It’s been a long time since I entered this space, but somehow the urge was too strong to ignore this time. The thing that finally did it for me? Muffins.

So much is going on right now (as it always is) but it seems like there’s more to argue about than ever. People pick their sides, draw their lines in the sand, ‘cancel’ and condemn. So what can be the great equalizer in all this division and madness?? I offer you muffins.

Our friend, food
I’d like to offer this as well: food is our friend. It’s possible that food does not need to be a plague, a struggle, an altar on which to sacrifice health or happiness. It can just be.

I love food in the sense that I love a good brisk walk, a cuddle with my babes, a cool lake on a hot day. It’s enjoyable. It feeds me.

I hope for today, you can enjoy with me.

A muffin story
Long before muffins, today we are outside, the dew on the grass is gently warming. We walk up to the field and plant a few experimental seedlings. Breaking up clods of grass from dark soil with spades, our hands. We clear a small little row of bare earth. The kids argue about who will ineffectively use the small shovel, and then we tuck seedlings in and leave them to the elements, hoping.

When we walk back to the house something about the downhill slope, the cool air, sends us all to our own peaceful place. Me to the garden to plant more seedlings, the kids to their own nature adventure. It smells everywhere like growth, like cocoa shells and worms.

All the movement and activity makes us actually hungry and we go inside for fresh eggs and half a piece of toast, a strawberry each.

The kids run back outside while I clean up the kitchen.

It’s almost midday, getting warmer so I don’t know if I should bake. But here they are. Sitting on the counter are two glossy apples as green as the new grass. I take mental inventory. Whole carrots, oats and raisins, baking soda. Out comes the recipe.

Morning glory muffins.

I don’t remember when I first had these muffins, but clearly they left an impression. My recipe is so loved, I’m not quite sure what color the paper was when I first wrote it down.

Many a friend and family member has requested these muffins to comfort their soul or feed their healing body. Many a morning these muffins have brought me back from wandering mental spaces.

First the carrots. I peel off the outer layers of dirt and ribbing into the scrap bowl. Now long, bright-orange ribbons form a pile on my cutting board. Can you see the green apples loose from their bitter shiny skins and become wedges of porous white? Can you smell the aromas lifting from the wood board? Lemon soap, eucalyptus, apple’s tang and carrot’s earth.

The fruit and veggies wait on the board as I wash three brown eggs, warm as my skin, and crack them into a bowl of measured olive oil. Vanilla makes the liquid rich yellow

Now the dry ingredients go into their own bowl. Oats, flour, sugar, salt, baking soda, and cinnamon– all their own beautiful neutral. It’s almost a shame to mix it together, but we must.

Then, I chop the carrot ribbons into confetti and the apples become imperfect cubes. All go into the dry ingredients (raisins too). I mix and coat the sticky fresh things, ensuring they wont sink to the bottom of the batter.

Finally the wet ingredients flood the dry. We (I have a helper now) mix it all into a sticky mass. These muffins will be anything but dry.

I paste the sides of the tins with butter and fill each tiny cave to the brim with batter. One spoon scrapes another, dropping in a sweet mound of mix– a motion that I’ve known since childhood. When it’s done, kids lick the sweet spoons clean.

Into the oven they go, and soon the house fills with smells of cinnamon cake and baked apples.

Later, when we bite into these muffins, we get all the moisture and tang of the apples, the sweet bursts of the raisins and cake-y smack of cinnamon batter. We lather our muffins with butter and eat more than one. We give them to neighbors and friends and sometimes freeze them for later. We eat them and remember that life can be simple and good.

These muffins don’t solve world problems and won’t run for president; they don’t even satisfy hunger for long, but their simple goodness is worth sharing.

I hope you enjoyed this little muffin story.

xoxo
Meg

I can’t believe it’s been a year. What grief and trauma do— it’s almost like an alien abduction, a trip to a different dimension. We have lived a lifetime, yet it feels sometimes like we are right back in that room, hearing the words we prayed we wouldn’t hear.

I wish I was exaggerating.

I have thought many times about what I want to say to all of you, the people who hoped and prayed and donated, sent gifts and texts and letters. Some of you we know and some of you we don’t, but we are thankful for all of you. Every single soul.

I wish, wish, wish that today I was thanking you and talking about miracles, showing you pictures of our one-year-old daughter. Instead, I am thanking you and saying YOU were and are the miracle. You showed up as an army of supporters holding us during those dark hours and throughout this past year.

You loved us. You showed incredible love to our baby girl. I believe she knows this. I believe she felt your love.

I want to share a few things with you.

When someone grieves, they really do want the world to stop.
 Somehow, strangely, Covid stopped the world, and for us, it was ok. Sure, it made some things difficult, and I’m by no means downplaying the hurt and fear that came with it, but the unexpected gift was a slower pace, zero expectations. That is what grieving people need from you: zero expectations.

Laughter and silliness and hope don’t have to die too. Our kids make us laugh every day, and sometimes we do that for each other. We have hope for this place to get better and hope for heaven, the place where we’ll all be together again someday.

Hurting people are everywhere. I can never know what the person next to me has gone through and they don’t know what I’ve been through. Our everyday words matter. Our everyday actions matter. Kindness goes a long way.

Loss of a child is not something you get over. It stays with you because love for your children is both powerful and eternal. We’re not climbing some grief mountain to get to the other side. We’re carrying her life and death with us daily; some days the burden is light, some days heavy. Everyday we appreciate those who carry it with us.

Finally, to my sweet baby girl, Happy Birthday.
I wanted you. I prayed for you. I hoped against hope you’d stay with us.
We miss you always, but especially today.

Sending oceans of love to you from all of us.
We love you; we love you; we love you.

Save a spot next to Jesus for me.
xoxo, Mama

Besides the back of my dog’s head, you are looking at a shoveled driveway. But it wasn’t shoveled by me or my husband. And nope, not by our dog either.

The story behind it:

It’s about half past one and my dog starts barking at the front door. I’m shushing him, as usual, because I just got the babe down for nap, and I’m working on the toddler now. But then I hear voices. I look out the window and see a troupe of middle school to high school-age girls in my driveway. Actually they are shoveling my driveway!!

I watch for a second, dumbfounded. Is that really my driveway? Am I so sleep deprived that I’m seeing things? The girls are nearly done, so I open the door and call out to them. I recognize a few of them as direct neighbors and a few others from summer bonfires. I thank them profusely, offer snacks and ask if they’re a Girl Scout group or something of the sort. Nope. Just doing this for people who need it done. Just walking through our hood and spontaneously blessing the woolly socks off people.

I snap a picture, thank them again and text one of their moms. What a daughter. What a blessing.

This has officially made my day.

I hear “love your neighbor” a lot in the circles I run in. It’s a catch phrase and a catch all for people trying to convince you to be kind to that guy you don’t like. Or thoughtful of others’ struggles and perceptions half way around the globe.

But half the time we don’t take it literally. Half the time we don’t even know our actual neighbors by name.

I’m lucky enough to be part of an amazing neighborhood where I know most of the people I live by. But that doesn’t mean I can’t make it even better. I’ve been a little stuck in my own world of raising little humans and hanging with mommies that go with them.

But my hood is where I live, the people who quietly (or loudly) exist nearest to me. People with basic and complex needs. People with families and drama and struggles. People like me.

These girls reminded me that loving my neighbor starts with knowing my neighbors! With saying hello.

And it continues with simple things. Homemade cards and hand-me-downs. Shoveled driveways and mowed lawns.

And an extra large batch of blueberry muffins.

Comin at ya, neighbors!