our last Christmas gathering. Still, the veranika pockets kept popping open in the boiling water and losing their filling. Finally we managed to make enough edible ones as our dinner guests were arriving.

These were the leftover veranika last New Year's Day. We made about 60 for a dinner for Dave's family.

My other forays into traditional German Mennonite cuisine always started with the best of intentions, but predictably ended hours later with frazzled nerves, messy countertops, and a mounting frustration with both my grandmas and every other German Mennonite woman through the ages who set the Gold Medal flour standard so impossibly high.

Like the time I was to host the church group leaders’ meeting at my house. Instead of serving apple pie, which would require fussing with plates and forks (this was the year we lived in a rental house without a dishwasher), I had the bright idea to simply serve hand-held apple dumplings, or Prieska. So after dinner the evening before the meeting, I set out to make them.

Hours later, with my husband already snoring in bed, my kitchen dusted in flour, my back and shoulders aching from mixing and rolling out pie dough, cutting it into squares, and pinching each dumpling shut, I decided making dumplings was ten times more time-consuming than baking a pie (which is hardly a quick fix).

At the meeting the next night, my friend Stacy commented that the hand-held dumplings were a convenient idea. I thought of the stacks upon stacks of plates and forks I could have washed during the time it took to complete my marathon apple dumpling-baking session. “Not as convenient as you might think,” was all I could reply.

Grab a bierrock while you can--they don't last long at our house.

Occasionally I would try bierrocks, a bun baked with a ground beef and cabbage filling. And every time, when I finally finished rolling, cutting, pinching, and tucking the ends under for each dough pocket, I would think, “never again.” Until a few years would pass, the frustrating memories would fade, and I would find myself trying again.

I noticed a pattern: veranika, prieska, and bierrocks were all pockets—a German Mennonite pocket trifecta. Who were these crazed women obsessed with putting food in pockets?  Didn’t they know that creating pockets out of noodle dough, or pie dough, or bread dough was incredibly difficult and time consuming? Hadn’t they heard about casseroles?  What maniacal obsession possessed them?

A few years ago my sister and her family moved to Freeman, South Dakota, and my parents and I visited during Schmeckfest, Freeman Academy’s “Festival of Tasting.”

At the festival, demonstrators prepare a number of traditional foods. At the booth where a woman was preparing veranika (which they call “cheese pockets”), I saw my chance.

“So how often do you make this at home?” I asked the woman rolling out the dough. “Once or twice a month?”

“Actually I just make it for Schmeckfest,” she replied.

I was floored.

On the drive home, I had a chance to pin down my parents.

“So how often did Grandma Epp actually make veranika?” I asked.

“Several times a year, mainly for special occasions,” my dad said.

“How about bierrocks?”

“She made them mainly in summer, to take to the field,” he said. “She liked to make extra to freeze to have on hand.”

Of course she would. Even if Hot Pockets had been on the market then, she wouldn’t have bought pre-packaged foods.

“What about Grandma Ediger?” I asked my mom.

“We didn’t have veranika or bierrocks all that often,” my mom admitted. “However, she did make apple dumplings frequently, because we had a crab apple tree, and Grandpa really liked them.”

Stories of my grandma Ediger’s faith are legendary in our family, but I don’t think I’ve heard anything that illustrates her sweet, servant heart better than her willingness to spend hours upon hours in her kitchen making apple dumplings because they owned a crab apple tree (she was a thrifty Mennonite, after all) and her husband really liked them.

So the next time my husband requests veranika, I’ll try to smile and say, “Okay, great idea!”

Maybe I’ll even suggest making it myself.