Buttermilk Waffles

These waffles are topped with fresh whipped cream, honey, blueberries and strawberries.

I've been making waffles for Jackson since we discovered his food allergies. There are NOT any frozen waffles or waffle mixes on the market that are safe for him that don't taste like cardboard. He has always loved every recipe I've ever made him from gluten and dairy free to the egg free version that completely flopped my taste bud test. So, telling you that this recipe is the bomb because he thinks so isn't gonna mean a whole lot. He just loves anything you can put syrup and whipped cream on. However, telling you that this recipe rocks because my 'natural food is gross' opinionated hubby likes them means this recipe is a keeper.

So, the original recipe is from Cooks Illustrated (LOVE my subscription), but I had to change it a little (don't I always).

Anyway, I will share with you that they said one of the secrets to good buttermilk waffles is a thick batter, and taking the extra time to whip the egg whites and fold them in really does make a difference.

1 1/4 Cup Unbleached All-Purpose Flour
3/4 Cup Whole Wheat Pastry Flour (you can play with this mixture, this is the ratio I need to get my picky hubby to eat them and not complain that they taste like whole wheat bread)
1 tsp Sea Salt
2 tsp Baking Soda
2 Eggs, separated
1 3/4 Cup Buttermilk
4 Tbsp Unsalted Butter, melted

Heat the waffle iron. Whisk dry ingredients together in a medium bowl. Combine the buttermilk and butter in a small bowl and whisk in the egg yolks. In a medium bowl, beat the egg whites until they hold a 2 inch peak. Add the buttermilk mixture to the dry ingredients in a thin steady stream while gently mixing with a rubber spatula. Gently fold in the egg whites until combined.

Spread or drop the batter onto the waffle iron following the manufacturer's instructions. Cook until golden brown, about 2-5 minutes.

These work well, frozen, too. If you know that you're going to freeze them and want to use your toaster to reheat and crisp them up, cook them until just about done but not all the way browned. That way, when you pop them in your toaster, they'll finish browning and be nice and crispy.

Makes 10-12 regular sized waffles.

Super yummy!

11 Years, and a Prayer

15 years ago at my church graduation party, this boy (who used to annoy me to no end) gave me a box of cards with a book of stamps, his Auburn address and a sweet note requesting I keep in touch. That small, sweet gesture changed my life forever. Eventually, I used those cards, and he wrote back. Pretty soon we were talking on the phone for hours (annoying my roommates) and planning weekend visits together. The rest is history, and today marks eleven years since I walked down the isle to that annoying boy. ;-)

A sweet old lady once offered some advice to this new bride. She told me the love that flutters in your stomach and dances around in your head, that's not the real thing, or at least not the whole thing. That might be where it starts, but the real thing is waking up one day realizing all the glamour of the wedding and honeymoon is over. Understanding that you can't dress yourself up and hide the crazy anymore. Seeing each other for the often imperfect, sometimes annoying, increasingly unsightly, ever changing human beings you really are. And choosing to love each other anyway. That's the real thing. And, the longer I'm married, the more I'm convinced there really is more to the kind of love you choose than the kind you fall into.

As I was thinking about what to blog tonight, I thought about typing out a story from the past eleven years, something funny or sad, something sweet or just plain sappy, but I think I would like to type out a prayer, for him and me and the next eleven years.

An Open Prayer for my Husband:

I pray for God to grant you wisdom and courage to lead and guide our family. I pray that God would continue to work through you in the lives of your patients, your friends, your family and our community. I pray that God would protect you and strengthen you so that your children will always have a father to go to when life is scary or confusing or hard. I pray that He would give you good health so I never have to worry about raising them on my own. I pray that your arms are always open and your heart is always full. I pray that someday we can look at our grown children and growing family and be glad we chose each other all those years ago. I pray that as you reach the end of your journey and look back at the life you lived you have no regrets.

I pray that God gives you grace to forgive me when I fail you, when my attitude reflects contempt and resentment, and when I let the stress of life come between us.

I pray that every new day God gives us, we continue to choose each other. I pray that the hand I'm holding when its all over is yours.

I pray for another eleven years, and another and another.

Happy anniversary, Baby!

The Weird Kid

Jackson and I were grocery shopping today. Just the two of us, two birds of a feather. His job was holding the shopping list, and mine was pushing the cart. He really enjoys being in charge of the list, he controls where we go and what goes in the cart. Well, that is unless Mommy puts things on the list in the wrong order or remembers something that isn't on the list. Then he jokingly scolds, "Mommy?!" and either draws arrows to where the item should have been on the list or writes in the missing item just so he can cross it off.

Did I mention he also gets to hold the pen? He loves crossing things off. In fact, I think he might like that as much as his mommy, who may or may not put some things on lists that don't really need to be there just so she can cross them off and feel like she's accomplishing more than she really is. Yeah, see, thats what I mean by birds of a feather. That's my boy, y'all! Same wavelength.

Anyway, we're walking along, and he crosses off the wrong item on the list. He stops and says, "Oh, I'm dumb." He explains, and I reply, "You're not dumb. You know I don't like using that word when we're talking about people. You made a mistake. Mommy's made ten of those since we walked in the store." His reply, "Yeah, but I'm the weird kid.

[Pause for effect]

Cue the rising of my internal mama bear. Who told my baby he's weird? Who? I'll show them 'weird' and several other more colorful adjectives. Just le'me at um.

[A few seconds to process]

Cue the over explaining lesson giver that wants to stop him right there in front of God and everybody and talk about how 'weird' is what people say when someone is different than everyone else, different from them in a way that they don't understand. But, being just like everyone else means you're hiding who you really are. Who wants to be 'normal'? 'Normal' people don't find cures for deadly diseases or write novels people still read and talk about centuries after they're dead. 'Normal' people don't paint ceilings in cathedrals or write music that calms the mind. 'Normal' people don't deliver life saving medicine, healthy food or clean water to the forgotten people on our planet. 'Normal' people don't change the world. They don't even make a ripple in the lives around them. They live and die never accomplishing more than fitting in. I wanted to tell him how I LOVE that he's different, and how I've NEVER wanted him to be 'normal'.

And I did, later.

First, though, that word started flooding my mind. All the references and uses I've made. 'How weird is that?' 'Don't pick your nose. That's weird.' When I thought about it, I figured out that he could have just put together all the things I said were weird, things he probably does and made the inference (crazy how he can do that sometimes now, you autism moms know what I'm talking about, that's a big deal). He could have decided he was weird just from what I have said to him or around him.

Cue the mommy guilt.

There's another word that has been floating around in debate these days, and I never understood just how hurtful it can be until my Jackson was diagnosed with autism. We don't say it in our house, and I don't know if Jackson has ever even heard it, yet anyway. If you don't know the word I'm talking about, its 'retarded'. It's not a bad word, not profanity or vulgar, but it can be a hurtful word all the same. Not just to the mommies and daddies and caregivers and others who love someone with disabilities, but to the disabled themselves. They may not hear and understand or process the way we do, but they get it. They know what it means. And that one word thrown at them carelessly can define how they see themselves even if you never meant for it to.

How does a 7 year old boy with autism decide he's the weird kid? Because in this world, even in our home where I've done all I can to make a safe comfortable place for my babies to grow up, we define normal with our words and actions and demand conformity. He's getting to the point in his development where he sees just how different he is, and words thrown around carelessly, they land differently on his little ears.

"Death and life are in the power of the tongue."

Proverbs 18:21

I want my words to give life, inspiration and encouragement to my children. I don't ever want to tear them down or make them feel inferior.

So, this kid's on a mission. After all, we've got more stuff to put in the cart and cross off this 'weird' list so we can go home and get back to more important things like building lego towers and eating ice cream (which is last on the list because it melts).

As my head swirls from the whirlwind of thoughts, he hasn't skipped a beat, and I tell him, "You're not weird. You're the best kind of different there is, and I love you."