The Recipe Binder

I am not much of a cook—nor was my mother before me. My daughter recently invited me to dinner and said, “I’m serving that favorite family recipe—Costco Chicken Pot Pie!”

I learned to be a bad cook from my mom, who was a school teacher and not much interested in cooking when she came home. I remember Mom’s weekly menu was as follows:  Sunday, pot roast; Monday, leftovers; Tuesday, stew or soup made with the rest of the leftovers; Wednesday, spaghetti casserole; Thursday, leftover casserole; Friday clean out the fridge of whatever is left from the week, Saturday hamburgers. For lunches we would often have Velveeta cheese toast, broiled. Usually, Mom forgot to take the toast out in time and the soft cheese would form a blackened crust that we would peel off before eating the toast. I actually have fond memories of this!

So I am not much of a cook. However, I do have a big recipe binder bulging with magazine clippings, handouts from Relief Society cooking classes, and printed instructions from Allrecipes.com. Almost every day I heave it down from the upper cabinet and browse through to find something to make. Lately, that has been hard, though, since the binding has broken and all the papers tend to fall out when I pull it down.

So the other day I cleaned it out. I bought a bright new notebook, a package of shiny clean page protectors, and some colorful write-on dividers. Spreading open the old binder mess, I commenced to sorting. A slightly rancid smell wafted out—a smell of countless spills of countless meals left to cure in the sticky pages.

I forced myself to use Marie Kondo’s “Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up” method. I wanted to keep only the recipes that truly brought me joy. So I tossed magazine and newspaper clippings I had never actually used—recipes that were clipped with the dream that I too could prepare that beautiful, exotic, and/or healthy dish pictured so alluring in the pages of Family Circle or the Daily Herald. Gone were Orecchiette with Roasted Butternut Squash, Grilled Pork and Veggie Salad, Freezer Spaghetti Squash, and Original Plum Torte. I also tossed about 50 recipes for zucchini, acquired in my never-ending quest to find a way to serve it that my family actually enjoys, including Zucchini Oat Dark Chocolate Chip Cookies, Zucchini Oven Fries, and Cinnamon Zucchini Pancakes.  None of these recipes had ever actually been prepared in my kitchen.

I also tossed some recipes that I used to make, but didn’t anymore, as well as some copies of well-loved recipes that I found I had included two or three copies of in my binder.

But I kept the favorites—the ones that I make regularly and that bring me and my family joy. My sister Patty’s Chicken Tortilla Casserole, a pork chop recipe I found in the last year that is really good and juicy, instructions on grilling steak so it is just right, Anna’s Butternut Squash and Hazelnut Lasagna, my trusty Taco Soup, Butternut Squash Soup, California Chipotle Salad, Raw Spring Rolls with Asian Sauce, and my mother’s Cheesy Potatoes.

These favorite recipes evoke strong memories. Take the Chicken Tortilla Casserole, for example. When I look at that recipe I see my sister Patty (who IS a very good cook) sitting on my hand-me-down couch in the rented house Paul and I lived in early in our marriage. I had asked her for some good company recipes and given her some cards and a pen. She was smiling as she wrote the recipe from memory and telling me about the times she had served it. She got to the end of the layering instructions and wrote e-e-e-nd with cheese. She laughed at the extra e’s she had written by mistake but said, “That will remind you to use lots of cheese!”  I also see Patty serving that casserole on Christmas Day when we visited her, and my mom and dad (now long gone) dishing up hefty servings along with Patty’s great corn sticks (which I never did learn to make). I see my friends gathered for our annual Christmas lunch and insisting that I have to make this recipe every year or it wouldn’t be Christmas.

Some recipe memories are more recent. Just a few years ago we had a ward cooking class and a neighbor taught us to make Raw Spring Rolls, with a shredded cabbage filling and a ground almond sauce. I’m not a big fan of raw food diets, and, looking at the ingredients, the dish does not look good, but put them together and it is miraculous. When I look at the recipe, I see my good neighbor, I see the time I brought the Spring Rolls to a work party and everyone raved, I see my daughter-in-law begging for them when she was pregnant.

Anna’s Butternut Squash and Hazelnut Lasagna is a demanding recipe and I have only made it once. But I keep it because of the time my daughter Anna and her husband made it for me, and because it was served warm and delicious and filled with the loving effort they put into it. I keep it because I grow butternut squash in my garden and I have dreams that I can serve that dish to my friends and family and they will feel the same love.

So really, this big red binder is really filled with memories. Each page is more than a recipe—it is friendship, it is family, it is love.

I recently read a talk given by Kevin B. Worthen, president of Brigham Young University. In it he discusses the vital importance of nurturing our relationships with others, saying “no one can flourish in isolation and that the quality of our relationships with others will ultimately determine our level of fulfillment and happiness in both this mortal existence and the life to come. It is in this sense that it is not good for man—or woman—to be alone” (https://speeches.byu.edu/talks/kevin-j-worthen_it-is-not-good-that-man-should-be-alone/). In our culture, much of the nurturing of relationships comes as we eat together—from the first time we suckle at our mother’s breast to the meals we share as  family to the pizza eaten on dates. The recipes we save and cherish symbolize the efforts we make to build deep and loving bonds with others.

And because of this, I fully expect that within a few months my new clean binder will once again be stuffed and overflowing with clippings and printouts and dreams of new ways to nurture my friends and family. And that, my friends,  is a good thing.

Class Divides and the Possibility of Zion

One of the major themes the current election has brought out is the increasing isolation of certain economic classes. One candidate seems to primarily appeal to one class while the other appeals to another and neither group can understand why the other would make such an irrational choice. This class division has been coming on for some time. Charles Murray, in his 2012 best seller Coming Apart, asserts “Our nation is coming apart at the seams, not ethnic seams, but the seams of class.” In a more recent best seller, Hillbilly Elegy, JD Vance tells the compelling personal story of his growing up in a culture where “poverty is the family tradition,” and most people around him feel isolated from, and betrayed by, those who are able to succeed financially.

As I have watched the election unfold, as I have read these books recently, I have been thinking about how this divisiveness is so very different from what I experience in my Mormon congregation.  Mormon congregations (called wards) are determined by geography, not personal preference, so mostly we worship together with folks from all different backgrounds. I imagine this is true in many churches.

But here is a difference. Mormon churches are served by a lay ministry. This means that the leaders who minister to the needs of the members are just a regular members themselves and that many people have the opportunity to serve and minister. So we all, whatever “class” we may fall into, we all serve each other as brothers and sisters.

Here’s how it works in my ward. In our boundaries we have doctors, mechanics, lawyers, teachers, electricians, fast food workers, professors, and those who don’t have jobs at all. We might even have a drug dealer, but that is not verified.  Most come to church to worship, some don’t. But we serve everyone.

Every family has home teachers and every woman has visiting teachers. These “teachers” are ward members who are assigned to watch over two or three families or women, to check in at least once a month to see how they are doing, and to offer help when needed. This means everyone has people they can call on when they need help. Home and visiting teachers help with everything from emergency childcare to meals when there is sickness to cleaning out the gutters or fixing a car. As Jeffery R. Holland, one of the Apostles of the church, explained recently, we “watch over and care for each other, addressing spiritual and temporal needs in any way that helps.” Nobody need feel isolated or alone, whatever “class” they are in.

Then there is the Bishop, a regular member of the ward with a regular job and a regular family, who answers the call to minister to the ward as a whole for a number of years, usually about 5. He is comparable to a pastor.

But I want to talk about another short-term “ministry” calling—the ward Relief Society President. Ostensibly, this woman serves as president of the ward women’s auxiliary, usually for 3-5 years. But this is about much more than organizing the Sunday meetings or the weeknight activities. It is about ministering to all the women in the ward, whatever their needs, whatever their “class.”

I have been our Relief Society president for almost 4 years now, and because of the opportunities I’ve had, the divisions between class for me have broken down. Here are a few of my experiences:

When a teenage mom living in our ward was hospitalized with a life-threatening infection a week after giving birth, there were no family members who could care for her newborn. I got to bring that sweet baby home with me and care for it for several days. A couple of years later, when that mom was working at McDonald’s and her husband was ill and on disability, we organized volunteer childcare for her children for weeks. Because the mom didn’t have a driver’s license, we organized rides to the doctor and rides to work. As I learned that mom’s story, of being abandoned by her mom, of being raised by an aunt who didn’t particularly want her, and then married before finishing high school, I came to love her and admire her for the way she tried to give her children more than she had been given.

A homeless woman was temporarily “couch surfing” with people in our ward. The bishop found a job for her. But she needed an ID card, so, over several days, I drove her to various government offices and helped her navigate red tape. Then I drove her to her drug test. Along the way, she told me her story, of family kicking her out, of bad boyfriends and bad choices and having to give up her own baby because she had no home and no way to take care of her. She wanted to make a change now. This was her chance. She left our ward not long after that and I lost contact with her. I still pray for her sometimes.

            We have several Latino families in in our ward boundaries. Here is a story about one of them. They were not Mormon, but that didn’t matter. We offered food assistance and any other help we could. The mom told me of her harrowing experience walking across the Rio Grande with her baby. She and her husband raised their family of ten children in the States, some children were born in Mexico, some in the US. The mom made home-made tortillas and beans every day and her house was spotless—though the carpet was threadbare and the walls needed paint. The dad worked long hours as a landscaper and was paid in cash, “under the counter.” That meant they had no proof of employment so they couldn’t qualify for Medicare. Getting medical treatment for their children was a nightmare of navigating agencies. Since the mom couldn’t drive, I took her to the hospital and to clinics and watched her pained face as she sat at the billing desk, trying to make arrangements. The oldest daughter at home was getting A’s in honors classes, but when we helped her apply for a scholarship at the local college, the dad said that girls didn’t need to go to college and she went to work at McDonald’s. This family moved out of our boundaries, but not long ago the mom asked me to write a letter of support for their citizenship request, which I happily provided.

            I have many times visited with families who found that they could not afford food. When this happens, in our church, the bishop offers assistance. Each area of the church has a “Bishop’s Storehouse,” which is like a grocery store where people can pick up food for free. This food is paid for through the fast offerings of the membership. Each month on the first Sunday we go without eating for two meals in an effort to draw closer to God. But there are also temporal benefits, as we donate the cost of the two meals (and usually much more) to be used for the poor locally (this is in addition to the ten percent we pay as tithing). As Relief Society President, I get to facilitate this process, helping the mother of the family fill out the order form, and sometimes driving her to the Storehouse to pick up the food. We also sometimes meet to discuss ways to set up a budget and improve employment so that the situation will be temporary. As I have met with these families, I am usually touched by their gratitude and their desire to get off the assistance as quickly as possible.

            In a Mormon ward, the class divide closes, because we are reaching out to help each other. We care for each other not only spiritually but also temporally. But the care doesn’t just go one way. The woman who is receiving food assistance is also teaching the children’s Sunday class. The widow whose trees and shrubs were trimmed by volunteers also serves others as a visiting teacher. Everyone contributes to serving everyone else. Class begins to feel irrelevant.

            We are not perfect in this, of course. But the way the organization is set up encourages this kind of caring for each other. Our goal is to reach the kind of society we read about in the Book of Mormon. We believe that for over 200 years following Christ’s visit to the Nephites here in the Americas, the people lived in a kind of Zion society: “There was no contention in the land, because of the love of God which did dwell in the hearts of the people. . . . and there were no envyings, nor strifes, nor tumults  . .and surely there could not be a happier people among all the people who had been created by the hand of God” (4 Nephi:15, 16).

Another Mormon scripture defines Zion: “And the Lord called his people Zion, because they were of one heart and one mind, and dwelt in righteousness; and there was no poor among them” (Moses 7:18).  In a Mormon ward, we strive to dwell in righteousness, to serve each other, to have no poor among us. We try to break down barriers of class.

The Good Neighbor

My friend Busy and Cheerful Mom (BCM) has 8 children, a dog, 2 cats, and her own business, so she was certainly justified in thinking she didn’t have time. It was 6:30 AM, and BCH had just about finished her run when she noticed the Confused Little Old Lady (CLOL) trying to walk down the hill from the bus stop.

The woman was wearing a house coat, holding a cane in one hand and pulling a little shopping cart in the other. On her shoulders, draped like a shawl, was a black garbage bag. She was struggling to catch her breath.

BCM didn’t have time. At home were children to feed and to get to school, and then she had to get to work too. No one would have blamed her if she had just kept running.

And she considered that too.  She ran on by, but she looked back again, noticed the tottering walk, the confusion, the struggling for air. She turned back.

“Can I help you get somewhere? How you doing?” BCM asked, panting slightly herself.

“Oh, I’m OK. I just have a little trouble breathing without my oxygen,” CLOL smiled sweetly.

“Where you headin’?”

“Well,” CLOL looked into her eyes. “I took the bus down from Layton. I need to first go pay a bill at U-Haul.”

BCH weighed the possibilities. She could just tell her where U-Haul was, about 6 blocks down the hill. She could get home to her kids and carry on with her busy day.

But instead she said, “You wait right here. I’ll be back in a few minutes with my car and take you to U-Haul.”

So my friend drove the CLOL to U-Haul, came back to take her to her next appointment, and then to lunch at Waffle Love.

At this point, my friend asked, “Now where can I take you?” 

“If I can just get a transit map, I can figure out how to get back to Layton.”

BCM looked at CLOL. Layton is just outside Ogden, about 90 minutes’ travel by car. She could imagine all the possibilities for getting lost in the transit system between here and Layton. Then she remembered she was taking her oldest daughter to Ogden that night for a soccer game.

“I can take you to Layton tonight,” BCH suggested, “If you don’t mind hanging out with me until then.”

“Oh I don’t have anything to do today, I would love to come to work and see what you do.”

So that evening, BCM and her van full of kids drove CLOL to her home. When she was dropped off, CLOL told her 92-year-old sister, “This is my new friend, and I am not sure how I would have gotten home without her. I just feel like I have been on a mini vacation.”

When my friend told me this story, it was like, “Oh, this is just a thing that happened.”

“You would have done the same thing,” she said.

No, I wouldn’t have. For one thing I wouldn’t have been out running at 6:30 A.M. For another I would have been scared of approaching a stranger in the early morning dusk. I probably would have been the Pharisee or the Sadducee, crossing over to the other side of the road.

But I’m glad my friend was the Samaritan, that she stopped to bind up wounds and set a neighbor back on her path. I find it interesting that she was able to do this service without disrupting her own day that much. Like the Samaritan, she carried on with her own responsibilities while also helping another. Even the trip to Layton was hardly out of her way.

Thinking about her experience, I want to be more open to possibilities, to see the ways set in my path, in the course of my everyday life, the ways that I can also be a good neighbor.  

But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed . . . had compassion on him, and went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn and took care of him. (Luke 10:33).