Where's my pew?

As any long-time church-goer can tell you, everyone has their own pew where they regularly sit during services. We're not so anal as to count how many rows from the front (well, not any more), but we've always been comfortable sitting on the north side of our sanctuary, hence, we are northside Methodists. That's as opposed to those wrong-thinking southside Methodists across the aisle. I think our side of choice was predicated on nearness to the door to the hall which led to the bathrooms. Since the sons were young when we began with this church, that was a fact of most importance. Never mind that I encouraged "going" between Sunday School and church, sometimes "go now" were the optimal words.

But sadness has struck our church. The air conditioning system, long held together by baling wire and prayer, is now kaput. As a congregation we have moved across the street to the gym in our Family Life Center while a new system is being installed. We are very glad to have the facility.

That said, where do we now sit? Our pew, indeed our very north-sided-ness, is gone! We have the choice between west and east. There are long rows of folding chairs. We are lost.

So, standing at the back this morning, we contemplated where to put ourselves. Finally I spotted a familiar face (not that the entire congregation isn't familiar) from where we always sat. She had opted for the center aisle of the east-siders.

Ah, a new home at last!

Memory Monday: Hands covered in prayer

I'm going to try something new, to make each Monday a memory post. Since I'm concerned with my dad right now, I'll make this one about him. Maybe the next ones also. I don't know.

But I've been encountering an enduring memory of him from my childhood. There's no photo of it, just the way it looks in my mind, just the feel of it on my hands.

We went to church every Sunday. There was Fellowship, a brief service for everyone and a few hymns which began our day, then Sunday School, then church service. We had a family pew, a preferred seating spot that no other regulars would bother and Daddy wouldn't let us say a word about if a visitor did. As best I recall, the pews were very long anyway, the sanctuary of the pre-1900 building being wide and curved, but not deep. So if someone was already seated on our end of our pew, we could scoot elsewhere.

I don't remember much about the sermons or the choir until I was old enough to join it, but I do remember prayer. Standing to say The Lord's Prayer, my sister and I on either side of Daddy, we'd put our hands on the back of the pew in front of us and Daddy would cover our hands with his own. His were so big and ours so small. Even as our hands grew (and mine are quite large for a woman), he would still cover them.

I look at his hands now as he twists them in his lap or reaches to tap me on the leg or as they shake as he sips coffee from a plastic mug. His fingers are still straight, his nails tough, his hands incredibly strong. And I want him to cover my hands once more in prayer, but I feel it is now the other way around.

Waffling

Somewhere along the way of our marriage, Sunday morning breakfasts became important. No cereal, no toast, everyone at the table at the same time. Sunday School didn't start until 9:30, so, if I got up early enough, we had plenty of time.

We fell into the habit of having yogurt pancakes. I found the recipe for this ultra-light concoction on the side of a Lucerne milk carton over 30 years ago. It will spoil you for any other pancakes. You will never order them out again. Never. Ordinary pancakes, even buttermilk pancakes, will seem heavy and clumpy and yes, the recipe will follow.

But there's a secret ingredient in yogurt pancakes: plain yogurt. Someone (not mentioning names while I'm looking in the mirror) forgot to buy more. So, was the menu to be eggs and sausage and hash browns as it had been the day before, or something different? Something like waffles?

I use to own a square waffle iron whose plates would flip and it would open up and do double-duty as griddle. Teflon-coated that it was, they always stuck. They took forever to bake. Waffles became a thing of the past.

Then I had to shut down my father's house when he could no longer live by himself. There, tucked away on a shelf, was an appliance I had fond memories of: my mother's waffle iron. It wasn't particularly old, as it was Teflon, but, according to Wikipedia, Teflon coating was used commercially from the 1960s on. Since I remember it from high school, it was probably an early member of the group. It had one purpose only: waffles and was made for Montgomery Wards. I brought it home.

Immediately, there were differences between it and modern countertop appliances. The cord: not only is one prong not larger than the other, it is long. Very long. So long it can drape over several other small appliances until it gets to the outlet. Now you're doing good if your cord is 18 inches long. Whatever has to practically be wedded to the plug. There isn't an on/off switch: plug it in, it warms up and the faceted light glows red. Once it's hot enough, as determined by the lighter-darker scale you've spun, the light goes out. Pour 1/2 cup of batter. You'll regret doing more. Really regret. Like from experience, regret. The light comes back on. When it goes out, 4-5 minutes later, said waffle is done.

I don't make waffles often, as they take time, and I can't rattle the formula off the top of my head. But faced with that or a repeat of the day before, we had waffles. They were delicious and then I baked up the rest of the batter this afternoon so we can toast them during the week. Yeah! Special breakfast carry-over!

But here's the pancake recipe. The original is twice this amount. Your serving numbers will vary depending on the size of your "stack."

Yogurt Pancakes (serves 3 people)

1 c flour
1 T sugar
1/2 t salt
1/2 t baking soda
1 t baking powder

Mix.

Add: 2 T oil
1 c milk
1 egg

Stir well and then add:
1/2 c plain yogurt

Bake on preheated griddle.

Bon appetit!