Yesterday was a long, excruciating last day at the apartment. We packed up the last batches of our lovely crap, amazed that we (not pack rats) could fit so much stuff into a small one-bedroom apartment. We decided not to let clutter raid our house. Sure, we will accumulate many items, but we hope to annually clean out and give away. That is our plan, anyway.

Back at the house, we removed as many boxes and bags out of our cars as we could before a thunderstorm swept in. Then we basked in the glory of sitting - I never knew sitting could feel so good. Johnny checked e-mail and I flipped through the new issue of Blueprint. The rain continued to pour out of our gutters and created Lake Simmons in the backyard. Before moving in, we made sure we don't sit in a flood zone, but when it rains, we do view a small lake in our backyard until the water soaks into the soil. Realizing the rain would remain over Katy for awhile and that we were hungry as hell with no desire to cook, Johnny set out to forage for food. I took a long shower and proceeded to slam my right thumb in the shower door, uttering expletives. Then we sat on the floor upstairs, watched a fantastic episode of Heroes, ate take-out, and our eyes glazed over with fatigue. We ended up downstairs in the living room - Johnny sipped vodka and I downed two glasses of merlot with a glowing beeswax tea light to my left.

We slept hard as rocks and as I opened my eyes to soft light through the tall windows, my first conscious thought was, "Pancakes!" My Austin-dwelling aunt gave us a bag of Kerbey Lane pumpkin pancake mix. If you've never had the pleasure of dining at that café, allow me to inform you that they make THE best pancakes ever; specifically, gingerbread and pumpkin. I thought I recalled my aunt's advice to add a can of pumpkin to the recipe listed on the back of the bag, so we did (I can hear my aunt's cute laughter as she reads this). In hindsight, I am sure it was not supposed to be an entire can to one serving, but the recipe said it makes 4-5 pancakes, so we thought, "What the heck?" That was definitely not the correct ratio. Harley watched us make a second bowl of pancake batter minus the can of pumpkin:

That batch turned out a little better, but not equal to our high expectations and growling stomachs. I left the spatula to Johnny as I lost my temper. I took over the espresso machine to prepare part one of cappuccinos - I don't know how to froth milk yet. Johnny set the pancakes on the table and frothed the milk. He successfully did so last night, yet this morning he had difficulty. Our cappuccino-lattés still tasted great, the espresso strong and fragrant, but the froth was too watery and we shook our heads at our imperfect little breakfast:

Even funnier was that the pancakes were too salty. This was not our fault. We did not add any salt, I swear. I added two pads of butter atop my pancakes, but it was unsalted. We think the can of pumpkin would have taken the salty edge off the mix.

Nonetheless, breakfast was a good house-christening as we turned in our apartment keys to return no more. We poured maple syrup over our salty flapjacks - see it in the cute creamer up there? We perused what is hopefully the last Houston Chronicle from our lawn. The previous owners had it delivered every single day and apparently forgot to cancel their subscription. I canceled it for them. I wish our local paper was a good one, but it's really not great writing or interesting coverage, in our opinion (we catch necessary local news on the radio or online). As of Sunday, we will receive The New York Times once a week which is replete with good writing and the book review!

As I cleaned up our kitchen fiasco, I sensed a theme emerging in our new home. Untimely weather, thumb-slamming, a bruise forming, abstract salty pancakes, non-picturesque java, and even a minuscule chip on a breakfast nook chair and scratches on the table (or the playful kitten currently reaching out from behind my laptop making it very difficult to type correctly). Though near-tangible peace pervades every room and high ceiling of this house, it does not mean miracles are certain to brim in the air, at least not every day. We are still human, learning the culinary arts and mastering our temperaments. Our furniture will not regenerate and the house is not brand new. But honestly, these imperfections are starting to become endearing. This is our home. Life will happen here and life is not always pristine. In fact, we have a guarantee it will be quite messy. I welcome the mess with Johnny by my side and our two funny felines, and our future to behold. The Lord made a new way for us within these walls and rooms, ones He will fill even while we create new mishaps. This house is under a canopy of His mercy. And interspersed miracles - they do still happen, you know. One day we will dine on Kerbey Lane-worthy pancakes, fluffy-frothed espresso drinks, be bright and chipper, and literally stare in wonder at the handiwork of God, right before our squinting eyes. But until then, we welcome your pancake and milk-frothing tips, please.


Anonymous said...

Ooo, Kirby Lane, yummy. How I miss Kirby Lane. They also make the best queso w/ guac!

The house looks great. We can't wait to see it sometime!

Kimberly said...

Oops, that was me... Kimberly

Christine said...

Jenni, I really needed to read this tonight. I strive for perfection way too often, especially at home. The most important things about our homes should be that God is glorified there, not that it is clean or perfect.

allison said...

If you start with perfection what on earth would you have to look forward to? (not to mention what boring memories you would have!) That said, you wouldn't believe how much I have to look forward to...
But do let me know when you perfect those lattes;)

C. said...

Where did you find the bluebird? I have been looking for a bluebird (even considered the 'bluebird of happiness' but not my first choice)

When I escaped after Luke's death to my family cabin, I saw a bluebird several times - usually after a good cry. Then again when we were there for his burial. And when we took the kids last summer. Almost like he's asked the bluebird to look out for ma...