no tickling without permission.

Hi neighbors.

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I’m hanging out with Barnabas. No, not the Biblical guy. My new friend. A gangly, long-legged, curly-haired, black GoldenDoodle. Yeah, he’s the wrong color. Black, not golden. Oops. Somehow the gene pool of Poodle + Golden Retriever didn’t do him any favors in the hue department. Still awesome though. And friendly. His name means “encourager,” but I think the only thing he’s encouraged me to do is pet him. Seriously, this dog is needy for attention. Needy as in, you can’t sit on the couch without him putting his mangy paw up on your lap in a desperate attempt to get you to love on him. It’s quite endearing. Unless you’re trying to nap.

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Here’s Barnabas. Don’t let the picture fool you into thinking he’s a small mop of a dog. Nope. His head nearly reaches the top of my legs, and while that may not mean a lot since I’m 5’4”, he really is the size of a small pony. Except skinny. No lie.

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See, he’s gangly. All legs. Just like my friend Lindsey, who, by the way, is going to Uganda this month to work with orphans. In this moment I’m experiencing righteous envy of her opportunity AND her long legs.

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Anyway, the best part about Barnabas is that his family has an awesome Family Rules sign plastered on the wall.

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Rule #1?

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No tickling without permission.

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I’m cool with that rule. In fact, I might adopt it. Oh, and the no interrupting unless there’s blood. Those are rules to live by. But I’m fine with you eating off my plate. Really. I’m happy to share.

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Moral of the story, friends? Don’t tickle unless you ask permission.

But if you ask me, my answer is going to be no.

Every. Time.

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love, allison

why cannot I?

Hi bloggies.

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Just wanted to share a fresh Word for you today. If you haven’t read My Utmost for His Highest, you’re missing out. This devotional kicks my spiritual butt over and over. (Don’t kill me: I might have a miniature theological crush on Oswald Chambers; I reference him a lot. I’m also aware that he’s already in heaven. No biggie.)

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This is an excerpt of his that I read recently about Peter’s question to Jesus in John 13:37, “Peter said unto Him, Lord, why cannot I follow Thee now?”

There are times when you cannot understand why you cannot do what you want to do. When God brings the blank space, see that you do not fill it in, but wait. The blank space may come in order to teach you what sanctification means, or it may come after sanctification to teach you what service means. Never run before God’s guidance. If there is the slightest doubt, then He is not guiding. Whenever there is doubt – don’t.

In the beginning you may see clearly what God’s will is – the severance of a friendship, the breaking off of a business relationship, something you feel distinctly before God is His will for you to do, never do it on the impulse of that feeling. If you do, you will end in making difficulties that will take years of time to put right. Wait for God’s time to bring it round and He will do it without any heartbreak or disappointment. When it is a question of the providential will of God, wait for God to move.

Peter did not wait on God, he forecast in his mind where the test would come, and the test came where he did not expect it. “I will lay down my life for Thy sake.” Peter’s declaration was honest but ignorant. “Jesus answered him …The cock shall not crow, till thou hast denied Me thrice.” This was said with a deeper knowledge of Peter than Peter had of himself. He could not follow Jesus because he did not know himself, of what he was capable. Natural devotion may be all very well to attract us to Jesus, to make us feel His fascination, but it will never make us disciples. Natural devotion will always deny Jesus somewhere or other.

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I love these two phrases:

1. Never run before God’s guidance.

2. When it is a question of the providential will of God, wait for God to move.

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So you and I must wait. We must not fill in the blank space with what we think is best. We cannot run before God’s guidance. We must not plunder around and forge our way forward without the clear direction of God. We cannot believe our natural instincts and abilities will land us smack in the middle of His providential will for us.

What we do have to do?

The unnatural.

We have to hold on to a blank space. We have to trust in Someone we cannot physically see and in something we cannot understand, like Peter’s words “why cannot I follow Thee now?” We must to find peace in the waiting – in the waiting for direction, in the waiting for Him to move, in waiting of sanctification. Our hope is in the promise that God’s guidance will come.

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So get on it. You know, that whole waiting thing. Master it, own it, conquer it.

Then, let me know how it goes; I’m not quite there yet.

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love, allison

One last thing. The telegram Oswald Chamber’s wife, Gertrude “Biddy,” received as notice of his death in 1917 read only these four words: “Oswald, in His presence.”

Okay, Mr. Weather

Hi storm aficionados.

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Today was a day for the Farmer’s Market.

The “big city” Farmer’s Market that you can see from the interstate.

Today was a day for sunny skies, friendly strangers, and smells and samples galore.

Today was a day for close parking spaces, perfect produce, and a leisurely stroll through beautiful open air buildings.

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Oh yeah. Today was a day for those things.

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Until today became a day for scary lightning and the roar of deafening rain falling on metal roofs.

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But only after we’d arrived and were trapped, forced to choose between staying semi-dry under the rooftop or completely soaked after a run to the car. Decisions, decisions.

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Then today became a day for twisted skies like black licorice and old ladies worrying while they stood with grocery bags on their heads. (I only wish I was making that up. The bags even said “Have a Nice Day!” with a smiley face. Upside down, of course.)

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Then today became day for winds so strong that they blew hard rain under the open air buildings and carried away vendor tents and signs. Then Mr. Weather threatened to make suds out of homemade soap and soup out of dried beans.

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Today became a day for Mr. Weather to show off. The lightning and rain and wind weren’t enough. Bring on the hurricane. The monsoon. The flash flood. Go ahead, topple over entire tables of packaged nuts and spill baskets of fresh peaches. While you’re at it, Mr. Weather, scare the mom with the new baby and freak out the farmers who are desperately trying to keep their tomatoes from rolling off into muddy oblivion. You win.

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Have I mentioned once or seventeen times that the buildings were open air?

That is great on a day like today was supposed to be. But it means one thing only one thing on a day like today became: a completely soaked backside, courtesy of keeping my face away from the wind-rain combo.

The proof is in the photo, my friends.

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Pretty sweet, huh? Do you know any other grown girls who walk around carrying a completely full market basket looking like they’ve wet their pants, waist to ankles? Thank goodness my hair was plastered to my head along with everyone else’s, or people might’ve really thought I had lost a race to the restroom.

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I’m happy to report I did manage to escape to the car during a very brief window of time when the rain had slowed to a steady downpour, versus an all-out squall. I came home with some white corn, a few nectarines, moravian molasses cookies (mine are better; just saying), and a half-pint of somewhat sour blackberries.

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On my way out, I did happen to run into this guy:

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A perfectly imperfect eggplant. Or two.

Just couldn’t bring myself to purchase him. Or them.

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Next week I’ll check the weather.

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love, allison

missing cat

Hi lovely peeps.

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I came across this funny little email exchange, and hope it makes you giggle as much as I did.

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This is one of the many reasons I appreciate the dry humor of graphic designers and seriously don’t understand the intense passion of cat owners.

If you’re a not-so-funny designer or a cat lover, I’m sorry. Really, I am.

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Laugh a little, it’s Friday!

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love, allison

morning with Jan

Hey you.

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I spent time with my neighbor, Jan, the other morning. If you don’t know about her blueberry cobbler you’ve got to get up to speed.

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Here’s how I thought my morning with Jan was going to go:

1. Gather blueberry cobbler and recipe.

2. Walk down 1 flight of stairs, knock and exchange pleasantries.

3. Hug and leave.

Estimated total time? 5 minutes, tops.

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Oh no, that’s not even remotely what happened. It really went more like this:

1. Gathered blueberry cobbler and recipe.

2. Walked down 1 flight of stairs, knocked and exchanged pleasantries.

3. Jan asked me to put the cobbler in the fridge. She was feeling tired.

4. Jan trapped me.

5. Two homemade cookies, one cup of orange juice, one cup of coffee, three different sitting locales, and two-thousand stories (along with probably four hundred calories) later,

6. Jan asked me to take her for drive to look at real estate (she’s a former agent).

7. Jan asked me to clean her house for money so her cleaning lady didn’t have to come.

8. Jan told me her ex-husband tried to rape her deceased daughter. She divorced him, never to marry again.

9. Jan gave me a book to read about her deceased daughter.

10. Jan gave me a cookbook to “practice out of.” Apparently my cobbler wasn’t up to snuff.

11. Jan asked me to take her junk to Goodwill.

12. Jan invited me on several senior citizen trips, including one later this month and a 3-day trip in October where “I could be her roommate!”

13. Jan asked if I’d like all of her recipe collection.

14. Jan told me she paid cash for her car and her home and had saved enough for a nursing home.

15. Jan asked me to look up the repercussions of having your spleen removed. She still has hers.

16. Jan shared that she likes muumuu’s so she doesn’t have to wear a bra.

17. Jan said she’s going to call me tonight to pick up vanilla yogurt and plans to make other desserts to bring to up to my 2A place soon. She is not happy about me wanting to lose a mere 5 lbs.

18. Jan asked if I wanted to have weekly coffee and orange juice with her.

19. Jan wanted to know why we had all scratched up the hallway walls when we moved furniture in and out.

20. Jan showed me pictures of her grandchildren and grand nieces and nephews, including two that are “not pretty at all. It’s a shame.”

21. Phones rang, exchanged quick goodbyes and hugs, and ran up 1 flight of stairs to escape!

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So yeah, God has a very, very funny sense of humor, especially since my planned “quick” visit was an hour and a half long. I only escaped thanks to an unknowing friend who called at a very opportune moment, just as Jan received a call from the county fire department in search of donations. If it hadn’t been for my phone call, I’d still be there three days later, listening to her complain about our other neighbors.

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But here’s where I get hung up. Why is it easier and more natural for me to be teary-eyed watching an elderly stranger slowly crossing the street, than to show compassion and grace to the bitter-spirited Christ follower living downstairs?

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I think I am going to have to take her for a drive. I’ll tote her stuff to Goodwill. I’ll try out a few recipes and maybe even share. I’ll print out all I can find from WebMD’s spleen page. I may even clean and organize her house. And I’ll choke down some vanilla yogurt with my blueberry cobbler (such a stretch, right?). But no way, no how am I going to be Jan’s traveling companion in October. Please, Jesus, don’t make me do that.

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love, allison

baking for Jan

Hey again.

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Jan is my downstairs neighbor. You know, the one who calls at 12:30 AM to tell me that me moving suitcases out of the closet is keeping her awake? The neighbor who scolds me because she’s convinced that “ants come in on the dog, jump off, and file down to her condo.” Um, I don’t have ants. Most recently, she’s the one who wrote a scathing note and posted the Ten Commandments with the eighth circled on the front of the building last week after her potted gardenia went missing. And how could I forget? She’s the same neighbor who, even though she’s aware people own these twelve condos and do not rent, decided to begin a petition to kick the “afro american” girl out of the building because she’s rude.

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So, that’s Jan.

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Last night Jan mentioned she had blueberries and wanted a blueberry cobbler. What that meant was, she really wanted someone to make a blueberry cobbler for her. In a moment of sheer delirium, I decided to turn the other cheek (even though he is maddeningly passive aggressive and mean everyone in our little building), and make her a blueberry cobbler. Then I realized she wanted me to make it in her condo so she could watch. Seriously, what could I possibly teach a 70-something year old woman about culinary concepts? Has she seen my most recent cheesecake? But, I continued to agree to bake it, on my terms. This is how the conversation went down:

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“You can just come down here tomorrow and make it when you’re free.” Um, Jan, my day is full.

“What about tomorrow night?” I think I have plans.

“Well, when can you do it then?” I’m going to need to do it later tonight. You’ll be asleep.

“But I’m going to need to know how to make it.” I’ll print you a recipe to follow.

“Well I don’t want you to have to use your ingredients, flour and such.” It’s okay, really.

“It’s silly for you to use your electricity.” No worries, it only bakes about 25 minutes.

“Well I’m not going to want the whole thing.” I’ll just split it and bring you 1/2 in the morning.

“You can’t leave it out all night.” Have no fear, I have a refrigerator in my kitchen, too.

“Well how will I warm it up?” It can go back in the oven for a few minutes.

“It will need some ice cream. I’ll give you some.” You don’t need to do that. I’m eating healthier.

“Well what time tomorrow can you bring it?” How about around 9?

“Let me look at my calendar.” (Really?!?) Yes, that’s fine. I’ll come down and knock.

“Okay, thanks. Come get the blueberries.” Yes ma’am.

click.

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Last night I baked for Jan. If I’m honest, my real motivation wasn’t simply to be nice to her and show grace she didn’t deserve, it was to bribe her into being less crazy to me. I even said aloud, “this will go a long way.” And what I meant was, “this will go a long way in making her not complain about suitcases moving, ants that aren’t coming from my condo, or ask me to sign ridiculous petitions… because she’s literally crazy. Maybe this will make her less crazy to me.”

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God has a very, very funny sense of humor. So funny, I can hardly. stop. laughing.

Can you sense my sarcasm?!

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You’ll have to read about His sense of humor in a day or two, when I can justly describe just how great my morning interaction with Jan was. SO GREAT.

Yes, I totally know just how unfair I’m being to you by not finishing the story.

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love, allison

I make a mean chocolate chip cookie.

Hi foodies,

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I honestly can’t believe I’m sharing this with you. The sheer fact that it’s going to be out there for all the world to see makes me want to cringe. But it’s you, my fabulous friends (and almost friends) that I worry about most. This has the potential to taint your view of who I am, prevent my future husband from marrying me, and deny me future opportunities to host social gatherings.

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On the other hand, it’s going to confirm what my brother has announced to everyone near and far, since I was in middle school: Allison can’t cook. [Insert gasp, shock and awe!] In fairness, his statement is flawed and biased, based solely off of a one-time accidental and haphazard baking experience I shared with my 5th grade friend, Susan. Since then, I’ve made countless meals. Tons of desserts for parties. Plenty of side dishes for barbecues. All beautiful. Delicious. Praise-worthy.

And my brother hasn’t turned any of them down. Purely out of kindness and big-heartedness, I’m sure, not because they were actually scrumptious.

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Because when it comes down to it, I make a mean chocolate chip cookie. Summer bean salad worth scraping the bottom of the bowl for. Mouth-watering chicken parmesan. A to-die-for peach crisp. Heart healthy spinach, strawberry and pecan salad.

And really, the list goes on.

Just ask my friends and neighbors, who have gained weight from living next to or near me. I do this awful nice thing where I cook or bake something, take a few bites, then deliver to them entire pans of brownies or sour cream pound cakes. They love hate it; but it’s what has to be done to save calories!..

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Back to the basis of my brother’s opinion: my cooking reputation lies in a singular batch of Sugar Cookies ruined in 6th grade, unknowingly mixed, baked and frosted without a stitch of granulated sugar in the dough. What was supposed to be a nice gesture (giving them to my brother and his friends as a treat) has turned into a lifelong battle cry: Allison can’t cook. And yes, they really had no sugar. It was like eating the lovechild of homemade play dough and a dog biscuit.

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So maybe he has a point.

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But first, I have to throw in another two cents. I have a recipe for the thickest, creamiest, most fattening New York style cheesecake. It’s award-worthy. I’ve made it innumerable times. It comes out flawlessly. Everyone raves. Including my brother. You know, the same one who exclaims every time he sees me in the kitchen, “Allison can’t cook!” to anyone who will listen.

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This is the part where I tell you that if he sees the next series of photographs, I’m ruined for life. He’ll never give it up. My future hubby will ask to dine out nightly. You, my friend, will never ask me to host again.

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It’s both my pleasure and to dismay to introduce you to my very brown, very cracked, deep dish New York Cheesecake, complete with an underdone, wobbly center:

Oh the horror.

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And the shame!

(Second picture added only to indulge you in more laughter.)

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Despite its ugliness (hold your gag reflex), it was eaten anyway. The taste? Perfection. Five bars of cream cheese make anything delicious. If you believe me (and you should), I’ll send you the top-secret recipe if you promise never to let yours turn out like this one. You’ll just have to trust that mine was simply a fluke. A fluke!

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I really am a good cook, despite the rumor…

And today’s photos.

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If you decide to take me up on the recipe offer, here’s a tip: put aluminum foil over the top while baking, leave it in the oven ten minutes longer than suggested, and if it still comes out too brown, follow my lead don’t take it to the party. The guests will breathe a sigh of relief.

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love, allison

unlimited patience.

Hello again!

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One of the things I wanted to do again this summer was read through the New Testament start to finish. It’s pretty short compared to the Old (and has less characters), so it hasn’t taken much time. I just finished up 1 Timothy, and I’ve identified so much with Paul’s words to the young Timothy in Chapter 1, starting with verse 15.

Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners – of whom I am the worst. But for that very reason, I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display His unlimited patience as an example for those who would believe on Him and receive eternal life. Now to the King eternal, immortal, invisible, the only God, but honor and glory forever and ever. Amen.

It is so wonderful to know and trust that I (and you!), as the worst sinner, am shown Christ’s full mercy, used to display His unlimited patience, and in spite of my many sins and shortcomings, will spend eternity with the King immortal. That’s worth clinging to!

Be encouraged fellow sinners. He came to the world just to save us.

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love, allison

dear etsy : july edition

Dear Etsy,

It’s been one month since my last correspondence to you, and one month since I promised to deliver an edition that wasn’t filled with flowers, whimsy or tulle. Did you find my last letter charming? If you did, I must’ve missed the gifts you sent. Perhaps they got lost in the mail; I am in Carolina now. Hmph.

Regardless, I’m committed to give you (and my three fans) a monthly update of things I’m loving about you. It’s time again. Here goes; July is man-style. Pump up the testosterone.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, screams male like a mounted head of a formerly alive animal/object/monster/weird thing. (And while I’m overusing the word nothing, I’ll say this: absolutely nothing can prepare you for the creepy search results of “taxidermy.”) I finally stumbled upon the art from the fine folks of The Steel Fork. Aside from looking like he has flames for ears, their Recycled Farm Equipment Moose is man-tastic. Nice shot.

Etched Mustache Rocks Glass Set. Grab a few friends, host a man-night, and hang out with these guys in your hands. Resign yourself to the fact that only serious conversations will happen while precariously perching these fine ‘staches up against your lips. Embrace the masculinity. Imagine that you’re Tom Selleck, Hulk Hogan, or Dr. Phil. If facial hair really isn’t your thing, Jackglass Studios also makes other manly things. Like a monogrammed picnic set.

If the man cave needs some sprucing up (wow, no pun originally intended), consider the Winter Tree vinyl wall decal by Wow Wall. It’s the perfect decorating compromise: cool meets non-girly, stylish meets simple. The price tag’s not bad either. It’s infinitely cheaper than the therapy you’d need if your basement looked like this. Buy the tree.

Cowboy buckles are for ranchers. Compasses are for Boy Scouts. Vintage Compass Belt Buckles are for  artsy guys who need to make sure their skinny jeans won’t migrate south. Bmused Arete has more buckles than any male should be proud to own, emblazoned with everything from birds and bridges to bingo and bumblebees. Clever belts deserved clever alliteration. You’re welcome.

For the little dude in your life, check out the Knotty Legs and Business Suit. It totally won’t be hard to convince people that your kid has an X and a Y chromosome when he’s wearing a tie with his leg warmers. If you can’t stand the pretentiousness of argyle, have no fear. Knotty Baby Wear can outfit your chubster in a skull and crossbones business suit instead. That’s right, stick it to the man.

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Love, Allison

christmas in july.

Hey you.

Look at this gem of a photo I found the other day! Nope, it didn’t come out of a family photo album. In fact, I have no idea who these people are. Well, actually, that’s not complete truth.

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I happened to be perusing one of my treasure troves the other day, that happens to sell some really cool vintage things, and happened to open the drawer of a table with great bones that would look stellar laquered with the paint gun I’ve been lusting after. Lo and behold, what did I happen to come across?

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A jolly Santa, and two of his adorably 80s friends. January 1984, to be exact. What a treasure! It was my Christmas in July!

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Also inside the drawer that happened to house this one-of-a-kind photo? Address labels. Bet Mr. C.  doesn’t know they’re still in there. Or that any random Joe Schmoe or Jane Doe could find them and pay him a friendly visit.

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Questions to ponder:

Is Mr. C. dressed as Santa, or is he the guy in the black-framed glasses that look remarkably like the ones that have recently come back in style?

Is that a coat of arms behind their heads or just a weird gold wall hanging?

Is that Mr. C.’s wife, beaming in her fur-trimmed winter coat, or does she belong with the other guy?

Is that a pillow under Santa’s costume, or does he boast a natural belly full of jelly?

What do you think?

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Honestly, this photo makes me smile so much, I’ve considered sharing it with Found Magazine, but I don’t think I can part with it.

Oh, before I go, I’ll mention that Mr. C. also had a thing for collecting freebie sewing kits (you know, the ones that have three needles and five colors of thread with two black buttons?), library card envelopes (perhaps he was a circulation clerk?), illegible notes with script handwriting, and pennies. Don’t worry. I only took the photo.

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Stealing?

I’m not sure.

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love, allison