Well.

That was a failure.

Let me say that after experiencing the Haggis meal [made by a BOY none the less], I thought I [a well trained Southern lady] should contribute to our next team meal- Sunday brunch.

What is more American [and easy but awesome] than Monkey Bread?

Just in case you don’t know, Monkey Bread is merely canned biscuits, cut into fourths, dipped in cinnamon sugar, and placed in a bundt pan. Then you pour melted butter and brown sugar over it and bake in the oven.

Simple. Delish. Impossible to mess up. [ay de mi.]

First problem- no bundt pan. I’m creative. I’m 30. I’m a cook. I can adjust. So we’ll use a square pan + a 9×13. No biggie.

Second problem- no canned biscuits in the whole of Scotland. Hey- my Dad has a killer buttermilk biscuit recipe that I have seen him make 100 times if I’ve seen it once. I’ll just do that. Doneski.

Third problem- no buttermilk. Worse things have happened. Add a splash of vinegar to regular milk, my aunt tells me, and you are good to go. Bueno.

Fourth problem- no sifter for the dry ingredients. [some would have taken a hint at this point, but not this ole gal] Ummm, I’ll just drag the fork back and forth through the flour a few times. That’s like sifting, right?

Well. I would not be deterred. So I pressed on through my troubles, like an antebellum lady [Lady Antebellum?] should do. And we made the biscuits.

Leigh Ann and I got to work cutting them and sugaring them.

Then we put them in the pan, because surely this is going to work / those problems weren’t enough to stop me / don’t these biscuits know who my grandmother is?

And according to all visual speculation, these biscuits were obedient to their calling.

But the flavor was found lacking.

The sugar didn’t stick like it was supposed to while the brown sugar and butter mixture didn’t quite travel like it normally does. Newsflash: sifting dry ingredients actually makes a MASSIVE difference in texture. And I’m not going into the buttermilk making business because I’m fairly certain I screwed that up too.

I mean, my sweet Scottish friends ate it. But I think they mainly did that for the same reasons that you may let a child “fix your hair.” [Pity. Plain pity.] Let’s just say I felt like I had made Buddy The Elf’s spaghetti breakfast.

Humility, thy name is Monkey Bread.

And if my return flight wasn’t already booked through Atlanta, I fear Georgia would not let me back in after this biscuit incident.

On a more positive monkey note, please watch this video. As mentioned on facebook, I spent a portion of my Saturday watching this and laughing.

Well. That should make your Monday just fine.

How was your weekend?

Let me go ahead and relieve your troubled minds- I survived it.

But also let me go ahead and warn you- the following pictures are graphic.

Oh yeah, Americans. There she is. You don’t know what haggis is, you say? Well, I’m just gonna let you read up on the Wikipedia page for haggis. Cause there are some things that I just can’t type.

I had already warned James [the chef extraordinaire] about you people and your need for photographs, so he was not ruffled as I walked through his kitchen and took pictures around his masterpieces.

I did manage to take a picture the exact moment that James stabbed the haggis. *shudder* It still makes me feel weird, the whole thing. But the team loved it. There was lots of cheers and laughter and one small whimper. [No need to identify the source of that whimper. Ahem.]

So here’s my plate starting at the fork and going clockwise – tatties [mashed potatoes], haggis [mashed other things], minced meat [ground beef], and neeps [yeah, I don't know- looks like sweet potatoes, tastes like cauliflower? I think it is a turnip or something]. And a tall glass of IRN BRU.

And here I am, living without fear, having my first bite of haggis…

And you know what? It was not bad at all. I mean, a certain friend of mine [who I am SUPER close to outing on this one but I won't] said that haggis tasted like cat food, so it was mind over matter those first few bites. But then it was really pretty good.

And the tatties. Good gracious. I told James he cooked potatoes like my grandmother. In fact, I think I said, “You cook like an old southern woman…. which is a total compliment.”

I saw the concern on his face. That’s why I said that last part.

Then I did this….

While James made this….

And I said, “Leisa, how is your dessert and by the way, what is this beautiful work of culinary art that we are holding?” [I felt very enthusiastic about the dessert because see, it wasn't haggis.]

It’s called Cranachan. It’s way good. Like, probably really bad for you good. Here is the recipe.

Raspberries? Honey? DOUBLE whipped cream? Toasted oats and a splash of whiskey?

I’m not mad about that. Not mad about that at all.

So I did what any red-blooded American would do.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the night I ate a Burns Supper in Edinburgh.

[Curtsy, exit stage left.]

[See y'all Monday.]

The team of Scots that I am working with here is stellar. I didn’t know any of them before arriving, I only know the Americans that lead the ministry team.

So.

The Scots? They. Are. Awesome. I am super-dee-dooper enjoying getting to know them, spending time with them, and building friendships. It’s kinda my way- every personality test I take always returns a screaming result of PEOPLE PERSON! EXTROVERT! TALKS A LOT! LIKES HER PEOPLE! So building friendships and getting to know these people is very energizing to me.

[And just for your own personal knowledge, I'd like to share that while I can not speak in a very good Scottish accent, I am constantly thinking in a Scottish accent. It's weird to have this Scottish girl living inside my head. Very weird. I guess I'm bilingual.]

One of my besties Annie taught me a valuable lesson- a key ingredient in friendship is TIME- there is no replacement for hours clocked. And I don’t have that with these Scottish friends [yet].

The entire team has taken the strength finder test and a couple is here training us on our strengths. On Tuesday night we sat around discussing our top strength. Jon, the trainer dude, would say, “Jack’s top strength is achiever. Do you guys see that in him?” and stories would pour out and heads would nod.

Then it was my turn. [Mine is positivity. I don't care whether the glass is half full or half empty, I'm just excited about the glass!] Jon said, “Who sees that in Annie?”

and….. crickets.

Not a peep.

They don’t know me.

They don’t know what makes me laugh or what I wear in the summer or that I drink orange juice with every meal. [One of the guys on the team had it with dinner and I swooned. Sue me.] We haven’t lived many stories together for them to tell. The time factor isn’t a factor here yet.

NONE of this is their fault. Please hear me out. I could not be enjoying these new friendships anymore than I am. I am in hog heaven. I could tell you 10 things I REALLY like about each team member.

But in that moment, when the Scottish crickets were chirping and silence filled my ears, lungs, and heart, I was just reminded of what they don’t know.

When they left, I cried. In a big puddle of sadness and homesickness and “I already went through this with Nashville I don’t think I can do it again” and missing my friends and family and I just kept crying.

I cried as I snuggled into bed and I woke up with tears running down my face before my eyes were even open.

Because, I think for all of us, being known is a big deal. And for me, especially when there is a chance that this could someday be my community, that one moment was heartbreaking.

So I took Wednesday and watched DVDs of Downton Abbey [you must watch- on PBS- do it.] and didn’t pray or read the Bible or think about anything serious.

The tears needed some space and my heart needed a rest.

I guess I tell you this simply to say that even the awesome things can be scary and the scary things can be awesome. Even the brave moments can be outlined in sadness and sad moments can be outlined with courage.

In fact, just telling you about it gives me more courage.

So thanks for listening.

This team is gonna know me. They just don’t know me yet.

My journal is full.

My blog is empty.

I don’t know how to say what I want to say.

[out of words? it happens.]

I want to remember

the Indian dinner with moments of tears

the laughter with surprisingly new friends

the hugs with those I’ve missed

the car rides with old friends

walks on the beach

walks on the hills

walks through burghs

walks through streets

just moment after moment

that I don’t know how to explain

but I don’t want to forget.

I’ll try to blog again tomorrow

where maybe the words will have form

and I’ll find a way to talk about

my mind and heart

being so full.

I’ve gotten this question quite a few times, so I realize I probably haven’t told you enough details. Let the interview begin.

Are you on vacation?

No.

Are you on sabbatical?

Nope. Laughable. People who work really hard and are highly stressed in their jobs get a sabbatical. I try not to do either of those things.

Are you moving to Scotland?

Stay outta my biz-nass.

No seriously. Are you?

Honestly, I don’t know.

So, why are you in Scotland?

I am here staying with some missionary friends, Tom and Leigh Ann Fraley. They moved here about two weeks before I moved to Nashville (in 2008). Living in Scotland has been a beat of my heart since May 16, 2000, when I landed here the very first time. It felt like home. So Tom and Leigh Ann and I have spoke multiple times over the last 2.5 years about what it would look like if I ever came here for a L O N G E R period of time (whereas before I was on trips for 2 weeks max).

But there is this kink in the plan. That kink is called I LOVE NASHVILLE. I never planned to love Nashville. But I love it. It feels like home. And now I don’t want to leave.

Uh. Oh. We’ve got a problem on our hands, don’t we?

Exactly, Imaginary Interviewer. Three cities (Marietta, Nashville, Edinburgh) that all fight for my heart and my attentions and my address.

[Just like the fellas. I mean, sorta. Okay, not really. But a girl can dream?]

So what are you doing in Scotland?

So I’m just here for a month, in the winter [which I have never seen before- I've only come in past summers], to see what I think and to have fresh ears to hear God. I’m joining a gym, I’m going to meetings and services with the Fraleys, and serving their ministry as best I know how. I’m hanging with some folks I know from the last few summers. I’m attempting to make new friends, I’m still writing and working and enjoying the gorgeous view. I’m trying to really “live” here.

So in simplest terms, I picked up my life [minus my friends] and moved it, kit and kaboodle, to Edinburgh for a period of one month.

So do you have to make a BIG. LIFE. DECISION. at the end of this month?

I’m not feeling pressured to make BIG. LIFE. DECISIONS. I’m not. And I may leave here in February and just scooty-poots right on back to Nashville, hug my friends, and pick up where I left off. And in fact, unless God stamps something else on my heart, that is exactly what I am doing.

It’s about listening to God.

It’s about being brave.

It’s about taking one more step towards a dream that has lived in me for a solid decade.

It’s about trying something on for size, not really sure when you will wear it.

It’s also about loving this place. I want to be here because I love it.

So that’s why I’m in Scotland.

Thanks. I was wondering why you thought you deserved a sabbatical.

Rude.

A few nights before I left for college, I remember staying up for hours and weeping over the fear of going off to school. Leaving my parents, leaving my sisters, leaving my friends, my life, my normal. I remember clearly sitting on the side of my bed, in the dark, saying out loud to God, “I CAN’T DO THIS. I CAN’T. I CAN’T DO THIS.”

I still went to college. But I was super scared.

Whatever that fear is, whatever that deep panic that barely stays below the surface, it happened a few nights before I moved to Nashville in 2008.

I still moved to Nashville. But it was so deeply scary.

That fear, however poetically you wish I could describe it, kept me from studying abroad in college. It has kept me from a few things. And a few months ago, I told you that I was stronger than that fear.

Confession: I’m not sure I am.

[Lucky for you, me, and my friends in Scotland, it is too late to change my mind. And I don't want to.]

But the fear has been L-O-U-D. So stinkin’ loud. Especially these last few days.

It dresses like insecurity ["why are my friends not texting me back?"].

It dresses like regret ["you are going to miss SO much while you are gone"].

It dresses like pure fear ["what if I get lost in the Amsterdam airport?"].

It dresses like discouragement ["this just may be a bad idea, Annie"].

And it arrives, all dressed up in the costume of choice, every.single.day.

I’ve prayed. I’ve told my friends. I’ve resorted to listening to music while trying to fall asleep so my head will simply be full of some other voices. There’s not much more I can do.

Except pack. And get on a plane. And show this multi-faced fear that it can haunt me all it wants, but it doesn’t win. It doesn’t defeat me. If God is for me, who can be against me?

I’m still going to Scotland on Monday.

So why do I tell you all this?

Because sometimes I think the best thing I can do for you, as my friend, is admit when I’m weak. Admit when I’m getting beat. Admit when I’ve made a plan and know that it is what God has for me but also admit when I am SUPER SCARED.

I am super scared.

Happy Thursday.