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When I rushed over and called them, there they were, frolicking in the sunshine. Rafe was pretending to be a VERY BIG LION, his hair [...]]]> Yesterday, the kittens slipped out through the backdoor somehow when I let the dog in. I came down stairs and saw the open door and my heart stopped.  

When I rushed over and called them, there they were, frolicking in the sunshine. Rafe was pretending to be a VERY BIG LION, his hair all fluffed up, skittering sideways on his tiptoes, chasing his baby sister, who was leading him on a merry chase. They were so happy to be in the yard.  

I can’t decide if I need an electric fence, or if I should train them to be just in the yard with me, and always come in at night.  There are foxes in the neighborhood.  Comments? 

Also, I have had no time to write a proper blog. If you missed [...]]]> I promise I am not abandoning you to photo posts forever more. But this shot was just sitting there waiting when Jack and I came in for a walk the other day, so I thought you would enjoy it, too.

Also, I have had no time to write a proper blog. If you missed the Listmania post on Writer Unboxed, check it out here.

In other news, I have new kittens. Yes, that’s two. It seemed prudent, considering the ages of the other animals. Very happy snuggling into kitten fur.

 

shot in my kitchen this week...pretty, no?

January 17, 2-4 pm Barnes and Noble, North Colorado Springs 1565 Briargate Blvd Colorado Springs, CO 80920 719-266-9960

But in the end, what I learn over and [...]]]> Oh, yes–I remember. The book happens as I am writing it. All the thinking, all the planning, all the scene lists and character sketches and theme spiders and metaphorical illuminations are lovely. The brewing time is also good, and I need a lot of it.

But in the end, what I learn over and over and over and over again is that I actually write the book while I’m writing the book. I find out what’s really going to happen when my fingers are on the keyboard and I’m watching the scene unfold. THAT’S where the magic happens, when I finally let go and let the book have its way and I let it unfold as it wishes.

The girls in the basement are rolling their eyes. “Finally,” they’re saying. “She’s finally getting out of our way.”

It was a very good morning. I’m so glad to be back to work. Life always feels slightly off-kilter without my companions.

We’ve been playing again, the Faery Four, and our latest collection of magical stories is out! The book is called THE CHALICE OF THE ROSE novella collection, written by Jo Beverley, Mary Jo Putney, Karen Harbaugh, and Barbara Samuel, and it traces the tale of the Grail through four different time periods. I [...]]]>

We’ve been playing again, the Faery Four, and our latest collection of magical stories is out! The book is called THE CHALICE OF THE ROSE novella collection, written by Jo Beverley, Mary Jo Putney, Karen Harbaugh, and Barbara Samuel, and it traces the tale of the Grail through four different time periods. I think you’ll enjoy this quite a bit!

Library Journal said:
“Based on legends surrounding the mystical Holy Grail, this quartet sweeps readers across time periods with emotionally compelling, often lyrically written tales of courage, sacrifice, love—and roses. A young woman of ancient lineage is destined to bring peace to 12th-century England when she finds her protector, and together they call forth the chalice in Beverley’s “The Raven and the Rose”; a Guardian must use her powers to keep the Grail safe during World War II in Mary Jo Putney’s “The White Rose of Scotland”; a debutante is charged with keeping the Grail out of Napoleon’s grasp in Karen Harbaugh’s charming “The English Rose: Miss Templar and the Holy Grail”; and an American grad student studying in England becomes involved in a strange fey tale involving the Grail in Barbara Samuel’s “Eternal Rose.” VERDICT: This beautifully crafted anthology by some of the genre’s best is graced with flawless writing, touches of humor, and magical, creative plots.”

excerpt from
THE ETERNAL ROSE, by Barbara Samuel

CHAPTER ONE

“It’s haunted, you know.”

Alice Magill peered into the pearl gray fog that swirled around the garden of her freshly rented flat in an English village. Over the ancient wall bounding the property was an old woman, stout and bespectacled. She wore a dark blue sweater and a rain hat.

“The house?” Alice asked.

“Well, yes, that too, but the garden is what I meant. All manner of things come and go through there. I reckon you’ll want to be careful at dusk, miss.”

“Ah.” Alice carefully tucked her skepticism beneath a polite smile. “What kind of things?”

“Cats for one thing.” The woman caught sight of something behind Alice. With a wave of her hand, she said, “Shoo!”

Alice turned to see a big black and white cat, very well-tended, sitting on a stone bench, his long fluffy tail curling and uncurling in typical cat boredom. He did not seem to mind the old woman’s dislike. As if he were raising a brow in silent complicity with Alice, his left whiskers twitched ever-so-slightly.

“He looks harmless enough.”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” She tossed a twig toward the cat, and he dashed into the bushes. “They’re not harmless, Miss, and I’d watch them if I were you.”

Wrinkling her brow quizzically, Alice said, “Thanks.”

“American, then, are you?” The woman leaned in more curiously. “What brings you here? Are you studying at the Foundation? That’s what usually rents those flats, students and teachers.”

“Guilty.” Alice tugged off her thin gloves and walked over to the wall. The old woman was probably lonely, looking for a little conversation. Nothing wrong with that. “My name is Alice Magill. I’m here to do some graduate work in literature.”

“Oh, all of that nonsense is over my head, but welcome anyway.”

“Thank you….er?”

The woman gave a lighthearted, almost girlish laugh. “Silly me. I’m Mrs. Leigh.”

“Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs. Leigh?”

“Oh, no, my dear. I have to get my garden to bed before the freeze.”

“All right. Thanks for the warning. About ghosts and cats. And things.” Alice turned back toward the old manor house where she had rented a flat only two days before. The 14th century building came complete with mullioned windows, a pelt of thick green ivy and climbing roses, and a moat. A moat with actual water in it, which alone would have cinched her selection.

Under the current light conditions, the possibility of a haunting seemed not only possible, but likely. Fog drifted in clouds of mysteriousness, showing a clump of white asters nearby a stone bench, then parting to illuminate a single yellow rose on the vine climbing around her bedroom window. So beautiful!

Gratitude rushed into her chest. As long as she could remember, Alice had dreamed of traveling to England. Born to a sprawling Irish-American family in Chicago with more love than money, she had put herself through college, then graduate school, and now had saved enough to come to this little village and its Foundation for the Study of English and Scottish Ballads, to study the link between the legend of the Holy Grail, the famous lyric poem, the Romance of the Rose and a ballad said to have been written in the pub on the high street.

And from the moment she’d spied the rolling green land beneath the plane, her heart had been singing. England! She was here, she was here, she was here. Even better, now she was wandering around the garden of an ancient manor house that boasted a moat. A moat!

As if that were not enough, she was studying and teaching her favorite legends, all rooted right in these green lands. Life, she thought with a happy sigh, didn’t get any better than this. Some—her extremely superstitious Irish grandmother among them–might say she ought to be watching for the other shoe to fall out of the sky and give her a black eye, but Alice ascribed to a cheerier superstition: if you listened to your heart, it would lead you where you were meant to go.

Some said that made her naïve. But they were stuck back in the sharp winds of the Midwest while here she was collecting flowers from a centuries-old garden for her kitchen table. With a pair of heavy-handled scissors she’d found in the kitchen drawer, Alice clipped a fistful of blue asters and pale chrysanthemums, and then headed toward the back door. Up the back of the house climbed the rose bush, glossy dark green against the soft gray day. The roses were nearly spent, but a few still bloomed bright yellow. She reached for one, a little bit over her head—

Movement at the edge of her peripheral vision caught her attention. Alice turned in time to see…something…distinctly skitter through the trees. She caught a flash of scarlet, the impression of long black hair, and then the fog closed around her so completely that she felt as if it were a blanket, smothering and too close.

She might as well have been blind. Panic clutched her throat, as she spun around in a circle, seeking a marker of any kind with which to orient herself. Nothing. She made a decision and headed for the back door.

Or at least she thought it was the back door. Instead, she stumbled over a round clump of aromatic lavender and fell, face first, in the wet grass. Flowers went flying from her basket, her teeth clicked together painfully, and she jarred her right elbow. The wind was knocked out of her, adding to her panic, and she felt like she might pass out, right there in the garden.

Maybe she thought, struggling to take a breath, her grandmother was right.

“Breathe!” said a voice.

Alice struggled to obey, but it felt as if two fists were squeezing her lungs tight. The edges of her vision begin to blacken, which sent her spiraling into absolute terror, even though some distant part of her brain knew that passing out would be the end of the whole drama because she’d relax. Her body would take over and do what was required.

“Breathe!” said a man’s voice, and a blow struck her between the shoulder blades, startling enough that Alice sucked in a giant breath. Air filled her lungs, then flowed out, and she coughed.

She sat up, turning to thank her rescuer, but the fog was so thick she still could see nothing. “Thank you,” she said.

No one answered. The cloud shifted ever so slightly, and she thought she saw a foot in a soft leather shoe, but then it was swallowed again.

Uneasy, Alice went to all fours and gathered the flowers that had scattered when she fell. The basket could wait, since she couldn’t see it anyway, and the scissors would likely rust, but she wasn’t going to risk another tumble. Getting to her feet, she stepped carefully. Eventually she would come to the wall, the moat, or the back of the house. All sound was muffled, but she could distantly hear the water in the moat chuckling along its way. It was at least a point of orientation.

Moving cautiously, she peered into the dense air, and finally spied a single gleam of yellow, like a torch in the gloom. It was the rose against her kitchen window, dewy and bright. It led her the last few steps to the door safely.

Only then, with her palm flat against clammy bricks, did she look back into the fog-shrouded garden. Who had helped her?
Maybe the garden was haunted. A cold shiver crossed her shoulders, rushed down her spine.

After her class tomorrow, she would poke around the library for some research on the house. Who knew what dramas and lost loves she might uncover?

This morning, I’m thinking about the difference in dogs and cats. As many of you know, my mid-size terrier mutt Sasha is almost 17 years old and over the past six months, her age has really been catching up with her. She’s quite deaf and a little shortsighted and even [...]]]>

Sasha in November

This morning, I’m thinking about the difference in dogs and cats. As many of you know, my mid-size terrier mutt Sasha is almost 17 years old and over the past six months, her age has really been catching up with her. She’s quite deaf and a little shortsighted and even the smeller is going, since she nips at our fingers just to make sure there is no treat hanging in the air. She’s pigeon-toed and bow-legged because her legs are weak, and some days the shuffle is barely a shuffle. Some days, she’s incontinent and I’ve figured out the signs, and she wears a diaper with good grace. (I found her a denim overdiaper that’s actually kind of cute. With her green fleece, she’s stylin’, baby.) Once or twice, she’s had a day so bad that I was sure I would have to take her in the next day. A meaty bone, plenty of physical support (i.e. someone carrying her), some good drugs, and she rallies.

But unless she’s actually in pain, she works around her limitations with her usual canine glee, barking at the top of her voice when she realizes that we’re going for a walk, shuffling as fast as she can down the street, around the little green, and then back home panting hard (where she gets a bone while Jack and I head back out for a longer jaunt). She still makes her rounds in the kitchen 47 time a day, performing her sworn dog duty to keep all floors tidy.

This what one of the things I love about dogs. She isn’t wailing about the impending end of her days on the planet. She’s fully engaged, living today, living with excitement. She doesn’t mourn the long walks she used to take when she was a younger healthier dog, she just charges out there to do what she can do now. She doesn’t get all stressed out about the diaper or her funny walk. On bad mornings, she waits patiently for one of us to carry her down the stairs, and we gladly do it, and when she gets down there, she engages in the task of the morning—first, anything fallen since last night? Second, are the cats being fed (she gets to lick the plates)? Third, can I sit right here while you eat breakfast (peering in Mr McGoo fashion)… you are eating breakfast?.

By contrast, a cat will hide dramatically beneath a couch, rolling eyes in abject misery. I suspect this is because cats are vain. They don’t like to look bad. (Don’t misread this, of course. I adore cats JUST as much as I adore dogs, and am in fact aching to get a new kitten, which Jack would not approve, so I don’t). A cat gets a cold and creeps dramatically into a corner and waves a sorry paw—oh, never mind that tuna, you know I used to like it but I couldn’t manage even a single bite. I’m dying you know. Dying. Take it away. There’s no point. A sick cat must be coaxed into eating, teased into it, sometimes forced. (My favorite high-cal concoction is an egg yolk mixed with the oil from a can a of tuna, fed via eyedropper down the protesting cat’s throat. A cat who is a burrito in a towel. )

I tend to be more of a cat. Full of drama and worried over looking ridiculous and very invested in my fur. To honor Sasha, I’m trying to be right there with her. Joyful. Enjoying the good moments, taking care of her as well as I can during the bad ones, knowing that the very moment her true pleasure in life is gone is gone is the moment I will let her go, and glad we can do that with animals.

It’s an illumination in living. It’s easy to be happy in the moment. Easy to find ways to be joyful. My pleasure isn’t patrolling the floors, but I really love to write and read. I love to make beautiful meals. I love walking and dancing and cuddling the dogs. Right this minute, I love sitting in my favorite chair, a heavy Mission-style piece that’s big enough to curl up in, with a Titanic deck chair throw over my shoulders and a gold print throw over my legs, looking at Pikes Peak through my window. I’m writing, and writing delights me. My dog Jack is doing his job, glaring out the window at dogs who have the nerve to pass in front of us; also he is looking mighty gorgeous, which is his task. Sasha was here a moment ago, but has gone on patrol.

Today. Here. Now. In honor of The Ancient One, I’m sticking with the practice as much as I can.

What’s your joy, your task? Are you more of a cat or a dog?

My challenge was to create a dish that would deconstruct fish & chips and end up tasting like the original.  Since the only ingredients in the traditional offering [...]]]> At CR’s urging, I decided to give the deconstruction of fish & chips a try.  (For background on the Top Chef deconstruction challenge, read about it here.)

My challenge was to create a dish that would deconstruct fish & chips and end up tasting like the original.  Since the only ingredients in the traditional offering are white fish (usually cod or haddock, depending on your locale), and potatoes, both fried and heavily salted, then served very hot, it wasn’t easy. But it was intriguing.

THE PLAN

Really good fish and chips are served very hot, very greasy, and very salty. There’s a good crisp breading on the fish, and the chips (fries) are thick and tender, not like McDonalds, but like your mother’s best home fries. I decided to bake the fish, and use potatoes to create the crispy texture of the fried version of both fish and chips (fries).  I had the luxury of two days to think about it, and arbitrarily made a rule that I had to use the fish in the house, which was halibut.   The challenge in my mind was to get the simple, satisfying flavor of that very, very simple food and not add much of anything to the ingredients to try to make it upscale.  I decide to bake the fish, mash potatoes, and try two different crispy potato pancakes.

By happy accident, I was in the English Home Goods store (where we buy stupidly expensive imported PG Tips for $26 for 250 bags, but trust me, if you get used to English tea, American is very pale in comparison). While I was there, I happened to spy a small bottle of malt vinegar. Eureka! Everyone knows you can’t eat fish and chips without malt vinegar!

THE PROCESS
(Note: always remember that I am at 7000 ft altitude, so shorten your cooking times if you decided to try anything I post!)

I started with Yukon Gold potatoes for the mash.  The fish was simple, 7 oz frozen halibut steaks.  The chefs on Top Chef had two hours, but that seemed excessive, so I started 90 minutes out.  Peeled and boiled the potatoes, leaving them a tiny bit undercooked so they could rest in the hot water while I readied the fish and made the two pancakes.   The fish was very simple prep: olive oil in the pan with plenty of kosher salt, in the oven at 350 for 20 minutes. 

To get ready for the pancakes, I grated two medium size potatoes and a very small onion.  (Onions are not standard here, but I just couldn’t do potato pancakes without it!)  For the first set of potato pancakes, I mashed about 1-1/2 cups of cooked potatoes with 2 tablespoons butter, enough milk to make a good paste, then blended it until the potatoes were smooth. Added 1/2 a beaten egg (save the other half), a tiny bit of grated onion, roughly 2 tablespoons of flour, and for some body, about a quarter of the grated potatoes, and salt and pepper.  Because I wanted a very thin, crispy cake, I added milk until the batter was fairly thin.

Since time would be short, I also made the second batch of potato pancakes, which were a hashbrown with a little egg to hold them together. Mixed the grated potatoes, grated onions, salt, pepper and the other half of the egg together.

I used an electric grill and poured a generous amount of canola oil on it (this was the greasy element), then added a couple of tablespoons of butter and heated it until it was medium hot.  On one side, I poured the mashed potato pancakes, on the other, the hashbrowns, and let them cook.

Meanwhile, I poured the water off the remaining boiled potatoes, put them back on the burner on low, added 4 tablespooons butter, milk (my mistake is always adding too much milk, so I do it in small amounts) and mashed the potatoes, keeping an eye on the potato pancakes at the same time, and turning them about 3 minutes in.  They were nicely brown and by this time, I was getting very hungry, so I was beginning to look forward to eating this experiment, however it turned out!

CR was in charge of setting the table, and now, the timing was critical.  I took the fish out of the oven, and on the plate I had already sprinkled with malt vinegar, the fish was settled in the middle,  it with the two different pancakes in a circle around it, and a nice mound of mashed potatoes to one side.  It was rather bland looking, all that white, so I put the lemon rounds on top of the fish, even if they are not traditional (“You’re American,” said CR. “We make allowance for you.”) 

The layering was, pancake, fish, mash, all in a single bit, with a dip in the little pool of vinegar.  We both tried it, blinked, and looked at each other in happy pleasure.  He tried one kind of pancake, I tried the other, and—it worked! 

Honestly, it was wonderful, and a faithful deconstruction/recreation.  For the sake of the experiment, I thought the hashbrowns gave the layers the right greasy crispness, but CR preferred the pancake.  Both of them were delicious and very greasy and the kosher salt sprinkled on top added just the right layer of brine.

But I must admit that the malt vinegar was the crowning touch, pulling the flavors together just the way it does when you go to the chip shop.

WHAT I WOULD DO DIFFERENTLY NOW

–I would cut the fish into smaller pieces and grill it rather than bake it, just to give it some color. 
–I would layer the pancakes, fish, and mashed potatoes like a tiny lasagna

I will definitely be making those little potato cakes again.  It was fun to make this dish just to find something we liked so much.