An Excess of Almonds

I had 2 egg whites in the fridge. I know they will keep practically forever in the freezer, but I needed to do something with them and there was a recipe that stayed on the edge of my mind, maybe because the recipe was always on my computer on a tab that kept popping up. Almond cloud cookies.

The recipe was fairly simple and it would give my 2 egg whites a place to end up.

I'm a fairly good cook and baker and I pride myself on the finished products that come out of my kitchen. I fearlessly go where no cook has ever gone before in many cases, like the time I decided to make corned beef in my refrigerator. That went really well. I love corned beef hash, corned beef sandwiches, hot corned beef, corned beef in every permutation, especially when it ends up with me eating it. I love almonds the same way and I'd never tried working with a 10-ounce lump of what is essentially marzipan (almonds processed with sugar into a paste).

The almond cloud cookie recipe I used requires two kinds of almond extract: regular pure almond extract and bitter almond extract (smells like cyanide or rather cyanide smells like bitter almonds). I took my brand new bottle of bitter almond extract from the drawer and set it on the counter while I collected the egg whites and a few other things from the fridge. I turned around juggling the egg white container (BPA-free plastic) and knocked the bottle of extract to the floor, flooding the floor and my senses with the overpowering aroma of almonds. Well, that bottle was ruined. The fall onto the ceramic tiles resulted in a broken bottle cap and most of the contents spreading quickly across the kitchen floor. I mopped up the oil, but the scent lingered on.

It still lingers on because it is an oil without alcohol and oils do not evaporate quickly. The kitchen smells of almonds now 2 days later, and it's not just the cookies, which also smell wonderful. I'll have to buy another bottle to replace the damaged one. Probably best to get 2.

Anyway, if this is what cyanide smells like, it's no wonder that criminals -- and the Feds -- use cyanide. It smells pleasant even though you die when you drink it in a cocktail or bite down on that faux tooth or cyanide capsule. What a way to go. It's rather like coming and going at the same time, at least from a gustatory standpoint.

The cookies still got their shot of bitter almond oil and pure almond extract and I have 2 more cans of almond paste (marzipan) to use again before the cap-less bottle gets spilled again. I think it might be a wonderful oil to rub on the wooden cabinets to keep them from getting dried out and just because it smells so good. It smelled good when I put the almond paste into the mixer, added about 1/2 to 3/4 cup of sugar and turned it on. The almond extracts and the egg whites and a dash of salt went in after the lump of almondy goodness was more like pebbly sand until the egg whites turned the mass into a lovely slurry that I scooped out and onto the greased cookie sheet before I dusted them with powdered sugar and put them in the oven where the aroma was intensified by the heat.

Yes, I did try the cookies before they were completely cooled. I did wait a decent amount of time so I didn't burn my tongue, but they were good. I still have some in the cookie jar on the kitchen counter if you'd like a taste of what crisp around the edges and soft and luscious in the middle. It pays to learn to cook -- and to stretch your skills to a new recipe.

Overlaid with the almond scent today is the scent of pepperoni, garlic, mushrooms, butter, and cheese since I decided to make calzone for supper. That's another aroma I like and it was my first time making calzone dough from scratch. Delicious, although I did have to clean the over afterwards. Some of the olive oil in the pesto I used as a base for the ingredients smoked up the inside of the oven. Since the oven was still hot, it seemed a good idea to clean it. I would not need the oven for the next 3 hours. I'd be busy eating my calzone and working on a new editing project happy as a clam.

I wonder, are clams happy?  How does one tell?

There will always be mishaps in the kitchen if you spend enough time in it cooking and baking, but at least the mishaps don't end up on anyone's plate -- or in the garbage. I don't have any animals to feed those kinds of mistakes and my mistakes are more of the spilling variety than the cooking disaster variety.

I bought more peaches today. I bought peaches earlier this week, but those are all gone. I could not resist the sweet, melt in my mouth, juicy peaches, so I ate them. I bought more so that I can make peaches and cream ice cream, peach clafouti (French cakey cobbler, and my grandmother's peach cobbler recipe. I have the iron skillet and I know how to use it. I also have some baker's sugar to go on top.

No, I will not use the homemade peaches and cream ice cream. Growing up, whenever Gram made peach cobbler, we put our pieces in a bowl, poured on some cold milk, and stirred in a bit of vanilla extract. It sounds weird, but try it. You'll like it.

Yes, I still do occasionally put a piece of cornbread in a bowl or glass of milk and eat it that way too. My dad was a country boy and he did it that way. He also stirred maple syrup into peanut butter to spread on bread or toast. I sometimes do the same thing with honey. Yummy.

Food is good for you, but don't forget to play with it from time to time. There's nothing wrong with playing with your food as long as you don't decorate the walls (or the kitchen floor) with it -- either on purpose or by a clumsy accident.

Well, that's all for this week's food diary. I have editing to do.

That is all. Disperse. 

Chocolate, Chocolate, Chocolate

 

 

I cut down (way down, think really low bass down) on sugar 3 months ago. I went through all the holidays without a single candy cane, pumpkin pie, chocolate mousse, chocolate coins, etc. without batting an eye. Since the physical changes wrought have been so remarkable I decided to celebrate with something sweet for Valentine's Day.

Did I mention, no ice cream or tiramisu?

I love dark chocolate covered cherries, Almond Roca, and anything chocolate from Godiva. As I looked at all the possibilities and tried to decide with decadent chocolate treat to celebrate with, I decided not to buy anything. I'll get through Valentine's Day without a sweet (as in sugar) treat, even if that Caribbean chocolate rum cake looks so good and, if memory serves, tasted like rum soaked chocolate heaven. No sense letting all this good work go to waste.

I need to cross stitch now to keep my hands busy and out of mischief. That's what I need. I can do this. I got through 2 months of holidays treats treatless. One day won't make a difference.

Just don't visit my house for at least a week after Valentine's Day. I might mistake you for a chocolate heart and bite your head off. I wouldn't be responsible; it's instinct.

Hand Over the Fruitcake, Please

Shopping for fruitcake has been an interesting experience and I've come across quite a few variations on the fruitcake theme, including a monastery in Oregon that sells 6 slices of fruitcake covered in chocolate for almost as much as a whole tinned fruitcake. Maybe not. Don't think the fruitcake is like Boston brown bread steamed in a tin but one of those lovely tins that Gram used to save buttons in with holiday pictures and traditional holiday and Jacobean pattern paintings. There was one tin, which I still have, that was covered in a classic Wedgwood pattern in blue and white, that lovely Wedgwood blue that is so indicative of real Wedgwood china. The paper's torn in a couple of places, but the tin is still good and full of buttons Gram collected and I inherited, some of which are gone because I used them on outfits I made here and there.

What I don't get are the jokes about fruitcake. Yes, it's heavy (weight-wise) because of all the fruit and nuts (my favorite always had pecans) packed inside, and the cake itself is dense, but a good fruitcake that's aged in whiskey or brandy is a rich and delectable treat that spells Christmas for me as surely as flaming plum pudding does for some Englishmen (and women, too). Our holidays when Gram was alive was not complete unless there was fruitcake, great thick slabs of it glistening with glaceed fruit and redolent of brandy. I don't know that Mom was so persnickety in those days because she even had a piece, despite her no alcohol in the food stance. Eating the whole fruitcake wouldn't have been even close to enough to get anyone drunk, not even a newborn, if the child had the teeth and taste buds to be able to enjoy the treat, but that's a story for another time. This time it's about fruitcake.

I guess because of all the nuts and fruit, that's why fruitcake became another word for a score sheet full of gutter balls or a few bricks shy a load. Just another way to call someone insane -- or nearly there.

And then there are the jokes about fruitcakes so heavy they were used as bricks to build a grill outside after years of fruitcakes had piled up in the basement, still inedible and fireproof to boot. Or that someone threw a piece of fruitcake and knocked out their spouse, as if that is even possible. Talk about hyperbole. It's all about taste, and a good fruitcake is packed with taste, and those that love fruitcake will agree, it's not Christmas without it.

It wouldn't be human without contention and disagreement, choosing up sides to fire off against opponents. What is it about people that they just can't enjoy themselves and allow others to do the same, even if what they enjoy isn't what you enjoy? There are so many things in life to choose that it is a waste of time to sneer at others who choose something else. People able to afford cashmere give the cold shoulder to someone wearing a polyester blend sweater or a cardigan someone knitted or crocheted as a gift. Drivers of BMWs thumb their noses at drivers of Mercedes and Volvos who in turn look down their noses at anyone who drives a Ford Taurus or Chevy Cavalier, and all of them look enviously at the couple with the top down driving the vintage Ford Mustang or classic Jaguar or Spider. It's plain to see they like what they bought, so there's no reason to denigrate someone who either couldn't afford or preferred another type of car.

We're all about contention and disagreement. My mother is famous for it, calling me up just to argue because no one in Ohio will argue with her and she knows I will -- or rather I did until I figured out that was her game. She picks and pushes buttons until I -- or anyone else -- respond and push back, verbally of course. Luckily, I live far enough away so that it doesn't matter if I decide to make or buy a fruitcake. It's too late to make one, although I have the cheese cloth and the liquor store isn't far away, because I don't have a month or two until Christmas to age the fruitcake properly in the closet soaking in rum or brandy or whisky. It takes time to make a fruitcake the right way, the traditional way.

In the meantime, I'll keep looking and avoid the place where I bought one last year. I got a tiny fruitcake, hardly more than 2 good slabs, for $30 and I want fruitcake to spare for the holiday, or until the new year, whichever comes first. Mock me if you will, call me names, and snicker when you read this, but I will enjoy every morsel and crumb of my holiday tradition and you can enjoy yours, even if it does involve a liquor-soaked flaming plum pudding.

Come to think of it, I need a good old-fashioned mincemeat pie, too, just like the one Mrs. Jonathan Frake won the blue ribbon for at the Iowa State Fair.

Happy holidays.

Gathering the ragged ends of family

Since I began a nightly regimen, I've been sleeping better -- and longer. This morning I was awakened by Beanie calling on the phone. I was half awake already, waiting for her call, and reached out for the phone with my eyes still closed and sleep-heavy limbs. I didn't even open my eyes when I thumbed the cell phone open and said hello.

"It's done," she said. "Took five minutes . . . and Randy brought Terry. He lied to his attorney when he said he wouldn't be there. That's why he signed the paper yesterday."

No surprise there. Randy is a liar. He always lies, most often to create chaos, keep Beanie off balance and just because, even when the truth sounds better, he goes for the lie. That's who he is.

It is over. Beanie is divorced.

Randy didn't expect Beanie to bring the Mushroom, but she and I planned it earlier this week to make sure she had a witness of her own. The Mushroom said that Terry said hello to him after they left the judge's chambers and that Randy was crying. Randy is such a girl, a real drama queen, and he has some serious psychological problems. He's passive-aggressive, narcissistic, abusive, histrionic and manipulative, and I'm just hitting the tip of the iceberg that is the psychological stew of his warped psyche. After all, he is the son of a man who, after a lovely anniversary dinner with his wife, picked up a baseball bat and bashed in her skull while she was undressing. He went to prison for twenty years and, when he was released, he moved right in with a multi-millionairess who keeps him in a style he rapidly became accustomed to. His wife, Randy's mother Cathy, still has lingering deficits from the trauma and has undergone some extensive surgery to repair the physical damage. Randy and his father are close, although, after the brutal beating, he refused to see or talk to his father -- at least that anyone knows for certain. They are close now, very close.

Randy has anger management issues and is a control freak. It's a good thing that Beanie got out when she did, even after 26 years, but she'll not be free of him, not as long as he's alive, and that the sad thing about it. Randy has splintered our rudderless family in the wake of my father's death three years ago and our mother and Hoity-Toity supported him through this divorce, not Beanie, their own flesh and blood. Hoity-Toity has gotten very close to Randy, supposedly because they share a common history (her fourth husband left her for another woman, a Malaysian woman who gave birth to his illegitimate son while married to Hoity), having been dumped by someone they loved. Now Hoity and Randy are taking ballroom dancing lessons together and he's free to follow his heart -- probably right into Hoity's bed and home. You just never know.

With Mom, it's easier to see what's going on. She loves to be the center of attention and is a big supporter of abusive marriages, since she abused Dad for over fifty years. There's also that gleam that comes into her eye and the unmistakable signs of flirting whenever Randy is around, any young man for that matter. She's a tee-totaling Calvinist, but she's not immune to testosterone and flattery. What elderly heterosexual woman is? I've seen it many times, elderly women without men of their own who preen and flirt with any young man who comes within shouting distance, giggling and batting their eyelashes and hanging on every word with a discreet touch of hand or fingers on the masculine arm whenever one is close to hand.

At least this part of the drama is over and Beanie can move on with her life. Mom bemoans the fact that none of her children are married now and because of that she will not be hosting a Thanksgiving dinner. I guess those are reserved for people with spouses, however miserable they may be with those spouses. Family means two spouses and children; nothing else qualifies. She cries that her family is splintered, but there is no strong-willed matriarch clinging to the ragged ends of her family that should include her children (spouse or no spouse) and grandchildren. None of those matter without their anchoring partners to give them legitimacy. Any other mother determined to hold her family together would have a family Thanksgiving with her children and their children and their children's boyfriends, girlfriends and friends. That is how a family stays together, not because they are legitimate by right of marriage, but because they are legitimate by right of birth.

Beanie told me she probably wouldn't have Thanksgiving dinner either. "What's the point?" The point is family and stability. She could have dinner at her house with her children and her friends and their children and invite the Mushroom since he has nowhere else to go -- but to family, and she is family. The Mushroom might even bring his children and his son JC might bring a girlfriend. Family is family and the boundaries of family keep changing, should change as it grows and expands, spreading outward from a warm and loving center. If I still lived in Ohio, I would have Thanksgiving dinner and make sure Beanie, her friends and their children, my nephews and nieces, and the Mushroom were invited. I'd invite some of our other relatives, family that live locally and have fallen off the family map for whatever reason. A little help from everyone, a pot luck Thanksgiving dinner, and I'm sure it would be fun and warm and . . . family. But I don't live there and will have to make do with my usual gallery of friends and fiends for the holiday feast. Family is what you make it.

All I can hope is that the reality of this divorce sinks in and Beanie takes up the ragged ends of her life and moves boldly towards a happier future. She has the means to make it so and she deserves a much happier life than she has had. Don't we all?

Don't crowd the mushrooms

There's a line in Julie/Julia that finally made sense to me this morning: Don't crowd the mushrooms.

I wanted something fast and easy this morning for breakfast. Didn't have any eggs, but I did have some steak and mushrooms, so steak and mushrooms it was. With Don't crowd the mushrooms repeating in my head, I sliced mushrooms, added butter to the olive oil and dumped the mushrooms in. Instantly, the kitchen filled with the fragrance of earth and butter and the fruitiness of olive oil. I get the good stuff. I shook the pan and flipped the mushrooms only one layer deep in the pan and something magical began to happen: they browned. Browned mushrooms. usually they become lighter in color and silt and sweat, but they don't brown, not until this morning. Don't crowd the mushrooms. When the mushrooms were done, I dumped in the beef, searing it quickly in the mushroom liquor, butter and olive oil, shaking the pan and turning the meat over until the pink was gone from the surface (I like my meat medium rare), reveling in the aroma of grass fed beef marbled lightly with white fat and beginning to crisp in the hot pan and the residue of butter, olive oil and mushrooms. Talk about seductive and mouthwatering. I could hardly wait to eat.

The first bite was heaven. the browned mushrooms were earthy and wonderful and the meat tender and still a bit bloody on the inside, just the way I like it. The only thing missing was eggs, at least two of them. Every bite was a taste sensation of fresh ingredients and culinary perfection. I lingered over each bite, letting the succulent juices linger on my tongue, savoring each bite. I am sated, not just by food, but by the wonderful taste and the aroma of earthy, fruity, buttery mushrooms that makes me want to inhale deeply to keep the scent fresh in my mind and on my palate.

That's the thing about food. You can eat quickly and without fuss, getting a random taste of this or that ingredient, passively noting the taste of unexciting and ordinary food that nourishes and fuels the body, or you can eat slower and enjoy each mouthful before, during and after the meal is finished. There is something to be said for home cooked food, but what it really boils down to is simply well cooked food that makes use of the best ingredients by the best methods. You can eat to live or live to eat, and the latter is not really a bad thing. Eating to live is simply pumping in the fuel without regard for the ingredients or method of delivery. You could take vitamins and supplements and wolf down the food and it will still fill the engine and do the work it's meant to do. In living to eat, we absorb the nutrients and engage all the senses until food becomes a spiritual experience that connects us to the earth and the elements. I know, it sounds so airy-fairy; in a way, it is. That doesn't mean it's not right.

What got me thinking about the way I've been eating to live lately is an ad I came across for Rocky Mountain grass fed beef and lamb. I buy organic, grass fed meat, but I haven't given it much though or spent much time in preparing the food, except as fuel and not as a whole body-mind experience. No wonder I've been out of sorts and feeling a bit down lately. I have been fueling the engine, but completely forgot about fueling the mind and spirit. We are more than an intricate mechanical contrivance with sentience, we are an entity of mind, body and spirit and every part of us needs to be nourished, fed, nurtured and honored. I guess that is what is meant as the body being the temple, a temple that houses the intangibles that make us who we are: the spirit and the mind.

The more science uncovers, the further we get from being whole. We treat ourselves as though we can detail the outside and forget about the engine, the fuel, the electrical and computer systems and everything that makes the vehicle go. It's like having find leather seats and a state of the art CD/DVD player in a car that is rusted and has no tires with brake lines that are completely dry. Okay, that's a very simplistic analogy, but it makes a point.

Everything we do, everything we see and experience, is all part of what nourishes the whole being, the body, mind and spirit. I've been feeding myself, but not in a substantial way, not in a way that takes into account the whole being. Eating without engaging the senses, without feeding the mind and spirit, is eating to live, fueling a broken car or one that is nearly broken, falling into a deep rut that keeps getting deeper with every passing day that I ignore the rest of me, the intangibles that make me whole. I will never crowd the mushrooms again and I will definitely spend more time on living to eat. I already feel better. Think what days, weeks and months of living to eat will accomplish. I can hardly wait to find out. Time to get out the pots, pans and utensils. I'm going shopping.

That is all. Disperse.

Long distance relationships are the best.

High on hot chocolate and shivering under a faux fur lap robe, it's hard to think of anything to write. It suddenly got cold, me wearing heavy robe, socks, guzzling hot chocolate and jacking up the thermostat cold. I'm half tempted to turn the oven on and get some real heat in here.

It's snowing outside, a granular, salting of tiny crystals kind of snow that hits the ground with a weak sizzle since it hasn't been that warm all week. We've had a heat wave with the temps in the low to mid 40s, barely above freezing, but it hasn't been bad and my thermostat hasn't been over 65; I've been comfortable -- until today. Good thing I moved my herbs into the bathroom where there's more light and heat and the occasional whiff of steam from the shower. The only thing I don't like about winter is how much it dries out me and everything else. I can almost hear the atmosphere sucking up moisture through a straw.

John Of Arabia asked about my relatives. As I told him, I have them, but I'm keeping my whereabouts a secret lest they come and visit me, bringing an eastern seaboard blizzard with them that would trap us all in my little cottage (and I do mean little) for so long it would make the Donner party except with French sauces and cheese. I have lots of cheese. Since I prefer healthy food, I'd have to toss Mom to the wolves, crows and ravens because I don't eat junk food. No, hot chocolate, or rather cocoa, is not junk food, especially when made with whole goat's milk and 65% cacao, organic, of course. Hoity Toity would have enough fat on her to make eating her stringy flesh almost worthwhile as long as I marinated her for a few days in vinegar. Not too much vinegar, since she's pretty vinegary already. Beanie would barely make an hors d'oeuvre and I wouldn't eat her anyway. I would have to knock her out with a handful of Mom's narcotics and feed her myself since she would probably rather starve than eat her relatives, at least until she got hungry enough or I managed to convince her the gumbo was pork and smoked sausage. The aroma should be enough to make her mouth water. She's always complaining she can't get good gumbo since I moved away. Well, I can't get oatmeal cake since I moved away either, but at least I can bake it myself. (Note to self: get organic coconut and walnuts for oatmeal cake.) The Mushroom wouldn't come so that would be all right, especially since it would take too long to de-hair him to find out what meat is available. Beanie sent me a picture and I'm still not sure it was him under all that hair. He looks like Grizzly Adams, except not as neatly groomed. I told him all he needs now is sackcloth, ashes, and a cave to be a real hermit. Why do you think we call him the Mushroom?

Do you know how some mushrooms are cultivated? In manure in the dark.

Speaking of which, a friend asked if I'd seen Brad Pitt lately. I had to admit to watching Troy (I was avoiding work) because I liked the naked Brad Pitt shots. Yes, I was looking for dangling bits. It's been a while since I've seen any up close and personal. (Note to self: must get male in compromising position while naked.) She said I wouldn't want to see him now. He's gained some weight (not necessarily a bad thing, I like something to hang onto while I'm riding), sporting a scraggly, unkempt beard (that must be where the Mushroom got the idea that women like it) and people say he smells. Also, not a bad thing. "He smells bad." Okay, definitely a bad thing. Angelina, she said, looks like a plucked chicken, a really stringy, skinny plucked chicken. I'll bet her nose is white, too, unless she's stopped riding the white line or smoking the glass pipe and has moved into the main line.

What is wrong with people, especially people who have it all? If they're not running to the plastic surgeon for Botox, collagen and knife work, they're dragged out on drugs. I still remember the horrific story of Bobby Brown disimpacting Whitney Houston's brown load because she was so out of it she was constipated. No, that's not love, that's insanity. No one is worth that, especially if they're not senile or suffering from Alzheimer's. Gag me with a pitchfork.

Seen in the light of Brangelina and Bobby and Whitney, maybe my family isn't so bad. Okay, the Mushroom needs to come out of the cyber closet and trim the beard or cut it off, get his hair trimmed and meet real people in real time, Hoity Toity needs to stop complaining about her boobs touching the sides of her arms and Beanie needs to make me an oatmeal cake and deliver it personally, but they're my family. We won't even talk about Mom. She's not my mother. I have proof. They left me off my father's obituary, which is a blessing in disguise. Every time Hoity Toity and Beanie call to talking about what new irritating thing MY mom did, I can now say, "She not MY mom. I wasn't listed on Dad's obituary and she was his wife." Works out really good for all concerned.

Okay, it works out really good for me. I don't care about the rest of them. That's why I have an unlisted number and refuse to tell them where I live now. It's safer.

I've found that some relationships work better when they're long distance. Now, if only I can get their mother to move to Pluto, everything would improve.

That is all. Disperse.

Live graciously and well

Note to self: When a recipe suggests that a bigger container would be best for rising bread, either buy or find a bigger container.

I tried a new recipe for almost no-knead French baguettes. It's a simple recipe: water, flour, yeast and salt. There's very little kneading needed, but kneading with a dough hook is part of the process. I used the dough hooks on my hand mixer for the first time (it's a sticky dough) and got the exact result described in the recipe. It poured out of the mixing bowl into the oiled rising bowl pretty easily, but I also discovered why you add the flour to the water instead of the water to the flour in this kind of process; it's so all the flour is incorporated. Okay, so that went well. I covered the rising bowl, the biggest bowl I own, with plastic wrap and set the hole thing to rise on the stove for two hours. Since it's out of my usual line of sight, and I didn't think it was anything to worry about, I let it sit for two hours and came back. Boy, howdy, did the dough rise dramatically. It had spilled out of the bowl and down the sides, spilling over onto the burners and down the front of the stove. Lovely. I scraped the drying dough and tossed it down the sink and replaced the plastic wrap and put the whole thing into the refrigerator -- that was the next step in the process. The dough rests, and droops dramatically, in the cold temperature of the fridge and will keep there for a whole week, longer if its frozen at this stage. In a little while I'll quarter the dough and freeze two pieces, shaping the other two pieces into baguettes that will rise in two hours and soon bake into a fragrant, crusty outside and tender inside French baguette made in my own little American kitchen. So far, everything has worked out just the way the recipe detailed and it should taste just as good since I plan to make asparagus and eggs Benedict over toasted baguette pieces for breakfast tomorrow morning. I may even make a cassoulet tomorrow afternoon for dinner.

I was in a baking mood yesterday. It's all part of my relaxation program to de-stress from the work day. Baking and cooking relax me. I usually bake when I'm depressed and I cook massive quantities when I'm stressed. Cooking and baking are my version of therapy. Anger means I bake bread, the kind that needs to be kneaded, so I can take out my aggressive tendencies on the dough, so this almost no-knead bread works out pretty well since there's no one I felt like hitting yesterday. Kneading is also good exercise and I was on my feet enough yesterday and didn't need to pound dough.

Anyway, back to baking. I also baked Madeleines, with rose water since I didn't have any orange flower water on hand, for afternoon tea. That's another part of my relaxation program. The British have a good idea with afternoon tea. A cup of tea and baked goods, especially when they're home baked, are like a great big sigh after holding my breath all day. Just exhale -- bake, brew tea, sit down and enjoy.

Oh, Madeleines are tender little scallop shell shaped cakes that are golden brown on the outside and moist and tender on the inside. They're simple to make and the trick is in thoroughly beating eggs, a small amount of sugar and the flower water until it is light and quadrupled in volume. After that flour is folded in, just one cup of cake flour or organic soft red wheat flour, and four tablespoons of butter. The pan looks like scallop shells and it's buttered thickly (helps with the golden crust) and the batter is spooned into the molds. Bake in a 400-degree oven for 12 minutes and turn out onto a cooling rack, dust with confectioners' sugar and eat while warm. With a cup of Earl Grey tea, they are just the right touch for slowing down and exhaling. I've only made Madeleines once, that was yesterday, and they were wonderful -- even if I do say so myself.

It all comes down to gracious living. Gracious living doesn't necessarily mean expensive or ostentatious, but living well, treating yourself like royalty and taking the time to just sit down and enjoy a cup of tea and a few Madeleines, scones, crumpets or a gourmet meal. Gourmet can be as simple as cornbread and beans simmered all day with a bit of salt pork or bacon with a glass of ice cold buttermilk or as lavish and cassoulet or a prime rib dinner with a glass of wine and a decadent dessert. Even poached eggs, steamed asparagus, toasted baguette and Hollandaise sauce can be an elegant meal. It's all about attitude and using the best ingredients available, quality over quantity.

Well, it's time to divide the dough and get the loaves ready for baking. I'm looking forward to a sandwich on home baked bread.

Calm and changeable seas

Pepper crusted pork tenderloin and red potatoes, green beans, red peppers in a butter sauce with hot cocoa to drink. Simple, but warming meal for a cold winter evening. It's a night of peace and quiet wrapped in a warm shawl and reading Terry Pratchett and watching I, Claudius. It's freezing outside, but very warm inside, and it is to this warmth my friends keep coming, like Bob.

Bob is one of my best friends and has been for many years. We talk about everything. He's happily miserable, or miserably happy, in his marriage.

He is married to a wonderful woman, an intelligent, talented and successful woman, and often he wonders how he managed to get so lucky that she agreed to marry him. He doesn't see himself very well and is a very good man, quite wonderful in his own way. There is one big fly in the ointment--the lack of intimacy. Everything else is perfect, but sex once a year is untenable. She isn't interested and doesn't have any desire at all and Bob has far too much desire. She refuses to discuss it and he considers looking elsewhere to fulfill his needs. I proposed a different solution, one I've proposed for many people: talk it out openly and directly. "I don't like confrontation," he said to me this afternoon.

I'm always amazed that people see confrontation in a negative light. It is basically honesty and honesty does have its uses.

I suggested Bob lay out the situation to his wife, tell her sex once a year is not acceptable and either they seek counseling and she be tested and treated for a hormonal imbalance and depression. The signs and symptoms are clear even at this distance. I explained that he need not lose his marriage over this because so much of it is good and, if his wife refuses to go to counseling or get treatment for the medical and emotional issues, he propose an alternative -- an open relationship that allows him to fulfill his desires as long as he doesn't bring anything home that can't be gotten rid of. He said he'd see. I've heard the same thing from any number of friends and acquaintances. I don't understand why people insist on making things so difficult.

All life is not so complicated or so sad. I received a lovely -- and late -- Xmas card from Ted with his witty and funny crèche. This year's subject was Tiger Woods and it was quite beautiful and funny. I do agree with Ted that it's difficult to tell one blonde waitress from another.

I also received a thank you card from Laura and Jeremy, daughter-in-law and son of the fascinating and lovely Mary Ann, for a little something I sent for their first Xmas together. They were married last summer and appeared quite delirious with happiness in their pictures. I think they are a good match. Laura wrote on real stationery with a distinctly Victorian theme. I do so enjoy getting letters and cards in the mail. This may well be the beginning of a revival of the old art of letter writing, at least in a modest way.

The mail was full of the usual snail mail spam and a catalogues. Included among the debris was a box, my copy of Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. My day is complete. Videos, books, cards and thank you notes on Victorian stationery, definitely a good day.

Even with the trials and tribulations of my friends and family, a dose of ancient Roman intrigues and the fun of Terry Pratchett, each day is a surprise. Sometimes the surprise is not pleasant and sometimes the surprises exceed my modest and meager expectations. I'm easy to please. I ask nothing of the world but peace, quiet and the occasional adventure to make things interesting. I don't mind living in interesting times, even when the times take on the dark tinge of betrayal, lies and ill wishing. Life is much like the sea, moody and often dangerous, but well worth the trip.

That is all. Disperse.

Food and literary fantasies

Full of hot chocolate and broccoli and other good things. I don't get as elegant as Bruce Barone when I'm cooking, at least not all the time like he does, but I do put together a few decent meals. I just wasn't interested in a meal last night, so I settled for an omelet with English cheddar on the side, broccoli and a pot of hot chocolate. Since I was out of fresh milk, I went to the backup plan: canned goat milk. Just add water, cream, chocolate, a dash of sea salt and whisk on the stove. Pour into hot chocolate pot already heated and ready, froth and drink, after dropping a vanilla handmade marshmallow in the cup first. Keep refilling while watching Cinderella and The Color of Magic and jotting notes in my journal. It was a quiet evening, but a productive one.

There was also the grocery list to make out before next Tuesday's shopping trip. That always means going through the circular to see what's on sale and through my recipe collection and searching online to decide what to make. Williams-Sonoma online has quite a treasure trove of recipes and I concentrated on eggs: poached, shirred, coddled and made into omelets. The options are mind boggling and, if you're on a budget, the array of egg dishes is enough to make the mouth water. Who knew there was so much to be done with an egg?

There will be one week with no cooking and that's the week of my birthday next month. I'm taking off on vacation, a real vacation, to be pampered, coddled and catered to. I haven't done it in a long time and I'm overdue. As much as I like my cottage, there are times when I need a change of scenery. So I'm out of here on the 13th, Beanie's birthday and I won't be back until the 21st. Late. The destination is a cozy B&B overlooking a castle decorated in Victorian style and near to several haunted spots that will be perfect for the setting of the next book I'm working on after I finish the post-apocalyptic vampire novel. Time to take notes and set the story simmering on the back burner for a while or, in baseball parlance, warming up in the bullpen. Have to keep the stories coming.

That story is a dark tale of lies and intrigue and someone posing as a ghost hunter. Murder, a touch of romance (I can't handle more than a touch), a trail of secrets and all kinds of mystery and mayhem. I thought it was time for a change. I don't like to tie myself to any one type of story or characters, although there's always a piece of me and people I know in all the novels and stories I write.

For instance, in Whitechapel Hearts, one of the villains is based on a real life villain I met and got to know. Some of the most interesting and dangerous people have crossed my path and been filed away for future reference. They stick in my mind in some dark and out of the way corner waiting to fret their moment upon the literary stage. That's the hallmark of an interesting life.

Well, I'm off to the showers and into some clothes because it's cold this morning and I'm going to need all the warmth I can get working in the cold back office that steams in the summertime. I definitely need to see about putting up drapes. The blinds wouldn't keep out a gnat, let alone inclement weather. The roof doesn't keep it out either -- yet.

That is all. Disperse.

Melting the meltdown

In between running around on errands, sending books out to family and friends (signed of course) and working, I finally sat down last night and watched Julie & Julia. It was very good.

I loved watching Julia Child cook on TV with Jacques and others, but she was the draw. It wasn't her high nasal whine of a voice, but her love of the art of making art with food, food that was wonderful, flavorful and just plain good. The movie showed that, but it also showed the main character, Julie, taking her cue from Julia's cooking. Making 524 recipes in 365 days was indeed a feat and it was well done, but what surprised me the most was when Julie had a meltdown when things didn't go right. The cream and liver stuffing fell out of her poulet (chicken to you and me) and she ended up in a crying, messy heap on the floor. The aspic failed to jell and she blamed her husband. Another meltdown. Julie seemed like a fairly histrionic female and a bit always on the edge of a meltdown, never a good thing whether the person is a cook or a writer, and one I've never dealt with. When all else -- or everything -- fails, start over. That's how I deal with disaster, like last weekend's first foray into homemade cinnamon rolls.

The recipe was one I hadn't used before (got it online), but I wanted to make cinnamon rolls and couldn't remember where I found the recipe the last time. Oh, yes, it was in a kit I purchased from King Arthur Flour online. Not enough time to buy it and get it here for the weekend and cinnamon rolls were on my mind and lingering like a ghost at the edge of my taste buds. To the Internet for research and I came up with what I thought was a good recipe -- until I tried it out.

Four cups of flour into the recipe and the dough didn't feel right. Kneading it was like punching Mike Tyson with pillows -- before he got into ear biting. My arms were getting sore and I had to go to the bathroom. When I came back from the bathroom, hands suitably washed, I punched and kneaded the dough some more, but it wasn't getting soft and smooth and elastic and my arms were sore and tired. I turned it into an oiled bowl, put a cloth over it and sat down to rest my weary arms. More than an hour later and the dough sat there like a lump of . . . dough. It hadn't risen, at least not as far as I could see. I had wasted the eggs, milk (and there wasn't much of that left) and the yeast, not to mention the time, but these things happen. I covered the bowel and set it aside as I sprinkled more yeast over warm water and assembled the ingredients once again. I was going to take another stab at it, and I did. The recipe was wrong and I stopped at three cups of flour when the once sticky dough became soft and pliant and kneaded like a dream. Once it was smooth and warm and elastic, I put the dough into an oiled bowl, covered it and set it on the stove, which is the warmest part of this house in the winter. The front room is so drafty and cold most of the time, except in summer when it's hot and sticky and uncomfortable.

At any rate, 1-1/2 hours later the dough had risen to 3x its original size and was ready to be rolled out and covered with butter, cinnamon and brown sugar and then rolled up. Lacking string or kitchen shears, I used a sharp knife to cut the dough and place it into the greased stoneware 9x9 pan to rise one more time before I placed it in the oven. When I finally pulled away the cover, the result was beautiful puffed coils of brown sugar and cinnamon rolls ready to be baked. Soon they filled the house with the scent of butter, cinnamon and melting, oozing sugar and I could hardly wait to spread on the thick, creamy vanilla-laden icing.

As I sat down with my warm, fragrant cinnamon roll to call my mother, I cast a thought toward the recalcitrant lump from the first trial. I could either use it as starter for sourdough bread or put it down the garbage disposal. Either choice was good and it didn't really matter. I had a gooey delicious cinnamon roll to savor, and savor them I did for four days. I went a little overboard on Sunday and had three, not at the same time, but spaced out over the whole day.

That first trial was a disaster and the recipe needed adjusting. Less flour and more time to bake. Things don't always turn out the way I think they should the first time, so I give it another go and rely more on my senses than sticking to the recipe. Cooking, like life, is fluid and changeable, so is writing.

A draft can start out horrible and end up magic if the writer is willing to adjust, retrace and rewrite. It's not a disaster and there's no need for meltdowns. Nothing is a disaster unless you make it one. For instance, next time, instead of using melted butter, I'll use soft room temperature butter, mix in the cinnamon and brown sugar and spread it over the dough. I'll get a better result. The recipe is a starting point. The Ultimate Cinnamon Roll recipe wasn't tested and retested by Julia Child who, in the movie and likely in real life, made several bowls of mayonnaise, changing the ingredients and the mixing until she had the right combination. I found the right amount of ingredients and the perfect method for me and for the environment where I live (high altitude and organic ingredients) and will make the cinnamon rolls again. Nothing is without hope or without the need for a little tweaking. If I had given up after the first mistake, I wouldn't have been able to taunt my mother with homemade cinnamon rolls, and I'd have nothing to write about now. Even in the midst -- or on the far edge -- of failure, there's something to be learned.

In writing, as in cooking and life, sometimes the best results come from failure, providing you don't give in to meltdowns and negativity. Every road leads somewhere and detours often provide more than a scenic route; they provide insight and sometimes a better way of getting where you're going. Without failure, there would be no progress. Don't be afraid to fail. Try it some time. The results may surprise you.

To e-book or not to e-book

Taunting my mother has its perks, like being able to taunt her at all. She has so much already that it's hard to find something that gets to her. Yes, it's a silly game, but it's a game all the same. Taunting her about gifts is easy, and I do that with everyone when I have their gift far ahead of time. Makes the waiting easier. I found, however, a new way to taunt Mom, a short term perk: baked goods. Not just any baked goods, but homemade, ooey, gooey cinnamon rolls with rich vanilla-laden icing, also homemade.

When Mom called Saturday afternoon, I was waiting for the dough to rise. She asked me what I was doing and I told her, "Making cinnamon rolls." She wouldn't do anything like that unless it came in a tube from the dairy section at the grocery store, or better yet from the bakery already to eat. She doesn't understand why I like to bake bread and rolls and cook at all. "Nobody here but me eats," she complains, and then tells me her chihuahua Dink is getting fat from eating the same things that Mom eats. Mom has so many preservatives and GMO foods in her that she'd probably die if she didn't eat all that junk, but the dog doesn't have nearly 80 years of junk food in her. Dink's not even three years old yet, and that's barely 21 in dog years.

When the cinnamon rolls were finished and sending their sweet spicy aroma throughout the house, I called Mom just as I sat down with one still hot from the pan. "Guess what I'm eating?" She guessed, called me a few names best not repeated. "You'll eat the whole thing," she complained.

"Uh, no, I won't. I'm having one and the rest are for the coming days."

"How can you eat just one?"

"Easily. By stopping when I'm finished and leaving the rest for tomorrow and the other days." Mom has no control, as evidenced by her recent binge on circus peanuts when she ate three bags a day for weeks.

Here it is Monday morning and there are still cinnamon rolls in the pan. I already had one when I got up this morning. Mom always said I had no will power. I guess I still don't.

But it's Monday and the three day weekend is over and I must go back to work for four more days before I get another break. As much as I love the holidays, I have to say that the planning is off. There should be at least one three day weekend in every month, paid for of course by my employer. At least there will be an extra week of vacation this year as I celebrate my fifth year of employment with my employer in February. Three whole weeks of vacation and four extra days (two personal days and two floating holidays). I think I can do something with that.

One thing I'll be doing this week is deciding if I want to break down and get an e-reader. I really don't see the need since I don't go out that much and have plenty of books here, but the idea of having a lot of books and not having to wait for them or pay shipping and handling does have it's up side. Beanie got a Sony Pocket eReader for Xmas and we spent a good part of the weekend trying to figure it out. I found the customer service number and had her call them to get her started and then we spent yesterday looking at books and figuring out why an e-book costs so much money when there's no paper and no cover. It's a subject that has consumed several writers and readers over the past year or so.

It makes no sense to price an e-book at the same or slightly discounted price as a hardback book. It doesn't even make sense to price it the same as a paperback. There is no huge cost of production or formatting since that is all part of the package when the book is initially published and the book should be priced accordingly. Yes, a small price would net smaller profits, at least on the surface, but in the long run it's a question of selling a book for a thousand dollars or a thousand books for one dollar. The outcome is the same, but the numbers reached are significantly more. Keep pricing books in that range and there will be a path beaten to the e-bookstore to buy even more books. In a strapped economy with technology like makes books portable and fairly easy to read, it makes more sense to price the books lower and therefore sell more books. It would also make more sense to get the old back list out and bundle them to revitalize sales and keep readers coming back. If the price makes it possible to buy one hundred books as opposed to buy three or four, what would the bottom line look like then? Common sense and good fiscal sense. One day publishers will figure that out.

I don't need a lot of bells and whistles or Internet capabilities. I have a laptop and a desktop PC for that. I do need a reader that is efficient, easy to read and use and doesn't cost a lot. I can't afford to spend two hundred dollars or more for what is basically a small library. I'd rather spend the money on books, which is why I looked at the 1150 offered by Barnes & Noble. The reviews are good and, even though the 1150 is the Cybook remastered and retooled, the price is right at $89.95. I might be able to swing that and a few books. The only hangup I see is in the book pricing.

Beanie and I looked at some James Patterson books, specifically his science fiction trilogy. The Lake House was priced at the hardback price and it's seven years old. Come on B&N, even though you offer an instant discount that takes the book down into the five dollar range, it's still over priced, and your scheme of leaving the rebate on the books to buy other books, is too much like accounting and bait & switch for my taste. Read the above and consider a different sales tactic, like pricing the book at two or three dollars and bundling it with the rest of the series for under ten dollars. That would make more sense and you'd find more readers with e-book technology coming back for more until Amazon would be worried about their sales and follow suit. Someone has to lead the pack, so why not Barnes & Noble for a change?

Oh, well, technology is a big part of my life these days and on that note I will sign off, shower, change and begin another day while I decide whether this whole e-book technology is for me or not. I have plenty of paperback and hardback books to keep me company after the holiday haul, so I'm not hurting for reading material.

That is all. Disperse.

Come to a full and complete stop

There are times when the writing goes so good that it's hard to stop, but then life intervenes, or more precisely--work. I can either keep writing and hope I find a stopping place when it's time to sign on for my shift or quit while the words and the thoughts are still hot and hope they're still there when I'm finished working. This is the part of the double life I lead that I dislike the most--having to do the writing-work balancing act. It's a simple equation. Work = money = affording the materials and resources necessary to write. Writing = money, but only after a long hard climb to the top. In the meantime, the only steady source of income is work, thus the difficulty of the situation.

I got up about 3:30 a.m. and decided I didn't want to try to go back to sleep, so I started editing and making some changes, clarifying some dangling threads and loose issues so I wouldn't lose time when the writing was good. That took about 30 minutes, which meant I still had lots of time before I had to get ready for work, so I started reading, deleted about four pages that weren't going well and started writing. And it flew. I was in the zone. I was hot. I was sizzling. I was 5000 words to the good. I wanted to keep writing, but it's nearly time to start getting ready for work.

One thing I've learned about writing is that it's never a good idea to put on the brakes and slam to a stop. Much like driving a car in bumper to bumper traffic or running a marathon and then stopping dead without a cool down period, disaster is quick to follow: accident in the first scenario and possible heart failure in the second, neither of which is conducive to a continued career in writing since death may be the result. Can't write when you're dead and I have to finish this book.

So it's time for the cool down: checking email, reading blogs, futzing around on Facebook for a couple of minutes and checking out a hot Russian pilot who promises food, caviar, wine, vodka and a ride in a MIG 29 for an email. You know I can't resist the chance to fly in a MIG with a hot Russian pilot -- or any pilot as long as I get to fly in a MIG. I don't care if he's married; I'm not going to date or sleep with him. I just want to fly in the MIG. I wonder if I have to go to Russia for that or if he will fly by here and pick me up. Hmmm.

Needless to say, I'm on a roll and might even finish this book by the end of the week. That's good. When I'm done, I'll do a read-through and begin the next project, the one that has been following me into dreams and gumming up the works when I'm supposed to be typing up technical and difficult heart surgeries and breast reconstructions. Aah, the life of the workaday world. You can have it as long as I get to write.

Okay, I'm cooled down now and can safely move to the next phase of my morning: shower, shampoo and shifting through clothes for something to wear. I have a date with a grocery cart this afternoon and I have to look my best. Produce can be so crude and rude sometimes.

Sunday morning coming round

As much as I like the keyboard on this new laptop, I have to say I'm not having a good time with the touch pad. It's hinky and doesn't want to work the way it should, or at least the way my old one did. The configuration and placement is off and it's not as sensitive as the old embedded touch pad on the fragged computer. I imagine I'll get used to it eventually, but right now I am not a happy geek.

At least one thing went right this morning. Popovers. If you don't cook and don't bake, you can still make popovers and you don't really have to have a popover pan. I used to do them in a muffin tin and it still works good that way. It's the easiest recipe in the world and the only thing that is the least bit fussy is the prep. Interested? Oh, you probably don't know what a popover is.

Ever hear of Yorkshire pudding as in Beef Wellington and Yorkshire pudding? It's not the same thing, and yet there is a similarity. Popovers are airy puffs of egg, flour and milk that rise up like a soufflé, but have a crunchy outside and air-filled, slightly eggy inside. They are kissing cousin to the cream puff without the cream and are much simpler to make. Are you game?

1 cup flour
1 cup milk
1 tsp salt
2 eggs (room temperature is best)

Mix all ingredients until just combined (no lumps and don't over mix). Pour into greased muffin tin (or popover pan or individual soufflé dishes) and bake at 400 for 40 minutes. It's that simple. But the trick is in the prep. Remember? Turn oven to 400 and place greased muffin tin inside until same temp as oven. Take out and pour batter into 8 receptacles, about halfway full, and pop into oven. Bake for 40 minutes and then take them out.

These airy, eggy, outside crunchy puffs are ready for butter, jam, peanut butter or whatever you want to put in them. I like them with jam and butter, but I found out that salmon cream cheese is quite tasty, too. It depends on your craving and your tastes. If you prefer a savory popover, substitute 1/2 teaspoon of salt with 1/2 teaspoon poultry seasoning and fill with savory seasoning, like salmon cream cheese. Popovers are very forgiving, take about two minutes to put together (minus the prep) and are just lovely and just enough filling that you can still go out jogging afterward, unless you weigh them down with lots and lots of fillings. I'm addicted and a little surprised that it took me that long to take the plunge once again. Since I didn't have any milk, I used powdered milk (1/3 cup to 1 cup water), but condensed milk (not the sweetened kind) would work just as well. Like I said, very forgiving.

That's the food tip for today. When you try them, and you know you will, let me know whether or not you're addicted. They're better than pancakes and maple syrup and butter are just lovely with popovers.

I guess I should say at least one good thing about the laptop. The screen is wide and the colors beautiful and watching a movie on it is wonderful. I'll get over the minor glitches eventually, just like I did with the old laptop, but it's like any new relationship -- takes time to get comfortable with each other, even though I love the smooth action of the keyboard, which probably won't last long because I tend to be a power user and keyboards don't stand up well to my incessant pounding and fast speed. I am a writer after all.

There was one other surprise this morning, and it wasn't the cream cheese or the funky touch pad. Someone left a gift on my doorstep and I suspect only one person will understand this. The person, named Julian if the inscription inside the book is to be believed, left me a book. At first I thought it was an author who was determined to have me review their book, but it wasn't an author. The book is about American slave labor with privatized prisons as the sweat shop where several corporations have their goods made. It was a gift from someone I'm working with on an expose'. I'm quite surprised and excited. This is for a new project I'm working on with some interesting ripples already heading out on the stream of consciousness. So, on that note, I shall quit typing, send this up and do the laundry and dishes.

That is all. Disperse.

Publicity, Greek yogurt and books

I'm no good at publicizing my work, outside of the usual channels, so I decided to check out a publicist who had been highly recommended. She has put several authors at the top of the Amazon Best Sellers list and even managed to slot one writer at #2. She's impressed with my credentials and resume and wants to work with me, but she's pricey, about $20 an hour, and I have to decide if this is something I can afford. Of course, I am just about to pay off my washer and dryer and that will free up about that much cash per month to be able to afford it, but still... It's a big bite and she doesn't do personal appearances, which is a down side, but overall, if her references check out, I may have no other choice because I need to build some groundswell recognition for the upcoming novels. Tough call, but it's all part of the wonderful world of being published and pushing your own books.

I also have to decide whether or not I want to enter Past Imperfect in the RITA awards. That's another big bite, especially when you add in five -- count them five -- copies of the novel, paid for by me, and the entry fee, which I have been told is not cheap when you include the membership to the Romance Writers of America (RWA). I'm not predominantly a romance writer and I'm not sure I want to be labeled as one when I write across all the genres, including horror and literary. Then again, the RWA covers a lot of territory and includes a whole lot of people who buy books and would buy my book. That's a consideration. Now I know what kills most writers in their first year -- promotions and anguish over contests and costs. I can do this. I'll be poorer, but not much since I am pretty poor already and there's not far to fall.

I'm still struggling with the usual things: work, writing having enough money to buy food -- and frozen yogurt. I actually found one I like that is gritty and horrible tasting: Cyclops Frozen Yogurt. They only have five flavors: banana, coffee, mango, strawberry, and raspberry (my store doesn't carry the raspberry), but it is the best thing I've had in my mouth for a very long time. It's made with Greek yogurt, the best yogurt in the world, and has swirls of pureed fruit (I've only had the strawberry and mango), and it tastes amazing.

Of course, the frozen yogurt isn't a treat, it's a way to repopulate my intestines with beneficial bacteria and flora. I care nothing for taste and yummy goodness. Not me.

I have spent a limited amount of time -- there are only so many hours in the day -- on Twitter and was coerced into buying a copy of Postscripts Magazine Issue 12 with 's zombie story in it. I think Kai and and Mary Ann with their zombie stories have put my reading feet on a strange and wonderful path. Besides, it showed up on Twitter and I was curious about it. Normally, I don't care much for zombies, but when good writers create wonderful characters and pack so much into such a small word count, I can't resist. I'll read anything in hopes of finding something really good, even things I don't think I'll like. Blame my Gram. She told me I couldn't say I didn't like something unless I tried it first.

I have read some great zombie stories, most notably Brian Keene's The Rising. That was the best zombie story I've read in ages. No wonder I gave it a great review. I can be led in strange directions, but only because I want to see what's around the next bend or over the next rise. I'm adventurous that way.

In the meantime, I've had a long nap and I'm up for a few hours, so it's back to writing for me and maybe even a few op reports to get a leg up on the day ahead. I do have a guest coming tomorrow (on Facebook): Cindy Davis, author of the short and powerful You Have The Power: Self-edit Your Way Into Print, an excellent resource that needs to be on every writer's bookshelf. I'm even doing the exercises in the back and I don't do exercises unless there's something in it besides sweat, blood and tears. Arrivederci and good night.

That is all. Disperse.

Face plants and police sirens

Wednesday night, I called Aunt Anne to wish her happy birthday and to find out how Timmy was doing. His wife Ruthie died a couple weeks ago and he is finally back to work after months of caring for her. He's doing better, but not too happy about all the condolences. Aunt Anne told me they make him feel worse and, while he appreciates the sentiment, it just makes things worse for him.

It reminds me of an episode of All in the Family when a doctor told Archie to be nice to Edith because she was going through the change. Nice isn't Archie's strong suit and he was nearly strangled every time he stifled the urge to rail at the dingbat. Archie's nice and polite attitude frayed Edith's last nerve and things didn't go back to normal until Archie lost his temper. Timmy losing his temper at work isn't going to go down well, especially not at the post office. I think he'll have to endure it a little longer.

Aunt Anne and I talked about a lot of things, like whether or not her friend Jaye was going to bring back her copy of Past Imperfect she took with her on her annual two-week vacation to Texas. Aunt Anne is not happy. If Jaye has damaged her copy in any way, she can kiss any thoughts of a copy signed by the author (that would be me) for Xmas goodbye and buy Anne another copy.

On the up side, Jaye wants everyone to read my book. On the down side, Jaye loans out Anne's copy instead of encouraging people to buy a copy and read it. She has no business sense. I admire her generosity, especially with something that doesn't belong to her, but there are times when there is no substitute for a copy of your own . . . said the author who won't get any royalty checks if people don't buy their own copy.

I bought a copy of a great little writing book, You Have The Power: Self-edit Your Way Into Print, written by Cindy Davis who happens to be my editor. I've read the first 2-1/2 chapters and it's really good and very helpful. Due to my bungling the event planner on Facebook, Cindy appeared a full two weeks early on the Writers Talk / Q&A I've set up. Luckily, Cindy is a very nice person and agreed to go through with her previously scheduled appearance on Sept. 9th and talk more about editing your own writing. Anyone who missed her talk on pronouns will forgive me and show up in two weeks to comment, question and learn from Cindy -- I hope.

I also received my copy of Dead Worlds: Undead Stories and plan to wander through the zombies to find Sabrann Curach, otherwise known as . I also broke down and got a copy of Twilight by Stephanie Meyer and so far I'm not impressed. I'm waiting for the fan girl hype to live up to the reality. It has not happened yet. The only good things I've gleaned from the first couple of chapters are future grammar posts, and one of those will be posted later today.

After a long and protracted, and fruitless, tussle with a software program on Goodreads, I have finally been recognized as the author of my own novel. I had to call in reinforcements and get an actual person to respond because the software program on the site was too stupid to figure out that my name and the author's name are the same. That's been fixed and I have been accorded author status. I had no idea life could get so complicated. Weren't computers supposed to make our lives easier? Doesn't it take a human to screw things up this completely?

Dinner last night was pleasant since I had some company, but I'm afraid I was not at my sparkling best. I was tired and cranky and doing my best impression of Archie being nice between periods of abject weariness that had me nearly nodding off. There is nothing so funny or frustrating as having a conversation with someone whose head keeps bobbing toward the plate in imitation of one of those birds that dip into a cup of red fluid. I avoided a full face plant into my steak, but couldn't keep up with the thread of the conversation. I did apologize and promised a rematch dinner on a night when I was more awake and alert.

The kids are back to school across the street, but they seem subdued and quieter than last year. I wonder if it's because the rowdier and livelier kids graduated to high school or if exuberance has been outlawed. The police presence of late has been more apparent, but so has the joy riding idiot that has roared down Pikes Peak going from zero to 140 between stop signs. He was followed, about 30 minutes later, by a police cruiser whoop-whooping his siren as he neared the cross streets and a helicopter about 15 minutes after that. I doubt they caught the speed demon since he was long gone before they appeared on the scene, their siren saving me from that face plant into the steak. At least they were good for something. Catching speed demons wasn't it.

I am going to take my weary and rumpled self to the showers and get cleaned up for another day in the salt mines. This is one day getting irritated at doctors learning English on my shift and mangling words until the occasional vowel and rare consonant surface in their chewed up melange that is supposed to pass for intelligible speech will be welcome. It should keep me awake.

Queen for a day

While I was laboring through edits and reviews and all things literary this weekend, my mother was being feted and celebrated by my siblings. Several weeks ago, taking a page from me, Carol requested that we all club together for Mothers Day and give Mom a day at the beauty shop, something Mom has not been able to afford for a while. I agreed and my share of the money and waited impatiently to find out how Mom liked being pampered for a change, especially since she's been complaining that her hair is getting too long. (Mom has a sort of mullet and the fish's tail is drooping down her back.) Mom received her gift yesterday and she was ecstatic, but her hair is still unwashed (by salon hands), uncut and uncurled.

Mom thought her gift from Jimmy was being taken out to dinner, probably to Bob Evans, her favorite restaurant next to Denny's, which is now closed in Columbus. That wasn't it. Carol decided to give her the money and explained she would take her to the salon whenever she was ready. Mom had different ideas. She bought a bag of Tootsie Pops, complaining that there were no chocolate suckers in the bag, and a big bag of dark chocolate-covered peanuts. "They cost $16.49 a pound. That's really rich," she said. "But I'm in heaven. Carol is disappointed, but it's my gift and I'll spend it the way I want."

At church, Tracy took Mom to the restroom where Mom pulled up her skirt and her pantyhose and panties down at the counter. Beanie was ready for her. Mom wasn't ready for Beanie. Mom slung her purse onto the counter and pushed the plunger, forcing most of the B12 liquid out into the Baggie. Beanie fussed and Mom stood there with her hind parts exposed while Beanie sucked the liquid back into the syringe. "This isn't very sterile or sanitary, Mom. Why do you have to sling your purse around?" Mom shrugged and Beanie jabbed Mom's hindquarters and pushed the plunger. "Well, happy Mothers Day."

On Friday, 15 minutes before Beanie's day ended, she emailed and said I should write something for Mothers Day since I wouldn't get to sign the card. "I'd like to print it out before I go home at 10:30." By the time I got the email, I had ten minutes to write something so Beanie could print it out and take it home. I came up with something and sent it. Mom got it with her cards and money yesterday at church. Mom was touched, somewhere other than in her head for a change. My birth mother, Aunt Anne, was there, too, and Mom let her read my poem.

"I told her it was for both of us," Mom said when we talked yesterday. "She got this big smile on her face."

After church, the siblings took Mom out for lunch: biscuits and gravy. They must have gone back to Bob Evans. Mom's a one-note kind of person, at least one note at a time, especially when it comes to food. She's not adventurous at all, but she does get some strange cravings. Dark chocolate-covered peanuts are mundane compared to the usual. She is a junk food junkie and I think it's all the preservatives that are keeping her alive despite intestinal resectioning and removal, monthly blood transfusions and B12 shots, colon cancer, and numerous surgeries. And she's turning that dog, Dink, her baby, a little Chihuahua, into a junk food junkie, too.

"I have a sucker and I give Dink a sucker. Whatever I eat, Dink eats, except for my pudding. I don't share my pudding."

If Dink eats as much junk food as Mom does, she'll last a long time, too. Circus peanuts, the big pinky-orange hard marshallowy kind, was the favorite for a while and now it's Dove dark chocolate candy. She goes through about a bag a day of Dove chocolate and a half bag of Tootsie Pops. Peanut brittle, Russell Stover chocolates, Bit-o-Honey miniatures and candy of every description have all made their appearance. She went on a pinwheel kick for a while. Pinwheels are graham cracker cookies with heaped high with marshmallow and covered with dark chocolate. The one thing she hasn't become tired of is chocolate pudding and she has at least one box of pudding every day. In addition to the other junk, she is now on a homemade milkshake kick, chocolate, of course.

Mom's favorite holidays are, and have always been, Easter and Halloween because of the candy. When we were all little, Mom hunted through our bags, ostensibly for anything containing needles, razors or other dangerous foreign objects, but in reality she was culling all the chocolate for herself. At Easter, she bought Cadbury cream eggs for our baskets; we each got one. She got the rest and another bag or two for herself. Her purse always smelled of Kleenex, lipstick, powder, Wrigley's gum and candy, usually butterscotch. She hasn't changed, and yet she complains that she's getting fat again. She weighs 112 pounds and looks like the running gears of a katydid.

She's beginning to remind me of Aunt Lyda, her mother's sister. Aunt Lyda was 4-feet 10 inches tall and could eat like a team of ranch hands. At least, Mom doesn't drink alcohol like Aunt Lydia did, so it's unlikely when she does end up in a nursing home or senior community she will ever get kicked out for habitual intoxication. I'm sure they'll find other reasons to let us know she is no longer welcome, like feeding Dink in the dining hall.

For all of Mom's idiosyncrasies and rough spots, she has a good heart that continues to beat to its own rhythm, probably covered in dark chocolate.

Back to front

I am back and I'm glad to be back in the swing of things. I found I have a disturbing and old entrenched habit when I'm not working at my job; I don't eat as often as I should because I get caught up in writing or reading and forget about the time. That's one good thing about having a demanding job, I am always aware of time and the need to get up and move and eat, but not so when I'm writing or reading in the zone. I was actually glad to get back to work on the front lines and that seems strange to me.

The weather during my vacation was a mixed bag of returning spring and warmth and violent winds and snow and cold as if Mother Nature couldn't make up her mind whether or not it is spring. So much for the old saying that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. It was just the opposite this year, like mother nature got her signals mixed up or was wearing her clothes back to front.

One thing I found was that I enjoy bread making, but I'm way out of practice when it comes to kneading. I have the rhythm down but, but my sense of when the dough feels like it has been kneaded enough is rusty, resulting in tough and chewy bread. I'll get it back. It just takes practice. To take my mind off my failure, I indulged in a trip to the grocery store for some eggplant and garlic and found the most luscious strawberries, sweet and succulent that just begged to be dunked in warm chocolate, which brings out the fragrance and sweetness like nothing else. I opted for plain strawberries instead of nestling them in chocolate and some of my chewy homemade Italian herb bread with a breath of melted sweet butter. It wasn't a bad trade-off, but I'm still craving chocolate. Maybe next week.

I also discovered that I'm eating less meat, not because it's not available, but because my cravings were for fruit and vegetables and thick legume-filled soups and stews. I realized most of my meals are vegetarian with the occasional craving for steak or roasted chicken.

While I wallowed in books and caught up on The New York Times Review of Books and other magazines, I also indulged the characters and stories that have been floating around in my mind and popping up in my dreams, and what dreams I've been having. Not your usual run-of-the-mill kind of repressed emotional and strange symbolic dreams, but entire stories, some of which have been simmering on the back burner for quite a while. I wrote a few articles, some stories and finished off another book and I researched, networked and laid the groundwork for marketing and promotion for the new novel, spending so much time on the writing that I ended up catching a bit of a bug that laid me out over the weekend. I did, however, find out some interesting news.

One of my favorite restaurants in the French Quarter in New Orleans moved from its original spot across from the natural history museum on Conti and there's a new chef in town who said he'd be delighted to work with me on a contest to promote the new novel. When I called Godiva headquarters I was told why my favorite ice cream was no longer available and have begun negotiations to work out a contest to coincide with the launch of my novel. I'm still negotiating with restaurants in Philadelphia, Columbus and Kelly's Island, but so far it looks good. What, you may ask, do restaurant and chocolate have to do with my novel? Several scenes take place in real restaurants and I thought it would be a great way to promote the book and get people buying and reading the novel. The contests will revolve around creating a chocolate and caramel dessert and the chefs at the various restaurants will judge the winner and offer the prize: dinner for two with the winning dessert on the menu. It's not an expensive dinner and the contestants will be limited to people in the area or who are going to be in the area. Of course, my novel will be front and center. The restaurants get notice and the cost for them is minimal and I get book sales. I'm still trying to decide whether or not the contest should end to coincide with the launch or whether it would be better to wait until the book is out; I'm seriously thinking about waiting. That way, people have to read the book. It's still a work in progress, but so far everyone is cooperating.

Working up promotional ideas wasn't how I had planned to spend my vacation, but it was a good use of the time and it was fun. What did you do while I was away?

Review: My Daughter's Deli

I'd heard about My Daughter's Deli and finally went inside yesterday morning. I wanted some hot chocolate and a quick breakfast. I got more than I bargained for.

The walls are plaster with patches of brick showing and people have written all over the plaster walls beside, below, above and around the original art work featured on all the walls. There are tables and cozy seating areas in niches and the atmosphere was quiet and relaxing in spite of two gentleman having a friendly discussion. Sharon, the owner, was courteous and moved with a quick efficiency.

I ordered a cream cheese and lox bagel and a large cup of hot chocolate. The best part of the visit was the food. Expecting a bagel with cream cheese schmear and a bit of lox, I was amazed to get tomato, fresh sliced red onion and a bit of lettuce on the bagel, which was fresh and toasted to perfection. The hot chocolate was heavenly with a generous dollop of whipped cream on top.

I was surprised to find the place so empty, especially with such good food. Sharon told me business has fallen off in the past two years because Old Colorado City is not being promoted as it should be. Over the past three years, I have watched business after business pull up stakes and move out in an area that should be teeming with tourists and locals visiting this historic corner of Colorado Springs for the antiques, shops and ambiance of the more relaxed and friendlier west side of town.

Sharon did tell me that two writers come in every Friday at 1 p.m. and stay until 4 p.m., leaving one hour before the deli closes. They bring their laptops and write sitting in the back among the art work and wonderful graffiti decorating the walls, sharing the muse and the food. The food is wonderful and the prices moderate. If you are looking for somewhere to relax and recharge and get a little something to eat, My Daughter's Deli & Espresso is the place to be.

Easy come, quickly gone

I had plans for the tax refund. They didn't include handing it over to the guys at Peak Auto Service to fix my car. Scotty had warned me he'd gouge me later. He was true to his word.

I had planned to get a tune-up and maybe a new battery, both of which would put a small dent in my windfall, but I didn't plan on handing over the whole amount, and yet that is what I did yesterday. Now my car fires as soon as I turn the key and I don't have to crank and hope the battery will last long enough and have enough power for the engine to fire. I'm looking on the bright side. I'll save gas and might not have to fill up for six months instead of every four. Then again, maybe not, since Scotty warned me that I have to start the car and let it run for a few minutes at least twice a week to keep the battery in good condition. Like Beanie said when I told her how much it would cost, "At least you had the money." There is that.

I walked over to Peak Auto after I finished work and drove the car home to pick up my wallet (I didn't want to carry a purse), got back into the car and drove over to Mountain Mama's to pick up a few things. I had originally planned to treat myself with a Subway sandwich, but thought better of it. Healthy organic food is what I needed, if not what I wanted. I really need to make a list before I go so I'm not so overwhelmed by all the choices. I wandered around the aisles, picked up some incense (no more rose-scented incense because it's a bit too cloying and sweet and makes me sneeze), some almonds and a piece of vegan black bottom banana cream pie. On the way home, I marveled at the smooth sound of the engine and the way the car started with the first turn of the key in the ignition. I still have a few dollars left and I get paid next week. Since I've already paid the rent and most of the bills, the outlook isn't too bleak and I can go back to Mountain Mama's with my list in hand and get the tahini I forgot last night to go with the garbanzo beans simmering on the stove this morning. I already have lemons and some roasted red peppers and garlic, but I should stock up on olive oil. The bottle on top of the refrigerator is almost gone. There's plenty of celery in the crisper and some homemade pita bread would just about hit the spot. Maybe I should get some oil cured olives and some walnuts and more garlic to make tapenade for a real Mediterranean feast. There were some lovely eggplants cooling under the lights in the produce section, smooth purple skins humped together next to the leeks and mushrooms.

Time to get showered and dressed. I'm hungry.

Apple pie memories

My grandmother was a great cook. She made egg noodles by hand and made the best peach cobbler with a double crust in a cast iron skillet. My brother does a good imitation, but it doesn't have the same warm sweet taste that my grandmother's did. He learned as I did, standing side by side with Gram, rolling out leftover spirals of dough, spreading on jam or jelly, rolling the dough into fat loafs and sprinkling the top with sugar before placing them carefully on the pan Gram placed in the oven alongside her pies and cobblers before hugging us and helping us clean the table where we worked.

After my divorce, I moved back to Ohio from Utah with my three young boys to live with my parents (joy, joy). There were some wrinkled apples in the refrigerator and I decided to make an apple pie. I felt adrift on a stormy sea of working two jobs, seeing little of my children and having no home of my own. Baking was my drug of choice.

Like my grandmother had taught me, I cut Crisco into a bowl of flour, added some ice water and turned the dough onto the floured surface of the counter, rolling the dough into a rough circle and fitting it into an old glass pie plate Gram had given Mom when she got married. Mom never baked pies, but Dad did. As the dough rested, I peeled and cored the apples, sliced them, added a little flour, salt, cinnamon and lemon juice to the apples, mixing slowly until they were all covered. I wished I had had a little red wine and some raisins, but that wouldn't have been welcome in my mother's house. After spooning the apples into the crust and draping the other circle of dough on top, crimping the edges and slashing the crust in four places, I brushed the top with milk and sprinkled sugar over it and popped it in the oven.

While I cleaned up the kitchen, the air filled with the sweet and comforting scent of baking apples and spices. Dad drifted through the kitchen, sniffing the air and nodding appreciatively. The boys, sweaty and red-faced from playing in the yard, descended en masse. "Will it be done soon?" For the first time in weeks, they seemed to feel more at home. Mom plopped her shopping bags down on the counter. "I hope you washed your hands." She rifled through the bags, eyeing the counter. "Give me the dish rag. This counter doesn't look clean." She wiped down the clean counter and threw the dishrag in the sink. "You didn't need to make such a mess." She grabbed her bags and went into the dining room to sort through her booty while I checked on the pie.

The pie crust was golden and cinnamon laced juices bubbled through the slits, filling the kitchen with the aroma of apples and cinnamon. I placed the pie on the counter just as the boys, drawn by the aroma, crowded around me. Eddie reached a finger toward the pie. "It's still hot," I said as I caught his grubby hand, "You'll get burned."

"When can we have some?"

"Later. Now go wash your hands and get ready for dinner."

Gram had promised to bring beef hash for dinner and she arrived shortly after. "Smells good," she said.

The boys were like tightly coiled springs held in place by crumbling rust all through dinner, barely tasting the food they shoveled into their usually chatty mouths, silent as the air before a storm. Quiet. Waiting. Barely held in check. Holding their breath, uncertain of the future.

I sliced the pie, serving my parents and Gram before I served the boys. Their forks pricked the edges, gathering up glittering crystals of sugar and placing them delicately on their tongues, their eyes closed as they focused on the taste, lingering over the first bit of crust, licking the tines of their fork of apple and cinammon-laced juices, making each morsel last as long as possible.

When dinner was over and I rinsed the dishes and put them into the dishwasher, Gram sat down at the counter and handed me the empty pie plate. "Your crust is better than mine," she said. I held the words carefully, afraid they would break and vanish, tears glittering in my eyes.

"Thank you, Gram."