I blame the Casserole

When I look in the mirror I usually wonder, "Who IS that staring back at me?"

How did I go from cute little high school girl to, well, this? I realize that the journey involved a few curve balls. Five pregnancies and menopause for instance. But I beieve there's something deeper. I started pondering this while reading a magazine article the other day.

It was written by a midwestern lady, a healthy farm girl who was extolling the virtues of Quinoa. Then how to use it in a casserole. Casseroles are the quintessential fabric of midwest life.

Really?

They may bake casseroles in the midwest, but Southern women give birth to them.

Then we dress them up in patchwork, zippered carriers with handles and take them out in public.
They end up at church socials, women's organizational meetings and family reunions. They hold places of honor and comfort at every birth or funeral.

They arrive at the above mentioned event with great fanfare. They are announced and placed stratigically on tables and counters. Then they are compared to other women's birth casseroles. Sometimes with raised eyebrows and whispered, "She adds Cream of _____ "(fill in the blank). And of course the birth mother of said casserole sees hers as the crown achievement above all others.

Then if they are consumed right away, women can be found hovering around their dish. Stirring, poking, fluffing. And heaven help the casserole that was barely touched. The "mother" will carry her baby gently back home, prevailing to heaven what might have been, if only a different ingredient had been used.

And it was this philosophy of food that is woven in the fabric of my upbringing.

"Comfort food" does just that. So I believe I need to make a serious mental and physical effort to first identify my triggers that need comforting. I will learn to reach, perhaps, for my bible and abit of alone time, instead of mac 'n cheese (don't get me started....)

Because losing weight and getting strong enough to pull a donkey up a mountain on a trip to another country is only the start of this NEW journey. It's a new me. I'm still inside this body and I need a new lifestyle and intellectual outlook on a new season of me.

So who knows. I may soon be posting recipes. A casserole with quinoa and no "Cream of Anything". But I promise not to condemn myself if I "fluff" alittle bit of Aunt Nettie's broccoli casserole at our next church function....

In the beginning...

You gotta start somewhere.

 I''ve lived all my 56 years in North Carolina. Last year was the first time I visited the outer banks.

It created one of those "Aha" moments where the little light bulb goes off inside your head.
What was I missing? Or what else could I do?

A second moment came seven months later from my dear friend and mentor Christine. As she casually commented that the missionaries on the El Salvador/Honduras trip this summer would be giving out Christmas shoeboxes from Samaritan's Purse.

I didn't  have alittle "aha" moment this time.. My head exploded on the inside.
"It's time. Do it."

Yea, I've talked about someday delivering those shoeboxes I have so faithfully packed for years to a child in another country. It sounds so cool and so noble. And SO far away. Now the idea was staring me in the face. Not the little lightbulb Outer Banks idea. This was a fullblown, pit bull growling, put up or shut up moment kinda idea.

And the pounding of my heart inside my chest, and the shortness of breath I experienced at the thought caused my second reaction to this news.

I called Angela. She's my physician. Cause these boxes are being delivered by donkey and backpack. To children in villages. Villages on the side of a mountain. I'm still hoping this idea is some type of folklore, I don't know. It's this idea that eventually found me sitting on the examining table in her office. Discussing cheery stuff like, HDL, aorta valves, weight. Yeah, WEIGHT. The pivotal thing that by getting a grip on, we think the other stuff will fall into place.

So to soothe my nerves and keep me under the proverbial "accountability" category whenever a plate of chicken 'n dumplins waltzes past me at the Crackle Barrel, I now blog.

Stay tune people. This outta be hysterical.

BTW, the FIRST thing I did when my little brain had it's heart pounding do it now or do it never moment? I went home and sat in my time out chair and talked things over with the Lord. He needed to know how nervous, doubtful, "why why why" seriously, ME?!! I felt. Well, He probably already did.

Because it was Him that picked up all the little pieces of brain and put them back in my head. Then put His arm around me and assured me we could get this done, together. After all, it was His idea to begin with.