6 "Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of wickedness,
to undo the straps of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?
7 Is it not to share your bread with the hungry
and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover him,
and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?
8 Then shall your light break forth like the dawn,
and your healing shall spring up speedily;
your righteousness shall go before you;
the glory of the LORD shall be your rear guard.
9 Then you shall call, and the LORD will answer;
you shall cry, and he will say, 'Here I am.'
If you take away the yoke from your midst,
the pointing of the finger, and speaking wickedness,
10 if you pour yourself out for the hungry
and satisfy the desire of the afflicted,
then shall your light rise in the darkness
and your gloom be as the noonday.
11 And the LORD will guide you continually
and satisfy your desire in scorched places
and make your bones strong;
and you shall be like a watered garden,
like a spring of water,
whose waters do not fail.
12 And your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt;
you shall raise up the foundations of many generations;
you shall be called the repairer of the breach,
the restorer of streets to dwell in.
13 "If you turn back your foot from the Sabbath,
from doing your pleasure on my holy day,
and call the Sabbath a delight
and the holy day of the LORD honorable;
if you honor it, not going your own ways,
or seeking your own pleasure, or talking idly;
14 then you shall take delight in the LORD,
and I will make you ride on the heights of the earth;
I will feed you with the heritage of Jacob your father,
for the mouth of the LORD has spoken."
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Strong pots, strong women
By my family's standards, I officially entered grown-up womanhood this week. There have been a lot of milestones in my life: first words, first school dance, first apartment. Then in 2005, my dad's aunt named a cow after me. Yeah, that's how we roll on the Barnett side...real women have livestock named for them. However, my journey to adulthood seemed to be lacking something.
That's right, a 15" Magnalite roaster. Laugh if you will, but while one side of my family marks womanhood by livestock, the other marks it by cookware.
There's a lot of significance tied to this pot. I remember "cooking" in one of these as a kid playing in our olive green and yellow kitchen. I remember the sound it made when you hit the side of it just right with a wooden spoon. I remember dropping the lid and almost crying with relief when it didn't land on my foot. My aunt and my mother have both cooked from this pot, and now it's my turn.
I come from a line of Italian women with big noses, sharp tongues and a need to cook for hordes of people. I inherited my maternal grandmother's blue eyes and her sassiness, as well as her recipe for spaghetti sauce. My mother and aunt sat in the kitchen with her and learned firsthand, and they have taught me. Nothing is written down, nor is it really measured. It's one of those it-has-to-feel-right kind of recipes that sits on the stove all day long and makes your hands smell like garlic for days. Six hours of stirring and waiting, and you have magical spaghetti. Most importantly, it's a recipe for a 15" Magnalite roaster.
My mother taught me to cook when I was thirteen. Every few months, we would drag out the Magnalite and spend a day stirring enough sauce for an entire army. It never failed that as we cooked, my mom would share stories about the sauce, about eating it every Sunday, about how when my parents were dating, my dad ate two plates of it the first time he met the family and then realized that was only the appetizer, about my grandfather stealing the cloves of garlic from the pot when my grandmother wasn't looking. It's not just a pot of spaghetti. It's my history, my heritage, steeped and served and passed down to each of the women in my family.
So after 25 years, I bought my own pot. After hunting around for just the right one (and after making my aunt haul out her pot and measure it with a ruler to make sure I got the right size), I ordered my own Magnalite. The time has finally come. My aunt and my mom both congratulated me. In just a week, I'll have my very own spaghetti pot and I'll join a long line of women I can only aspire to be like, women who do amazing things both in and out of the kitchen.
That's right, a 15" Magnalite roaster. Laugh if you will, but while one side of my family marks womanhood by livestock, the other marks it by cookware.
There's a lot of significance tied to this pot. I remember "cooking" in one of these as a kid playing in our olive green and yellow kitchen. I remember the sound it made when you hit the side of it just right with a wooden spoon. I remember dropping the lid and almost crying with relief when it didn't land on my foot. My aunt and my mother have both cooked from this pot, and now it's my turn.
I come from a line of Italian women with big noses, sharp tongues and a need to cook for hordes of people. I inherited my maternal grandmother's blue eyes and her sassiness, as well as her recipe for spaghetti sauce. My mother and aunt sat in the kitchen with her and learned firsthand, and they have taught me. Nothing is written down, nor is it really measured. It's one of those it-has-to-feel-right kind of recipes that sits on the stove all day long and makes your hands smell like garlic for days. Six hours of stirring and waiting, and you have magical spaghetti. Most importantly, it's a recipe for a 15" Magnalite roaster.
My mother taught me to cook when I was thirteen. Every few months, we would drag out the Magnalite and spend a day stirring enough sauce for an entire army. It never failed that as we cooked, my mom would share stories about the sauce, about eating it every Sunday, about how when my parents were dating, my dad ate two plates of it the first time he met the family and then realized that was only the appetizer, about my grandfather stealing the cloves of garlic from the pot when my grandmother wasn't looking. It's not just a pot of spaghetti. It's my history, my heritage, steeped and served and passed down to each of the women in my family.
So after 25 years, I bought my own pot. After hunting around for just the right one (and after making my aunt haul out her pot and measure it with a ruler to make sure I got the right size), I ordered my own Magnalite. The time has finally come. My aunt and my mom both congratulated me. In just a week, I'll have my very own spaghetti pot and I'll join a long line of women I can only aspire to be like, women who do amazing things both in and out of the kitchen.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Etsy!
Not only am I still alive, but I've also managed to revamp my Etsy shop! Check it out!
Pink Lady Necklace
NOLA Necklace
Pink Lady Necklace
NOLA Necklace
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Where you should be tonight
Monday, February 16, 2009
Everything I needed to know in life, I learned from Project Runway
"Lighten up, it's just fashion!"
One of Santino's many pearls of wisdom (and reiterated to me by a very wise friend)
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