ClareMom

Comfort in a Covered Dish

nobody@vox.com(Angela Henderson) — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 18:23:22 -0800

There are very few things I make that my family refuses to eat. Simply put, we're a family of food afficianados and we love good, comforting food. When your then-seven-year-old son boldly tells his friends, "My Momma is a good cooker," it's pretty clear that you've earned your chops in the kitchen.

I have an EXTENSIVE cookbook collection, and by extensive, I mean I have more than 100 recipe books, all of them well-perused, well-loved, dogeared, and spattered, just the way I like them. At this point in my evolution as a home cook, I really don't need them, but I still enjoy looking through them.

I have a pretty pat repertoire of kitchen-tested, family-approved favorites, which I store in a binder labeled "Tried and True Recipes." When both of my children grow up and leave home, I intend to copy this binder for each of them so that they'll be able to re-create the beloved recipes of their childhood and pass them on to my grandchildren and my great-grandchildren.

One such recipe will be Unstuffed Cabbage. I found this gem in a Gooseberry Patch recipe book. These comb-binded, country-kitchen-inspired cookbooks contain some of the best recipes from "good cookers" throughout the United States, I have found. You can find their cookbook collection and products at www.gooseberrypatch.com.

My husband and I enjoy eating at the various Lebanese restaurants in and around the Tulsa area (Freddie's in Sapulpa or Joseph's in Drumright or Stroud) and one of Dwayne's favorite things at these restaurants is the cabbage rolls. I have resisted making stuffed cabbage rolls for years simply because I knew how much work was involved. They're also full of exotic herbs and spices that my children would not enjoy.

So when I happened upon a recipe that is not too spicy, does not involve stuffing meat into cabbage leaves, goes together in 15 minutes and can be left alone to cook for four hours, I was sold. And, the results were delicious. My husband regularly requests this recipe and my children LOVE it.

Begin by locating a large covered casserole with a lid. Le Creuset works well, as does a regular roasting pan with a lid. Spray your lidded casserole with Pam. Now, locate three large bowls. Into the first bowl, place 1 1/2 lbs. of ground beef. Add to it 1 1/2 tsp. salt, 1/2 tsp. pepper, 3 T. uncooked long-cooking rice, 2 tsp. minced onion (fresh or dry - I prefer the fresh), and two eggs. With clean hands, mix all together well, forming into 12 one-inch meatballs.

Into the second bowl, place one 28-ounce can of petite diced tomatoes, one 6-ounce can of tomato paste, 1/2 c. packed brown sugar, 1/2 c. vinegar, and 2 tsp. dried minced onion.

Chop the cabbage into bite-sized pieces and place it into the third bowl.

Now, back to the Pam-sprayed, lidded casserole dish. Layer half of the cabbage into the casserole dish. Top with half of the tomato sauce. Place meatballs on top. Pour remaining sauce over the top of the meatballs and then sprinkle with the remaining cabbage.

Place lid on top and bake at 325 degrees for one hour. Reduce heat to 250 and bake for an additional three hours.

This recipe serves 6 to 8 people, depending upon how hungry the people are.

From our kitchen table to yours...enjoy this Henderson family favorite!

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Enjoying the Holidays - Already!

nobody@vox.com(Angela Henderson) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 10:55:39 -0800

It used to be that I would say that my favorite holiday, hands down, was Thanksgiving. There was just something about putting together that plate...a little stuffing, some mashed potatoes right beside, a lot of turkey on top (white meat, of course!), a drizzle of gravy over all of it, next to it some cranberry sauce, then, in no particular order, a buttered roll and a scoop of everthing else, including Grandma Remke's Sweet Potato Casserole. I'd top all of that off with a sliver of pecan pie and a sliver of pumpkin pie - with whipped topping, of course!

And as if that feast was not enough, an hour or two later, I would always lay down for a long, luxurious nap while the menfolk watched football. And I was thankful - for the simple pleasure of good food, family to enjoy it with, and the freedom to lay down and take a nap whenever I darn well wanted to.

Today, I realize that I really do not have a favorite holiday. That's because I like them all - equally. Growing up in the Remke household, holidays were prized special events to celebrate. My mother made sure we didn't let a holiday or birthday pass without the proper mix of fun and festivity. She was big on tradition, but also knew when to throw the rulebook out and try something different. Many a new tradition came to be through her efforts - and some (thankfully!) didn't stick, like her Coca-Cola gravy. Yuck!

I believe my mother's favorite holiday was Christmas. I say it was her favorite only because it was the one holiday for which she made the most effort. We nearly always had a real tree, usually a Douglas fir or a blue spruce, and it was always decorated beautifully with a mix of hand-made and store-bought ornaments. Each holiday season, I still walk past the tree stand outside the local grocery stores just for a whiff of evergreen goodness. My allergies and the modern convenience of a pre-lit tree keep me from dragging a real one home, however.

Back in the day, my brother, sister and I always helped decorate the tree. Mom would pour each of us a mug of eggnog with a splash of whipped cream on top and we would put on our Christmas albums, including my favorites, The Carpenter's, Andy Williams, and a compilation album, that included the Beach Boys "Little St. Nick" and the Muppets singing "The 12 Days of Christmas."

In 1976, my Grandpa and Grandma Remke began the tradition of buying a Hallmark ornament for each grandchild. When we each left home, we received a box full of the ornaments with our names written on them in my mother's beautiful handwriting. Over the years, Mom added to the collection with ornaments for my children, continuing the tradition my grandparents started so long ago.

Last night, I dragged the tree out of the attic, along with boxes of ornaments, stockings, and other decorative items. The tree was assembled in less than 10 minutes and soon, Jared, Jade, Dwayne and I were sitting in the living room with Christmas music playing and eggnog in our mugs. And my children, excited and joyful for the coming season, put the ornaments on the tree, including some that are more than 30 years old.

There was the 1976 ornament of a shepherd and a sheep; the ornament with Jack Frost painting on the windowpane; the Wedgwood ornament with a relief of the wise men; a little gingerbread house that was stamped 1977; and so many others that brought back such wonderful memories - of my grandparents and times spent with them; of my mother and the joy she found in Christmas, a gift she gave to each of her children; of Christmas music, old and new, and how precious each song is to my heart.

Best of all, I felt close to Momma, as we celebrated the season the way she would have if she were still here. I like to think she was there last night, maybe sitting on the couch next to Dwayne as he snapped photographs of our little decorators. As I touched each ornament, I took comfort in the fact that her hands also had touched them so many years ago. I recognized in that moment why human beings need tradition and celebration. Tradition ties together our past and our present and is the source of happy memories. Celebration entails living our lives each day to the fullest and recognizing that everything about this life is special and worthy of our best effort.

My mother taught me that. How blessed I am to finally "get it" at the ripe old age of 40!

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Dwayne, Part Three

nobody@vox.com(Angela Henderson) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 08:33:42 -0800

Fifteen years ago today was one of the happiest days of my life. I married Dwayne Henderson.

In February 1994, on the way back from a visit to my parents in Owasso, Dwayne stopped the car near a cove on Lake Eufaula. We sat and looked at the stars for a long time and then, Dwayne got down on one knee and proposed to me. After four years of dating, most of it long-distance, the time had come to move forward with our lives whether together or apart.

I chose together. I said "yes," a decision I have neither regretted nor questioned as the years have passed. As I look back on it now, I realize that God's fingerprints were all over it - from the mailbox key that didn't work, to the chance meeting at a desk, to the friendship that blossomed and grew, to the simple, effortless way we fell in love and stayed there.

On November 5, 1994, I walked down the aisle of East Cross United Methodist Church, the same aisle my mother walked down to meet my father 27 years earlier. I was nervous and scared, because the magnitude of the moment seized my heart and I realized that things would never be the same. Plus, I had stage fright, big time! When you dress all in white silk, chiffon, and pearls, everyone's going to turn and look at you and it can be overwhelming. But once I was at the end of the aisle with my man, the world and my cares melted away.

The rest of the story is simple. We settled into everyday life. We loved each other. We fought with each other. We made up. We moved. We bought our first house. We had a baby. Then another baby. We been poor, we've been comfortable. We've changed jobs and we've owned our own business. We made money, lost money, bought cars, sold cars. We moved again, this time to the house of our dreams. We made friends. We've lost some along the way. Loved ones died and we were sad. We've been angry, unreasonable, and out-of-sorts. Our children continue to grow and bring us great joy. We've been compassionate, generous, and kind. We've laughed until tears came out of our eyes. In short, life has happened, all around us.

But the one constant, the one thing I can count on, is that when I go to sleep at night, the person I love most in this world is right there beside me. Sometimes, our hands touch in the middle of the night and my heart says a simple prayer of thanks to God for the tremendous blessing of being able to love someone and knowing that person loves me in return. There is peace, comfort, and safety there - a notion that all is right in this world.

Dwayne, thank you for choosing me. Thank you for loving me. If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing.

God bless that key that wouldn't work - wherever it is!

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Dwayne, Part Two

nobody@vox.com(Angela Henderson) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 20:44:16 -0800

What I love most about my husband is his kind heart, followed closely behind by his tremendous sense of humor.

My first exposure to Dwayne's sense of humor was Halloween 1989. He had dressed up as Leatherface of Texas Chainsaw Massacre fame (complete with chainsaw) for our dormitory's annual Halloween dance. I was supposed to be a pink bunny rabbit, but was battling a chronic sinus infection and decided to stay in. Dwayne noticed that several friends were missing, myself included, and decided to bring the "party" to us. He enlisted the help of our friends Steve and Holly (for camera work), knocked on the door and when the unsuspecting victim opened up, he kick-started the chainsaw. Steve snapped photos of the shocked and horrified residents for posterity's sake. We now have an album full of these photographs - human faces contorted in terror - which Dwayne thoroughly enjoys looking back through from time to time. I had heard him revving up the chainsaw down the hallway and knew better than to open up, therefore my shocked face is absent from the collection.

Dwayne's offbeat humor has gotten us through some pretty tight spots over the years. In 1999, I gave birth to our son, Jared. I was in full-blown labor when we got to the hospital because Dwayne did not believe my water had broken back at the house. It didn't "gush," as he put it. After pointing out to him that I had been through five pairs of underwear and a whole stack of washrags, he finally conceded that perhaps my water had, indeed, broken. While I was being admitted, the nurse who was starting my IV was not impressed by Dwayne's running jokes. After she left, I begged him to get rid of her because I knew he wasn't going to stop joking and I knew I wouldn't be able to watch Ms. Sourpuss roll her eyes all evening. He left the room to take care of the problem, and I never saw her again, thankfully.

After giving birth, I had fourth-degree tears and had to be stitched up. Unfortunately, someone on the medical team didn't count the sponges and one got sewn up inside. On the third day I was home from the hospital, I developed a smell that can best be described as fishy. I started taking five baths a day, trying to rid myself of the stench, to no avail. Jared was still in the neonatal intensive care unit, so we were driving back and forth to Tulsa every day twice a day. The smell was overwhelming - for me and for Dwayne - and particularly in an enclosed vehicle. One night, Mom and Dad came with us to the hospital, and the smell, if it was possible, was worse than it had ever been. I was beyond embarrassed. My Dad, proud of his grandson, was talking about how cute Jared was. He asked Dwayne when we were planning to have another baby. Without missing a beat, Dwayne said, "Whenever Ang stops stinking like a tuna fish factory." I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Dwayne's current favorite way to make me laugh is finding creative ways to write "toilet paper" on my running shopping list. He keeps hoping that I will see it in the middle of the grocery store and crack up laughing, but I'm far too quick for that. Some of my favorites from his TP substitute collection include: "bunghole papyrus," "asswipe," and "cornhole rollies."

When he isn't trying to be funny, Dwayne cracks me up anyway with some of his silly antics. A few years ago, Dwayne's riding lawn mower crapped out. He needed to get the yard mowed, because the grass was getting pretty tall, but it's too big to be push-mowed. He got out his push lawn mower, cranked it up, tethered it to his four-wheeler and pulled it around the yard. I came outside to put something in the trash can and nearly wet my pants laughing at him.

The best part of living with Dwayne is watching him with his kids. He has so much fun with them and they think of him as a walking, breathing jungle gym. Jared loves to wrestle with Daddy and Jade is Dwayne's shadow. Dwayne even taught her how to water trees this summer. He is indoctrinating both of our children to be good OSU Cowboys and has introduced them both to the finer points of Led Zepplin, Judas Priest, Ozzy Osbourne, and Deep Purple.

Tune in tomorrow for the final installment...

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Dwayne, Part One

nobody@vox.com(Angela Henderson) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 21:19:41 -0800

Twenty years ago, two weeks into the fall semester of 1989 at Oklahoma State University, I met the man who would become my husband. He was working as a desk clerk in the front lobby of our co-ed dormitory. He had auburn hair and was studying something that looked faintly like trigonometry. Not that I would know anything about trigonometry. I was lucky to make it through College Algebra and obviously did not seek further education on the subject, as I can barely balance my checkbook to this day.

I had made my way to the mailboxes seeking a tuition check my father had sent. I put my key into the lock several times, but each time I tried to turn it, the box would not open. Frustration setting in, I made my way to the front desk. There he sat. Love the hair color, I thought. Nice smile, I thought. Wow! He's a math genius, I thought.

I smiled back and asked if he could help me with my mail situation, as I could see the mailboxes were accessible just around a partition beside the desk. He said, "You know, taking someone's mail out the back side of the box is a federal offense." As my face fell, he asked me what room. "305," I replied. He went around the partition, took the mail out of the box, and handed it to me. I decided right then never to prosecute.

I learned much later that I had made an impression as well. He still, to this day, remembers what I was wearing, the way my hair looked, and the color of my eyes. He immediately looked in the card index to find out the names of the two women living in Room 305. Kristen or Angela.

The dormitory we lived in was populated by both the normal and the weird and unusual. Upon reflection, it was more weird than normal. There was Joseph, a biker dude who was rumored to be a devil worshipper; Rambo, a man in his 30s who was separated from his wife and had returned to college to escape the situation (and, he had a penchant for picking me up and carrying me around, which I never quite figured out); Senor Gomez, a strange little man with a Gomez Adams moustache (thus the name), who watched "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" repeatedly, while dressing up and dancing each time; a whole wing of lesbian chicks who swapped rooms; Peng, a horny Asian student who liked to wear flip-flops, eat food reeking of fish heads, and propositioning women in the stairwell; Richard, a 400-pound man who tried to buy me at the annual "servant sale," and thoughts of what he planned to do with me still make me shiver; Daniel, a slightly-off-balance savant who once literally gave the sweater off of his back for a clothing drive; and Mick, the Pizza Shuttle guy, who delivered pizzas to the dorm and apparently liked it so much, he took up residency in the lobby.

Through this mass of strange humanity, Dwayne and I were drawn to one another, if for nothing else because we were two of the least damaged. Dwayne was a gentleman, kind, quick-witted, and hilariously funny. We became good friends. I found him easy to talk to and fun to hang out with, something I had never experienced before with a man. There were no expectations, no foregone conclusions. He was graduating at the end of the semester and I was just starting my junior year. After the failure of a relationship just months before, the notion of being "just friends" with someone seemed safe and comfortable.

Little did I know that Dwayne's feelings extended well beyond friendship, but he didn't let me know that. He knew I was still hurt and I think he knew I needed some space. Secretly, I wanted more, too. But I was too afraid of losing his friendship to admit it. I needed it like I needed the air that I breathed.

We began dating in earnest in the summer of 1990, after he invited me to go waterskiing at the lake with him and his friends. I thought it was just the fact that I wore a polka-dotted bikini to the lake that made him plant a flying lip-lock on me when I got ready to leave, but there was more behind that kiss than just the appreciation of a teeny-weeny bikini.

Tune in for more later...

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Does God Exist and Does He Care About You?

nobody@vox.com(Angela Henderson) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 19:53:17 -0700

A few days ago, a Facebook friend posted a thought-provoking video about a college philosophy professor who spent each semester convincing impressionable young people that God does not exist. Each semester, during the last class, he would challenge anyone who still believed in God to stand up and prove his or her case. No one was brave enough to do so, until one semester a young man, who was clearly secure in his faith, stood up.

The professor said that if there was a God, He would prevent the piece of chalk in the professor's hand (which he was preparing to drop) from shattering upon hitting the floor. In semesters previous, the chalk had predictably shattered upon hitting the floor.

This semester was different, however. The professor raised his hand above his head and dropped the chalk. But, instead of hitting the floor, it fell into the cuff of his shirt, rolling down the arm, down the length of his body, and out of his pants leg, rolling - intact - toward the desks. The professor changed his mind about God's existence.

The friend suggested that I re-post the link on my own Facebook page to spread the word. I decided to go one better.

Here is an essay I wrote for our church anthology in December 2007, and yes, it happened exactly this way.

JESUS IS OUR HOUSEGUEST

When my mother came home on hospice in mid-January 2007, my family committed ourselves to making Mom's last days on earth as full and comfortable for her as possible.

During a family meeting, we decided that Dad would care for Mom during the day and each of the three kids, including me, would stay through the night, administer Mom's medications and tend to her needs. This arrangement wouldn't be easy because we planned to each continue working during the day, and although some sleep was promised during the night, it would be interrupted every two hours for the purposes of managing Mom's pain.

It was during one of those early-morning pain management sessions that a most extraordinary thing happened.

As I walked down the hallway to the living room, where Mom was resting in a hospital bed, I heard her talking. I stopped for a moment to see if I could determine to whom she was speaking. It wasn't Daddy - he was fast asleep in the bedroom. Was she praying? No, the conversation was too comfortable for prayer. I finally decided she was on the phone, because all I could hear was her side of the chat.

But when I approached, I discovered it wasn't a phone conversation.

"Mom, who are you talking to?"

"Jesus," she said, matter-of-factly.

"I'm so sorry," I replied. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's okay babe," she said. "He'll be back to talk. He's here right now."

Instinctively, I looked around. I didn't see Him, but rather felt Him. I felt warm, safe, and supported. I realized that, blessedly, we were not alone.

After I gave Mom her medicine, she wanted to talk. It would be the last lucid conversation we would share and I will cherish it in my heart forever.

As she began to tire, I held her soft hands in mine and I told her how much she meant to me and that I was truly blessed to have her as my mother. She told me that the blessing had been all hers from the day I was born to her.

Mom drifted off to sleep and I began to pray to the Lord, who had clearly taken up residency in our home. I thanked Him for my mother and her life. I asked him not to tarry. My mother's worn-out body was stretched out before me, and although I still believe in miracles, I knew the time had come. She was ready to go home.

A few weeks after Mom passed, I was telling Daddy about Mom's conversation with Jesus. Remarkably, he had a similar conversation with Mom. One afternoon, she told Daddy that Jesus was sitting on her bed.

There are very few things I understand or know about all that happened in the last days of my mother's life. This much I do know - though I did not see Him with my earthly eyes, Jesus was with my Mom to the very end and He was a very present comfort to me in a time of extreme need.

Whatever remaining doubts I may have harbored about Christ's existence vanished in January 2007, when I discovered Him as a houseguest in my parent's home.

"And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire, and after the fire a still small voice." - I Kings 19:12

"So humble yourselves under the mighty power of God, and in his good time He will honor you. Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about what happens to you." - I Peter 5:6-7

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A Letter To My Younger Self

nobody@vox.com(Angela Henderson) — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 18:40:58 -0700

Angela in 8th Grade

I recently came across a book entitled, "What I Know Now - Letters to My Younger Self" by Ellyn Spragins. In it, women from all walks of life - celebrities, cancer survivors, mothers, businesswomen, and regular "Joannas" like me write letters to their younger selves. Sometimes irreverent, often hilarious, but always poignant, the letters represent the collective wisdom that only comes with maturity. It's the quintessential in hindsight.

Of course, I felt compelled to write a letter to myself at once. I was sure that there were plenty of golden nuggets to share with my 13-year-old fresh-faced self. Yes, that's her above, dressed in lace and frills. Hey, it was the 1980s! She is beautiful, isn't she? Would you be surprised to know that she did not think so? When she would look in the mirror, all she saw was her flaws and imperfections. What a silly girl!

Here's the letter:

Dear Angela -

Please put down the Noxema and get those hot rollers out of your hair! This is your 40-year-old self and we need to talk. The most important thing I need to tell you is this: you are beautiful. Gorgeous, in fact! Stop worrying about what everyone else thinks and be comfortable in your own skin. You don't need to compare yourself to anyone else, because you are enough.

Cherish every moment with your mother. She will be gone much sooner than you planned. I know she annoys you sometimes. She's your mother - that's her job.

When you are 19, a person you have entrusted with your heart will break it. You will be terribly sad, you will cry yourself to sleep, and you will ask yourself why you bother going on. Don't entertain those thoughts. You do not need a man to make yourself complete. This experience will teach you that. A few years later, you will meet your husband. He will start out as a dear friend and you will fall in love with him slowly, over time. There will be a day when you are so lost in him that you will wonder where he begins and you end.

All of your dreams will come true, dear Angela. You will graduate from college. You will be a writer. You will have two beautiful children. You will do work that you are passionate about. Your life, at moments, will seem charmed.

There will be people in your life who will disappoint you. Shake them off like the dust on your shoe. Beware of people who are two-faced and fake. There will be many on your journey, but the good Lord has given you discernment. Don't remain "friends" with people who are not deserving of the title.

Be yourself, dear Angela. Dance. Sing. Write. Love.

See you soon!

Your 40-year-old self

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In The Blink of an Eye

nobody@vox.com(Angela Henderson) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 15:11:07 -0700

Today marks the eight-year anniversary of the worst terrorist attack on United States soil. Like many Americans, I will remember the terrible things that happened on this day in United States history, and I will be reminded that in an instant, in the blink of an eye, everything can change.

I remember very well where I was on September 11, 2001 when I came to understand that our nation was under attack by terrorists. Dwayne and I were living in a rural housing addition in Owasso, Oklahoma - a home that was on the flight pattern for Tulsa International Airport. Jared was two years old and Dwayne and I were trying to become pregnant. I was working at a private university at the time and Jared would commute with me each morning to the campus child care center.

I was running late that morning and the traffic, as usual, was heavy. A few minutes after the first plane hit the towers, Dwayne called me on my cell phone. I was at the intersection of 76th Street North and 129th East Avenue. He said a commuter plane had hit the World Trade Center in New York City. I tuned the car radio to a Tulsa news station that broadcast its programming live on the radio. The newscasters were speaking to eyewitnesses who saw the plane hit the building. And then, as I prepared to turn off of 76th Street North onto Highway 169 to head in to Tulsa, I heard one of the newscasters, shaken, report that a second plane had hit the other tower, and I knew - in the blink of an eye - that this was not a mistake, not a commuter plane accident, but something far more coordinated and insidious.

By the time I dropped Jared off at the daycare center, the Pentagon had been hit by an airplane. The newscasters reported that the nation's air traffic system had been shut down. There would be no more take-offs or landings for several days and all planes that were in the air were being forced to land. Later, we all learned about the one airplane that was still in the air, hijacked and headed for an unknown target, probably the U.S. Capitol Building or the White House. This plane never made its target because its brave occupants overtook the hijackers and crashed the plane in a rural area of Pennsylvania.

By the time the two towers fell, I was numb. The magnitude of what had been unfolding was just too much for me to wrap my mind around. I continued to work throughout the day, but I cannot recall anything I did or what I accomplished. My mind was literally miles away.

That evening after dinner, Dwayne, Jared and I took a walk around our neighborhood and it was surreal not hearing the jets taking off and landing at the airport. The stillness, given all that had happened that day, was equal parts comforting and unnerving. Somewhere inside of myself, I recognized that nothing would ever be the same again.

It was during this walk that I decided I did not want to bring another child into a world like this. I don't know if I verbalized this thought to Dwayne or not, but our efforts to get pregnant came to a screeching halt. It was more than I could bear to think of something like this happening to my children. And yet, much later, I realized that there is really very little I can do to prevent these things from happening. All I can do is pray, have faith in God, and hope for the best.

I still wonder about the thousands of innocent people who lost their lives that day. I wonder if anyone on those airplanes or in the World Trade Center or the Pentagon had arguments with their children or spouses that morning. I wonder if someone forgot to say "I love you" to a cherished family member that morning as they left their house for work. I wonder if someone left a project half-finished in a garage the night before. I wonder if someone put food in a crockpot that morning before they left for work, planning for dinner with family later that night.

And in wondering all of this, I am reminded that the blessings of life are often found in the quiet, mundane moments that few of us consider significant. The simple act of hugging someone you love tightly each morning before you part ways may not seem important at the time, but if you knew you would never see that person again, would it?

Yesterday, a colleague was talking about a story she heard at a seminar recently. The individual who related the story had a teenaged son. For his 16th birthday, they bought him a Jeep, which he totalled a few days later. When the parents confronted their son about the accident, they also spoke to him about his poor grades and how disappointed they were with him in general. The storyteller told the group that after the conversation, the son went upstairs to his room. A few minutes later, they heard a gunshot. Their son had committed suicide. The storyteller told the people assembled for the meeting that, in retrospect, the grades and the car were just "mouse poop" - insignificant when compared to the loss of their child.

Our tiny planet's most precious asset and resource isn't diamonds. It isn't gold. It is human life. Each person has value. Every person has potential. The Bible says that God knows each of us intimately. He knew us when we were "knit together" in our mother's wombs. He knows the exact number of hairs on our heads.

I think that is why I was so affected by September 11, 2001. The idea that so many people died on that day - for nothing more than an extremist's very narrow interpretation of a prophet's words - hurts my heart. I wonder what the world would have been like if each of those 2,900-plus precious lives had been able to live to their full potential?

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I Wanna Be A Rock Star

nobody@vox.com(Angela Henderson) — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 19:52:20 -0700

Last week, while bathing my four-year-old firecracker, Jaderbug, she informs me that she wants to be "a rock star" when she grows up. This is the unfortunate by-product of the replacement of the batteries in her pink Barbie "buitar" (guitar), which was a birthday gift from her Aunt Kim.

Jade has spoken of being (in no particular order): (1) a ballerina; (2) a dancer; (3) a princess; and now, a rock star, when she grows up. Of the potential careers she has dreamed of, the only one that seems viable is the latter, as she has a beautiful singing voice and is nearly always in tune.

Ballerina and dancer are out, Baby Girl. You're too klutzy and accident-prone for that line of work.

And, I'm sorry to report that princess is not in your future, either, Precious. Unless you happen to move to Europe and marry into it, and Mommy would miss you so much, you'd have to let me and Daddy move into the palace.

Dwayne is notorious for snapping photos of all of us and Jade has grown to be quite shy whenever the camera comes out. I wanted to get some video of Jaderbug playing her buitar and singing, so I told her that if she wanted to be a rock star, she'd need to learn how to make music videos. Here's what I captured...

Jaderbug, The Rock Star.

MVI_0192

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The Best Grilled Hamburger You Will Ever Eat

nobody@vox.com(Angela Henderson) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 12:40:15 -0700

Summertime gatherings at the Henderson household almost always include hamburgers and hotdogs off of the charcoal grill. And I have a recipe for hamburgers that is so good (and easy!) that it's almost sinful.

I'd like to say that I came up with this recipe, but that wouldn't be true. The recipe belongs to my Grandpa Remke (Big Papaw), who passed away in July 2003. Grandpa Remke was proud of his grilled hamburgers and rightly so. When he made them, there usually weren't any leftovers. Everyone in our family loved them.

The smell of one of these hamburgers evokes memories of my girlhood spent running up and down Limestone Road in Bartlesville, enjoying my grandmother's beautiful flower garden, and good times spent with my father's family.

When Dwayne and I began dating, he would regularly join our family for these summertime gatherings and all the way home, he would comment on how good the hamburgers were. Finally, one summer, I asked Grandpa how he made his hamburgers and he showed me. I'm so glad I asked, because even though Grandpa is gone, his hamburger recipe lives on.

To make Grandpa Remke's hamburgers, you will need: 2 pounds of ground beef (73% fat), 1 small white onion (minced), and 1 bottle hickory-flavored barbecue sauce. Place the beef, the minced onion and approximately 5 tablespoons of the barbecue sauce in a large bowl. Mix all well with your hands, until onions and sauce are well incorporated in the beef. You do not want to put too much barbecue sauce in the mix or the burgers will fall apart on the grill. If the hamburger meat is too saucy, add more beef and onions and mix well.

Form into hamburgers and salt and pepper on each side of the patty. Grill on a charcoal grill until done. Allow to rest briefly so that the juices distribute evenly in the meat. Place cheese on the burgers, if you wish. Place burger on a white, wheat, or sesame bun. Add dill pickles, tomatoes, red onion, and lettuce. Condiments can include mustard, mayonnaise, ketchup, or more barbecue sauce.

We like our burgers with potato chips, baked beans, potato salad, or pasta salad. The recipe will make 6 to 8 hamburger patties, depending on how generous you make your patties. You can easily double or triple the recipe. Be aware that due to the high fat content of the beef, the burgers do shrink up, but the fat is absolutely critical for a juicy hamburger.

Our neighbors love these hamburgers, and in fact, the teenaged son of one neighbor talks about these burgers throughout the year. In fact, when he left here Friday night, he left with a doggie bag including two hamburgers to enjoy later.

Thank you, Grandpa Remke, for the recipe and for all of the wonderful memories I have of you. I love you!

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