Author: amyofhearthridge

The Awakening of Miss Prim by Natalia Sanmartin Fenollera

amyofhearthridge8 Comments

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What a weird book! That’s possibly why I enjoyed it?!  The Awakening of Miss Prim follows an independent and well-educated woman accepting a librarian position in a rural corner of France. Little does Miss Prim know what a strange place she is making her home. The strangeness began with her employer, The Man in the Armchair. She can’t understand his strange ways, study of dead languages, and how he teaches all the village children from ancient texts and dusty classics. She identifies with him, yet rejects his beliefs and outlook on life. She thinks she may love him, but can’t risk anything. She doesn’t understand the women of the village who enjoy their businesses AND keeping their homes. She doesn’t understand the shutting out of outside society and that it’s ok to live and just be close to home. She doesn’t understand the importance placed on enjoying the mundane in life. A good meal, tea by the fireside, hospitality, and reading quietly.  She lacks understanding because she is so perfectly educated. You might say the life has been educated out of her…faith…goodness…beauty…everything has sort of drowned in all the accomplishments of her life. I had this vague irritation throughout and it came to me that Miss Prim was so self-focused and always frustrated that real life didn’t line up with what she believed was truth. I could empathise with her struggles, and yet my faith also compels a constant turning of my thoughts to my Lord and others. Miss Prim was too smart for religion or faith, and in fact, she is proud and disgusted by any semblance of faith. She sees it as a weakness. And yet…she is empty, searching, and lonely. I did feel for her in many ways and know I’ve battled her thoughts, questions. Even though her new little village is portrayed as some sort of utopia, she always is grasping at happiness.  Lulu Thiberville, an older woman of the village, isn’t well received by Miss Prim, with her opinion of young women striving instead of living, wearing them down and destroying them…

“The yearning you all display to prove your worth, to show that you know this and that, to ensure that you can have it all. The yearning to succeed and, even more, the yearning not to fail; the yearning not to be seen as inferior, but instead even as superior, simply for being exactly what you believe you are or rather what you’ve been made to believe you are. The inexplicable yearning for the world to give you credit simply for being woman.”

page 230

As the story draws to a close, we see Miss Prim starting thaw just a bit. Looking at this book through the lens of my faith, I feel that Miss Prim is missing so much by rejecting faith and really, love. As she leaves this village for a trip to Italy (which I see as another way of just searching for something to fill her void), she does the thing she resisted doing the whole time of her stay in the village. She visits the local monastery and speaks with the old monk…he wishes her a good trip and says,

“So seek beauty, Miss Prim. Seek it in the silence, in tranquility; seek it in the middle of the night and at dawn. Pause to close doors while you seek it, and don’t be surprised if it doesn’t reside in museums or palaces. Don’t be surprised if, in the end, you find beauty to be not Something, but Someone.”

pg 244

What is the picture the author was trying to paint here? I don’t know. A feminist, utopian, atheistic society is best? Or that faith is a weakness? Or that we can never be happy until we find ourselves, whatever that means?! Again, I’m not sure…remember this was a weird book. However, I walked away with a lot to chew on and different perspectives to consider. It made me care in a small way about Miss Prim and all the Miss Prim’s out there and even consider if I’ve been this way or am this way. Just flinging around, grasping, and floundering, instead of resting in my faith in the Lord Jesus. Life is a GIFT to be shared, given and savored, and I hope I never forget that truth.

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Monday Ponderings…{November 21st}

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It’s strange how that is: everybody wants to change the world, but nobody wants to do the small thing that makes just one person feel loved.

 

The Broken Way: A Daring Path into the Abundant Life

Ann Voskamp

page 74

(Thinking on this quote today, the ouch factor and the thanksgiving of living a life ripe with opportunities to do just this very thing. May I not miss those opportunities!)

Tea, Cake, and Susan Branch

amyofhearthridge6 Comments

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Dear Susan Branch , I just turned the last page of your Martha’s Vineyard: Isle of Dreams. I was so inspired and enchanted. As a wife, mother and home cook, I found it just the perfect shot of encouragement.  I often loose sight of the little bits of joy in creating a home for my loved ones. I  found so much to be inspired by your tenacity in keeping at your dreams.  Your books, especially, Isle of Dreams, and then, A Fine Romance have brought so many smiles to my face, tears (I felt bad for you!), chuckles, and beautiful quotes to think on. Your thoughts on books, movies, cooking,  gardening, and gushes about little lovely bits of life make my feelings of kindred spirit well up. Isle of Dreams was my favorite, but  A Fine Romance was a very close second and I thought of you and just about swooned with delight as I had the chance to visit England this year.

One of the biggest things I loved about Isle of Dreams, was how much you praised and thought on all that you mother had done for you. It is so encouraging to know that little touches, the hot meals, and the traditions reached you and are remembered in a small way. I found that such a blessing to see a child of a big family praising the hard work her mother did for her family. Motherhood isn’t really a prized profession these days and the endless mundane dance we do each day while being told we have to be something MORE can really beat a woman down.

The little cocoa cups, the tea pots, your kitties, the ivy, and the endless magical little paintings you include teach me more than just love of beauty. I want to learn to pay attention deeply, and I pray my children will follow. Just to really listen to people, to savor  meals, to delight in lingering over tea, to mull over and discuss great books, and to never forget their faith. I desire to grow deeper relationships through hospitality and sharing life. You delight and excel in those gifts. Thank you, Susan, for your sweet books and a bit of brightness and warmth to wrap myself in, with a bit of tea and cake, of course.

With love,

Amy

Inspired by this writer, we enjoyed this lovely coffee cake with tea and some new MUSICA for a fall treat. Enjoy!

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November Days

amyofhearthridge9 Comments

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The morning suns greets my eyes. I slip on my glasses and glory in the view. The old house creaks a bit and I walk pass the piles flooring we have yet to put in upstairs. I stumble down the ancient farmhouse stairs, dreaming of a steaming cup of coffee. Perhaps I should set up a coffee maker in my room? Maybe that is a bit extreme. 🙂 The chatter of voices greet me. “Hey, Mom. Guess what my dream was?” and “What’s for breakfast?” and “I’m cold, Mom! Where’s my sweatshirt?” all sing out as I grab my package of coffee from the freezer and start my Nectar of Life a brewing. My son begins making oatmeal for everyone, which usually ends up somewhere between water-y porridge or rock hard cement, but we all love it with brown sugar, walnuts, and a dash of milk. Some add a twist with a bit of peanut butter.

I am a huge fan of the author Gladys Taber. Have you read anything by her? She wrote extensively on her farm, Stillmeadow. As I pour my coffee, I take in the scene around me and begin to compose it, in my head, attempting to grasp the charm that Gladys always seems to find as she pens her normal days around the farm. Of course, Gladys lived a different life than me. She worked outside of the home for a time and also ends up having more dogs than children. Yet, I feel a kinship to her, leaning back against the cupboard, sipping, and taking in the beauty of the daily mundane doings and yes, chaos.

“Good news, Mom! Gandalf’s pink eye is clearing up!” is the glad shout I hear next from a precious child. Yes, go ahead and chuckle. Gandalf is our barn cat, so I guess creatures do have a part in my life, Gladys.

We move on through our day, alternating between discussions, chores, and books, with a few fights over stuffed animals and whose scissors the purple ones REALLY are. (They’re actually mine.) Ahh… glorious books. We have chosen to live life with our children here at home, learning together. Gerald Johnson takes us through early American history, we laugh at Ogden Nash’s poetry, and giggle as Louis the Trumpeter Swan learns how to play TAPS on his new trumpet. We write some, do a little math, make some caramel corn, and breathe the fresh, albeit tinged with burning leaves, country air. Someone is always asking me when’s the next meal. My crock pot definitely earns its keep.

I gaze at the steam rising from my coffee cup. Sigh. “Mom, the sewer guy is here.” My romantic ruminations are ruined. Reality stinks a bit, doesn’t it? 😉 I watch the fellow from my window, what a job, huh? He is stooped and haggard looking, I’m thankful for him, he makes my job a bit easier.

A few loads of laundry swirling around, blankets on the line. The scratching noise of pen on paper, drawings and journal entries being created. An old, petrified apple core peeks out from under the couch at me. Ahh. These November days. I get “questioned out” at about 4:00 pm, is there really still 4 or 5 hours till bedtime? Yet, I love this life I’ve been given. So, like Gladys and everyone before and those to come after, I rustle up some ingredients and go about thinking supper thoughts. I sneak in a few minutes of reading in my “garrett” as my daughter calls my bedroom, where I like to hide as frequently as possible. “You can’t just stay up here in your garrett all day, Mom, like Jo March!”

I cave in and put on the electronic babysitter. They have chosen the 1935 version of A Midsummer’s Night Dream with James Cagney and Mickey Rooney. It’s a bit creepy and weird, but I hear a laugh. A Puck-ish laugh, come to think of it.   Later the candles are lit, we began our supper with prayers and because it’s the season of thanksgiving, we purposefully go around sharing what we are thankful for today.

I’m thankful for all the November days days I’ve been given, for little blonde girls who shared their drawing with me, “Here’s what I drawed, Mom.”. I’m thankful for grins after a resolved fight over Nutella, and the piles of books to dig into soon. I’m thankful for the beauty of life. And maybe I DO need that coffee maker in my garrett.

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A favorite recipe for you!

Skillet Sausage and Mushroom Penne

*adapted from original recipe from December/January 2014 Cook’s Country magazine – I use things I have on hand and I’ve doubled the original recipe here for my crowd.

1 pkg sausage of your choice (I use breakfast sausage )

fresh mushrooms, chopped – (I use half to a whole package)

4 cups chicken broth

1 can diced tomatoes (sometimes 2, depending if I feel tomato-y or not)

about 1 1/2 packages penne, this is like 18 oz?? I think

1 1/2 cups heavy cream (I actually use half n half, because I rarely have cream on hand)

Parmesan cheese (being the gourmet that I am, I use the green can shake cheese, I know. The horror. You are welcome to use freshly grated.)

  1. Cook sausage, breaking it up, until no longer pink, add in mushrooms. Cook together till brown. Transfer mixture to bowl, set aside.
  2. Return skillet to heat, add broth, tomatoes and juice, pasta, and cream. Bring to boil. Reduce heat, simmer, stirring often, until pasta is al dente. (I actually use a pot, because of the doubling of the recipe!)
  3. Stir sausage-mushroom mixture and 1/2 cup Parmesan into pasta. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Top with other 1/2 cup of Parmesan, cover, and remove from heat until cheese is melted.

Enjoy! I serve it alone for quick lunch or add a salad as a side for a bigger dinner.

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Nightmare

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I just awoke from a nightmare. I’m running through an airport, frantically looking at signs, and glancing at the sweaty boarding pass in my hand. “It says 3309, Mom.” Yes, my mother is with me, faithfully following my lead. My sister is ahead, checking us in at the gate. We blindly forge ahead, dragging our carry-on luggage. I run through one door and another, heart-pounding, blood pressure rising, confused  and finding myself at a security gate. What? Didn’t we just go through security? My heads in whirl, I run up to a Dublin airport guard, telling him that we have to go through and we just went through a long line at Passport Control and that I was just trying to find my connecting flight. A torrent of words pouring out at him, poor guy. He is firm and tries calming down this out of control American woman. He says, “Sorry, but you still need to put all of your belongs on the belt and go through this security check point.” I argue my point a bit and then shakily start dumping my stuff into a bin, shoes in, belt off, sweat pouring down my face, my mom doing the same nervously behind me. We get through the check point and I ask another airport employee for help. He takes my boarding pass, calmly and nicely leads me to the screen, checks my flight number, and finds the gate for me. “I’m sorry but this is a ways down. This flight has now departed.” Despite the lovely Irish brogue, I’m staring with frustration, anger, and fear at him. He kindly hands me back my boarding pass. “I’m really sorry.” I glance at my long-suffering mother and bite back tears. We find my sister, who of course did not leave without us, and hash out how it happened. We calm down, settle into the Dublin Airport, waiting for our next flight.

I pull the blanket off my head and gulp. Yes, this is a nightmare, but it’s also true. I traveled this past summer to England and Paris with my sister and mother.  A dream trip that I am in awe of still and…yet this above incident still haunts me a bit as evidenced by my dream. I wonder how often in my inexperience I rush around in a panic. As a novice traveler, I read my ticket wrong, I trusted feelings over facts, and I allowed panic to make my decisions. I led my poor mom on a wild goose-chase.  Go ahead and laugh at my crazy antics. I know I do. Sorta. Life is a bit like this, you know. A tough circumstance presents itself, money might be tight, a relationship is hard, and I find myself wildly thrashing about, shooting off my mouth, digging a hole bigger than the original one. Sigh. Why? As a follower of Jesus  Christ, I know that He didn’t promise me an easy life. He gives His peace and love in the midst of all of this earthiness this side Heaven. I have a daily choice to make. Do I blindly run through the halls of life, dragging my baggage or do I pour all of my doubt, frustration, and despair into the arms of my faithful, loving Shepherd? It is not a magic potion. I do not automatically find my gate. It is an act of faith and trust. Can I stop for one second trying to control and figure out my life? Life is a nightmare when I trust in myself more than my Savior. Thoughts to ponder on…

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Soup

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(Chicken & Veggie Soup)

I am always so happy when autumn rolls around. Simply because it is the beginning of three delicious seasons of soup. Here in the Northern Midwest, autumn, winter, and spring are all soup weather. I have such a hard time knowing what to feed my hungry crowd during the summer. My life becomes easier by this humble dish and it is a lovely way to use up what is sitting around my kitchen and stretch what we have on hand. As I’ve been chopping, stirring, and watching this autumn’s batch of soup simmering, something has come to mind over and over again. Of course, the feelings of warmth, home, and family meals, but something deeper even. Our lives are made up of many bits and pieces, simmering and very often tried over fire. My faith challenges me to believe that all of these parts make up a complete whole. Each part of soup and life is important to the finished product. If I just threw one onion into a pot, it would not come out well, if I do not wait patiently for all the ingredients to be added, slowly, and patiently cooked, I would not have a glorious meal worth sharing at the end.  The wafting scent lingering in the house and the savoring of soup, crackers or bread in hand, bring to mind all that the Lord desires for our lives to be. One of wholeness in Him.  I want to stew 🙂 on this more, but it is an important lesson for me.

Our current favorite soup:

(I adapted this from an online recipe YEARS ago, forgive me for not knowing the original source.)

Rosemary Potato & Ham Soup

(I often make this in a 7 quart crock pot, but it can be done quickly on the stove also)

Favorite potatoes, chopped. I don’t peel the potatoes, but you can if so desired.

Small ham piece, chopped.

Chicken broth to cover, about 6 cups.

A Bay Leaf, or two.

Rosemary.

Salt & pepper to taste.

1/2 stick of butter

Crock pot: Layer alternating chopped potatoes & ham. Sprinkle a little bit of dried rosemary every other layer. Throw in bay leaf. Dot top with butter. Add s & p. Cook on high for 5 hours or till tender.

Stove top: Throw everything together in a pot, simmer.

Serve with crackers or fresh bread.

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Speak to me…

amyofhearthridge3 Comments

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The past summer I moved to a different property. We had been renting it and found ourselves in need a bit more space. My husband was itching to spread out a bit, his love of wide open spaces drawing him. I was really struggling with this plan. Various reasons, really. Hidden Valley Farm had owned a piece of my heart for the last 10 years, so many memories. As we traveled back and forth, readying our new farm, I began to notice the beauty of the drive and the area in which I was going to be living. It was like through my worries about the remodeling, paying bills, house showings, and all the minutiae, the nature, along the way, really began to speak to me. I stopped being frustrated about how far it seemed from our little current city and our life activities. I saw it in a new light. It took me awhile, a really conscious quieting of the litany of voices running through my head. How had I hated this drive? How had I been so frustrated by being removed more? Fast forward to today, November, a few months into our new residence. A few months of a sense of place. There is nothing more lovely then what these vast views say to me. The stream’s meandering, hill’s solid stance, and tree’s dance. It is like a true Church to me. A extension of my faith. I exit my car or return from my walk, inspired and in awe. Seems like a lot from a little bit of nature, huh? The sunsets, slanting light, the quaint, slow simmer of country life, all are a prayer and a song.

And one cried unto another, and said, “Holy, holy, holy, is the LORD of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory.” Isaiah 6:3

“But now ask the beasts, and they will teach you;
And the birds of the air, and they will tell you;
 Or speak to the earth, and it will teach you;
And the fish of the sea will explain to you.
 Who among all these does not know
That the hand of the Lord has done this,
In whose hand is the life of every living thing,
And the breath of all mankind?” Job 12: 7-10

Let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad;
Let the sea roar, and all its fullness;
 Let the field be joyful, and all that is in it.
Then all the trees of the woods will rejoice before the Lord. Psalm 96:11-12

The heavens declare the glory of God;
And the firmament shows His handiwork. Psalm 19:1

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A Book by Hannah More

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I’m a strange contradiction; I’m new and I’m old,

I’m often in tatters, and oft deck’d in gold:

Though I never could read, yet letter’d I’m found;

Though blind, I enlighten; though loose, I am bound –

I am always in black, and I’m always in white;

I am grave and I’m gay, I am heavy and light.

In form too I differ – I’m thick and I’m thin,

I’ve no flesh, and no bones, yet I’m cover’d with skin;

I’ve more points than the compass, more stops than the flute –

I sing without voice, without speaking confute;

I’m English, I’m German, I’m French, and I’m Dutch;

Some love me too fondly; some slight me too much;

I often die soon, though sometimes live ages,

And no monarch alive has so many pages.

 

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Visiting Here from Blogspot?

amyofhearthridge2 Comments

_mg_4767blogheaderaI think I’m going to move my blog to WordPress! I think it is purtier! 😉 It’s fun to play with blogs, isn’t it? It will take me awhile to learn the ropes though, so excuse my fumblings. If you enjoy reading my ramblings and nonsense, I now have this new home!! My new blog address is hearthridgereflections.wordpress.com! 🙂 I so appreciate online journals, a space to share thoughts, photos, and meet so many wonderful people.

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