I guess I'll stop calling the people who give us the local forecast "weather-guessers". They've been getting more accurate in the past few years. Yesterday they said we could get anywhere from five to eight inches of snow today, and while I muttered "yeah, right" a few times, I was a little apprehensive. This morning I got ready to go to my two churches as usual, since the snow was very light, not even turning the ground white. Cliff warmed up the car for me and we headed to town. Pulling out of our drive, he offered to come back and pick me up at the first church and take me to the second.
We were only about half a mile from home when I decided to use common sense. Both churches are very small, and a lot of the attendees aren't spring chickens and will likely stay home. The Baptist pastor at least will have family there to hear his preaching, but the Methodist preacher travels some distance to preach at two churches every Sunday, Wellington and Odessa: Wouldn't I feel silly if I were the only one to show up, and it would be just me, him, and his wife in attendance; he might feel obligated to carry on as usual with two people in the congregation.
So, I told Cliff to forget it; he turned the car around and brought me home. Gabe was happy to see me return so quickly. I got back in my warm, comfortable flannel-lined jeans, an insulated shirt, and a sweatshirt and began to wash the dishes left from my cooking yesterday; our tractor club's annual Christmas dinner was last night. There's always so much good food with those people, I seem to end up bringing most of what I take home. Yesterday I decided to make barbecue meat balls, a recipe of my sister's. Most of the recipes I use for holiday dinners are family ones. I never realized what an almost sacred thing these recipes are to me until last night. The meatballs were a hit; a fellow sitting across from me at the table said, "Boy, these meatballs are good! Did you make these?"
I told him yes, and mentioned it messed up too many dishes in the making of it because the many many meatballs (three pounds of beef) had to be browned before I put them in the oven. A lady sitting at our table said, "I have a recipe for meatballs: I don't have to brown them; you can just put them in the oven to bake."
Did I thank her and ask for the recipe? Oh no, I was sitting there thinking, "Surely she doesn't think I would trade MY OWN SISTER'S recipe for another one!" I said, "Oh, really?", trying to sound interested.
That's when I realized I'm a family-recipe snob. All the things I simply must have with a Thanksgiving dinner must be made! Christmas dinner without my grandma's noodles? That can never be!
And now I'm chastising myself for not getting that recipe, because the lady is an excellent cook. I may ask her for it next time I see her. But I'm telling you, nobody's recipes can trump those of my mother and sister, because nostalgia is involved. Still, I should give them a chance; what could it hurt?
Just my thoughts as I sit here missing church, trying to pass the time.