The Monday Blues

 

How will Irene, accustomed to Chicago, do in Texas?
And what trouble will she find?
I'm working on it.

After several futile tries to sleep in late—Sophie was not cooperating—I finally got up and going. This is lazy talk, but I always welcome a day when I’m not going anywhere and don’t have to wash my hair in the morning. Added bonus: no kitchen to clean up, dishes to put away because no one ate dinner here last night. I am usually anxious to get to my computer and see what the email brings. Sometimes I think it’s a hangover from that TV show, “The Millionaire.” A little part of me still expects to find something wonderful in the morning’s email, not necessarily a million dollars, but something wonderful.

It was after nine before I got to my desk--and my computer told me the temperature was a chilly 53. Confession: I turned on the heat, just for a bit to take the chill out of the air. I have those wall-hung, compartmentalized heating and a/c units so it’s not a big deal to switch briefly to heat. And none of that smell we used to get when we turned on the heat for the first time in the fall. I thought low fifties justified a bit of heat.

This morning I worked like a house afire, writing new portions and editing some existing words on the Irene and Texas manuscript. Felt foolishly proud of myself. In the late morning I boiled some eggs, thinking I’d make an egg salad sandwich and have two eggs left for Jordan who eats a hardboiled egg for breakfast. She buys them already boiled and shelled, which I insist is an invitation for bacteria. I did a Central Market order today—bless Jacob for picking it up—but they didn’t have already boiled eggs. She’ll just have to shell the ones I did for her.

But all of a sudden, I realized I wasn’t hungry. In fact, egg salad didn’t sound good to me. I had skipped my morning cottage cheese, so I thought I’d have that. But weariness washed over me, and I wasn’t sure I could stay upright long enough to put away the eggs and things I’d gotten out and close up the cottage so Soph and I could nap. I managed to do it, ate a little cottage cheese, and crawled into bed. I am fairly certain the problem was that I forgot to take my lactaid pills last night before I ate, of all things, sour cream enchiladas. A good reminder that my sometimes-fleeting lactose intolerance hasn’t yet fled. After two-plus hours sleep, I was back “at myself.” Probably would have slept longer, but the yard guys came, and Sophie as always was compelled to defend us with fierce and constant barking. I got up and ate more cottage cheese—my go-to comfort food. And yes, I took the lactaid.

Due to Jacob’s golf and my miscalculation, it was almost eight before we had supper, and I was ravenous. Cleaned my plate. Christian fixed chicken piccata, which is one of his best dishes—he gets a really good lemon sauce--and I had made a bean salad. But I’d found a new potato recipe and wanted to try it. It basically called for cutting small red potatoes in half scoring them, and then cooking, cut side down, in butter, Parmesan, and seasonings. But instead of small, I got those teeny-tiny potatoes—that size problem is one of the hazards of curbside pickup. I long to go to a grocery and pick my own vegetables! Anyway, despite all the laughs, we each had four tiny halves, and it proved enough. I couldn’t see that they were all that better than ordinary potatoes.

So I’ve now spent the evening being a good citizen. I am reading essays for Story Circle Network’s Lifewriting competition, essays about starting over. It’s so hard to be objective, because the women who write these pieces really put their hearts into telling what to them is a life-changing story. You’d be surprised—or maybe you wouldn’t—at how many of the stories begin with divorce as the trigger for life changes. As judges, we were warned against scoring too generously, but I fear that’s where I fall.

I did several of those and moved on to formatting letters to registered voters on behalf of Beto for governor. It’s important, and I’m glad to do it, but it is mind-numbing work. The campaign provides the basic letter and the addresses. I must fill in, in my own words, why I think voting is especially important in this cycle. I found the campaign formatting left something to be fixed, but I have finally worked out a system and can do them fairly rapidly. I suspect I did half my bunch. Now I need to find people with better handwriting than mine to address the envelopes. I have my eye on Jordan and Christian.

Whoosh! What a day! I’m tired!

Observations from isolation

On a Zoom call the other day, someone reminded me of the distance between anecdotal evidence and proven scientific fact. It’s one of those things you know but so easily forget about. So when someone says, “Masks don’t work because my second cousin once removed wore one all the time, and he got Covid,” or “Every rich person I know will vote for trump for president again … my ex-husband’s mother’s third husband said so,” you believe it, at least on some level. Now that it’s been brought to the front of my sometimes-illogical mind, I am seeing anecdotal evidence in every little thing—like a dog who just discovered how good bones are! I find this both encouraging and discouraging, but it helps me discount some scary posts. I’ve decided anecdotal evidence and extremism go hand in hand.

Meantime, when I’m not leaping on obscure facts, life in semi-isolation is getting a bit better. I can, after all, see most folks, just not my family who’ve been to the rodeo. So Tuesday night Mary came for happy hour and brought crackers, cheese, and fig jam—so good. As I write, I’m having the rest of the jam on what I think was meant to be a slider for breakfast.

Wednesday evening Jean came so I could fix her a birthday supper—can you believe she is thirty-eight😊 I fixed Tuna Florentine—I’ve decided it’s one of my signature dishes, which would send my kids off into gales of laughter. After all, who fixes tuna as a signature dish? But it is one of my favorite recipes. We had mini chocolate-dipped ice cream cones for dessert and felt very festive.

Thursday Sue brought lunch from Carshon’s, and we ate on the patio on that gloriously beautiful day (with me still in pajamas). She set a precedent, and Jordan ate lunch with me on the patio yesterday. Unfortunately the cold front put an end to patio days for a while—and blew over one of the patio umbrellas as well as Jacob’s practice screen for golf.

One thing that has made life seem a bit more normal is that I am cooking again. We have a transport system between the house and the cottage—it mostly involves Jordan coming and going, but it works. One night recently Christian fixed chicken piccata—one of his best, with plenty of sauce—and another night I fixed German potato salad, one of Christian’s favorites. It’s based on a recipe that over the years I’ve altered and made my own, but it was originally called Polka Dot Salad because you chunked up hot dogs with the potatoes and made it a one-dish meal. I don’t do that for the family—traditionalists to the core, they want their hot dogs in buns. But I did mine that way—made it a whole different dish, but still very good. Last night I fixed a pork sausage/hash browns/egg/cheese casserole and found it meh, but that’s probably because I didn’t follow the directions on the hash browns. Tonight, crab cakes (on sale at Central Market), asparagus, and salad.

Yesterday it had been five days since the Burtons went to the rodeo, so they could come out here masked—and Jordan did. But then she went to the rodeo with her girlfriends last night—an annual outing—so we start the five days all over again. Meantime maybe Christian will come have a drink with me—he says he’s not going to the rodeo again until Wednesday. I need to report—this is a bit of self-justification because I know some think I’m being too strict about this and missing life--my doctor says five days isolation after high-risk events (that would be a crowded, dusty rodeo) and then five days masked. So if the Burtons aren’t isolating, I am. They do self-test frequently.

I’ve been lollygagging somewhat. Some of you will have noticed I’ve not blogged quite as regularly as usual. I have done other work—answering interview questions, answering lots of emails, etc.—but I haven’t touched the Irene novel I claim to be working on. And that finally has hit my conscience. I woke up this morning determined to write last night’s blog and then move on to Irene Keeps a Secret. I’m so out of touch I’m not sure what her secret is or if it’s worth a whole book, but I will persevere.

Stay safe and warm—it’s wicked windy out there today!

 

Simplify your life and other trivia

 

Irene's in trouble again and definitely needs saving,
if I can only get that second book written.

Thanks to Susan Wittig Albert’s blog, “All About Thyme,” for alerting me that this is National Simplify Your Life Week. My first thought is that through quarantine I simplified my life about as much as it can stand—got it down to bare bones. Eat, sleep, write, and read. What else do I need? But as I read farther, I realized that there are many hints that I automatically follow—and still my desk is a mess and household chores still overwhelm me. I won’t quote Susan’s list, which in truth she borrowed from someone else. But if you want to see it, here’s a link: https://susanalbert.com/all-about-thy...

A couple of Susan’s suggestions struck home with me, and immodestly I admit they are practices I try to follow. One is “Have a To-Do List.” How many times have you wracked your brain trying to remember what it was that you meant to do, who you meant to email, and so on? A list makes it so easy to tick those items off. Every time something crosses your mind that you should do, write it down on that list, whether you keep the list on your phone, a piece of paper, or your computer. I recently bought a desk-size whiteboard, with erasable pen, for a friend for a birthday gift. I figured it would be a great way to keep your to-do list. As it is, mine is too often on scattered bits of paper all over my desk.

Related is the advice to plan each day the night before: make that list of what you need/want to do. For novelists, I find it so important to note each night where the novel is going the next day. I am a pantser, which means I write without an outline, but if I don’t have some idea of what’s next, I’m liable to stare at the screen all morning. But it doesn’t all have to be about writing. First thing on my to-do list for tomorrow? Make refrigerator pickles. I found a really easy recipe, and I have some cucumber that need to be used.

A piece of desk advice: only handle a piece of paper once. When you pick it up, deal with it; don’t put it aside with, “I’ll deal with that later.” I’d add to that: once you open an email, deal with it—answer if you need to, jot a note on a calendar if that’s what’s required, or delete. I have known people who had a hundred emails stashed in their inbox—it would infuriate me if I’d written that person, got no answer, and knew that I was among a hundred being postponed or ignored. I usually keep my inbox empty; if it has five items to be dealt with, that’s unusual…and a big deal for me.

All that about efficiency leads me to add that I have been terribly inefficient today. I messed up sending some publicity materials to an online newsletter for readers, I botched up trying to advertise my forthcoming non-fiction title (thanks for asking: it is The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas, about the largest ranch under one fence in this country and the legendary family who built it, enjoyed it, and ultimately sold it. A bittersweet tale.) A big goof of the day: I love cottage cheese and can do lots with it, but somehow I managed to order five containers from Central Market today. Guess what I’ll be having for breakfast for days…and days. Jordan is still laughing at me.

I vowed I would get back to writing on Irene in Danger today after a three-day holiday away from it, but I had so much email and trivia to deal with that I didn’t before I left the computer at two for a nap. Proud to say though, that while I was waiting for Christian to grill salmon, I wrote 900+ words. Yay for me. The salmon was delicious

So back to daily work. Vacations, even long weekends, are nice, but it’s good to be back in routine. Sweet dreams, everyone.

Nothing like a good book

Jacob went camping and fishing this weekend

In a tent, the fish they caught for supper

What a great experience for a twelve-year-old

            Today I treated myself to an occasional self-indulgence—a day devoted to a book. I dearly love to get lost in a good mystery, but lately I haven’t had time to read much—still proofing the Alamo book and have miles to go, plus I was reading some “serious” nonfiction. And there’s the problem that nothing I casually picked up really spoke to me.

So yesterday I started Hemlock Needle: A Maeve Malloy Mystery by Keenan Powell. And today I spent the day reading—oh, I went to church (with all three Burtons, what a treat!), and I made the stuffed lettuce from the “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” blog last week for supper tonight, and yes, I took my nap. But I read …a lot.

I chose Hemlock Needle because I know Keenan from Sisters in Crime, Guppies, and Facebook—and mostly because I know she had an Irish Wolfhound. That’s enough reason to like anyone in my book. I’ve owned those gentle giants, and I adore them, though I am saddened by their relatively short life span. Keenan ran into that too, when her Fitzhugh recently died.

But I kept reading this because it’s one of the new mystery series I’ve read in a long time. Not a cozy, which is what I usually read, but what I guess you could call a legal thriller. Set in Anchorage, where Keenan just happens to be a lawyer, so she knows whereof she writes. This is her second book in the Maeve Malloy Series.

Alaska and the Native culture are the backbone of this novel, and I find reading it is much like reading Tony Hillerman’s novels of the Navajo culture. It’s a different world for most of us, and the customs and mores dictate the direction the story will take. So does the climate. Hemlock Needle is set in Alaska’s deep winter, with plenty of snow, subzero temperatures. The plot revolves around a young woman who is found frozen to death in a snowbank—unfortunately not an unusual death for the alcoholic, homeless Native population. But Esther Fancyboy was none of those things—mother of a young son, she owned a condo and had a responsible position with a corporation that worked to bring water to remote communities.

It goes without saying that Maeve and her sidekick search for the truth behind Esther’s death and uncover corporate corruption, illicit affairs, and all manner of bad. It’s an absorbing story. And I look forward to finishing it tonight.

And now I’m back on a fiction kick, with several other titles on my TBR list. What a lovely way to spend a day. I read at my computer but today I had the patio doors open, so it was like bringing this glorious day inside. What happened to our storms?

The Fourth, with all its glory

My Fourth of July feast for one—homemade potato salad, a hot dog with kraut (the way I like it), and corn on the cob. My family is off to watch the fireworks at the country club, a huge display, beautiful but noisy right on top of you. And crowded. At lunch today Jordan asked earnestly if I was all right staying home alone. If not, she said, she’d make it happen for me to go with them. Sweet of her, but the last thing I want is to sit on the ground (probably not physically capable, certainly not of getting up) in the midst of a huge crowd and have fireworks thunder in my ear. And stay out too late. No, I’m happy at home, with the TV showing Macy’s fireworks show but the volume muted—I can look but not listen.

I have friends who are staying home because, as they said, “We have dogs.” So many dogs are terrified, and the number of frightened animals who end up in shelters is appalling. Sophie bless her sleeps through the nightly display that ends each Concert in the Garden, not far from us.

Maybe being alone on a holiday makes you nostalgic, but I’ve been thinking about past Fourth celebrations. When I was a teenager, I went with the older kids to Soldier Field in Chicago where there were stock car races—amazed now that I found that entertaining. Also a bit amazed that my parents allowed those outings. But what was then a marvelous fireworks show followed—I suppose it would pale in light of advanced pyrotechnics these days.

When the kids were little I remember going to the 8^th floor of the medical school where their dad worked and watching the city display. Later, single, I took them to various places all over town with a good view—the parking lot of the same medical building, a bridge over the Trinity River (their uncle and I both suddenly became uncomfortable on that high bridge, and the kids had to lead us off). Traffic coming home was always a tangle, and it was a late night. One year I went with friends to a historic cemetery on the river—we had a good view. And for a few years I went to the country club with Jordan. But I really don’t like to have fireworks explode in my face as it were—makes me think my heart is going to stop with the next loud boom. I am content at home with my dog. I may watch on TV, but only with one eye—I’m deep into a good mystery, What You See, by Hank Phillippi Ryan. She’s a master at capturing tension—or maybe what I mean is angst.

Jordan, Christian and I went to lunch today at a relatively new place, HG Supply. I’d not yet been there. Split a club sandwich with Jordan—one of the best and most flavorful of those concoctions I’ve had. French fries were unusually good, and the lemon aioli/ranch dressing out of this world. Christian had Frito pie which was huge but looked delicious—I may try it another time if I can get someone to split it with me.

You have to park a ways from the restaurant, so I got some good walking in, albeit with the walker. We passed an attractively landscaped area that sent my antenna up immediately. “That’s not grass!” It was fake. Christian said he loved it. “You don’t have to mow or water.” Still protesting that it was fake, I said, “It’s not contributing oxygen to our environment,” and he replied, “That’s why they put in these other plants” which is clearly not true. They put in some succulents for appearance. Jordan, ever our arbitrator, commanded us both to stop, and Christian said, “Your mom always starts it.” It’s a good thing it’s all light-hearted. But, damn, that was ugly fake grass, a color green God never created. Makes me so angry!

Happy Fourth everyone. Go plant God’s green grass, water it, and mow it.

Storms and a Eureka Moment

I seem to be always celebrating one of my grandchildren, which just proves that they all take after their grandmother and are exceptional. This is my Tomball granddaughter Morgan Helene who just earned her black belt. She’s been studying karate long and hard for several years, and I’m proud of her accomplishment and her perseverance. Morgan will be 12 in August. Why are they all growing up so fast?

Rolling, rumbling thunder woke me about one o’clock this morning and went on off and on the rest of night, often but not always keeping me awake. In one of those awake spells I had a eureka moment about the new novel I’m working on. I have about 10,000 words written, but I have no idea who the murder victim is, nor the killer. Not sure about motivation. Last night I got bits and pieces that mean going back and planting some info, plus an overall idea about who did what why. I did something I never, ever do—got out of bed and made notes. Usually I rely on my memory, but this was really good stuff, and I was afraid to trust it to morning’s recollection. So first thing this morning I was transcribing those notes, hoping they made a modicum of sense. I’m still far away from putting much of that new information to use, but now I have a clearer picture of the road ahead. This rainy, dark day is a good one to spend at the computer.

My children used to have nanny/housekeeper who would say the weather was “fairing off.” That’s what it did, and as it brightened so once again did my disposition. Lovely to have it cool all day.

Dinner tonight at the lovely home of friends in Weatherford. They are collectors who actually own a small museum, but their house is also a museum. Being in it is a treat, as was the delicious dinner. But conversation was central to the evening. I like to think I have intellectual friends, but I don’t usually go to dinner parties where the conversation is this passionate, learned, and lively. Many opinion, some different. The topic was politics and current events and the mix of the two , and I found it fascinating. Another reason to feel fortunate.

Out past my bedtime. Night all.

So Many Books, So Little Time

I’m going to change the cliché in this post title to “So Many Good Books, So Little Time for Others.” Recently I’ve found myself reading two books, both by noted and established authors, that simply didn’t engage my interest. And I gave it the old college try, kept reading. No, I’m not going to reveal either author or title.

 Somewhere I picked up the notion that it was well not quite immoral but maybe a minor sin not to finish a book once you started it. I’m here to tell you that is not true. Most of us have a TBR list that is too long to waste time being bored.

Both were fiction. The first was set in an area of Chicago I know and love, peopled with names and places familiar to me and in an era that I barely remember from childhood. I looked forward to plunging into that world. It didn’t work. The heroine, who had an interesting and suspenseful story, kept wallowing around in her own mind, blaming herself for all the ills of the world. It finally came down to God was punishing her through the Holacaust. Yes, bad things happened to her and her family, but no they weren’t God’s punishment to her. That seems almost egotistical to me. At any rate, I got tired of her extreme introspection.

The second book was a cozy mystery. I’ve enjoyed several books by this author and was surprised by this one. For nine chapters I read about the author’s background, profession, details of the field of work involved, places visited—it was an information dump. Finally, Chapter 10 introduced a body. I am not of the school that says a body is required on the first page or even in the first chapter, but I think almost a quarter of the book is extreme. I stuck with it but found even unraveling the mystery went slowly, with, again, lots of introspection.

I don’t think introspection is wrong by any means. And a book that was action only would be lightweight. We do want to get to know the characters, but we do that through their words, their attitudes, the way they interact with others, a thousand ways. We don’t have to spend pages in their minds.

Two lessons I’ll take away for my own writing involve basics: plot and character. I like to think I write character-driven fiction, but I’m also aware—and will be even more aware--of pacing, of keeping the reader’s interest. A well-known writing instructor has decreed that every scene must contribute to the whole—that may set a high standard but it’s good advice. I also believe chapters should end with a hook so that the reader can’t wait to start the next chapter.

I have a Facebook friend who was reading a book that bored her but she was determined to finish it. At one point, she posted, “Only 60 more pages.” I told her to give up, but she triumphantly soldiered through to the end. Not me. No more.

PS I see that I’ve used this title for a blog post before. Ah, old age—forgetfulness is one of the first symptom. If I repeat myself, forgive me. I guess I just feel the need to revisit the idea occasionally.

One Encounter, One Chance

Oops. Please welcome my Wednesday guest on Friday. B.K. (Bonnie) Stevens has published almost fifty short stories, most in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Some of her stories have been nominated for awards such as the Agatha and the Macavity; another won a Derringer; and another won a suspense-writing contest judged by Mary Higgins Clark. Her first novel, Interpretation of Murder, published by Black Opal Books in April, is a traditional whodunit. Her second novel, Fighting Chance, is a martial arts mystery for young adults and will be published in October by The Poisoned Pencil / Poisoned Pen Press. Website: http://www.bkstevensmysteries.com. Bonnie also hosts the innovative blog, The First Two Pages, in which authors write about how and why they wrote the first two pages of a novel.

  *****

You’ve probably seen it happen in movies or on television. Late at night, a woman walks into a

nearly empty parking garage, her eyes fixed on her cell phone as she reads a text message. Suddenly,

a man emerges from nowhere and grabs her arm. “Keep quiet,” he says, “and you won’t get hurt.”

Terrified, she tries to pry his hand away. It’s no good. He’s too strong. He shoves her into his car and

drives off. She feels helpless, doomed—and at this point, she probably is.

But did things have to reach this point? Not necessarily. Not if she had followed some basic principles of self-defense.

She wouldn’t have to be an expert. Jane Ciardi, the protagonist of my recently released mystery novel, isn’t an expert. She’s an American Sign Language interpreter who gets into some dangerous situations when she accepts a part-time job from a Cleveland private detective. But she’s taking a martial arts class, and she learns enough to protect herself.

  Interpretation of Murder offers readers insights into deaf culture and the subtleties of sign-

language interpretation. I hope it also offers them some insights into self-defense, ones they can use even if they’ve never studied martial arts. (I got the insights from someone who’s studied martial arts a lot—my husband, a fifth-degree black belt.) Here are four basic principles:

·       Be aware of your surroundings. If you’re walking into any situation that could conceivably prove dangerous, focus only on the situation, not on your cell phone or anything else. Before you take one step beyond safety, look all around for possible threats. On a Sunday afternoon, Jane strolls blithely into a parking garage, caught up in her thoughts, and finds herself face to face with someone who wants to harm her.

·       Make some noise. It’s easy to be scared into silence, especially if an attacker orders you to keep quiet. But getting noisy is often the best way of getting help. Also, yelling gets your spirits up and helps you feel stronger, and it’ll probably startle your attacker: Attackers expect victims to be passive, so a confident roar might send them running. In the parking garage, Jane ends the danger by shouting a greeting to a stranger passing by. The stranger clearly thinks Jane’s crazy, and maybe the shout wasn’t necessary—maybe Jane’s enemy wouldn’t have attacked anyway. But risking embarrassment is better than risking injury.

·       Don’t be predictable. Although any resistance will probably take an attacker by surprise, unexpected moves are especially effective. In our opening example, the woman tries to pry the man’s hand from her arm—utterly predictable, and since he’s stronger, he simply has to tighten his grip. It would’ve been better to pull his hair, claw at his eyes, stamp down on the arch of his foot. In one desperate battle, Jane fights back from a hospital bed, improvising wildly and using everything within reach—including a potted cactus—to defeat an opponent determined to kill her.

·       Don’t get in the car. In her martial arts class, Jane learns the Japanese principle of ichi-go, ichi-e—“one encounter, one chance.” In general, it means making the most of any opportunity. Applied to life-threatening situations, it means realizing you may not get more than one chance to defend yourself. If an attacker tells you to get in the car, it might seem smart to obey. Maybe you’ll placate the attacker by cooperating; maybe you’ll get a better chance to fight back later. That’s a mistake. If attacker tries to do anything that will reduce your ability to resist—tie you up, force you into a car—that’s the time to fight back. Fight as hard as you can, as long as you have to, until you can get away. It’s natural to try to avoid fights, and no decent person enjoys hurting somebody. But if your life’s in danger, delay can be fatal. Treat any chance to save yourself as the only chance you’ll get. For all you know, it is.

You can learn about more principles of self-defense by reading Interpretation of Murder. (And I definitely hope you do read it!) Undeniably, though, taking a martial arts class is the best way of learning more, and of building the skills and confidence that could make a crucial difference for you some day.

Interpretation of Murder

 

When American Sign Language interpreter Jane Ciardi takes a freelance job from a Cleveland private detective, she thinks it’s just a way to earn extra cash. Soon, she’s facing tough romantic choices, ethical dilemmas, and dangers that put her martial arts skills to the test. Jane must sort through secrets and lies as she tries to help a deaf African-American teenager—and to uncover the truth behind two murders. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Recipes & remedies

Recipes & Remedies                   

Please welcome my Wednesday guest, Connie Spittler. Her writing is found in twenty anthologies next to the words of The Dalai Lama, Deepak Chopra, Desmond Tutu and Barbara Kingsolver. She’s written two award-winning nature books, a previous novel, a creative nonfiction book, and The Wise Women Video Series, archived in Harvard University’s Library on the History of Women in America. A graduate of Creighton University, she lives with her husband in Omaha, NE, next to a secret pond visited by mink, fox, a Great Blue Heron and other lurking wildlife.  

****

Like colorful, connective threads, the power of recipes and remedies tie a family together. As a grade schooler, I remember picking radishes from our garden and thickly slicing them for a bread and butter sandwich. The most important part of the recipe was sitting on the back steps savoring the buttery crunch experience as the sun went down. This recipe, including back steps and sundown was passed on to my own kids.

I’ve heard of family members who go to great lengths to keep their food traditions alive, like the Mexican/American women who crossed the border with sprigs of moistly-wrapped herbs tucked in their bras. Plucked from relatives’ back yards, the bits of green were rooted and planted in their U. S. garden plots. My apologies to the USDA and rules prohibiting such smuggling. The sentiment that appeals to me is the importance of keeping heirloom ingredients intact for family recipes and remedies.

In The Erotica Book Club for Nice Ladies, my cozy mystery, the recipes and remedies belong

to Aggie, one of the club members. She’s an old gypsy turned herb and vegetable farmer who stirs up boiled parsnips with rosemary butter, oxtail stew, nut pudding, and a headache-curing tea of ginger, honey, lemon and cayenne. Her mixtures come from her own family recipe book, handed down from European ancestors. The scent of dill, the bitterness of yarrow, garnishes of dandelion greens and chive blossoms flavor the pages as she cures and cooks for book club members. Perhaps her most unusual recipe is for an aphrodisiac tea, an elixir composed of five herbs, one of which is imaginary. I didn’t want to be responsible for any bizarre reader reactions, in case an exact recipe was included and worked.

Aggie is one of three (it’s a small town) book club members. There’s middle-aged Lily, the fired and lonely librarian; and Piper, the young beauty shop owner, who’s fearful after finding a lump in her breast. Since they’re nice ladies, their erotica selections begin with Emily Dickinson’s Wild Nights! Wild Nights! But meetings are often cut short because of crime and a murder or two as the women become entangled in a search for a stolen ancient book of herbal cures.  

Called “a fantastical romantic mystery of friendship, science, sex and literature” by Sallly Deskins, editor of Les Femmes Folles, the release date for The Erotica Book Club for Nice Ladies is May 1, 2015. It’s available for pre-order on Amazon, print or eBook. http://www.Amazon.com/dp/0991409361

Susan Wittig Albert, author of Bittersweet, the newest China Bale mystery, described the book as “an intriguing, herb-seasoned page-turner” while Margaret Lukas, author of Farthest House found elements reminiscent of Alice Walker’s magic realism.

For more book info: www.conniespittler.com 

 

Love of Mystery Comes Full Circle

Please welcome my Wednesday guest, award-winning author Paty Jager. I was delighted to learn recently that Paty and I share a love of the American West and a history of writing about that land.

Paty and her husband raise alfalfa hay in rural eastern Oregon.  On her road to publication she wrote freelance articles for two local newspapers and enjoyed her job with the County Extension service as a 4-H Program Assistant. Raising hay and cattle, riding horses, and battling rattlesnakes, she not only writes the western lifestyle, she lives it.

All her work has western or Native American elements along with hints of humor and engaging characters. Her penchant for research takes her on side trips that eventually turn into yet another story.

 

****

 

My writing has come full circle. My first attempts at writing a novel started with two mysteries. I couldn’t find a writing group at the time to help me hone my skills. The one agent I sent the first manuscript to took advantage of my newbie status. I didn’t realize this until I’d switched to writing romance and joined Romance Writers of America.

I spent years with RWA learning the craft of writing, the business of writing, and how to navigate the publishing world. I finally found a publisher for my historical western romance books in 2006. I wrote ten novels, some historical some contemporary, with them before deciding to jump on the self-publishing wagon.

Since I started self-publishing, I’ve been slowly going back to the genre I’ve read since middle school. First with my Isabella Mumphrey Adventure Series. A cross between a female Indiana Jones and MacGyver. Those books have mystery and adventure with some steamy romance. ;)

Now, I have the first book of a new mystery series up for pre-order. The Shandra Higheagle Mysteries have my signature either cowboy or Native American elements. In this case it’s Native American. Shandra Higheagle is a potter who sells her wares in galleries as art. She lives on Huckleberry Mountain in Idaho and uses the clay from her mountain to make her wares. Right before the first book opens, Shandra loses her paternal grandmother, a Nez Perce shaman. When Shandra finds a gallery owner murdered and sees her good friend fleeing the scene, she takes it upon herself to prove her friend’s innocence. Her grandmother comes to her in her dreams, giving her clues.

Double Duplicity Blurb:

On the eve of the biggest art event at Huckleberry Mountain Resort, potter Shandra Higheagle finds herself in the middle of a murder investigation. She’s ruled out as a suspect, but now it’s up to her to prove the friend she’d witnessed fleeing the scene is just as innocent. With help from her recently deceased Nez Perce grandmother, Shandra becomes more confused than ever but just as determined to discover the truth.

Detective Ryan Greer prides himself on solving crimes and refuses to ignore a single clue, including Shandra Higheagle’s visions. While Shandra is hesitant to trust her dreams, Ryan believes in them and believes in her. Together they discover the gallery owner wasn’t the respectable woman she’d seemed. Can the pair uncover enough clues for Ryan to make an arrest before one of them becomes the next victim?

Pre-order Links:

Amazon  http://www.amazon.com/Double-Duplicity-Shandra-Higheagle-Mystery-ebook/dp/B00PFWPHPQ

Kobo  http://store.kobobooks.com/search?Query=Double+Duplicity

Nook http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/double-duplicity-paty-jager/1120790322

Apple https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id942249867

About Paty Jager:

 

You can learn more about Paty at her blog; Writing into the Sunset  her website; http://www.patyjager.net or on Facebook; https://www.facebook.com/#!/paty.jager , Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1005334.Paty_Jager  and twitter;  @patyjag.

 

 

Where My Titles Come From

Please welcome a special Sunday guest on Judy’s Stew--Marilyn Meredith, the author of over thirty-five published novels, including the award winning Deputy Tempe Crabtree mystery series. The latest in the series is River Spirits from Mundania Press. Marilyn is a member of three chapters of Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and on the board of the Public Safety Writers of America. She lives in the foothills of the Sierra. Visit her at http://fictionforyou.com and her blog at http://marilymeredith.blogspot.com/

This is the first in a blog tour for River Spirits, and Marilyn is offering a prize for the person who comments on the most blog posts during the tour. He or she can either have a character in her next book named after them, or choose an earlier book in the Deputy Tempe Crabtree series—either a paper book or e-book.

 ****

I thought it might be fun if I wrote about how I come up with title for this series. I prefer short titles, two words if possible. And, of course, the two words need to have a relationship to the plot. The hope is that a reader will be enticed by the title and want to read the book.

Often I've found a quote either from a Native American or a snippet from an Indian legend that lends itself to becoming the perfect title. Usually I have the title before I write the book. In fact sometimes the title is what has given me the idea for the book--or at least part of the plot.

Once I had to ask my critique group what they thought ought to be the title of the book I'd been reading to them. They came up with many suggestions, but only one was the perfect title.

Contrary to my usual practice, I'd nearly finished writing River Spirits before I knew what the title should be. As I was writing one of the ending scenes, the appearance of spirits rising from the river gave me the perfect title.

I'm sure other writers may have their own way of picking titles for their books and if so, I hope they'll share in the comments.

River Spirits:

While filming a movie on the Bear Creek Indian Reservation, the film crew trespasses on sacred ground. The female stars receive threats, the Hairy Man finds a missing woman, and someone murders an actor. Deputy Tempe Crabtree has no idea who is guilty. Once again, the elusive and legendary Hairy Man plays an important role in this newest Deputy Tempe Crabtree mystery.

Deborah Crombie's Scotland Yard books

I'm almost through reading Deborah Crombie's new To Dwell in Darkness and can hardly put it down. But I've been pondering why that series is probably my all-time favorite, why I get so wrapped up in each book, and why I wait, patiently as possible, for the next one. The books are set in England, and I usually prefer American settings; I'm a cozy reader--and author--and these are definitely not cozy. Trying to figure out the attraction has brought that old question to mind--is it plot or character?
Crombie's works are intricately plotted and constructed. I sometimes wonder about her writing method--surely she must outline. At times I thought in this book she had written herself into a blind alley, but she always saves the situation in a thoroughly believable manner (no spoilers here). There are plenty of twists and turns to keep any reader guessing, and that's probably one reason I'm drawn to read so fast. But, no, I don't think it's plot that draws me.
Crombie, a North Texas native, knows England better than most Englanders. Her books include maps, but since I have never been to London, they mean little to me. But she has managed to capture the language and culture in a way that can only be authentic. At one point, in a news conference, Duncan Kincaid tells reporters, "Further information will be forthcoming after the inquest." To himself, he says it's better than saying, "We don't have a bloody clue, mate!" The clothing is equally convincing--cardigans are not what they are in the U.S., nor are umbrellas and lots of other things. I do feel transported to London--and sometimes Scotland, which I love. If I ever go to London I'm sure now I'll want to see the historic Pancras Station and a lot of other places.
But when I come right down to it, it's the characters who keep me involved in the world Crombie creates. Duncan Kincaid and Gemma James are the main characters--both Scotland Yard. But they are joined by several recurring secondary characters so that the reader feels he or she has entered a small community--their children, their associates, characters added in previous novels. But it is Duncan and Gemma who move the stories forward. They began as tentative lovers--by this, the sixteenth book I think though I may be wrong--they are married and raising his son, her son, and an adopted young girl. They have a houseful of children and dogs and the usual confusion that goes along--such as the litter of starving kittens the children bring home in this one. In previous books, they survived such threats as uncertainty about their relationship, a miscarriage, and the death of some close to them. But Duncan and Gemma are also dedicated to their careers which involved unexpected transfers, long hours, and uncertain schedules. Never assigned these days to the same cases, they manage to share information, concerns, and pure speculation about who did what. The reader thus is part of both their Scotland Yard lives and their personal lives, right down to intimacy with the bedroom door properly closed. They are highly trained and absolutely professional; they are also warm, compassionate, caring human beings.
Those are my scattered thoughts, but as I draw close to the end of To Dwell in Darkness, I'm already aware that it will be a long year until the next book. I assume it's already in draft stage.

Welcome to Honey Creek, Ohio!

Please welcome my guest, Jennifer Anderson, the last of the authors from the boxed set "Small Town Charm, Love and Mystery." I hope you've enjoyed meeting the authors of these diverse and fascinating books.

 

Take a walk around town, where there is only one stoplight, one gas station, one grocery story, many churches and one lake. But, oh man, what a lake.

Honey Creek Lake is where a lot of the magic and drama happens in the sweet, little town. Maybe take a dip in our man-made waters. Walk along the edge and watch the boaters zip by sending waves a water to lap the shores. Have a lazy day, cast out a line and wait for the fish to bite. Or maybe, grab the hand of your loved one and step inside our new gazebo. Slip under our famous Weeping Willow and steal a kiss from your sweetie. Every corner of our lake holds a story. When you’re there, create your own.

Head five miles back into town from the lake, stop by our White Cottage Restaurant, and have a slice of strawberry pie, although I’m partial to the lemon meringue. The pie display case and red-topped tables only add to the incredible yummies filling every plate. Catch 22 Pizza sets off the perfect Italian mood with soft lighting and scents of garlic, warm bread and spicy sauce. Grab a slice or an entire pizza pie. It doesn’t matter because after one bite, you’ll be back for more.

If you’re only here for a short while, maybe plan a trip back during our summer months. We host a Strawberry Festival with music and booths full of berry fare. July plays host to a Fourth of July celebration with a parade and fireworks at the lake. Rent a cabin and stay awhile. You’re sure to find whatever you’re looking for in our charming town and rural county.

Honey Creek sets the stage for a sweet Young Adult novella, Ice Princess. In it, Mya wants to shake things up in her small town. But once she’s given what she wants, will she change her mind and craves normalcy.

Here’s an excerpt from Ice Princess, Honey Creek Royalty Book 1:

“Okay. Stop me if you’ve heard this one. A farmer and a pig….”

“Stop,” I yelled without looking up.

“I already told you that one?”

“No, but any joke starting with a farmer and pig can’t be good.” I rolled over on the large towel we’d spread across the sand. It was the last day of summer vacation, and Michael and I agreed to spend the day together doing nothing but enjoying the sun. Living in Ohio, we weren’t sure how many more days we had left. Soon the leaves would fall, showing off snow-covered cornfields.

“Can you toss me a Dr. Pepper?”

“Sure.” Without looking, I reached into the small red Igloo cooler we brought and produced a cold dripping can. I knew it was for him since I preferred bottled water to soda. Not Michael. The kid lived on caffeine and sugar. Which made the lack of fat on his body hard to explain. Not that I’d ever noticed. Michael Graves was my best friend. And nothing more.

“So, you ready for tomorrow?”

“Sure, I guess,” I answered. “How’s it any different than the last three years at Fayette County High? Really, we’ve known the same people and gone to school with them for the past twelve years. We all know who we’re gonna eat lunch with or who we’re gonna sit with at opening assembly. Boring.” I wasn’t a pessimist or a Debbie Downer, but Honey Creek needed some excitement and I didn’t think our senior year would prove to be any different unless something unusual happened.

“Ok. So why don’t we spice it up a bit.”

“Like what?”

“Let’s start a nasty rumor or sit at a different table at lunch.”

“Ooh, Michael, you’re so scandalous! Have I been rubbing off on you?”

“Hardly. I think the most daring thing you’ve ever done was streak across my yard when we were five because you’d heard wearing your bathing suit gave you tan lines. Even though you had no idea what tan lines were, I might add,” he said with a smirk. The afternoon sun danced across his blonde moppy hair, intensifying his golden highlights. He sat next to me in a short beach chair staring out at the water. Everyone we knew was out enjoying the last weekend of August. All of the rental cottages were empty from the few Honey Creek vacationers that came to visit the lake. It was a manmade watering hole, but that didn’t take away from the fun we had there. Boats skidded across the water pulling skiers or tubers in their wake. The sand was dressed with towels and blankets full of half-clothed bodies soaking up the sun like Michael and me.

“So word around town is there’s a new kid coming to school.”

4 Star LASR Review: Great Read!

“It is a wonderfully emotional short story with just the right balance of sweetness and sadness. I recommend it to anyone who relishes a charming story of love and friendship.”

"The emotional scenes in the hospital and day of funeral are great - I know I cried when I reviewed initially, and I cried again in both read-throughs this week - I'm such a sap :-)" -Wendy on GoodReads

Blurb:

Mya Newman never minded the routine or quiet that came with living in Honey Creek, Ohio. For her senior year, she craves something exciting to happen instead of it melting into a cookie cutter routine like the previous years.

When a new girl, Audrey Moore, moves to town, Mya finds herself caught in a triangle. She discovers hidden feelings for her best friend, Michael Graves, but he seems to have eyes for the new girl.

After Mya's father becomes ill and eventually passes, she turns to her best friend, Michael. He never leaves her side, but she wonders if he'd rather be elsewhere. With fear of rejection and loss of friendship, Mya decides she can't confess her recently discovered feelings.

When Michael and Mya share a dance at the Winter Formal, does she open her heart to him? Or does she shy away, forever longing to be the princess who finds her prince?

Amazon   Barnes&Noble   iBooks   TMP Bookstore  Smashwords   ARe  

About Jennifer Anderson:

I'm a mommy, wife and author. Even though I've spent many years on either coast, I've spent a majority of my life in the Midwest. Here is where my heart grows with the love and support of my family and friends and here is where I find inspiration for my stories.

My complete list of releases:
Ice Princess, Honey Creek Royalty Book 1
Prince Charming, Honey Creek Royalty Book 2
Queen Mean, Honey Creek Royalty Book 3
King of the Lake, Honey Creek Royalty Book 4
Spider, May 2013
My Brother's Wedding, August 2013

Print edition of Books 1-3 from Honey Creek Royalty Series are now available!

You can visit me at www.jenandersonauthor.com and www.musingsfromthepeanutgallery.blogspot.com

Twitter: @JenniA8677

 

A city girl discovers small-town Texas

I’m thrilled to have Murder at the Blue Plate Café included in the boxed set, “Small Town Charm, Love and Mystery,” published by Turquoise Morning Press. But it strikes me there’s some irony in a lifelong city girl writing about small towns.

Coming from Chicago, where I’d been raised, I thought I’d met small towns when I moved to Kirksville, Missouri (pop. 1960s about 12,000). But I didn’t really know about small towns until the late 1970s when I started visiting Ben Wheeler and Edom in East Texas (some say not far enough east to earn that designation). My good friends, Charlie and Reva Ogilvie, had a guest ranch outside Ben Wheeler, and we ate at The Shed in Edom frequently.

Ben Wheeler bothered me. It was then almost a ghost town, with boarded up store fronts, though I understand it’s had a renaissance, thanks mostly to the man who bought Arc Ridge Ranch from the Ogilvies. It was like many small towns I had driven through: it needed a coat of paint. We went once to a dilapidated roller skating rink (my kids loved it) and more often than I liked to a dismal grocery store, since boarded up, where I trusted neither the cleanliness nor the temperature of the refrigerator and freezer units. Don’t even talk about the freshness of the vegetables. For real grocery shopping, we went to  Canton, but I guess that’s a feature of small-town life—going to the nearest good-sized town for a lot of things.

Edom, on the other hand, delighted me. We went several years to the annual craft fair, and other times we wandered the main street which featured craft shops—pottery, leather workers, jewelry makers, and a wonderful women’s clothing store. I was amazed that the main street, a state highway, had neither stoplight nor stop sign. You took your chances, and you ran like hell.

The best thing in Edom to my family was The Shed. I suppose The Shed isn’t much different from lots of small-town cafés with chicken-fried steak, fried catfish, glorious meringue pies (Charlie told me it was all air so no calories, and  I reminded him about the pudding bottom), and huge breakfasts. The thing I loved most was that everyone knew Charlie and Reva and greeted them happily. We basked in a small afterglow of fame because we were their guests.

Once my youngest daughter and her husband were with me at The Shed for Sunday breakfast, after a visit to the ranch, and Christian said he wanted to drive around Edom to look for his grandmother’s house. He’d spent many happy days there as a child. We drove, and it didn’t take long to find out that he didn’t recognize a single house. When we got home, his grandmother told him it’s right next door to The Shed.

That café and that town became so firmly embedded in my mind that they formed the setting for the Blue Plate Café Mysteries. I changed the town name to Wheeler, but no one from that part of the state will be fooled, and I was careful to note that the murders there were from my imagination and reflected in no way on Edom or its residents. But the fictional counterpart of The Shed is central to the story.

A friend who grew up in Granbury, Texas wrote me, “You nailed small-town life.” It was the biggest compliment I could have gotten.      

 

About Murder at the Blue Plate Café

 

When twin sisters Kate and Donna inherit their grandmother’s restaurant, the Blue Plate Cafe, in Wheeler, Texas, there’s immediate conflict. Donna wants to sell and use her money to establish a B&B; Kate wants to keep the cafe. Thirty-two-year-old Kate leaves a Dallas career as a paralegal and a married lover to move back to Wheeler and run the café, while Donna plans her B&B and complicates her life by having an affair with her sole investor. Kate soon learns that Wheeler is not the idyllic small town she thought it was fourteen years ago. The mayor, a woman, is power-mad and listens to no one, and the chief of police, newly come from Dallas, doesn’t understand small-town ways. Kate is suspicious of Gram’s sudden death, “keeling over in the mashed potatoes,” as Donna described it, and she learns that’s not at all what happened. When the mayor of Wheeler becomes seriously ill after eating food from the café, delivered by Donna’s husband, Kate is even more suspicious. Then Donna’s investor is shot, and Donna is arrested. Kate must defend her sister and solve the murders to keep her business open, but even Kate begins to wonder about the sister she has a love-hate relationship with. Gram guides Kate through it all, though Kate’s never quite sure she’s hearing Gram—and sometimes Gram’s guidance is really off the wall.

 See details at    http://www.amazon.com/Murder-Blue-Plate-Mystery-ebook/dp/B00BGOKVNK/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1378314760&sr=1-1&keywords=murder+at+the+blue+plate+cafe