Soul Food and Food for the Soul

My husband is getting spoiled. Our host and son, Benjamin, has been producing gourmet meals for us while we’ve been visiting at their home. And the best part: he will allow no one in the kitchen, not even to do the dishes! (I’m getting spoiled, too.) He does amazing things with chicken, and Monday we had some in burritos with sour cream, cheese and homemade guacamole, followed by a gorgeous blueberry cobbler he made, topped with ice cream.

Early Wednesday morning, after an amazing omelet breakfast, I heard rustling in the kitchen, and upon investigation, I found Jamie (his childhood name) doing things with yeast and setting dough to rise for French bread. He served New Orleans style Po-boys with garlicky roast beef for supper. The bread made an encore at breakfast, toasted in little half crescents as a base for the creation of an “Alpine Stack” of creamy scrambled eggs, strips of bacon and sharp cheddar melted on top. (Oh, my cholesterol!)

We had a suburban vehicle picnic lunch we picked up yesterday as we hurried to take in a movie he wanted us to see. The roast chicken I shared with Howard was delicious, accompanied by caramelized plantains, smoky beans and Cuban rice. Last night Chef Benjamin stuffed giant pasta for manicotti served with crisp-tender pan browned zucchini. The other meals and breakfasts are a delectable blur in my memory.

We had a feast of another kind at church, as our spirits were renewed in their Wednesday evening worship service/prayer meeting. I admit I mostly observed at the beginning, getting used to the unfamiliar songs on the screen led passionately by a worshipful young woman and the worship team and band. I couldn’t help being touched, though, when an encouraging prophetic word was given, certain parts of it standing out as if just for me.

At the end of the service, an anointed recitation of God’s promises revealing His love and attributes was played over the intercom, the rich tones of the British voice filling the sanctuary making even more memorable the eye misting words. While I baby sat a blonde will o’ the wisp 4-year-old granddaughter and her titian- haired cherub sister, the other adults attended a special conference this morning. We will go home full in every way.