A Hundred Grubby Feet

Not pretty, these characters. They've been hanging out in my backyard. Yellow dog chewed their button eyes and noses. They've been soaked to the stuffing, matted in leaves and debris. They are the dispersed, the weary, the forgotten. I meant to gather them inside a few days ago, but yeah, they  are truly the forgotten.

A friend texted, "Will you do me a favor and pray on Matthew 10 with me?"

I have, and I am, and more. I've backed up to Matthew 9 with this question that I doubt I'll ever know the complete answer to. Theologians don't even know-not really. I wonder about faith and healing. It's what's being talked about in these Matthew chapters.

Seems faith isn't the only holy topic here. Seems healing is holy topic, too. There's a relationship between faith and healing, and I wonder about it. Why isn't this relationship understood as clearly as it's written about? What's the muddle?

I'm muddled by it; and so are the scholars and denominations, and even nations. I wonder, Does the holy relationship between faith and healing seem to be securely wed in worship meetings held beneath a big African sky, or on a littered beach in Southern India, or in a remote Haitian village and not so trustfully wed in the tidy wrap where worship is dressed up pretty?

I read about the diseased, the possessed, the leprous, dressed in rags and dirty.

I read about the paralyzed, and picture them looking a bit like the mangy characters in my backyard. They are the paralyzed. The beggars who can't move indoors when it rains hard and debris falls about them and gets soft and smelly in the damp.

I read about the young girl who died from sickness. He father traveled far to find Jesus, certain that He would raise her from the dead.

Then there's a woman whose flow hasn't stopped for twelve years. She's outcast and she smells and, thanks to physicians' fees, she's down to her last cent. Braving the crowds, she searched for Jesus, certain that He would heal her.

Well, I'm searching for Him, too. "Walk me through these chapters in Matthew, Lord." I'm certain He will mend the gaps in my understanding. "Darn the holes," I picture Him with darning needle in hand; and, "Darn them holes!" I mean it like it sounds. I do.

Grub

"Let's go for a walk." He doesn't expect seamless understanding, but is happy I desire it. And I'm happy that I don't have to brave crowds, travel to the next town, or be jostled in a multitude the likes of the blind and the mute I've lifted from the damp and placed on patio chair. Maybe I shouldn't be happy about the convenience, but the presence of Jesus is something to be happy about.

I've read the Pharisees saw that Jesus sat and supped with tax collectors and sinners, and then asked His disciples, "Why does your Teacher eat with them?"

I don't know what the disciples' answer would have been. Maybe they didn't know, either. Maybe that's why Jesus was the one who answered; because there is no formula answer and just maybe Jesus comes to the rescue. Yeah, maybe He does.

"Those who are well have no need of a physician,but those who are sick," He answered the Pharisees.

"So, Jesus, what does Your answer have to do with their question?" I'm not connecting the dots.

Why does He talk about those who are well and those who are sick in answer to a question about why He eats with tax collectors and sinners?

I ask Him out here in the backyard where we walk, me with holes in my understanding, "Are You saying that tax collectors and, well, just everyday, backyard sinners the likes of me, are actually those who are the sick?" I know I need the Physician.

Poisonous Mushrooms

I bend down to rescue the sopping lion, and there's this grub, just thick and pale white with eyes and a mouth-and a hundred grubby feet paddling the air-stuck in a compost of cankered leaves. It twists this way and that, but gets nowhere. Can't get out of the mess it's in.

A few steps over there to the right, the mushroom I noticed the day before is full open and the gills on the underside tell me it's poisonous.

"Nice walking with You, Lord." With two fingers, a tad squeamish, I pick up lion by the tail. It dangles above grub and drips, and poisonous mushroom looks every bit just everything sick as sin.

But, I'm a faith hunter on a walk with the Lord and I sense I'm on the right track back here in the wild backyard.

I seat the lion on patio chair and take pictures of the mushroom and this ugly-as-sin grub. It just is that ugly.

I watch the poor sick thing writhe in place and, "Ha! I get it, Lord!" I snap a picture and mentally tag it, Live Example of How Sin Gets Me Nowhere.

Lion is washed.

I've cropped the pictures I took on my walk with Jesus today, and I don't miss the irony that I've got a carton full of small Portabella mushrooms in the fridge. I'm thinking about what to make for dinner, grateful for these beautiful Portabellas and, not to ruin appetites, but I do thank God for clean meat because, thing is, grubs are protein in places like Africa, India, and Haiti.

With thanksgiving, I roll dough. Singing to praise music, I slice the Portabellas. Gratefully, I place meat into the skillet.

Before dinner's done, I've asked the blessing on every ingredient.

Sometimes I have to trek through the real ugly to find the real lovely. Real faith is on the move like that.

Faith doesn't beat the air as a hundred grubby feet, but it goes and finds the Physician.



written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

When There Are Three Days Till Graduation

Melted Butter

So, yeah, I'm at the coffee pot and there's this mess of butter just sprawled like a couch potato in the dish.

"Rough night?" I pour coffee grateful I don't feel the way that butter looks.

Sunshine melts through the kitchen window. Shadows lean as laid back as a Blues Band on a hot summer morning waiting for their gig. I lean against the counter. Just three more days till the high school graduation gig.  This mamma feels like a graduate herself.

In three days I'll watch my youngest of four walk.

At the fridge, I pull out the sandwich bread, lettuce, deli chicken sliced just so for sandwiches and I make a sack lunch sandwich for the thousandth time. This is the last sack lunch that will ride in a high school bound backpack.

I make the sandwich with the kind of care that borders on reverence. I remember the first sack lunch I made some twenty years ago; then the middle years when I'd line up twelve slices of bread for six sandwiches. My six-foot sons were eating two sandwiches each, and this kitchen was humming wide awake at 6:00 in the morning. Breakfast sizzled on the skillet, lunch sacks stood lined up on this counter like soldiers reporting for duty, and  roll was taken in the van.

Well, one sandwich. One Ziploc bag holds a handful of baby carrots. I slip a few slices of cucumber in there, too. One apple and a water bottle. I'm tempted to write a note on her napkin like I did all through elementary school, but she wouldn't appreciate the sentiment. So, no note.

Three days till graduation.

The band will play. The announcements and speeches will be made. The graduates will stand under the hot sun in dark blue gowns, and wait for their names to be called.

My girl is going to graduate, and this time I feel like I'm graduating, too. Only, I get to do it in the stands, dressed in something breezy. I don't need a cap and gown to graduate. Just one last sack lunch.

I wash an apple, dry it, and set it beside the water bottle in the sack. Then I fold the sack closed, and that's it.

I re-heat my coffee in the microwave where the butter folded last night; and I hold my own quiet ceremony here in my kitchen.

Sack Lunch

Sun and shadow drape in folds over the counter as if inviting me to put them on. I step into the light. It gowns me.

"Lord, it's more than enough to put Your light on." I run my hand over the counter and sweep bread crumbs into a little pile.

"Come to My throne," He announces my name.

I come, grateful to be draped in the gown of His righteousness; His light.

Right now, the stair banister is draped in the dark blue gown. The cap's been hung on the newel. And my gown? I'm wearing it. I'm wearing light. It covers me, because that's how God dresses those who wear the cap of salvation.

The robe goes with the cap.

Thing is, I've been wearing this robe and cap for so long that sometimes I forget I'm wearing them. I forget that the light of God isn't meant for me to hide behind, but to stand in. I know what it looks like to hide behind His light. I've done it-used His robe to skirt around questions such as, "How are you?" when I don't feel like answering. Lately, the Christianese answer is, "God is good!"

I've answered like that before, and mid-answer felt that holy pin-prick as if God has purposefully left a few pins in the fabric of light for just such times as when I use it to hide behind.

I've heard others answer the same way, too, when I've asked them how they're doing. "God is good!"

In cantankerous moments, I've felt like responding, "I know that, but I didn't ask who God is; I asked how you're doing."

So, there it is.

Cap and Gown

I purpose to choose, the next time I'm asked, one of two answers. I'm sure there are more answers to give, but I can only think of two.

There's the honest truth which may be more than they bargained for, or take too much time. And there's the, "Thank you for asking. We should get together and catch up." Personally, I'd like to try the second version. It opens the way for establishing fellowship beyond a once-in-a-while question that's asked between church services.

Honestly, sometimes the best standing-in-the-light kind of fellowship I've had has been in the aisles of the grocery store, or, as happened this morning, on the sidewalk outside.

We chatted about God's faithfulness.

We chatted about His sovereignty and amazing ways of colliding so many prayers from so many people into holy order and purpose,

We caught up with one another's lives. "My youngest is graduating in three days," said I.

"My youngest is getting married in three months," said she.

We laughed about the graduation ceremonies we've held for ourselves in our kitchens, packing up the last sack lunch.

Then we scheduled a morning next week to sip iced tea together out on the patio. Maybe there'll be sunlight and lazy-leaning shadows.

I catch the bread crumbs in my hand and toss them into the sink.

That's it. I walk.

And in three days my youngest graduates. She'll walk.


written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

The Lad and the Lamb

Goliath was slain by a single stone,
placed in the pouch of a pesky runt.
An army of warriors had to be shown
faith, by the lad bringing lunch to the front.

His brothers, large in the armor they wore,
and hungry for cheese and ten loaves of bread;
never looked up to their brother before,
But wrongly accused him of pride instead-

"We know what you're up to, we know your scam,
"Ha! Little brother, where are your few sheep?"
They scorned  their brother, king's shepherd of lambs,
the boy who fought lions and bears with ease.

Five stones in his pocket, and practiced aim,
The lad had no need for chained mail or sword.
Goliath, the laughing giant, was slain;
the shepherd won in the name of The Lord.

Everyone has their "Goliath's;" those giants which tower six cubits and one span of ugly.

Some of us are trying on armor like the good sports we want to be. We've been told it works. We've read the stories of others who've worn the big armor for big battles in a big world, and won. Thing is, it only works till it doesn't. David's brothers, and the entire army of men they fought with, learned that.

I don't know about the rest of the company, but  it seems to me that the brothers were unwilling to be humbled and unwilling to fight Goliath. They poked fun at David instead, while he poked around a river bed searching for five smooth stones.

I don't know about David, but if I were him I think I'd have liked to have chosen a few stones with the names of his brothers written on them. At least I would've liked to have told them what to do with the cheese.

David, shepherd of a few of the king's sheep.

Jesus, Shepherd of all of the King's sheep.

David, the lad who provided bread to his brothers.

Jesus, the Lamb who is the bread, provision for His brothers.

David, the lad who felled Goliath in the name of the Lord.

Jesus, the Lamb who felled every sin in the name of the Lord.

Cream Cheese Banana Bread (I made up a Streusel topping that'll knock ya down flat!)

Batter

1 egg
1/2 c. brown sugar
1/4 c. granulated sugar
1/4 c. coconut oil-melted

1/4 c. sour cream
2 tsp. vanilla extract
1 c .mashed bananas

1 c. flour
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
pinch salt

*Spread 2/3 of batter in greased bread pan

Cream Cheese Filling
1 egg
4 oz. cream cheese
1/4 c. granulated sugar
3 TBS all-purpose flour

*Dot over batter and top with remaining batter
*Bake 350 till golden

Streusel
4 TBS firm butter
a small handful of flour
as many oats as you like
brown sugar to taste
cinnamon to taste
as many chocolate chips and walnuts as you like

*Crumble ingredients together, then press over the top of the baked bread
*Return to oven till the streusel is toasted

Now I know, no self-respecting warrior will lunch on Cream Cheese Banana Bread with this Streusel Topping.

Or will she?

written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

A Blessing for Nachos

“…and He will bless your bread and your water…” (Exodus 23:25)

Green bell pepper, white onion, mushrooms that somehow grow tan in the dark, and tomatoes bright as the sun itself; aren’t vegetables beautiful? I line them up on the kitchen counter, these four beauties, every Friday night. I’ve done this for the past 25 years.

I dice the vegetables while my husband—the big Bavarian—selects a stack of movies to choose from.

Friday night, our date-on-the couch night, began as quick cure for the likes of me after a week of newborn diapers, a spit-up rag over one shoulder and so much love from a baby that I needed to feel like a wife! I’d nurse our first baby to sleep extra early on Fridays, change out of the spit-up rag, maybe put a little lipstick on and prepare a big plate of veggies for date night!
Uh, no.

I dice ½ a bell pepper, ½ an onion, about 6-7 mushrooms and 1 tomato.

I brown some beef and flavor it with mesquite and chipotle seasoning and pull out the baking sheet.

So, 26 years ago I was a new wife and this Bavarian loved Dorito’s. Really loved them—and still does. What does a new wife do? Well, this one opened the bag of Doritos and spread a layer of the chips on the bottom of the baking sheet.

Then I grated cheese. The Bavarian loved cheese—still does. I’d sprinkle cheese over the cheesy Dorito chips. Yeah, I know. This is supposed to be about food that I can ask God to bless without first asking for a miracle, “Please transform the cheese flavored Doritos with grated cheese on top so that You can bless it to nourish and strengthen us.

There was beef. And there were veggies. And garlic. Just not as much as I put on now.

God didn’t do any food transforming miracles, but has ever so gently weaned my Bavarian from Doritos. And I’ve grown as a cook and have learned to balance his love for the cheese with my desire to raise my family on healthy food; most of the time.

The change was gradual.

I bought plain tortilla chips.

Then, sometime between our third and fourth child, I discovered Costco’s big bag of Organic Tortilla Strips.

I added green bell peppers to the cutting board.

Then, I don’t know when, but somewhere in there the mound of diced veggies increased, and the mound of cheese decreased and now—now I can say the words, nachos and healthy in the same breath. I can!

Do you know how many anti-oxidants are in ½ bell pepper? A lot. And vitamin D, potassium, and selenium in mushrooms? They’re famous for these nutrients. Onions? More potassium, vitamin B6 and B1, copper—famous! Tomatoes? Everyone knows tomatoes are red-carpet walkers in vegetable isles. And, I admit to spreading enough garlic on the Organic Tortilla Strips to strip paint off the walls—but we don’t notice it, my Bavarian and me.

We call our date-on-the couch, “Nacho-Movie Night.”

We’ve come a long way.

It takes time to make adjustments; sometimes one meal at a time, one vegetable at a time. Make adjustments as best suits you and your family—without stress since stress causes things like Dorito bags open.

Make adjustments, too, remembering that you’ll be asking God to bless the food you’re about to eat.

He gives grace to eat healthfully, before we can say “grace.”

Sometimes His grace looks like a cutting board of beautiful veggies.



written by Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

Bread, with a small "b"

I'm as bread, with a small "b,"made in the image of the Bread of life.

"Jesus took the bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to His disciples and said, 'Take, eat; this is My body'" (Matthew 26:26).

The loaf of bread on my kitchen counter isn't one I baked. I bought it from Costco and placed it in my bread pan. Baked like that, it's the closest thing to home-made without being the real deal. So there's my short-cut! It works for me in a pinch. It also reminds me that there is no short-cut to becoming the kind of bread that will be broken-will yield to the breaking.

I tear chunks from the loaf and confess, "Jesus, You are the Bread of life-of my life."


I rip the loaf to pieces. "You blessed the bread before You broke it."

"I was blessed to be broken and given." My hands pause over the cutting board. "When I came into the world," He clarifies by His own word what He just said, "I said to our Father, 'sacrifice and offering You did not desire, but a body You have prepared for Me.'"

I know the verse. It's in Hebrews chapter ten. "Then You said," I know His response by heart, "Behold, I have come-in the volume of the book it is written of Me-to do Your will, O God.'"

We fall quiet at the cutting board, He and I, and all I can think is that there was no short-cut for Him. He came to do God's will; and while He was preparing to be the sacrifice, He was learning to be obedient in His flesh.

I find the verse. It's in Hebrews chapter five, half-way to chapter ten. I read of Him, that in the days of His flesh, though He was a Son, "yet He learned obedience by the things which He suffered. And having been perfected, He became the author of eternal salvation to all who obey Him..."(Hebrews 5:5-9).

The bread is torn to shreds and scattered over the wooden cutting board, and I think of the Bread, torn to shreds-flogged-and displayed on another wooden board.

There is no short-cut to learning this kind of obedience, but there is blessing for it.

"Thank You, God, for taking me and blessing me." Really, I'm thanking Him for preparing a body for His Son; and likewise, for preparing a body for me. I'm fully blessed in Christ, and I'm part of His body.

There isn't a short-cut to forgiving, either. No short-cut to joy in the midst of mayhem, or to praise in the midst of pain, or to the kind of tender mercy given as equally as Jesus gave His bread to both disciples and to betrayer-but there is blessing for it all.

"You blessed the bread before You broke it. Bless me like that, today, Jesus." I bow over the bread on the cutting board, asking to be given this day the daily Bread and to become bread today, blessed to be broken and given.

"I have blessed you. Receive My blessing."

Ah, that's the hard part. It's hard to receive this blessing which equips me to be broken and given-even given to those who will hurt me; betray me. It's hard to receive this blessing which is established through the learning of obedience by the things which are suffered in the flesh. Yet, this blessing may be received in power, for the power that it is. It may be received as intended, and for its intended daily purpose.


I'm bread with a small "b."

If I wonder what my purpose is today-just today-I need only to know what Jesus' purpose is. Whatever it is for Him, that's what it is for me.

I think I hear Him whisper into my thoughts, "My tender mercies are over all My works, and all My works praise My name."

"Then," I venture brave, "thank You for this lil' bit of bread that I am, for I will break today and be given." Sometimes I say what is in my heart to say to Him without knowing how to count the cost. I can't possibly know the extent of the cost of a crumb of a blessing. As the song goes, "I'll never know how much it cost, to see my sin upon the cross," so goes my heart's beat, "Here I bow, give all to You; Lord, I want to be like You."
The cost? Jesus paid it all, and all to Him I owe.

The act of giving torn bread is, to me right now, what tender mercy must look like.

I venture further, "You gave the bread, Your body, to not only Your disciples but," my breath feels tight in my chest, "but also to Judas."


Sometimes I feel betrayed by those I give myself to. I'm feeling it right now, and just between Him and me and the cutting board I confess it. Then I realize that Judas played a major part in God's plan, and that was what I call a real big blessing in a real ugly disguise-and I realize that Jesus was okay with that. He was!

He didn't tell Judas not to do what he was about to do.

He didn't deny Judas a serving of His body.

I'm not okay with betrayal; though in this moment with this bread half-way between whole and broken, half-way between the cutting board and the serving plate-in this moment I am beginning to understand something beyond betrayal.

Maybe Jesus looked at Judas and silently thanked God for providing His betrayer who would, unwittingly, begin the chain of happy, though excruciating, events which would bring about the finished work of salvation, the last prayer Jesus would pray in the flesh till He returns, "Father, forgive them," the last words, "It is finished," and His return to His heavenly home.

Maybe He looked at Judas and was filled with the anticipation of going home, and with the joy of preparing a place for those who are, as his disciples were-bread, with a small "b."

Maybe.

Yeah, I'm as bread, with a small "b," and I'm also Blessed by the Bread. Two big "B's."


written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

Play-Dough in the Mixing Bowl

Equal parts flour, salt, water

A few drops food coloring. That's all. It's the recipe my mom followed to make play-dough and it's been passed down to me. Maybe my daughters will ask for it when they have toddlers in the Terrific Two's whose hands need many things to do. The family recipe makes real honest play-dough soft enough to be shaped by the hands of a child.


I'm a nanny this month to a baby boy who has my heart wrapped right around his whole little being. He's been crying today and this is what I told him: "You have the right to cry. Anything you cry out will be used to validate your right."

Then I said to myself, "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used to give validation to his feelings and the freedom to express them."

He and I, we curled up into the soft fuzzy pillows and blankets in my oldest daughter's old bedroom, and 2 ounces of formula later this little one was snoring and milk was dripping from the corner of his O-shaped mouth.

"You are like a butterfly," I whispered to him. His lashes lay soft and long against his fair cheek. "Crying's not so bad." I say it ever softly, and wonder to myself if butterflies cry in their struggle to emerge from the cocoon.

"Butterfly tears," I hear the Father. He's curled up on the mattress with us.


We gaze at the tiny face, the sweaty dark hair, the drip of formula crusting in the corner of his mouth and, "He's struggling to move about freely, isn't that what he cries out?"


"He's getting stronger in the struggle," comes the reply.


I remember reading that a butterfly must struggle with all its strength as it works its way from the confining cocoon. It must. If it's helped out, told, "Hush now, little one" and not allowed to struggle, the butterfly with perish because of the rescue. The struggle moves the blood into the wings and strengthens the wings till the butterfly is strong enough to fly.


I ease myself off the mattress and tuck a sheet around his chubby hands now limp with rest. "Soon You'll be moving about, crawling and more." I kiss His head and tip-toe out.

I roll the blue dough with my favorite wooden roller. I don't know the family it came from, or if the mamma who owned it rolled out blue play-dough. I found it in an antique shop along with my favorite wooden spoon. All I know is that it's been passed down, to me. And I know the value of things passed down. Somehow such things have helped shape me.

A play-dough mobile. I make it while he sleeps. He'll like watching the free moving shapes.


I don't have a butterfly cookie cutter, but I do have hearts and bunnies, a rhinosaurus, a chick, and a star.

"Father?" I press the cutters into the dough.

"Hm-m?"

"Am I soft like this dough?" I want to be. I want to be soft beneath His press-impressionable and easily shaped by Him. I want to hear His validation, and there's something validating about making play-dough.

"You are made from My finest grain to become as bread," He speaks so.

I press out a heart shape.

"You are made from the salt of my words." I know what He means by this. His words are mine to live by and to share. They are salt.

I press out a rhinosaurus shape.

"You are made from My living water." His Spirit speaks truest validation to me-His validation is mine.

"And what color am I?" A friend once told me that she sees me as a bright and shimmery green.

"Pure." It's the color of grace.

I need it, validation.

We all need it, the real honest validation. Not violation.

The truth validates. It's valid, no matter what.

"Show me, Father of truth and eternal validation, who I may validate today." I think of my husband, my children and their spouses, my niece and my sister.

I continue, "You've spoken validating words to me, just now with the play-dough. Speak then through me, that others may hear them as I have heard them."

"Speak My words. They are valid and bring validation." I hear what He's saying and remember something else He's said about the truth. It sets us free.

The truth sets us free.


"I'll speak Your truth in the freedom You've given me, Lord." I say the word, Freedom, under my breath, and then venture in the Spirit of freedom and truth, "Lord."

He listens.

"Where there's been violation, I'll forgive." Forgiveness is true validation and freedom.

Twine, scissors, a coat hanger. I begin making the mobile. The blue rhinosaurus spins on twine.


I'm happy to be as play-dough.

Honesty, validity, freedom, forgiveness. This is what my Father, the Ancient one, passes down to me. And to you.


written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig
If you like this, you'll love her books!

Pots 'n' Pans and the Kitchen Sink

Welcome to my kitchen!

Pull up a chair and choose a tea cup from the curio, or if you prefer, there's coffee in the bright red coffee maker situated between the bright red blender and the bright red Kitchen Aide. Yeah, I like red in my kitchen. It's cheerful and warm, and does something for the appetite.

There's no telling what will happen in my kitchen, but it's nearly always something good. oh, I've been known to forget the meat-filled taco shells under the broiler, and I've tossed a few handfuls of baking soda into my oven when things like that catch fire, but for the most part my kitchen is where conversations have grown up with the children and where savory fragrances all spicy Chipotle or smokey Mesquite, yeasty breads, sweet chocolate chip or oatmeal raisin cookies, mouth-watering veggie sautes, basil picked fresh from the summer garden and minced till the sharp scent just lifts off the cutting board, onion and garlic and roasts a la oven or crock pot sputter, sizzle, bake, rise, and feed family and home with food for body and soul.

A million meals have been prepared in my kitchen. Some plates have broken, glasses chipped, and the sink's been filled with hot sudsy water nearly every day of it's life. Both ovens have been filled with holiday foods for all 20+ of us aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, and cousins, or sometimes filled with just enough pizza for our family of six. On most every Friday for the past 26 years my oven's baked up to two cookie sheets of not your normal nachos while a movie is voted on. Laughter has danced the two-step across my kitchen floor and I'm sure that's why the tiles are cracked. Sure there's been some stomping, too. And some tears. And some raised voices. And, well, there's been some life in my kitchen. And that's why there's no telling what will happen in my kitchen. Life is unpredictable like that.

Pots 'n' Pans and the Kitchen Sink is where you'll find just that, a hodge-podge of everything from whatever life dishes up. I'll share recipes with you, of course, along with various ingredients that make life full of love, joy, and peace and other spiritual fruits. Sometimes what I share will read like a tossed salad. There's just no telling!

What's for dinner tonight? LEFTOVER ENCHILADA SOUP!
Not as in leftover soup that is enchilada soup, but leftover enchiladas turned into soup. I'm big on reinventing leftovers!

Leftover Enchilada Soup


*Thinly Slice 1/2 Onion
*Sauté in a tad-bit of Coconut Oil with about 1/4 cup fire-roasted tomatoes and any other leftover veggies you find in your fridge.

*Organic Chicken Broth
*Organic Tomato Sauce
*Cumin and Garlic Powder to taste
*Slice the leftover enchiladas
(I had leftover black beans in my fridge, so I added them)

-ADD SAUTED VEGGIES
-MIX TOGETHER IN SOUP POT

That's it! Easy. Tasty. And now I have room in my fridge! 😊

Salad dressing-
A couple splashes Lemon juice
Olive Oil
Pepper
Other Spices to taste...I use a pinch of brown sugar if I've sliced apples and added Craisins to the salad; and if I'm serving the salad with a spicier dish, I might add a shake or two of mesquite seasoning.
(I've added to my salad some of the first tomatoes from my garden!!)