Basic Pizza Crust - An Experiment in Frugality

I'm a cheapskate, and I recently decided that the $0.49 I was paying for pizza crust mix at Save-a-Lot was outrageous. I figured if I could make a cheesecake by myself, I could make my own pizza crusts. And with ingredients that cost next to nothing in bulk, I figured I could do it for pennies.

And I did. I stole my crust recipe from this pizza recipe at Eat Better America.

I made one with white flour for my husband and one with whole wheat flour for myself, adding a pack of yeast to the wheat one per a suggestion in the recipe comments. The thing I liked most about this recipe was that it didn't require hours to rise or some complicated bread-making contraption. I am pretty sure a 10-year-old could make these crusts. And they only take about 15 minutes from start to finish.

The recipe:

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Mustard, Toothpaste, and Other Things I Don't Need in Bulk

My mother was a kindergarten teacher, so two things were especially true about my childhood: Every moment was a teachable one, and everything we bought was on sale. Consequently, I learned the color red as a toddler when my mother made me help her find clearance racks in Goody's. If I ever got lost, my mom knew where to find me: under a red rack.

Incidentally, I learned peach next, since it was my mom's favorite color. So my assignment grew: Find red racks and look for peach sweaters. But I digress.

I was bred for frugality, and two decades later, I'm eating knock-off Oreos from Save-a-Lot and buying dress pants at the Methodist Mission for twenty cents. 

So you'd think I'd be obsessed with TLC's Extreme Couponing.

And I guess in some respects I am. I've only watched three or four whole episodes so far, but I've already set up my DVR to record it whenever it's on. And I was initially really, really excited about the idea of getting $1,000 worth of groceries for $20.

But tonight I started taking a closer look at what they're getting, and to be honest, it's kind of terrifying.

I watched a lady buy 150 bottles of mustard. That, in and of itself, is completely ridiculous. But her husband, who was helping her shop, laughed and said, "And I don't even like mustard."

What?

You don't like mustard, and you're letting your wife buy more than a lifetime's supply during one trip to Kroger? As much as I love a bargain, and as much as I'm guilty of buying things because they're on sale, there are lines I can't imagine crossing. And a lifetime's supply of mustard is definitely on the other side of that line.

Another guy bought 1,000 tubes of toothpaste and only paid tax on them. Quite admirable, yes, and in his defense he did much of his shopping for charity and troops overseas. He is a wonderful example of how this talent can be used for the greater good.

But that's a lot of toothpaste.

Sometimes when I'm watching the show I think about how obsessed we are with "a lot." It's such a telling thing that even when a show focuses on saving, it still manages to perpetuate materialism. To the point of clipping coupons for and buying 150 bottles of mustard.

And even though God asks that we live simply, He also explains one key aspect of that clearly. We're supposed to live freely, one day to the next, depending on Him for the needs that arise. And we're supposed to travel lightly:

"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

Matthew 6:19-21

Piper and Purses

"The issue is not how much a person makes. Big industry and big salaries are a fact of our time, and they are not necessarily evil. The evil is being deceived into thinking a six-digit salary must be accompanied by a six-digit lifestyle. God has made us to be conduits of His grace. The danger is in thinking the conduit should be lined with gold. It shouldn't. Copper will do."

-John Piper, Desiring God

You know the scariest thing about this bag? I thought it was cute.

When I looked at this photograph by itself, extracted from its original source, I found myself attracted to this purse. It looks like a well-crafted bag that I could get years of use out of, and I really, really enjoy pink. And if I knew nothing else about it, I might volunteer to pay $20-$30 for this purse. Mind you, my most recent purse purchase totaled $3.18 at Goodwill, so this offer is amazingly generous.

But not generous enough.

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6 Reasons Why Tonks Makes a Great Personal Trainer

If you are in the market for a personal trainer, you might consider my spunky Dachshund-Beagle mix Tonks.

1. If you're sitting on the couch and you so much as whisper the words "walk" or "run," this flips a switch in her brain. I do hope to get a video of Tonks' reaction, but for now, watch these dogs I don't know. Pretty much the same. Tonks' reaction is much akin to the dog that screeches.

Point: Even if you aren't excited about exercise, Tonks is. To the point of distraction.

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Six-Hour Hot Chocolate

I should preface this story with one important truth: I have an excellent husband. He watches the Golden Girls with me on a nightly basis, washes more dishes than I do and is incredibly patient with what he calls the soundtrack of my life. (Track one: "I lost my keys!" Track two: "Where's my phone?" And so on.)

He is also letting me tell the following story, and I'm grateful.

On Friday night, we watched Up for the first time. It's a great movie but it completely destroyed me. I cried for about half the movie because the love story was so sweet and tragic -- and I was laughing hysterically during the rest. ("I was hiding under your porch because I love you!") Emotional whiplash took its toll, and as the final credits rolled, I decided I needed a pick-me-up.

So I asked Jonathan, who was sitting next to me on the couch, if he could make us hot chocolate. In another awesome-husband move, he got up and made his way to the kitchen. Moments later, I get a question.

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Kindergarten Apologetics

Let's start here, with a photo of the Eiffel Tower:

What if I stood in front of the Eiffel Tower and explained my theory that this structure had, in fact, risen spontaneously from pieces of scrap metal in the streets of Paris?

"It's simple," I tell them. "Every single one of the required pieces was strewn about in exactly the right position. A tornado ripped through the city, snapping all of the pieces into place. And now we have the Eiffel Tower."

Of course.

After I'm ejected from the streets of Paris, I take my argument elsewhere using new, less ridiculous objects.

I start with this Faberge egg. It's quite a bit smaller and less complex than the Eiffel Tower, and it is not one of the seven wonders of the wold. I assume my argument will be better received.

"I found this near a gold mine in Colorado," I explain. "It grew up out of the ground, just like flowers do after you plant seeds. I'm going to start growing them myself. I hear they're quite valuable!"

I discover no one believes my story about the egg and someone threatens to have me committed, so I try something simpler: a wooden table like the one below.

"It's just like what happened with the Eiffel Tower," I say. "I was walking through an enchanted forest and I found this table near a tree that had fallen. I recently cut down several more trees to see if more tables would spontaneously appear, and sure enough, they did. You should definitely give this a whirl if you need some new furniture."

To my dismay, my table argument is also a flop.

A small child walks by and says, "You don't just get a table. You gotta build a table, silly!"

In a last ditch effort, I make my argument with a drawing in the sand. I decide I will certainly have a foolproof argument. This drawing, after all, only requires moving the sand that's sitting there. Surely I can convince someone this is a spontaneous accident:

But even here, I fail. I am accused of drawing this cross with my fingers. Common sense prevails, and I quit.

_____________________________________________________

I can say with brutal honesty that I've never seen God clearer than in the pages of my organic chemistry, physics and biology textbooks. I could argue until I ran out of breath about how God and science not only can but must coexist. As a student of science and a Christian, I have been saddened by the unwillingness of both sides to understand the important relationship that exists between them.

I've encountered many Christians who cannot believe that I do, in fact, accept the basic principles of evolution. I've also encountered biologists who cannot understand why I not only believe in God but accept the gospel of Christ.

I'm an enthusiastic reader of apologetic writing and I particularly enjoy Francis Collins and Lee Strobel. Collins, who was the head of the Human Genome Project, was an atheist. After his work, he wrote The Language of God: A Scientist Presents Evidence for Belief.

But as much as I enjoy reading and discussing the intricacies of faith and science, the argument above is my favorite to use when discussing it with people who want the simplest, most basic logic for the existence of God. I dwell on it myself when I realize that I've spent too much time splitting hairs about fine details of both sides of the argument when what I truly need is this. I need the simplest and most powerful evidence for God's existence: the creation in front of me.

For since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities--his eternal power and divine nature--have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse.
Romans 1:20

This is why we can't have nice things.

When I first saw this commercial, I squealed the entire time:

I really, really love Dachshunds. Trouble, my family's dog of more than 15 years, was a miniature Dachshund. He was there for my last day of elementary school, for my senior prom, for my college graduation and even for my wedding day. I'm assuming this is why I make an idiot of myself when I see a Dachshund in public. Apparently, this is genetic: My mother took a picture of herself with someone else's Dachshund at a beach in Mexico. (If I had this photo, I would post it. It is amazing.)

And soon after I got married, my husband and I adopted two Dachshund mixes of our own from the Kentucky Dachshund Rescue.

This is Bella। Bella occasionally gets so excited she wets herself. The sight of family, friends and my brother-in-law in particular will cause her to wet the floor (or the couch or your lap) out of happiness. It is both gross and adorable.

And this is Tonks. She doesn't wet herself when company comes, but we still love her.

But as much as I love dogs, and these two dogs in particular, I never understood buying them toys. My dad used to give Trouble his empty pop bottles when he got home from work, and that seemed to make him just as happy as any $5 plastic cheeseburger -- if not more so. Dogs are only as spoiled as you make them, and I think we've done a pretty good job at loving them without destroying them.

Except for today. Today, I met my downfall. They spent hours snuggled with us on the couch, which is something they've rarely been lazy enough to do since we got them in April. It was absolutely wonderful and they were really, really adorable. Proof:

Bella was so happy I could swear she was smiling.

So during a trip out this evening, we gave in and bought $10 worth of dog toys.

Ten minutes after we got home, I had looked both puppies straight in the eyes and said, "This why we can't have nice things."

My two cuddly angels became ferocious beasts:

To be fair, they both absolutely loved those ten minutes. Bella essentially had the couch to herself, and soon both the couch and the floor were completely covered in cotton. She jumped happily from toy to toy, only halfway destroying each one. Tonks, however, was more methodical. She used her paws to pin a hedgehog to the floor and slowly rip it to shreds:

And this is why we can't have nice things.

Football and Jesus

My husband will be the first person to mock my sports knowledge. He likes to quiz me when we're watching ESPN, which I find ridiculous. I thought the T and C on the Minnesota Twins' hats stood for Cincinnati and Toronto. And he asks me questions along the lines of, "Hey, do you know which second baseman made sixty-seven triple plays in one season, all while juggling batons lit on fire?"

Absolutely. Not.

I imagine this situation is similar to what would happen if you brought an English major into and organic chemistry lab and said, "We're extracting the beta-carotene from spinach leaves today. Set up your Bunsen burner."

All this being said, it's not that I hate sports. I have a quasi-understanding of football, a good understanding of baseball and a really good understanding of basketball.

But a few days ago I attended my first college football game as an actual member of crowd. Mind you, for every game while I was a student, I attended wearing twenty pounds of wool and a hat with a plume, and spent most of my time playing a screeching piccolo. Geek alert: I thoroughly enjoyed this. But for whatever reason, it did little to increase my actual understanding of the game -- and absolutely nothing for my concept of what it was like to attend the game as an everyday fan.

I did spend a few minutes pondering the differences in the experiences, but it wasn't long into the game before my mind had wandered to somewhere else entirely: to football and Jesus.

The first thought came when I realized that "cheering" for the home team wasn't the "cheering" I had imagined. People were ruthlessly yelling about the faults of the players standing just a few feet in front of us. Blaming them for missed catches, for turnovers, for any part of their game that hadn't been executed perfectly. I was appalled and kind of heartbroken for the sweaty, exhausted boys in front of me. I couldn't imagine running a race with my "fans," my partners, those wearing my team colors, jeering about my mistakes.

The idea was absurd.

And I realized, almost instantly, that this "race" in my mind, this absurdly run race, was the race we run as Christians.

I think in general (and while I hate to generalize, it must be done here) that there are two kinds of Christians: those actually running in the race, and those watching it.

What's strange is being on either side doesn't necessarily say anything about what your outward appearance as a Christian will be, especially to non-Christians. But this division is dry-rotting the heart of our Church.

The bystanders do an excellent job of feigning a focus on the finish line. They call themselves Christians. They are, by definition, "religious." But instead of cheering on the runners -- or, Heaven forbid, lacing up their sneakers and joining the race -- they concern themselves with other things.

They worry about who's near the track itself. Who should or shouldn't be allowed to sit with them. Who should or shouldn't be allowed to cross the finish line. They viciously ridicule runners who are less than perfect. Instead of giving God their hands, they use their fingers to point out runners who slip, who fall behind, who give up and leave the track. Instead of giving God their feet, they plant themselves firmly onto the visible but fleeting Earth beneath them. They mercilessly, Christlessly judge those who cannot run a perfect race.

But isn't the point that we're all, by definition, not perfect? And didn't Christ explain to us that this race would be difficult?

These jeers and arguments are often so loud and so obnoxious that those outside our Christian track hear them. We bicker violently about what I feel are the tiniest parts of being holy. We are loudly discussing the religion of Christianity, and in doing so, drowning out the sound of the runners' feet hitting pavement. Drowning out progress. Drowning out Christ himself.

The runners are the bravest, boldest Christians in history. They belong to Christ, not Christianity, and have given their lives over to the race -- to what's behind the finish line and beyond death. They bear all kinds of good fruit, pouring their sweat and souls into Jesus, trading Earthly garbage for promised Heavenly treasure. The best runners tune out the sidelines, keeping their eyes fixed on Jesus. They understand that the decision to run is one that must be made every second of every day. That each step is a conscious test of our faith in the race itself.

The line between a runner and a bystander is blurrier than we'd like it to be. There are people who create a spectrum. Bystanders with sneakers on. Runners sitting on the pavement.

But what I realized while eating my overpriced nachos was that this division is crippling. A group only moves as quickly as its slowest member. And until we're all moving -- regardless of where we start from -- we are getting nowhere.