The Saturday House

 

My chocolate stash
uncovered when I  cleaned the junk drawer

That’s my name for the guest house/cabana that is being built directly behind my cottage. It seems to me the workmen only appear at 7:00 a.m. on Saturday. By nine, they are gone for the day, and weekdays I really see any sign of activity. I know the owners are frustrated by the delay—they’ve explained it’s the supply chain—but I am frustrated by the timing. Fortunately, I can joke about it, because I am not sleep deprived, and by seven in the morning I’m just dozing and waiting for Sophie to come scratch at the side of my bed. Last week they installed the equipment necessary for a pool—large, complicated pipes, lots of them, and big objects that I have no idea how to identify—all smack outside my bathroom window. Jordan has a solution: we’re going to buy one of those panels of fake ivy you can clip to a fence. Real ivy won’t grow there—there is struggling honeysuckle right now, which tells you something. Honeysuckle rarely struggles unless it doesn’t get enough water, which is the case with this. But our water pressure is low, so I can’t see extending the sprinkler system, which would be expensive.

I keep referring people to the O. Henry story, “The Last Leaf” in which a young girl is dying a lingering death from pneumonia. She stares at the tree outside her window and declares she will die when the last leaf falls. An artist neighbor paints a leaf on the brick wall, The young woman recovers her will to live, but the artist, old and infirm, dies of pneumonia. Well, I don’t anticipate dying any time soon, but I wouldn’t mind a few leaves painted on that brick wall—above the pool equipment, of course.

I followed through and cleaned my junk drawer today and have now decided to open a candy-bar store. In all that junk I found an amazing number and variety of chocolate bars. Once when I said I wasn’t really addicted to chocolate, Colin went to that drawer, pulled out all the chocolate bars and fanned them to amuse whoever was with us. Remember “The Days of Wine and Roses”? I have always with trepidation remembered what Jack Lemmon said—he could have predicted that Lee Remick’s character would become an alcoholic, because if you can become addicted to one thing, you can become addicted to another. From chocolate to wine, a path too easy.

Enough of that. This was a satisfying day. I finished reading a good book today—Bitterroot Lake, by Alicia Beckman. It’s a braided story with deaths from the past woven into the mystery of today. Set in a Montana lake resort town, it involves family history, friendship, heritage, a new widow, estranged sisters—and so much more. It will draw you in. I gave it five stars.

This morning I experimented in the kitchen—nothing unusual about that. This time I made a batch of polenta with chicken broth, spinach, herbs, corn kernels, green onions, and cheese. It’s destined to be a one-dish supper and meant to have wells dug into it into which you break eggs. Then you bake until the eggs are the desired degree of done—like shakshuka but with polenta instead of tomato sauce. Jaimie Smith, a neighbor, is coming to eat with me and bringing a green salad. I’ll see how she feels about eggs. I’m okay with or without.

We decided on eggs, but it took forever for them to bake, and we finally turned on the broiler. I think that was a mistake. Jaimie said her egg was fine, but mine, runny underneath, had a hard crust on the top. What was fun about the whole thing was that Jaimie got as involved in the cooking as I did—we both watched those eggs all the time. This time it wasn’t the watched pot that never boils, it was the watched egg that never cooks. I loved the polenta but could do without the egg. And I don’t think I followed the recipe precisely. Maybe I’ll write about that later.

Jaimie brought a wonderful salad with strawberries and goat cheese and browned almonds (I passed on those) and a raspberry vinaigrette dressing. So good. I served mini-ice cream sandwiches for dessert. We were well fed and had a good visit.

Settling down with a good book for the evening. What book? I don’t know. I have an array to choose from.

Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate!

Nobody wants to know the technical reason that chocolate makes you feel almost as good as being in love—phenyl-what?—and nobody really needs to know that St. Valentine was beheaded by order of Roman emperor Claudius for marrying Christian couples. Claudius thought being married would make soldiers less fearsome in battle. So Valentine was fearless in love.

But everyone needs chocolate on Valentine’s Day. Here’s a recipe that you can either call pudding or mousse, whichever strikes your fancy. It’s quick and easy, and if you don’t have the ingredients on hand, it’s not too late to run get them. Just to show how old this recipe is, it calls for a double boiler. Anyone have one of those still?

16 oz. semi-sweet chocolate, either two 8 oz. dark candy bars or chocolate bits

½ cups chopped walnuts

2 Tbsp. crème de menthe

4 cups whipping cream

Melt the chocolate in that double boiler you don’t have or the microwave. Just don’t let it burn. Stir in walnuts and crème de menthe. Cool to room temperature

Whip the cream until stiff peaks form. Gently fold the cooled chocolate mixture into the whipped cream until thoroughly blended. No white streaks.

Serve chilled in individual dishes. Wine glasses, even martini glasses, are nice Decorate with chocolate sprinkles.

Note: I don’t really like nuts in soft things, so I leave them out of this. Everyone to their own taste.

If you’re old enough to remember double boilers and valentines like the one above—remember they used to come in variety packages? —you’re old enough to remember Valentine Boxes and the days when every kid worked hard to make his or her own to be proudly carried to school on the day. Lots of tissue paper, some crepe paper rolls, cut-out cardboard hearts, maybe even a bit of lace if your mom sewed. It was definitely a competition to bring the fanciest box. And then teachers made sure you had a valentine for every child in your class, so no feelings were hurt.

Ah, the good old days. I don’t think kids do that anymore. They’re missing wonderful memories.

Super What?

I have no idea how this image fits the Super Bowl except maybe Linus got knocked out by a football, and Lucy is consoling him--or apologizing. But the picture struck my fancy more than a lot of footballs sailing through the air. Guess that tells you my attitude before I even begin.

Yes, tonight is that game. I considered inviting a couple of friends for a Souper Bowl party, but Jordan and Christian beat me to it. They know how to mark the occasion. They invited a few close friends, including some young people for Jacob, and Christian slaved all day over a huge pot of white chili. Someone brought a couple of dips, and someone else, a bowl of fresh fruits. We had a traditional feast.

The guests were all people I’m fond of, and I was glad to see them. But I really don’t have much interest in football. Christian said he’d be more excited if it was a team he likes—but I don’t particularly care for any team, so that cancelled out my interest. I had already seen a couple of the best ads—Budweiser, Jeep—and I’m not sure how interested I will be in the halftime entertainment.

So I visited, ate my chili, drank some wine, and came home to eat some chocolate. Turned on the TV just in time to see a super ad that had people passing a gold football at a banquet, crashing into tables, etc. Missed enough that I don’t know what was being advertised, but I admired the talent and skill of the acrobatic actors and the concept dreamed up by whatever PR firm.

Now the halftime show is on. I have no idea who the guy leading the entertainment is except that I’m quite sure it’s not John Mayer. My daughters will be so proud of me! Whoever he is, he just took off his jacket, revealing solid tattoos from wrist to shoulder on both arms. Do these people think what that will look like as they age and their skin begins to sag—and keeps on sagging? I hate to sound like an old fuddy-duddy, but I guess I am. This entertainment does not restore my faith in mankind, but I am grateful that other things do.

Super Bowl of course makes us think of food. Have you noticed how advertising really pushes the seasonal foods of the moment? We’re about to go from dips and nachos and the like, for football watching, to chocolate for Valentine’s Day. I never object to chocolate—in fact I crave it. But somewhere the other day I saw mention that made me question my devotion. Chocolate hummus? I can’t quite imagine it. Not sure I want to.

This has been a weekend of recalling old times. Yesterday I had lunch with an old friend, and today my friend Linda went to a birthday party for another old friend, a woman my age who was once the nurse assistant to my ex-. We have not seen this friend for over fifteen years—she’s been going through a rough patch. But Linda brought back a good report on her and her family, who we knew well once upon a time when we were all young and optimistic. Fun to hear about people I’ve lost touch with, even if some of the stories are sad. It makes me realize, as my friend said yesterday, how very fortunate I am.

Extreme heat, trump worries, a minyan…and chocolate

I think I am in love. I discovered chocolate bark with blueberries and quinoa. I’m not a big quinoa fan but in this instance, it adds a nice crunch. Please keep me from eating the whole bag in one sitting. It was not cheap for one thing.

Oh, this heat wave. I haven’t felt stifled by the heat, but I live a pretty protected existence. Most days I’m in my cottage. If I go out, it’s in the evening, when the temperature has started down. This morning, Jordan and I went to the grocery, but we left at 9:30—still pleasant outside—and were home by a little after 10:30. Still I worry about those who are out in this extreme heat every day. Hope everyone is keeping hydrated and staying indoors as much as possible. I also worry about brown-outs—maybe I just worry as a natural habit.

Learned today that our extreme heat is caused by dust drifting over us from a storm in the Sahara Desert. Apparently, the dust just hovers, giving us skies that aren’t quite clear and beautiful sunsets but really hot days. And it’s not going anywhere—I can see that because when I look outside, not a leaf is stirring. No breeze. None. Supposed to move on in a week. Meantime Friday is going to be record-setting hot.

I am really scared for America. I’m scared that there are those who don’t see what’s happening, don’t see that trump’s actions are treasonous. Somewhere today Monte Negro, Estonia and other eastern European countries got into the mix. They are supposedly on Putin’s list as he goes about building a new Russian empire. Other rumors include Scandinavia and Finland. What would trump do if Russia invaded those countries?

Some former FBI agents claim trump shows all the characteristics of a managed spy, and I would desperately like to see that disproven. I have sworn not to discuss Republicans on the basis of appearance—no more talking about Trey Gowdy’s pointed head or McConnell’s resemblance to a turtle—but I think it’s fair to say that in pictures from the Helsinki summit, Putin looks smugly happy and composed; trump looked more rumpled than usual, his expression semi-confused, his eyes and hair wilder than usual. I reject the off-color hints of a sexual encounter (just plain bad taste, folks, about a really serious matter), but I think appearances support the idea of a puppet and his handler. Scary stuff, and I wait daily for an explosion that may not come. That may be the whole strategy—let the country build in tension until we self-destruct.

Strange and frustrating internet experience tonight. I cancelled my Wednesday Betty dinner to be at my computer at seven. A friend, a woman I’ve met only once but know better through a small and close-knit online writing group, has been diagnosed with a serious form of cancer and is hospitalized on total bedrest. Tonight, friends and colleagues were making a minyan for her in the hospital chapel, and we were all invited to attend via Facebook. I thought it was the only way I could show my support and planned my evening around it. But come seven o’clock, I couldn’t find it. About seven-thirty, as if by some strange fiber-optic magic, my screen popped up with a small window that said she was live now. So I was able to join in remotely—for a few minutes, and then it cut out again. It was a roomful of love, and I was glad to be able to add a comment that I was there in spirit.

A Cooking, Working Day

Figs before cooking

I forgot to take the after cooking picture

Boy, I was a busy beaver today. Wrote 1250 words on my new novel, answered emails, read Facebook, did a lot of busy work at my desk. But my big accomplishment was cooking. Thanks to Paige Pritchett for bringing me figs from her mother’s tree—and roundabout thanks to Ann Chappell. Tonight, for happy hour I stuffed the figs with blue cheese and wrapped them in prosciutto. Technically they should be grilled, but I had no option except the toaster oven, and mine is so tiny I had to do ten figs in two batches. But they were delicious—rich, but delicious Christian wasn’t sure about figs but since he loves blue cheese and likes prosciutto, he tried them—and I think liked them. When we weren’t looking, Sophie snatched one off Phil’s plate. She scarfed down the cheese and prosciutto but spent a long time licking the fig before she finally decided to eat it.

I haven’t always been a fig fan, though my parents loved them. When they retired in North Carolina, they had a huge row of tall fig bushes lining the driveway. When Colin was maybe five, we’d put him on top of the van we then drove to pick figs. Mom cooked them for figs and cream—how British for my Anglophile father—and they ate them straight from the bush I don’t remember eating them.

In recent years, figs have become trendy and I confess it’s a time when I succumbed to fashion. I thought if they were so popular I ought to try them…and I did. And liked them a lot. But then as a kid I always liked Fig Newtons—who didn’t? I remember my kids ate those cookies happily.

My other cooking accomplishment tonight was stuffed zucchini. I parboiled it, sliced it in half, and scooped out the insides to mix with bread crumbs (good use for leftover artisan bread from the freezer), chopped celery, scallions, and a tad of red onion. Sautéed all that in butter and olive oil. Seasoned it with salt and pepper and loaded it back into the zucchini halves. When I was ready for supper tonight, I topped one half with grated cheese—I have had grated gruyere in the fridge for some time and used that. Baked it—again my only option. That and a half ear of corn made a satisfying supper, especially after the rich figs.

I topped it off with Frango mints. If you don’t know about them, I urge you to look them up on Amazon. Originally made and sold by Marshall Field and Company, these rich minty and creamy chocolate candies—small bites, really—are a taste from my childhood. My mom used to get them for me. In recent years, daughter Megan has gotten them. Last year she ordered two boxes for my July birthday but with the Texas summer heat they arrived melted into one large, unappealing hunk of chocolate. When the weather cooled, she ordered new boxes. I ran out of them a couple of months ago, but Amazon listed them out of stock. When they notified me they were again available, I ordered a box. Megan worried about the temperature, but they arrived melted at one corner but otherwise fine.

Another happy day.

Denny’s Chicks

Please welcome my Wednesday guest on Tuesday (kindly do not ask about the day switch!). Kathy Aarons is the author of Death is Like a Box of Chocolates, the first in the Chocolate Covered Mystery series by Berkley Prime Crime, published September 2014.

According to Kathy, research for the series was such a hardship: sampling chocolate, making chocolate, sampling more chocolate, and hanging out in bookstores.

After growing up in rural Pennsylvania and attending Carnegie Mellon University, Kathy built a career in public relations in New York City. She now lives in San Diego, with her husband and two daughters, where she wakes up far too early and is currently obsessed with the Broadway Idiot documentary, finding the perfect cup of coffee, and Dallmann’s Sea Salt Caramels.

You can follow Kathy on Facebook or Twitter or visit her at: www.kathyaarons.com.

 

**** 

Some authors can write alone, edit their own work, and send it off to their editor. I’m the kind of writer who wants (and needs!) a critique group.

Denny’s Chicks was founded many years ago following a raucous yet productive book plotting weekend run by RWA San Diego. Barrie Summy, Kelly Hayes and I got along famously, laughing at each other’s jokes and driving the instructor assigned to us just a little bit crazy. (Maybe more than a little…) But we left that weekend with three complex and interesting plots and the goal to work together to make our publishing dreams come true.

With another writer who has since left to pursue other artistic interests, we started Denny’s Chicks; Denny’s was the most central restaurant to our four homes, and they let us hang out there for hours. The wait staff has been very supportive of our writing efforts and so far, we’ve never heard of other diners being upset with our discussions of murder, paranormal activity, romance, zombies, or a dystopian future.

Since that plotting weekend, Barrie Summy (http://barriesummy.com/) has published her middle grade I So Don’t Do mystery series with Random House, and her fifth book – The Disappearance of Emily H – is coming out in 2015. (It’s already on Amazon!) Kelly has signed with Fine Print Literary Management and her young adult book will soon be shopped around to editors.

With the recent launch of my first book, Death is Like a Box of Chocolates by Berkley Prime Crime, Denny’s Chicks are on a roll!

 Besides holding each other accountable, we all bring different talents to the mix. Barrie is not only a title genius, she’s the master of pacing, goal-motivation-conflict, tightening sentences, and the best copy editor ever. She has kept us all on track, ensuring we take our writing careers seriously even when we were just starting along the publishing path.

Kelly is a librarian and has read almost every book you could imagine. She has an encyclopedic memory about them all, and knows a ton about what is being published. Among other talents, she’s great at logistics and visualizing a scene, so that the actions that are written make sense and lead into the next scene.

 

My focus is usually on the plot, especially coming up with ideas to make them more complex. Barrie and Kelly love when I get that far-off look in my eye – it means I’m thinking up whacky ideas for driving people apart, bringing lovers together, or taking down the bad guy.

Thousands of words and gallons of Denny's coffee later...and we're still going strong.

*****

Death is Like a Box of Chocolates

Whether it’s to satisfy a craving for chocolate or pick up the hottest new bestseller, the locals in charming West Riverdale, Maryland, are heading to Chocolates and Chapters, where everything sold is to die for….
 
Best friends Michelle Serrano and Erica Russell are celebrating the sweet rewards of their combined bookstore and chocolate shop by hosting the Great Fudge Cook-off during the town’s Memorial Day weekend Arts Festival. But success turns bittersweet when Main Street’s portrait photographer is found dead in their store, poisoned by Michelle’s signature truffles.
 
As suspicion mounts against Michelle, her sales begin to crumble and her career seems whipped. With Erica by her side, Michelle must pick through an assortment of suspects before the future of their dream store melts away…

First in a new series

Includes Scrumptious Chocolate-Making Recipes!

 

 

 

 

 

That "Ooops" Moment

A picture is worth a thousand words. This is the picture that I thought made me look fat. Dare I say blowsy? Frowsy?

I did something this morning a lot of women do daily--I stepped on the scale. For the last five years or more I've weighed a lot more than I wanted, but I usually kept it within a three-four pound range, and my doctor said he wasn't at all concerned. The other night, at a birthday dinner, a friend took my picture because she liked the color top I had on. When she sent it to me, I thought, "I look fat." So I stepped on the scales and guess what? I am fat. I've gained five or six pounds in the last few months.

Immediate diet coming up. The pimiento cheese sandwich for lunch was replaced with cold salmon seasoned with lemon juice, roasted asparagus, and a small bit of leftover potato salad with lemon juice, no mayo (a delicious recipe). Dinner wasn't quite as successful but not too bad--pinto beans, green beans (no butter), and meatloaf but I scraped the sauce off.
My plan: salads like tuna, egg, chicken or ham with veggies for lunch and maybe dinner. When I eat dinner out, I'll order things without potatoes or carbs or much fat (okay, I may cheat on the latter). But I'll eat a lot of fish, which I like. My personal weak spots are white wine and dark chocolate and I'll cut down on them--both expensive. That will also help my grocery bill.
In truth, I think I eat a fairly healthy diet, but I'd fallen into the habit of putting my tuna or ham salad in a sandwich, or making an open-faced turkey/ham/cheese sandwich with a homemade Thousand Island dressing. No more bread, although I've never eaten much. A couple of brief spells on online Weightwatchers have schooled me in what to eat and what not to eat, though I'm a terrible cheat.
There are fattening things I love--mayonnaise, cheese, chopped liver (okay I don't each much of that), cream cheese, bacon--I'll avoid them until I get this under control.
It's easy on day one to be optimistic about losing weight. It'll be a snap, and 1'll soon shed those extra pounds, yet I know that's not true. It's liable to be a long hard slog.
And part of it--I'll do my yoga routine four or five times a week. Granted, my routine is not too rigorous, designed for a woman of my age. Still I worked up a sweat doing it this evening, and I'm determined to make that a part of my daily routine.
Wish me luck. I know I'll never weigh 110 again as I did in my twenties, but I'd like to lose the fat-faced look and the belly that makes a favorite pair of pants not fit any more.