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What Do These Stones Mean?

What Do These Stones Mean?

In Joshua chapter four, a new generation of Israelites stood on the far side of the Jordan watching as the raging river waters returned to their normal flow. The people stood in awe as their fingertips grazed the fabric of their clothes. Dry as the desert from which they just emerged. They walked through the river and there wasn’t a wet fiber on them. A reminder that their lives had been preserved by the hand of an Almighty God.

He had been faithful.

The leaders of the twelve tribes each took a stone from the bottom of the river and placed them in a pile beside the bank to memorialize the great deliverance.

“Then Joshua said to the Israelites, ‘In the future your children will ask, “What do these stones mean?” Then you can tell them, “This is where the Israelites crossed the Jordan on dry ground.” For the Lord your God dried up the river right before your eyes, and he kept it dry until you were all across, just as he did at the Red Sea when he dried it up until we had all crossed over.”
Joshua 4:21-23

My parents and grandparents have done this my whole life. They have picked up the stones made smooth by the tumultuous rivers of their lives and placed them in a visible spot, so that the generations behind them will ask, “What do these stones mean?” Much of who I am as a person is comprised of their stone stories. The
memories of grace told to me, shown to me, by those whose feet have walked farther than my own—they are the stones that built my foundation. And throughout my history, I have been adding memorial stones of my own next to the rivers I’ve crossed. My pile is small and still growing, but it is clear evidence of God’s faithfulness in my legacy.

Maybe while you read this, you remember the stones you’ve collected. Feel them heavy in your pocket. And maybe someone needs to hear the story. Needs to know, “What do these stones mean?” I can’t think of a better time to tell them than around a Thanksgiving table.

Bring out the rocks you picked up as you crossed through the waters of this year, of your life, and pile them right there next to the turkey and sweet potatoes. Show your family what the Lord has done. Tell them of the moment when you put your foot in a raging river with faith you weren’t sure was yours and watched the waters peel back like old wallpaper. Tell them how you watched the faithfulness of God come through an impossible situation. A painful crossing soothed by the balm of His presence. Tell them. Stack the stones high and remember the rivers from whence they came.

“….so all the nations of the earth might know that the Lord’s hand is powerful, and so you might fear the Lord your God forever.”
Joshua 4:24

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Spatchcock Is A Verb

Spatchcock Is A Verb

So, as it turns out, spatchcock is a verb.

Let me back up.

In last week’s post, I mentioned that a big, life-altering event had occurred. My very first issue of Southern Living had crossed the threshold of apartment K14, and I became a new woman. A true Southern lady.

But receiving the magazine was only part of the transition. In order to fully step into my destiny as a Southern woman, I’d actually have to turn the oven on and cook something—an idea that would normally terrify me. Or exhaust me at the very thought.

But holding my rite of passage in my hand, I felt brave and energized.

As I browsed through the list of recipes in the front of the magazine, I glossed over any that included words like “roulade,” “andouille,” and “court-bouillon.”

I was brave, not cocky. I didn’t want to attempt anything I couldn’t properly pronounce.

(I also skipped Fig Dutch Baby Pancake, because I didn’t think I could find any figs or Dutch children on such late notice.)

When I saw Garlicky Roasted Spatchcock Chicken, I thought, “Hey, I recognize most of those words! And I can say all of them! Here’s our winner!”

Now, as only an English major would, I would like to point out that the word “spatchcock” is used here as an adjective. This is important, because I assumed spatchcock was a spice or ingredient that would give the chicken a certain, well, spatchcockiness.

HOWEVER, I was wrong.

These were the first words I read when I turned to page 116 for the recipe:

“Removing a chicken’s backbone—a technique called spatchcocking (or butterflying)—ensures juicy meat and golden crisp skin in less time than roasting a whole bird.”

DOES IT, NOW? Well, isn’t that special?

So, you see, this brings me back to my initial point—spatchcock is a VERB.

Though I did consider the fact that it is 2016, and I could very well buy the chicken sans backbone, I decided that if I was going to this, I was going to play by SL’s rules.

Sunday evening, I unloaded all the groceries, opened the magazine to page 116, and GOT TO WORK.

(I’d tell you how many times I walked back and forth through Publix if I hadn’t lost count.)

(There was one guy working the produce section who, I’m sure, was looking at me with more than a little suspicion as I made my third trip through the vegetable aisle.)

First instruction: “Preheat the oven to 450 degrees.”

Okay, I can do that.

Click.

Look at me, cooking and being an adult. Alright, what’s next?

“For step-by-step instructions on how to spatchcock a chicken, turn to page 132.”

I do indeed need step-by-step instructions, Southern Living, thank you!

Flip, flip, flip. Page 132.

Here we go.

“Place a whole chicken breast-side down on a cutting board.”

It should be noted that, up until this moment, I hadn’t thought about the reality of touching the chicken barehanded.

Oh, gross. Gross! GROSS! I can feel its bones. No, no, no, no, NO! Aw, it looks so sad and scared, all curled up like that. I feel so bad! Am I crying? Maybe a touch. Elizabeth, get yourself together! It’s dead. You can’t kill it again. PLACE THE BIRD ON THE CUTTING BOARD.

“Starting at the thigh end, cut along one side of the backbone with kitchen shears. Repeat on the other side to remove the backbone.”

Okay, thigh end. I have the shears. Just need to cut. OH, NO! THAT BONE CRACK! GROSS.

Crack. Gross. Crack. Gross. Crack. Gross.

“Freeze and reserve for stock.”

For stock? I have to keep this thing? No, sir. I don’t think so.

Oh, no! Its heart is going to be inside. I can’t look! I’m going to cry again. I feel like such a monster right now. I DID NOT THINK THIS THROUGH.

Wait. Why is there a bag in here? Why would you pull the insides out, stick them in a bag, and PUT THEM BACK INSIDE? Who did this? That is so dumb. I’m not putting that in a stock either. No, thank you.

“Flip the chicken over so that it’s cut-side down. Then firmly press on the breastbone to flatten it.”

Flatten it. Well it looks pretty flat already. I think this is as good as it’s going to get. Back to page 116.

Flip, flip, flip. Page 116.

Alright, where were we?

“Using the heel of your hand, press firmly against breastbone until it cracks.”

No, no. Page 132 mentioned only flattening, NO CRACKING. Ugh, okay. I’ll do it. If SL says so, I’ll do it. Until it cracks. 

Crack.

Okay. Okay! OKAY. Hard part’s over. I can do this.

And I did.

I knew I was okay when I shot the headless hen a double finger gun and said, “Looking good.” When you start talking to your poultry, you know you’ve moved away from being emotionally invested in its past life on the farm.

The grand finale was indeed pretty grand. It looked similar to the picture in the magazine and tasted delicious.

I told you this magazine would be a turning point for me. See for yourself. 

BEFORE:

Doesn't she look like a sassy lady with her hands on her hips?
Doesn’t she look like a sassy lady with her hands on her hips?

AFTER:

FullSizeRender (5)
All dressed up for the ball.

BONUS: voicemails I left my mother during this whole process.

“Ugh, it just squeaks!”

“I should’ve started with mashed potatoes! Why didn’t I start with mash potatoes?! And my arm is sticky okay call me back thanks bye.”

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