Rainbow Club!

In belated honor of Kimber's birthday on the 27th, I'm posting this delightful and delectable club sandwich recipe from last summer. It's fresh and bright and color-laden -- everything you could want from a savory summer slice. Charity was the mastermind behind the recipe, but I took all the pictures, so I'm calling dibs. As you might have guessed, intense saturation outweighed intense flavor as the primary objective of this dish. The good news is, with Charity in charge, the sandwich tasted as good as it looked. Details below.

Ingredients (as far as I remember them)

something white like clouds (we used goat cheese)

something red (roasted beets)

something orange (Charity's sweet potato hummus + sliced sweet potatoes)

something yellow (pickled beets)

something green (Charity's green sauce + a pile of basil)

something blue, indigo and/or purple (we used thinly sliced onions, lightly pickled. I imagine a blue potato salad could work wonderfully here as well)

a loaf of good light bread, sliced lengthwise

So the order goes: slice of bread → (white) → slice → (red) → slice → (orange) → slice → etc, all the way down the rainbow. The fun thing about club sandwiches is how much you can play with them (that would make them fun, wouldn't it?). Come up with you own color or flavor or bread schemes and then layer away. The regular slices of bread work like support beams to hold the whole thing together, even as you stuff it with more goodness than any one sandwich ever deserved to hold. And that's all the more reason to be extra generous with fillings and spreads, ensuring deliciousness and avoiding dryness in your final product.

Once you're done stacking, give the whole thing a good smoosh and cut it into more manageable pieces to reveal the kaleidoscope colors inside and share with friends. Or eat the whole thing alone in the dark. I've found both approaches very fulfilling at various periods in my own life.

If you're so inspired, I'd love to hear about your favorite, brightly hued spreads and vegs for the next time I *cough* Charity *cough* undertake to make this bite. Maybe to celebrate DC's Pride Parade on the 11th? Eh? Chary? You in?

Leave a comment with your own ideas for colorful sandwich fixins' so we can all build beautiful, precarious, delicious bread towers together 🌈 🌈 🌈

Hi, I'm Glorianna.

This graphic is upsetting. I get that. But it's a question I feel forced to ask myself in light of recent events. For perspective, I've linked to the "I'm a Mormon" profile I wrote several years ago. I didn't have doubts then. I have doubts now.

"I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints." So goes the song Mormon children have been honking out in Primary Programs across space and time. "I belong to" -- what an endearingly possessive little phrase. Some people think it's indoctrination, but I've always found it more comforting than cultish. The Church has me. I'm supposed to be here. It's drawn its initials and telephone number onto the tag of my shirt with permanent marker so I'm easily returned if ever misplaced. Because the Church is just a place where people belong. The claim is pretty integral to its whole thesis, when you think of it: each person is a child of God; God loves His children; He wants every single one to come back and be with Him. If the Mormon church really is the tool God uses to achieve this ultimate aim, then people belong there. I do, you do, everyone does.

But Thursday night, news outlets broke this story. The Church has now proactively excluded gay couples and their children from its fold.  They've taken aside those families and told them "No. You do not belong to us."

My religion is now at odds with the values it has instilled in me from infancy. This inconsistency has left me confused, scared, frustrated, infuriated, concerned. All of the bad feelings. Think of it this way: Mormonism is a 100,000-piece Bob Ross jigsaw puzzle of the snow-topped Rocky Mountains. I love the picture on the box. It gives me warm tingly feelings in my belly. I've been working on putting the puzzle together for the past 22 years. The process can be challenging, but on a deep level it makes sense to me. As the years go by, I fit more and more of the pieces together -- and at very least I can see how every empty edge must have a mate jumbled somewhere underneath the huge pile I've yet to assemble. Then, Thursday night, some old dude (let's call him Neil) walked up to me, tossed a shark tooth onto my pile, and said "here is another piece to put into your puzzle lol bye." NO NEIL. NO. I CAN'T PUT THAT IN MY PUZZLE. WHY? BECAUSE IT'S A F☃CKING SHARK TOOTH THAT'S WHY. JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE OBSESSED WITH OCEAN PREDATORS DOES NOT MEAN I CAN FIT A SHARK TOOTH INTO MY ALPINE-THEMED JIGSAW PUZZLE. Anyway, thanks to Neil, I now have a stupid shark tooth floating around my otherwise-groovy jigsaw puzzle. It hides out and jabs my fingers whenever I try to reach for new pieces. Do I ignore it? Do I throw it out? Do I give up on the puzzle? Or worse, do I try to fit the shark tooth into the puzzle -- poking and stabbing it into other pieces until they become mangled enough to accommodate the foreign body? To stop with the weird-butt metaphors and make my point, this new policy (policy NOT doctrine policy NOT doctrine policy NOT doctrine *starts hyperventilating*) simply does not fit with the Mormonism I know and love. It's made of other stuff entirely.*

I had the sister missionaries over on Thursday night, before I learned about any of this. For their spiritual thought they asked me to reread Elder Nelson's talk, A Plea to My Sisters -- one of my favorites from this past General Conference. In it, he exhorts the women of the Church to make our voices heard. He tells us "we need women who know how to make important things happen by their faith . . . who are courageous defenders of morality and families." This is me trying to be that, Elder Nelson. This is me speaking up. I love the brethren's good counsel. I'm grateful for their inspired leadership. But I do not accept this new policy. I once heard Elder Holland say that the Church can withstand a little false doctrine; what it can't tolerate is an absence of Christlike love. This new policy combines both of those things at the highest levels. It's a big old crack in the edifice of my religiosity.

So, dear brethren, fix this. Please. I'm not asking on behalf of gay people. Not for their children, either. This is a totally selfish request. Fix it for me because I'm afraid of leaving the place where I've learned the truest things I know. Fix it for me because I don't think I can become a bigot-by-association with an institution which proceduralizes discrimination against families.  I don't know how you're going to do it -- the past days haven't exactly given me faith in your collective judgement -- but fix this because, right now, you're the only ones who can. You're my best hope against total despair. Please get this church back on the right track and please do it soon.

In preparation for a talk I'm giving next Sunday, I was googling the word 'meek' (I was thinking of doing this totally cool thing where I, like, *define* meek in my talk by, like, using the *dictionary* definition?!). One of the first things that pops up is a hella-corny needlepoint of the phrase 'If you think being meek is weak, try being meek for a week.' I'm going to take that sign as a sign. I'm going to try to give you time. I'm going to try to be forgiving and long-suffering and obedient. But don't expect me to ever fall in line with this bullshit and don't expect me to wait quietly for you to clean it up. Sorry for cursing. But seriously. This shit's fucked up.

*This isn't to say the church has never done stuff in the past which doesn't jive with me. There's a long list of non-groovy policies, practices, and decisions that I could lay out here. But somehow this one's combination of unnecessarines, contemporariness and officialness (← all made-up words) is especially galling. It's implementation reflects directly on the judgement of the present Church's presiding authorities.

Dear Church People

[A little disclaimer: this is angstier and Mormoner than this blog's usual fair, so be advised.]

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"We claim the privilege of worshiping Almighty God according to the dictates of our own conscience, and allow all men the same privilege, let them worship how, where, or what they may."

-The 11th Article of Faith of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints

Dear Church People,

I started writing this letter right after the Charleston Massacre. I couldn't understand how y'all felt so comfortable taking a political stance against the "threat" gay marriage posed to some nebulous idea of American religious freedom, but remained all but silent on the racially motivated shooting deaths of 9 fellow followers of Christ. Back then (two whole weeks ago), I had wanted to chisel out a neat little moral-of-the-story for you -- something sweet and clear and tweet-able, like 'never fear love, only hate (#loveislove (#charleston (#blessed (#follow4follow))))'. But I was too sad and angry and confused to even finish writing the thing, much less distill it into 140 characters of clarion insight.

I'm still sad and angry and confused, but my continued silence on the issue has become personally intolerable. I'm a white Mormon girl from Colorado -- I recognize I do not speak from a position of authority or particular insight. But it's gotten to the point where I cannot not speak. Or rather, the point where I need to ask an honest question. Because I know what the church is doing to defend itself against Adam and Steve's Crate and Barrel registry, but for the life of me I can't figure this out: what are we doing about the terror being wrecked on Black-American Christians across the South?

Here's where this is all breaking down for me: If I remember my Sunday School lessons correctly, murder is a whole lot worse than [what old white men in Utah might view as] weird sex stuff -- at least in God's book. I'd like to think that persecution, violence, and arson are all pretty high on the divine list of no-nos, as well. But right now you guys seem too fixated on promoting the civil exclusion of same-sex couples to realize that Christ's #1 and #2 commandments are in hard-core jeopardy -- because you know what doesn't seem very loving to God or our neighbors? Shooting a bunch of people during bible study and then setting their churches on fire.

So speak. Please, speak. I beg of you, speak. Not on the "the sanctity of marriage". Not on whether or not you will allow me to post a rainbow picture to Facebook. By all means, send my bishop a letter to read over the pulpit about the importance of religious freedom, but God so help me if you finger* people like James Obergefell as the threat instead of people like Dylan Roof. If religious freedom is indeed a sanctified cause, then honor it by officially decrying the violence now threatening every AME church in America. Do not condemn gay people in love, condemn white people who hate. Condemn the weaponization of places of worship. Condemn the guns and gasoline which are prying away safety, security, worship, community, and equality from innocent believers. Because to me, that seems a heckuva lot worse than the due process of law being used to pry away. . . what exactly? from whom?

Please don't forget that we've been the ones terrorized and mobbed and burned out of communities. Don't forget that you've been the person sitting in church for Wednesday night bible study. I don't want to feel safe or protected or like I don't need to do something just because bigots still think of Mormons as white, tow-headed creatures like them. Rather, I want to care about Susie Jackson and Clementa Pinckney and Tywanza Sanders like they were my sisters and brothers, because they are my sisters and brothers. I want you to mourn their deaths with me. I want you to mourn the hatred that killed them. I want you to make like Mosiah and "command that there should be no persecutions among them, that there should be an equality among all men."

I love our gospel. I love our leaders. But their misplaced silence has been ringing in my ears for awhile now, and I'm not sure how much longer I can stand the headache. I've been praying for patience. I've been praying for understanding. But I don't think I deserve to pray for peace until I try to bring it about myself. This is the start of my attempt.

More or less respectfully,

-Glorianna

*speaking of weird sex stuff. . .

La Vie en Rose

Art Project

I made this. With fire. And my feelings. And my new ex-boyfriend's old t-shirt.

It feels normal and healthy.

Lost Verses from the Gospel of Mark

{*or* The One Where Glorianna Plays the '3am Guilt Pangs after Not Posting for Two Months: Slap Up a Rejected Submission to McSweeney's and Call It Even' Game} 

8 And some days thence He entered into Capernaum, and such a number gathered together upon the noising of Christ’s presence that there was not one among them in that place not greatly pressed.

9 And Jesus did speak unto the multitude, saying, Have ye any sick amongst you? Any deaf or blind or lame? And they did answer him, Yea Master, Huzubib. Huzubib is super lame.

10 And said He unto them, Bring him ye unto me.

11 And they brought him forth. And Christ saw that in his heart Hizubib was a real boner. And He laid His hands upon the man’s head, and gave He a blessing unto him, saying:

12 Son, thou hast seven and thirty years. Go forth, and get thee a life.

13 And Hizubib arose, miraculously arrayed in fine raiment of black cowhide and acid-wash denim. And, taking up with him the futon from his mother's basement, Hizubib did go forth and meet himself a fiiiiiiine Hittite dancer called Gwen.

14 And the multitude marveled at the power of the Lord their God, and they did glorify Him.

15 And after this miracle had come to pass, the crowd did depart. And Jesus turned and said unto Peter, What type of mother doth name her kid Hizubib anyway? And Peter answered Him, saying, F*cking Hittites, oh Lord. F*cking Hittites.

Next up: Lost Verses from the Book of Jonah in which Jonah prophesies the dangers of undocumented Ninevehn immigration.

And We're Back!

Hello All! We missed you terribly! (This is where you say "OMG! We missed you too! Like, sooooo much! Oh my gosh we were, like, sooooo lost without you! Totes serious! No you stop it! Besties forever. Love you, betch.")

You done?

No. Sorry. I'm so sorry. Ok. If you couldn't tell, my blog-writing skillz have gotten a bit rusty over the past 6-7-8ish months. But not even inevitable self-inflicted internet chagrin can tamp my enthusiasm to be back sharing so many sweet little somethings and nothings with all y'all lovely folk. It has been far too long. But we were busy while we were away! Kimber's been jet-setting from coast to coast, all while managing and expanding her urban homestead with aplomb  (did I hear someone say 'backyard chickens'? No? That was me? That was me.) and homeschooling the heck out of her three angel creatures; Charity released her debut album and is now hard at work on a memoir to be published by Simon & Schuster sometime next year (nbd); Liberty seems to be gallivanting around a drastically new zipcode every other weekend, yet somehow bakes things like this in whatever free time she has left; and Mercina is back from Canada, generally dominating at school, work, and just *being* in general. As for me, I've graduated and pay my own rent -- life accomplishments I was never quite convinced I'd accomplish. 

We ask that you please forgive us our myriad peccadilloes (both those present in our persons and our website). We're trying to work them out, but it's taking more time than we'd like. Dead links, dumb formatting, and undelivered thank-you notes notwithstanding, we're feeling pretty optimistic -- we got ourselves a fancy new site, a fancy new watermark, some fancy new partners, and a fancy new resolve to actually blog. Most importantly, we've got all of our beloved old friends who inspired this little venture in the first place, and who daily lend us any worth we can claim to possess. 

Soooo, things are looking pretty rosy from where I'm standing.

To start things off, we're going to spend the next few posts deconstructing a fondue soiree we hosted when we all back at home in Denver over Thanksgiving (in collaboration with Bronx's own Il Forno Bakery and with support from our terribly talented, terribly handsome, and terribly well-named friend Bobby De La Rosa). In the coming days, my ever-capable sisters will guide you through the cheese-melting, stem-chopping, sugar-dipping how-tos of the evening, while I content myself with delicious memories of the fruits of their hard labor. Being the youngest girl is a tough row to hoe* guys, but somehow, somehow, I make do.

*Row to hoe? Hoe to row? Foe to mow? Trololo? Am I messing this saying up, or did it just never make sense in the first place?