Scheherazade's Journal

Romantic Friday Writers Challenge #31: The Long, Cool Aphrodisac

2012-02-09T18:00:00.000-08:00

Romantic Friday Writers Challenge #31 is a tough one. All I have to offer is a very short poem that is posted to the website I've been working on--off and on (more off than on). Please indulge me and click here to view my poem, I See You There. Enjoy.

Ship of Fools

2012-02-01T07:00:00.000-08:00

After dinner, I plop down in my easy chair in front of the TV. I can feel the indigestion coming on as I watch the paunchy, white-haired man rant. Next to him stands his dutiful wife with the blond helmet hairdo, not a human hair out of place. The man has been roundly defeated by his opponent in the Florida primary race, but he has not a modicum of grace to congratulate the victor. His ego is as bloated as his belly. He wobbles wildly in orbit around the moon. He spins so many lies that he has come to believe them himself and viciously accuses others of the sins he himself has committed over and over again. He is the ultimate fraud. When a man promises he will give you his life, his fortune and his sacred honor, you got to know he's lying.

I admit I also listened to the other clowns that have been inflicted upon us--the smarmy, cardboard, flip-flopper with beaucoup bucks who plans to buy his way to the presidency; the ultra-conservative with all his holy social issues and beliefs that he wants to jam down our throats; the crazy man who almost makes sense and who is at least honest, but has no hope of ever being president. A strong wind would blow his frail body away.

This is what we have been offered as presidential choices after they have winnowed out the even crazier people. We, the American people, must have done something grievous to deserve all this mediocrity.

I'll take my chances with the man who took out Osama bin Laden and who can channel Al Green.

Romantic Friday Challenge #30: Learning to Dance When It's Over

2012-01-27T06:17:00.000-08:00

This my 400-word submission for this Friday's challenge. Full critique is welcome.
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When her only child Jonathon enlisted in the army as soon ashe turned eighteen, Marie fell into a deep depression. In the hospital, shecame to the realization that she had lost not only her son but her protector.

Now that she had been released from the hospital, all shehad to deflect her husband Michael’s rage was a handful of prescription drugs.She wasn’t well enough yet to return to work. Angry because she couldn’t evencobble together a simple meal, Michael stormed out of the house most evenings tomeet his best friend Izzy at a local bar. The bar owner, Dino Ricci, was their neighbor. Marie couldn’t rememberthe last time she had ever seen him. He worked late hours, slept most of theday. Michael said he must be a damned fairy because he gave dance lessons.

One afternoon Marie managed to get off the couch and ventureout into the backyard. She leaned over her neighbor’s fence to admire his rosesand inhale the sweet scent. She experienced a lightness of spirit she hadn’tfelt in ages. She caressed the blooms.

“Go ahead. Pick whatever you want. They’re for you.”

She looked up to see her handsome neighbor standing on hisback patio. That was the beginning of their friendship and her recovery. Shenever spoke to Michael about him; she swore Dino to secrecy. One afternoon,drawn by the music coming from his patio, she accepted his invitation for adance lesson. She loved the feel of his firm hand on her back, the surenesswith which he directed her bare feet across the cool grass. When the lesson wasover, she buried her head in the hollow of his shoulder and sobbed.

“Run as far and fastas you can,” he told her.

That evening when she joined Michael at the bar, a drunkenIzzy challenged her to a dance. Michael sneered. From behind the bar, aconcerned Dino kept a watchful eye.

Izzy led Marie onto the dance floor. It wasn’t the same asdancing with Dino.

A week after the bar fight between Izzy and Michael, thelocal news reported finding a man’s severed head, hands, and feet on a hikingtrail in a nearby canyon. Marie acceptedthe key to Dino’s Montanacabin, threw her suitcase in the car, and headed down the road.

Death in Hollywood Hills

2012-01-18T21:46:00.000-08:00

Since breaking my arm five weeks ago, I've been living in a twilight zone, well, actually it felt more like a hole in the ground. Now that I'm past the surgery and pain and I no longer have to wear a cast, I returned to work this week and also started physical therapy. I'm crawling out of my hole and glad the worst is behind me. But I've come to the conclusion that being so focused on self for five weeks kind of dulls your senses. Until today.

There are always murders in Los Angeles County, but a recent murder roused my curiosity. Two joggers on a popular hiking trail near the Hollywood sign in Hollywood Hills came upon a grisly scene. Two dogs were playing with a plastic bag near the trail when the severed head of a middle-aged man rolled out of the bag. Investigators later found two hands and two feet--so far, no body. With this little snippet of a story, the mind tries to imagine who committed the murder, why, and how. What sequence of events led to this man's death? We all love untangling the riddles of a shocking story, don't we?

I think I'll tuck that story in the back of my brain and let it percolate for a while. Who knows, maybe it will inspire a twisted tale one of these days. In the mean time, I keep working on my novel, Laughing Hawk. It's sort of "done," but there are parts that don't satisfy me yet. I dare not let a death in Hollywood Hills distract me.

Romantic Friday Writers Challenge No. 28 – Ties That Bind

2011-12-27T10:43:00.000-08:00

I’ve been laid up with a busted left arm and I’m finally feelinglike doing some writing again. Following is my 400-word submission for the year-endchallenge at Romantic Friday Writers. (FCA)

Patricia was a spirited, seventeen-year old beauty withblond hair and blue eyes. My grandparents had high expectations for theiryoungest child, especially after the tragic death of their son and the griefthat haunted them. Instead, she disappointed them by eloping with a farm handthat worked for my grandfather. He was what my mother referred to as a shantyIrishman. He was old enough to be my aunt’s father and he was a widower with a babydaughter. The story whispered between my mother and grandmother was that he hadcaused his first wife’s death by failing to heed the doctor’s advice to avoid alife-threatening pregnancy. He was a big, lazy, boisterous, barrel-chested man,content with his own ignorance. My mother said he had killed a recalcitranthorse with a single punch to the head. I only remember that he always smelledlike manure and that no one could ever unravel the mystery of my aunt’sromantic attachment to him.

Despite her family’s disapproval, my aunt defiantly raisedfive daughters in near poverty on a Wisconsin farm. My uncle was no farmer. Myfather said the cow shit was so deep in the barn that you could hit your headon the ceiling. Everyone expected that one day my aunt would finally have herfill of a very hard life. A devout Catholic, she remained with her husband tothe end when he succumbed to Alzheimer’s disease. I suspect she was probablytempted a few times during her life to change course. My grandmother and motheralways hoped she would come to her senses one day. In the end, no one ornothing could dissuade my aunt from the path she had chosen in life.

My grandparents and mother have been gone for several years,but my Aunt is still going strong at 82, living alone, unbroken, proud, andunafraid on a Wisconsin farm with a dog and a couple of cats. She is happy. Wehave never spent enough time in each other’s company over the years to fill aweek, but this holiday we talked by phone for over an hour. We both laughedwhen she told me she doesn’t understand why she can no longer lift an 80-poundpiece of farm equipment into her truck. We may be bound by family history, butmostly we are bound by her improbable, unfathomable, defiant romance.

The Moth-eaten Poncho

2011-12-21T11:33:00.001-08:00

Many years ago when I was a high school student, my stepmother Rose gave me a wool poncho that she purchased in Mexico. I loved that poncho and have never been able to part with it even though it now has a few moth holes and is looking a little tattered. My husband never liked it because he said it made me look like a peasant. Well, nothing could come between me and my poncho.

Lately, since I broke my arm, it has become my favorite garment once again. I don't own a single jacket or sweater that will fit over my cast, but my poncho has proved to be a loyal old friend. It's funny how you can be so sentimental about an old rag. I have promised myself that I will get it repaired as soon as I am able to.

So what rag or object have you been hanging onto all your life that you can't let go of?

Sandvox Revisited: A Good Tool for Writers and Entrepreneurs

2011-12-15T16:47:00.001-08:00

I recently put together a website using Sandvox 2 for iMac. I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm learning. What I like about Sandvox is that they've taken away the complexity of web design and given the average person a really good tool for quickly creating a personal or business website. I was fortunate to pick up Sandvox when they were offering it for a discounted price. When A2 Hosting offered their web hosting services for half price, I decided to take the plunge. I roughed out a few pages based on previous blog posts so I could get a feel for how Sandvox works. I set up an account with A2 Hosting and then I did the host set up within Sandvox. It was easy once I located the instructions. Then I held my breath and clicked on the Publish button. Presto. Website. You can see my effort at http://www.lindakatmarian.com. Now I will try to find the time to focus on content.

Jane Fonda's New Face

2011-12-14T11:00:00.001-08:00

Jane Fonda is not one of my favorite celebrities, but I freely admit she's a fairly good actress and a talented, successful human being. Over the years we've seen her in the movies, the news, and on exercise DVDs. We remember her sparkling blue eyes and the famous Fonda smile.

Last week I caught a Piers Morgan interview of Jane Fonda. The first thing that struck me was that she no longer resembled herself. The familiar wrinkles around her blue eyes are gone. The skin on her cheeks and throat is taut. She's 74 years old, but could pass for 34. I kept staring at the face that I could no longer recognize and listened to her discuss her life. Even her conversation seemed artificial, somehow stripped of her true self. She looked uncomfortable in her new skin. It made me uncomfortable. She recently stated on the Rosie Show that she was ashamed that she went back on her vow to never undergo a face lift.

Most women do not gracefully accept the ravages of aging, certainly not me. I appreciate the obsession with keeping up appearances but I wonder about a woman who has successfully erased her own face and possibly her own personality. So as I am laying here flat on my back and trying to keep my shattered left arm elevated so it doesn't swell up and turn purple, I wonder. I wonder about a woman who has successfully erased her own face and possibly that sparkle of personality that used to be her. I'm confused by it all, but I know how it happens. One day you look in the mirror and you realize the person in the mirror doesn't match the image in your mind's eye. Well, I for one, never liked what I saw in the mirror and I like it even less now, but I do recognize myself.

So what do you think about this modern dilemma of to be or not to be. Where do you draw that line between being your authentic self and fooling mother nature? When is it a good thing and when does vanity become a joke?

Life's Curve Balls

2011-12-11T15:16:00.001-08:00

So you're sailing through life and you're just trying to keep up with everything, and then WHAM. Life deals you a little setback. On Friday it was my department's responsibility to clean up the lunchroom. When I saw all the dirt and dust balls on top of the refrigerator, I stepped up on a chair to clean it. As I was stepping down, my shoe caught on the chair and I took a bad fall. Unfortunately, I used my left hand to block my fall and it shattered my ulna and radius. My arm looked like a pretzel. On Saturday morning I underwent 3 hours of surgery that required a bone graft, a metal plate and a rod. I may still need more surgery. On the brighter side, I still have use of my right hand. Once again I am reminded of that line from the movie, Forrest Gump—life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get.

Time for another Percocet.

Flash Fiction: The Dance

2011-11-29T19:20:00.001-08:00

Something smelled like smoke. Elizabeth flung open the back door andstepped outside as lightning cracked open the blue-black sky with anearth-shaking boom followed by a low rumble. The electrified atmosphere rousedher spirit. The wind lifted her hair gently off her shoulders. The low rumblebegan to break down into a soft, drumming rhythm.

“Hawk,” she shouted into the darkness. No reply. Lightningstreaked once again across the sky and shook the earth. The drumming grewlouder. Someone, something approached that she could not see. There was a scentof sage in the air, a breath of wind in her face, a rumble beneath her feet, abeating heart.

Elizabethbegan to wonder where she was. She spun herself around in wonder as soft voicesgrew louder. Hey ya hey, hey ya hey. She had mistaken drums and dancing feetfor thunder. Her eyes looked heavenward for the rain that must come, that shecould sense but not see, feel, hear or taste.

Now the drums had grown so loud her feet wanted to dance.She began to mouth the chanting. And then she saw a bare-chested man dancing ina zigzag manner before her. He was a flurry of feathers and brightly coloredribbons, and a thick red fringe encircled each ankle, nearly covering thebeaded moccasins. In one hand he held a silver whip that snaked through theheavy air like lightning; in the other hand, he held a rattle. His face wasfiercely painted, but familiar.

“Hawk?”

He raised his eyes to meet hers, grinned, and danced closer.“Wake up.”

Elizabethbolted out of her dream, breathless. The first real sleep she had had in twodays had been hijacked. She swung her legs out of bed and put her feet on thefloor as she reached for the lamp. Five a.m. Good news or bad, Hawk was telling her to come. Now.

Something to Share for a Holiday Meal - Pesto Bread

2011-11-22T08:00:00.000-08:00

I love bread. If Thanksgiving were just a loaf of bread, butter, and a cup of hot coffee or tea, that would be enough. This Thanksgiving, I am sharing my recipe for Pesto bread. It gets called into service for the holidays and other special occasions. It makes two 16-inch loaves. You will need a French Bread pan, but I suppose it is possible to shape the loaves and do without the pans. However, I recommend the pans because they give a nice, professional shape to the loaves.

You will need:
French bread pan for two loaves - grease the pan with olive oil and sprinkle with corn meal
Mixer with bread hooks (or you can do it the old-fashioned way - knead by hand)
Pastry sheet for rolling out the dough

The Dough
3 cups of lukewarm water
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon salt
2 packages dry yeast (.5 oz)
7 cups flour
1/2 cup cornmeal
olive oil

The Pesto
3 cups of basil leaves
1/4 cup olive oil
1/4 cup lemon juice
1/2 tsp salt
3 cloves of garlic
1/2 cup walnuts (or pine nuts)
1/2 cup finely grated Parmesan cheese

Egg Wash
1 egg white, beaten
1 tablespoon water

Mix water, sugar, salt and yeast in a large mixing bowl. Give the mixture 5 minutes to dissolve and get slightly frothy.
Start the mixer and gradually add the 7 cups of flour.
Knead until the dough forms a large elastic ball. If you are doing this by hand, it will take about 15 minutes. It will only take about 5-7 minutes if you are using bread hooks. The dough should not be too sticky. If you are kneading by hand, turn the dough out on a floured surface and add a little extra flour when it starts to stick to your fingers.
Grease a large bowl with olive oil and also coat the ball of dough with olive oil. Place the dough in the bowl and cover with saran wrap.
Set the bowl in a warm place and let it rise until double (about an hour, less if you are using fast rising yeast).
While the dough is rising, put all the pesto ingredients, except the Parmesan, into a blender and process until smooth.
Place the pesto in a small bowl and stir in the Parmesan.
Punch the dough down, remove from the bowl and place it on a floured surface. Knead it a few times and then shape the dough into a rectangle that is approximately 14" x 10". You can roll the dough out or simply pat it into shape
Cut the rectangle in half and spread pesto on both halves. Don't spread the pesto all the way to the edges.
Tightly roll up each half into a loaf and pinch together the bottom seam and ends of the loaf.
Place the loaves, seam side down in the bread pan.
Take a utility scissor or very sharp knife and make diagonal slashes across the loaves.
Cover the loaves with a light linen towel and let them rise for about an hour in a warm place or until the loaves are double in size.
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees just before the loaves are almost completely risen.
Using a pastry brush, carefully brush the loaves with the egg wash and put them in the oven.
Bake the loaves for 20 minutes, remove from the oven, brush them again with the egg wash and return the loaves to the oven for another 15-20 minutes until golden brown.

This is crazy good bread, especially if you like pesto. By the way, when your summer garden has more basil than you know what to do with, whip up a batch of pesto (without the Parmesan cheese) and freeze it in small containers. Whenever you need pesto, just thaw it out and stir in the Parmesan cheese.

Digging through Old Photos

2011-11-18T08:30:00.000-08:00

An old picture is worth a thousand words. It's like stepping into a story of long ago. This young couple is standing in front of their Iowa home and looking hopefully out at the future before them. The wind is gently blowing her skirt. The man, my grandfather, was a genial, handsome, witty man. I have fond memories of him. He died when I was eight. I never knew the woman standing next to him, my grandmother Martha. She died long before I was born.

When I look at their home, I can imagine what it might be like because I lived in a similar house as a child. There was probably no insulation behind that clapboard. The winter wind would blow under the door and rattle the storm windows. The warmest and largest room in the house would be the kitchen, no doubt heated by a coal burning stove. No hot or cold running water. A hand pump in the kitchen. No bathroom. Chamber pots and an outhouse. There would be a rhythm of life and death lived close to the earth. The summers would be hot and steamy and measured by the height of the corn.

Martha was born in 1888 and married my grandfather in 1907. Their first child, a daughter, would be still born in 1910. A son born in 1912 was also still born. I can imagine the heartache, deep sorrow. Then a third child, a son was born in 1914. He would be their golden child, the recipient of all their hopes and dreams. Three years later would come another son and five years after that came my father. They were the proud parents of three rambunctious boys. But by this time, Martha's health was beginning to fail. Later pictures show an aged woman with dark circles under her eyes. She was only 37 when she died of kidney failure. That is all I know about her. My grandfather never spoke about her. My father, a toddler when she died, had no recollection of her, but he was surely scarred by her death. His father, unable to care for the children by himself, sent the two older sons to live with their uncle. My father went to live with his maternal grandparents. It was no doubt a hard separation for a little boy. He would not regain his family for several years until his father remarried. His grandmother had her hands full caring for him and his invalid grandfather. It seems the dog in the picture below must have been my father's best and only friend. Because I share the same DNA, I understand the fierce scowl on his face. He is facing the world with suspicion and defiance.

Women Are Dangerous

2011-11-16T20:21:00.001-08:00

Christians, Jews, Muslims... No matter which religion you are talking about, ultraconservative factions within organized religions feel compelled to dominate women by segregating them, forcing them to dress in a certain manner, trying to control sexuality and reproductive rights, and by withholding basic civil rights. I am talking about the men who run these organizations and interpret God's will for the rest of us unenlightened souls. Woe to the woman who defies them. If you are not dragged by the hair back into your cave, you will be castigated as intellectually incompetent, morally corrupt—or simply the lowest life form in the universe. You become a silly, inconsequential joke in their eyes.

Why do so many men feel the need to control women? Are they afraid we might organize ourselves as Occupy the World and refuse to give birth to males? In an uncertain world, some insecure minds seek the certainty of order in their lives. They need to feel in control of the chaos. And who is most likely to turn their circumscribed world upside down? Every man's story has a woman who for better or worse has changed his life and there is nothing to be done about it. That's life. Power to the women. All my daughters are goddesses and their daughters will be too. They are well versed in turning the world upside down. They are dangerous and I love them for it.

Herman Cain – Guilt, Real or Imagined, is Always a Good Storyline

2011-11-09T12:07:00.000-08:00

A person can be falsely accused of egregious behavior, such as sexual harassment, for which there is no proof. Likewise, a person can be sexually aggressive and get away with it—again, no proof. So is Presidential candidate Herman Cain a victim or the victimizer?

Do you believe the four women stating that they were sexually harassed by Mr. Cain are telling the truth? Can all the media frenzy be dismissed as a vast left-wing conspiracy or the clever ploy of a political opponent? Or is there a thread of truth bleeding through the twisted fabric of Herman Cain’s ever-changing storyline?

This story is time-worn. A public figure caught in some impropriety vehemently denies all his accusers and experiences a convenient lapse of memory. With mounting media pressure, the story is dribbled out in conflicting pieces and carefully parsed explanations. Storytelling on-the-fly with no believable plot in mind. The accusers are dismissed for their personal failings and hidden agendas. Finally, cornered, the man tearfully admits his deceit and wrongdoing. I only say man because all of the recent stories in the news have been men, but I’m sure this old shoe will fit women too.

So you have to ask yourself, whether reader or writer, what makes someone think they can rewrite their past history to make it conform to the image they want projected to the world? Does the mind conveniently subvert the truth and wipe out inconvenient facts so that the person’s psyche can escape guilt? Or do people just believe they are clever enough to really get away with it?

Accusations, guilt, and denial. This is the stuff of which good stories are made. I have a feeling we will get no tears from Herman Cain. He thinks he can manage his way out of this one.

Oh, and one last niggling question--why are Cain's supposed victims, the ones who have come forward, all attractive, intelligent blonds?

Garden Winding Down But Still Has Beauty

2011-10-29T13:40:00.000-07:00

After a hectic week of work and other events, I am enjoying this comfortably warm and sunny California day. It seems like a perfect time for a garden post now that my garden has given me a breather. Most of the vegetable garden is finished except for herbs and a few peppers. There are still persimmons to pick, and in a week or two the pomegranates will be ready. I'm thinking maybe I'll make some grenadine syrup.

So despite the fact that the fall garden is dwindling, there are a lot of interesting discoveries. First of all, are the habaneros. I planted a variety that's supposed to be milder. It's not that hot but whenever I try to cut into a pepper, my eyes water, my nose runs, and I start to cough uncontrollably. The plant is large, the peppers are tiny. Nevertheless, they are certainly pretty.

Habanero

Christmas Cactus

Persimmons

Roses, Marigolds, Nasturtium, and Alyssum

Red Basil

Pomegranate

Sandvox for Writers

2011-10-21T12:28:00.000-07:00

I do all my writing on a laptop PC because my novel is in Word and I’m perfectly happy to leave well enough alone. But I recently bought an iMac, which I have come to love almost as much as my iPhone. Some things drive my PC mind crazy, but all in all, the iMac is a fantastic machine. It opens a lot of creative doors to just ordinary users.

I’m in no hurry, but I decided that at some point in the future I need to create an author website. I took one look at my laptop screen and thought—no way. That big beautiful iMac screen is the only way to go. But what software to use? I decided I wanted something quick, easy and fairly versatile. I did not want to write HTML code. I don’t need another career. I recall coding HTML years ago just to create a few simple pages. Nope. Not doing that. I’ve got a novel to finish.

I settled on Sandvox. I’m just getting my feet wet, but it’s fairly simple to set up a basic website structure. There are plenty of templates to choose from and you can modify them. Karelia Software provides a very nice video overview and online help, although I would have preferred a more in depth, step-by-step process.

The first advice to myself was to look at other author websites and see what I like. My second piece of advice is to storyboard and get together text and graphics I want to use. That’s where I’m at – play mode. If you have used Sandvox and have any tips, I’d love to hear them.

October 13 - Challenge No. 23 - First Love

2011-10-13T12:31:00.000-07:00

It’s hard to squeeze a first love story into 400 words. A lot ends up on the cutting room floor. This story takes place at an outdoor party. It is told from the male point of view and I suppose I will get beaten up for not being sufficiently romantic. Here goes.

* * *

"Aren't you going to ask me to dance, Elizabeth?" Hawk said.

She turned abruptly to face him.

"It is Elizabeth, isn't it?"

"Yes."

She squinted from the last rays of sun or maybe he had made a bad first impression. He noticed how the waning sunlight illuminated the riot of auburn curls that formed a corona around her head.

"Are you going to waste a good song?" Hawk held out his hand. "One dance."

She stared at his hand. "I know who you are."

"Half a dance, then."

She gave him a long, hard look. "I hope you have strong feet. I might break a few bones."

Hawk laughed and tugged her into the midst of the dancers. She looked furtively towards the sidelines.

Hawk drew her back, spun her around. "No broken bones yet," he said.

She looked disappointed that he was still in one piece.

As the tempo of the music increased, he spun and twirled her faster. The crowd moved back to give them more room.

"Relax," Hawk said.

"I'm not a good dancer."

He caught her about the waist and spun her out, then pulled her close so her back was against his chest, her wild hair in his face. "Who says?" he replied, thinking she smelled like sweet grass.

She bit off her words. "I don't want to fall on my ass."

"Pay attention to my hands and your feet will know what to do."

She sniffed at that and moved back, still gripping his hand, but looking like she needed a rescue.

"That's the secret," Hawk said after a moment.

"What?"

"Resistance."

Hawk dropped his hands down to her hips with a twisting motion.

Her hands automatically moved to displace his.

He grinned back at her. "A good dancer understands resistance."

When the music ended, he lead her into an unexpected dip that made her catch her breath. For one startled moment, they looked into each other’s eyes.

He released her and offered his hand. “Thanks for the dance.”

She put her hand firmly in his.

“No broken bones,” Hawk said. “I never met a woman who threatened to break my bones right off. That usually comes later.”

Elizabeth laughed. It was an honest laugh that came from deep down, throaty and melodic. She was still laughing when she walked away. Maybe she had guessed that he would let her break a bone or two.

Malaga Mayonnaise

2011-10-11T21:30:00.000-07:00

This last weekend we had guests from Malaga, Spain--the surprising things you learn from guests. They offered to prepare the evening meal and mentioned one of the ingredients they would need was mayonnaise. I immediately headed for the refrigerator, but they said: "Oh, no--we always make it from scratch." Really? Having never bothered to make mayonnaise, I doubted it was a worthwhile enterprise. What's wrong with Hellman's?

I was informed that in Spain they make two versions of mayonnaise. One uses a whole milk base and the other uses eggs. Because it is so hot in Spain and there is the danger of salmonella, they usually prefer the milk-based version. Since I didn't have whole milk on hand, they went with eggs. There are a lot of variations on recipes for mayonnaise, but their version used a couple of eggs, salt, and a tablespoon of lemon juice. Whip all that together in a small bowl/container. (A Cuisinart blending wand works well.) Gradually drizzle about a cup of vegetable oil and a half cup of olive oil into the bowl while continuing to whip. The key to success is to add the oil very, very slowly. Drop by drop. It turns into a wonderfully fluffy and flavorful spread. Different recipes add garlic or dry mustard. Experiment. You may never buy mayonnaise again.

October 7th - Challenge No. 22 - Rock Candy

2011-10-07T08:51:00.000-07:00

This week's Romantic Friday Writing Challenge:

        Elizabeth skipped ahead of Collin on the beach, stopping just long enough to scoop up an abalone shell. She spun around and offered it and its pearly iridescence to him, anticipating his smile. He took her offering and slipped his arm around her shoulder. Her arm encircled his naked waist.
        “You’re a cheap date,” he said, fingering the shoulder strap of her green two-piece bathing suit. His eyes were wrinkled from squinting into the sun and his hair was blown into corn silk drifts across his sun burnt forehead.
        “I’ll cost you more than you think,” she said, pulling him closer. “So much it would take your breath away.” She felt the power of those words burn through her skin like the sun’s rays.
        He looked far ahead toward Santa Monica pier and the Hippodrome. “Ahh, a gold digger like all the others, is that it?”
        She laughed. “It’s not your gold I’m after.”

        “What then?” he asked.
        She walked quietly in his embrace, digging her heals in the hot sand, rolling her hip against his.
        He squeezed her arm. “If not my gold, what then, fair maid?”
        She looked in his face and summoned the courage for truth. “Your soul.”
        He gave her a startled look. She swung herself loose, grasping his hand, twirling around him, pushing him ahead of her and plowing her feet through the sand. He quickly caught her up and held her tight while she giggled and struggled to escape, unable to be held too close.
        “I’m yours,” he said.
        Elizabeth cocked her head to one side, unsure that anyone could be hers.
        Collin squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t believe me?”
        She planted her hands on her hips. “How many women have you told that to in your life?” It was a troubling thought.
        “Oh, so you’re the jealous type?”
        “No, I am the center of the universe type. I will have no other goddesses before me.”
        He laughed, no doubt because he thought that was a weird thing to say. But Elizabeth was thinking he had better understand her meaning. If she was not the center of his universe, she would not linger there one moment longer.
        “Can we ride the merry-go-round?” she said to change the subject. “I love all those wild-eyed horses, spinning ’round, up and down. And I want some rock candy too.” She craved a crazy sweetness in her life.

Occupy Wall Street

2011-10-06T12:16:00.000-07:00

You’ve probably heard about the recent demonstrations across the country against corporate greed and the demise of the middle class. Are these the beginning rumblings of an America waking from a complacent slumber? Is it class warfare as some so derisively call it?

Listen, the foundation of this country was about religious freedom, freedom from oppression and the elitism of Europe, and financial freedom. The colonists grew to resent seeing the results of their hard work flow back to Europe. We went to war to gain our independence. America became the symbol of freedom and opportunity. It is not in the nature of Americans to remain complacent for too long when they see themselves being stripped of their hard-earned freedoms.

So when someone like presidential candidate Herman Cain says “I don’t have much patience for someone who does not want to achieve their American dream the old-fashioned way,” I have to ask what the hell is he talking about? Americans have always taken to the streets in protest when those in power would not listen to the call for justice and freedom. If they hadn't, Cain wouldn't be running for President. When Mitt Romney dismisses these demonstrations as class warfare and states that “I’m just trying to occupy the White House,” I say, watch out. Americans may have finally had their fill of greedy Wall Street institutions and corporations. They hold their Congress in utter contempt for its venality, stupidity, and unresponsiveness to their wishes. They are infuriated about the threats to the American dream for themselves and future generations. Class warfare? Bring it on.

September 30th - Challenge No. 21 - Fearful Heart

2011-09-30T09:16:00.000-07:00

This weeks Romantic Friday Writing challenge:

Elizabeth felt herself rising to the surface of a moonless night, awoken by the sound of a pebble as it plunked and then skipped across deep water. A smothering hand clamped over her mouth as she tried to form a scream, and then nothing…

When Elizabeth came to, the pain in her arms and back made her aware of her unnatural position. Her body was arched backwards like a bow poised to shoot an arrow, her wrists bound to her ankles and her mouth taped shut. She panicked for the oxygen she could not swallow, but was forced to extract with her nostrils. Her chest heaved. Her mind screamed. Lying on the truck bed and dressed only in a thin night gown, she shivered in the cold night air despite the blanket that covered her. The familiar rumble reverberated through her body as Hawk's truck bounced along a rough road. She knew this truck as well as she knew herself.

In the dark, she was aware of someone lying near. She scooted herself closer, drawn by the scent of blood, and rolled against a body, warm but limp. Hawk moaned. He seemed to be unconscious and her fingers told her that he was trussed as tightly as she was.

God, she thought, fighting back tears. What had happened? She couldn't remember anything.

She shook her head and tugged the blanket away from her face. Looking toward the cab window, she saw two men outlined in the dark. Lights from a following vehicle streaked through the tailgate.

“Hawk.” Elizabeth brushed her lips lightly against his ear and tasted the salty stickiness of blood. “Hawk.” She rolled on her back, wincing from the pain in her arms, and stared up at the black starlit canopy.

God, what's happening?

Suddenly, she thought of her grandfather and how he once told her to recite the Hail Mary if ever death was imminent. The Hail Mary pass. The words flooded her mind. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.

She struggled to break free of her bonds. Blessed art thou amongst women.

The truck began to slow.

"Play possum, little sister," a voice whispered in her ear. It was not Hawk. She could have sworn a dark, dense cloud hovered over her, obscuring the stars above.

Losing It

2011-09-28T22:44:00.000-07:00

The list is long of the things we are losing in this country.

Across the country, Republicans are making a concerted effort to erect barriers to voter register. They know average Americans have very little time for complex registration requirements, especially young people, the elderly and disabled, and those who are simply too busy trying to keep body and soul together. They know these Americans, if they could get to the polls, would be the least likely to give their votes to them so they do everything they can to discourage them. Power must remain in the hands of the few, the anointed.

Republicans have set out to destroy Planned Parenthood under the false pretext that they use Federal funds to perform abortions. The truth is they are focused on family planning and women's reproductive health. Without Planned Parenthood, many women would have no access to these services, adversely affecting them and their families, not to mention our country. And when it comes to abortion, why should a victim of rape or incest be subjected to someone else's decision to deny them access to this service? How are we any different from a country that forces women to cover their faces or forbids them to drive? Can we not trust most women to make conscientious decisions about reproduction?

Why are those who are on welfare disparaged as being lazy, unproductive members of society? Of course, there are the few who try to game the system, but for most people welfare is truly a safety net. They would much rather be gainfully employed. In Florida, Rick Scott asserts that people on welfare are more likely to be drug users. Really? A completely false statement. So now welfare recipients must undergo drug testing at taxpayer expense in order to receive welfare. What's all that talk about government interference?

In states like Wisconsin and Ohio, Republicans have swiftly moved to destroy unions. Why? Because unions defend the middle class and they tend to vote Democratic. Although we have all heard stories of union corruption and abuses, the truth is unions have been the catalyst in bringing about safety in the work place and fair wages. They have been the champion on the middle class. They were why America was able to grow a prosperous middle class. But we're losing our grip on the good life. Now teachers, nurses, fire fighters, police, and all the others who belong to unions are being stripped of their right to collective bargaining.

Republicans accuse Democrats of inciting class warfare. Restricting voter registration, outlawing collective bargaining, making reproductive health care inaccessible, demeaning those on welfare---the list goes on. What would you call it? What country am I in?

Once Upon a Blue Moon

2011-09-23T12:12:00.000-07:00

The first time I heard the banging noise from my upstairs bedroom window, it was a black, starless night. I couldn’t see a thing when I stumbled from my bed to the open window. All I could hear was the roar of an engine as a car took off. The next morning we discovered that someone had smashed our mail box to smithereens.

We had to have a mail box so, of course, we replaced it, figuring lightning wouldn’t strike twice. A couple weeks later, we were again awakened by the sound of our mail box being demolished. My husband flew out of bed in his usual half asleep state and nearly flung himself through the screen window before I grabbed him.

We informed the local police, but I decided to take my own revenge. I hammered long nails into thin strips of wood. Every night I placed the strips on the street in front of my mailbox. Another week went by. I now was so sensitive to sound that the slightest noise would wake me. When I heard the clatter of one of my boards being spun into a wheel well, I thought for sure I had caught my man. I jumped to the window only to see a patrol car slowly pull away from our house and then abruptly stop. Oh shit. I had visions of some police officer pounding on the front door, but then, much to my relief, the patrol car drove on. In the dead of night, I slinked out of the house onto the dewy front lawn and quickly retrieved my wooden strips.

It was a blue moon that last night our visitor came. If a leaf were to fall off a tree, you could have heard the sound ricochet off all the homes in the neighborhood. I was deep asleep when all of the sudden I sat up and went to the window. In the moonlight, I saw the slender figure of a man as he raised a baseball bat or club and approached the mail box. All of the sudden a deep voice croaked. “Hey you, get out of there.” The voice boomed loudly through the slumbering neighborhood. The startled man ran to his car and floored it. It took me a moment to realize that the eerie voice had come from my own throat. He never returned.

Land of Lincoln

2011-09-22T08:54:00.000-07:00

I made two important discoveries on my brief trip to Illinois last week. The first was this incredible hand-made quilt that was on a bed in my sister's house. The intricate detail on this old family quilt is amazing. Isn't it beautiful? The second thing I discovered was the Lincoln Museum in Springfield. The exhibits were outstanding. The one thing that surprised me was just how unpopular and reviled Lincoln was as President. Even his wife did not escape scathing verbal attacks. One part of the exhibit displayed all the nasty cartoons of the day that attacked Abraham Lincoln. The one depicting him as a monkey reminded me of similar cartoons of President Obama. Lincoln must have been a very strong man to lose three of his four young sons and bear the burden of his wife's grief and a nation embroiled in civil war. His photos throughout his term up until his assassination, show an ever growing sorrow etched upon his face. He saw that his mission was to preserve the union of all the states and he gave his life for it. I left the museum realizing what a true hero he was and what incredible strength of character and wisdom he must have possessed to withstand the fierce winds that buffeted him.

If I were to try to read, much less answer, all the attacks made on me, this shop might as well be closed for any other business. Abraham Lincoln

Going Home

2011-09-21T20:34:00.000-07:00

Flying over Central Illinois last week, I noted the patchwork quilt of farms, each square containing a notch of clustered buildings. This is where I grew up and except for the general lay of the land, my memories of Bloomington-Normal no longer match the present. The homes I lived in during my youth are still standing, but barely recognizable because they have been remodeled and encroached upon by other buildings. The wide-open space I remembered is gone. I can no longer find my way around. The town is overpopulated with restaurants and motels. It's not that I didn't expect things to change. While many of my classmates in high school and college stayed, I was happy to roam far away. Each year brought more change--in me and in this place that used to be my home.

The truth is I keep coming back to this place only because of my parents and the frayed memories that form the fabric of my being. My father and stepmother are nearly 90 and as endangered as my memories. My father is in a nursing home. This time when I went to visit, I figured he wouldn't recognize me and that all the memories that bound us together would be gone. He can no longer walk or feed himself. He has to be awoken for meals and medication. Fortunately, he managed to slip out of that Rip Van Winkle slumber of his for an hour and a half on the first day. He seemed to know who I was and could carry on a conversation. Most days he is speechless and befuddled. I am sad. I know I will be even sadder to let go of him, but I will always keep the memory of him as he was before old age and dementia began to wear him down. We was always the father I needed him to be.

Tall Ships Festival at Dana Point

2011-09-11T21:33:00.000-07:00

The annual Tall Ships Festival was held in Dana Point harbor on September 9-11. It's a fun family event, but there is a lot of interesting history that underlies all the festivities.
Dana Point is named after Richard Henry Dana, Jr., author of "Two Years Before The Mast," which was published in 1840 at the time he was admitted to the bar. It's an insightful journal of his seafaring adventures.
In the 1830s, San Juan Capistrano Mission sold cowhides to merchants in Boston. The tall ship, Pilgrim, which is always docked in the harbor, is a replica of the cowhide trading vessel Dana sailed on.
Dana left Harvard to enlist for a two-year stint as a common sailor on the Pilgrim. Supposedly, he thought a change in scenery might help his eyesight which had been affected by measles. Throughout his voyage he kept a diary while traveling from Boston to South America around Cape Horn and to California. He believed Stillwater Bay (now Capistrano Bay) was one of the most beautiful harbors in all of California. I agree with him. Dana Point's beauty and charm have not diminished with the passage of time.
You can find an electronic copy of Dana's book at http://www.fullbooks.com/Two-Years-Before-the-Mast1.html. It's quite an interesting description of life more than a century and a half ago. He did not set out to write an adventure story, but rather to recount the harsh life of sailors and all the wonders he saw along the way. The term before the mast refers to the quarters for common sailors. An interesting fact about Dana is that he became an anti-slavery activist, very likely as a result of his sailing experiences and growing sympathy for the hard-working people with whom he came in contact.
(Incidentally, his book was a best seller in its time and was made into a movie in the late 1940s.)
Here are a few faux pirates that were everywhere at the festival. They were pretty benign, but they did manage to intimidate a few children.
The Tall Ship Festival celebrates the early history of California and Dana Point, but there are many other fascinating stories to tell about Dana Point. Perhaps on another day.

Abraham Lincoln: Prophet

2011-09-06T14:31:00.000-07:00

Abraham Lincoln was a tall, awkward, homely man of great inner beauty and wisdom. He had many important ideas to convey to this nation and its people, if they would listen. He gave his life for this country. He was a Republican, but he would most certainly be an outcast of the Republican Party in this day and age.

Almost everything he said a hundred years ago is very prophetic for this day and age. Take this quote for example:

…an era of corruption in high places will follow and the money power will endeavor to prolong its reign by working on the prejudices of the people…until wealth is aggregated in a few hands…and the Republic is destroyed.

Is this not where we are today? Everyday, the middle and lower classes are losing ground in terms of jobs and income, access to education, medical care, social security, and a sense of empowerment and well-being. Because we are at this critical tipping point, corporations and wealthy people should be expected to give back to this nation for the good of the Republic. But will they? And more importantly, will we insist that they do or let our own prejudices lead us astray?

Design a Book Cover Contest

2011-08-30T20:47:00.000-07:00

Teralyn Pilgrim of A Writer's Journey is hosting a book cover contest. This is my entry. I recently did this sketch to represent my work-in-progress. I figured I needed something to shoot for--target practice while I'm editing and rewriting. I have no idea what the final cover might look like, but this primitive sketch will have to do for now. I hope you like it.

Peppers: The Spice of Life

2011-08-29T13:36:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite writers, Janet Fitch, has announced that the topic for her next blog post will be peppers. She will, no doubt, spin a wonderful tale, but hey, I'm the queen of peppers. I am as obsessed with these mysterious fruits as some people are with chocolate. Every year I start peppers from seed and plant them when they are strong enough. They languish for the first part of the growing season in my tightly-packed, vertical garden, but as soon as the really hot weather arrives and other plants give up the ghost, the peppers suddenly take off.

I love peppers for their bright colors, shapes, and wide range of flavors from sweet to complex to scorching (well, not the scorching so much). I love them because they have a magical quality and can transform ordinary dishes to extraordinary ones.

Paprika peppers are an essential component of my kitchen chemistry set. I started growing my own from saved seed because I couldn't find plants or seeds. Paprika, when dried and ground, is incredibly sweet, smoky, and warm. It is a thousand times better than any you will find in a store. And because it is an essential ingredient in my Devil's Dust, well, I just can't live without it.

After paprika comes Bell peppers, which come in various shades. Yellow, red, and green are my favorites. I chop and dry some of them for use in winter cooking. The rest end up in salads or stir-fry.

My third favorite is Pasilla Bajio or chile negro. I've decided I need to grow more of these. When ripe, they are the color of melted chocolate and have a complex, smoky flavor with a hint of warmth. I dry these and grind them into a powder. This pepper is excellent for sauces such as mole.

The other pepper plants in my garden are experimental. I'm always looking for that elusive flavor. This year, it's a "mild" habenero--we'll see. It has just started to fruit.

My other experimental pepper is an orange rocoto. My daughter Michelle gave me a small, straggly plant that turned into a large, fuzzy-leaved bush. It's tiny purple blossoms turned into small, apple-shaped fruits that turned a golden orange with black seeds. I dared to taste one. It had a slow heat, certainly not the fire I expected. The trouble came when I tried to cut some of these up. I immediately began coughing and my eyes started watering. My sinuses filled and I sneezed. Oh, and remember to wear rubber gloves!

Yes, it's true that life would not be worth living without chocolate, but life also requires a little spice.

Steve Jobs: Creative Genius and Entrepreneur

2011-08-25T09:50:00.000-07:00

This week Steve Jobs announced that he is stepping down as CEO of Apple, Inc. Serious health issues have impaired his ability to attend to business responsibilities. We are all sad about that because he has been such a dynamic, creative force. His creativity has touched our lives in many ways. When other entrepreneurs have been focused on the bottom line, he has always focused on creating innovative products that inspire imagination and make life a little more fun, perhaps easier.

I remember the Apple IIe. It was my first computer. Back then, few people went to the trouble or expense of purchasing a computer. It was for geeks. My IIe didn’t do much. It had this funky green screen and the operating system was on a floppy drive. It was a glorified typewriter. If you wanted to be a true geek, you could try your hand at creating a few crude programs. The IIe was an imaginative foray into computer technology, but Microsoft soon took over the business world. Once I became a technical writer, every computer I came in contact with was a PC. I learned enough PC mysteries and mumbo-jumbo to survive the blue screen of death and innumerable crashes, corruptions of data, lost files, and other frustrations. The PC became this inanimate object that ruled my life at work and at home with its vagaries.

Some people love the complexity of technology. They like being initiated into a coven of geeks who hold the secret code. I prefer simplicity and question the necessity of complexity for the end-user. Who needs more frustration? About a year ago, I decided to buy an iPhone for myself and a simpler phone for my husband who doesn’t want to deal with anything complex. As it turned out, his simple phone is much more complicated, but much less sophisticated and intuitive than my iPhone. If it’s possible to love a thing, well, I love my iPhone for its ability to accomplish very complex tasks in a way that is simple, intuitive, and fun. And when you run into a problem, Apple’s technical support is excellent.

This week I took the plunge back into the Apple world of computers. I hung up my wheezing, whirring, temperamental PC and bought an iMAC. There’s a lot to learn in the transition from PC to MAC, but so far it’s not painful. In fact, a lot of things just seem easier. It’s a beautiful machine conceived by a genius, Steve Jobs. I hope Apple, Inc. never loses his intuitive vision.

Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys

2011-08-17T10:54:00.000-07:00

The political scene in the U.S. is the most dismal it’s ever been. Not only do we have to deal with the Tea Party Taliban, a completely incompetent Congress, and a seriously ailing economy, but now we’re into this miserable election cycle where the candidates will be telling so many lies that they and we won’t be able to keep track of their stupidity.

Enter Rick Perry, Texas governor. Macho man. Please God, not another, rip-snortin’, swaggering, faux cowboy. We had one of those already. The damage Bush did was bad enough. This guy promises to be even worse. How can a candidate for President be so ignorant as to accuse the Chairman of the Federal Reserve of treason? Perry is the same guy who made over-the-top statements about Texas secession and who brags about his prowess in creating jobs in Texas (minimum wage jobs that no one can survive on). This is a man who puts his finger in the air to see which way the wind is blowing and then adjusts his rhetoric accordingly. This does not make him a man who stands by his word. This is a sidewinder. He’s giving us an old story with all those old cowboy clichés. If you want your life to feel like a parched, southwestern desert, vote for this buckaroo.

As for Obama, all I can say it’s time to stop playing Mr. Nice Guy. His mama must have been intent on not raising a cowboy. He needs to understand that bullies rarely understand reason or kindness. Sometimes you need to tak’em down. Obama took down Osama. The President now needs to focus on the Tea Party Taliban and all those so intent on destroying him that they would destroy our country too. Otherwise, we’re all going to be scraping the shit off our boots on the backs of our pant legs.

Prophecy or Self-Fulfilling Prophecy?

2011-08-16T13:29:00.000-07:00

Ah, the doomsday stories we’ve been telling ourselves since the beginning of time. The year 2012 looms. The news is always about death and despair. Mother Earth is on a tear—flooding, storming, burning, melting, shaking, blowing hot, blowing cold, withholding her bounty, and then pummeling us with it. Only the most stupid among us would say that we have no part in this story. Most of us suspect that this stew we live in is greatly of our own making. Deep down, many believe we deserve something cataclysmic for all the war and strife we have brought to this planet. The religious hope to be spared, never mind how much evil has been committed in God’s name. Those cultures more closely aligned with the earth, such as the Mayans, had their feet firmly rooted in the earth and their eyes fixed on the stars. They at least conceded that earth was a living, breathing thing in a vast universe and they were a part of it. Perhaps their vision of a world end was the pangs of rebirth.

The world has always been a place of turmoil. The difference now is that we are finally forced to recognize our interconnectedness. What happens in one community or country affects all the others. There is no place to escape to unless you want to leave the planet. Maybe all the dire predictions of a Cayce or a Nostradamus can be overruled by a world that seeks its own rebirth and makes a choice for the common good—a place where the pursuit of greed, selfishness, and the hunger for power can be banished. Until then, all stories, including mine, are about the battle between good and evil—the good who lay down their lives for others and the evil who take lives in a vain attempt to control the world. It’s a simple storyline that plays out in nations and in the daily lives of us all.

As for prophesying what is to come, I suspect we are God’s great experiment. The prophecy that is fulfilled is the one we choose.

Just One Little Thing

2011-08-10T09:10:00.000-07:00

The stories on the news and in the paper, whether local, national, or international, are all too much to bear. They are stories that incite sadness, rage, disgust, and an overwhelming sense of powerlessness. The world feels like it is coming apart at the seams. Somebody give us some respite from this deluge of worldwide madness and chaos.

I want to put my head in the sand so that's what I did this week, figuratively speaking, but I accomplished one thing that pleased me. One thing is some thing. It's better than nothing.

Recently, I asked a graphic artist friend of mine to mock up a book cover for my work-in-progress. You know, something I could use for target practice--well, at least as a constant reminder that I need to focus on completing my edit and rewrite. He sent me three mockups, all of which I disliked. I have to blame myself. I somehow failed to communicate. What happened next, I can't quite explain. I picked up a sketchpad and put together a rather crude drawing that features a red, flatbed Ford that appears throughout my novel. I had never thought about it before, but that Ford is my story's ship. So here is my iPhone snap of my sketch. I'm hoping my friend will clean it up and drop in a title--for target practice.

Maloubier: Churchill''s Secret Agent

2011-08-08T13:17:00.000-07:00

Robert Maloubier's recent French language memoir, Churchill's Secret Agent, is about his life as a secret agent for Churchill's Special Operations in France during World War II. Very cloak and dagger. It sounds like an intriguing book. I don't know if it is available in English. I'll have to see if I can chase it down. But here are a couple of equally intriguing quotes from Maloubier:

"Modern life is about having to foresee everything: take zero risks, and live from your cradle to your grave. But there's nothing worse than that.

"Even though man wants to absolutely know what tomorrow will be made of, the excitement of life is from not knowing what tomorrow will bring. Tomorrow is another day. That's all...something different. Something will happen, must happen. Otherwise, it's going to be dull. Life can only be made of unpredictable things."

As a reader or writer, what do you think?

A Story of Survival: Raising a Fist to Death

2011-08-05T11:54:00.000-07:00

Today's LA Times had an excellent story about 101-year old Leon Weinstein, a Holocaust survivor. Survivors often have a strong premonition of danger when those around them are in denial. In war time Warsaw, Leon Weinstein and his wife Sima decided that if they didn't survive at least their 18-month old daughter Natalie must survive. So they changed her last name, hung a crucifix around her neck, and pinned a note on her chest begging that his daughter be taken care of in the name of Jesus Christ. On a cold December morning, he set his daughter on the doorstep of a childless couple, hoping they would accept the blond, blue-eyed child as their own.

At a distance, Leon watched in horror as the man he had selected as his daughter's savior picked her up, read the note, and then carried her off to the police station. There was no way to know what fate awaited his daughter.

Leaving his wife with a sympathetic family, Leon headed for the Warsaw ghetto where he became a resistance fighter. Some how he managed to survive the most horrific situations. His wife and family all perished. In the spring of 1945, when the war was over, he set out to look for his daughter. After months of following her trail from convent to convent, he finally found her in a convent next to the ghetto.

It's a remarkable story of a man who looked death in the face and shook his fist. It's a story about evil in the world that we should remember for these times.

Tiramisu

2011-07-28T11:56:00.000-07:00

The week is often hectic and filled with drudgery, worry, and frustration. You have to make room for those little diversions that make things more tolerable—a movie, a walk in the park, a good book, a family outing, a divine meal.

I don’t have much patience for being in the kitchen during the week, but when Friday rolls around I’m looking for a decent meal and an exotic experience—something unusual and not too complicated. I notice a lot of people feel the same way I do when it comes to desserts. They are always digging up the recipe for Kataifi. They want exotic, but they don’t want to be in the kitchen for hours. Here’s another great dessert that is worth the effort. Tiramisu.

Lady Fingers

The main building blocks of Tiramisu are lady fingers – approximately 1-½ boxes. If you can’t find them in the store (which happens occasionally), then you’ll have to make your own. Following is an easy recipe for making lady fingers. If you can skip this part, you can throw this dessert together in no time. The hard part will be refrigeratoring it a few hours before you eat it.

2 tablespoons butter (to grease cookie sheet)

¾ cup flour (plus 2 tablespoons to dust cooking sheet)

4 egg yolks

½ cup sugar

4 egg whites, beaten until stiff

pinch of salt

1 teaspoon vanilla

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Grease a baking sheet with butter and dust it with flour. (You can skip the butter and flour routine if you use parchment paper.)
Beat 4 egg whites until stiff and set aside.
Place egg yolks and sugar in a large mixing bowl and beat on medium-high speed until mixture is pale yellow, thick, and has tripled in volume (about 8 minutes).
Stir in ¾ cup flour, salt and vanilla.
Gently fold in egg whites so mixture is smooth.
Drop batter on cookie sheet in oblong blobs--about 1.5” x 3”
Bake for approximately 10 minutes until golden brown.
Cool thoroughly and remove from cookie sheet.

Tiramisu Custard

3 egg yolks

4 egg whites

3 tablespoons sugar

½ pound mascarpone cheese

¾ cup strong coffee

¼ cup Kahlua liqueur

2 tablespoon unsweetened cocoa powder

Beat 4 egg whites and salt until frothy. Add 1 tablespoon sugar and beat until thick and holding shape. Set aside.
Beat yolks with 2 tablespoons sugar until mixture is thick (about 2 minutes).
Add mascarpone and continue beating until mixture is smooth.
Stir one-quarter of egg whites into the egg yolk mixture, and then gently fold in remaining whites. Mixture should be smooth and light.

Assembly

Mix the coffee and Kahlua together. (Go heavier on the Kahlua if that’s your preference.)
Place a layer of the lady fingers on the bottom of an 8 x 8 pan.
Sprinkle about one-third of the Kahlua mixture over the layer of cookies. (If you are using commercial ladyfingers, you can also try dipping them in the Kahlua mixture before layering them into the bottom of the pan.)
Cover with one-third of the custard mixture.
Place a layer of lady fingers on top and sprinkle them thoroughly with the coffee mixture.
Continue the layering with second third of the custard and another layer of lady fingers and Kahlua.
Finish by adding the final third of the custard.
Sprinkle unsweetened cocoa powder on top (use a small, fine sieve to sprinkle the cocoa).
Refrigerate until serving – at least 8 hours or up to 2 days. That's the hard part. You need to give the flavors a little time to develop.

The end result is light and creamy and not too sweet.

The Mysteries of Black Star Canyon

2011-07-23T13:05:00.000-07:00

Black Star Canyon or Canon de los Indios (http://www.irlandmarks.org/Explore/black-star-canyon.aspx) is located in the Santa Ana Mountains in Orange County. I had never heard about it until this week when they decided to have an open house for the public in celebration of this land gift from Irvine Company chairman Donald Bren.

This canyon was wild country at one time--populated with American fur traders, Mexicans, and horse-stealing Tongva Indians. There are stories of ghosts and ranchos. All I can say is that it's extraordinarily beautiful and a great place for biking and hiking and spinning a story.

The park is not easily accessible to the public. Today was one of those rare opportunities, although I believe you can get access if you participate in the docent-led activities. There are easy, moderate, and strenuous trails. Black Star Canyon Road connects to the Cleveland National Forest.

It's a beautiful, beautiful place. I will have to find out more about it--and the ghosts.

Frustration: Slab Leaks & Elevator Pitches

2011-07-20T12:15:00.000-07:00

My life this week is dominated by slab leaks and elevator pitches. I don’t know which is more frustrating.

In California, most homes are built on concrete slabs so that we can rock n’ roll when an earthquake hits. Unfortunately, all the damn plumbing is embedded in these slabs. When a leak develops due to corrosion of the pipes or high water pressure, it’s a big deal. It can mean a whole lot of tear-down and reconstruction. And dollars. My incredible son-in-law has come to our rescue and volunteered to reroute all the piping. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that this will not turn out to be the project from Hell.

But when it comes to elevator pitches, I have to figure out how to do this all by myself. I hate it. It’s much easier to write a novel than boil a whole novelistic concept down to two sentences. I will probably be writing this pitch over and over again. Hate it? Love it? Sound off, if you like, and tell me why. Here it is:

In the 1960s, Elizabeth Leigh leaves behind her unhappy Midwestern life and visits her California cousin. She falls into a whirlwind romance with an up-and-coming real estate developer and embarks on a Mississippi road trip with her cousin and a native American named Laughing Hawk. A trip that starts as a lark forces Elizabeth to chart an unexpected course.

Politicians: Overlooking the Characters We Hate

2011-07-18T09:41:00.000-07:00

When it comes to real life characters or fictional ones, readers and writers often overlook politicians, dismissing them as boring and stupid. The evening news is a source of constant frustration as we hear about that ship of fools we call Congress. We quickly change the channel. But wait. Think about it.

While stupid might be an apt description, boring is not. These people have power over your life because you have given it to them. Understanding the twisted minds who seek to rule us is a story in the making. What convoluted logic makes a white man think he has the right to dictate to women what decisions they should make concerning reproductive rights and abortion? What about the politician who preaches family values and condemns those who fail to meet his standards but doesn't think the rules apply to him? Why do people in office seek to shield the wealthy, but strip the lower classes of any hope for survival? The list of betrayal of public trust is endless.

We see these characters every day. Posturing and lying before the TV cameras, comfortable in the assumption that most of us are too harried or stupid to pay attention and seek the truth. How do these perfect antagonists live in their schizophrenic skins? As a writer, I want to know.

How about you? Do your stories include politicians?

Garden-variety Characters

2011-07-13T22:12:00.000-07:00

Character is everything when it comes to storytelling. Once again, I make the gardening connection. Even into the life of a garden, a few characters must fall--raccoons, possums, rats, birds, insects, voracious worms, neighbors. I throw in this picture of a few characters that have shown up in my garden. They all have personality.

The point is--stories without unique characters are boring. Cardboard characters just don't cut it--even if they are gorgeous and marvelous in superficial ways. They need depth and a few flaws that are uniquely their own to drive a story.

Some writers believe in character possession. When they are intensely involved in writing, the character seems to take over and redirect the story. I tend to believe there is some truth to this. I have had the experience of creating a character and then finding myself in a situation where I encounter the embodiment of that character in real life. It's almost as if there is a fleeting recognition of one another. Very chilling and eery, I might add. (Be careful what you create.)

Whether reader or writer, what's your take on characters? Who are your favorites and what about them fascinates you?

Mojitos for Survival

2011-07-08T11:49:00.000-07:00

It’s been awfully hot lately--98 degrees most days in the OC unless you’re near the beach. The garden is singed around the edges, but the mint is looking just fine. Do something useful with that persistent plant. Grab a few handfuls--enough so you can pack a measuring cup with the leaves. Bring it to a boil in one cup of sugar and one cup of water. Remember this ratio for life. 1:1:1 Let it cool for a half hour, strain it, and now you have a simple mint syrup for Mojitos that can be refrigerated.

Okay, there are a million ways to make Mojitos. If you like the kinds that are muddled with a pestle, then this is not your recipe.

But if you like a refreshing buzz without having to pick mint leaves out of your teeth, here is your personal cocktail for a hot summer day.

Juice of one lime
1 jigger of white rum (Bacardi)
1 jigger of mint syrup
Sparkling water (San Pellegrino)
Mint leaves and thin slices of lime for garnish
Ice

So there you have it. My prescription for survival. I'm hoping this puts me in the right frame of mind for editing/writing this weekend.

Does this work for you?

Escape is Sweet: El Morro Canyon

2011-07-05T12:52:00.000-07:00

A hike from the El Morro Canyon visitors' center (Crystal Cove State Park-Southern California) was my first act of freedom over the fourth of July weekend. Up early, while it was still cool and overcast, we hiked the No Name trail. The sun soon burnt off all the fog. You have to get up early because this hike is a hot one in the summer. Also, the parking lot fills up pretty fast.

The new Morro camping areas and day use areas have also opened up. From the day use area, you can take the tunnel passage to the beach, which is beautiful. All the camping spots have an ocean view. Day use is $15, but good luck on ever getting a camp site. They are booked up until September.
It would be wonderful to get a camp site at Morro. It's so close to Laguna Beach restaurants, art galleries, and entertainment. You can easily imagine yourself checking into a whole new dimension of reality and escaping the old one.

Wildflowers were all in bloom on the trail and buzzing with bees. I have no idea what the name of this vine is, but it had enormous creamy white blooms.

Make the 4th Your Personal Independence Day

2011-07-01T08:32:00.000-07:00

The Fourth of July is a big day in the U.S. Don't forget what it's all about. Freedom. Independence. A joyous sense of self. Unhook yourself from Twitter and Facebook. Ignore the phone, the radio, the TV, and all the other things that claim your life. Enjoy a picnic, fireworks, a walk on the beach or in the woods, a real face-to-face with friends and family. Be free. Be creative. Listen to the silence of a new morning and see if you can fill it with just yourself.

One last thing. Always remember what freedom feels like. There's always someone who wants to take it away from you. (I'll save that rant for another day.)

So are you ready to be free?

The Invisibles

2011-06-27T21:56:00.000-07:00

There are many invisible people, even in the most affluent neighborhoods. You don't know quite what to think of the young, neatly dressed mother pushing a baby carriage who stands on a busy street corner with a sign asking for money or food or shelter. There is an old, bearded man who comes into LA Fitness every evening toting his toiletries. I've never seen him use the equipment. He seems obsessed with cleanliness and always heads straight for the locker room. I suspect he lives in his car and manages to pay the monthly fee so he has access to the showers. I've seen a middle-aged woman standing in front of Costco in the late afternoon, crying with shame, hoping for help. There are the parents who line up their children in folding chairs on the sidewalk to do their school work while they hold up cardboard signs asking for help. Some are entrepreneurial. They ask for work as painters, gardeners, mechanics. Occasionally, someone will offer a couple of dollars out of an open car window, but it's a rare occurrence. Lots of us are turning blind eyes. Then there are the crazed, scraggly looking, on-the-street-too-long people with shopping carts and backpacks. Burnt to a crisp by the sun. Unwashed. Engaged in long conversations with themselves. Not a lot of them, just here and there, silently slipping through the cracks while we all uncomfortably look the other way and try to ignore them. I wonder what I would do in their shoes and why I would think standing on a street corner would ever make a difference. I try to think what animal instincts I would need to survive. I am terrified by their fragility. They are so invisible.

Mon Jardin: The Vertical Jungle

2011-06-22T21:51:00.000-07:00

A lot of things have gotten in the way of writing the last two weeks. It makes me crazy when I think about all the things I want to do or have to do and how I always run out of time. I'm about 250 pages into my edit/rewrite of my novel. I'm afraid it's becoming a jungle like my garden. My tomato plants, trained to abide in cages, are over 7 feet tall. I've had to trim them back so more energy goes to the fruit. Cucumber vines grow up wooden trellises and vie with the beanstalks for the highest spot in the garden. My pepper plants fight their way to get their share of sunlight. Winter squash trail along any vacant path they can find. The zucchini grow large leaves the size of elephant ears and take up more than their share of the garden. They are prolific and unloved. The eggplants are late to the party; they are just beginning to fruit. There are herbs and greens popping up everywhere. When finally the marjoram began to bloom, the bees finally arrived to do their work. It seems they love those tiny flowers on herbs more than any others.

Too Many Oranges

Last week we picked several bushels of Valencia oranges and gave many away to neighbors, friends, and coworkers. They have few, if any, seeds and they are delicious. The problem is it was a bumper crop. I did manage to juice a couple of bushels with my heavy-duty Breville juicer. I put the juice in quart-size freezer bags, leaving enough expansion space at the top of the bag. Then I set the bags upright in a plastic container. Once frozen, I removed the bags from the container.

Beans, Beans, Beans
I've also had quite a lot of those long, flat green beans. They are stringless and very meaty. They can make a very quick meal on a warm summer evening. Just toss a couple of pounds of beans, cut in bite-size pieces in a pressure cooker. Add a can of chopped tomatoes, 3/4 cup of water, a little sweet onion, if you like, and some chopped ham. Season with salt and pepper. Add your favorite herbs. Basil is a good choice. Cook in the pressure cooker until it starts to jiggle and hiss. Immediately set the cooker in the sink and run cold water over it to release the pressure. It takes just a few minutes to pull this meal together.

So here are the hard and fast rules of my garden:

If you don't produce, you die.
If you take someone else's space, you may get cut off at the knees.
If you get sick, I'll give you a helping hand, but remember--only the strong survive.
If you are attacked by rascally varmints, I'll kill them.
If you're pretty, you might be granted special attention.

The same kind of philosophy bleeds over into novel writing. Editing requires a hard eye and a sensitive ear. The story line must be lush but strong. What started out as nothing more than a seed or two, must become a full blown jungle--oh, and feed the masses.

The Face of Evil

2011-06-15T12:27:00.000-07:00

It was dusk. The sky was clear over the mountains; the moon was rising. I hate exercising, but I agreed to a three-mile walk with my husband anyway. My husband had to stop at the corner liquor store to buy a lottery ticket. (When will he ever get lucky?) I'm the antisocial writer so I waited outside and gazed at the sky. He's the talker. Mr. Sociable. He likes to talk to the manager because he's Syrian and my husband was born and raised in Syria.

My hands smelled of the bushel of oranges I had juiced earlier that evening. I eavesdropped on the snippets of conversation in English and Arabic. I learned that the store manager had just brought his wife and fifteen-year old son from Syria. None too soon, it seems. The son's best friends had been killed and dismembered. Lately in the news, Syria is the face of evil. Killing and torturing children to frighten the populace. Burning down whole towns and forcing its people to flee to the borders of Turkey for safety. Long before my husband was born, most of his relatives were killed by the Turks. His parents survived and made it to safety in Syria. How ironic that Syrians must now flee to Turkey for safety.

My hands are scented with the perfume of oranges, and I am glad I am in America, but I know evil can thrive anywhere. There's always someone who wants to take your life away. Am I a realist or a pessimist?

The Christening

2011-06-11T21:41:00.000-07:00

My oldest daughter Tonya never saved anything when she was growing up. She didn't like clutter and quickly discarded belongings, no matter the value, that no longer held her interest or for which she had no immediate need. Her younger sister Michelle was just the opposite. She would dive into the dumpster to retrieve any of her treasures that I discarded because they were too worn or useless. They're both adults now and I don't have to scold one for throwing things away or trick the other into parting with junk. It's their life; they can do what they want.

As for myself, I occasionally save a few things. I don't like clutter, but I do hang on to some items for sentimental reasons or for some anticipated future need.

One thing that has been setting in a box on a shelf for years is the christening dress Tonya wore when she was baptized in an Armenian Orthodox ceremony. Amazingly, the dress was in pretty good shape except for a couple of seams that unraveled because they had not been properly finished. I repaired the dress and handed it over to my daughter.

Today my granddaughter Kylie was christened in the Greek Orthodox church. I have no idea what will happen to that dress now that it is in Tonya's hands, but it was kind of fun to see that happy cherub Kylie wearing the christening gown I had tucked away all these years.

I have more christening stories--one of which was more like an exorcism than a baptism, but that one is for another day.

A Simple Recipe with a Story

2011-06-08T12:27:00.000-07:00

The weekend is coming up and I thought I would share this very simple recipe. Love onion rings? Then this is the recipe and the story of its origin.

When I was a teenager, my family took a vacation in northeastern Canada, somewhere out in the boonies in a cabin on a lake. My memories of this trip are rather fragmented. I definitely remember the deer flies. They were numerous and had a vicious bite worse than any mosquito. I remember the lake (but not the name) and beautiful scenery and the Canadian family that befriended us. My brothers had a crush on one of the young girls in this family, but the most interesting character was the grandmother. She had a heavy Cockney accent and had run a fish and chips shop in a former life. She bestowed her batter recipe for fish on my stepmother, but for some reason, I ended up being the only one who ever made the recipe.

Both of my parents had full time jobs and weekends were a marathon of chores and projects. At the end of a long weekend day, my parents would sometimes fix themselves a stiff drink and put their feet up. This was conversation time in our family if you wanted to participate. All topics were up for grabs and I certainly didn't mind having a stiff drink myself. (My parents' theory about teenagers and drinking was that all experimenting should be done at home. Since my brothers converted to Mormonism, alcohol wasn't really much of an issue, except perhaps where I was concerned.) One duty that fell to me was onion rings. My parents doted on onion rings made with this batter. I whipped up the batter recipe from the Cockney grandmother, sliced the onions, and got the deep fat fryer going. It's a simple recipe, but it makes wonderful onion rings or batter-fried fish and vegetables. Here it is.
1 cup flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. vinegar
1 tsp. salt
Enough water to achieve desired consistency

Just whisk all the ingredients together, adding water in small increments until you get the batter thick enough to smoothly coat whatever you are frying. Very simple and delicious.

Why Are Men Such Bad Liars?

2011-06-06T21:43:00.000-07:00

If you watch any TV at all, the nightly news is constantly buzzing about men caught in obvious lies and chicanery of all sorts--the most recent, Congressman Anthony Weiner. Not that women don't lie. They do, but I'm beginning to believe they are much better at it. How many powerful men, when finally cornered, find themselves blubbering a tearful confession in front of a microphone. O mea culpa. To make matters worse, a man will often force the woman in his life to stand stoically by his side while he recites his litany of stupidity. I scratch my head in disbelief. Now, when Sarah Palin tells a lie, she just keeps on truckin' like the pistol-packin' mama she is. One good lie deserves another. She doesn't even bat an eyelash. You might want to choke her, but you have to admire her ability to dodge the bullets. (You've got to use gun metaphors when talking about Sarah.)

So all of this has me thinking. With all these examples of liars in real life, why don't we write more about them in fiction? Lying is a real art form and a serious character flaw. I want to re-examine some of my fictional characters, men and women, in terms of their ability to tell a lie or not. Moreover, I want to understand why a person thinks he or she is immune to being caught in dishonesty. How do real life people or the characters in your stories so confound the facts and fictions of their lives that they do not recognize their own deceit until somebody finally nails their hide to the wall?

Yosemite

2011-05-31T11:47:00.000-07:00

In the last week of May in Yosemite, the Dogwoods were in full bloom and water cascaded down majestic mountains and thundered over gigantic boulders. Yosemite is a powerful, holy place, an enormous cathedral of stone and light. To deny this life force is to deny ourselves. Our crazy, frenetic lives make it easy to forget our connection to Earth and the universe.

The Earth has a heart beat. It is not impersonal. It can send a gentle, perfumed breeze or conjure a gale. It rolls and rumbles and rocks beneath our feet. It belches magma and unleashes its powerful waters. It is life and death, the Spirit that we must respect.

Do you take the time to notice the world around you and, if you are a writer, is it a player in your stories?

Power of Tension Blogfest

2011-05-27T08:55:00.000-07:00

Cally Jackson and Rachel Morgan are hosting the Power of Tension Blogfest, which runs from May 23-27. I was on vacation all this week and discovered that the contest is already closed so I'm just posting my too late entry for the fun of it. Your critique comments are welcome.

The following is a condensed excerpt from my novel, Laughing Hawk. This scene occurs during a civil rights meeting for students involved with Freedom Summer in 1964. The meeting is run by Hawk’s roommate, Jake. Hawk, who doesn’t want to be involved, is planning to leave before the meeting gets underway. He senses his roommate is upset about something other than his refusal to participate, but he can’t put his finger on it. This run-in with Thaddeus, a civil rights organizer for SNCC, further raises his suspicions.

     "I knows you're in there, Tonto."

     Hawk opened the door. "What do you want?"

     Thaddeus filled up the doorway, his eyes dancing in his wide black face. "Not thinking to light out of here, now is you?" Thaddeus scratched his armpit. "All your rescues must be gone, man, 'cause you still here and you got to know I was coming."

     "Slipped my mind," Hawk said. The room was beginning to feel too small.

     Thaddeus tweaked Hawk's collar. "Hang around. You might learn something. Jake and I..."

     "I heard about your Mississippi vacation plans." Hawk picked up the damp towel from the floor and hung it on the door knob.

     Thaddeus leaned back and crossed his arms. "Brother man, I'm giving you an invitation to join the human race."

     "Yeah? You're a member?" Hawk looked for the telltale twitches of anger on Thaddeus' face. Perhaps he would test his theory that nonviolence was not a true conviction with Thaddeus.

     "At least I's human. You no more than a rah... rock." Thaddeus said, as though "rock" was an accident of speech that pleased him. "Why I got to always be stubbing my toe on you?"

     Hawk laughed as he checked himself out in the mirror. "Rocks aren't so bad."

     "They's hard and stupid. You can't talk to them."

     "You wouldn't know how to talk to a rock. Hell, you can't even speak English."

     "Hawk, you a red-assed nigger, 'most dark as me. But you too dumb to know it."

     "How about that!" Hawk said with mock wonderment. "And all this time I was thinking you were white—just you had a bad hair cut and too much Quick Tan."

     "Look in that mirror and smile, Big Mouth. Count all them pretty white teeth of yours while they still in your head. Someday I be laughing at you, cuz you one fucked up son of a bitch."

Dripping Cave (aka Robbers' Cave)

2011-05-16T10:39:00.000-07:00

On Saturday it was cool and cloudy and we went for a 6-mile hike in Aliso Canyon. Their were a lot of bikers so we decided to take the easy canyon trail rather than walk the ridge and spend our time dodging bikers on a narrow trail. Being out in nature is a relaxing way of grounding yourself when everything around you feels chaotic. Judging by the number of hikers and bikers who were out early on the trails, a lot of other people were looking for the same kind of relief from a crazy world. Strangers smiled and greeted each other in a kind of an unspoken recognition of our connection to nature and each other.

About half way, we stopped at Dripping Cave for a snack and a drink of water. It's a small, open cave reputed to have been used by thieves. It's not much of a cave, but you can see that the the ceiling is blackened from old campfires. It's enough to spark your imagination. Funny how places can engender a story. I let my mind run free just to see what it would conjure.

* * *

It was afternoon when the three of us stopped at a creek to water the string of six horses we had stolen early that morning from a rancher near San Juan Capistrano. Me, Walter Paisley, and Jake Coster had ridden hard and we were parched. The two of them planted their faces in the creek and drank deep as the horses. My canteen was near empty, but I didn't know if the water was good and wasn't about to risk getting the trots. I'd boil my water soon as we made camp. Jake said he had a hideout nearby.

The fact is, I didn't know much about Jake or Walter. We had all been on a long card-playing drunk and it just seemed natural to fall in with them at the time. I was a lot more sober now and feeling somewhat anxious. We secured the stolen horses behind a grove of scrub oak, remounted, and followed Jake into the brush. The deeper we went, the darker it got. My horse was acting a little skittish on account of the fresh mountain lion scat.

Soon we all dismounted and walked our horses. The canopy overhead was too low and the undergrowth was thick. My horse spooked when Jake stepped on a dead branch. He reared up and nearly trampled me, but I yanked hard on the bit until the bastard, snorting and pawing the ground, finally settled down.

"It's just a little further," Jake said, looking back over his shoulder. About that time a little bubble of light broke through and you could see a wall of yellowish rock.

Jake looped his horse's reins around a bush and walked ahead. I made sure my horse was securely tethered to a tree. I didn't want to have to chase him down. I was bone tired by now, damn hungry and thirsty, and remembering that all I had left in my saddlebag was some jerkey and dried beans.

The hideout was concealed by a screen of sapplings and brush that Jake pulled aside. In truth the place wasn't much more than an overhang of rock, but Jake insisted on calling it a cave. An old, cast iron pot sat in the middle of the room and a stack of firewood was at the far end. A moldy looking pallet of twigs and leaves was tucked in the farthest corner.

"Home sweet home," Jake said. "Just needs a little housekeeping." He took a can of snuff out of his shirt pocket, stuck a wad in his cheek, and fixed his gaze on me.

Blogging and Social Media

2011-05-13T21:12:00.000-07:00

I think of my blog as a sand box—a place where I can play while I’m working on editing my novel and maybe learn a few things from other writers. Lately, it’s occurred to me that I’ve got a LOT to learn about blogging and social media so I’ve started to do my homework. It’s all a bit mind-boggling, but here’s a place to start if you’re in the same boat—uh, sand box. Check out Kristen Lamb’s blog at http://warriorwriters.wordpress.com/ She has a highly recommended book, We Are Not Alone—The Writer’s Guide to Social Media, that you might want to check out.

Writers: All We Need is Love?

2011-05-10T10:43:00.000-07:00

Listen to the buzz on writer blogs and the undercurrent you detect is one of confusion and frustration about becoming a published writer. I’m a struggling fiction writer, but I earn my living as a technical writer. I am paid a fairly decent wage for my analytical skills, technical knowledge, and writing ability. My job is to provide user documentation that is concise and easy to follow. It is satisfying to receive praise for your work. Sure, I receive editorial and technical input from peer writers/editors, management, and subject matter experts, but my job is to do the magic of pulling that all together—just like any writer. I am respected for the work I do.

One big difference between technical writing and fiction writing is that technical writers are not forced to run an obstacle course to complete a project. If someone or something gets in the way of my project, I raise holy hell and there is some kind of resolution. Not so with fiction writing. When it comes to fiction writing, you have no leverage. No one respects you for your work. It’s far easier to sign up for the Marines’ Camp Pendleton Mud Run and endure skinned shins and wading through mud and slime than it is to get a book published. The fiction writing process assumes you are incompetent and untouchable until you successfully survive the vagaries of the publishing obstacle course. Sink or swim. And even if you are finally published, you may be disappointed when your hard work is tossed aside like a piece of rotting fruit because it didn’t initially sell enough to make someone all the dollars they expected.

So here’s my assessment: life is unfair and fiction writers have an especially hard lot. We don’t get a lot of support. Mostly we get beaten up or lead astray.

What strategies are you using as a fiction writer to get where you want to go?
Are you happy with your game plan or are you overwhelmed by all the demands that are made upon you that take you away from the true practice of your craft?
What makes you keep on going or are you ready to throw in the towel?

Writers and Their Pets

2011-05-05T21:00:00.000-07:00

Most of the time, our plots and lives revolve around people and we overlook the creatures that inhabit our world. Today, my favorite cat Ché died. Several years ago, I adopted him from a local animal shelter. He was a big, beautiful, gray Chartreux with golden eyes and an easy-going demeanor. He was elegant. I must have been in a Motorcycle Diaries phase when I decided to name him after Ché Guevara.

Ché weighed in at 11 pounds when I first brought him home. He was big-boned and skinny, but he soon filled out to a sleek 17 pounds, the weight he maintained all his life. He was a silky gray panther who didn't like too much cuddling, but who loved to bestow little kisses now and then on your ear or the tip of your nose. I loved his intelligence. He had few faults. He was extraordinarily quiet, except when there was chicken or fish in the kitchen, in which case he would sing for his dinner with all his heart.

Ché was so sick this morning, but he did not complain. He seemed to understand that I was trying to help. He purred when I stroked him, even though he didn't have the strength to move. It was sad to say farewell. He had a unique personality. His old pal Leo, a Maine Coon, will miss him and their daily ritual of a playful wrestling match. I will remember to find him a place in a story some day.

So here's the question. How many animals inhabit your lives and stories?

A Writer’s Perspective: The Story of Obama and Osama

2011-05-02T09:58:00.000-07:00

In the best told stories, be they truth or fiction, the villain is ultimately handed the justice deserved, often by the least-likely hero in the least-likely circumstances. Who would believe that a man named Obama would set in motion the chain of events that would bring about the demise of a villain named Osama? Shouldn’t there be a Nostradamus quatrain dedicated to this?

The death of Osama bin Laden stirs memories and arouses many emotions in all Americans, but if you look at the storyline as a writer, it raises an important question. Does your own storyline provide an unexpected and satisfying twist? Do your villains get the justice they deserve?

Writers Have to Eat Too

2011-04-28T12:27:00.000-07:00

Brussel Sprouts and Pears
It's almost the weekend. This is an easy veggie side dish you can serve with pasta, grilled chicken or just about anything. But first, pour yourself a glass of wine.

Here's what you need:

Fresh thyme leaves (remove stems)
A couple of pears
Lemon juice
Olive Oil (about 1/3 cup)
Shallots - 5 large
Brussel sprouts - 3 to 4 handfuls
Salt and pepper to taste
A sprinkle of paprika (optional)

Here's what you do:

Heat the oven to 425 degrees.
Cut up the pears, shallots, and brussel sprouts in bite-size chunks.
Place in a large bowl and toss with olive oil, salt, pepper, and thyme.
Spread on a large non-stick baking sheet and bake for 15 minutes.
Remove from the oven and stir.
Bake for another 15 minutes.
Remove from the oven, sprinkle with lemon juice and paprika, toss, and place in your favorite serving dish.

That's it. Now throw something on the barbeque and pour yourself another glass of wine.

Survival Strategies and Rituals for Writers

2011-04-27T09:10:00.000-07:00

Every day we're all inundated with information, work, family responsibilities, and so on. I'm still working on strategies to manage it all. How do you get through the day?
I start every morning at about 5:30 with a cup of black coffee and the LA Times before I get ready for work. I have to come up slow before I deal with the day. The LA Times used to be a fat paper with good writers. Lately, it's become a scraggly rag with more ads than articles. It still has good writers, but they must be few judging by the fact that they often dredge up old stories. Mostly, the news consists of the four Ds: death, disease, disaster, and deceit. The news does not paint a pretty picture of humanity, but it's fodder for writers. As a writer, you must either learn to deal with the world or escape it, but no matter which, you must understand it. So I persist in this ritual. I am not fond of reading the news on the computer or my iPhone although I do. I prefer the tactile feel of the paper in my hands. Occasionally, I whip out scissors and cut out an article that I think might serve a story some time. Of course, I save electronic files, but somehow it's not as intriguing as a folder of yellowed newspaper articles.

This morning I waded through the usual news of Mexican murders, Middle Eastern turmoil, serial killers, embezzlement, political shenanigans, homelessness, unemployment, and natural disasters. I skipped the obituaries. There's something almost cheery about obits in comparison to the desperation in the other stories. When you're on a bleak streak, might as well go full tilt.

Then I did a quick check of email and renewed my vow to take the time to get rid of all the junk mail that finds it way into my mailbox. I have learned that you should never subscribe to blogs by email unless you really love them. There are some blogs I do love and I read every one, but for the most part I have dealt with all this mass amount of information with Google Reader. It allows me to put blog feeds in buckets so I quickly scan them and determine which have content I want to read and which I want to skip. When I review blog feeds on my iPhone, I can send topics that really interest me to ReadItLater.

By the end of the day, the world usually feels too heavy. I suffer from information overload, my frustrations with editing a novel and working full time, and all the other stuff that gets in the way. I look forward to working in the garden or a long walk. When the last glowing rays of sun settle on the mountains and illuminate the roof tops, I listen for the screeching parrots that have lately arrived in our neighborhood. I am reminded that there is a serenity in the universe that is not always in my life. I try to reserve enough energy for an hour or so of writing and I know it is not enough.

The Writing Garden

2011-04-14T12:08:00.000-07:00

You can compare writing to any creative process, but I think gardening is the perfect creative analogy. Six weeks ago, my garden was a bunch of seedlings sitting in front of my dining room window. Now they are gearing up for that summer rampage of growth. The tomato plants are over two feet tall. The peppers are sitting sedately, waiting for the crazy weather to subside and the hot summer days to arrive. The beans are twisting and turning heavenward, leaping up several inches each day.

As for the writing, I am now 200 pages into editing a 500-page novel. The second 100 has been more difficult. Like a gardener, a writer needs to control the weeds and put fingers in the soil and feel the beat. Words are like rain drops. You listen for the rhythm and the sound. Just as you would touch a plant to sense its needs, its condition, so too is writing a tactile experience. If something is lacking, you must find the remedy. Sometimes words must be pruned to concentrate the life force. Sometimes passages must be ripped out because they threaten the whole.

Always, always there is a life force you must tap. Take off the garden gloves so you can feel the soil and touch the plants. My husband often takes it upon himself to water the garden when I can't get to it. I always check out his handiwork because I know when he splashes water around a plant that he thinks he has watered it satisfactorily. My fingers dig deep and tell me otherwise. I see when a plant is weak or diseased, starving or thirsty. And so it is with writing. You have to go after it like a gardener--touching, smelling, seeing, hearing, tasting. And then there's that sixth sense--knowing, the third eye. When you stand in the midst of all that you think is beautiful, you must be able to stand back and coolly assess the whole without ego.

Strange characters: I tawt I taw a Puddy Tat a sneakin’ up on me

2011-04-06T10:27:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the weirdest characters you meet are not the ones you create, but the ones driving down the street. This morning on my way to work, I was driving behind a Honda CRV that had a huge Tweety Bird on the spare wheel cover. (Remember Tweety the cartoon canary from your childhood?) That’s kind of odd, I thought. Why would any self-respecting adult choose to display Tweety on their car? I find license plates that say HOTMAMA or DRTHVDR more intriguing—and well, character-revealing. I was wrong. As I got closer, I noticed there was a stuffed Tweety hanging in the back window. Hmmm. I could see the driver was a middle-aged woman driving by herself. The car did not have that lived-in look that children bring to the picture. Tweety was clearly her personal obsession. On the side of her car was a Jesus fish emblem, and a bright yellow plastic Tweety was sitting on the dashboard. A vinyl Tweety was taped flat to her steering wheel. And when I did a double take, I realized to my surprise that although the woman had dark hair and Asian features, she actually resembled Tweety Bird. I kid you not. I thought about her all the way to work, trying to unlock the secrets to this most unusual character. Why Tweety?

Prologues: Good, Bad or Ugly

2011-04-04T20:32:00.000-07:00

I have been back and forth on using the following prologue for my novel, Laughing Hawk. I tend to think it slows things down and maybe it's unnecessary. I believe it's about to hit the cutting room floor. What's your take on using prologues? Do you use them in your writing? How do you feel about them as a reader?

I remember Elizabeth in 1964. Sometimes she wore a sweet, smoky perfume that smelled a little like marijuana. She was kind of pretty, long hair that ignited in the sunlight, graceful when she walked. We all agreed no one was more graceful. My friends didn't care about that kind of thing, but they figured I did, so they conspired to get us together and maintain my reputation as a ladies' man. I'd ask her to Prom.

     I didn’t get to say one word to Elizabeth Leigh. She rebuffed my best friend and emissary with such inexplicable rudeness that I didn't dare. No feeble excuses that allowed me to save face. No explanation of what I had done to provoke her.

     "Teach her a lesson," my friends said.

     "Let it be," I replied.

     They laughed and said I was stoned on Elizabeth.

     One afternoon they all lined up on both sides of the hallway that led to the school cafeteria, pelted her with paper wads, and shouted "bitch." Elizabeth held her head high and when she walked by she gave me a look to haunt a lifetime.

     There was no sweetness in revenge. My friends mocked me. They said I'd never get close enough to dust the fuzz on her cheek. What did I see in her? Looking back, I believe Elizabeth thrived on rejection. The kind of rejection my tender ego couldn't bear seemed to energize hers. What terrified her was acceptance. You know. Love. Yet the girl was ready to march into hell for it.

     Those high school days in Grenville, Illinois were long ago and I should have forgotten her but I could never get that sweet, smoky scent out of my mind. Or maybe it's a journalist's inability to let go of a story with loose ends and a quick sand character like Mark Laughing Hawk. No one, least of all Elizabeth, could have predicted him.

     I finally caught up with her years later at our high school reunion. Seizing the opportunity to satisfy my curiosity and write something I could sell, I coaxed the story out of her. I had read the newspaper clippings on microfiche. Those were turbulent times in L.A. It was August, 1965 when Watts exploded in angry flames, and strangely, in my mind, Watts was the perfect metaphor for Elizabeth’s life.

     So I wrote the story and when I thought it was ready to be published, I sent her a copy. I hoped she might appreciate my effort. Instead, she wrote back to say I had no imagination. I crumpled her letter up and threw it in the waste basket. Next thing I know I travel half way across the country to stand in her kitchen on a hot summer day and stare at the perspiration on her upper lip.

     "Sit down and cool your heels." She pulled up a chair. "I'm tired from this baby kicking in my belly and from that story kicking in your head."

     She was eight months pregnant but you couldn't tell. I said, "It's not my fault you've hidden the story like you've hidden that baby." She shoved my note pad and pen at me. "Try again."

     I scrawled a line on my pad. "This woman is a misery." But when I looked I realized I had spelled "mystery."

     She pointed her finger at me. "You've got the story all wrong."

     I sighed with exasperation. "So show me what's wrong."

     "You can't see the truth for the facts." She was suddenly quiet, so distant it felt like she had left. Like a snuffed out candle, only a trace of smoke in the room.

     I struck pen to paper as though they were two flints and prayed for that spark of imagination.

The Nature of Magic Blogfest: Darkest Magic

2011-03-26T07:31:00.000-07:00

Here is the task for the Nature of Magic Blogfest: Write or share something you’ve already written that, to you, shows the nature of magic (in 1000 words or less). It can be an excerpt from your WIP, something you’ve written especially, poetry, whatever strikes your fancy. It just needs to show the nature of magic as it exists for you or for those you write about.

So here is my take on magic. It's a bit dark, but true.

Magic is often thought of as a trick upon the mind, an illusion that diverts you from reality—the rabbit pulled out of the hat. I tend to think of magic as a vision of truth that forces you to confront life. Some magical occurrences are amusing or inspirational while others are mysterious, even terrifying.

My mother, who has been dead now for almost 15 years, once told me this story about her youth. When she was a young woman of twenty, she had a good friend whose mother read tea leaves. We all say that we don't believe in fortune telling, that it is only for amusement that we engage in such silliness, yet we love it. There's something magical about divining the future from tea leaves or tarot cards or the lines on the palm of a hand. It makes us giddy with excitement, yet we cannot possibly admit to ourselves that there might be truth in these things. We play with the idea of magic, but back off before we burn ourselves.

One day when they were reading the tea leaves at the kitchen table and laughing over it, my mother asked to have the leaves read for her. Her friend's mother refused. My mother begged and begged until finally the woman relented. What did my mother say that finally convinced her? I'll never know.

Staring at the pattern of tea leaves in the saucer and with an audacity few fortune tellers possess, the friend's mother made the following prophecy: In two weeks, someone in your family is going to die. There will be a very large funeral mass and people will come from all over, people you have never met before in your life. By what magic could those tea leaves in a saucer possibly predict death? If there was any more wisdom in those leaves, my mother never mentioned it in her recounting. It was the death prediction that was burned into her mind.

My mother never told me what her initial reaction was to this terrible event that the tea leaves had predicted. No shock. No anger. No denial. Nothing. In the telling, her mind always leapt forward two weeks to the night her brother, the one person she idolized and loved most in the world, came home drunk while she was there alone. My mother always believed he was distraught over a lost love. He walked over to the fireplace and took down the loaded rifle my grandfather always kept there above the mantel, sat down, and placed the end of the barrel against his forehead. He wondered aloud what would happen if he pulled the trigger, and then shot himself dead in front of my mother. There in that freeze-frame is the terrible, unspeakable magic of tea leaves in a saucer. It left my mother emotionally scarred for life. I wonder what she did as her brother lay there lifeless. Did she scream hysterically, run to a neighbor for help, or call the police? What did she see? What did she feel? She never said, but in that split second before her brother died, she must have heard the words her friend's mother had spoken. Surely she did when strangers from miles around filled the church to hear the mass.

Perhaps because it was too painful, my mother could never completely put herself into the story. It was all about the tea leaves and her brother. She always stood transfixed before the horrible vision conjured up by a kitchen table magician. I think the magic of the fortune telling was that it gave my mother a space in time to prepare herself for tragedy. Without this dark magic, she would have surely lost her mind.

Show Me the Voice Contest

2011-03-21T11:31:00.000-07:00

Here is my submission of the first 250 words of my novel for Brenda Drake's Show Me the Voice critique blogfest. I look forward to reading all the entries and getting feedback on mine.

Name: Linda Katmarian
Title: Laughing Hawk
Genre: Mainstream, Literary

1964

     "Hey, you! Pink slip!" the hall monitor yelled.

     Elizabeth tugged her hair free from the shoulder strap of her purse and kept moving down the hall, past the library and the trophy showcase toward the main entrance. She buttoned her jacket against the gray March cold that was awaiting her outside.

     "Stop."

     Elizabeth fingered the envelope stuck between her sketchbook and a history text, cradled her books tighter to her chest, walked faster. Maybe the airless classroom and the smell of damp ink on the mimeographed exam papers had gotten to her. Or the chalk that tapped, then screeched at the blackboard. Perhaps it was just the long winter of the heart since Kennedy was assassinated.

     "I'll turn you in, Lizzie!"

     "No, you won't." Elizabeth felt his stare follow her. Blue-eyed baby boy is watching my ass.

     "Hey, hey, Lizzie. When are you going to show me your etchings?" The hall monitor's voice echoed through the foyer. "How come you won't draw me? I'd hold still for you."

     Elizabeth burst through the school door.

     "Stuck-up! Next time you better have a pass."

     She pulled out the envelope addressed to Northwestern University, held it like a winning raffle ticket. Only a few weeks to eighteen and the dollars grandfather had willed her. Then the money was hers and Mama could not say no.

     Elizabeth walked home, a mile through the older, gentrified neighborhood of two-story monstrosities whose porches bellied up to the sidewalk to the new area of smaller, less distinctive houses that hung back from the curb.

Spring Writing

2011-03-08T12:15:00.000-08:00

Spring has sprung. My tiny yard is full of blooms--orchids, azalea, Australian tea tree, nasturtium, snapdragon, and statice. The roses are budding and the fig trees have showy new leaves. I picked a basket of lemons. I prayed that the Valencias will not be ready for another month. I can't deal with it. Last weekend I nearly killed myself with gardening--weeding and planting my dining room seedlings.

I've starting weeding my novel too. I've made it through the first 100 pages. I was surprised I actually liked some of the pages I've written and hope I'm not deluding myself. I wonder at the prospect of a seed of an idea that might actually grow into a story that can survive my edits.

Crusader Groups: Adult Mainstream and Literary

2011-03-02T20:25:00.000-08:00

These are the Crusader Groups I am participating in. My goal is to revisit all these sites next week for a more up-close look. The variety and creativity is amazing. Take a look and see for yourself.

Most of my writerly time in the next weeks, what little there is after work and the usual drudgery, will be spent on editing and research. As I start my editing from the beginning of my book, I am aware of the time period it which my novel takes place, the turbulent Sixties, that crucible which forges my characters and the story.

Listening to the news this evening, I heard a Republican senator say that collective bargaining has no place in a representative government. I learned that by dirty tricks the Ohio state government passed a vote to take away the right to organize and demonstrate. In Wisconsin, the governor has locked the doors of the state capitol to its citizens. He is demanding that union members give up all their rights. The news is filled with stories of sweetheart deals for wealthy corporations and citizens, but the average middle class family struggles for a job, a decent wage, education. A world away, a simple street vendor immolated himself after his only means of making a living was taken from him. He ignited a revolution in Tunisia, Egypt, Bahrain, and Libya that has spread like wild fire through the Middle East (and you might also include the Midwest). This is the crucible in which we now live. As my main character, Hawk, says--there is always somebody who wants to take your life away. So when I sit down to continue my editing tonight, I will remember this and the crucible which forges story.

Group 11 - Adult Fiction (Mainstream)

Lola Sharp (Sharp Pen/Dull Sword) Adult fiction (mainstream), YA (urban fantasy and dystopian)
Ann (Inkpots n' Quills) Adult fiction
Charlotte Rains Dixon (Charlotte Rains Dixon) Adult fiction
Zan Marie Steadham (In the Shade of the Cherry Tree) Adult fiction (mainstream), women's fiction, science fiction, devotional, non-fiction history
Lauri Griffin (Lauri's Blog) Adult fiction (mainstream, literary), short stories
Rachel (All the World's Our Page) Historical fiction, historical suspense
Susan (All the World's Our Page) Adult fiction
Trisha (W O R D + S T U F F) Fantasy, contemporary romance, Science Fiction, MG

Group 12 – Literary Fiction

Claire Gregory (All the World's Our Page) Literary fiction, adult fiction (focusing on Australian family saga and First World War topics)
LV (Literary Friction) Literary fiction, erotic fiction, contemporary, psychological
Pam Parker (Finding Meaning with Words) Literary fiction (novel and short stories)
Nicole Ducleroir (One Significant Moment at a Time) Literary fiction, women's lit, mainstream
Nikki (Raising Marshmallows) Picture books, YA, Literary Fiction
Pensheep (A Writerly Pensheep) Speculative fiction, literary fiction
Danette (There's a place I dream) Literary fiction
Len L (Conversations with Self) MG, Literary women’s fiction

What I've Learned about Blogging

2011-02-28T21:19:00.000-08:00

In a word, discipline. Blogging is kind of like gardening. How you engage it is dependent on the time you have available and the energy you can bring to it. Everyone's circumstances are different. Obviously, you don't want to spend all day in the garden or in the blogging universe. The important people, responsibilities, and activities in your life would all suffer greatly.

So like a good gardener, you learn what works well for your space. You learn to be efficient in all things because there are only so many waking hours in a day. You learn by trial and error, discarding those ideas that don't work, embracing those that do. You weed your garden because if you don't, then the things you love will die.

On that note, I am going to start editing my novel--for as long as I can keep my eyes open tonight.

Writers' Crusade Challenge

2011-02-20T13:39:00.000-08:00

In 300 words or less, reveal a secret, a lie, a quirk, an annoying habit, a best trait, and your favorite thing in the world--using the words fuliguline, bloviate, rabbit and blade.

* * *

Oh, fuliguline creature, me, paddle your way through these treacherous waters. Are not blog and bloviate the same? Nevertheless, I will rabbit through all these intrusive questions the best I can and try not to put too much blade to the bone.
I'm a simple person. My favorite thing in the world is to be creating something all the time. I've created a couple of people and planted too many gardens to count. I draw, paint, cook, and sew. I played general contractor on my kitchen remodel a few years ago, and I dream of tackling a landscape redesign. But most of all I want to give birth to my novel, Laughing Hawk. I'm finally about ready to start editing it.

I have a few annoying habits, but I try not to advertise them. According to my husband, impatience is one of my more tiresome habits and he's busy cataloguing all the others.

Best character trait? I haven't a clue. You would trust me.

Quirks? Let's just talk about writerly quirks. When I hit the wall and can't figure out where to take a scene, I throw a few tarot cards on the table. It kind of works like a creative whack pack. All it takes is a little diversion to bypass the analytical part of the brain and trigger a creative solution.

Secrets? If I had one, I probably wouldn't share it, although I heard my husband is secretly planning our vacation trip to Galapagos and Machu Pichu.

So there you have it. How have I lied to you?

Bernard Pivot Blogfest

2011-02-15T20:26:00.000-08:00

For a little craziness and fun, here are my answers to the Blogfest questionnaire.

What is your favorite word? maybe (it always gets me off the hook)
What is your least favorite word? cool
What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? Being told I have to conform to someone else’s expectations always causes me to chart my own course.
What turns you off? hypocrisy
What is your favorite curse word? I love them all
What sound or noise do you love? thunder and lightning
What sound or noise do you hate? the constant ringing in my ears
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? A revolutionary
What profession would you not like to do? Nursing – the sight of blood makes me weak in the knees and besides, both of my daughters are nurses. Who needs to hear any more of those gross stories around the dinner table?
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? It’s about time. What took you so damn long?—and don’t tell me you got lost.

Torrey Pines Nirvana

2011-02-15T12:41:00.000-08:00

Saturday, February 12th, was one of those perfect days in the universe. Everyone in San Diego seemed to be in Torrey Pines State Park, hiking the trails and strolling the beaches, yet there was room for all. Perfect cloudless sky, perfect temperature. I'm going to remember this perfect day when the cold rain arrives tomorrow.

The Torrey Pine is a rare, endangered species in the United States that grows only in San Diego County and on one of the Channel Islands.

Writers' Platform Building Crusade

2011-02-08T10:47:00.000-08:00

For writers and bloggers who would like to connect with others in the writing community, check out Rachel Harrie's Second Writers' Platform Building Crusade.

Characters

2011-02-02T12:12:00.000-08:00

Life is like a box of chocolates--you never know what you're going to get. Remember that line from the movie, Forrest Gump? That statement applies to real life characters, such as my new granddaughter, Kylie, as well as the characters created in stories.

Kylie - One hour old
Many advise writers to shape their characters, you know, kind of like you shape human beings. Ha! Has that ever totally worked out for anyone? I've witnessed the birth of four babies in my lifetime, each under their own unique set of circumstances, however, each brought their own personality to the party on day one. Little humans aren't blank slates and neither are characters in novels. The most important thing is understanding the character you are dealing with. You can try to shape them and you may influence them for better or worse. Whether you help them to success or damage them, they hold that secret element of surprise that is uniquely them. In the end, all you can do is set the stage, give them the important directions, and turn them loose. People and characters who know that their destiny is in their own hands, fare better in life and on the page than those who have not learned this truth.

And may I add--isn't she cute? She came into the world wide-eyed and without a whimper. Who knows what kind of stories I'll have to tell about her.

- Posted by Scheherazade

The Labyrinth - Fiction Writing

2011-01-24T12:17:00.000-08:00

As I wrestle with my last chapter of Laughing Hawk, I remember the first and this long trip I've been on. Fiction writing is a different kind of trip. It's like entering a labyrinth. There is no clearly marked, guaranteed path to success. The only thing that can save you is your words and the degree of mastery with which you wield them. It's a lonely and fathomless universe in which the writer toils to reveal the truth by spinning tales--fine spider webs of treachery, love, inspiration, desperation, beauty, comedy and tears that capture souls and the distilled droplets of morning dew, manna.

It's easy to get lost in the labyrinth. Even the most skilled can lose their way. To tell a story and tell the truth, that is the question. The labyrinth is an obstacle course, a riddle that each writer must solve for himself. Be wary of those who sell roadmaps. Keep your eyes and ears open. Learn all that you can. Most important of all discard your ego by the roadside like a dirty shirt. Ego only subverts a writer's instincts. You need all your wits about you.

That in a nutshell is my philosophy about fiction writing. It's my way of edging up to the dilemma of writers who devote countless hours to classes, workshops, and critique groups and to courting those that they believe can help them navigate the labyrinth. All those things necessarily comprise the trial by fire that forges, but in the end it is the words and the story they tell that matters.

Baked Kataifi Custard

2011-01-15T08:27:00.000-08:00

For those of you who requested this truly decadent dessert recipe, here it is. It's to die for. This recipe originated from Zov: Recipes and Memories from the Heart by Zov Karamardian. I have made a couple of minor modifications to the recipe.

Kataifi is shredded filo dough, which can usually be found in the frozen food section of most Mediterranean grocery stores. Traditionally, kataifi is formed into rolls that are stuffed with sugar, spices, and nuts, and then topped with syrup. This simple recipe uses a custard filling that is out of this world. Unfortunately, the baked kataifi always disappeared before I ever thought to take a photo--so no picture of this lovely dessert. Your guests will be surprised to learn that the lightly browned topping is not shredded coconut.

Pastry
8 ounces kataifi (1/2 of a 16-ounce package), thawed if frozen
1/2 cup (1 stick) melted butter

Custard
2 cups heavy whipping cream
1 cup sugar
2 cups of half and half
3/4 cup cornstarch
1 pound ricotta cheese
pinch of ground nutmeg
pinch of salt

Syrup
2 cups sugar
2 cups water
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
2-3 tablespoons of orange blossom water or orange blossom syrup (You can also use Grand Marnier as a substitute.)

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
Pull apart the strands of kataifi and using a large, sharp knife chop into 2-inch strands.
Place the kataifi in a large bowl and drizzle with the melted butter, stirring to coat the kataifi completely.
Place half of the mixture in the bottom of a 13x9x2 baking dish. (You can also make individual ramekins, if you prefer.)
Stir together the cream, sugar, and 1 cup of half and half in a large saucepan.
In a medium-sized bowl, whisk together 1 cup of half and half and the cornstarch until smooth.
Bring the cream mixture in the sauce pan to a boil, being careful not to burn.
Whisk in the ricotta cheese until smooth.
Whisk in the cornstarch mixture.
Continue whisking until the custard comes to a simmer and thickens (about 2 minutes).
Pour the custard into the baking dish and evenly top with the remaining kataifi.
Bake until golden brown (45 minutes to an hour). If you are making individual ramekins, reduce the baking time.
While the Kataifi custard is baking, make the syrup by mixing the sugar, water, and lemon juice in a heavy sauce pan. Boil about 3 minutes. Whisk down any sugar crystals and remove from the heat.
Stir in the orange blossom syrup/water.

Serving: Cut the kataifi custard into squares and transfer to plates. You can garnish with chopped nuts or fresh raspberries or mandarin oranges. Drizzle a little syrup over the custard.

Gardening Fever

2011-01-05T18:55:00.000-08:00

As soon as the gardening catalogs begin arriving in my mail box, I begin dreaming of how to lay out my small, raised bed garden. It's an enduring obsession. Fortunately, I am restricted by size or who knows how out-of-hand things might get. My guiding principles in selecting what to grow are uniqueness, disease resistance, and abundance. I never plant anything of that I can buy cheaply at the grocery store if there is no difference in quality. Planning a Small Garden

This means tomatoes are a must because you can never buy anything that compares to what you can grow yourself. This year it will be Black Krims, Cherokees, Beefmasters, and San Maranzanos.

The other thing I grow is peppers of all varieties, but paprikas are de rigueur. Home grown and dried paprika is an incredible essential for my kitchen chemistry lab. Making Your Own Paprika It is the main ingredient of Devil's Dust.

After peppers, come beans, eggplants, zucchini, cucumbers, squash, herbs, and anything else I can manage to squeeze in. This year the soil needs a major overhaul--deep tilling and amending with manure, compost, and peat moss (to help retain moisture). So I've sorted through my seeds and figured out what I need to buy, including fertilizer and sprays. In a month or so trays of seedlings will be setting in southern facing windows and I will be asking myself once again--why am I doing this? Gardening is an art form. The best part is you get to eat what you create.

Lake Mission Viejo - New Year's Day

2011-01-01T16:23:00.000-08:00

These iPhone photos are rather grainy, but you can see it's a beautiful place. Twenty-five years ago, when companies used to pay to transport their employees, my husband had the great fortune to be transferred to California from Minneapolis. Having no idea where we would live, I put my finger on the map between El Toro (unfortunately later renamed to Lake Forest) and Mission Viejo and said "here." I had no idea what place I had chosen, but I couldn't have picked a better place.

The Write Resolutions

2010-12-28T12:50:00.000-08:00

     Elizabeth felt herself rising to the surface, awoken by the sound of a pebble as it plunked and then skipped across the black pool of night. A smothering hand clamped over her mouth as she tried to form a scream.

     That is an opening line from one of the last chapters in my novel, Laughing Hawk. Perhaps it kind of sums up my writing experience. My novel has been a long, long time in the works. I want to scream. My distractions have been working full time as a technical writer, raising a family and running a household, learning the craft, and any other interruption I have allowed along the way. All lovely excuses to explain a never-ending journey.

     Last year's resolution was to finish the novel. I'd say I'm ninety-eight percent there, but not quite liking the final pages. That is to say, I think I know where I want to go, but I haven't quite worked out the details to my satisfaction. The next step will be to begin editing the entire book--trimming, adding in some places, making sure all the pieces fit together coherently and that the quality of the writing is the best I can do. Most important to me is maintaining a taut line of tension throughout.

     Tension is key. I am an impatient reader. As a writer, I am also impatient with my own writing. How many times have I picked up a novel by a well-known author and been awe-struck by brilliant opening chapters only to fall off the book midway because the story line had started to flag and the author's meanderings began to bore me. Boredom, whether reader or writer, is a danger zone. Get out quick.

     Not too long ago, I forced myself to read a 700-page tome by an author who is very successful and prolific. I hated his book from the get-go, but I forced myself to read it for all the things I loath--bad dialog, clumsy sentences, cardboard characters, and an overabundance of details due to the author's unbridled love of research. I mumbled against the author from beginning to end, but I persevered to understand what I hated as a reader in hopes that I would not repeat it as a writer. Of course, I also read to understand what I want to master as a writer. Contemplating that list is another story for another day.

     So here's to the write resolutions for the new year. To Michelle who complains I am never done, you may soon be forced to read it, ma belle.

Peace on Earth

2010-12-20T20:08:00.000-08:00

Never in the history of the world has there been peace, but hope is eternal. We believe it is possible, despite all that is evil in the world. May Christmas keep this flame alive in you.

This year's Nobel Peace Prize was awarded in absentia to Chinese dissident Liu Xiaobo. His released statement last December while awaiting trial for inciting subversion of state power was touching for its closing statement directed to his wife, Liu Xia.

"I am sentenced to a visible prison, while you are waiting in an invisible one. Your love is sunlight that transcends prison walls and bars, stroking every inch of my skin, warming my every cell, letting me maintain my inner calm, magnanimous and bright, so that every minute in prison is full of meaning. But my love for you is full of guilt and regret, sometimes heavy enough to hobble my steps. I am a hard stone in the wilderness, putting up with the pummeling of raging storms, and too cold for anyone to dare touch. But my love is hard, sharp, and can penetrate any obstacles. Even if I am crushed into powder, I will embrace you with the ashes."

Windows and Doors to the Past: San Juan Capistrano

2010-12-12T17:15:00.000-08:00

This weekend I went to the old Mission at San Juan Capistrano in Southern California, thinking it might be decked out for Christmas. With the exception of the manger scene, there wasn't much of a holiday touch, but it's a fascinating place nevertheless--one of my favorites, especially in Spring when all the roses are in bloom.

Unlike many other places in California, San Juan is one of those unusual places that is comfortable with its own history. History and modern life intersect and respect each other. The modern day town has preserved the original main street adobe buildings and the historic Los Rios residential area, the oldest residential neighborhood in California.The buildings are still in commercial use today. The Mission, the center of the town, was built in 1776 by Father Junipero Serra. Building on the Great Stone Church began in 1797 and took nine years. For some time, it was the largest building west of the Mississippi. On December 8, 1812, on the Feast Day of the Immaculate Conception, an earthquake struck during morning Mass, killing 42 Indian worshippers. The church was never rebuilt, but you can see from its remains that it was a very impressive structure. The Serra Chapel which was completed in 1788 is the only original mission church in California still standing in which Father Serra is known to have celebrated the sacraments. It has a unique altar that was brought all the way from Barcelona. The altar, estimated to be over 400 years old, is hand-carved and covered in gold leaf. The Serra Chapel is still in use although most worshippers attend the Mission Basillica which is adjacent to the mission.

I didn't mean to start off on a history lesson. The mission has too many stories to tell. Perhaps that's why I found myself so fascinated by the windows, doors, and archways that face out onto the courtyard. They seem like magic portals to the past.

Spider Orchid

2010-12-10T12:26:00.000-08:00

The spider orchid sitting in my kitchen window exploded in bloom this week. Couldn't resist snapping it with my iPhone. I just love its bizarre flowers and the fact that it has so boldly survived my benign neglect.

Crystal Cove

2010-12-01T18:14:00.000-08:00

Christmas is coming, but I don't quite have the spirit. I did manage to put up a Christmas tree, but I'm dragging my feet when it comes to shopping.

The sky was too blue and the sun was too bright today to think about the holidays so I tried to sign up for a beachside cottage at Crystal Cove first thing this morning. For those of you who don't know, Crystal Cove is a state beach that includes a cluster of beach cottages. It lies between Laguna Beach and Newport Beach on Pacific Coast Highway. Up until a few years ago the beach cottages were regular homes. Built in the 1930s, the cottages are now the property of the State of California and they are being renovated in their original style and rented through Reserve America. The first of every month there is a wild 5-second attempt by phone and Internet to snag a rental unit for 6 months in advance. Alas, it's next to impossible. I was thinking it would be a perfect gift to myself and whoever else wanted to tag along--even if I had to wait till June. That would have put me in the spirit, but it was not meant to be.

Even if you can't rent a cottage, Crystal Cove State Park is a great place for a hike along the beach, a casual meal at the Beach Comber, or a pit stop at the Shake Shack. There are 17 miles of hiking trails in the hills across from the ocean. (FYI, the daily parking fee is $15 if you don't have a state park pass.)

I'm praying for a little warm weather and some sunshine this weekend and to be far away from the maddening mall crowd. Maybe I'll find my way to Crystal Cove.

The Unexpected Gift - a short story

2010-11-13T10:52:00.000-08:00

     I was sitting on my sister's patio one warm summer afternoon, trying to keep an eye on her wild, four-year old son while she made Mojitos in the kitchen. She said she was making them the authentic way by cooking a mint syrup. Authentic or not, her son was enough to drive anyone to drink. I didn't want to wait for the cool mint syrup, whose sweet aroma was wafting out her kitchen window, or the lime juice and ice. Just pass me the rum. The kid was a handful.

     While I tried to gather up a few toys to clear a safe path across the patio to the kitchen, I discovered he'd found the pack of tarot cards that I had bought at a rummage sale that morning. He was throwing them all over the patio and grass--their shiny, golden backs flashing in the sun. Great, I thought to myself as I scrambled to retrieve them. My sister is very religious and sure to be annoyed with my tarot cards. I threw them back into my purse. She tries to tolerate my anti religion attitudes, but never ceases to pray for my miraculous conversion to the dogma that plagues her. I am a disappointment.

     Frustrated, I grabbed the little monster and planted him firmly on my lap while showing him the Fool card to distract him. He traced the care-free fool with his chubby fingers and smiled. I brushed back the damp blond locks from his forehead and wondered about the cocktail of drugs he was on to control his behavior. Nothing seemed to work.

     "I pray to God about him every day," Marie said, handing me a cold Mojito. She wore her defeated look.

     "What's he say?" I asked, trying to make a heavy subject a little lighter.

     "Who?"

     "God." Afterall, maybe He would have some suggestions.

     She sat down next to me. "That's the calmest I've ever seen Jimmie. Don't move."

     I brought the cold glass to my lips and inhaled the aroma of rum, mint and lime. Maybe she wouldn't notice the tarot card.

     "I mean it. Don't even breathe. Give me just five minutes of peace." Her voice hissed softly through clenched teeth.

     I smiled. Her sweet Jimmie had stopped squirming and was content to examine the card.

     "What did you do that he's so calm?" she asked.

     "I'm not breathing."

     "Very funny." Marie sighed and gazed at her well manicured flower beds. "On top of everything else, my friend Sarah is so ill."

     "I'm really sorry to hear that." I dug in my purse without disturbing Jimmie's momentary calm and pulled out a smooth stone engraved with a Navajo healing hand. "Rummage sale. It's supposed to cure."

    Marie rolled her eyes to express her disbelief, disgust, and deep sorrow. "You're so weird."

     "Yup." I rolled the stone in my hand. "May Sarah be healed."

     "You can't possibly believe in such hocus-pocus." She sighed again. "But I almost wish it were true."

     I shrugged. "It's the thought that counts."

     "Perhaps," she said. Her eyes had that vacant, far off look. To probe more would be to invite dark thoughts, when all I wanted was a little reprieve from life. Pass the Mojitos.

     The two of us sat there for a long, peaceful time in the sunshine sipping Mojitos. Jimmie played with the card as if it was endlessly fascinating, his own special possession, until I announced I had to get home to fix dinner.

     "Let me give you some of the mint syrup," she said. "You can fix a Mojito for Joe."

     Later that evening after dinner, my husband Joe and I lingered a few minutes in the back yard to watch the sunset.

     "Too bad about my boss' son. The kid's still in a coma. Possible brain damage."

     "From the skateboard accident, right?" I asked. He had told me this story and I really didn't want to hear it again.

     He nodded and stared at the sunset. I don't know his boss or the boss' son, but I am sorry for them.
He pulled himself out of the Adirondack chair. "You got any more of that mint syrup for Mojitos?"

     "In the frig," I replied. While he was gone, I thought about the boss and his son. I raised my hand to capture the setting sun and wrapped my fingers around it like I had the ability to extract its power. I am barely a flicker of a flame in a vast universe, yet I played with that thought and casually wished for the son's restoration to health.

     I never thought about them again, the boss and his son, until Joe mentioned them a few days days later.

     "The kid's out of his coma and he's doing just fine. His old man is on cloud nine."

     "Really?" I remembered the fiery sun I held in the palm of my hand. A small spark of synapse stunned me. What if God gave me some bizarre gift just for kicks, to see what I would do with it. Unlike my sister, I am certain God has a wild sense of humor. But I was not comfortable with the thought that I might be slightly delusional so I quickly dismissed God's humor and my insanity.

     That weekend I dropped by my sister's home to bring her a small basket of fresh mint from my garden. She wanted to make Mojitos for her dinner guests. She mentioned her friend Sarah was improving.

     "She told me she decided to live and not to worry," Marie said. "The thing is, she actually looks better."

     I heard her son squealing in the next room just before he came careening around the corner towards me.
I held out the palm of my hand to absorb the impact of his body, but he suddenly stopped as if he'd hit a brick wall. He smiled up at me.

     "He's much better lately," she said. "But I'm afraid to get my hope up."

     I wanted to tell her this kid is all right. Get him off the prescription drugs and stop making excuses for his bad behavior. "Good, next time you're over, I'll read tarot cards for him. We'll see what's up with him."

     Marie rolled her eyes. "We don't talk about things like that in this house."

     It was my turn to roll the eyes. I wanted to lay my hands on her and see if I could rearrange a few brain cells, spark a synapse.

     She added my mint leaves to the boiling syrup and we both inhaled the wonderful scent.

     "It's the Mojitos," I said.

     "What's the Mojitos?"

     "They can cure anything."

     We smiled at each other. She could not deny that.

Ricotta

2010-11-06T13:31:00.000-07:00

Ricotta is not a cheese that I particularly like. The kind you buy in the grocery store here is expensive, grainy, and it tastes like saw dust. I only buy it when a recipe absolutely calls for it. This week I stumbled across a recipe in the Costco magazine for making your own ricotta. I played around with the recipe and made a few changes. I think it turned out great. It has a subtle, creamy flavor and is even better when you add your own herbs (chives, dill, garlic, etc.) and use it as a spread.

I managed to make a small batch between gardening and chores today. It only takes a half hour of your time and the result is like nothing you've ever tasted before. Here it is.

4 cups whole milk (I used 2% milk)
2 cups heavy cream
1 teaspoon salt (use a good quality fleur du sel or a Mediterranean salt)
3 tablespoons white balsamic vinegar

Put the milk, cream, and salt in a stainless steel pot (or an enameled pot) and bring to a boil over medium heat.
Remove pan from the heat and stir in the vinegar.
Let the mixture stand for a minute.
Pour the mixture into a cheesecloth-lined sieve that's been placed over a bowl. I prefer to use a fine mesh bag that is typically used for straining jelly. It's the perfect size and you can tie the top closed.
Let the mixture drain for about a half hour until you achieve the desired thickness.
Taste it. Am I right? Add your favorite herbs and use it as a spread or use it in a recipe.

The Blood Bath

2010-11-04T21:25:00.000-07:00

The mechanics of U.S. democracy can be painful to watch and are not always understood by other countries or even our own citizenry. This is especially true of late. When civility and truthfulness are abandoned, democracy can quickly degrade into a vulgar, stupid contest between the shrillest voices. Lies, racism, character assassination, the corruption of hidden campaign funding by special interest groups, voter fraud--these things divide us into opposing camps. Our dialog becomes a battle of the haves and the have-nots, white vs. color, old vs. young, citizens vs. immigrants. We who are caught in the middle are exhausted by the 24/7 posturing of our politicians, who claim to represent our interests, and the vapid yackety-yack of political pundits who manufacture news instead of report it. We want everyone to shut up and life to return to normal. We want a little bit of security, jobs, health care, and a roof over our heads. We don't think it's asking for too much in such a bountiful country. And we don't want our democracy to be called a blood bath as some victorious Republicans cheerfully refer to it.

The Democratic Party suffered a disappointing setback in the mid-term elections throughout the country, mostly due to the corrosive attacks of Republicans who chose to insight fear and anger in these difficult times rather than working on real solutions. They have made it abundantly clear that they want to destroy Barack Obama and his administration, just as they tried to do when Bill Clinton was president. They always talk of destroying things, obstructing things, never building.

Blame can be laid to the Democrats also. They tend to be a disorganized lot--making them pull together as one unified force is like trying to herd cats. Democrats also failed to clearly communicate the facts or their goals and accomplishments. They assumed that despite all the distracting din around them, that these things would be self-evident.

I remember the Civil Rights movement, Vietnam, Watergate, and how much energy it takes for the righteous to prevail. There is always somebody who wants to take your life away. Despite my cynicism, when I look on this bleak landscape, our current wars and economic woes, I still believe that honest patriots will rise to the occasion and defeat all that is vile and corrupt in our country.

California stands as an example of what can be good in this country. A candidate who spent an obscene amount of money to buy herself the governorship lost to a man who had the wisdom to bide his time and conserve his meager resources until the right moment. The minority groups and young people that no one expected to hear from made their voices heard at the polls and they made the difference. It's a hopeful beginning. Perhaps California will lead the way.

Persimmons

2010-10-30T22:30:00.000-07:00

Our persimmon tree is small and bent from fighting with my neighbor's large avocado tree for sunshine and from the weight of heavy crops. Unlike our temperamental pomagranate tree that refuses to bear whenever it is pruned, the persimmon withstands every abuse. It has never failed to deliver a crop.

For those of you who are not familiar with persimmons, the Fuyu is a non astringent variety, which means you can eat it even if it is not completely ripe. When golden orange, but still firm, it makes a mildly sweet addition to a salad or can be sliced and eaten like an apple. When ripe, its pulp resembles a very sweet, translucent custard. You can freeze the pulp and use it in baking sweet breads, cakes, cookies and puddings.

The first picking overflows onto my patio table. There is still plenty more on the tree. I'm wondering what to do with all this bounty.

Persimmon butter? Jam? Chutney? I'm not sure I want to go to all that trouble for something that has a short shelf life or has to be stored in the freezer. (Because persimmons are not acidic enough, it's not really safe to can them. ) I'm not in the mood to bake them in cakes or cookies. Drying them doesn't sound appealing either.

I think I will have to settle on something healthy. Perhaps a salad of arugula and romaine with roasted pecans, fresh grated parmigiano reggiano and slices of persimmon. A simple dressing of olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper.

The majority of my persimmons will undoubtedly be donated to the curious who think they are miniature pumpkins or those who know and appreciate the sweet beauty of this fruit.

Woe is us

2010-10-26T11:55:00.000-07:00

Lost jobs, education cutbacks, lack of healthcare, spilled oil, a dysfunctional Congress bloated with liars and wing nuts, a chaotic world torn apart by war, famine, greed, and disease...Lethargy is not a courageous response. Disappointment, impatience, and defeatism are not excuses. Even if you are the only voice in the dark, speak up. Vote November 2nd.

On Writing Query Letters for Fiction

2010-10-25T12:04:00.000-07:00

Everyone knows there are a myriad of things writers are expected to do these days that seem alien to our nature. Being able to market your book is essential and being able to write a query letter is the first order of business. Contemplating all these demands may make you feel annoyed, frustrated, and overwhelmed. Indignant. Where's that Get out of jail free card when you really need it?

Lately, I've been researching the dos and don'ts for writing a proper query for submitting a novel. It's not that I'm going to need it tomorrow. I still have a couple of chapters to finish and then I have to edit the entire novel. The reason for writing a query now is that I wanted to assess the road I've been travelling.

You can look at a query as a pain-in-the-butt--and it is, but there are some things to recommend doing one correctly. First and foremost, it helps you distill the essence of your endeavor. Things happen in the course of writing that you hadn't counted on. What you thought was the story may have subtly evolved into something more. Before you lay a query letter on an agent, lay it on yourself. Wrestle that beast to the ground by imprisoning it in the concise confines of a query. Resist the temptation to ramble, to grab for tired clichés, to ingratiate yourself with an agent. Check you ego at the door and park your ass in the chair. Who the hell are you and what have you written?

Focus on the three essential pieces of a fiction query: setup, hook, and a hint of resolution. Leave the details of stationery, how to address the agent, your credentials, and so on for later. Numerous websites address these issues. The real heart of the matter is the essence of what you've created. How do you distill that down into a shorthand of meaningful words? How do you breath life into your characters and convey the storyline without providing a blow-by-blow synopsis? Remember a query letter is supposed to be on a single page. No, you can't blow the margins out and use a 7-point font. So you're down to about one paragraph.

Here is the question. If you really, really care about what you have written can you spin it into a nugget of resplendent gold? If you can't do this for yourself, you will never convince an agent of anything but your mediocrity. There. I've just given myself a lecture. Now I need to go park my ass in a chair and, like the Rumplestiltskin story, spin all my straw into gold.

Shakespeare

2010-10-17T12:08:00.000-07:00

It's raining in the Southern California today, which is highly unusual for October. I can't remember an October when we've had rain. Usually it's fire.

Oh what a tangled web we weave
When first we practice to deceive

(Shakespeare's Othello, I believe--correct me if I'm wrong)

Last Roses of Summer

2010-10-16T14:07:00.001-07:00

Give those last roses of summer a half jigger of vodka and a teaspoon of sugar. They'll last longer and won't drop their petals. It's not a waste of good vodka.

(Being the geek I am, I just had to see if I could publish a topic from my iPhone. You can - it isn't perfect, but it's passing fair.)

- Posted by Scheherazade

What is your favorite book and why?

2010-10-09T10:36:00.000-07:00

There is a worn copy of King Arthur and His Knights on my book shelf. It was dedicated to my father in 1931 by his grandparents. It later became mine. I lived in that book when I was a child, despite its difficult language. Treasure Island was the other book I inhabited. Whatever else I read, these two books were essential to my childhood.

When I became a young woman, Camus, Balzac, and Stendhal were my favorite writers, but books like Gone With the Wind and The Thorn Birds were home.

Later in life I moved on to Allende's House of Spirits, the earthy stories of Louise Erdrich, and the exquisite White Oleander by Janet Fitch.

I have lived some time now in a story of my own device, Laughing Hawk. The last two chapters weigh upon me. My years have been filled with raising a family, running a household, and working full time as a technical writer. I was not disciplined enough to demand more than the scraps of time I found for writing, but I never gave up my ill-tended dwelling. It always sheltered me.

Now I must soon begin the tedious task of editing and thinking about agents and platforms and all the attendant nonsense of book selling. Ambivalent is the tamest word I can find to describe my attitude, but I am defiant like all the protagonists in the books in which I have lived. We dream of breaking free. We are the "wild of heart, kept in cages."

iPhone Mania

2010-09-26T14:14:00.000-07:00

My husband accuses me of being a geek. I confess I am. Though I know technology can be a two-edged sword, nevertheless, I am entralled with it, especially when technology encourages creativity, expands knowledge, and provides an avenue for communication with others. I love sleek and intuitive. That's the iPhone.

If you are a writer, it's so handy to have a dictionary or Wikipanion at your fingertips. aNote, Evernote, and Calendar keep you organized. Dropbox helps you access important files on your computer. Reader apps and news apps keep you up to date with what's going on in the world. I particularly love Evernote because if you come across a recipe or brief article in the newspaper you can take a snapshot of it and save it for future reference. It beats dealing with the clutter of accumulated news articles, recipes, and to-do lists that used to litter my dining room table and purse.

The iPhone helps you to quickly access email and if you need to communicate in multiple languages, no problem. Just go to Settings and set up additional language keyboards. You can toggle between whichever language you want to use. There are also nifty apps like Dragon Dictation that take your recorded voice and convert it to text, which you can then edit, and voila--instant email without the hassle of all that tapping on a tiny keyboard. (I discovered it supports French dictation too and inserts all those darn accent marks.)

Photos? iPicasso makes it a snap to access your Picasso web albums and transmit photos to Picasso. There are camera apps which allow you to quickly touch up your iPhone photos with just a swipe of your finger. It's magic.

For those of you who are foodies, try an online subscription to Cook's Illustrated. You can also access recipes on your iPhone with their free app. By the way, Cook's Illustrated has great recipes that have been kitchen tested. Some of my favorite recipes have come from Cook's. They provide a wealth of information about cooking utensils and food products that you won't find anywhere else.

I could go on and on. There are so many ingenius things an iPhone can do. Unfortunately, it doesn't do the dishes or clean the house.

So who is the next to get an iPhone?

Monet Revisited

2010-09-20T21:53:00.000-07:00

Sunday was overcast in San Diego, but a wonderful day for a visit to the botanical gardens in Encinitas. The gardens are a perfect place for a walk, an intimate wedding, or a great adventure for children. Something for everyone.

These two have a story to tell.

Labor Day Weekend in the OC

2010-09-06T13:58:00.000-07:00

Labor Day started out in a cool haze.

Which made it great for all the bikers and hikers in Wood Canyon.

Of course, once the haze burned off late morning, everything heated up--not like the 105 we had on Saturday, but warm enough. Looking forward to a cool evening.

Time for Tea

2010-09-06T13:41:00.000-07:00

Thanks, Ursel, for the lovely tea cup you bought for me in Cobourg. I'm sitting down to my computer to work on Laughing Hawk this afternoon. Maybe a strong cup of tea will fire a few brain cells.

Garden Gone Dead

2010-09-01T16:27:00.000-07:00

After a week or so of 100 degree weather, the garden is not so lush any more. The fig tree is all confused. The too cool spring resulted in a massive late crop, but now the figs are fermenting on the tree. There's a whiff of vinegar in the air. I should also mention my husband sprayed the fruit because of all the feasting fruit flies and Japanese beetles. It was very effective, but I'm not too keen on eating fruit that has been sprayed with an insecticide that was not intended for use on fruits and vegetables. Oh well, I'm not too fond of Calimyrna figs any way. I prefer the Mission and Italian Honey figs that are struggling to survive in pots on the South side of the house.

About all that is left is tomatoes, paprikas, and eggplants. I have been hoarding tomatoes in the freezer in anticipation of a cool day for canning. I dry the paprikas and grind them (they have the best flavor!). The eggplants haven't been too prolific this summer, but it's just as well. I didn't have the time to deal with mass quantities. They are medium size and white with a faint pink/purple blush. They have a delicate flavor and are great when lightly breaded and fried in Canola oil. They are also wonderful grilled or as baba ganoush.

So here are some end of summer recipes--spaghetti sauce and chili sauce. Can't live without these staples of life. You won't find anything quite like them on a grocery shelf and they are open to a great deal of artistic interpretation. Enjoy.

Spaghetti Sauce

4 quarts tomatoes (fresh or frozen), peeled and quartered (about 24 large)
1 cup onion, chopped
1 cup Bell pepper, chopped
3/4 cup Canola oil
1/4 cup sugar
2 T Italian seasoning
1 T oregano
1 T basil
2 tsp. black pepper
dash of your favorite hot pepper sauce or a pinch of dried hot peppers (ground)
4 large cloves of garlic, minced
1 T salt
12 oz. can tomato paste

Note: Adjust the seasonings to suit your personal taste.

Combine all the ingredients in a large stainless steel pot except onions, peppers, and tomato paste.
Cook approximately one hour.
Use a hand held blending wand (like Cuisinart's Smart Stick) to puree the mixture.
Add remaining ingredients and cook another hour or until the sauce is reduced to the desired thickness.
Fill sterilized quart jars and leave about 1/2 inch head space. Be sure the tops of the jars have no chips and are wiped clean before screwing on the sterilized lids. A particle of food can prevent a proper seal.
Process in a water bath (boiling) for 45 minutes or in a pressure canner at 10 pounds for 15 minutes. The lids will make a popping sound as they cool, indicating that they have a proper seal.

Spicy Chili Sauce

4 quarts of tomatoes, peeled and chopped (about 24 large)
1-1/2 cups of chopped bell peppers (about 3 medium)
2 cups of chopped onions
1-1/2 cups vinegar
1-1/2 cups sugar
1 T salt
1 T celery seed
1 tsp. ginger
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. allspice
1 tsp. ground cloves
1 T dry mustard
Chili peppers to taste

Combine all ingredients and simmer until thick (about 2 hours)
Use a blending wand to puree the mixture in you like.
Pour the hot mixture into sterilized pint jars, leaving 1/8 inch head space. Be sure the tops of the jars have no chips and are wiped clean before screwing on the sterilized lids.
Process in a water bath (boiling) for 15 minutes.

Tomatoes, Tomatoes, Tomatoes

2010-07-23T21:02:00.000-07:00

Four 6-foot tall plants in my garden can deliver more tomatoes than you'll ever imagine. Carbons, Cherokees, and Whoppers. I also have some San Maranzanos, a Roma type. The Carbons which I started from last year's seed seem to have strayed a little from the original genetic intent by becoming rather misshapen, but the Cherokees have stayed true--green-shouldered, with a mild, smoky, mahogany flesh.
What to do with them? Put a large pot of water on the stove, bring it to a boil, and dip the tomatoes in for about 1 minute. Remove them from the water and put them in a colander and run cold water over them. Final step--peel and quarter them and seal them in freezer bags. Resurrect the frozen tomatoes on a nice, cool Fall day and can them. I have two great recipes for chili sauce and spaghetti sauce that I'll resurrect in a few weeks.

Huntington Beach 4th of July

2010-07-12T13:09:00.000-07:00

They say it's the biggest parade west of the Mississippi. Probably the craziest too.

I've seen the parade a couple of times from a safe distance, but this year we spent the day on the beach. You see every nationality and more tatoos and tents than you can imagine. I was especially amazed at the new fad of unbuttoning the top button of your shorts to display a tatoo just below the belly button. Maybe it has to do with eating too many hot dogs and you can't button your pants--but I suspect it's intended to be a "fashion" statement.

You will also see more bicycles than you can imagine and a little road rage as people battle for the sidewalk along the beach. Heaven help you if you're a pedstrian---you're just inches away from being road kill.

By the end of the day, everything is full of sand and your eyes are burning from the campfire smoke. You know the real challenge after the fireworks will be getting out of the parking lot.

Where's the sun?

Why is everybody bundled up? Isn't it supposed to be warm in California?

Ok. Where's the beach?

Hummingbirds

2010-06-10T18:34:00.000-07:00

That's right. It's a hummingbird nest--about the size of a walnut, perfectly engineered from seeds, grass, and spider webs. Pretty ingenious, huh?

Two eggs--each about the size of a Jelly Belly. They hatched out, but unfortunately a few days after they hatched, the mother disappeared. When she failed to show up after several days, curiousity got the better of me and I checked her nest. The babies were dead. Not sure what happened. We tried to avoid the nesting area. They are ordinarily very aggressive birds and they will attack anything that comes near, but there was no indication from the mother that she was disturbed in any way.

Ratatouille

2010-06-05T16:34:00.000-07:00

Ratatouille. Not the crazy rodent--vegetable stew. This morning was a typical June gloom kind of day in the O.C. when I snuck out into the garden and harvested a basketful of green beans.

I decided that ratatouille was the only solution for this abundance of beans. Here's the recipe. Improvise all you like.

a bunch of green beans (the large, flat ones are very meaty and don't have strings)

1 large eggplant or 2 medium-size

2-3 potatoes

1 large zucchini

1 large sweet onion

2-3 cloves of garlic

1 large can of diced tomatoes (or fresh if available)

diced bell pepper

2 tsp. ground paprika

1/2 c. ketchup

olive oil (you know, the bottle with the sprig of rosemary in it)

your favorite herbs (basil, oregano, chervil, marjoram, parsley, thyme)

salt & fresh ground pepper to taste

Cut the beans in bite-size pieces and put them in a large stainless steel pot with the tomatoes. And a little water, if needed and bring it to a slow simmer.
Chop the eggplant into bite-size pieces. I prefer to sauté the eggplant and sliced garlic in a little olive oil. You don't have to, but it gives the stew a better flavor.
Chop the potatoes into bite-size pieces and sauté with the chopped onions in a little olive oil.
Slice the zucchini.
Dice the bell pepper.
Add all the vegetables and ketchup to the pot.
Season to your own taste and simmer until the vegetables are tender, but not mushy. Et voilà. Ratatouille!

Garden Gone Wild

2010-05-11T19:36:00.000-07:00

What a difference a few weeks make. All of the sudden, those delicate plants take charge of the garden.

Sedona Quick Trip

2010-04-27T20:41:00.000-07:00

None of us had ever been to Sedona, so curiosity and a willingness to test family bonds finally got the better of us. We travelled by RV and rented a condo at the Hyatt Pinon. Great place and conveniently located.

The gang - ready for takeoff

David & Jake

Michelle, Buddha Boy & Momma Tonya

Jake & Koko

Chauffeur Steve

Arriving: cold, drizzle & gray

Hyatt Pinon

Cathedral Rock

Dave & Michelle

Jake, Steve & Tonya

Dave & Michelle

Sundown

Enchantment - Coconino National Park

Michelle taking advantage of the vortex

Dave, Michelle & Steve

Dinner Time

Tonya & Michelle

The boys

The bone shop - they had an impressive array of bones from beavers to bovines. I have no idea who buys this stuff.