A Psychoanalysis


My parents observed me dancing around the BET (Burn Evil Things) fire from their vantage point at the adjoining food fire and attempted a brief psychoanalysis.

They decided that I spent so much of my childhood wishing I were older–and now that I’m old, I’m now enjoying my childhood.

I prefer to think I’m now mature enough to not care how ridiculous I might look dancing wildly about a fire of burning paper.

Do you have any particularly child-like (or childish, depending on how you look at it) behaviors that you cling to? Why do you act that way?

BET photos are now available on my photos page, or view them directly here.

We closed out our evening with s’mores and singing around the cooking fire–and I was so nice as to record some of our singing for your enjoyment. (Please forgive the loudness of my own voice–I have yet to figure out how to avoid having my voice overshadow everything else when recording on my little camera!)

King of Kings sung in round.


When Johnny comes marching…

home again, “Hurrah, Hurrah!”

Or so the song goes.

Except our Johnny won’t be marching home again for quite a while.

Today, as this posts, my brother John is on his way to Omaha. From there, he will fly to San Diego, where he will be trained as a United States Marine.

John kissing Dad

He’s the first of our family to leave Nebraska. The first (of the immediate family) to join the military. The first to miss Christmas.

He’ll be gone for thirteen weeks at boot camp–and after that? No one knows.

It’ll be a big change for our family. Pray for us all, please.

And we will be praying for John.

Praying that he will grow in the strength and knowledge of Jesus Christ even as he’s trained in the strength and knowledge of the United States Marine Corps. Praying that he’ll fix his eyes on his Supreme Commander, Jesus Christ, and walk in step with HIM; even as he barks out “Yes, sir” to an earthly commander. Praying that even as he takes an oath of fealty to this country, to uphold its constitution, he will remain strong in a much higher oath–to do homage to the King above all kings, to faithfully serve Him, to die if necessary for His name and His glory.

And I pray that when Johnny comes marching home again, he’ll come marching not as a warrior of this world, but as a faithful warrior of Christ who can say

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Finally, there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give to me on that Day, and not to me only but also to all who have loved His appearing.”
~2 Timothy 4:7-8


Sunday Snapshot: Bread Pudding

I dropped into my folk’s house and saw that my mom had leftover bread pudding sitting out waiting to be eaten.

I grabbed a bowl and spoon and, as I dished myself up, I saw the recipe–my recipe for French Toast Casserole.

Bread Pudding

Thanks, Mom, for reading my blog, for perusing my recipes, and for trying them out for yourself. (She tried a variation, adding apples and raisins. It was scrum-diddly-umptious!)


A Smile on my face and a load off my back

This last weekend was hard for me. Really hard.

I had a lot on my heart, a lot on my mind. The burden was too much for me to bear.

I went throughout my days. I did what needed to be done. But the burden weighed me down.

I couldn’t just shrug the melancholy away. Couldn’t pretend that I was happy. Couldn’t conjure a smile, even though I tried.

Monday morning, I wrote on my Facebook wall: “Rebekah Menter has misplaced her smile. If you’ve seen it, please let me know. I’d really like to reclaim it.” (Kinda a whiney post, wasn’t it? I’m sorry.)

It wasn’t the easiest day–but the end put a smile on my face and took a load off my back.

I was walking to my car from the class I teach when I received a text from a friend I hadn’t seen for (literally) years. She said she saw me walking and wanted to say hello–and that she missed me.

I had to wait for the tears to subside before I could drive home.

I’d asked my dad earlier if he had some time available that evening to talk–he didn’t, but he took off work early so we could chat. We holed ourselves away in his office and I shared my burden with him. He offered to take some of it–the hardest part–upon himself.

It still isn’t easy, but knowing that my dad is acting on my behalf makes it much easier.

Then I got home and went up to my room to drop my bags from the day–and found this waiting on my desk.

Stuff to put a smile on my face

Au Gratin Potato Chips. Sardines in Mustard Sauce. Smiley Face Gummy Snacks. Some Stickers from Walmart. Three Yellow Flowers in a Vase. And a note from my roommate.

“Hope these small things help you relocate your smile!”

Yes, indeed, they have.

I am so blessed to once again have a smile on my face and a load off my back.


Sunday Snapshot: Engine Check

Last Sunday, on my way to church, my car’s “check engine” light flashed on.

Since I’m doing a fair bit of traveling these days with my new job in another town, I knew I wanted to get things checked out quickly.

So I asked my brother Timothy, who works at a car lot, to recommend a place to go.

He said he could read the error if I’d just take my car up to the lot.

I complied, of course.

Timothy reading my engine

We wrote down the error code, returned home to look up what it meant, and quickly did some troubleshooting by the side of the car.

Turns out my gas cap was not fully screwed on and that was causing a pressure reading to “flag” the check engine light.

We screwed the cap on tightly and I drove away.

15 minutes, no money, no problems.

Having family in the “car business” works for me!


Eating RED meat

Many in my family are of the mistaken notion that I only consume “fully dead” meat products.

They complain that I like my steak so dead that it has no flavor left.

I tell them that it’s not that I like my meat overcooked–it’s that I like to make sure that my meat is safe. Then I urge them to buy a instant-read food thermometer.

Why?

Because with an instant-read food thermometer, you can tell within moments that your meat is safe to eat and don’t have to rely on remarkably unreliable data about doneness–data like how pink a piece of meat is.

Last night, after my dad purchased an instant-read food thermometer, I ate a delicious steak that was cooked to an appropriate internal temperature of 150 degrees Fahrenheit (Whole cuts of beef and pork are considered safe if they reach an internal temperature of 145 degrees for at least 15 seconds.)

Steak cooked to 150

See that?

Note the blood pooling on my plate?

That’s a safely cooked steak. I know because I temped it personally.

I also know that my dad pulled another steak off the grill, even though my internal temperature readings were only 140 degrees. He was sure the steak was done, that the thermometer was wrong.

Once he got inside and cut that steak open, he decided differently. The thermometer was right, the steak wasn’t fully cooked.

His options now? Eat it in its potentially dangerous present state or nuke the life out of it.

He chose to eat it as it was. I would have nuked the life out of it.

But that decision could have been avoided if he’d just trusted his thermometer.

Food thermometers–making RED meat safe for everyone!


For those who are interested in how to use an instant-read food thermometer, you’ll want to insert the probe at least an inch into the side of your piece of meat at the thickest point. Wait until the temperature on the dial stops increasing.

While many thermometers have temperature recommendations listed on them, these recommendations are not safety recommendations but preference-based recommendations. Often, the temperature listed on the thermometer is higher than the safe temperature. Instead of going with these recommendations, I prefer to know the safe numbers and to cook my meats to my own preferred level of doneness once I know they’ve reached a safe temperature.

So, without further ado, I offer you a handy table of safe meat temperatures.

Beef or pork steaks or chops 145 for 15 seconds
Beef or pork roasts 145 for 3 minutes
Ground beef or pork 155 for 15 seconds
Poultry, whether whole or ground 165 for 15 seconds
Leftovers or other reheated foods 165 for 15 seconds

Fat Pills

Get those fat pills away from me,” my father said of the Smarties Grace had leftover from a start-of-school club booth.

Grace wasn’t moving fast enough, so Dad grabbed a handful and attempted to get rid of them himself.

“You don’t have any pockets!” he exclaimed to me.

Grace had a solution–“Fat Pills” stuffed in my neckband.

Rebekah with Smarties in neckband

A not-so-subtle message.

It’s intervention time, they’ve been saying. You need to gain some weight.

I know I do.

I wish I could.

I’ve been working at it–multiple meals a day, choosing more calorie-rich foods, etc.

It’s been work, keeping the pounds on.

I can hear what you’re saying: “Puh-lease. Give me what you’ve got.”

It puts me at a disconnect with a majority of the “diet-interested” population. Which, I guess, means that it’s good I’m not going to be working with the majority–or with the diet-interested, even.

Instead, I get to work with a population for whom weight loss is bad news–and my job will be to make sure it doesn’t happen.

It feels very “physician heal thyself” (or, “dietitian, stop your own weight loss”). But I’m proud to say that those fat pills must have paid off. I stepped on the scale last time I was at my sister’s (I don’t have a scale and generally only weigh myself once a month or less often)–and my weight is UP!

I know most of you don’t understand the excitement, but I’ll share it anyway!

Yippee!

Maybe my family will stop “stuffing” me now :-)


Sunday Snapshot: Hissy Fits

Last week, my family rented a couple of cabins at one of our local state parks and enjoyed a nice little retreat.

My sister prepared some fantastic food for us. For Sunday dinner, we had steak, vegetable packets, watermelon and s’mores.

My dad cut one bowl-full of watermelon. I ate one wedge and then went back for more–only to find that the bowl was empty.

That’s definitely provocation for a hissy-fit. I mentioned the idea out loud–and then, egged on by my siblings, went on to throw a full-fledged hissy fit. I laid down on the deck, pounded my feet and fists, and yelled “I want more watermelon.”

Rebekah throwing a hissy fit

John enjoyed the performance so much that he begged for a repeat–so that he could join in.

John throwing a hissy fit

Another sibling desperately attempted to take snapshots–but we were a bit wild, so the photos are understandably of poor-quality.

Ah–I love my family!


Sunday Snapshot: Nursery

Just a few months ago, we were regularly numbering a dozen children in our church nursery. Most of them were either rambunctious, clingy, or potty training (or all three!), requiring at least three nursery workers to keep order.

But with a spate of later summer birthdays graduating a bunch of newly minted three-year-olds to children’s church, we have gone back down to two workers a week.

Last week, my fellow-worker wasn’t around, and as only one child had come in so far, I told my sister-in-law (the nursery coordinator) that I’d be fine. I’d page her if I needed help.

I ended up with one more child for a total of two.

Cadence played happily by herself.

Cadence smiling

Jarell fell asleep in my arms and remained there for the bulk of the morning service.

Jarell sleeping

It was delicious!


Auto Loyalists?

To me, the most memorable vehicle my family has owned was a white Ford Econoline van. It was a twelve passenger “extended”–which meant that it was the size of a 15 passenger vehicle but with only enough seats for 12 passengers.

Nebraska student drivers have an option of taking driver’s ed or of logging 50 hours of supervised driving in a variety of settings prior to getting their driver’s license. I logged most of my hours in our Ford van, driving it to church and back and back and forth from Lincoln to my grandparents’ farm in northeastern Nebraska.

So I’ve always sort of identified my parents as Ford folk.

Then, one day my brother and I got to talking. He said, “You know, the folks are pretty much GM people, aren’t they?”

I was aghast. Seriously?

Timothy began to count up the cars.

Currently, they own a Chevy Suburban, a Buick, and a Chevy Lumina.

Dad's Chevy SuburbanMom's Buick
The School Car Chevy Lumina

Before that, they owned several Chevy Celebrity wagons (was it two or three?). Mom’s previous car, “The Silver Mullet”, was another GM granny car. And the precursor to the white Ford van was a red conversion van, undoubtedly GM as well. Those are the only cars Timothy remembers–and I wasn’t paying attention to makes and models of their forerunners.

Mom enlightened me in a later conversation. Turns out the second most memorable car of my childhood was also a Ford. It was a two ton all-steel Green Station wagon–a hulking behemoth we named the “Zucchini Car”. I think that might have been the car we ran into a light pole with–the light pole came down but the car didn’t have a scratch. The “Zucchini car” finally met its end when we were driving to church and saw smoke rising from the hood. We rolled into a gas station and piled out of the car while Dad made tracks inside for a fire extinguisher. We ended up walking the rest of the way to church.

So my folks really weren’t (and aren’t) brand loyal at all. They bought what was economically feasible, what could fit our family. Given the tiny tendencies of foreign cars, it’s not unsurprising that they have generally owned American-made vehicles.

I’m not sure if any of us kids have developed any brand loyalties–but it’s clear that we’ve tended towards foreign cars.

My first car was a Chevy, but I’ve since owned a Honda and a Subaru.

Now, of the four kids who own cars, only one is domestic:

Anna's Ford EscortMy Subaru LegacyDaniel's Toyota CamryJohn's Toyota Corolla

I guess we’re not exactly what you could call Auto Loyalists.