My mom made the best pumpkin bread in the history of pumpkin bread. Ever. Now when I was 12, I'll admit I didn't see the value. It was just something she did every holiday season. Sure it smelled good, but it wasn't nearly as delectable as her cherry o'cream pie, which I asked for on more than one birthday instead of cake. But as I got older, got married and she passed away, I started to realize how much I missed that smell. It was the definitive "it's Christmas" odor. And I wanted it to fill my house. So, I called my big sister who inherited our mom's knack for cooking, hosting, and all things holiday and asked her for the recipe. I started to just listen (who does that when it comes to a recipe?!) But I soon realized I was going to need a list. So I wrote down the ingredients as she told them to me. Nutmeg and all. I felt like such a grown-up. Surely they're the only ones who use nutmeg.
I went to the store and bought all my ingredients and began the process of infusing my house with the smell I'd come to miss so much. I was pumped. I was even going to make loaves for the neighbors. This was big. But my completed product seemed to be lacking something, and my husband - the same one who cut me out of the duct tape - had not become quite so sensitive at this point in our marriage and was not afraid to point out said lacking. "What is that?" His tone was accusatory. As if I'd offended the whole culinary world.
"It's pumpkin bread!"
"No it's not."
"Excuse me? Then what is it? What do you mean?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe that's spice bread. That's all I'm sayin'."
I was livid. What did he know? Did he grow up in my house? Never mind the fact that my concoction tasted nothing like it was supposed to and that the smell was no where near right. He was crazy. It doesn't matter if he's right. When I say he's wrong, he's wrong.
Those loaves ended up in the trash that year, but I hadn't given up. The next year I tried again. Only to get the same result. Again, my husband, who was still not sensitive and clearly was not afraid to have any kitchen utensil hurled at him at warp speed, insisted that I had not made pumpkin bread. "Stop saying that!" I demanded. "It's....it.....it is so." This time he was so wrong there weren't even words to tell him how wrong he was.
Year three rolled around and I thought I'd better do some investigating before mister rain-on-my-pumpkin-bread-parade reared his ugly head again. I called Lauri.
"This pumpkin bread thing has been a disaster and you've got to tell me what I'm doing wrong! What are the ingredients again?"
"OK, let's see, flour, sugar, baking soda, 1 can of pumpkin..."
"WHAT?"
"Baking soda, 1 can of pum--"
--"YOU NEVER TOLD ME I HAD TO USE A CAN OF PUMPKIN!!"
"I -- in the pumpkin bre--?" (she senses I'm losing it. The water is swirling the drain and we are all. going. down.)
Trying to calm me, she uses her most soothing, big sisterly voice. "OK, I'm pretty sure I did. But, honey, even if I didn't -- did I really need to tell you that you need pumpkin for the pumpkin bread?"
"Yes! Clearly! Apparently! Absolutely!"
As I hung up the phone I realized the unthinkable was true. I HAD been making spice bread. He'd been right all along. Oh the humanity.
My man loves to recount this story. And I don't mind telling it either. It's a good one. Yes, it seems unthinkable that I wouldn't realize you need pumpkin for pumpkin bread. It's taken me this many years to realize why in the world it never occurred to me that something was missing.
I'm a rules girl. I asked for specific instructions. I made a list. I followed the list. Maybe she said one can of pumpkin and I missed it, maybe she didn't. (This is still a point of contention in an otherwise perfect sibling relationship). The fact is, it wasn't on my list. It wasn't in the rules. And I was just following the rules.
I like instructions. And I LOVE lists. Maybe that makes me a visual learner. I don't know. I just know I need you to keep it simple and let me write it down. One step at a time. I'm convinced that if someone had only known this about me when I was a teenager, my math tests would have been a lot less terrifying. This particular trait of mine frustrates my youngest daughter to no end. She likes to read things to me. Things I can't see. She'll be in the midst of a project, read instructions to me from another room, and I'm supposed to know what to do. This makes me insane. I can't think. Have you seen the movie 'Clue?' It sends me into Madeline Kahn's flames, flames on the sides of my face speech. Anyway, not too long ago when she was rattling off words and I could not discern any of them to be English, I stopped her. She hasn't seen Clue, so I had to go with something relatable. "Honey, you know when Charlie Brown talks to an adult on the phone and all they let you hear is 'wau wau-wau wau-wauh wau-wauaaaa?' That's what I hear when you talk to me about instructions and I can't see it. I need to see the list. Show me the rules."
Sometimes when I feel like life has thrown me some non-English wauh wauh-wauh wauh wauh stuff, I throw my hands up and say, "Lord you know what I need. I need a list. I need to see it. You explain it, and I'll write it down." The funny thing is, He all ready has. I just wasn't looking at the list. He absolutely does know what I need, what with Him being the One who made me and all, and I usually find that He's been whispering "Look at the instructions and just follow them" for quite some time. Pray without ceasing...Our Lord God is near to us whenever we pray to Him...but in everything, by prayer and petition...But the human brain is a funny thing, not nearly as miraculous for what it can remember as for what it can forget. (Like maybe there should be something with the word pumpkin in it on a list of things for pumpkin bread). In any crisis or time of questioning, I know my first line of defense needs to be prayer. And yet I forget. I might even be reading my Bible thoroughly and relentlessly. But I forget to pray. Even though I've experienced revelation and peace from those precious conversations, I manage to forget to have them. How utterly insane. You would think I would never want to come out from under the cover of that glorious place of rest and protection. But how quickly I run to any and all other solutions first. I keep making the same recipe with disastrous outcome. Never remembering to just follow the instructions that produced such an incredible concoction of calm, understanding and the blessing of His presence in countless other instances. How tragic to forget. How tragic not to notice what's missing. It completely changes the result. I have got to write this stuff down.
