Monthly Archives: November 2023

Our silence tries but fails.

death, history, poetry, , , ,

On Remembrance Day in Britain, many people join in two minutes of silence to memorialize the dead. When Malcolm Guite did that, it prompted this response:

“There was something extraordinarily powerful about that deep silence from a ‘live’ radio, a sense that, alone in my kitchen, I was sharing the silence with millions. I stood for the two minutes, and then, suddenly, swiftly, almost involuntarily, wrote this sonnet.” 

SILENCE

November pierces with its bleak remembrance
Of all the bitterness and waste of war.
Our silence tries but fails to make a semblance
Of that lost peace they thought worth fighting for.
Our silence seethes instead with wraiths and whispers,
And all the restless rumour of new wars,
The shells are falling all around our vespers,
No moment is unscarred, there is no pause,
In every instant bloodied innocence
Falls to the weary earth, and whilst we stand
Quiescence ends again in acquiescence,
And Abel’s blood still cries in every land.
One silence only might redeem that blood —
Only the silence of a dying God.

-Malcolm Guite

Please hear Fr. Guite read his sonnet here: “Silence”

Silent Cross, by Margot Krebs Neale

 

 

 

When winter is coming on: Comfort Soup

family, food and cooking,

Last week I made Comfort Soup with lamb instead of beef. I couldn’t find the written recipe fast enough, so I gave up and made a version from memory. And I see, now that I found the recipe, that I had forgotten one of the few ingredients. But the lamb made it superb nonetheless.

This morning I looked here to see if I had ever posted the recipe for this soup that was a mainstay of our menus from the beginning of our family. Though I had mentioned twice the eating of it, it appears I never shared the recipe itself, which I had clipped from Mademoiselle magazine when in high school, and saved in the three-ring binder that I used for all those ideas I hoped to use “someday.”

More than any other product of our kitchen, this recipe was requested by friends to whom we served it, and many of them mention it years later, telling how they continue to make it in their own homes. I wish I had the original magazine clipping, but I think it was becoming unreadable, at which point — I don’t want to say how long ago, because it’s mind-boggling — my oldest, Pearl, wrote out our family’s most recent adaptation, which you can see in the picture. But this is the original:

COMFORT SOUP

1 quart chicken stock
2 boxes frozen chopped spinach
1 # lean ground beef
2/3 c. grated Parmesan cheese
1 egg
ground black pepper

In a soup pot heat chicken stock and add spinach, frozen or thawed. Heat to a simmer (this will take longer if you are defrosting the spinach at the same time) while you make tiny meatballs (about ¾” in diameter) from the ground beef, cheese, and a dash of ground black pepper (which you have first mixed together). When the broth is simmering and the spinach is defrosted, add the meatballs and simmer for 10-15 minutes.  Lightly beat the egg and swirl it around in the soup. Serve.

Serves 2-4. Good with French bread.

I don’t see spinach frozen in boxes anymore. The other day I made my lamb version with a pound of frozen chopped spinach and about a pound and a half of ground lamb. I forgot the egg altogether, and didn’t measure the Parmesan cheese. In the past I have made it with (a lot of!) fresh spinach. It’s very adaptable.

Just now I searched online for Comfort Soup to see if anyone else in the world had used that recipe from the 60’s, but if they did, they haven’t featured it on their website. In the era of food porn, something this “plain” does not have the right features to endear it to cooking site hosts, and there is not even a photo of anything resembling it. You’ll have to make it yourself if you are to experience in better ways than the visual, how Comfort Soup is a winter-warming pot of coziness.

Albert Anker – Girl Eating Soup

Armies cried out as an echo.

church, feasts, prayer, quotes, , , , , ,

When the Holy Trinity said, “Let there be heaven and earth,” Thou, O Christ, didst serve as a Thought and a Tongue of the divine Trinity. Choirs of angels formed themselves on Thy voice, receiving their form from the multi-colored light; thereupon many armies, as multi-colored clouds, cried out as an echo of the divine glory and divine blessedness, and stood in ranks around Thee, their Leader, singing the triumphal hymn: Alleluia.

The long poem, Akathist to Jesus Conqueror of Death, by St. Nikolai Velimirovich, contains songs of the nine ranks of angels, of which that above is titled, “The Choir of Angels.” Today in the Orthodox Church we commemorate the Archangel Michael and All Angels, so I will share the second of those songs as well, “The Choir of Archangels”:

Thou hast made us Thy vessels and filled us completely with Thy might and Thy wisdom; of ourselves we are nothing, but in Thy mercy Thou hast made us Thy friends. Lucifer fell from our archangelic rank and dragged all mankind into perdition, but Thou, so as to remove that disgrace from our countenance, hast allowed us to share in Thy victory, the victory over Lucifer, by sending the Archangel Gabriel as herald of Thy descent into battle and Thy victory; thus in gratitude we praise and glorify Thee, singing: Alleluia.

Last year at this time I was trying to learn a prayer song to the Archangel Michael, to teach the little children at church. I had forgotten about the most traditional and easy one that they might already have been introduced to in the past, and spent a long time in finding a hymn (text below) that was really a bit much for the class. But it is my own favorite so far, and I think this is where I learned it:

Father Stephen has written about the legitimacy of praying to angels. About the scripture that says, “There is only one mediator between God and man, the Man Christ Jesus,” he explains:

“…that sense of mediation is a meaning of the word that Christ alone could perform. No angel, no other creature can unite me to God. Only God become man is able to unite man to God.

“But we’re talking about prayer, not union, per se. Can someone else pray for me? I hope so …. Can angels pray for me? (yes they can and they do). Is it wrong to ask them to do so or thank them for it (certainly not)….

“God is the ‘Lord of Hosts.’ He is always surrounded by such a cloud of Angels, saints, etc. He cannot be approached ‘alone.’ This great company of witnesses, as the book of Hebrews calls them, bears witness to my prayers before God, and hopefully improves greatly upon them. They see so much more clearly than what I see. I see and know so little. Thank God someone is praying who knows. God knows, but it is His delight, in the utter humility of His nature, to share that knowledge and to invite us to pray.”

St. Michael the Archangel,
Defend us in battle.
Be our protection against the wickedness
and snares of the devil.
May God rebuke him we humbly pray;
and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host,
by the power of God,
cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits
who roam throughout the world,
seeking the ruin of souls.

St. Michael bust relief by Jonathan Pageau

My favorite kind of autumn day.

bread, homemaking, my garden, , , , ,

I am too busy to write here, but I guess the dishes, the laundry, the sweeping and the paperwork will have to wait a little longer, because I am so in love with this November day, I have to write it down. It would take even more time if I were to write a letter to the grandchildren about it, so they will have to wait, too.

The sky and the clouds! It must be that rain in October and November make for a splendid season, and not just because of the lovely damp-but-mild feeling of the air. As I understand, the rain somehow makes the leaf colors brighter. I drove past a vineyard last week that surprised me so — the colors of the leaves were not just the usual red and yellow and orange, but wide-ranging in deep purples and pinks as well. In my garden the pomegranates have not started turning, and the snowball bush barely.

But I have color. My purples are, or should be, my figs. I think this year’s crop is going to be a big loss, because of the relatively cool summer. Yesterday I saw this single fruit ripening. This morning, a meddlesome crow had tasted it and also found it not ready.

A nasturtium is blooming, and the tithonia still going pretty strong. Yesterday I picked more zinnias, again, to replace those that were turning brown in this vase where I’ve been able to just renew the bouquet in part every few days. But this week may truly be the end, unless the rainy weather keeps the frost off. That would be okay with me.

Yesterday evening was when our neighborhood trash cans are set out at the curb to be emptied the next morning. I wanted to cut enough plant material to fill my yard waste bin, so I worked on cutting the asparagus fronds that are turning gold. I had no sooner begun but gentle raindrops began falling on my head, carrying on another autumn tradition.

The milkweed I cut to the ground last month, as it had been wasted by aphids as is its usual late summer fate, has sent up a new and fresh shoot, green and tender and untouched by any hardship. It won’t last long, but in the meantime it cheers my heart and makes food for next summer’s valiant show.

As long as this mild weather continues, I can put off another task of my housework: carrying wood, building fires and dealing with all the mess around the stove. But as soon as that becomes necessary again, I’ll have one more activity that makes me happy. For today, I am happy with my breadmaking, washing dishes, and wandering around the autumn garden.