on dying passions and uganda and ice cream cake

What's happened since July 16th, a recapping of the past 8 months of my baking life (or lack thereof).

The aid-mixer gathered a light coating of dust while the oven remained eerily cold for what seemed like weeks on end. And the blog? Silent. Dead silent. And me, with absolutely no desire to bring its voice back.

The weeks after returning home from Uganda were difficult, to say the least. I guess I didn't realize how much Africa had changed me until I came home. I oftentimes found myself thinking that my life felt like a puzzle piece. I was being crammed into a space where it looked as if I should fit perfectly, but the fit was uncomfortable, awkward, slightly-off. The more I tried to make myself enjoy the things I used to do, the more obvious it became: Africa had changed me. Slowly the desire to do things (other than stare at Africa pictures all day) came back. Except for the desire to bake.

Baking was something I didn't do unless I needed to-- birthday cupcakes, a promised dessert for a friend, something for a church potluck. The times of baking simply because I wanted to were scarce, almost non-existent. Baking became something to rush through, something to get done with as quickly as possible. I did things I wouldn't of dreamed of doing 6 months before. I chose recipes based on how easy or intense they were -tossing aside all that required multiple steps or strange ingredients- and took every shortcut possible.


October, my favorite baking season, came and went with few pumpkin desserts making an appearance in our kitchen. But the oven was getting turned on a little more frequently now. Thanksgiving was spent as a family of 7, and I cooked my first turkey ever. In December I started a list of Christmas desserts I wanted to make. While the pinwheel cookies and peppermint bark never happened, a completely-from-scratch gingerbread house did as well as nearly a dozen pans of cinnamon rolls.

Despite the fact that crock pot dinners and occasional desserts were coming out of the kitchen more often again, I knew that something had happened to my love for baking. Sifted flour didn't smell as wonderful, the hum of the aid mixer didn't sound as comforting, creaming sugar and butter together didn't make my heart pitter-patter. Baking reminded me of Uganda- cravings for chocolate, how I dreamed of cheesecake every night for a week straight, eating chips (aka french fries) in Jinja, watching Zamu's hands making chipati on my very first morning in Africa.

My lessened desire to bake stirred something inside me that was hard to ignore. There was a fear that gnawed at the back of my mind, a thought I was too scared to say out loud to anyone, a question I was afraid to hear the answer to. Do all passions die? 

It is hard to deny that I have a passion and love for Africa. Spend an hour with me, and I will have found a way to work Africa into the conversation at least once.When pictures of that place unexpectedly flash on a screen, my breath catches for a minute. Barefooted children still haunt my dreams at night. And I want to hear someone scream "Mzungu!" like you wouldn't believe. I am the annoying, Africa-obsessed girl.

I think of last summer.. of the strong, unwavering convictions, the habits I swore to never fall back into, the passionate desire to do everything I could to help those in need. Within the past 8 months, I have somehow gone from struggling to purchase a devotional book to justifying just one more pair of sandals I don't actually need. 8 months ago, I would've sacrificed and done anything -no matter how uncomfortable it was for me- to do something to make a difference. But now, when I think of giving up my American life and all its luxuries for almost a year, part of me wants to say no and run the opposite direction.

A flood of disappointment and guilt and fear run through me. What is happening to my passion? I'm terrified. Do all passions -regardless of how good they may be- fade with time? Will this passion I have for Africa end like the others, in cold ovens and dusty cookbooks?

To you this may seem like just another passion. But to me it is so much more than that. This passion I have for Africa is about love. It's about being willing to deny myself in order to help someone else. It's about refusing to live solely for myself, but rather see the need around me, whether it's an ocean away or a block away, and do something about it.

This passion goes beyond humanitarian work, beyond fulfilling my own need to feel purposeful, beyond even Africa itself. This is about knowing I have been loved immensely, and living however that Love asks me to. It's knowing I have been given much -so much- and wanting to share that with others. It's about knowing you and I were created for a different world, and that investing in that different world is worth any sacrifice we might have to make right now.

This is an unwavering passion, a zealous love.. the kind that can change and shape a life. Today it means helping Africa, tomorrow it could mean something else. While it may come out in different ways throughout different seasons of my life, time will not fade this love, but rather strengthen it.

In all honesty, I don't know what's going to happen to this little blog. I have wonderful summer plans like yogurt-fruit popsicles and homemade graham crackers for s'mores, but I cannot promise they'll find their way to this blog. What I can promise you though, is that if you make these ice cream cupcakes sometime this summer, you won't be sorry.

(click 'read more' for recipe)

Flax Seed and Honey Muffins (and random bits of Africa)

I have been awake since 5:15 a.m. My body is exhausted, so exhausted. But my mind is racing. I have been home for not quite 24 hours, and have been in the U.S. for about 48 hours. A week ago I was in Uganda, lovin' on the kiddos there. And now, here I am. At home, with my family, surrounded by my room and home and things that should seem familiar, but in an odd way seem unfamiliar.

I woke up this morning in my own bed, and my first thought was, "Africa!" I got out of bed and went to my computer, not to check my mail like I would've done a month ago.. but to look at the photos I took while in Uganda. The photos remind me of moments there, of stories, of experiences.

I want to tell stories to everyone I come in contact with. I want to tell them about the dirty and bumpy roads, about the craving for American food, about washing my teammates' hair in buckets, about peeing on cockroaches in the squatty potty. I want to tell them about the kids there, their shoeless feet, their ragged clothes, their incredible joy, their hugs. I want to talk about being called, "Muzungu!" by so many children, about how these kids were obsessed with our arm hair and pale skin.

I want to tell stories because telling the stories helps me feel a little bit closer to a place that is so far away now. I want to tell stories because, as each story is told, it reminds me of another one. I want to tell stories because I don't want to forget. Ever. I want to tell stories because telling stories keeps my love -for the children, people, and place- alive.

I didn't expect to fall in love with Africa. But I'm pretty sure that's exactly what happened.

One thing I thought about a lot while in Uganda was baking. Going without my Aid-Mixer for a month was a little bit harder than I had anticipated. I thought about baking chocolate chip cookies, or brownies, fruit pizza, or cheesecake. I was all about the sugar... and the chocolate.

But I got home, and chocolate brownies and cheesecake didn't sound all that appealing anymore. At first, nothing did. And that was not a problem I expected to have. But there I sat, looking through recipes and couldn't find anything I wanted to make. "Remember the desperation for chocolate? For sugar? For something not fried?" I don't want to forget that. I don't want to take my pantry and refrigerator for granted ever again. I have a wide option of foods, I don't ever want to hear myself say, "None of this looks good." ever again. Because just a week ago, I would've loved anything that wasn't rice or noodles or potatoes.

This morning, I baked for the first time in a month. I finally decided on making muffins-- healthy, not very sweet muffins. I walked into the kitchen, getting my ingredients out for flax seed and honey muffins. And I couldn't find the whole wheat flour. Or the honey. Dishes were in the wrong places. The cans of corn were where the cans of spaghetti sauce normally go. Terror struck for a brief second. I didn't know how to work in my own kitchen, it seemed unfamiliar.

But the feeling of measuring honey was familiar. The serenity that filled my heart felt like home. The smell of the flour was comforting. My kitchen in itself may not have felt familiar, but the baking process was. And to bite into a warm, soft muffin? Sweet and utter bliss.

(click 'read more' for recipe)

Chocolate Chip Cookies

It will probably be no surprise when I tell you that I like to bake for people. I love leaving deliciously sweet treats for people to find. I've been known to leave desserts on desks, in mailboxes, on steps, even inside of cars. Everything from cupcakes to cookies to brownies to muffins. I like to think the sweet cookies and the cute card brighten the person's day, even if just a little bit. I imagine the look of excitement and surprise on the person's face when they find a box of treats left for them. I imagine a smile that spreads across their face as they bite into whatever was inside the box. I imagine the sweetness melting away what might've been a bad day, adding to what was a good day, or giving hope for the start of a lovely day.

Sometimes I stop to really think about it, and it seems rather silly. "People must think you are so dumb, leaving cookies here like this. This doesn't make much of a difference, you're just fooling yourself." And I become discouraged. I'm not saving starving orphans, I'm not making lunches for a soup kitchen, I'm not holding a dying baby. I'm leaving cookies on stairsteps. It seems incredibly insignificant compared to the 'big things' I could be doing.

I tend to believe that the only things that are meaningful are the big things-- living overseas in a third world country, adopting a baby, starting a soup kitchen, taking care of cancer patients. In my eyes, those are the meaningful things. Those are the things that count.

Those things are good, so good. But what happens is that, because I am not doing any of those things, I get discouraged. And then I do nothing. Or, perhaps it's more that there are meaningful, purpose-filled things that I do, but I'm blind to them. Or they're not 'good enough'. Or they pale in comparison to what someone else may be doing.

I spend my days waiting for the big moment.. and it never comes. And by waiting and looking for the 'big purpose-filled thing', I miss all the meaningful things around me. I become so centered on this idea of important and worthy that I fool myself into believing it must meet certain requirements. It must take this much work, and that much time, it must help this many people, and be that exhausting. 

But those things are not true. I am learning that purpose is in everything. Purpose is in smiling at the sad looking stranger while walking the dog. Purpose is holding your tongue when the house is a complete wreck and you want to lose it and lash out at everyone. Purpose is telling a friend you'll pray for them, and actually doing it. Purpose is painting your little sister's fingernails when you'd rather be doing something else. Purpose is in everything.

It's not always going to be this big, mind blowingly huge event or moment or thing. Sometimes, it's easier to believe that it's more important to donate food to the food pantry, rather than be patient with your younger sister. But really, I am beginning to believe they are equal, that each moment is just as important as the one before it, and also the moment that will follow.

My desire is this: to have lived a purpose-filled, meaningful life. But I wonder, can I really find purpose and meaning in everything?

I believe that, so long as I lose my idea of what 'meaning' is, then yes, there is purpose to everything. Some days, it's donating to the food pantry. Some days, it's playing countless games of hi-ho-cherry-o with your sister. For some people, it's taking care of starving orphans. For others, it's being a mother and raising a family.

And so, I remember this. On the days where I feel purposeless. On the days where I feel like I'm not doing enough. And even on the days where I do feel like I did something meaningful.

And when I feel like a foolish, little child for surprising someone with cookies, I remind myself that purpose is in everything, and each matters just as much as the other. And I leave the cookies on the desk,  whispering a prayer (of love, of blessing, of peace, of joy) for the person, and I smile as I walk out the door. Tomorrow I don't know about.. but today? That is what I was supposed to do.

I want to encourage you to find purpose in today, and to see the little moments as the most important ones. Also- I think you should make these chocolate chip cookies, because, although they take a while, they're worth the wait. The unusual blend of flours and the 24 hour refrigerate time probably has something to do with these cookies tasting better than the regular cookies on the back of the chocolate chip bag.

(click 'read more' for recipe)

Nutella-Filled Crepes

I have been sitting at my computer, staring at a blank page for nearly 10 minutes. "Write something, just write something." this little voice in the back of my head urges. But, to put it simply, I don't really know what to write.

Do I tell you that my Africa trip is 3 weeks (exactly 21 days) away? Do I tell you about how this greatly excites me while also terrifies me? Do I tell you that I'm scared mostly because I do not know what to expect? Do I tell you that as each day passes, I get more and more anxious to hold babies, to hear children laughing, to tell them Bible stories? But that I also worry, what if I'm not good enough or smart enough or experienced enough to teach these kids?

Or maybe, maybe I should tell you about my teammates. How is it possible I have already grown to love and care for these girls, though we've never met in person? Perhaps I should tell you that in 21 days, I will be seeing them face-to-face after many months of facebook message and emails. I could tell you that I'm mostly thrilled, but a little worried. Will it be awkward? Will we run out of things to say? What if I am a disappointment to them?

I could write about the fact that my stress level is slowly but surely inclining. My first thought every morning? I need a detailed packing list. Do I pack an air mattress or a sleeping bag? Should I bring Mary Jane shoes or Keen sandals? Capris or skirts? The idea of packing is beginning to freak me out. I don't know what exactly to pack, I don't even know what to pack in. And I won't even think about how I'm going to remember absolutely everything I need to bring, that will surely lead to many tears.

Maybe you want to hear about how this trip has already been changing me. Maybe you'd like to hear about the situations where I've learned to let go and trust- the late nights, many tears, and complete peace. The worried thoughts I entertained for no reason. The things I have already learned. The way I already view things differently. The fact that I now have a new understanding of the words 'provision' and 'trust'.

If I told you that some days this trip doesn't seem real to me, would you call me crazy? Some days it's so real to me I get goosebumps. Other days, it's like a faraway dream, like something that I can only hope I'll one day do. Honestly, there are many days where I just can't believe I will be in Africa in less than a month. Does that make me crazy, unprepared, foolish?

If you've made it this far, you deserve a high-five (or a cookie). I realize this post is mostly just me whining, complaining, and voicing my numerous worries. And I apologize, that's probably not a fun post to read. However, if you can make it to the recipe (for nutella crepes) you won't be disappointed.

Rather exhausted of thinking and worrying, I made these nutella crepes this morning. Mostly because I wanted to do something enjoyable, something to get my mind off things, and because I had the morning off (a rarity). Nutella crepes have also been on my 'to make' list for quite some time now.

(click 'read more' for recipe)

Beauty In Blackberry Almond Bars

It's a Sunday afternoon in May, and it's cold and rainy outside. Rain puddles cover the ground as fat raindrops drip slowly from the roof and slide down my window. Looking out my window, all I see are mounds of dirt and very wet cement blocks scattered all around my neighbor's yard (this construction has been going on for far too long). I see absolutely nothing beautiful about this view from my window. I see absolutely nothing beautiful in this moment. I see nothing beautiful about this day. And, may I be so bold to say, I don't have much hope to see a beautiful week.

What have I seen this past week? A house that remains constantly messy. A kitchen sink always filled with dirty dishes (and no, I am not exaggerating). Piles of laundry that cover the basement floor, muddy footprints tracked through my freshly mopped kitchen floor, fingerprints covering every glass surface possible. It's frustrating, discouraging, and maddening.

I have seen too much fighting this week. Whether it be at my own home or a home I am babysitting in, with little babies or older ones who should know better. I have seen too much selfishness, heard too much yelling. There has been too little sharing, and kind words remain sparse. The fights, even the little ones, break my heart and they make me mad. Can't we all just get along?

The drilling going on next door, it has been constant. Monday through Friday (occasionally Saturdays as well). They hammer and they bang, they run their drills and their construction trucks. From 7:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. there is a constant noise that surrounds my thoughts, and sometimes it gets to the point where I can no longer think. This house being built next to us, it's huge. Slowly it gets closer and closer to our house, one day the patio will be right outside our dining room window. The claustrophobic feeling of clutter is already starting to press in around me.

I think of this past week, and those are my initial thoughts. But there is a voice that whispers in the back of my mind, "Find the beauty." Yeah, ok. Beauty? I don't think so. But still, It presses, "I am good and I am holy. I have created every moment. I am good and holy. And all I create is good and beautiful. So yes, Anna, find the beauty. In this past week. And right now, in this moment."

I blind myself to the beauty in each moment by focusing on what I perceive as ugly. Yes, it is a choice to do that. And usually I am well aware of what I am choosing. "Ok, Lord," I say, "Show me the beauty." I look back out the window again... and everything looks the same. My frustration is growing. "I don't see it! I'm looking for the beauty, but I can't find it."

It takes a minute, but the beauty is in the rain. It still slides down my window, but it is not gloomy, depressing rain that annoyingly makes things wet and slippery. It is rain that nourishes, gives life. The beauty is in the flowers that are wet, small pretty circles of water left on their petals. Beauty is inside, in this house. Beauty is in the raspberry candle that burns on my desk, so warm and bright. Beauty is in the messy kitchen that will be cleaned this afternoon, the soap suds and warm water. Beauty is in the noise coming from downstairs- the piano bringing music to the house, the sound of friends playing. And beauty is in the girl whose knees are bent on wet pavement, taking pictures of the beautiful things she is thankful for.

The beauty is always all around me, I just need to look at it the right way. I don't always look for it, but it is always there. The beauty doesn't have to be in big things, happy things, or elaborate things. Beauty is in the simple, in the every day. Sometimes, I think beauty shines best in the ordinary.

It's silly isn't it? I see a simple thing like blackberry almond bars as beautiful. It seems child-like that photographing wet flowers fills me with joy. But isn't that what I want? To be like a child, to trust, to be satisfied with what I have, to not question or doubt, to find joy in everything? I have found beauty in today, and my ungratefulness is ebbing away as joy takes its place.

I want to find beauty in the rest of this week and watch the joy grow. Because joy can grow out of something silly and simple- even blackberry almond bars.

(click 'read more' for recipe)