Category Archives: Whimsies

Saturday Smile: Peanuts and Cracker Jack

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salt river fieldBill and I went to our second Cactus League Spring Training game yesterday – this one the Rockies v. the White Sox at Salt River Field at Talking Stick. We actually had real seats just above the third base line instead of sitting on the grass, or so far in the outfield that you have to rely upon the rumor mill to know what’s happening.

first selfie

My first selfie.

Several funny and wonderful things transpired at this game. For example, I took my first selfie. Perhaps as I get better at it, I will learn not to shoot from down to up, as it shows all of my many flaws. J-Lo always looks good in hers….

J-Lo selfie.

J-Lo selfie.

Oh, and I forgot my phone in the car, so after we found our seats, I left the ballpark to go get it. I was feeling very smart because I remembered to take my ticket. What I didn’t remember to do – in fact, never even thought of it – was to get my hand stamped. It was only as I walked back up to the gate that it occurred to me that there is absolutely no reason they shouldn’t think I am coming in on someone else’s ticket that had already been scanned.

Which, of course, they did. And it is one of the few times that I think it’s better to be old and lucky than young and sexy. “I promise that I am telling you the truth,” I said, because I’m certain if I was lying I wouldn’t say that. I’m sure that’s what they were thinking. But I guess they just didn’t want to take on this frazzled baby boomer in her Rockies shirt. They let me back in, rolling their eyes all the while.

Probably my favorite thing that happened, however, was on the field. It was the bottom of the fourth inning. Rockies were ahead 2-0, and both of those runs had come that inning. Two outs and the bases were loaded. The batter hit a foul ball down the first baseline. Instead of letting it go foul, the White Sox outfielder DOVE for the ball, literally disappearing into the Rockies bullpen as he caught the ball. He comes up a second or so later with the ball in his hand and a big smile on his face.

And here’s what I like about baseball. As he left the field, the crowd stood up and cheered him. Not just the White Sox fans, but the Rockies fans as well. Now, maybe that wouldn’t happen in a regular season game, but it felt good to let him know we appreciated his hearty effort.

But, friends, I buried the lead.

Just this past week I learned something you all probably knew, but I didn’t: the plural of Cracker Jack is Cracker Jack. You will know just what a nerd I am when I tell you that for 61 years, it has bugged me that “Jacks” didn’t rhyme with “back” in the famous seventh inning stretch song. So it was with great pride and enormous gusto that I sang out “Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack; I don’t care if I never get back.”

It rhymes.

Have a good weekend.

When Only Pork Uterus Will Do

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pig uterus

Someone somewhere knows how to prepare pork uterus. If you need to know where to buy it……

Last Sunday Bec and I were both at loose ends. I don’t know why Bec was bored. As for me, Bill has spent every day for the past two weeks from just after breakfast to just before dinner working on the outdoor kitchen he is building in our back yard. The man simply doesn’t quit. So I was looking for something to do to get away from the incessant hammering and drilling.

“What would you like to do?” she asked me.

Well, the fact of the matter is that what I really wanted to do was visit the Wegman’s Grocery Store that is about a half hour drive from her house. That would be her old house in Northern Virginia. When I should have been listening to our priest’s homily, I was instead thinking of grocery shopping and dreaming of Wegman’s.

That, of course, was a no-go, but man it would have been fun. In fact, if my last name was Astor instead of McLain, I would have chartered a jet just to fly us out for the day. The Wegman’s store near her house is amazing. Given that it’s the only Wegman’s store I have ever seen, I can’t generalize and say I love all Wegman’s. But I can say that I love that particular Wegmans’s.

One Sunday when Jen and I were visiting her several years ago, we literally spent three hours walking around that magnificent grocery store. Perusing the cheeses. Smelling the fruits. Drooling over the pastries. Making up recipes in our heads for the seafood. Such fun. I was very glad Bill was not there because his head would have exploded.

Of course, since the Wegman’s nearest to our house in Mesa is in New Jersey, that wasn’t in our plans for that day. After careful consideration, I decided Plan B would be a visit to Lee Lee International Supermarket.

There are a total of three Lee Lee’s Markets in Arizona — one in Peoria, one in Tucson, and the one we went to in Chandler. According to their website, the stores’ founders emigrated 20 years ago from Cambodia to Arizona (now that must have been a culture shock) only to discover a dearth of ethnic grocery stores. Opened as primarily an Asian market, foods from Africa, the Americas, New Zealand, and the Caribbean Islands are now available as well.

Still and all, the food definitely leans towards Asian. More than once, my sister and I commented that we would love to be with

Jackfruit. Never heard of it. They are huge, as you can see from Bec's normal-sized hand.

Jackfruit. Never heard of it. They are huge, as you can see from Bec’s normal-sized hand.

someone who knew how some of the foods we saw were prepared. Especially some of the produce, where we saw everything from the foul-smelling fruit called durian to odd-looking kinds of bananas and cucumbers. And every kind of green you can imagine.

We probably spent 45 minutes to an hour walking through the seafood and meat area, where we couldn’t help but notice odd-

Cooked silkworm. And that's all I'll say about that.

Cooked silkworm. And that’s all I’ll say about that.

looking whole fish, every kind of meat and foul, and animal innards that I can’t even begin to imagine how to use. Pork uterus? Really?

As for me, I came home with a bag of udon noodles, some wasabi mayonnaise, and a couple of beef shanks that I plan to use next week when I make my mother’s vegetable soup with beef shank.

I think our next grocery exploration will be Pro’s Ranch Market in east Mesa. When you enter their doors, you feel like you have just crossed the border into Mexico.

Sayonara and adios.

Nana Meets the Big Lebowski

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budtender sign“You can wait here for the next available budtender.”

If I had any doubt, those words let me know that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

That was the second thing the woman who greeted me at the door of the recreational marijuana store said to me. The first words were, “Can I see your identification?”

I did it sort of on a dare. My nephew Erik has been egging me on. If I stop writing my blog and do nothing from here on but smoke pot and bowl, all the while calling everyone “Dude,” blame him.

Still, unless you live on Mars, you know that what I did was perfectly shelveslegal as Colorado citizens eagerly approved the sale of recreational marijuana a couple of years ago. Colorado was the first; Washington state, Oregon, and the District of Columbia have followed suit. A handful of states also have legalized the sale of medical marijuana, allowing those with a budscooperative doctor to purchase pot to supposedly relieve the pain caused by anything from arthritis to Parkinson’s Disease.

What was it like is the first thing everyone asks me. The answer is that it was not much different than if I’d gone into a store looking for a new pair of shoes. The employees were professional and knowledgeable and, though I can’t say how hard he laughed after I left, my “budtender” was very sweet to me, an obvious pot neophyte.

I identified myself immediately as an amateur. He managed to refrain from saying, “No, really?”  Despite the legality of it all, I was a nervous pariphenaliawreck. I don’t know what I thought would happen or what I expected. Maybe the Big Lebowski. The terror likely emanated from me like sweat from a jogger the moment I walked in.

“Are you looking for something special?” my budtender (I just can’t stop saying that word!) asked me.

“Nope, just tell me all about it,” I replied.

creamsSo he did. In great detail, he identified all of the loose marijuana buds and how they affect those who imbibe. Some were for pain relief. Others would help you sleep. Still others would stimulate your appetite. They will roll your joints, or you can do it yourself.

Then he moved on to the edibles, in case, just like President Clinton, you don’t inhale.

He showed me cookies, and mints, and chocolates, and gummy bears, cannabisand hard candy, and even creams that apparently enter your system through your pores. Each was commercially wrapped (no homemade brownies from Aunt Pearl) and the level of cannabis was clearly marked on the packaging. One was called the Rookie Cookie.

Perhaps the most interesting thing I learned was that because federal law still prohibits the use of marijuana, banks won’t work with the business owners. Because of this, retail pot stores are an entirely cash enterprise. Transactions are cash, employees are paid in cash, taxes are paid in cash, and money is kept in safes right there on the premises. As you can imagine, there are a plethora of cameras all around the stores.

mapI just couldn’t get over the professionalism of the whole thing. At one point I was shooting photos, and a budtender politely told me I was welcome to take photos, but please make sure that customers weren’t included in the photo. I guess no one wants to see your grandchild’s school principal purchasing pot.

Here were my takeaways….

I couldn’t believe the variety of edibles available, and it scares me to think that while the majority of folks likely keep their pot locked up, some don’t. I mean, gummy bears?

I can’t believe I don’t hear about store robberies on a daily basis. Can you imagine the amount of cash in each store each day?

Maps hanging on the wall indicated all the different places from which customers come. Wow. From all over the world. Except Amsterdam.

Been there. Done that. No one needs to worry about an intervention, Dude.

Interesting afternoon, however. And never forget that Nana does things so that you don’t have to.

Oh, and no recipes today, I’m happy to tell you!

Cafeteria Plan

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From first grade (the first year that I was in school all day) through 12th grade, each and every day I ate my lunch in the school cafeteria. The same cafeteria. That’s because my elementary, junior high, and high schools were all part of the same Catholic school system. The cafeteria was located over near the high school, so in grade school (particularly the younger grades) we had to line up, two by two, holding hands, to quietly walk over to the cafeteria.

By the way, that walk over to the cafeteria caused me to get the only reprimand I ever got in school. I was accused of talking to my friend on the way, and got a paddle on my behind as a result. I assure you, I was innocent.

And for that entire time, and for several years after I graduated, the school cafeteria was run by a woman named Mrs. Fletcher. I’m sure she had a first name, and perhaps I even once knew what it was (Clara?), but I always knew her as Mrs. Fletcher.

I can’t recall what the cost of our school lunches were, but what I can tell you is that, unlike the lunches of today (and perhaps even the lunches of the period about which I’m talking at schools other than mine), the lunches were quite good. Homemade by Mrs. Fletcher and her minion of school lunch cookers. A bevy of women in hair nets who dished out our lunch each day. We would go through the line, take our food (no choices, you ate what they served), grab a carton of milk – white or chocolate – and find your friends at the table.

When you were finished with lunch, you would put anything you hadn’t eaten into the milk carton so that the nuns wouldn’t need to lecture you about the poor, starving children in the Philippines.

Dad was friends – or at least friendly – with Mrs. Fletcher, because part of the reason the lunches were so good is that the bread was made fresh each day by Gloor’s Bakery. Hamburger buns, white bread, dinner rolls. All home made. And he would deliver them.

I thought about Mrs. Fletcher recently when I came across photos of typical lunches from around the world. I believe the point that was being made by these photos is that school lunches in America are inferior to those in other countries. Maybe yes, maybe no.  I suspect it isn’t easy to feed children food that they like within tight school budgets, no matter the country.

france lunch

italy lunch

usa lunch

Here’s what I do know, however. Mrs. Fletcher helped form my taste buds. To this day when I eat Sloppy Joes, I take the two halves of the bun apart, lay them side by side, and ladle the Sloppy Joe mix over the two halves. There is no topping better on chocolate cake than whipped cream. Nothing tastes better than putting mashed potatoes right on top of your meatloaf. Salmon loaf needs to have potato chips crumbled on top. And, while I probably haven’t eaten a fish stick since I graduated from high school, nothing says Friday lunch better than fish sticks.

scampiAnd speaking of Friday, here is another meatless meal offering. This recipe includes shrimp, so it obviously isn’t vegetarian. There are many recipes for Shrimp Scampi, but I find this lemony shrimp scampi by Food Network’s Melissa D’Arabian to be one of the best. I love the lemony flavor of the sauce.

 

Shrimp Scampi jpeg

 

 

 

 

Zealot

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coinsI want to remind my faithful readers that we currently live in Arizona, which doesn’t observe daylight savings time. Therefore, for many of you, it will appear my blog is posted much later. I’m, in fact, posting about the same time, but some of you will see it much later.

There are many stories in the gospels that demonstrate Jesus’ patience and love for his friends. He told parable after parable to try and get his point across to his hard-headed and often clueless disciples, who never seemed to quite get it.

But I have two particular favorite stories in the gospels and they have something in common. First, John’s gospel talks about the death of Jesus’ very good friend Lazarus. Upon learning of his death, John tells us “Jesus wept.”

Second, all four gospel writers tell their version of Jesus, seemingly very angry, turning over the tables in the temple and telling the money changers to stop making his Father’s house a marketplace. In all four gospels, Jesus was passionate.

The thing that both of these stories have in common is that they demonstrate Jesus’ humanness. He had emotions, like all human beings. He was sad that his friend died and he was clearly unhappy with the money-hungry merchants.

I think the notion of Jesus being angry makes some people uncomfortable. Jesus is God, and God doesn’t get angry. (Well, Lot’s wife might take issue with this notion. Still, she was duly warned.) For my part, I like the idea that Jesus gave the merchants the what-for as he observed their greedy actions. I like that he had strong feelings about what was right and what was wrong.

In John’s gospel about Jesus in the temple, his disciples recalled the words from scripture they had learned at their mama’s knee: Zeal for your house will consume me.

Over coffee yesterday afternoon, Bec and I discussed Jesus in the temple. Her pastor focused on Jesus’ zeal rather than on the notion that Jesus was angry. And when you look up the definition of zeal, it sheds a bit of a different light on Jesus’ actions.

According to the Merriam Webster dictionary:

Zeal: noun  A strong feeling of interest and enthusiasm that makes someone very eager or determined to do something.

Synonyms: passion, ardor, love, fervor, fire, avidity, devotion, enthusiasm, eagerness, keenness, appetite, relish, gusto, vigor, energy, intensity

It puts a bit of a different spin on it, doesn’t it? Still, I love that the gospels document that Jesus had strong feelings and emotions just as I do.

Saturday Smile: Barefoot in the Park

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lilly playground 3.15My niece Maggie, always thinking of others, helped me transition from being surrounded by grandkids this past week to our solitary existence by asking me to babysit Austin and Lilly yesterday while she and her husband went to a Cubs Spring Training Game. That woman always gives, gives, gives.

At one point I tossed the kids into the stroller and we walked the quarter mile or so to the neighborhood park. It was a beautiful spring day.

After spending time at various and sundry parks with my grandkids, I have learned that there are a few things that never change: First, once kids have reached walking age, they want to take their shoes off, especially if there is sand; second, it is much more fun to walk (or try to walk) up a slide than it is to come down the right way, even when you’re only 1; and third, there is nothing more fun than being pushed in a swing.

But today’s park visit offered me a first. We had no sooner gotten to the austin playground 3.15park than Austin, tugging at his privates, said, “Aunt Kris, I have to go to the bathroom.”

Now, my bad for not making him go before we left the house, right?

“Can you hold it for a bit, Buddy?” I asked him.

Nope. Still tugging and with a look of anguish on his face.

“Can I just go over there on that tree?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” I answered.

And here it came….

“My mom always lets me.”

Okay, here’s the thing. I seriously doubt that Maggie allows Austin to pee on a park tree on a regular basis. Still, I’m not his parent. I’m not even his grandparent. I’m only the great aunt. And there isn’t a soul around. And he’s a boy. And we just got to the park and I don’t feel like turning around immediately. And Lilly is already having fun in the sand.

Oh, what the heck! Austin put the “pee” in Park.

Have a good weekend.

 

Come Fly With Me

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I took my first airplane ride at age 17 or 18 or thereabouts (I can’t even remember where I was flying to or from). Since that first airplane ride, two things have never changed.

First, I absolutely detest flying. It scares me to death. My sister Jen shares my fear and, together, we’re a pair. Flight attendants see us coming and immediately begin writing their letters of resignation. We were flying to Phoenix from Denver one time on Frontier Airlines and turned on the little map on the television that shows the plane’s current location. We were nearing Phoenix, so the plane was heading straight south. Simultaneously, Jen and I both GASPED out loud because we believed the downward facing airplane indicated imminent plummeting. We should never travel together. It’s not good.

But, despite this dislike of flying, I love airports. I love all of the activities and the people hurrying and scurrying to catch planes. I love the shoe shiners and the electric carts that haul people back and forth.  But most of all, I love eating at airport restaurants.

bloody maryThere are several reasons for this. Eating at an airport restaurant makes me feel like a grown up. Despite my 61 years on earth, I almost never do. Feel like a grown up, that is. When sitting in an airport restaurant or bar, I always order a Bloody Mary, even if it’s 8 o’clock in the morning. Especially if it’s 8 o’clock in the morning. Because it’s ok to drink vodka with your scrambled eggs as long as there is tomato juice involved. And finally I love the clientele at the neighboring tables. Always on their cell phones closing million dollar deals. They have their laptops open and, unlike me, they aren’t playing mahjong. They are checking their emails from their Very Important Clients. Or at least that’s what it looks like to me. Sometimes I want to just open up my laptop and click on my keys to make it seem that I, too, am doing Very Important Work.

And no matter how high my credit card balance is that month, I happily fork over an arm and a leg for a BLT and a Bloody Mary. It’s what grown ups do, after all. Of course, many grown ups have expense accounts.

Yesterday as soon as Bill and I arrived at the airport, I told him I salmon bltwanted to go to the Denver Chophouse Restaurant at the airport. I love the Chophouse, having eaten at the one in downtown Denver on many occasions, particularly if someone else was paying. But their salmon and white cheddar mashed potatoes are one of the few things I miss about working downtown.

We sat down, and the first thing we did, of course, was order a Bloody Mary.

“Our Bloody Marys are doubles,” the server told us dubiously, as she checked out my jeans and sweater and compared them to the business suits sitting next to us. “Will that be okay?”

“Hell yes,” I responded. Remember my fear of flying?

Well, it was no surprise to me to see the prices of the food items on the menu, and I could guess just what those double-shotted Bloody Marys were going to set me back. But I soldiered on, because I wanted those cheddar mashed potatoes.

Here is a copy of our bill….

restaurant bill

Fourteen dollar Bloody Marys. But they were goooo-ood.

One last thought about flying. I started flying somewhere around 1970. I distinctly remember that women dressed up to fly. A skirt and sweater or a nice dress. You simply didn’t wear the comfortable clothes that folks wear today when flying. I mentioned this to my sister Bec recently, and she reminded me that when she started college, young women dressed up for class.

My how things have changed.

Grandkid Joy

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For the second year in a row, I made a mid-winter trip back to Denver to visit my kids and grandkids and help waylay homesickness. Last year I came by myself. This year Bill joined me.

We had a busy four or five days and loved every minute of it. We saw all of our Denver grandchildren except for Taylor, and spent some time with our Denver kids. We assisted in carpooling and babysitting and were able to feed and be fed by our family. Though we will miss Addie’s performance this upcoming weekend  in Shrek: The Musical, both Bill and I were able to sit in on a rehearsal. Almost as good. I know you will be shocked to hear me say that she is a natural talent.

We stared down the snow, which bookended our trip (it snowed the day we arrived and it snowed as we departed). We lamented a plethora of illnesses being faced by family members, including strep throat and a number of runny noses, sore throats, and earaches. If Bill and I are able to dodge getting sick, it will be just short of a miracle.

But it will have been worth it.

Here is a sampling of our activities…..

magnolia nebulizer

Magnolia spent a bit of time each day with her nebulizer as a result of a really bad cold. Poor girl. She was beginning to get her appetite back by time we left.

zierks playing

Kaiya, Mylee, and Cole are building castles with the blocks. Well, to be honest, Cole spent more time knocking down the castles his sisters built. They were thrilled.

kaiya crescent rolls

Kaiya helped me roll crescents Sunday night when I fed family.

And while we were enjoying our time in Denver, our daughter Heather and her family were visiting her grandmother (Bill’s mom) in Chicago with Joseph and Micah….

 

Joseph and Micah spent time this past week with their great grandmother. What a blessing!

Joseph and Micah spent time this past week with their great grandmother. What a blessing!

Now it’s back to the real world in the desert, and the beginning of Spring Training for the Cactus League. Batter up!

Mom’s Soup

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chickpea minestroneAs promised, here is my second meatless meal recipe…..

I’ve talked before about Mom and Dad’s brave move to Leadville, Colorado, from Columbus, Nebraska, in the mid-70s. For as long as I remember, they had wanted to live in the Colorado mountains that they loved so much. The bakery in Leadville is what finally presented itself to them.

It wasn’t a perfect fit by any means. A while back I wrote a blog about our family’s time in Leadville. It was a rough town, largely dependent upon the molybdenum mine. Miners are a unique animal we soon learned.

But in addition to having to get used to the thin air (Leadville sits at an altitude of over 10,000 feet making for difficult breathing and short summers), my parents also had to get used to the fact that along with the bakery, there was a small coffee shop.

I’m not sure what the previous owners offered in the coffee shop. But for Gloor’s Bakery and Coffee Shop, breakfast consisted primarily of coffee and donuts or sweet rolls from the attached bakery and lunch was also simple – a few kinds of sandwiches and homemade soup.

Soup wasn’t a particularly new thing for my mom. As we grew up, she occasionally made us soup for a simple dinner or maybe a lunch treat. I remember she made vegetable beef soup with a beef shank that was absolutely delicious. I don’t think any of us have her recipe for that soup (because frankly she probably never had a recipe), but man I would like to have a bowl of it right this minute.

Anyhoo, under the direction of my mother, the Gloor Bakery Coffee Shop offered homemade soup, each day a different kind. Not endlessly different, but 10 or 12 kinds of soup that she rotated. I remember people stopping by the coffee shop in the morning to see what the soup-of-the-day was for that day, or calling to ask. Everyone had their favorite.

The soups truly were homemade from scratch. Each and every afternoon (except Saturday), Mom would make a big pot of soup for the next day. I’m sure at first this was kind of fun. After all, nothing smells better than soup simmering on the stove.

I’m here to tell you, however, that the fun wore off rather quickly and changed into drudgery. I hope that I don’t shock any of you when I tell you that my mother began referring to her soup as her “f***ing soup” as in “I’ve got to go make my f***ing soup for tomorrow.” Petite and pretty as she was, she could cuss right up there with the best of them!

And man-oh-man, was her soup ever good. She made Cream of Broccoli (which she called Broccoli Soup and I posted her recipe previously – also meatless by the way, which many of her soups were), Cream of Cauliflower, Cream of Asparagus, Clam Chowder, Beef Chili, Green Chili, Vegetable Beef, Potato, Ham-and-Bean, Minestrone, and for those warm summer THREE days or so, Gazpacho. I’m probably forgetting a few, and I’m sure my siblings will remind me.

Even writing about them makes me want to go cook up a pot of soup today. I only have her recipe for a few of them, unfortunately.

Here is a recipe I found for Chickpea Minestrone. As I write this, I’m 900 miles away from my mother’s Minestrone Soup recipe (one of the few soup recipes I have), but as a recall, her minestrone also contained chickpeas, pasta and no meat. However, this was a good version, and it comes from Vegetarian Times….

minestrone

Testing: One, Two, Three

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abraham-tooking-isaac-to-mount-moriah-illustration-from-a-catechism-l-histoire-sainteFrom the time I was a little girl studying what was called Bible History at my Catholic elementary school, I always heartily disliked one story in the Bible. (It used to be two stories because it took me quite some time to get comfortable with the story of the Prodigal Son, but over the years, I’ve come to understand the meaning of that parable.)

The story that I continually struggle with, however, is the story in the Book of Genesis about God testing Abraham by asking him to sacrifice his beloved son Isaac. No matter how often I read that story, I can’t get comfortable with the idea of God feeling the need to test Abraham’s loyalty. It always sounded mean spirited and insecure, not at all like God.

The story of Abraham and Isaac was the Old Testament reading at Mass yesterday, much to my dismay. So I really tried to be open to the meaning of the story.

It is clear that Abraham fully trusted God in a way that isn’t easy to do. If God asked Abraham to do this oh-so-difficult thing, there must be a reason, or so Abraham firmly believed. And we all know that Abraham’s trust in God was justly rewarded and that the story has a happy ending (well, unless you’re the ram that took Isaac’s place!).

Trusting God with all your heart and soul isn’t easy. And Abraham wasn’t the only one who God tested. We know the story of Job and all of the obstacles he faced throughout his life. And for 40 years, the Israelites faced test after test as they wandered through the desert. Like the Israelites, we are faced with questions every day. Why did he get the promotion instead of me? Why can’t I have as much money as my neighbor? Even more difficult, why did my child become sick? The oft-heard-of why do bad things happen to good people?

Not all of those questions are answered as slickly and peacefully as in Abraham’s situation. Still, as our homilist Fr. Doug asked the congregation, how do you become courageous if you aren’t faced with situations in which you need courage? God tests us every day so that He can help us to become saints.

I hope I can always be as confident in God’s love as Abraham. And if anyone can help me understand the story of Abraham better, help me out!

On an unrelated note, I recently noticed that my Denver church, which has always been called Church of the Risen Christ, is now called Risen Christ Catholic Parish. This change peaked my curiosity, so I started googling Catholic churches with which I am familiar. Sure enough, every single one that I googled (which admittedly wasn’t that many) is calling itself (Fill in the Blank) Catholic Parish or Catholic Community. For example, the church we attend in Mesa is All Saints Catholic Parish. The church we attended before Bill and I married is now St. Vincent de Paul Catholic Parish.

The tweaked names must mean something. Here’s what I’m guessing: Catholic churches have never been big on “community building.” The focus has always been on worship and the Eucharist. I’m guessing that there is a concerted effort to focus a bit more on being a faith community, emphasis on community. If so, I think that is a positive move. Still and all, I can’t help but cringe a bit every Sunday when I’m asked to greet my neighbor and introduce myself.

You can take the Catholic out of the cradle, but you can’t make her drink (or some such mixed metaphor).