Every Monday at 6:30 PM, it suddenly becomes Tuesday at my house.
The smell of baking brownies and sounds of canine excitement signal the weekly time warp. Tails wag as teen girls, hungry for a combined spiritual and sugar rush, file through the front door. This weekly ritual played out every Tuesday night for ten years until I started my Masters program. After Tuesday evening classes forced a move to Mondays, everyone cheerfully adjusted to the time change, but not a name change. We’re still the Tuesday Night Bible Study. We just happen to meet on Monday.
What’s different about tonight is that instead of making the brownies ahead of time, I’m waiting for the girls to arrive so we can bake them together. The format change is for the benefit of a photographer who is coming to take pictures for a story about our group which will run in a local women’s’ magazine and, apparently, the newspaper as well. The brownie making angle is a concession to the fact that, for photography purposes, taking pictures of us baking would be more interesting than pictures of us sitting around on couches eating the brownies, which is what we usually do.
I won’t have the pictures to post, but, as I happened to write the article, I’d be happy to give you a sneak peek at it.
It goes something like this:
Who knew when I sat down in my living room one late spring evening with two teen girls, a pan of double chocolate brownies and a Bible that my life was about to change? Sure, I was excited about building relationships with some of the girls at church, but I had no idea I was beginning a chapter of my life that would be peopled by dozens of teenagers who would bring me not only encouragement and joy, but also inspiration in the pursuit of a lifelong dream.
But that’s exactly what happened. Our weekly living room sessions around the brownie pan are now eleven years strong. Over the years, I’ve been in two weddings, and another
two marriages exist because of friendships that formed in Tuesday Night Bible Study.
Along the way, we’ve prayed together over lost loves, sick pets, and plummeting grades. We once sat and cried together at a funeral, too. Sometimes the older girls come back from college or married life and get to know the new girls. It’s a continuous thread.
I was a late bloomer, of sorts. A caution-to-the-wind kind of gal with a flair for the dramatic and a penchant for impulsive road trips during school hours. Having managed to survive into my twenties, I felt a responsibility to extend a map of sorts to my younger sisters—a guide marking the best stepping stones around the tough neighborhoods.
But even my husband, who has been a constant source of encouragement in endeavors ranging from international travel to the ill-advised adoptions of numerous strays, was skeptical.
“It’s a great idea,” he said. “But I’m not sure if you’ll get them to come. I don’t want you to be disappointed.”
But come they did—sometimes in trickles, others in droves. And our group quickly expanded as the girls brought their friends. Soon girls from all over the community began showing up at my door each week for a dose of scripture, a listening ear, and, of course, a brownie.
I keep a few trophies—but not the kind you have to polish. My favorite is a little Ziploc baggie full of “contraband” a couple of girls unexpectedly gave me one night at the end of a study. Not even 24’s Jack Bauer could get me to divulge the contents of the bag, but I promise you, it was worth way more than every chocolate chip I’ve ever had to buy and every hour that stretched beyond our usual two.
And that lifelong dream I mentioned? My experiences with the girls actually gave me the nudge I needed to jumpstart my frustrated writing ambitions! It began as a chapter-a-week online saga featuring a protagonist who, as one girl put it, “is a little bit of all of us.” The experiment grew into two young adult novels that have opened doors for me to talk with girls who would never have the opportunity to walk through my door on a Tuesday night.
Those who come usually hit the door with a single question: “Are there brownies tonight?” They claim my super-chocolaty recipe has “ruined” ordinary brownies for them.
I understand. A brownie isn’t just a brownie for me anymore, either. It’s a warm, gooey celebration of enduring friendship and the unexpected joys of giving.
Cynthia Davis is pursuing an MAT in English at Christopher Newport University. To contact her or learn more about her work, visit http://www.runningwithletters.com
Maybe you'd like the brownie recipe?
Bible Study Brownies (Nestle Double Chocolate Brownies)
This is the recipe for the authentic Tuesday night brownies!
3/4 cup unsifted flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/3 cup butter
3/4 cup sugar
2 tablespoons water
1 package Nestle semi-sweet morsels
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 eggs
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. In small bowl combine flour, baking soda, and salt--set aside. In small saucepan, combine butter, sugar, and water. Bring just to a boil, then remove from heat. Add 1/2 package of morsels and vanilla. Stir until morsels melt and mixture is smooth. Transfer to large bowl. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Gradually blend in flour mixture. Stir in remaining morsels. Spread into greased 9 inch pan. Bake 30-35 minutes.
Enjoy!
Showing posts with label girlfriends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label girlfriends. Show all posts
Monday, March 17, 2008
Monday, June 25, 2007
Happy Feet
So right before my visit to Dr. M, I went to Target to shop for the gift I had to bring to the dice-and-gifts event.
I decided to play it safe and purchase something I’d be happy with, in the event that I ended up going home with whatever I brought.
Good thinking.
I selected a pumice scrub and file and a shimmery nail polish, because contrary to some propaganda I read on the label of a beach-themed exfoliant, walking on the shore every day gives one rough calluses, not “soft, smooth, beach-worthy feet.”
I figured a do-it-yourself pedicure made a nice, summer-themed gift. Which brings me to a key point. All previous yuletide connections to said event were merely personal flashbacks to the Women’s Ornament Exchange, a scarring event from my distant past. To paraphrase a common disclaimer in the front matter of novels, any connection to actual events should be considered purely coincidental.
So I wasn’t really expecting a lighted Christmas tree. I didn’t think I’d sit beneath a tinsel-framed window, and I definitely didn’t picture drinking coffee from a Christmas mug. But I did.
It wasn’t until I dried my hands on a Christmas bath towel in the restroom that I realized the Holiday theme was not connected to event, but rather a reflection of the decorating preference of the hostess.
Eerie coincidence aside, I had a wonderful evening, despite the fact that I lost 26 rounds of play—27 if you count the consolation round in the end where all the unclaimed packages are paired with unlucky players. I drew the joker and was stuck with the solitary, unclaimed package.
I took my pedicure kit home, thankful that my calluses were all I needed to smooth over. I may have finished last, but this time I didn’t lose. I’d buy my own gift and play with those gals any day of the week. In fact, my fingernails are looking a little ragged. Maybe they’ll call again soon.
I decided to play it safe and purchase something I’d be happy with, in the event that I ended up going home with whatever I brought.
Good thinking.
I selected a pumice scrub and file and a shimmery nail polish, because contrary to some propaganda I read on the label of a beach-themed exfoliant, walking on the shore every day gives one rough calluses, not “soft, smooth, beach-worthy feet.”
I figured a do-it-yourself pedicure made a nice, summer-themed gift. Which brings me to a key point. All previous yuletide connections to said event were merely personal flashbacks to the Women’s Ornament Exchange, a scarring event from my distant past. To paraphrase a common disclaimer in the front matter of novels, any connection to actual events should be considered purely coincidental.
So I wasn’t really expecting a lighted Christmas tree. I didn’t think I’d sit beneath a tinsel-framed window, and I definitely didn’t picture drinking coffee from a Christmas mug. But I did.
It wasn’t until I dried my hands on a Christmas bath towel in the restroom that I realized the Holiday theme was not connected to event, but rather a reflection of the decorating preference of the hostess.
Eerie coincidence aside, I had a wonderful evening, despite the fact that I lost 26 rounds of play—27 if you count the consolation round in the end where all the unclaimed packages are paired with unlucky players. I drew the joker and was stuck with the solitary, unclaimed package.
I took my pedicure kit home, thankful that my calluses were all I needed to smooth over. I may have finished last, but this time I didn’t lose. I’d buy my own gift and play with those gals any day of the week. In fact, my fingernails are looking a little ragged. Maybe they’ll call again soon.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Double Jeopardy?
So the New Friend that invited me to the Not-A-Public Speaking event spirited me away to camp for the afternoon yesterday. I left the house thinking I was just going to drop off my final assignments to my computer professor, but I ended up several hours from home peering into the disheveled contents of a camper’s suitcase in an attempt to assemble an outfit for an ‘80’s-themed prom.
“Just think of it as research,” my New Friend said, casting a new light on the impromptu trip.
Of course. Research. After all, I am writing a series of teen novels set at summer camp. No matter that emails would go unanswered and trip preparations would be stalled—-writers will drop their keyboards at a moment’s notice for an opportunity for in-the-field research.
Not to mention that this was a chance to forward the whole female bonding thing prior to the dice and gifts event.
Conversation on the two hour drive to camp drifted to our respective prior experiences at the camp that had, somehow, never overlapped.
I was surprised by how quickly the conversation led to tricky ground.
Two years ago while volunteering at said camp, I found it necessary to kidnap a puppet, an event that subsequently incited hysteria among a group of chauvinistic men and led to a mock trial with the entire camp in attendance. The case went unresolved, hampered by a hung jury, tampered evidence and contempt of court.
As soon as I opened my mouth to recount the tale, I could tell that it was too soon to have introduced the Puppet Affair. New Friend looked puzzled. I spent the rest of the drive fearing I’d put too much strain on the budding friendship, babbling about puppets.
I have a handful of tight female friends, but they’re people who have had a long time to get used to me and my quirks-—my sister, for instance, and Lori, who is well acquainted my dysfunction but chooses to love me anyway.
Evidently I don’t really have a feel for what girls REALLY like to talk about. After a mere five minutes in the cabin, we knew who was constipated, who was experiencing monthly distress, and what cup size each girl wore.
Now I'm not sure how useful that research will prove, but the camp’s 80’s week theme was a gem and stalwart readers should take note to look for above influences in future Camp Edson adventures.
And—as a bonus—I discovered that the Puppet Affair has gone down in camp lore. New Friend introduced me to a counselor who connected some quick dots and exclaimed:
“You were the one who stole the puppets! I’ve always wanted to meet you, you’re my hero!”
The jury is still out on whether or not New Friend thinks I'm a lunatic, but I felt acquitted.
“Just think of it as research,” my New Friend said, casting a new light on the impromptu trip.
Of course. Research. After all, I am writing a series of teen novels set at summer camp. No matter that emails would go unanswered and trip preparations would be stalled—-writers will drop their keyboards at a moment’s notice for an opportunity for in-the-field research.
Not to mention that this was a chance to forward the whole female bonding thing prior to the dice and gifts event.
Conversation on the two hour drive to camp drifted to our respective prior experiences at the camp that had, somehow, never overlapped.
I was surprised by how quickly the conversation led to tricky ground.
Two years ago while volunteering at said camp, I found it necessary to kidnap a puppet, an event that subsequently incited hysteria among a group of chauvinistic men and led to a mock trial with the entire camp in attendance. The case went unresolved, hampered by a hung jury, tampered evidence and contempt of court.
As soon as I opened my mouth to recount the tale, I could tell that it was too soon to have introduced the Puppet Affair. New Friend looked puzzled. I spent the rest of the drive fearing I’d put too much strain on the budding friendship, babbling about puppets.
I have a handful of tight female friends, but they’re people who have had a long time to get used to me and my quirks-—my sister, for instance, and Lori, who is well acquainted my dysfunction but chooses to love me anyway.
Evidently I don’t really have a feel for what girls REALLY like to talk about. After a mere five minutes in the cabin, we knew who was constipated, who was experiencing monthly distress, and what cup size each girl wore.
Now I'm not sure how useful that research will prove, but the camp’s 80’s week theme was a gem and stalwart readers should take note to look for above influences in future Camp Edson adventures.
And—as a bonus—I discovered that the Puppet Affair has gone down in camp lore. New Friend introduced me to a counselor who connected some quick dots and exclaimed:
“You were the one who stole the puppets! I’ve always wanted to meet you, you’re my hero!”
The jury is still out on whether or not New Friend thinks I'm a lunatic, but I felt acquitted.
Christmas in (almost) July or A Midsummer Festivus?
I’ve received an invitation. At first, I thought I was being asked to participate in a scholarly gathering of public speakers, as I was invited to “substitute” at what I mistakenly heard was a “keynote meeting.”
I seem to recall reading somewhere that most people would rather die than speak in public; so theoretically, I should have been alarmed from the outset.
In reality, my palms didn’t begin to sweat until I discovered that the event (kee-no??) involves cards, dice, gifts and a dozen women.
Last time I got involved in something like this, I ended up with a one-winged angel and a low tolerance for excessive estrogen exposure.
The Women’s Ornament Exchange of ’97 played out like a Seinfeld episode. This was not a gathering of refined ladies exchanging adornments for the yuletide. The events that transpired more closely resembled lost footage from the “Festivus” episode. As you may or may not recall, "Festivus" was a late December holiday consisting of the “Airing of Grievances” and “Feats of Strength.”
You may find it difficult to see the parallels if you haven’t had a series of reindeer, moose and snowmen forcibly removed from your person by a pack of rabid women.
I believe I’d been promised “an evening of food and fellowship and a keepsake reminder for my family tree.” However, the event coordinator had to sift through the rubble in the evening’s aftermath to unearth the naked, fractured cherub that was ultimately presented to me.
I’d like to tell you that I found the token to be endearing and tended to its wounds and salvaged it as an inspiring symbol of triumph over rejection, but that simply wouldn’t be true.
The plastic dollar store bauble was disposed of at the scene.
Young and impressionable, I subsequently steered clear from grown-up events that were gender-specific.
But unlike the kitschy cherub, I get another chance to embrace this whole female-bonding thing. If it doesn't work out, at least I'll get some great material I can use if I'm ever asked to give a keynote address.
I seem to recall reading somewhere that most people would rather die than speak in public; so theoretically, I should have been alarmed from the outset.
In reality, my palms didn’t begin to sweat until I discovered that the event (kee-no??) involves cards, dice, gifts and a dozen women.
Last time I got involved in something like this, I ended up with a one-winged angel and a low tolerance for excessive estrogen exposure.
The Women’s Ornament Exchange of ’97 played out like a Seinfeld episode. This was not a gathering of refined ladies exchanging adornments for the yuletide. The events that transpired more closely resembled lost footage from the “Festivus” episode. As you may or may not recall, "Festivus" was a late December holiday consisting of the “Airing of Grievances” and “Feats of Strength.”
You may find it difficult to see the parallels if you haven’t had a series of reindeer, moose and snowmen forcibly removed from your person by a pack of rabid women.
I believe I’d been promised “an evening of food and fellowship and a keepsake reminder for my family tree.” However, the event coordinator had to sift through the rubble in the evening’s aftermath to unearth the naked, fractured cherub that was ultimately presented to me.
I’d like to tell you that I found the token to be endearing and tended to its wounds and salvaged it as an inspiring symbol of triumph over rejection, but that simply wouldn’t be true.
The plastic dollar store bauble was disposed of at the scene.
Young and impressionable, I subsequently steered clear from grown-up events that were gender-specific.
But unlike the kitschy cherub, I get another chance to embrace this whole female-bonding thing. If it doesn't work out, at least I'll get some great material I can use if I'm ever asked to give a keynote address.
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