Pear-Grilled Fig Salad with Goat Cheese

 There are moments when I'm aware enough of the blessed goodness in my life.  Maybe.  I know not everyone has a counter full of butternut squash, apples, onions, shallots, garlic, hundreds (literally) of tiny green and red tomatoes, and Bosc pears.  I know not everyone has a warm snug lying next to them come the cold, dark morning.  Or a reason to get up and do something with the bounty in the kitchen downstairs.  I probably don't truly understand it, but I get it.  My life hasn't been all rose teacups and long walks along the river with the dogs.

This morning I read a post on a blog I follow (there's a link in my blogroll at right, too).

leave it where jesus flang it

Margaret writes daily there.   It's a prayer journal of sorts.  She's an Episcopal priest on an Indian reservation in South Dakota and life's hard there.  The loss and the poorness and the hurt are hardscabble painful and it's her job to keep showing up for the difficult moments and beyond.  Today she writes about people nearby whose babies have just died...  And (having had babies who died) I understand where this is and where it goes.  What I am drawn to these many years later is twofold:

1. why...if we need each other so very badly through the crazy, hilarious, dipping, winding, bottoming-out life trek, and if church is meant to provide that for us...why are so many of us no longer part of that community?   Or, if we are a part, are those communities truly sustaining us? and 2.  a bursting grateful noise for all I have and all those who have loved me through the nearly killing losses.   I come back to the idea that to begin with thanksgiving is a perfect way to pray/live and I have to learn it all over again, all over again, all over again.   Even if God isn't a welcomed presence in your life, I think the settling of near-constant thanksgiving in our bodies is a positive way to breathe on earth.

38 Power Foods, Week 10 -- Mushrooms -- Mushroom Ragù on Gruyère Toast

Slip some baguette with Gruyère under a broiler.  Saute some mushrooms with garlic, shallots, herbs, broth and wine.  Spoon the mushrooms over the cheese toast.  Dinner is served.

I grew up in a house that revered mushrooms. In any form, but mostly on their own.  Just cooked up in a big cast-iron skillet with some garlic or onions.  Eating them on their own was his favorite, but my Dad also loved them with some rice, eggs, or chicken.  He'd have mushrooms any old way.  As a little kid, I wasn't buying.   It didn't take long, however, for me to jump on his bandwagon.

My first mushroom love was the famous mushroom stuffed with sausage.  That gave way to (Lord) the deep-fried variety with sauce.  All the while, regular old mushrooms slowly began to take part in my kitchen pageant.  One day I saw that I was buying mushrooms pretty much every time I went to the store.  Talking with my oldest son the other day, I woke up and realized he was talking about cooking up a big pot of mushrooms.  Never know what you'll pass on.