Caramelized-Pear French Toast

When I taught elementary school, a supervisor, completing an annual evaluation, fell asleep during the math lesson I was teaching to my first-graders. Later he blamed it on me, saying it was because I told him to observe after lunch, and since he had eaten a big meal, he couldn’t stay awake. I didn’t comment even though he was the one who had picked the class to attend; instead, I watched him joke about it to the other teachers. I knew he was embarrassed, but I felt embarrassed, too, and also responsible. A boring teacher who couldn’t keep her principal awake.

But while he slept, he missed so much excitement -- the gigantic smile on the tiny tot’s face who answered correctly for the first time and the high-pitched squeals from the shy boy who usually didn’t talk. And then the boisterous cheers when the girls won the flash card race and then some of the most encouraging words a teacher can hear --  “That was fun. What’s next?” -- after the math activity was over. Yes, the principal missed all the excitement, waking up only after one of the kids yelled, “Hey, Mrs. Bader. He’s snoring!”

I’ve recently returned from an exciting vacation in South Africa, a vacation I have ranted and raved about for weeks now. A vacation I didn’t want to be over. A vacation where there was so much emotion and anticipation and wonder that I jumped up every morning and couldn’t wait for the day to begin and then fought hard to stay awake at night for as long as I possibly could. A vacation where God most definitely answered my prayer to be overwhelmed with the wonder of His world.

And then, quite jetlagged after 26 hours in the air, I came home, ignored phone calls and mail for as long as I could, and slept for several days before I woke up to my regular life. To my daily routine that can be, at times, a tad boring. To the rigamarole that goes along with responsibilities and a really massive to-do list. To demands.  And to exhaustion that doesn’t come from an exciting game drive in an exotic country.

But I also came home without the high expectations I had in South Africa. I didn’t expect to be as overwhelmed with wonder in Bellville, Texas, where I’ve lived for most of my 57 years, as I was during my South African vacation in the Thousand Hills outside Durban and the private game reserves of Samara and Kwandwe and the wine lands surrounding Cape Town and the grandeur of La Residence. I didn’t realize it, but that’s what I did. Or didn’t. And I forgot a prayer I had confined to South Africa: God, overwhelm me with the wonder of your world. Not just on vacation, but wherever I am. Even in my daily life. Especially in my daily life!   

During our last meal at La Residence in the Franschhoek valley, faced with the reality of leaving all the grandeur behind, I did something quite idiotic: I ordered an egg white omelet for breakfast. Who orders something that ridiculous at a place where the food is as delicious as the view is gorgeous as the house is elegant…? Well, you get the idea. I mean, the cuisine at La Res is unforgettable, but my clothes were snug and I had already consumed two amazing lattes (one was supposed to have been for Ian), so I decided to be “good,” which translates, in this case, as “stupid,” a word I NEVER let my kids at school use! Reid, however, our experienced and traveled son who is not an idiot, ordered the French toast with caramelized pears.

And while I sipped freshly-squeezed orange juice and nibbled on snow-white goat cheese while also drinking the fabulous Ethiopian-blended black coffee (I hadn’t had any coffee in four months so I was overdosing on that treat), it was obvious that I wasn’t being “good” anyway and I kept wishing I had ordered the French toast with caramelized pears.  Obsessing, really. Forget the calories, I wanted the French toast!  And then breakfast was artfully served and it was exceptionally lovely, even the egg white omelet, but Reid’s French toast – oh dear! And watching my son moan appreciatively as he ate, I stared resolutely until he offered me a bite – and that one delicious bite, I might add, cured me of any future food stupidity. It was, in three words, to die for! Well, maybe not to die for, but certainly the last treat you’d want to eat before you left South Africa anyway. Better than the chocolate explosion in Cape Town and Ian’s three chocolate birthday cakes and all things chocolate for that matter, the highest food compliment I can give. And I certainly won’t demean it by comparing it to an egg white omelet even one as delicious as the one I ate that morning!

In a land with its own lingo -- where “turning off the tap” refers to the rain forecast for the day and a “trolley” is a luggage cart at the airport;  where “just now” means anytime between now and infinity and “howzit” means how is it going; and also where “one time” means a really great time -- the Baders have now invented their own South African phrase, caramelized pear, to describe anything so indescribably delicious that there are simply no words to do it justice. Caramelized pear is not just “wow” but “ohhhhhh wowwwww!”  

In South Africa, we experienced many caramelized pearmoments besides the delicious one at La Residence, moments which made me forget my sagging eyelids and Ian’s cracked rib cartilageand Reid’s almost-pneumonia. Over-the-top times where we’d forget all problems and worries and responsibilities, and instead, be simply overwhelmed with God’s world. Awed, really.

The dark, antelope-like waterbuck that looked like he sat down on a freshly-painted white toilet seat, and the majestic golden-maned lion that entertained us by rolling around in a heap of rhino dung, and the lazing cheetah in the bush who calmly looked at us while we somewhat fearfully stared back. And then there were the young, male giraffes banging their long necks against each other as they fought for dominance and the angry, aggressive elephant in musth charging down the road as our guide hurried out of his way. Then there were those other delicious moments like returning from a cold game drive in Samara, only to find a hot bath already drawn with slippers and a robe warmed and ready, and the high-pitched squeal of our guide when he heard that an older cheetah not known to be pregnant had given birth, and all the heart-felt celebrations heard throughout the camp for that birth! And also silly, yet still unforgettable moments like the morning when Ian, after hearing that the “cats” sometimes lounged under the teak decks in Kwandwe, stood on our deck calling, “Here Kitty, Kitty!”  

Oh, yes, there were many, many caramelized pear moments on our trip!

And then it was over.

On the last day in Samara, Reid, fighting a bad chest cold, was obviously not feeling wel, and when the mother in me asked him if he wanted to stay inside while we went out on a game drive, his answer was adamant: “No way. I’m NOT going to miss anything.” With eight years of safaris under his belt, Reid knew a ridiculous question when he heard one.  You don’t sleep when there are so many amazing, once-in-a-lifetime opportunities awaiting you. You don’t stay inside when outside there’s something you’ve never seen before. You don’t refuse to go when there’s a possibility that you might miss something awesome! You just don’t!  

And Reid was right for the last animal we saw that night was the elusive big-eared, long-nosed aardvark, the very animal Reid had wanted to see the entire trip!

Yesterday, I walked outside on my front porch where in the midst of my mess of a garden, birds were chirping and hopping and pecking at the yellow sunflowers I had pulled out of the weeds, delightful birds having as delightful a time as the ones in South Africa. Two weeks ago, I would have asked our guide what those birds were, and then we would have stopped and talked all about them. We’d have learned their call and their mating habits and idiosyncrasies. And I’d have left with a new appreciation for yet another creature in God’s world. And I wouldn’t have missed the moment that I almost missed on my own front porch, which is also part of God’s amazing world and also a place to stand awed and overwhelmed.

My son’s reaction that last day on safari will always remind me of the amazing possiblilities God gives us each day. Overwhelming moments to stand in awe and wonder as He unveils his world. Caramalized-pear French toast opportunities to experience. And they are, most definitely, not confined to South Africa. 

And that first-grader’s question continues to echo through my mind and my heart, words I have since repeated in my morning prayers to God: “That was fun. What’s next?”

Samara!

Samara is a land that screams to be sung about. A land whose silence is louder than anything I’ve heard. A land filled with the call of the jackal, the swoop of the owl’s wings, the swish of the aardvark’s tale, and the squawk of the baboon. And if you don’t hear them, you think you do. You want to. And you listen even more carefully than you’ve listened to anything in your life. Samara is peaceful and mystical and emotional, too.

In Samara, a day doesn’t go by without tears, tears that flow from your belly up. Tears that can’t be stopped, tears that can’t be explained. Experiencing Samara is experiencing a land of raw emotions with raw emotion.

And it’s a land of respect, too. The land, its people, the animals respect each other. Admire each other. Celebrate each other. And maybe fear each other a little, too. And their mututal respect leads to a harmony I’ve not witnessed before among a land, its people, and the animals whose presence makes it special.

Oh yes, Samara is a land that screams to be sung about. A land that respectfully demands respect. A peaceful existence which shares its peace with those who come to visit. And there is so much to share.

Last night as the sun began to sink down to the horizon leaving a pinkish haze hovering over the mountains, we gingerly hiked down a rocky, somewhat treacherous cliff to a small, hidden cave below, motivated by anticipation of seeing the famous ancient rock art waiting on the cave’s walls. I haven’t hiked like that since I was a young girl climbing with my Uncle Tommy at Palo Dura Canyon 43 years ago, and then last year Ian, who has cracked rib cartilage, broke his arm walking down stairs in the Battleship of Texas. So I prayed a lot on the way down to the cave. “Oh Lord. Please don’t let us break a bone here in the mountains of South Africa where there is no light to be seen, no one around, and no EMS vehicle that could possibly make it this far!” Yes, it was frightening, but once we made it to the cave, the trek was most definitely worth the risk.

In the serene stillness of that tiny cave nestled in the dolomite mountain and blocked by the sweet thorn bush, the only noise was the sound of our pounding chests, pumping with adrenalin and excitement and relief for having survived the hike down the rocky cliff. And we stood, respectfully silent and awed at what was before us. We came to Samara expecting animals, but we’ve experienced so much more.

The first ancient drawing we encountered was a cheetah, a simple child-like, reddish-hue sketch drawn by a bushman 2,000 years ago. A piece of art symbolic of this land, still home to that amazing cat. And then there was more art by the Ngami painted a mere 1,000 years ago. Drawings of man with animals, the giraffe recognizable immediately. Art distinctly different than the bushman’s art. And unique just like the experience of Samara. And, of course, much more than you expect. Reid’s repeated phrase - “Just wait. There’s more!” – wasn’t a hyperbole. There’s always more in this magical, harmonious place.

Yes. Samara is a land that screams to be sung about.

And it’s a land where the reserve ranger is a teacher as well as a guide. And when the ranger says, “Follow me,” you know to be careful for you might be the food for a waiting predator. But when he says, “You go first,” then you learn there is food waiting for you! And what an experience both of them are. First, climbing out of the Toyota land cruiser and gingerly meandering down a darkened, shaded path in the midst of “monkey land” where the greenish foliage drapes over the road and the majestic buffalo are hidden further down in the bush, I wasn’t sure what to expect. But Shakemore, our trusted guide, said to go first, and soon I found out that awaiting us was a culinary surprise: table cloths and silverware and plates and a delicious, kingly feast including anything we wanted to drink. Golden-crusted fish and lamb sticks and chicken sandwiches on rolls and flakey-pastry quiche and bean salad and green salad with cucumbers and tomatoes and the most incredible multi-layered chocolate cake oozing with chocolate icing from Ian’s birthday celebration the night before. And a fire to warm our hands after washing them in a porcelain basin filled with warm water.

What we’ve learned is that the adventure of the animals and the adventure of the land are only part of the Samara experience. The respectful treatment we were given was equally amazing and a part of our adventure as well. And when the ranger says, “You go first. I have a surprise for you,” we learned he wasn’t kidding!

And we also learned that when the guide says, “Follow me,” there’s also going to be a surprise, too. Climbing out of that same land cruiser and walking single-file, Reid grabbed my phone and silenced it, which was enough to remind me we were walking in a land of wild animals. And then, circling a series of sweet thorn trees loved by the giraffe and padding softly through a path of red grass blowing like grain, our knowledgeable guide stopped and pointed. “See that right there. Under the tree?” But I only saw a dark shadow. So he motioned me closer, “Right there.” And this time I saw, less than ten feet away and nestled comfortably under the shade of a tree, a cheetah who seemed totally oblivious to our presence, which I knew was far from the truth. That cheetah knew we were there. And then there was that moment of awe tinged with fear for when I looked at Ian, his face was stricken with terror! Respect and fear go hand-in-hand in this surprising bush land filled constantly with new surprises. Every single moment of every single day.

Samara is a land that screams to be sung about. A lyrical land that awakens dreams in me, dreams not forgotten but long buried. Dreams like hope that still rises from the ashes, dreams that give birth to more possibilities. Dreams of more. Always more.

God must look down on Samara and smile and think, “Oh yes, it is very good.”

I didn’t want to leave Samara today. More tears came. But I will sing about it in my own way for its music mistily touched my soul. Oh yes, I’ll sing about it in my own way by respectfully writing about it. More. Tomorrow.

For Samara is a land that needs to be sung about.

"The String of Pearls"

A very special story...author unknown....posted at http://dalesdesigns.net/pearls.htm

"The cheerful little girl with bouncy golden curls was almost five. Waiting with her mother at the checkout stand, she saw them, a circle of glistening white pearls in a pink foil box..."

For women who want to laugh out loud, not just say LOL!

"The First Time is Always the Worst" by Leigh Anne Jasheway-Bryant, winner of

2003 Erma Bombeck Humor Writing Award Winning Piece

"The first mammogram is the worst. Especially when the machine catches on fire.That’s what happened to me..." 

http://www.accidentalcomic.com/columns/firstmammo.pdf

Inner Beauty Day: Bold, Bare-faced and Beautiful

One girl. Two girls. Fifty girls. More.
They kept coming through my classroom door.

No, this isn’t the beginning of a nursery rhyme, but it is the beginning of a beautiful happily-ever-after story. Only it’s not make-believe either; it’s reality. And so much better than a fairy tale. 

In my twenty-plus years of teaching, rarely have I dealt with situations that have left me speechless. I’ve heard stories of mamas making daddies sleep outside, of children without anything to eat for dinner, of teenage drinking parties in the pastures, and of kids running from the police. On the other hand, I’ve heard stories of God making himself known at camps, young girls determined not to have sex before marriage and older kids taking care of their siblings when there was no one else to do so. I’ve also seen chickens in a school locker, ceiling fans in the trees, and rats running down the halls. And as I’ve watched and listened and learned, I’ve been astonished and overwhelmed and concerned; but I rarely remember being speechless. Today, however, I was speechless. 

One beautiful young senior girl walked in my classroom with a plan.  She wanted to have a high school club called Inner Beauty. And once a week the girls in the club wouldn’t wear make-up. Would I sponsor the club? And it wasn’t just about the high school either. She wanted to visit the junior high and organize a club there as well for that’s where it begins. The desire. The need. The pressure. And the conformity.

She and another beautiful senior girl organized the whole thing. The meetings, the t-shirts, the announcements, and the signs. Before I knew it, there was a young men’s support group all about it.

Now stop for a minute and reflect and ponder and be awed with me. At a public high school! A place where addictions are made and insecurities are developed and traumatic events become embedded and…. 

I have to admit that amidst the admiration I felt, one nagging thought crept through my mind. Did that include me? Was I going to have to go without make-up one day a week? Surely, not. Not a fifty-six-year-old woman from a family of women who wore make-up even when they camped!

A week later we had our first meeting in my room. I stopped and bought two dozen doughnuts knowing that would be more than enough, but I’d give the rest to my first-period class.

One girl. Two girls. Fifty girls. More.
They kept coming through my classroom door.

Girls crowded at the door just to be able to peer inside the room. The boys acted as ushers, and the doughnuts disappeared in a flash.

Overwhelmed and near tears at what God can do, I sat in the back with my mouth open, yet once more speechless.  

When I did speak, it was to promise more doughnuts. But the girls didn’t need that bribe even though they consumed six dozen the next week.

And the lingering idea that maybe I was going to have to go without makeup one day a week became more than a nagging thought; it became a conviction. Define hypocrite. I had gone the first two weeks and made excuses even though I can’t remember what they were and the girls never asked. But as I sat in the back of my room -- their Inner Beauty sponsor -- decked in my finest Murad and Glo Minerals, I knew my time had come. For God was speaking to me as clearly as only he can do at times.

A week later, the day arrived.

To prepare, I ate half of a chocolate chip cheesecake and had a facial the day before. Unfortunately, that wasn’t great timing as a facial usually breaks my face out before it makes it any better. Something about the impurities.  I thought about taking that to a deeper level, but put it on hold.  Ironically, now my face was as broken out as it had been when I was in high school forty years before. God has a sense of humor.

Boy, I was pumped! Not!

Waking up earlier than my normal 5:00 AM, I earnestly prayed for God to give me the courage to go through with it or take away the conviction, preferably the latter. Was this really necessary? Maybe I could call in sick; after all, I had eaten that cheesecake. Surely I would have a stomach ache.

My sweet, wonderful husband’s constant reassurance before I walked out the door didn’t help too much. In front of him, I have no problem. He has seen me that way every morning for 32 years plus we’ve known each other all our lives. He hates make-up. Calls it dog poo smeared on my face. He likes me without the dog poo.

Facing the workplace was another story. I don’t even go to the beach without make-up. Of course, I use the excuse that there is sunscreen in it. And thinking back, I think I wore make-up before I shaved my legs as I have a vague memory of sitting in church worried about the black hair sticking through my white fishnet hose even as I was adorned with my mother’s finest red Max Factor lipstick. 

A quick prayer, another, and another; the conviction was real. One more piece of cheesecake for fortification (God would deal with that later on, I knew) and out the back door I went only to stumble and fall down the steps.  Maybe subconsciously trying to avoid going to school by hurting myself? The stomach ache hadn’t worked; maybe the fall would!

I decided to give it a test run, so I detoured by Lange’s Convenience Store to grab a cup of coffee. So far, so good. I didn’t hear any comments like, “Are you sick?” or “Do you need to go to the hospital?” or “Shall I call 9-11?” I forced myself to look the checkout lady in the eyes to say thank you. No reaction from her either. I ran back to the car.

And almost cried on the way to school.

Since another teacher was pulling in the parking lot at the same time, I practically leaped out of my car in order to avoid greeting her face-to-naked face. Then once inside, I ran to the teacher’s workroom where I was immediately stopped by a senior AP student with a question about his paper.  I stood in the darkened hallway without turning on the lights as I answered his question and wondered if he thought that was odd. 

Hurrying to my classroom, I turned on only one of the overhead lights. OK. I will not look in a mirror. I will not look in a mirror. I will not look in a mirror. “Oh dear Lord, help me not to look in a mirror.” Mirrors show us the hairs that shouldn’t be there and the veins that weren’t there yesterday and the stress of going to school barefaced. Mirrors tell us what the world sees, not what God sees. Right now I only wanted God’s view and I needed God’s strength and God’s help. So I quickly texted my two sisters and best buddy for prayer support, and then I rummaged through the t-shirt box for a larger size. 

The Inner Beauty Club has two pink shirts – one with I am beautiful quotes, the other with a thick black arrow pointing straight up, which was the only one in my size. To me, the arrow pointed at the face of a middle-aged woman with acne and rosacea who obviously wasn’t wearing make-up; to people from behind, the t-shirt read, “I’m above wearing make-up.” Either way, I needed another blood pressure pill. The cheesecake was at home. I wish I had brought it for a snack.

My school day was fixing to begin. Me. My pink shirt with the black arrow calling attention to my bare face.  And fifty bold, beautiful young women who have more courage than their sponsor.  “Lord, help me make it through this day.”

I’d like to tell you that the day got easier. It didn’t.

I’d like to tell you that God gave me the courage to get through it. He did.

I endured comments about how brave I was (cough!), but mostly I was appalled at what God showed me about myself. How obsessed I was with the way I looked; in fact, I never stopped thinking about it. How I had to bite my tongue to keep from explaining that I knew I looked terrible, but it was inner beauty day.  How overly concerned I was with everyone’s opinion, assuming they were even thinking about me in the first place!  And how judgmental I was.  How the thoughts I was imagining other people having about me were really thoughts that I might be having about them - if the situation was reversed. If they were the ones without their make-up.

I was mortified at what God showed me.  My inner beauty wasn’t so beautiful; it needed its own cleansing, the kind that comes from God. And thankfully, he is more merciful than we deserve.

And I also realized that for me this day wasn’t about make-up nor was it about trying to convince myself I was beautiful without it.  Positive thinking is a good thing, but God is more than the power of positive thinking. With God, it is always more.  

And God showed me plenty!

First, I recognized the obvious: I had grown so used to wearing make-up that taking it off in front of other people became a traumatic event. I was comfortable in my make-up. I wasn’t comfortable exposing my flawed face.

But wasn’t so obvious was how comfortable I had become with God. And I needed a jolt, a reminder that even though it’s good to feel good about being around Jesus, I also needed him to expose what needs to be exposed.  To help me  face the imperfections that I had covered up for so long, having grown accustomed to them and comfortable with them. Imperfections not on my face, but in my heart. And to deal with these flaws - even when it’s painful and traumatic.

I also realized that without makeup, I felt unprepared to face the world. I needed a reminder to rely on what God says about me. To esteem God’s Word more than I esteem the world’s view of beauty. To be reminded by the psalmist that it was God who “created my inmost being” and who “knit me together in my mother’s womb” (Psalm 139:13).  And that God’s works are wonderful.

This past summer our dog, who has entered his twilight years, had surgery. When his face and neck were swollen the next day, I took him to the vet, pointing out that his surgery has caused this unusual swelling and I wanted to know what to do about it.

The vet took one look at Riley and said, “That’s a snake bite.”  I had diagnosed the problem as a result of the surgery; the expert knew immediately it was a snake.

On Inner Beauty day, I had done the same thing. I first diagnosed my reaction as a result of the media; the expert, however, knew otherwise. My problem wasn’t what the world thought about me; my problem was what I thought about me.

It was as easy to blame how insecure I was without my makeup on the media as it was for me to blame Riley’s problem on the vet.

The media’s influence in our lives is serious, directly contributing to our perception of what is beautiful; however, I can’t blame the media for the way I was viewing myself. Regardless of the media influence, I was absorbing it, which means I was paying too much attention to it. I was still the one doing the looking. I was the one who needed a reminder not to “conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but to be transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Romans 12:2).

In the past I’ve joked with my students about what I want them to remember about me when I’m gone.  Yes, I want them to remember the skills and strategies I worked so hard to teach them, but I also want them to remember the joy and that my favorite word is ebullience. I want them to remember how I got up on the desk and screamed, “Seize the day” and then tore up file folders in a pretty good imitation of Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society. I want them to remember how we went outside and wrapped ourselves in paper towels and then wrote all about it in creative writing class. I want them to remember my wacky witch imitation in Macbeth and blowing bubbles in the spring and even following people down the hall. I want them to remember all the crazy dancing and lots of laughing out loud - the real thing, that is, not just the letters LOL. And I want them to think of me like the lady holding the dessert fork knowing the best is yet to come.

But now, I hope they’ll add to those memories the time when I came to school without my make-up.  And I pray they understand how huge that was for me – even if it seemed so simple. I pray they’ll understand it was God who gave me the conviction and the courage to do it. That for me, no make-up day was all about God. And that no part of our life is too frivolous for him to show us great things about himself, including his ability to see far beyond our surface and expose and diagnose what’s really wrong. For God puts his all in the small, seemingly insignificant details of our lives.   

I’ve been ready to retire from teaching school for quite a few years now, but the timing hasn’t been right. I’ve prayed a long time about this and assumed that God still wanted me in the school. But today, I learned that I was the one who needed my students. For God pointed out -- through a group of bold, bare-faced and beautiful high school girls -- how I had let the worldly view of me become more important than God’s view of me. 

Ironically, inner beauty day wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with me; it was all about the girls in our school. But God always accomplishes more than we can possibly imagine. And with God, more means more. He is perfectly able to deal with me individually while working with a group of young women who are making a difference in the lives of others around them. They started out by making a difference in mine! 

In the meantime, inner beauty day was finally over and it was time to go home and finish the chocolate cheesecake. God doesn’t overload. He deals with one thing at a time!