It was wonderful.
When I read the description of blueberry crisp in her first chapter, I wanted to cry. Then I knew it was a good choice to read it now . . . that I craved some real crafting of words. I was afraid that reading about food would undermine my attempt to lose the pregnancy weight, but I was wrong. In fact, I think the words have filled my soul in a way that has stopped me reaching for the chocolate chips to fill it. I need to remember that. Fill my soul with good things.
So, perhaps inspired by Shauna, today when I cleaned up the breakfast mess so I could make a really big mess in the kitchen, I cleared my mind, prepared myself for the task ahead: cream pies for Easter Sunday. As I mixed the dough for the crust and rolled it out, I enjoyed the rhythm of the oft-repeated task. I crimped the edges of the crust with my fingers and thought about the recipe passed down from my mother—the crisp, flaky, fall-apart-in-your-mouth delight of real homemade crust blanketing fruit swimming in its own juices. My mother never made cream pies, but she makes homemade fruit pies. And they are delicious. I realized that I’d never even thought of looking for a different, for a better recipe . . . I may have had one better pie crust in my life. That one surrounded the apple pie that our friend Jim made when I was a kid. It was so long ago, I just remember that my mom was convinced his apple pie was better than hers. Maybe. But that was the only pie that had a chance of tasting better than my mom’s. And Jim is gone now, so I couldn’t ask him for the recipe even if I wanted to.
I worked the pastry and I prayed. Prayed for Todd and the big kids as they were out for the day. I thought about this weekend and what it means to me. My Savior hanging on the cross yesterday and waiting in the tomb today. Knowing what tomorrow will bring.
The bread and the wine. The Body and the Blood. Alive. Forever.
So tomorrow as you gather around a table, whether you eat bread and wine, ham and scalloped potatoes, lamb and mint dressing . . . think of the Lamb. Think of the Body and the Blood, broken and shed for you.