The First Time

We are nearing the end of National Poetry Month. While I haven't been writing much poetry recently, I figure I should probably post one. I wrote this about a month ago. It's called The First Time.

Sometimes
you notice it
when it happens,
so you try
to keep count.

You never notice the
first time:
after all, it's only the
first time,
so it hasn't actually even
happened
yet.

The second time
you second guess,
and you can convince yourself
that it still isn't happening,
even though it actually
just happened for the
first time.

Three,
four,
five -
each time it gets harder
to deny,
but also harder
to count.

Thirtenn,
fourteen,
fifteen.

And I can't remember
whether that includes the
first time,
because that was only the
first time,
so it hadn't actully even
happened
yet.

But at this point
I'm just repeating myself,
which I guess brings the count to

sixteen,

which may or may not include the
first time,
way back when it hadn't actually even
happened
yet.

We are nearing the end of National Poetry Month. While I haven't been writing much poetry recently, I figure I should probably post one. I wrote this about a month ago. It's called The First Time.

Sometimes
you notice it
when it happens,
so you try
to keep count.

You never notice the
first time:
after all, it's only the
first time,
so it hasn't actually even
happened
yet.

The second time
you second guess,
and you can convince yourself
that it still isn't happening,
even though it actually
just happened for the
first time.

Three,
four,
five -
each time it gets harder
to deny,
but also harder
to count.

Thirtenn,
fourteen,
fifteen.

And I can't remember
whether that includes the
first time,
because that was only the
first time,
so it hadn't actully even
happened
yet.

But at this point
I'm just repeating myself,
which I guess brings the count to

sixteen,

which may or may not include the
first time,
way back when it hadn't actually even
happened
yet.

The First Time

This morning Pastor Mark asked, "Why do we celebrate Easter?" I answered to myself, "Because Jesus died on the cross for our sins." Pastor Mark answered, "Because Jesus rose from the dead." There's a very big difference there.

Everyone dies. I will, and so will you. But we will not resurrect. Jesus did. Easter is not about a man hanging on a cross: it's about an empty tomb.

Jesus died to save us from our sins, but he rose in victory over Satan, sin, and death. It's the one holiday that I celebrate, because if there is one thing that deserves a special day dedicated to celebrating it, it's te resurrection on the Christ.

This morning Pastor Mark asked, "Why do we celebrate Easter?" I answered to myself, "Because Jesus died on the cross for our sins." Pastor Mark answered, "Because Jesus rose from the dead." There's a very big difference there.

Everyone dies. I will, and so will you. But we will not resurrect. Jesus did. Easter is not about a man hanging on a cross: it's about an empty tomb.

Jesus died to save us from our sins, but he rose in victory over Satan, sin, and death. It's the one holiday that I celebrate, because if there is one thing that deserves a special day dedicated to celebrating it, it's te resurrection on the Christ.

Excuse Me, You Have Quiche in Your Beard.

There are some things that you just remember. They might not have even been anything special, but you'll never forget them. For me, one of those was the first time I ever had quiche. 

It was the summer after ninth grade. My mom is an amazing cook, though I've never seen her make quiche. As such, I first had it when I went to the beach with my youth group. 

It was breakfast, a few days into trip. I noticed there was a new item at breakfast, a departure from the traditional bacon, eggs, and pancakes we'd been having all the other days. It was this strange pie-like substance, filled with broccoli, eggs, and cheese. 

I take a small slice, just to try it. I don't want to waste food, after all. After one bite, I know I want more. I ate several pieces of the strange egg pie. It was a perfect food. 

Over the course of that day, I asked several people if they tried the egg pie. Eventually they told me it was quiche. How is this possible? Isn't quiche a food for women and men without beards? How is this quiche? This is a solid manly meal. 

I've been making quiche recently. It's easy to make, given the right recipe. I'm not going to shave my beard and start wearing tights. No, I can be manly and keep eating quiche, because my identity is found in Christ, not in what I eat (or even the hair on my face). 

There are some things that you just remember. They might not have even been anything special, but you'll never forget them. For me, one of those was the first time I ever had quiche. 

It was the summer after ninth grade. My mom is an amazing cook, though I've never seen her make quiche. As such, I first had it when I went to the beach with my youth group. 

It was breakfast, a few days into trip. I noticed there was a new item at breakfast, a departure from the traditional bacon, eggs, and pancakes we'd been having all the other days. It was this strange pie-like substance, filled with broccoli, eggs, and cheese. 

I take a small slice, just to try it. I don't want to waste food, after all. After one bite, I know I want more. I ate several pieces of the strange egg pie. It was a perfect food. 

Over the course of that day, I asked several people if they tried the egg pie. Eventually they told me it was quiche. How is this possible? Isn't quiche a food for women and men without beards? How is this quiche? This is a solid manly meal. 

I've been making quiche recently. It's easy to make, given the right recipe. I'm not going to shave my beard and start wearing tights. No, I can be manly and keep eating quiche, because my identity is found in Christ, not in what I eat (or even the hair on my face). 

Excuse Me, You Have Quiche in Your Beard.

Flattr

Great news: I'm using Flattr. Flattr is a social micropayment system, by which you sign up and contribute a set amount (for example, €2/month). Then, as you surf the internet, you click on Flattr links for things that you like. At the end of the month, every website that you clicked gets an even share of your contribution. If you Flattr nothing, the money goes to charity. Everybody wins.

Also, if you are fluent in German, you should read Zottels Zeug. I know nothing about the blog, except that he built the Flattr API that I'm using.

Great news: I'm using Flattr. Flattr is a social micropayment system, by which you sign up and contribute a set amount (for example, €2/month). Then, as you surf the internet, you click on Flattr links for things that you like. At the end of the month, every website that you clicked gets an even share of your contribution. If you Flattr nothing, the money goes to charity. Everybody wins.

Also, if you are fluent in German, you should read Zottels Zeug. I know nothing about the blog, except that he built the Flattr API that I'm using.

Flattr

That's How I Roll, or Turning Japanese (in the Kitchen)

In this month's issue of The Atlantic is an article about kitchens. It's quite interesting, and in my opinion worth a read. They state that as cooking becomes more about pleasure and less about utility we spend more money on kitchen implements (which we will use less). This has been shown to be true historically. 

Recently I made a small ($2.25) kitchen tool purchase: a bamboo sushi mat and rice paddle. This has proven to be one of my most enjoyable, as well as money saving, purchases. 

My friend Steve taught me a few weeks ago to make sushi. I believe he learned from his wife, and I don't know where she gained this knowledge. I decided as soon as I learned that I needed to buy a mat an paddle, though I put it off for about a month, thinking they would cost about five times the actual cost. 

My very first rolls that I made without help were rice, cream cheese, red bell peppers,  and cucumbers. Since I have also used tofu and avocado. I've torn a few rolls (I guess that's what I get for buying the cheapest seaweed paper I could), but I have no problems eating a pile of sushi ingredients with a fork. 

This has been for me a great investment: I was spending more each month on sushi than all my other restaurant purchases combined. This week I've eaten 5 rolls, which have cost me only a few dollars. I made a quart of vinegared rice, over half of which is sitting in my refrigerator waiting to be rolled. 

Cooking can be fun. Or it can be cheap. But as sushi reminded me, it can be both of the above, as well as delicious. 

In this month's issue of The Atlantic is an article about kitchens. It's quite interesting, and in my opinion worth a read. They state that as cooking becomes more about pleasure and less about utility we spend more money on kitchen implements (which we will use less). This has been shown to be true historically. 

Recently I made a small ($2.25) kitchen tool purchase: a bamboo sushi mat and rice paddle. This has proven to be one of my most enjoyable, as well as money saving, purchases. 

My friend Steve taught me a few weeks ago to make sushi. I believe he learned from his wife, and I don't know where she gained this knowledge. I decided as soon as I learned that I needed to buy a mat an paddle, though I put it off for about a month, thinking they would cost about five times the actual cost. 

My very first rolls that I made without help were rice, cream cheese, red bell peppers,  and cucumbers. Since I have also used tofu and avocado. I've torn a few rolls (I guess that's what I get for buying the cheapest seaweed paper I could), but I have no problems eating a pile of sushi ingredients with a fork. 

This has been for me a great investment: I was spending more each month on sushi than all my other restaurant purchases combined. This week I've eaten 5 rolls, which have cost me only a few dollars. I made a quart of vinegared rice, over half of which is sitting in my refrigerator waiting to be rolled. 

Cooking can be fun. Or it can be cheap. But as sushi reminded me, it can be both of the above, as well as delicious. 

That's How I Roll, or Turning Japanese (in the Kitchen)

A Very Simple Piece about Creating for the Creator

I love a good day of creative pursuits. Last night I wrote, both poetry and a yet incomplete blog post. This morning I woke up and painted. This afternoon I constructed about a third of a chess set from clay. 

The writing is something I need to do more often. If you want to do something professionally, you need to do it. Practice makes portfolio, so to speak. Or perhaps it's just that practice makes better. Perfect, with regards to writing, is a social construct, and an abstract one at that. To aim for it is to shoot at a non existent beast. 

As for the painting, it's on an old canvas that has been a series of painting experiments. I have a canvas on which I try techniques and color combinations about which I'm unsure. Sometimes they work. Other times, not so much. This, while not good in this particular case (it's all about negative space, which doesn't work on the experiment canvas), achieves exactly what I was going for. 

I'm not totally happy with some of the chess pieces. There is a great deal of inconsistency. There is more detail on the knight's hair than the entirity of the queen. But I've long wanted to do this, so it's a start. 

Art is a beautiful thing. In the beginning, God created. He then created us, bearing his image. If God is creator and we are created in his image, art is essentially worship. In my book, that's one of the most beautiful concepts there is. 

I love a good day of creative pursuits. Last night I wrote, both poetry and a yet incomplete blog post. This morning I woke up and painted. This afternoon I constructed about a third of a chess set from clay. 

The writing is something I need to do more often. If you want to do something professionally, you need to do it. Practice makes portfolio, so to speak. Or perhaps it's just that practice makes better. Perfect, with regards to writing, is a social construct, and an abstract one at that. To aim for it is to shoot at a non existent beast. 

As for the painting, it's on an old canvas that has been a series of painting experiments. I have a canvas on which I try techniques and color combinations about which I'm unsure. Sometimes they work. Other times, not so much. This, while not good in this particular case (it's all about negative space, which doesn't work on the experiment canvas), achieves exactly what I was going for. 

I'm not totally happy with some of the chess pieces. There is a great deal of inconsistency. There is more detail on the knight's hair than the entirity of the queen. But I've long wanted to do this, so it's a start. 

Art is a beautiful thing. In the beginning, God created. He then created us, bearing his image. If God is creator and we are created in his image, art is essentially worship. In my book, that's one of the most beautiful concepts there is. 

A Very Simple Piece about Creating for the Creator

Writing Letters

When was the last time you wrote a letter? I'm not talking about an email or a postcard, but a real life letter. For me, the answer us last Wednesday. 

We fancy email as the letter killer, but this isn't entirely true. The Atlantic recently did a piece about this issue, in which they established that the preponderance of mail was actually for business purposes, not for personal use. While email has overtaken this, it's really no loss. All this aside, I think a major culprit in the decline of personal correspondence is Facebook's news feed. 

Let's say, for the sake of illustration, that in 1997 I spent two weeks in England. If I wanted to take time while I was there to tell you of my English exploits, I would sit down, putting pen to paper, and write you a letter. I would probably be back home before the letter arrived (email most certainly wins in the speed category), but I would still write it, just to describe that moment in the midst of the excitement surrounding that moment. Upon returning him I would send letter to my newfound Anglo-chums, telling them of my experience with returning to this side of the pond. 

Fast forward to 2010. If I were to go to England, I would love to write you a letter about my trip, but your already seen it in my Facebook updates, along with photographs (including some rather embarrassing  photos posted by the aforementioned newfound Anglo-chums). I have nothing to say in my letter. 

This is where I found myself on Wednesday when I sat down to write a letter: at a loss, because everything worth saying had already been said. 

There is an aspect in which I view my blog as a letter: I write to you in hopes that you'll find it interesting. Perhaps anything written on a personal level with an audience in mins is a letter, even if it is a different kind of letter. 

I hope this post finds you well. 

When was the last time you wrote a letter? I'm not talking about an email or a postcard, but a real life letter. For me, the answer us last Wednesday. 

We fancy email as the letter killer, but this isn't entirely true. The Atlantic recently did a piece about this issue, in which they established that the preponderance of mail was actually for business purposes, not for personal use. While email has overtaken this, it's really no loss. All this aside, I think a major culprit in the decline of personal correspondence is Facebook's news feed. 

Let's say, for the sake of illustration, that in 1997 I spent two weeks in England. If I wanted to take time while I was there to tell you of my English exploits, I would sit down, putting pen to paper, and write you a letter. I would probably be back home before the letter arrived (email most certainly wins in the speed category), but I would still write it, just to describe that moment in the midst of the excitement surrounding that moment. Upon returning him I would send letter to my newfound Anglo-chums, telling them of my experience with returning to this side of the pond. 

Fast forward to 2010. If I were to go to England, I would love to write you a letter about my trip, but your already seen it in my Facebook updates, along with photographs (including some rather embarrassing  photos posted by the aforementioned newfound Anglo-chums). I have nothing to say in my letter. 

This is where I found myself on Wednesday when I sat down to write a letter: at a loss, because everything worth saying had already been said. 

There is an aspect in which I view my blog as a letter: I write to you in hopes that you'll find it interesting. Perhaps anything written on a personal level with an audience in mins is a letter, even if it is a different kind of letter. 

I hope this post finds you well. 

Writing Letters

How to Brew Coffee (with Apologies to Anyone Seeking Instructions)

[Please note that I wrote this several days ago about an event that happened over a week ago. With this I hope to resume my regular twice a week updates. Enjoy]

I was housesitting. It was my first morning. Before I take the dog outside to use the bathroom, I know what I need to do: make coffee. 

Seeing as this is what I do professionally at this point in my life, brewing coffee is a fairly easy task for me. Further, this brewer has a built-in grinder. I just ad the beans and water in correct proportions and turn on the machine. Now it's the waiting game*. 

Shortly I realize that I forgot to change the filter. I'm more used to brewing in a French press, so this is an unnecessary step as far as I'm concerned. I soon enough remember my friend mentioning that she had changed the filter before she left. Though strange, I'm glad she did. Suddenly, I notice a new problem: coffee is not dripping into the carafe, and is indeed coming out the top of the filter cone onto the counter. 

I examine the carafe, discovering that it is missing it's lid. This lid is far from trivial, as it presses up on a button on the bottom of the cone, allowing the coffee to drip through. All I have is a cone full of hot water and grounds overflowing onto the counter. 

I pull the cone forward, as I would have to insert the filter. The plan is to pick up the filter, and along with it the grounds and a bit of water, and drop it into my mug that is waiting below. This will at least stop the immediate overflow problem. I pick up the filter by the edges, but suddenly the bottom tears, dropping the grounds into the water and splashing a murky brown coffee-like water all over the counter. 

Plan B: use a spoon to press the bottom of the cone and drain the water (and now also grounds) into my mug. Success. I clean up the grounds and the puddles on the counter, ready to give it another go. 

This time I insert a filter and find the top of the carafe before I begin. The coffee brews, and I drink it in my normal way: no cream, no sugar, and just a splash of adventure. 


*As Homer Simpson says in Mr. Plow (one of my absolute favorite episodes), "The waiting game sucks - let's play Hungry Hungry Hippos." 

[Please note that I wrote this several days ago about an event that happened over a week ago. With this I hope to resume my regular twice a week updates. Enjoy]

I was housesitting. It was my first morning. Before I take the dog outside to use the bathroom, I know what I need to do: make coffee. 

Seeing as this is what I do professionally at this point in my life, brewing coffee is a fairly easy task for me. Further, this brewer has a built-in grinder. I just ad the beans and water in correct proportions and turn on the machine. Now it's the waiting game*. 

Shortly I realize that I forgot to change the filter. I'm more used to brewing in a French press, so this is an unnecessary step as far as I'm concerned. I soon enough remember my friend mentioning that she had changed the filter before she left. Though strange, I'm glad she did. Suddenly, I notice a new problem: coffee is not dripping into the carafe, and is indeed coming out the top of the filter cone onto the counter. 

I examine the carafe, discovering that it is missing it's lid. This lid is far from trivial, as it presses up on a button on the bottom of the cone, allowing the coffee to drip through. All I have is a cone full of hot water and grounds overflowing onto the counter. 

I pull the cone forward, as I would have to insert the filter. The plan is to pick up the filter, and along with it the grounds and a bit of water, and drop it into my mug that is waiting below. This will at least stop the immediate overflow problem. I pick up the filter by the edges, but suddenly the bottom tears, dropping the grounds into the water and splashing a murky brown coffee-like water all over the counter. 

Plan B: use a spoon to press the bottom of the cone and drain the water (and now also grounds) into my mug. Success. I clean up the grounds and the puddles on the counter, ready to give it another go. 

This time I insert a filter and find the top of the carafe before I begin. The coffee brews, and I drink it in my normal way: no cream, no sugar, and just a splash of adventure. 


*As Homer Simpson says in Mr. Plow (one of my absolute favorite episodes), "The waiting game sucks - let's play Hungry Hungry Hippos." 

How to Brew Coffee (with Apologies to Anyone Seeking Instructions)