K. C. Ireton
K.C. Ireton is the author of two books and the mother of four children. An avid reader, she believes that a day without books is a day without meaning or joy. She also likes food, especially when her husband prepares it. Vive le weekend!
14 posts
Reclaiming the Kitchen Sink

Standing at the kitchen sink the other week, I quickly scraped three-hour-old bread crusts off one of my children's plates into the food waste bin and then hurriedly put the plate in the dishwasher. The sink was full of lunch dishes and I needed to start on dinner. Also, a writing deadline loomed, and I wanted to get the dishes done and dinner made and the kids packed off to...

6 3
Love and Adore

Lord, I am not high-minded; I have no proud looks. I do not exercise myself in great matters which are too high for me. But I refrain my soul, and keep it low, like as a child that is weaned from his mother; yea, my soul is even as a weaned child. O Israel, trust in the Lord from this time forth forevermore. —Psalm 131   I love this psalm....

8 4
Wild Yeast

The Saturday after Thanksgiving found me seated at the dining room table, Rose Levy Beranbaum’s The Bread Bible open before me. Little pieces of paper marked my place in about a half dozen pages. As I flipped back and forth between those pages, I scrawled numbers and math problems across a sheet of printer paper. The week before, my best friend had visited from Iowa. She’s a theology professor with...

6 6
The Making of the Bread

As I type these words, sourdough bread is rising in the kitchen. My husband and I have been making our own bread for 12 years. In the spring we decided we were ready to try a new challenge: sourdough. So we ordered a starter from King Arthur—because theirs was started in 1789, the year the American Constitution was signed, and I am geeky enough to think it’s super cool that...

19 2
Shine Like Lights

Do all things without complaining or disputing that you may become blameless and harmless, children of God without fault in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you shine as lights in the world. —Philippians 2:14-15 (NKJV) The other night, we had friends over for dinner, and I am ashamed to admit that most of the words that came out of my mouth that evening were words...

12 1
Offering

 I didn't used to like poetry. I wrote abominable verse as a teenager (what literary teenage girl doesn't?), but poetry was something we studied in school, something teachers asked you hard questions about, questions like, "What is the symbolism of the bird in this poem?", questions you didn't dare to answer because you might be wrong. How were you supposed to know what the bird symbolized? You were only 15....

10 2
Grief and Joy

I walk with tears in my eyes down to my favorite viewpoint, and I pray. “God, it’s been a year and a half. I should be over this by now. I shouldn’t still be weeping about it.” But I am. I’m just tired, I tell myself. And that is true. Or maybe I’m PMSing. That may be true, too. But both of these statements serve only to minimize my tears...

10 2
Saying Yes To God

Lent is nearly upon us. On Wednesday, many of us will go to church and be marked on our foreheads with the sign of the cross, a reminder of our mortality and a call to repentance.  During the weeks that follow, as we walk figuratively with Jesus to Jerusalem and death, many of us will fast, a reminder of the desert where Jesus fasted 40 days, where the Israelites wandered 40 years. ...

10 3
How To Celebrate Christmas In A World Gone Mad

It is Christmas. For 12 days we celebrate the joyful news that Christ is born, that God is with us, that God became one of us. It is a rollicking season of unceasing merry-making and revelry from Christmas Day to the festival of Twelfth Night. Or not. Our forebears in faith were not content with one-note seasons. They tended to trouble the waters. They insisted on truth. On December 25,...

4 2
A Shield About Me

“Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings.” (Psalm 17:8) My very first memory is of the day Elvis Presley died. I stood in the kitchen of our little mobile home. My mother sat, legs crossed, at the small laminate-topped table a few paces away, talking on the phone. The cord coiled from the handset in her hand across the table in...

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