This Life by Kara O'Neal

At night, when I pray, I start by thanking God for all the good things in my life. 

He's blessed me so many times over -- my family is in good health, we have what we need, my children are happy, my husband and I have stable jobs, we have wonderful friends...

But over the last several years, I've also thanked Him for the peace He has given us. And that would not have been possible if others hadn't made the ultimate sacrifice. There are even soldiers out there right now keeping us safe. Even the Ukrainian men and women who are fighting daily are doing it for more than just their own kin.

And here I sit, peaceful, writing this post to share with y'all.

I'm glad we have this day where we can remember and honor those who have fallen. It grounds us, makes us acknowledge that there are things more important than the next television series or Marvel movie. (Although, my cousin who is a veteran would scold me and say, "Kara, we fight for your ability to enjoy your life without fear. So enjoy it and don't feel guilty.")

He's right. I know it.

So...yes. I will spend time with my family. We will play cards, and we will eat good food and be silly together. And we will give thanks to the soldiers.

And....I will make Apple Butter today! (For those of you who don't know, it's a kind of jelly.)

Now, it's not apple pie -- and I do make a glorious apple pie -- but it's the next best thing. Apple Butter is a staple in my father's family. My grandpa loved it and always had butter and jelly on the table at EVERY meal. 

So, today I will be up to my elbows in apple peelings, sugar, maple syrup and a few other ingredients. And I will be singing this lovely poem I made up many, many, many years ago...

Oh, apple butter. 

Oh, how I love you.
Your apple cinnamony sweetness gives happiness so true.

The way you melt with peanut butter is so fine,
I cannot wait until you get in that mouth of mine.

When I see you sittin' on my grandma's table,
my stomach growls and is unstable.

Until I can spread you on a biscuit so fluffy,
my temperament is terrible and I'm a little huffy.

Oh, apple butter.
Oh, how I love you.

Thank you for the sweetness that always rings true.

Visit Kara O'Neal at www.karaoneal.com

HUCKLEBERRY HAPPINESS - Ice Caves and Wild Huckleberries

 by Judy Ann Davis

She dreams of winning the contest, but what does her heart want? 

Huckleberry Happiness, a  novella for The Wild Rose Press “One Scoop or Two” collection, highlights two things unique to Pennsylvania: ice caves and wild huckleberries. In 1885, Emerlia Stone, the heroine, wants  to make huckleberry ice cream to win a dessert contest offered by the railroad.

       The hero, Joe Sawicki, owns an ice cave and supplies ice to Emelia’s bakery and the townsfolk. Huckleberries are native to Pennsylvania, dating back to the first bushes which survived as the ice cover was melting over 13,000 years ago. Ice caves are rare phenomena that maintain freezing temperatures year ’round and contain ice during the hottest days of the summer.

Strip mining erased almost all traces of them after the 1920s.

BLURB:   

         In 1885, Emelia Stone and her sister must learn to operate their deceased parents’ bakery in a small town in Pennsylvania. A large mortgage looms on their family home. When her sister leaves town, Emelia is forced to handle the bakery and burden alone.

The Pennsylvania Railroad is searching for the perfect dessert for its passengers. Joe Sawicki, owner of Sawicki Brothers Ice Company, is certain Emelia can win the contest and the hundred- dollar bonus if she creates a special ice cream to accompany her popular huckleberry pies. He has loved her since they played hooky in grade school to explore the company’s ice cave.

Can Emelia find courage to stand up to the town’s bully to win the competition? And will Joe have the mettle to express his undying love and win first place in Emelia’s heart?

 

            An engaging romance for only $1.99 -  HUCKLEBERRY HAPPINESS

RASINS IN THE DRESSING. (To have or to hold)--by Laurean Brooks

My dad acquired the love of cooking while in his late forties after the captain of the riverboat Waterways Marine, made him interim cook. The official cook was recuperating from a broken leg, and Daddy volunteered for the job.

When the cooking bug bit him, he never looked back. He had a flair for concocting unusual dishes. I still cringe at the visual of turtle, baked raccoon, and opossum, Daddy set before us. All these were probably tasty, but my stomach tied in knots at the thought of putting these meats in my mouth. Even though, to spare my dad’s feelings, I would often force myself to sample a little.

He claimed that turtle tasted like seven kinds of meat. I Googled while writing this and discovered he was right. When I didn’t recognize the turtle dish he set on the table, I asked, “Daddy, what kind of meat is that?”

“Chicken,” came his quick reply.

My six siblings asked the same question about the unknown dish, and all received a different answer. From chicken to beef, to pork, to shrimp, veal, fish, or goat. Anything to get us to try the turtle. Some of my siblings did try it. Some managed to swallow with a poker face. Others gagged.

Our mother was a traditional cook. The tried and true recipes were the only ones she used. And those were the ones she learned from her mother and grandmother. Now that you know our dad's penchant for creating unusual dishes and Mama’s insistence on the tried and true, you will better understand the Thanksgiving feud that occurred one year. 

Daddy thought he was helping Mama with Thanksgiving dinner one year, when he stirred together the ingredients for his unique dressing. Every ingredient was the same as Mama's—except one. Daddy added a cup of raisins to the mix. 

He explained that he'd found the dressing recipe in a gourmet cookbook. Mama was not happy about the addition and decided to make her usual cornbread dressing, which was always moist and delicious.

Our parents rarely argued. When they weren’t happy, they’d just give one another the cold shoulder. But you could slice the tension with a knife when Mama set her dressing on the table and announced, “Your daddy's dressing is sitting on the stove. It has raisins in it,” she huffed, “Whoever heard of such?” 

Daddy explained again that he'd followed a genuine recipe from his special cookbook. His argument didn't phase Mama, who never used a recipe for anything. Caught between a rock and a hard place, my siblings made no comment. We kept our heads down and exchanged furtive upward glances around the table. 

We didn't want to upset Mama any more than she was, but we didn't want to hurt Daddy's feelings, either. I don't remember what Johnny, Ralph, Jewell, Paul, Emily, or Stanley did, but I sampled a little of both dressings. I didn't score any brownie points with Mama that Thanksgiving Day. The raisin dressing wasn’t bad, but I didn’t voice my thoughts.

We endured the meal in silence, except for sentences like, "Pass the rolls," or "Scoop me up some mashed banana pudding, please." 

I don't remember the fate of Daddy’s raisin dressing, but I suspect by day three, our dogs had their bellies full of raisins.

Have you ever experienced a squabble at a Thanksgiving gathering? It cane at at time when we should have been thanking the Lord for our many blessings. Family, health, prosperity and freedom. 

Share your experiences.

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  When Jenny Largent hops a train north to Chicago, she hasn't a clue what she's in for.  First, a handsome thief runs away with her carry-on bag.  Just when she thinks her troubles are over, he shows up at her aunt's church raising money for a so-called mission. Jenny figures Austin is pocketing the money and tries to convince her aunt. Her aunt doesn't buy it. Jenny joins the mission trip to prove Austin is a thief.

But soon, Jenny's feelings for Austin morph into love. Will she report him when she spies him taking money from the mission strongbox? 

A sweet romance loaded with humor, interesting characters, and an interesting plot--with a dash of Depression Era history thrown in. 

https://www.amazon.com/Journey-Forgiveness-Laurean-Brooks-ebook/dp/B01FEDR8O8/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=Journey+To+Forgiveness%2FLaurean+Brooks&qid=1605714219&s=books&sr=1-1

Take A Deep Breath: This Too Shall Pass -- Laurean Brooks

In this season of anxiety and fear of the unknown, let's all take a deep breath and make the most of it. Families are encouraged to stay home. “Time is of the essence,” Let's embrace this temporary change in our schedules and use it for good.

When was the last time your schedule slowed down enough to have a heart-to-heart talk with your spouse, daughter, or son? When did you last call a sibling, friend, neighbor, cousin, or older relative to check on them?

Our neighbors who have lived down the road for over a year, called yesterday to see if we needed anything. I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't even know their names. But I do now. The call was a sweet gesture that touched my heart.

This would be a great time for mothers to teach their daughters to cook and sew. And a great time for a father to teach his son to change the oil in the car or how to service the lawnmower.

We long for the “good old days” when times were simpler and life moved at a slower pace. There is no time like the present to relive those days and bring back memories. Even if you weren't around in the 50s or 60s, you can get a feel for life back then.

Gather around the table. Play board games such as Sorry or Chinese Checkers with family. Or get them involved in a game of Charades. Tell silly jokes and laugh.

Enjoy the camaraderie with loved ones. Invite siblings or close friends over for a simple meal--chili and hotdogs, hamburgers, or pizza. Take a nature walk with your kids or grandkids. Enjoy reconnecting and fellowshipping before life speeds up again.

In 2018 and 2019 I lost two family members plus several Facebook friends I'd bonded with. This made me realize how quickly life passes. James 4:14 states it well: “Whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.”

We can't bring our loved ones back, but we can spend quality time with the ones who are still part of our lives.

Psalms 91 is a wonderful chapter to read. Saturate yourself with it. Meditate on verses 3 – 6. "Surely He shall deliver you from the snare of the fowler And from the perilous pestilence. He shall cover you with His feathers, And under His wings you shall take refuge; His truth shall be your shield and buckler. You shall not be afraid of the terror by night, Nor of the arrow that flies by day, Nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness, Nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday.”

“This too shall pass” is a good saying to live by. Relax, reconnect with family and friends. But most of all laugh, love, and enjoy your family time. Instead of working ourselves into a frenzy, let's put our fears and anxiety in God's hands and relax. He's got this.

                         ****************************** 

When Amanda's CEO husband is found dead in his mangled Porsche alongside his young secretary, she is devastated. Then she learns Greg has gambled away the savings, including a lien against her house. Amanda hides from reporters who are bent on destroying her. What will she do?

https://www.amazon.com/Trust-Her-Heart-Laurean-Brooks-ebook/dp/B07BFH9LFJ/ref=sr_1_6?dchild=1&keywords=To+Trust+her+Heart&qid=1584552589&s=digital-text&sr=1-6

Third Time’s the Charm, or The Clafouti that Almost Killed Me by Bea Tifton

I had this month’s blog all ready to go (spoiler alert, I’ll use it in March). But sometimes, in the course of one’s life, a person has an epiphany so astounding, so life changing, that it’s impossible not to share.

I, Bea Tifton, am a major dork. I know. I know. You see the witty, sophisticated fashionista and think, Oh, no, Bea, that can’t be true. But yes, Dear Readers, it is. And here is my story. 

 I’ve gotten so used to being, er, “Event Prone,” as my lovely and talented mother terms it, that it seems normal to me. But, as my favorite maternal cousin once said with a laugh, “Bea, stuff just happens to you.” Okay, she didn’t say “stuff.” Whether it’s forgetting to unfasten my seat belt, punching myself in the eye trying to change the toilet paper roll (don’t ask), or catching my purse strap on my storm door’s handle almost every time I go out, that’s just part of my daily routine. But recently, things took a surreal turn. 

When the sheet to provide homemade breakfast items for an upcoming reception at church was sent around at my book club, I cheerfully signed up. 

The night before, I put the fruit on to drain and set my alarm for dark thirty the following morning. The next day I hummed as I mixed, stirred, and baked. After extricating myself from the storm door, I carefully put my baking dish in the car and drove to church. Since it was so early, the organizer of the program promised she would have a person outside with a cart so we wouldn’t even have to get out of the car. I hadn’t slept much and I’d cut it pretty close, so I decided to do something I never do. I stayed in my pjs. No one would see me, right? 

But when I got to the church, no one was waiting. Hmmm. It was just a minute after the appointed drop off window, so maybe she gave up early. I got out of the car and peered into the church, ringing the doorbell because it was before the receptionist reported for work. No shower, no makeup, pjs. Our custodian answered and almost fell over as he took in my appearance. He looked as though he was afraid my butter had slipped my biscuit, but as always, he was unfailingly polite as he explained the breakfast was on Wednesday.

It was Monday. 

The next evening, Tuesday, I set the fruit to drain. Then, Wednesday at dark thirty, I again rose to make my clafouti. I hummed as I mixed, stirred, and baked. This time, I put on light makeup and got dressed. As the timer went off and I took Clafouti II out of the oven, my sleepy mind searched for what was wrong. It smelled great, the pastry had puffed up nicely and browned just slightly, but something was different. The fruit. I had forgotten to put in the fruit. My heart seized as I frantically tried to decide what to do. I looked around and paced a bit

“That’s it,” I said to my dog. “I can’t do this.” I forced myself to calm down. “Think, Bea. What would a contestant on The Great British Baking Show do?”

They would start again. This time I did not hum as I mixed, stirred, and baked. I hauled fanny. Since I’d memorized the recipe by now, things went much quicker. And I made it to the church with a minute to spare. My friend waved merrily as I drove up. She oohed and ahhed appropriately, and I left dear little Clafouti III to meet its fate.

Oh, and some of you are probably wondering what happened to Clafouti I. After smelling it in my house and in my car? I ate it. It tasted delicious.

Clafouti

1 TBSP butter

1 1/3 cups milk

2 TBSP sugar

4 large eggs

½ tsp vanilla extract

¼ tsp salt

1 1/3 cups plus 1 TBSP white flour

1 bag frozen fruit of choice, drained (I use a berry medley)

1.  Preheat oven to 375°.

2. Melt the butter in the microwave, then pour into 9 x 13 inch pan and tilt to evenly coat the pan with butter.

3. In a mixer, add milk first, then all remaining ingredients, except fruit and 1 TBSP of the flour. Blend until frothy and well combined.

4. In a small separate bowl, toss together the fruit and the extra flour.

5. Pour the batter into the baking dish, spoon in the coated fruit, and bake for 30 to 35 minutes or until it’s puffed up and lightly browned.

6. Cut into large square and serve immediately. This also tastes good left over at room temperature.

Recipe adapted from Still Life with Menu Cookbook by Mollie Katzen. 

Bea Tifton is currently working on her first mystery, A Compact Death.  She lives in North Texas with way too many spoiled pets, and she’s still making clafouti.