The F-Word

I've just been exposed to a strange and mystical world that I have never before been privy to: the life of the Feline (No, not that other f-word....sinners.). Anyhow, we are cat-sitting for a friend who has left the country for a month. And I can already say that I've learned more than I ever wanted to know about cats. I feel like a wildlife biologist most of the time watching this strange creature and wondering what the HELL it is thinking....or why humans ever bothered to try to domesticate them in the first place.

Now I've read all the email forwards about the differences between cats and dogs, but I never knew they were this true. Dogs, I know from 5 years of having a large dog as part of our family, are categorically 1) interested in what you are doing, 2) committed to doing what you want unless completely distracted, and 3) desirous of your affection at all times. (See left.) Cats on the other hand don't seem to give a rat's ass what I am doing or what I would like them to do and about my affection.





Also, I've learned that cats spend about 22.5 hours a day doing this:




























Except for select periods (usually around 5 a.m., 3 p.m. and 10 p.m.) when they suddenly transform into huge fuzzy pinballs zipping around the house as though they are having some sort psychotic episode fueled by a video-game-esque turbo boost. During these periods, they may be prone to engage in any of the following d:
1) Attempting to climb pieces of furniture not designed to accommodate the weight or movement of a living creature.

2) Perching atop said furniture in order to swat at the dog's head and face.

3) Digging in the dog's food bowl.
4) Jumping into the sink and bathtub.
5) Bulletting in and out of a small vinyl tunnel apparently designed for this purpose. (See below.)











6) Meowing for no apparent reason.
AND 7) Knocking things off flat surfaces including, but not limited to, framed photos, keys, small trinkets, cosmetics and other items made from breakable material (Note: If you want to make sure your adrenline system is still working, try being woken up in the early hours of the morning by the sound of several cut glass decanters FULL of various liquors crashing to the floor and spilling everywhere. Then run out into the living room to find the cat sitting, unassumingly in the window as if nothing has happened....yes, I KNOW.)

All that said, I am glad to have had a glimpse into the life of my cat-owning friends. Perhaps now I understand them a bit better (Cat-lovers: Can you corroborate any of this?). Because they can be pretty damn cute. And it's been a good character building experience for the LIOLI hound.















But overall, I have to say that I think I'll be ready to head back to being a dog-only household when the month is over (to say nothing of the dog's readiness to go back to a single pet household!). At least until I give up drinking, framed photos, dogs, anxiety and a clean sink.

Basil Shout-Out

About a year ago, our friend RT gave us a small basil start in a red plastic solo cup (the kind you used to drink cheap beer out of in college). We had high hopes for the future bushels of basil that would yield enough pesto to keep us in pasta and paninis until Jesus came back. But unfortunately, for the entirety of the year, it remained a stem about 2" long with only two small, pathetic looking leaves. In fact, it never grew beyond the rim of the cup in its long, sad life. We couldn't bring ourselves to harvest the two sad leaves lest we leave the plant no means by which to photo-synthesize itself into 2 new leaves (NOTE: I don't know anything about science.), so we left it be. But recently, in our whirlwind of local sustainable obsession, we replanted it into our "urban-window-herb-garden" (READ: A pot on the window sill.) and it took off! It's hibernation ended in kind of a ugly-duckling type transformation. You can see it here on the left, tall and spindly but sprouting leaves like crazy!


So we decided to carry out our first harvest. Though I suggested we observe an 8-day celebration in which we would sleep in an outdoor lean-to like on the Jewish harvest festival of Sukkot (See, a degree is theology IS relevant! Take that, world.), we decided we'd just take some kitchen sheers and go at it. And we did. Here is our first harvest: (Praise God for the abundance of blessings!)


We thought pesto an appropriate use of this radical abundance, so we started to make preparations. Unfortunately, we did have to supplement our crop with the teensiest-weensiest bunch of additional basil bought at the farmer's market and show here in the right:


But overall, I thought our home-grown stuff really made the difference. So shout out to RTT for helping us on our first steps to becoming urban farmers. We hope to have you over for pesto soon!

Local MADNESS

Being the minister in our family, it is no surprise that I do not have much trouble believing in things. Whenever I hear a good idea or a clever ad or a captivating story, my tendency is, more often than not, to believe it. It's not because I'm gullible (though my beloved might disagree....actually he would say that I'm a "victim of advertising."), but just that I have an easy time having faith in things.

So it makes sense that when I recently read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, that I bought in, hook line and sinker. The book chronicles Kingsolver's attempt to spend one year eating almost exclusively things that were grown or raised within 100 miles of her home. It weaves together her tales of small-scale farming, chicken raising and bread baking with sobering commentary on what she would call the American "food culture." The main conclusion is that what most of us are eating isn't good for us or the earth and that a return to local, sustainably produced goods is a necessary step to save the earth and our waistlines. To me, it sounded like the gospel. And so it was that I boarded the localvore bandwagon and set off to save the world and a few pounds through local eating.

I decided that from now on I would only buy local, sustainably produced goods, no exceptions. I researched CSAs: regular farm, meat CSAs, fish CSAs and flower CSAs. I even researched GRAIN CSAs and dreamt about baking all of our own bread. I tried raw milk. I signed up for cheesemaking class. I looked online for canning manuals. I insisted that we plant a window herb garden. I proclaimed that I was ready to become a farmer.

Now, unfortunately for me and for Mr.LOILI, I had this literature-induced epiphany in the middle of March. In New England. And do you know, dear readers, what is grown locally in March in New England? Not a damn thing.Now I should admit that when I first tried to sell Mr. LOILI on this new lifestyle, his response was "What kind of local food are you going to eat in the winter in New England?" But instead of taking his suggestion into consideration, I received it as I usually do: with a childish expression of deep annoyance at his overly rational thinking and inability to drink the koolaide of my ultra-liberal, sometimes mercurial passions. "DON'T YOU THINK IT'S IMPORTANT THAT WE NOT RUIN THE ENTIRE WORLD?!??!??!" I bellowed, "DON'T YOU THINK WE SHOULDN'T WASTE GAS SHIPPING STUFF ALL OVER THE DAMN WORLD, KILLING THIRD WORLD ECONOMIES AND POLLUTING THE EARTH JUST SO WE CAN EAT WHATEVER WE WANT?!??!?" I then subjected him to listening to sections of the AVM book on tape, at which point, I think he went back to reading Consumer Reports magazine, hoping it would blow over.

But it did not. The next evening, when we had nothing for dinner in the house, I said, "Let's go to the store to get something." (Seeminly innocuous invitation.) "Okay," he says." "But" (now I've got him), "it is really, really, really, REALLY important to me that we only buy local ingredients." I said this with a specific tone that I sometimes use which means: If we don't do this, I will probably die, because you will be rejecting the one thing that is most important to me in the world. Or at least the one thing that is most important to me in the world today. I think Mr. LIOLI has learned how to identify this tone by now, because his response was a cautious: "Okay, but you should know, there might not be too much." Yeah right, I thought.

Well, needless to say, it was an exhausting 30 minutes. The Mr. had been right. NOTHING was local. In fact, when I asked the produce clerk if there was any local produce to be had he just stared at me blankly and then after a long pause, said, "From here?......It's winter....." and then continued stacking Brazilian peppers and Israeli tomatoes in the bin with a mystified intensity. Damn. We went home disappointed with a pizza crust from Connecticut, a $17/pound chunk of mozzarella from Vermont (is Vermont more than 100 miles away? Must google that) and the only can of pizza sauce in the store that wasn't made in Italy. Maybe we'd wait a few more months.

All this is to say that I am particularly excited this year that SUMMER IS HERE! This week we made our first trips to the farmers markets and my dream was realized. On the menu this week:
Spinach and Asparagus Quiche (w/ local fresh eggs and local, organic asparagus and spinach)
Local and Sustainably Produced Italian Hot Sausage with a side of sauteed Kale
BBQed Shrimp with Mint Pesto and Orzo SaladMozzarella and Basil Panini with Fresh, Homemade PestoLocal, Small-Batch Ice-Cream with Fresh, Local Strawberries

I owe a major debt of gratitude to Mr.LIOLI for putting up with this tomfoolery and put a shout-out to anyone who has any canning advice for me. It's going to be a great summer!

Here's a picture of our quiche (first one ever...Mr.LIOLI was responsible for the crust which was about 78% butter and PERFECTLY cooked...hey, didn't I say this was supposed to be healthy?):


And here's a pic of the mojitos we made with the truckload of fresh mint we bought (Hint: We've tried many recipes for mojitos and been sorely disappointed. But these were great. The trick: double the mint, lime and rum. Yumo! I LOVE localvorianism.)


And some fresh flowers from a local farmer. (I came home delighted and announced, "I also got these beautiful LOCAL dahlias," to which, the beloved responded, "That great. They're really beautiful, except that those are peonies.")

Why Bother

Over drinks last night at a local bar that is way more trendy than I am, my good friend articulated a question that has pretty much been on my mind every minute that I've been a minister: Why bother to do what we are doing?

This friend of mine also works in the church and is moving toward ordination in our denomination (a ridiculously and excruciatingly thorough process of jumping through dozens of pre-prescribed hoops at specific intervals, though I can say this somehow does nothing to limit the number of wackos that become ordained ministers.) Anyhow, what he was getting at was this: is this all worth it? Is there any reason to stick with this church thing? Or is Christianity just some irrelevant throwback that has little to contribute to the lives of modern, progressive people? Will all this "religion stuff" eventually peter out, at which point the rest of the world will be relieved that they can forget about all the silliness?

Both the arrival of new-atheism and recent trends in church membership might tell you that the answer to the question of "why bother?" is "don't." As it seems, the church is dying. Most mainline American denominations have fewer members than they have ever had in American history, and, while there are many guesses as to why this is, the fact remains: fewer and fewer people are going to church.

As the pastor of a tiny church on the edge of complete collapse, I could have told you that. Actually, as an average American twenty-something, I could have told you that. A quick mental survey tells me that (excluding the people I met in Divinity School), I probably only have two friends who go to church regularly. And I can understand why. Even I am not immune from the temptation of forgoing the Sunday ritual. As I pass the joggers and walkers enjoying the sun along the Charles river on my way to church each week, I often wonder if perhaps it wouldn't be more fulfilling to be one of them, or to enjoy a late Sunday brunch, or read the paper.

But something keeps me coming back. Every time I feel compelled to give it all up to become a Barista and eat Sunday brunch, something happens that reminds me of why I haven't done it yet: something reminds me that church is a little bit great.

I say a little bit great, because I don't think it will ever be very great. People in the church are just as petty and angry and selfish and afraid as the rest of the people in the world. It is not always pretty. But it is beautiful. A little bit great.

It's a little bit great because every week I go to a place in which people are choosing to be together: not because it's hip, or because there is nothing better to do, and not even because they like each other all the time (they don't), but because it brings something out in them that is good. Every week I go to a place where people help each other, not because they have to, or because it will get them somewhere, but because they can and in that remember that they want to. Every week I go to a place where people take responsibility for themselves and one another: admitting that they're not perfect, and forgiving each other for not being perfect. It's a place where stories are told and emotions shared, a place in which we are reminded of what our best selves might be. In a way, we are like the joggers on the river, training for a race of compassion, building our tolerance for difference, and fine-tuning our humility and grace. We are not better. But we are trying. And I have to believe that it's worth it to try.

For now, for my money, for as long as it lasts, I think that's a great way to spend my Sunday. That's why.

When I first arrived at my church as the pastor 9 months ago, the office I was to inhabit was completely empty except for four things: two phonebooks, a broken space heater, and a crown of thorns. When I began to worry about this unpleasant welcoming gift and its intended recipient, someone told me not to worry. "It's for Holy Week," they told me. I dismissed it. If having that same conversation today, I would respond: No Shit.

In case you were unaware (or are Unitarian or live on another continent), last week was "Holy Week," or the week of the Christian calendar leading up to Easter Sunday. Now if you're not a regular participant in a church, you might not be aware that Holy Week is full of various opportunities to observe the journey of Jesus from his entry into Jerusalem to his death on the cross. It begins on Palm Sunday and proceeds through Holy Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday (yes these are real things!) onto Maundy Thursday (I've already forgotten about what Maundy means....I have to look it up every year), Good Friday (a silly name if you ask me) and Holy Saturday. This pattern is meant to provide various entry points into the story of Jesus' ministry and his passion (read: suffering) and should, if done right, be a transformational and deeply spiritually enriching experience.

That is, unless you're a pastor. If you're a pastor, then you are on a different journey which could legitimately be renamed "Death Week" (Jesus' or my own, I'm not sure) or "Let's go to church every day Week" or "Work your pastor like an oxen Week." Now, this is a bit of an exaggeration, but not totally. In fact, I've realized that my spiritual expectations of this most sacred schedule should be adjusted from a following in Jesus' footsteps to participation in his enduring suffering. Just kidding....actually not really. In was a whirlwind of various and crazy tasks, and having survived it, I almost can't believe it actually happened.

To give you a sense of what I'm talking about, here are a number of the tasks which I found myself doing last week:

Sunday: Arrived at church 2 hours earlier than normal to prepare for worship and then bundle up with 7 layers of outerwear in order to lead the Palm Sunday parade down Main Street in the 20 degree weather. Negotiated with several disgruntled donkey handlers and befuddled police officers the delayed start time of the parade. Distributed 3 million palm branches to participants and baffled onlookers (though somehow we ended up with 5 millon palm branches left over, and a giant crucifix someone had anonymously donated for the occasion. Didn't have time to let them know we wouldn't be crucifying anyone until Friday.) Proceeded down Main Street accompanied by song and off-beat drumming. Rubbed hands together to rewarm them such that I might regain finger dexterity and be able to break off carrot pieces for children to feed to the donkey. Considered feeding children to the donkey. Decided against it. Had church.

Monday: Caught up on work for my other job. Responded to three thousand emails. Tried to feel generally holy. Gave up lenten discipline of avoiding cheese and justified it by telling myself that actually, I mean theologically, lent was over on Palm Sunday. Felt guilty. Ate more cheese to make up for it. Created Easter Bulletin.

Tuesday: Met with Co-Pastor to plan three Holy Week services, having fumbled our two other (reasonably earlier) attempts to meet for this purpose. Labeled it "Being Led by the Spirit," and not "Obscene Procrastination." Attended our church's yoga class. Tried to feel even more holy. Held a "holy week" bible study about Jesus' suffering and crucifixion. Ended up mostly discussing the politics of the Roman occupation of Israel. Got home at 10 p.m. Ate too much leftover Indian take-out including that spinach dish with Indian Cheese. Considered feeling guilty. Considered barfing. Did neither.

Wednesday: Presided over communion at a holy week service at my seminary. Had one dozen people tell me my clerical collar "actually looks legitimate." Was confused as to what this meant as it is legitimate. Thought fleetingly about writing my Easter sermon. Then stopped. Labeled it "I'm still being led by the Spirit." Went to hand drumming class convinced that a djembe beat underneath "Come Thou Font of Every Blessing" will save our church. Came home at 10. Ate more Indian Food. Drank two glasses of wine.

Thursday: Ran around most of the day gathering supplies for Maundy Thursday service including soup, towels, bubble bath, plastic spoons. Forgot the towels at home. Moved 1200 chairs around in the church. Cooked soup. Ripped bread apart after not being able to locate a knife as they have all been stolen from the church. Attended Maundy Thursday tenebrae service at neighboring church. Was reminded why I don't go to that church. Washed people's feet. With the bubble bath. Got my dry clean only pants soaking wet. Felt very holy. Went to sleep.

Friday: Awoke. Read the psalms to get in holy mode. Sat down to write my sermon. Felt led by the spirit to surf the internet instead, and eat lunch, and take a nap and profread the Easter bulletin. Pressed husband (who had been released early from work) into service of the Good Friday worship service. Drove to church. Set up, which mostly involved lighting 28,000 candles and thinking about justice. Was annoyed that it got dark during the Good Friday service such that no one could see the bulletin. Winged it. Thought about death. Sung "Were you there when they crucified my Lord?" Went home. Discovered we were out of Indian take-out. Considered going back to school to become a dental assistant.

Saturday: Told self and husband "No seriously, I am going to write my sermon all day today. This is the most important day of the year....and it's going to be really holy." Immediately convinced self and husband that I would work on it later while we went on a quick shopping trip to Costco, Target, Bed Bath and Beyond, Petsmart, Home Depot, Verizon Wireless and Whole Foods. Wasn't quick. Returned home to dye eggs for the egg hunt. Boiled and cooled them before realizing they were brown. Damn it. Dyed them anyway, which produced a muted, poop-like marbled effect. Considered crying. Ate more cheese. Hoped the spirit would lead me to a great idea for my sermon. Didn't happen. Began to panic. Lamented the obscene procrastination and my own complicit denial. Recovered. Wrote my mediocre Plan B sermon idea up in time to leave for Holy Saturday Vigil. Helped locate matches for lighting the BBQ grill which would serve as our "bonfire" for the Christ light. Briefly considered how ghetto our church can be. Moved on. Proclaimed the resurrection. Put out lillies. Went home. Hoped Jesus would be resurrected.

Sunday: Arrived early. Hid eggs. Responded to tantrum of the child who didn't find the last egg. Had church. Delivered mediocre sermon. Husband confirmed its non-greatness. Considered crying. Decided against it. Helped host the church's ham lunch while considering the irony of eating pig to commemorate the death and resurrection of a devout Jew. Did dishes. Compelled husband into service doing most dishes. Wondered why it was my job to do dishes. Wondered why I got into this line of work. Remembered. Went home. Took a nap. Gathered for dinner with other ministers and their spouses. Party ended by 8. Went to bed.

And that, my friends, is holy-ness is a nut-shell! See you again next year!

The Return of the Prodigal Blogger

So I haven't been blogging too much recently, mostly because I haven't had much time in between teaching class, saving the church, observing holy week and getting a few zzzs every now and then. But I have missed it and had great intentions to get back into it just on the off chance there are two or three of you out there who have not given up checking my site. I always experience these periodic zings of blogging inspiration when I'm no where near the computer, so none of them, recently, has translated into an actual post. There are also the times in which I mentally escape from the more frustrating aspects of my jobs by daydreaming about my future career as a professional blogger. This seems especially plausible when I hear stories from my friends about mommy blogs that make $40,000 a month in advertising and product trials (though I must stop and ask exactly who would advertise on this ecclectic blog with only about three regular readers, one of whom lives with me.) But obviously, the motivation hasn't been overwhelming as this hasn't lead to a concrete post either.

But anyhow, if you can regain faith in me, I promise to put proper effort into returning to the blogosphere starting today. Oh, and if you know any advertisers for fine foods, theological treatises or good humor, send them this way.

Oh Happy Day

It's 58 degrees here today, which might not sound like a big deal to those of you who hail from warmer climates, but today is a divine blessing amidst the hell that is the journey through February and March in New England. You can tell that even this short lasting spurt of spring-like temperatures has planted the seed of hope in many around here: I saw someone this morning wearing a sundress and sandals.....a bit optimistic for temps in the 50s but I applaud her optimism. I even thought I spied some crocus buds while walking the dog this weekend. Hopefully, this means spring is springing!