Sometimes I look out the window and can’t help but feel “this weather is deep.” Deep with meaning, with import. Almost as if the weather is confident of itself, and is challenging me to find some meaning within it.
This weekend brought the first blast of winter to the plains of Kansas. Saturday was chilly and windy, and overnight a little snow fell. Just enough to cover up the ground and let the tops of the blades of grass poke through. Just enough to make the landscape look totally different, without completely hiding what lies beneath. Laura and I stood silently at the window for a few minutes this morning, gazing out over the untouched snow, extending out as far as we can see.
Yesterday, I spent some time with my great uncle and aunt. My great uncle isn’t doing so well. He’s been battling cancer and other health issues for some time, and can’t get out of the house very well. We talked for an hour and a half – about news of the family, struggles in life now and in the past, and joys. There were times when all three of us had tears in our eyes, and times when all of us were laughing so loudly. My great uncle managed to stand up twice while I was there — this took quite some effort — once to give me a huge hug when I arrived, and another to give me an even bigger hug when I left. He has always been a person to give the most loving hugs.
He hadn’t been able to taste food for awhile, due to treatment for cancer. When I realized he could taste again, I asked, “When should I bring you some borscht?” He looked surprised, then got a huge grin, glanced at his watch, and said, “Can you be back by 3:00?”
His brother, my grandpa, was known for his beef borscht. I also found out my great uncle’s favorite kind of bread, and thought that maybe I would do some cooking for him sometime soon.
Today on my way home from church, I did some shopping. I picked up the ingredients for borscht and for bread. I came home, said hi to the cats that showed up to greet me, and went inside. I turned on the radio – Prairie Home Companion was on – and started cooking.
It takes a long time to prepare what I was working on – I spent a solid two hours in the kitchen. As I was chopping up a head of cabbage, I remembered coming to what is now my house as a child, when my grandpa lived here. I remembered his borscht, zwiebach, monster cookies; his dusty but warm wood stove; his closet with toys in it. I remembered two years ago, having nearly 20 Goerzens here for Christmas, hosted by the boys and me, and the 3 gallons of borscht I made for the occasion.
I poured in some tomato sauce, added some water. The radio was talking about being kind to people, remembering that others don’t always have the advantages we do. Garrison Keillor’s fictional boy in a small town, when asked what advantages he had, mentioned “belonging.” Yes, that is an advantage. We all deal with death, our own and that of loved ones, but I am so blessed by belonging – to a loving family, two loving churches, a wonderful community.
Out came three pounds of stew beef. Chop, chop, slice, plunk into the cast iron Dutch oven. It’s my borscht pot. It looks as if it would be more at home over a campfire than a stovetop, but it works anywhere.
Outside, the sun came up. The snow melts a little, and the cats start running around even though it’s still below freezing. They look like they’re having fun playing.
I’m chopping up parsley and an onion, then wrapping them up in a cheesecloth to make the spice ball for the borscht. I add the basil and dill, some salt, and plonk them in, too. My 6-quart pot is nearly overflowing as I carefully stir the hearty stew.
On the radio, a woman who plays piano in a hospital and had dreamed of being on that particular radio program for 13 years finally was. She played with passion and delight I could hear through the radio.
Then it’s time to make bread. I pour in some warm water, add some brown sugar, and my thoughts turn to Home On The Range. I am reminded of this verse:
How often at night when the heavens are bright
With the light from the glittering stars
Have I stood here amazed and asked as I gazed
If their glory exceeds that of ours.
There’s something about a beautiful landscape out the window to remind a person of all the blessings in life. This has been a quite busy weekend — actually, a busy month — but despite the fact I have a relative that is sick in the midst of it all, I am so blessed in so many ways.
I finish off the bread, adding some yeast, and I remember my great uncle thanking me so much for visiting him yesterday. He commented that “a lot of younger people have no use for visiting an old geezer like me.” I told him, “I’ve never been like that. I am so glad I could come and visit you today. The best gifts are those that give in both directions, and this surely is that.”
Then I clean up the kitchen. I wipe down the counters from all the bits of cabbage that went flying. I put away all the herbs and spices I used, and finally go to sit down and reflect. From the kitchen, the smells of borscht and bread start to seep out, sweeping up the rest of the house. It takes at least 4 hours for the borscht to cook, and several hours for the bread, so this will be an afternoon of waiting with delicious smells. Soon my family will be home from all their activities of the day, and I will be able to greet them with a warm house and the same smells I stepped into when I was a boy.
I remember this other verse from Home On the Range:
Where the air is so pure, the zephyrs so free,
The breezes so balmy and light,
That I would not exchange my home on the range
For all of the cities so bright.
Today’s breeze is an icy blast from the north – maybe not balmy in the conventional sense. But it is the breeze of home, the breeze of belonging. Even today, as I gaze out at the frozen landscape, I realize how balmy it really is, for I know I wouldn’t exchange my life on the range for anything.
