Like 50% of the population, we have jumped on the "eating healthier" bandwagon for the new year. For us, however, it is not about trying to loose weight, appear thinner, or to become more buff. (That being said - we wouldn't turn those results down! :) ) Rather, we were inspired to change the way we eat after watching the controversial documentary "Food Inc."
Want to have your eyes opened? I suggest you watch this documentary. You will never look at food (specifically meat) the same. Whether you change the way you eat after this movie, is up to you. But, I promise that when you pick up a package of chicken breasts on sale for $10.99 you will think again. (And I was as big a culprit as any when it came to a good "deal" in the meat section at the grocery store.) "Food Inc" sheds light on the United States food supply - how it is controlled by a few corporations who keep personal profit at the forefront of their mind, while dropping all concern for the consumer's health. The consumer is not the only individual who suffers from these heavy handed corporations. Food Inc. exposes the truth behind these corporations and the environment, the way they treat animals, the lack of protected worker's rights, and the dismemberment of the "small town" farmer. (Granted, Canadian standards are different from the USA, however, they really are NOT that much different. For instance, just take a minute, when you're next in your grocery store, and see exactly how much of the produce is from Canada. It will startle you.)
Consequently, J and I have decided to be more careful with what we put in our mouths. Since we are both carnivorous individuals, this will not mean we will give up eating meat entirely. However, we plan on making sure we know where our meat is coming from. We want to know that the animals are treated properly, that they are not pumped full of growth hormones, that they are grass fed (opposed to corn fed, which causes E-coli bacteria in many animals), and that the workers are treated fairly.
So, how does this affect our diet? Let me introduce you to "Meat Mondays." On Mondays we eat meat (organic). Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday we don't. Why do we not eat meat on the other days of the week? Personally, for J and I, it is to keep us mindful of what we are putting in our mouths. Also, our grocery bill is significantly skinnier now that we've left the pork chops, chicken breasts, and ground beef in the cooler. We've pledged to follow this routine for one month only, to simply see how we can tough it out. However, once February rolls around, we may find that our bellies are happier, our consciences are clearer, and our bank account a little richer. Maybe we'll keep at it. (Or, and let's be realistic here, maybe we'll just be craving that steak, or grilled chicken breast, or whatever it may be.) Whether we decide to revert back to our carnivorous ways or to continue on with our more "leafy" substitute, our choices on where our food comes from are going to be drastically different.
We'll keep you posted on how this journey goes! Wish us luck!
P.S. Lunch today was Black Bean-Smothered Sweet Potatoes and Stuffed Portobello with Balsamic Reduction....and trust me, it was anything but boring! Stay tuned for the recipes and pictures coming up!
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
It's Beginning to Look a lot Like Christmas...
Christmas has hit the Feddema household with a vengence. About three weeks ago. I do realize that it is only the first week of December, but Christmas is my favourite time of year. My railing is wrapped in snowy, glittery greenery, red stockings already fat with stuffers plunging from the garland. Bing Crosby is crooning "White Christmas" in the background. My tree glints and glows from the corner. The aromas of nutmeg and cinnamon waft from the kitchen as I take an eggnog loaf from the oven. My Christmas shopping is done...waiting to be wrapped (the only thing I hate about Christmas).
It's just that time of year when everything seems magical, possible, forgivable, lovable. We get wrapped up in the smells, the sights, the traditions, the memories, the songs, the gifts, the future. As a Christian, it's hard to remember to "keep the reason for the season." We, too, get distracted with the glitter, the lights, the show of it all. But let's take a moment, this Christmas season, to think of Christmas from our Father's perspective...
The birth of Jesus in a barn stall was anything but magical - and yet, it was. It was the birth that breathed ultimate forgiveness, unconditional love and unfathomable possibilities for the Christian world. Close your eyes to imagine it all. While we smell gingerbread and holly, 2000 years ago, the only smell would have been of hay and manure. We marvel at the way people decorate their homes with lights and garlands and trees; God marveled from above at the sight of His Son brought forth - completely human, completely perfect, with ten little fingers and ten little toes. We reminisce of traditions and memories of Christmases past, while 2000 years ago, our Father savoured the moment of love between mother and Son. Gustily, we sing "Joy to the World," "Frosty the Snowman," and "Deck the Halls" with well-spirited fervor. God sent the choirs of the heavens, 2000 years ago, to serenade the hillsides of sleepy Bethlehem. With expectation, stress, and excitement, we pick out the perfect gifts, meanwhile, God knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that His Son was THE perfect Gift. On Christmas day, the future seems so bright ahead of us. To the Father, 2000 years ago, He saw the future - He saw the nail-printed hands and the blood-stained brow and the redeeming love.
Time dulls the intimacy of the real Christmas. Yet, if you stop to listen for just a moment amidst the hustle and bustle, I'm sure, instead of the tap of reindeers hooves upon your rooftop, you will hear the song of a Father's love resonating through the ages.
It's just that time of year when everything seems magical, possible, forgivable, lovable. We get wrapped up in the smells, the sights, the traditions, the memories, the songs, the gifts, the future. As a Christian, it's hard to remember to "keep the reason for the season." We, too, get distracted with the glitter, the lights, the show of it all. But let's take a moment, this Christmas season, to think of Christmas from our Father's perspective...
The birth of Jesus in a barn stall was anything but magical - and yet, it was. It was the birth that breathed ultimate forgiveness, unconditional love and unfathomable possibilities for the Christian world. Close your eyes to imagine it all. While we smell gingerbread and holly, 2000 years ago, the only smell would have been of hay and manure. We marvel at the way people decorate their homes with lights and garlands and trees; God marveled from above at the sight of His Son brought forth - completely human, completely perfect, with ten little fingers and ten little toes. We reminisce of traditions and memories of Christmases past, while 2000 years ago, our Father savoured the moment of love between mother and Son. Gustily, we sing "Joy to the World," "Frosty the Snowman," and "Deck the Halls" with well-spirited fervor. God sent the choirs of the heavens, 2000 years ago, to serenade the hillsides of sleepy Bethlehem. With expectation, stress, and excitement, we pick out the perfect gifts, meanwhile, God knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that His Son was THE perfect Gift. On Christmas day, the future seems so bright ahead of us. To the Father, 2000 years ago, He saw the future - He saw the nail-printed hands and the blood-stained brow and the redeeming love.
Time dulls the intimacy of the real Christmas. Yet, if you stop to listen for just a moment amidst the hustle and bustle, I'm sure, instead of the tap of reindeers hooves upon your rooftop, you will hear the song of a Father's love resonating through the ages.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Make a Joyful Noise
Today I took a hesitant, nervous walk down memory lane. Just last week, I enrolled myself in The Beckett School of Music in Kitchener, hoping to reacquaint myself with my trumpet, which has silently accumulated a layer of dust in my closet.
It has been over four years since I have seriously played. Previously, I had studied music in University, spending hours cooped up in a practice room, playing until it felt like my lips would fall off. For all the physical pain and monotony of scales, there was nothing quite like the feeling of getting on stage and playing before thousands of people. Fellow band members were closer than family and the exhilaration of hearing a piece come to life was indescribable.
Playing a university level was likely the most challenging hurdle that I've tried to overcome. Within my first lesson, it was discovered that my embouchure ( the use of facial muscles and the shaping of the lips to the mouthpiece of woodwind instruments or the mouthpiece of the brass instruments) was completely wrong. My range of notes I could reach was deemed insufficient. I played too tensely. I attacked the notes. Before long, my fortitude crumbled and I began to doubt myself as a musician. It was because of these reasons, that I gently put my trumpet back in its case, closed the lid, and shoved it to not only the back of my closet, but to the back of my mind. For four years my trumpet sat there, only to be dragged out dutifully for Christmas and Easter celebrations at church.
However, the part of me that was passionate about the art of music never died. Those feelings lay dormant inside of me. I believe if it wasn't for J, who told me time and again, to not let that talent die, I would never have unearthed my instrument. And today, I did it. I could barely eat all day. All I could think of was my lesson, looming ahead of me.
I sat on a hard pew bench within the school, my palms sweaty, waiting for my teacher (who turned out to be late). I could smell the metallic of brass, the dusty sheet music, the valve oil spilled on old carpets, and it was euphoric. The lesson was 45 minutes long - probably the fastest 45 minutes of my life. I had been prepared for the worst. I was ready to hear things re-iterated about my lack of skill. My teacher, on the other hand, had high words of praise, deeming me "quite an accomplished player" by the end of the lesson. Of course there are kinks and quirks to work out of the system. My teacher acknowledged that yes, my embouchure was different than perfect form, however, not unable to be worked with. My range was somewhat limited, but the clarity of my notes was excellent. It was true that I somewhat attacked the notes, but my style was lyrical and full of emotion.
I left the lesson today, walking on a cloud. Taking back what I have lost will be a lot of work. My trumpet, though, now sits in the middle of my bedroom floor, where I will have to step over it every time as a constant reminder.
(Want to check out some amazing female trumpet players: Alison Balsom: www.alisonbalsom.com; Tine Thing Helseth: www.teinthinghelseth.com; Cindy Bradley: www.cindybradley.com)
It has been over four years since I have seriously played. Previously, I had studied music in University, spending hours cooped up in a practice room, playing until it felt like my lips would fall off. For all the physical pain and monotony of scales, there was nothing quite like the feeling of getting on stage and playing before thousands of people. Fellow band members were closer than family and the exhilaration of hearing a piece come to life was indescribable.
Playing a university level was likely the most challenging hurdle that I've tried to overcome. Within my first lesson, it was discovered that my embouchure ( the use of facial muscles and the shaping of the lips to the mouthpiece of woodwind instruments or the mouthpiece of the brass instruments) was completely wrong. My range of notes I could reach was deemed insufficient. I played too tensely. I attacked the notes. Before long, my fortitude crumbled and I began to doubt myself as a musician. It was because of these reasons, that I gently put my trumpet back in its case, closed the lid, and shoved it to not only the back of my closet, but to the back of my mind. For four years my trumpet sat there, only to be dragged out dutifully for Christmas and Easter celebrations at church.
However, the part of me that was passionate about the art of music never died. Those feelings lay dormant inside of me. I believe if it wasn't for J, who told me time and again, to not let that talent die, I would never have unearthed my instrument. And today, I did it. I could barely eat all day. All I could think of was my lesson, looming ahead of me.
I sat on a hard pew bench within the school, my palms sweaty, waiting for my teacher (who turned out to be late). I could smell the metallic of brass, the dusty sheet music, the valve oil spilled on old carpets, and it was euphoric. The lesson was 45 minutes long - probably the fastest 45 minutes of my life. I had been prepared for the worst. I was ready to hear things re-iterated about my lack of skill. My teacher, on the other hand, had high words of praise, deeming me "quite an accomplished player" by the end of the lesson. Of course there are kinks and quirks to work out of the system. My teacher acknowledged that yes, my embouchure was different than perfect form, however, not unable to be worked with. My range was somewhat limited, but the clarity of my notes was excellent. It was true that I somewhat attacked the notes, but my style was lyrical and full of emotion.
I left the lesson today, walking on a cloud. Taking back what I have lost will be a lot of work. My trumpet, though, now sits in the middle of my bedroom floor, where I will have to step over it every time as a constant reminder.
(Want to check out some amazing female trumpet players: Alison Balsom: www.alisonbalsom.com; Tine Thing Helseth: www.teinthinghelseth.com; Cindy Bradley: www.cindybradley.com)
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Stylist Sisters
Most people would say that they have a close relationship with their hairstylist. Some would view their stylist as a friend, a confidant, even a therapist. They are the one person who you can count on to not only massage your scalp, style your hair, and update your looks, but also to give you completely undivided attention and a listening ear.
I'm lucky enough to have approximately six stylists like that. Having worked as a hairstylist myself, it's only natural that a fair number of my friends are also my former co-workers. These girls have been there for me during the normal and the mundane, but also for the shining moments:
Last night, I had the opportunity to sit in the stylist chair and let Cristina work her magic on my hair. It's always a strange feeling for me to be the "client" and not the "stylist" at the salon where I previously worked. (Check it out here: www.grottohairstudio.ca and www.youtube.com/user/grottostratford ) At the same time, however, it's like no time has passed. We talk "shop." We gossip. We laugh together. We pray. Sometimes we cry.
These girls, who are more sisters to me than anything else, are timeless friends.
I'm lucky enough to have approximately six stylists like that. Having worked as a hairstylist myself, it's only natural that a fair number of my friends are also my former co-workers. These girls have been there for me during the normal and the mundane, but also for the shining moments:
Last night, I had the opportunity to sit in the stylist chair and let Cristina work her magic on my hair. It's always a strange feeling for me to be the "client" and not the "stylist" at the salon where I previously worked. (Check it out here: www.grottohairstudio.ca and www.youtube.com/user/grottostratford ) At the same time, however, it's like no time has passed. We talk "shop." We gossip. We laugh together. We pray. Sometimes we cry.
These girls, who are more sisters to me than anything else, are timeless friends.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Noah's Wife
For our Young Adults Worship Night coming up, we are focusing on some of the miracles within our everyday Bible stories. So often, we, as Christians, take for granted the amazing complexity of the miracles that God has preformed in our forefathers. My task is to reveal the supernatural phenomenon of Noah's flood through a perspective not often thought of - Noah's wife:
THE STORY OF NOAH’S ARK FROM HIS WIFE’S PERSPECTIVE
"For one hundred and twenty years we were scorned. Imagine! One hundred and twenty years! Aaah...it was the best of times, it was the worst of time. (pauses)
My poor husband couldn’t even walk to the market without mockery being hurled at him across the market square. “Hey, Noah! When’s this rainstorm supposed to be coming?” “What do you have there, Noah? More building supplies for your ark?” Still, my husband managed to hold his head high and bravely spoke of the Lord’s coming destruction.
My three sons? (sighs) Oh my poor children! There was a time at the beginning when all the neighbour kids would flock around them, interested in the “building project” that my boys’ father was constructing. It didn’t take long, though, until the children’s parents warned them to stay away from my sons and the monstrous shell of a boat that towered in our fields. Yet, as the years passed on, my sons clung to the promises of the rain and the revenge of our most holy God. I’m amazed, to this day, at the Lord’s goodness for keeping our sons faithful to Him.
As for me, well, there is nothing quite like the gossip of women! And oh, how it spreads! When Noah first started to build the ark, most of the women in my social circle just dismissed it as another “manly” building project. However, once the frame for the ark started to take shape, it threw a shadow over my friendships. I always knew when my family was being talked about, because as I would walk to the well each morning, the other women would stop to stare at me, whisper to each other, smirking as they quickly shuffled out of my way.
It was as if we had a disease! They were hard times, but times that definitely brought us closer together as a family, and closer to God. I smile now when I think of the way we boldly proclaimed the inevitable destruction that God was going to bring upon mankind. We had no shame.
No matter how hard and long we preached to our neighbours, nothing seemed to sink in. It was draining. There was nothing that we wanted more than for our former friends to believe that God’s punishment was coming!
It was an ordinary day when Noah and I awoke to the strangest of sounds. Imagine our disbelief when we looked out our window and saw animals of every kind, spreading out as far as the eye could see, all heading towards our boat. Imagine how it felt when the first rain drops started to fall! Up until that time, we never knew what rain was!
We were ecstatic! God was fulfilling His promise! And yet...I couldn’t help but feel sorrow wash over me as I thought of all our neighbours! Noah and I grew up with some of these people! For close to 600 years we had all toiled and worked the earth together...and now, their evilness had brought upon THIS. (sighs)
I can still hear the echoing thud of the ark’s door as it shut. The chaos of hungry animals and the pelting rain above us could not drown out the cries from outside the ark as the waters rose. What was even worse was the deafening silence after a mere hour of rainfall. I shudder to think of what it must have looked like beyond the sturdy walls of our ark.
It was over a year before we ever saw or walked upon dry ground again. My feet were wobbly as I stepped out of the ark, unsure of the muddy ground beneath my feet. We were exhausted. And yet, in that desolate landscape, all Noah could do was kiss the ground and sing praises to our God. We even erected an altar to thank our Lord for being faithful to us. Just when we were thinking that God could not provide us with any more miracles, we were dazzled by the most beautiful one of all!
The sky was awash with vivid reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues and violets that stretched from east to west. I remember looking at Noah and seeing the glow of this miracle reflected in his face. I recall kicking off my sandals, raising my arms as if to embrace the hues arched above me, and laughing. I twirled around, feeling the mud squish through my toes – thinking it was the most beautiful feeling I had ever felt. And there, on the top of that mountain where we rested, I fell to my knees and thanked God for His faithfulness and His breath-taking hope."
THE STORY OF NOAH’S ARK FROM HIS WIFE’S PERSPECTIVE
"For one hundred and twenty years we were scorned. Imagine! One hundred and twenty years! Aaah...it was the best of times, it was the worst of time. (pauses)
My poor husband couldn’t even walk to the market without mockery being hurled at him across the market square. “Hey, Noah! When’s this rainstorm supposed to be coming?” “What do you have there, Noah? More building supplies for your ark?” Still, my husband managed to hold his head high and bravely spoke of the Lord’s coming destruction.
My three sons? (sighs) Oh my poor children! There was a time at the beginning when all the neighbour kids would flock around them, interested in the “building project” that my boys’ father was constructing. It didn’t take long, though, until the children’s parents warned them to stay away from my sons and the monstrous shell of a boat that towered in our fields. Yet, as the years passed on, my sons clung to the promises of the rain and the revenge of our most holy God. I’m amazed, to this day, at the Lord’s goodness for keeping our sons faithful to Him.
As for me, well, there is nothing quite like the gossip of women! And oh, how it spreads! When Noah first started to build the ark, most of the women in my social circle just dismissed it as another “manly” building project. However, once the frame for the ark started to take shape, it threw a shadow over my friendships. I always knew when my family was being talked about, because as I would walk to the well each morning, the other women would stop to stare at me, whisper to each other, smirking as they quickly shuffled out of my way.
It was as if we had a disease! They were hard times, but times that definitely brought us closer together as a family, and closer to God. I smile now when I think of the way we boldly proclaimed the inevitable destruction that God was going to bring upon mankind. We had no shame.
No matter how hard and long we preached to our neighbours, nothing seemed to sink in. It was draining. There was nothing that we wanted more than for our former friends to believe that God’s punishment was coming!
It was an ordinary day when Noah and I awoke to the strangest of sounds. Imagine our disbelief when we looked out our window and saw animals of every kind, spreading out as far as the eye could see, all heading towards our boat. Imagine how it felt when the first rain drops started to fall! Up until that time, we never knew what rain was!
We were ecstatic! God was fulfilling His promise! And yet...I couldn’t help but feel sorrow wash over me as I thought of all our neighbours! Noah and I grew up with some of these people! For close to 600 years we had all toiled and worked the earth together...and now, their evilness had brought upon THIS. (sighs)
I can still hear the echoing thud of the ark’s door as it shut. The chaos of hungry animals and the pelting rain above us could not drown out the cries from outside the ark as the waters rose. What was even worse was the deafening silence after a mere hour of rainfall. I shudder to think of what it must have looked like beyond the sturdy walls of our ark.
It was over a year before we ever saw or walked upon dry ground again. My feet were wobbly as I stepped out of the ark, unsure of the muddy ground beneath my feet. We were exhausted. And yet, in that desolate landscape, all Noah could do was kiss the ground and sing praises to our God. We even erected an altar to thank our Lord for being faithful to us. Just when we were thinking that God could not provide us with any more miracles, we were dazzled by the most beautiful one of all!
The sky was awash with vivid reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues and violets that stretched from east to west. I remember looking at Noah and seeing the glow of this miracle reflected in his face. I recall kicking off my sandals, raising my arms as if to embrace the hues arched above me, and laughing. I twirled around, feeling the mud squish through my toes – thinking it was the most beautiful feeling I had ever felt. And there, on the top of that mountain where we rested, I fell to my knees and thanked God for His faithfulness and His breath-taking hope."
Friday, March 4, 2011
Twenty-Three Years!
Not too many people can say they've had the same best friend for the past 23 years. But, today I want to celebrate just that! She has been with me through thick and thin - through our toddler years, into grade school, the awkward high school years, the newness of university, and now, as we both celebrate married life together!
Here are some pictures of our many adventures together over the years:
Happy 24th birthday, my friend! Tonight - let's raise a glass to another 23 years of being BFFs!
Here are some pictures of our many adventures together over the years:
Happy 24th birthday, my friend! Tonight - let's raise a glass to another 23 years of being BFFs!
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Bread of Perfection
The golden loaves glowed on my counter top. The comforting aroma of freshly baked bread saturated my kitchen. I couldn't help but feel a little proud as I stood back from the sweltering oven, hands on my hips, and admired my most recent culinary triumph.
The bread was still hot when I sliced thick slabs off, smothered in butter and raspberry jam. Perfection on my plate.
Before I took my first bite, I heard His voice.
"I am the bread of life." He whispered.
Thoughtfully, I chewed upon sustenance, both physical and spiritual:
John 6:48-51 "I am the bread of life. Your forefathers ate the manna in the desert, yet they died. But here is the bread that comes down from heaven which a man may eat and not die. I am the living bread that comes down from heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever. This bread is my flesh which I will give for the life of the world."
My forefathers and I are one and the same. So often, I am content to scrape an existence in the arid desert, comfortable with consuming heaps of manna. From my plate of hard, wafer-like morsels, I can barely lift my eyes to the heavens to taste the Living Bread, broken for me. Instead, I focus on finding, striving, inventing any little way that I can make the manna lying at my feet taste sweet. My efforts to satiate my gnawing hunger is in vain, and it isn't long before my hands grasp at those pieces of manna once again. I cling to those hardened crumbs, forgetful of their failure to sustain me. Oh, I am such a manna eater!
The slop of this world clings to my lips in the form of manna, yet the most beautiful invitation is extended to me, to those who echo the footsteps of the Israelite forefathers. If I stop for but a moment from my vain efforts to sweeten my life on my own, the smell of Perfect Risen Bread wafts down from Heaven and envelopes me.
The taste of manna lies heavy and dry within my being, and yet, I hunger for this Bread - this broken Bread that the very crumbs I am unworthy to eat. With each moment I spend breathing in the Holy Sustenance, I experience the Life living within me. Paltry and measly is the plate of manna that I had been "feasting" upon before. Any traces of my desert fare, I wipe away.
Before me, the table is set. With His nail-printed palms spread, the Inviter entreats me to His simple banquet. With those same mangled hands, He breaks the Living Bread: "Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good."
The bread was still hot when I sliced thick slabs off, smothered in butter and raspberry jam. Perfection on my plate.
Before I took my first bite, I heard His voice.
"I am the bread of life." He whispered.
Thoughtfully, I chewed upon sustenance, both physical and spiritual:
John 6:48-51 "I am the bread of life. Your forefathers ate the manna in the desert, yet they died. But here is the bread that comes down from heaven which a man may eat and not die. I am the living bread that comes down from heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever. This bread is my flesh which I will give for the life of the world."
My forefathers and I are one and the same. So often, I am content to scrape an existence in the arid desert, comfortable with consuming heaps of manna. From my plate of hard, wafer-like morsels, I can barely lift my eyes to the heavens to taste the Living Bread, broken for me. Instead, I focus on finding, striving, inventing any little way that I can make the manna lying at my feet taste sweet. My efforts to satiate my gnawing hunger is in vain, and it isn't long before my hands grasp at those pieces of manna once again. I cling to those hardened crumbs, forgetful of their failure to sustain me. Oh, I am such a manna eater!
The slop of this world clings to my lips in the form of manna, yet the most beautiful invitation is extended to me, to those who echo the footsteps of the Israelite forefathers. If I stop for but a moment from my vain efforts to sweeten my life on my own, the smell of Perfect Risen Bread wafts down from Heaven and envelopes me.
The taste of manna lies heavy and dry within my being, and yet, I hunger for this Bread - this broken Bread that the very crumbs I am unworthy to eat. With each moment I spend breathing in the Holy Sustenance, I experience the Life living within me. Paltry and measly is the plate of manna that I had been "feasting" upon before. Any traces of my desert fare, I wipe away.
Before me, the table is set. With His nail-printed palms spread, the Inviter entreats me to His simple banquet. With those same mangled hands, He breaks the Living Bread: "Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good."
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