Kimchi Soup

All the "How to Make Your Blog Better" tips said I should post often. Remember me saying that on my Blog for a Dummi post? And, also, remember me saying I didn't have that much to say? That still stands true. So, I decided to post a recipe. If I don't have anything to say that will warm your heart or make you laugh, I can at least help you warm your belly. This recipe will do that. And, set your mouth on fire if you want.

I love kimchi. It's a Korean dish of fermented cabbage which I know sounds grody but it's great. Crunchy, spicy, garlicky...fantastic. And, super good for you. It's packed with vitamins, probiotics, has anti-aging and anti cancer properties. Look the stuff up. It's awesome. A WORD OF WARNING: It packs a punch. If you don't handle spicy foods well, go easy on the stuff. And, wash your hands after handling it. You can find it in the refrigerated section of grocery stores, usually around tofu. 

Ok, here's a recipe I've made and love. It's the lazy woman's version. No need to cook down pork yadda yadda. Just grab a box of chicken broth. If you want it vegetarian/vegan, I don't know what to tell ya. If you've had for real kimchi soup, this will pale in comparison BUT it ain't a bad fix and it's cheap!

Kimchi Soup

5 cups (32 oz) chicken broth

16 oz jar kimchi - liquid too (Remember, wash your hands after handling and if you have a sensitive tummy, start with half a jar or less.)

1 tsp minced ginger

2 tsp fish sauce

8 oz firm tofu - drained cut into small cubes

Glass noodles aka bean thread or whatever noodle you want. - cook per directions. I don't like egg noodles or regular semolina noodles in the soup. But, that's just me. To each his own. 

Put broth, kimchi, tofu (yes, I boil the tofu if it's firm tofu), ginger and fish sauce in a pot. Bring to boil. Don't let it boil too long. The steam can bother your eyes.  Turn off heat. Cook noodles per directions, throw how ever many you want in your bowl and put soup on top. Salt to taste. That's it. Done. Yum. Enjoy. You're welcome. Change it up all you want.

I'll admit, it looks like what's left at the bottom of a
sink after washing a ton of dishes. A lot of Koren food
does. But, I love it. My husband and I used to get
take out from this one place so much (Virginia) that
the ladies that worked there were some of the first to
know I was pregnant. Parents, siblings, Korean ladies,
then the rest of the world knew. I didn't even tell
them by the way. I just walked in to pick up the order and
they said, "Oh, look at you! You 'preganate!'" 

He Looks Just Like His Father

The contractions gripped Mary. She had seen babies born, heard the wailing of the mothers. But she never imagined she would be the one making the deep, guttural noises. Not this way. No midwife. No mother or sister to guide her. She was terrified. And, her fiancé there seeing her like this. He had seen no more of her than her face, hands and feet. Along with the agony of birth, she ached from embarrassment. 

With each painful wave, the angels grabbed one another by the arm. They stamped their feet, waiting for it to pass. When it did, they exhaled and looked up at the throne to see The King doing the same thing. The Creator was beside Himself, wringing His omnipotent hands. He knew all, but He had never been born. Even if He had chosen to go through the experience, it wasn’t Him going through it now. It was something far more precious. It was His Son, a piece of Him and all of Him. 

The Spirit reached out and touched the King’s shoulder. It wouldn’t be long now. Yes, God nodded, no much longer. Yet so long. He wanted so badly to stop the pain and the relentless contractions gripping His Boy like a great fist. If He struggled to restrain Himself now, how would He be able to withstand the end? He would simply have to turn away. It would be too much. 

A final push and the Prince of Peace was born into the cold world of mortality. Heaven shook with cheers. The hosts lined up to hug the proud Abba and the enraptured Spirit. And then, silence, wonder, complete awe as the Prince looked up at them through unseen realms. “Oh, look at those curls,” the angels marveled. “Hello little Messiah. You are a jewel.” “Look at those fat cheeks.” “He looks just like His Father.” “Quiet everyone, He needs to sleep.”

A tear glossed God’s cheek. Was He so proud, so relieved, so blissfully in love with His precious Baby that all He could do was smile and cry. He wanted to reach out, to put His hand on Joseph’s shoulder. The man was so scared, so afraid he hadn’t done enough. He had apologized to God for the stable. Mary deserved better. The little Miracle deserved the best.

The messenger angels stood at the door bouncing foot to foot, shaking their hands, ready to burst forth from heaven like holy fire. They had been practicing, they were ready. But most of all, they were excited to be just a little closer to Him. They had missed Him so.

That night, as Mary slept, Joseph stared in wonder at his boy. A boy! His first born was a boy. A son! But, no. Could he even call Jesus, son? Was that allowed? What did YWHW want? I want you, Joseph. I trust you. 

Jesus stirred. Joseph carefully picked Him up and laid the Savior of mankind against his human shoulder. He smelled the Baby’s silky hair and smiled. He’s yours to raise Joseph. Love him as your own. It’s ok. I want it this way. Joseph smiled. The little One did feel like his own and he would raise Him as if He were. Oh, the things he would teach Him. They would build things together, play games, hunt, fish. And one day, Jesus would make him a grandpa. The house would run wild with little ones. 

That’s how it would happen, right? That’s how life was supposed to go. Joseph walked back and forth, bouncing the baby. Yes, men had children, grew old and died peacefully, surrounded by their grandchildren and great grandchildren. Of course, life hadn’t gone as it was supposed to go thus far. Since that precious little Miracle had entered their lives, nothing had gone right. Here they were in a cave, more or less, surrounded by animals. What kind of father was he letting it happen this way? He apologized to the LORD again.

A knock at the entrance. Shepherds stood quietly, still a little pale and shocked from the  celestial chorus. They had been told they would find exactly what they found. Why them, they had wondered as they made their way to the stable. The dregs of society: bug bites on their ankles, the smell of filth and the weariness of work on their clothes and skin. Why had they been chosen for this? They looked at the baby then one another. Their souls leaped in their chests and they stood dumbstruck, lowly shepherds in the presence of the greatest Shepherd. 

Time passed quickly. Mary grew heavy with another child. She and Joseph knew Jesus was the Son of God. But, did they? He didn’t seem divine. To them, He was their just little man, toddling everywhere, grabbing everything. “Jesus, no, no! Joseph, grab that nail from Him.” “Oh, come now Mary. Just a nail. We are carpenters, strong men. Show mommy Your muscle, Jesus. Yes, there it is. Growl for her. Grrrr. He’s a Samson, He is. A little nail in the hand couldn’t hurt You, could it? No, never.”

The Magi arrived at the door and the reality of Who was pulling at their robes came back to Joseph and Mary. Such strange gifts for a baby: gold, frankincense, myrrh. A gift for a king, an anointment for a sacrifice and a spice to embalm a corpse. The proud parents gave each other side-ways looks and smiled. Perhaps that was the custom from the Magi’s distant lands. Surely it didn’t mean something. Did it?

Children filled the house. The Son of Man became a big brother. His beloved father Joseph died. “Father, let me save Him.” “No, Son. He’s here with me and happy to stay.” 

The time came. Jesus began teaching. His family was shamed, embarrassed. He was the talk of gatherings. Mary stayed quiet. She had always stayed quiet. If she kept much more in her heart, it would explode. James understood. Finally. Or, at least he tried. It was a lot to take in. His big Brother was his Heavenly Father. The prophesied Messiah. Why had it taken him so long to see it? He and his mother exchanged looks as the aunts, uncles, distant kin and the whole of the city gossiped about the One they loved, lived with and were now living for.

And then, the trial. How had this happened? What had gone wrong? Mary wretched bile, her body devouring its own self with grief. Her baby. So fat, so happy. What had she done wrong? What could she do? Could she climb the cross, pull out the nails and take them herself? “Please. Please, YWHW, let me die instead. Not my baby boy.”

God turned away. He knew He would have to. It would be too much. The angels were beside themselves. “Great King, send us! We’ll kill them all! Our swords are ready! Please, King, Our Savior is screaming!” The earth shook with rage. 

The Spirit held up His hand. The earth stilled. Heaven was silent. Except for the laughter of one. The one who thought he had won. 

Christ returned home. The angels rushed to Him, to comfort Him, feed Him, tend to Him. He thanked them but refused. He only wanted to see His Abba. And there He was, The Holy One, The Creator, His Abba, His Daddy, running from the throne to hug His Boy. His Son. The missing piece of His heart.

And then, the third day. Once again, the Savior found Himself in a cave, in the dark, born into the cold world of mortality. But this time, He would walk out on His own. Not only as a man, but a Lion. Death devoured. The laughter silenced as heaven shook with cheers. The hosts lined up to hug His proud Abba and the enraptured Spirit. And then, silence, wonder, complete awe as the Prince looked up at them through unseen realms. “Oh, look at Him,” the angels marveled. “He looks just like His Father.”  

Blog by a Dummi

Blogging For by a Dummies


My blog is doing ok. Especially considering how little I know about the whole thing (yes still) and how anti-social I am. It’s not that I don’t like people, they just make me uncomfortable. Yes, really. So strange they are, what with all their body hair and opposable thumbs. 

But, again, the blog is doing ok despite me and by that I mean I’m averaging about…oh, I don’t know like around a dozen folks a day. I think. (Pretty sure it would be better for business if I lied and said my daily numbers rival Candy Crush but I’m not a liar unless it makes a post funnier in which case it is justified. Here  it’s just not. Also, I know my # of readers isn’t impressive compared to other blogs. But, if there’s one thing I’ve learned by still shopping in the kids department, it’s not to compare myself to others.) I’ve a little following outside the blessed motherland - and I don’t mean Texas. I mean internationally. Good to know my tyrannical rants, ill conceived notions and social awkwardness translate.

The blog is its own animal at this point is what I’m getting at. It lives beyond my laboratory and I figured I should make it better. Slap a little lipstick on it. So, I looked up what makes a great blog. Here’s what I found and I wish I’d never seen. Some are from, in fact, Blogging for Dummies.

Suggestion 1:
Update Often! Every two or three days!


Say what? Every two or three days? What could I possibly say every two or three days that anyone would want to hear except, congratulations, you’re a winner. Apparently though, it doesn’t matter how mundane. People like their blogs like their BMs: regular. Which, mine pretty much are thank you very much. Thank you, kale. But, again, what would I say? My sister told me about a blog where this woman just said what she does everyday and folks are clambering for it. Dear heavens, I don’t like knowing what I’ve done in the course of a day! In case you’re wondering though, drank coffee, went to see a man about dog (that's Southern for restroom break), wrote a post, not this one, oh, wait - before that I got husband off to work at 5:30AM - on a Saturday!!!! My son was already up watching TV. I went back to bed and couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about my book I’m still not finished writing. Finally got up at 8:15 because I wasn’t in the mood to lie in my own urine. 

See, what I’m saying? Who cares about that junk? OH! I made my kids a space ship with cardboard boxes and duct tape. Which, btw, is duct tape’s achilles heel: cardboard. It don’t do cardboard. Unfortunately ground control here was out of packing tape. No biggie. Wasn’t like Major Tom was coming home anyway. Who cares if the duct tape gave up in the stratosphere? I will post a pic of the mess.

How I imagined it.

How it turned out...

Now, I ask you, does this look like the work of a person that should blog more often? 

Oh well, we'll see how it goes. Stay tuned for another installment...soonish... 

Turning 42 aka My Flying Squirrel Neck.

You'll understand. Keep reading.

       Two years ago I wrote an article regarding turning 40. I was against it, stomping my foot at it and giving it the whole Gandalf-you-shall-not-pass treatment. But, after looking at my over forty pals, as well as my inability to find a time-machine with Amazon Prime shipping convenience, I let it happen. And, as I was assured by others, I found it to be true that turning forty is a whole lot harder than being forty. Or, as I am now, 42.

There’s something quite liberating about the fourth decade. It’s the one when the organ responsible for caring what others think starts to decay. Not to say you become rude to others, you just become kinder to yourself. You don’t worry about what folks expect of you so much. You embrace what you do well and don’t kvetch over what you don’t. Trivial drama becomes more tiresome and you find yourself drawing closer to folks that feel the same. And, for the most part, every expenditure of your energy is considered, no matter how small, and, whenever possible, more reasonably appropriated to activities and thoughts that fill you up rather than suck you dry. 

I’m not saying that life becomes easier after forty. In some ways, it’s tougher. Your parents and children begin reaching an age that requires more of your attention and your wallet. Retirement looms in the distance and job security becomes important in a way that it wasn't before. However, the blessings of age will help you handle those tough situations better. You’ll see things clearer, have more perspective and wisdom. You’ll be the you you couldn’t be until now and that's pretty great. Sure, sometimes gray roots will shine from your head like light is trying to escape from your skull. And, sometimes you’ll have hot flashes and pimples at the same time. And, sometimes, you’ll forget that Western Day is tomorrow and send your kid to school in full get-up today. Also, if you ever have the misfortune of looking down into a mirror, you will see your entire face slide forward. Don’t even get me started on what your neck does.

You know what, I will get started. What the heck, neck! You’re like a tube sock worn past its prime. One false move and I fear you’ll fall down into a fleshy pile on my collar bones like one of those infinity scarves from Coldwater Creek. Yes, I said Coldwater Creek. And, I regret it. It’s a great store but the demographic of shoppers is, well, let’s just say the last time I walked in there, I was the only one who couldn’t say where she was when Kennedy was shot. I wish I had said something younger and hipper like The Gap. But, I didn’t. So, thanks, neck. Not only have you starting giving up, you’ve pushed me out of the Coldwater Creek closet. 

By the way, don’t even try saying you are still firm, neck. Yeah, you haven’t fallen completely, you’re not horrible when I look at you straight on. But, I see what you’re doing. I see it. I turn my head and catch a glimpse of you in the mirror. Your miserable effort to hang onto the bottom of my chin looks like that flap of skin on the side of a flying squirrel (See attached image but take away cuteness). Well, I’m not a flying squirrel, neck. Ok? I have no plans to glide from the top of my stairs to the bottom. Although, that would be super cool, I’ll admit. If I could do that, I’d do it all the time. But, I would still resent you for it. And, if by chance you are just sitting up there giggling, thinking you are off my radar, jowls, you’re not. Ok? I’m onto you too. I see your subtle slip into hound dog mode. 

But, I digress. (hot flash) Flying rodents and hunting dogs aside, don’t fear the fourth decade. It’s worth every year it took to get you there. Own it. Don’t desperately cling to your youth. It will just keep you from from being able to reach for something else and waste energy you could be using to do, well, anything else. You’ll still be young, younger in a way you haven’t been yet because you’ll have a greater appreciation of youth. Just trust me on that one. And, when the challenging moments hit, the ones when everyone seems younger than you (you’ll probably be trying on jeans at Old Navy when it happens) just remember: when the zombies come, none of those whipper snappers will survive because they’ll all be trying to text while they run. Have you seen this? So help me, anyone born after ’82 is forever on their phone. Even while walking and running. Well, that’s gonna bite them in their pert backsides. Literally. Then, they’ll be zombies. Meanwhile, the rest of us will gracefully glide away, the wind catching us under our flying squirrel chin flaps, and we shall take refuge with all the other survivors and thrive in comfortable clothing…at Coldwater Creek.