In a recent newsletter, author, writing teacher, and podcaster Jonathan Rogers talked about the inefficiency of hospitality. He went on to discuss more about how to be hospitable to our own creative ideas, a practice I’m woefully bad at. (Read his newsletter here for more on that.) But his words about the broader topic of hospitality have really stuck with me.

A few days ago, one of my kids walked in from the garage holding a nearly empty, Costco-sized bag of tortilla chips. He stuffed a few crumbs into his mouth when I realized, “Wait, isn’t that the bag that’s been sitting in the garage all night?”

So yeah, my kid is eating stale chips from the garage. But also, why were the chips in the garage?

We’re a few weeks from the end of another year. As I look back over the last 12 months and take stock of what’s happened in the world, it’s easy to grow discouraged. Personally, my year has been exhausting and full, but relative to other years, it’s not one that’s been particularly marked by grief. Yet when I lift my eyes and consider so many others in my community around me and in the world at large, this year has overflowed with suffering. Just glance back at the headlines, and it’s obvious that suffering runs rampant.

“This is the best day ever!”

My kids have taken to shouting that hyperbolic statement nearly any time they do something they enjoy. Eating ice cream, riding bikes, going to a friend’s house—these all apparently deserve the title of “best day ever.”

The pendulum swings just as far in the other direction, of course. There are about a hundred activities that can cause them to declare any given day the worst ever—eating cooked carrots, having to clean their rooms, not being allowed to play with the hose at 8am when it’s 50 degrees outside, wearing shoes that fit. Who knew that last one could so easily result in a three-year-old naming an otherwise normal Thursday “the worst day ever.”

This is no ordinary cider. Browned butter, brown sugar, and flaky sea salt get added to a steaming cup of mulled apple cider. It's fall in a cup.

I believe God will one day make all things new. He will fully bring his kingdom on earth as it is in heaven, he will put everything right, he will bring justice and restoration and glory and joy. But we’re not there yet. We’re in this strange “already but not yet” place, a place still speaking the language of lament. My brothers and sisters throughout the world speak it fluently, but I easily forget. It’s a language that’s not easy to listen to, one I want to silence and ignore.

It’s a Wednesday night. We’re on the homestretch after a day filled with toddler laughs and toys strewn on the floor, naptime snuggles and pleas to share. I pull out the giant soup pot I inherited from my mom. That pot has seen gallons of homemade spaghetti sauce, wild rice soup, and our perpetual favorite, Autumn Chowder. I place it on the stove, turn on the heat, and start frying chopped bacon and sauteing an onion. The potatoes, carrots, and corn get dumped in next, followed by broth, milk, and loads of cheese. It’s hearty, rich, and full of the flavors of fall—quintessential comfort food.

This Butternut Squash Soup is dairy-free, gluten-free, paleo, and Whole30, so it works for all kinds of diets! You can also omit or serve the bacon on the side for a vegan option. Enjoy!

Many of us will gather around the table to celebrate Thanksgiving in a couple days, and if your family is anything like mine, there will be an abundance of food. We’ll talk and eat and laugh and eat some more. We’ll all go home with leftovers for a week, and you’d better believe I’m already thinking about the turkey sandwich I’ll make the next day. 

Thanksgiving dinner is the quintessential feast. 

The first Thanksgiving my husband and I ever hosted, we crammed 21 people into our one-bedroom apartment. We lacked both a dining room and a dishwasher, but I refused to use disposable dinnerware. We moved furniture, borrowed folding tables, and arranged place settings for a full-fledged, seated meal for friends and family.