LAST-MINUTE, NO-SEW HALLOWE’EN COSTUMES

Resist the urge to buy ready-made costumes this fall—conjuring them up yourself is one of the quickest cheap thrills I know to satisfy the creative urge! My sibs and I grew up trick-or-treating in the flashiest outfits (a skunk that sprayed, a ballerina remade from a pawn-shop wedding gown) and my own kids stuffed their tickle trunk full of disguises they played in all year long (a hula girl, a purple chenille elephant). Like the character in my novel who designs for Incognito Costume Shop, I personally love to sew, but I’ve come across some great ideas that involve nary a stitch—though you might want to heat up your glue gun. Just follow these few principles that ensure costume-making success:

• Check out patterns at your local craft and fabric store or online, but only to ignite your imagination. Don’t cave in to the illusion that, with a bit of luck and a couple of hours, you can fabricate the “Strong Man with Padded Pecs” or “Queen Elizabeth in Historic Honeycomb Collar”! Instead look for strong, thematic images: a woodland nymph can be born of netting and fake ivy attached to a filmy dress already in your closet; a bulbous red nose is synonymous with a clown;white greasepaint and gloves paired with a striped t-shirt screams mime. I once pulled a square of gold-embroidered cranberry sheer silk through a paper cone decorated with sequins for the start of an imperial princess; this same scarf veiling my face beneath heavily lined eyes later transformed me into a harem girl.

• Utilize inexpensive materials you have on hand.For example, a thin, old sheet still makes a great ghost, or add a golden belt and flower coronet for a Greek goddess. Alternatively strips of that sheet or gauzy cheesecloth can be wound around a body for the perfect mummy (ensure eyes, mouth, and bottom can be loosened for seeing, snacking, and peeing!). One year our ranch yard yielded up a deerskin hide, cow horns, and a cone from the tip of an airplane propeller spinner; with a screwdriver and a bit of my husband’s brawn, I remodelled our son into a helmeted Viking warrior.

• Visit the dollar store.Don’t waste money on expensive props;instead go for one oversized item that sparks your imagination. An out-of-season water gun spray-painted black (paired with grandpa’s fedora) has gangsta written all over it. Blow up two dozen green or purple balloons and pin them onto clothes for a perfect bunch of grapes, topped with a cap of curled pipe cleaners as grapevines. Stick softly crumpled sheets of white tissue paper all over your body (or use cotton or quilt batting) and fill a spritzer bottle with water to become a raincloud.

• Consider caricatures. A costume is overblown illustration rather than exact replica. Instead of making a complete furry body for a mouse, for example, dress your youngster in sweats and draw whiskers radiating from a lipsticked nose, add a tail of heavy cording, and pop on ears via headband with pink-lined grey semicircles of posterboard or stiff fabric. Try stuffing four pairs of tights attached to the waist for an eight-legged spider or octopus. Dress up as a sassy Santa’s helper using red toque, short skirt, and tall black boots, and give away candy canes from a Christmas-wrapped box. My favourite caricature costume was one my sister made of a marionette: she dressed in suspenders and shorts, brown ankle boots, perky green hat with feather, and a tie-on Pinocchio nose; she drew “joints” at the knees on leggings and at the elbows on sleeves; finally, she criss-crossed wooden dowels and attached the four ends to her hands and feet with heavy string. It was remarkable!

• Use international souvenirs. Wooden shoes from Holland and a basket of tulips transformed my daughter into a little Dutch maid. The yukata robe, sash, and lacquered geta sandals I brought back from Japan as a young woman still elicits the geisha in me. A sombrero, fake moustache, sandals, and woven poncho say Mexican loud and clear, señor!

• Make a point. Costumes are a great excuse to get up on your soapbox. If you’re a literary buff and want to tell your favourite story, glue on a red “A” and represent Nathaniel Hawthorne’s adulteress in The Scarlet Letter, or carry a large bell and flaunt a hunchback and a limp to bring Victor Hugo’s Quasimodo to mind. If you’re a frustrated theologian, carry a hammer, nails, and a scroll titled “Ninety-Five Theses” to introduce the event that sparked the Protestant Reformation when the German monk Martin Luther posted his opinions on the door of the Wittenberg Castle Church on October 31, 1517. Or dress in tweeds and hat, clench a pipe between your teeth, and grasp a magnifying glass to celebrate The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, published by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on another Hallowe’en—October 31, 1892.

• Think professionally.Grab a carving knife and dress in auntie’s scrubs and mask and as a surgeon; exchange the knife for pliers and you become a dentist. Snorkel plus mask plus ridiculous flippers and a hint of French accent equal Jacques Cousteau. Transform into a cowboy with Stetson, chaps, boots, and lasso. Here’s a fun one for the artist in you: become an artist’s paintbrush by dressing all in black or tan, adding a tin-foil band around the neck and maybe silver paint to your face, then gel your hair up straight and spray it a vivid colour.

• Don’t discount the humble cardboard box.A shoulder-width, flat box with openings for head and arms can be painted black and then stuck with skeleton bones of shoulders, chest, pelvis, and thighs to imitate an X-ray machine; the same carton painted with Cheerios or Lucky Charms simulates a cereal box. I once made a fabulous robot with a kid-sized box, arms of dryer vent ducting, and battery-powered Christmas lights glinting off the metallic-paint finish. And Rapunzel is a winner: draw stone shapes on a tall hexagonal box and tape loosely crumpled “rocks” of brown paper on the hem to hide the feet; then cut an arched window near the top for your face and attach a long swath of braided blond wool to dangle to the floor.

Don’t give in to purchasing or renting a pre-made costume; designing one is hilariously fun and doesn’t take a lot of expertise—just imagination and a sense of humour!

         STEWED TOMATOES

An antique ceramic bowl of ripening tomatoes-on-the-vine usually sits on my counter, the rich and heady smell tickling my nostrils when I walk by. But if I enjoy the scent too long, they wither, so recently I made a fabulous veggie stew.

Yum!

I tossed the softening tomatoes (including skins) into an enamelled cast-iron pot along with chopped onion, celery, and red peppers (green add more colour, if you have them). I simmered this for about thirty minutes with a bit of sugar, salt, and freshly ground pepper from Istanbul. So tasty hot or cold! For my second bowl, I added a spoon of heavy cream to soften the zing—but I can’t decide which I prefer.

What’s your favourite tomato recipe?

          APPLE

Have you ever noticed that Snow White (in the forest of the Seven Dwarves) and Eve (in the Garden of Eden) were both undone by an apple? This curious literary fact has long intrigued me: Does the fictional tale inform the Bible story or vice versa?

The subject of the forbidden fruit is theologically disputed; a modicum of research shows that the apples we know likely didn’t grow in ancient Bible lands, and that verses mentioning apple (such as Song of Songs 2:3 and Joel 1:12) possibly referred instead to the apricot, quince, citron, or pomegranate.

Could the biblical fruit of temptation have been identified as an apple because of a linguistic mix-up in the Vulgate—the fourth-century Latin translation of the Old Testament? The Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil produced a spiritually poisonous fruit (Genesis 2:17; 3:3)—and both “evil” and “apple” in Latin can be spelled malum. That is, the idea of the “fruit” being an apple might have been a pun or a mistake associated with the Latin translation and not with the original Hebrew intention.

This doesn’t completely answer my original, more fundamental question: Does the fictional tale inform the Bible story or vice versa? The best answer I’ve found so far is one by theologian and fantasy writer C. S. Lewis, who once said that the Christian story is the greatest story of all, because it’s the real story—the historical event that fulfills all the fairytales and shows us what they mean.

Fairytales relate a moral, but the moral is only a product of Truth’s seed: Eve predated Snow White in literature and in historical event, and although the forbidden fruit ended the innocence of both Eve and Snow White, the outcome remains the same for us: tragedy at the hand of evil. Perhaps the real question is not which tale modifies the other but rather which truth is from the pen of God.

Have you ever wondered about the interface between Bible and mythology? I’d love to hear your thoughts!

“Give a girl the right shoes, and she can conquer the world.”   (Marilyn Monroe)

Cinderella and her glass slippers aside, I think Marilyn had it backwards. She should have said: Give the girl the world and she can conquer the right shoes! My Prince Charming has whisked me off (or sent me on) some great international travels where I’ve purchased footwear that reads like a travel guide:

• Guadalajara: Peep-toe, laced black stilettos of rugged black leather

• Tokyo: Traditional geta sandals lacquered lucky red

• Rome: Baggy ankle boots in buff rawhide-style suede

• Buenos Aires: Hot-orange leather Latino platforms with ankle strap and wooden heels

• Sorrento: Chocolate calfskin high-heeled boots lined with fleece

• Paris: Sparkly copper flats with pointed toes

The shoe caddy of my mind recalls more homely items that signify domestic joys:

• Slopping through puddles in the rubber boots of my Winnipeg childhood

• Climbing snowbanks in mukluks brought back from northern Canadian Natives

• Walking the aisle in satin pumps to meet my groom (actually, it wasn’t an aisle but a bridge Dad built for the occasion over the swimming pool in the family home)

• Rounding up cattle in my first riding boots, purchased in Swift Current

• Pacing hospital hallways in bedroom slippers through early labour contractions

• Hiking the Great Sand Hills of Saskatchewan in running shoes with my kids, avoiding cactus

I own shoes I haven’t yet worn: wedges that match the dress that almost fits me, cross-trainers for the sport I hope to take up soon, the wild faux-leopard pair pictured above (just waiting for an excuse to slip onto my feet–and, yes, those are copper heels!). I own shoes that have worn me out: the black patent pinchers and the handmade huaraches that should be comfortable. I’m an admitted shoe addict, but it’s about more than style and function . . . It’s about frolicking fashion fun!

Comment below, or send a photo and story to deb@rolledscroll.com about your favourite shoes for a future post!

BOOK TRAILER

This is so fantastic! Watch the new, professional, two-minute book trailer for my novel, THE THIRD GRACE.

BOTTLING SUMMER: MAKING WILD BERRY JAM

Our years of ranching in the arid Sand Hills of Saskatchewan gave me a deep appreciation for the scant wild fruits of summer—Saskatoon berries for pie, chokecherries for jelly—and taught me how to prepare for the onslaught of winter. It’s a pioneer skill lost to today’s city populace and a habit carried along when we moved to our present home. Our Alberta acreage on a creek bottom flourishes with bushes of native berries and currants.

Preserving fruit is an Elkink family affair; together we belt on buckets and pick the bushes bare. This month it was gooseberries—heavy and purple-black and bursting with juice. Sorting through and discarding leaves and twigs left us with 16 cups of sun-warmed fruit (and innumerable gouges from the nasty thorns).

We divided the berries in half and dumped 8 cups into a copper pot with 2 cups of water and brought to a boil, uncovered, then simmered for about 15 minutes till soft. We measured the pulp (5 cups) and slowly added a cup of sugar for each cup of pulp, as well as 1 box of Certo (though gooseberries have enough natural pectin on their own that we might well have left it off).

We returned the pot to the heat and boiled till thick (about 8 minutes), then carefully poured the preserves into hot, sterilized jars (which I’d just run through the dishwasher). We wiped the rims of the jars to ensure a good seal, then placed hot (but not boiled) self-sealing lids onto the half-pint jars—19 in total, between the two batches—screwing on the cap rings and setting them carefully on a tea-towel to cool, each one snapping loudly as the vacuum formed.

I can’t wait to pop open a jar when winter comes, and slather jam atop crusty bread warm from the oven. Leave a comment if you want my whole wheat bread recipe!

HOW TO TAME A CITY-SLICKER

          I was born for uptown living. 

True, the view from the maternity ward of the Mennonite village that first heard me squawk showed only flat Canadian prairie—not a mall in sight. But my parents soon moved me and my sibs to the big city, and, by the time I was a teen, I could shop nonstop from store opening to store closing. During senior high, my dramatic extroversion kicked into full force and I fought laryngitis from constant chattering. College years in Minneapolis put the polish on my love of metropolis and led to summer studies in Japan—Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka—where I gloried in the lights and crush and din of clustered humanity.

So I was totally unprepared when my cowboy groom swept me down a long gravel road to the vast and empty sand hills surrounding his secluded cattle ranch, where the ceaseless wind and the endless sky would bring me face to face with myself.

Only months into the marriage—before I’d yet learned to help round up the herd on horseback or cook for branding crews of a hundred—I experienced a pivotal moment, a tipping point in transition.

I was baptized into rural reality.

It was a blustery morning in April during my first calving season on the ranch. Not suspecting the crisis in store for me that day, I’d kissed my new husband goodbye at the door of our cozy bungalow as he set out for chores. I’d admired my choice of wedding stoneware as I washed up the few breakfast dishes, wearing rubber gloves to protect my delicate hands. I might even have perused the latest issue of the fashion magazine that was my connection to civilization. Now here I was in the bathroom, steam rising about me as I removed my elegant trousseau robe and dipped my pedicured toe into the tub full of fragrant bubbles.

Out of the blue, my husband started hammering on the bathroom door and yelling, “Open up!” I barely grabbed my wrap in time as he and his father broke in with a freezing newborn calf—slimy and shivering violently. “Oh, good!” they both exclaimed in surprised tones of approval, as though marvelling that I demonstrated such foresight and rural mettle. “She’s got hot water all ready for us!” And then they plunged that filthy beast into my bridal bubble bath—and, oh, how that ghastly creature’s eyes rolled in ecstasy!

(Had it, in fact, lived, it might well have been tethered, bottle-fed, named “Pie,” and fattened for slaughter—as had Georgie, Porgie, and Puddin’ before it.)

This moment is symbolic of my own immersion into the grit and glory of cattle ranching, and the next two decades domesticated me out of my city ways. Sure, I longed for sophistication, fine dining, and foreign adventure (and in time my introverted, country-lovin’ husband—who’d never even eaten lasagne before meeting me—expanded his tastes to include classical music, foie gras,and international travel). But what I found during those years on the ranch I believe would have been lost to me had I remained a distracted city-dweller.

I was forced by the silence of the wilderness to listen for the voice of God. 

Because of my upbringing, as a child I’d placed trust in Jesus Christ for the salvation of my soul. However, until my move to the ranch, my spirituality included a component of sociability: all my religious learning took place in a classroom or a pew or a youth group. Now my geographical isolation put most believers out of my reach. I managed to drive two hours on most Sundays for corporate worship, but I met God much more immediately and intimately through reading the Bible alone at the kitchen table, and raising my voice in prayer and song out in the wind among the sand dunes without another soul in sight.

My conversion from the public to the pasture refined me.

Father, Son, and Spirit continue to transform me through Scripture by renewing my mind, taming my appetite for the constant stimulation of others, and testing me to develop my discernment and keenness in practicing God’s will (Rom. 12:2). I have no doubt that He would have effected this transformation even if I’d held on to my city-slicker status (2 Cor. 3:18; Phil. 1:6). And don’t get me wrong—I take every opportunity to shop for five-inch heels and silk scarves in Paris and Buenos Aires and Istanbul!  But I faced my “dark night of the soul” out on Canada’s western plains and grasslands, where I learned to embrace the holy loneliness necessary to true, communing fellowship with God and others.

Of course, there’s no sin in loving civilization (the Tower of Babel notwithstanding)! But to serve humanity properly, we must have our spirituality in order. To that end, you might want to follow these steps:

Step #1: Recognize your setting. I was predisposed to approach God through social relationships. Emotionally, where do you “live”? How do your lifestyle and friendships influence your spiritual outlook? What is your natural bent, and can you see the potential limitations of your viewpoint?

Step #2: Face your conflict. Admitting the profound difference between my life in the city and my life on the ranch helped me pinpoint my underlying problem: I can get side-tracked spiritually by an audience. What “calf in the bubble bath” are you facing right now? How are you reacting and responding to your circumstances? At what point has your one-on-one relationship with God broken down?

Step #3: Discover your resolution. Pastoral tranquility was just what I needed to shut out metropolitan noise and pay attention to the voice of God. What distracts you from listening to Him speak in Scripture? How can you adjust your lifestyle to hear Him better?  What will you do today to focus on your primary and foundational relationship with God?

(First guest posted 24 July 2012 Patti’s Porch: http://www.pattisporch.blogspot.ca/)

ARTS CONNECTION PODCAST

Check out the recent radio show on which I was interviewed by Robert White: http://www.selawministries.ca/content/arts-connection-july-12-2012-deb-elkink-third-grace-grace-irwin-award-winner

INTERVIEW

Check out an interview by Jayne Self: Part one, “What Makes Deb Elkink Tick?” http://www.christianswhowrite.ca/deb-elkink-interview-part-1/

Part two, “Living with Gusto”: http://www.christianswhowrite.ca/deb-elkink-interview-part-2/

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CREPE RECIPE

I pepper my novel, The Third Grace, with references to French and Mennonite food. On page 140, I talk about crêpes sizzling on a griddle, drenched in butter, then folded up in a cone of waxed paper. Try my favourite recipe, which feeds a hungry family:

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CREPES

SIFT TOGETHER: 3 cups flour, 2 tablespoons sugar, 1 teaspoon baking powder, and 1 teaspoon salt.

BEAT INTO DRY INGREDIENTS: 4 cups milk, 4 eggs, 1 teaspoon vanilla, 4 tablespoons melted butter. (Add extra milk if necessary to ensure a thin batter.)

LADLE about 1/3 cup of batter onto a buttery, sizzling pan and rotate to cover the surface. Brown and flip. Serve hot with melted butter and white sugar, a style called crêpe beurre sucre–yummy!

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Do you have a favourite French (or Mennonite) recipe to share, maybe referred to in the pages of The Third Grace? Send it me and I might post it: deb@rolledscroll.com.