The Villain in the Story by Victoria Chatham

AVAILABLE HERE

I write historical fiction and was so pleased to co-author with Anita Davison on Envy the Wind, Book #11 in the Canadian Historical Brides collection. My preferred genre is mostly-sweet Regency romance but even in a sweet romance, there needs to be some issue to create conflict for the characters because, without it, there really is no story. Think of a piece of string. If it is laid out flat, it is boring, uninteresting. Nothing is happening. Now imagine there are several knots in it. Who tied that knot and why? Why did they choose to tie the knot in that particular place in the string? The whole picture changes.

In the same way that we construct three-dimensional characters for our heroes and heroines, our villains,

if they are to be credible, need to be three-dimensional too. It isn’t always the guy with half-shut left eye or scarred cheek who is a villain, nor the woman with perfect make-up and too-white smile. Just as our H/H’s come in all shapes and sizes, so too do our villains. Making them credible comes from creating their backstory just as you have

done with your H/H.

What happened in your villain’s life to make him/her the way they are? Just as the branches on a bonsai tree are formed and shaped with wire, so a villain’s character is formed and shaped by the circumstances he/she grows up in or by what happens to them. You only have to look at some of Disney’s villains to get the idea. Think Maleficent, who is betrayed by her lover Stefan’s ambitions to become king. To reach that end, he sets out to kill her, but at the last minute can’t do it so instead cuts off her wings. Easy to see why Maleficent became ticked off by that.  And then there’s Captain Hook, bent on revenge after Peter Pan cuts off his hand and feeds it to the crocodile. What about Scar in The Lion King? All the elements in those Disney villains are examples of how you can build your bad guys.

Villains walk like us and talk like us, for the most part. They can be intelligent and likable, the veritable good guy. People (your readers) quite like him when he’s on the page, maybe mirroring some of the better characteristics of your hero. He’s often kind, except that behind the kindness is the determination to get what he wants – usually at the hero’s expense.

While I have no problem creating a villain’s back story and showing some human element in them, I’m think I’m much better at making them more twisted than terrible, even though they might do terrible things. And the villain in Envy the Wind? I'm not telling. You'll have to read the book to find out!

Tea On a Hot Summer's Day by Victoria Chatham

I am fortunate to have a neighbor who loves having tea parties. It's an open house for her guests and you never know who will be there. She has a beautiful silver tea service and a collection of cups and saucers so you can take your pick of a dozen or more different patterns and styles. The conversation flows, the pot never runs dry and, even on a hot summer's day, the tea is wonderfully refreshing. There have been a variety of themes from death by chocolate to cream teas with scones and jam. We've had a shortbread social and a cake corral but always, at the center of it, is the tea, or coffee for those that prefer it.

I drink more tea now than I ever did when I lived in England and, what's more, it's loose leaf tea. My grandmother had a ritual, which I somewhat follow. Tea with her was an event, with the tea pot, hot water jug, milk and sugar bowl on a silver tray. First, the pot had to be warmed. Then the tea was spooned in, one spoon for each cup and one for the pot. I might add the spoon was on the small side. The tea had to sit for a few minutes for it to warm before the freshly boiled, never boiling, water was added. This was allowed to steep and while that 'worked' she poured hot water in each of the cups to warm them. This water was tipped into a 'slop' bowl and then the tea poured into the warmed cup. For those that wanted it, a little milk was added and then sugar to taste.

When I go home to England now to visit my family, I cannot drink tea as they do and they are appalled at my 'naked' tea as I drink it as it comes without milk and sugar. For very special occasions I will have my tea at home, especially if it's White China tea, in a cup and saucer and treat the whole tea making process as an event.

It's not quite as elaborate as a Chinese tea ceremony, but there is a relaxing, almost meditative, pattern to it. My grandmother's edict was that a good cup of tea can fix anything and I think I can agree with that. It's my drink of choice while I am writing and with that I'm going to pour a cup and get back to work.

AVAILABLE HERE

Casting your Characters by Connie Vines

Casting your characters.

In Hollywood the studios hold casting calls. 

The ‘closed' sessions (actors who are being seen have been invited to audition) is the pool your block-buster movies directors/producers/writers use as a casting tool.

Perhaps your novel doesn’t’ feature a superhero.  Your story does, however, have an amazing cast of characters.

Right?
Perhaps not at the moment. . .but soon.

Let’s go back to the superhero/blockbuster movie as an example. 

No role in Hollywood is more scrutinized, and few can offer the type of onscreen immortality (or notoriety, depending on how the movie turns out). Michael Keaton's casting in 1989's Batman inspired nerd outrage before the Internet was a thing. Angry message board comments plastered the web when Heath Ledger was announced as the new Joker, and Ryan Reynolds' first outing as Deadpool in 2009's X-Men Origins: Wolverine appeared to have doomed the character's big screen prospects forever. But they all prevailed.

Hollywood miscasts:

Forget the stilted dialogue, the insipid love story that dominates the second movie or Jar Jar Binks and let's talk about the real problem with the 'Star Wars' prequels -- Hayden Christensen. His turn as Anakin Skywalker comes off as bratty, petulant and completely lacking in menace.

Of all the actors who've played Batman over the years, George Clooney is one of the most perplexing.  His performance in 1997's 'Batman & Robin' effectively killed the franchise until Christopher Nolan came along in 2005 with 'Batman Begins.'

When casting your characters, you need to examine everyone who auditions for a part in your upcoming novel.

Does he/she fit the part? Or is he/she a miscast?

Part to be cast: a genie.   I have decided to hold and ‘open casting’ call.

My first actor: This genie is female and appears to be middle-aged. She is a little short and is a bit pudgy.  She has dark brown eyes, dark red skin, and wavy white hair in a short ponytail.  She wears a short-sleeved tunic, a mid-length skirt, and a pair of earrings.  She lives in a biscuit tin and is fond of sweets.

Actor number two: This genie is male and appears to be rather young. He is short and is quite thin.  He has pastel orange eyes, yellow skin, and straight light brown hair worn mid-length.  He wears no shirt, a pair of mid-length trousers, and too much jewelry.  He lives in a brass lamp and grants your wishes... but not the way you wanted them.

Actor number three: This genie is male and appears to be rather young. He is tall and is quite muscular.  He has black eyes, light brown skin, and wavy dark blue hair wrapped underneath a turban.  He wears a long-sleeved tunic, a pair of long trousers, and a pair of wristbands.  He lives in a Chinese lamp and likes a cup of hot tea.

Of course, the perfect genie would depend on the premise of your story, the plot twists you have in place, and your interaction between characters.

If my story had a suburban setting with children who needed to be minded/guided, my choice is
actor #1.


Am I looking for an ‘evil/trouble-maker?  Actor #2 would be perfect.

Perhaps I’m looking for an unlikely romantic lead for a comedy. . .actor #3 wins the casting call.

Music. 

Cue the music. 

Every blockbuster has a dedicated theme song!


Happy Reading,
Connie Vines

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Becoming an Unexpected (and Unwilling) Culinary Artist by Connie Vines

It all began with the color purple.

For clarification: The color purple, not the movie.

On and off, through out my life time, I’ve had a love affair with the color purple:  Violet. Lilac, Lavender, Amethyst. 

Never: Grape, Mulberry, Eggplant or Wine.  Those shades are too dark and unwelcoming for me.
This year I’ve been updating my home in the suburbs.  I’ve ventured into a beige world about five years ago and decided it was too, well beige. It was time to update the master bedroom.

Hence, my color swatches and floral designs to locate the perfect draperies, bedding, throw rugs. . . candles, fragrance wax warmers, and a chair and ottoman.  I decided on a dove gray chair and added a purple (with a touch of gray throw).  I didn’t want matchy-matchy, but the shades needed to depict elegance.  I wanted a light airy feeling heightened by the French doors opening onto the patio.

Satisfied, I even located a collar, leash, and walking harness for Chanel in violet.  This is when my husband began to ask me when school was going to be in session again.

Ummm.

Perhaps I was getting a little too fixated on purple.  (I came to this realization after I painted my nails with purple polish).

I always become a bit of a baker when I write. Creativity flows forth resulting in an hour of gardening, listening to music, that sort of thing.  Well, I wanted to try a new specialty tea.
Just when I thought I was ready to get down to a day of blogging and promo on my latest BWL novel, I discovered by tea kettle had scorched and slightly melted bottom.

Ummm.

Knowing my husband operates a gas stove like it’s a Bunsen burner, I knew what had happened.
I was out of gluten-free table crackers and breads, so I’d just drive over to a Walmart and look at tea kettles too.

Sidebar:  I am not a shopper.  I shop like most men:  I have a list. I run in purchase what is n the list and leave.  My husband, on the other hand, examines every item, carries it around, puts it back, etc. Then he wants to go to a second store.  (As you have guessed, we seldom shop together unless it is a big-ticket item.)  I do however, shop online.  Frequently (not excessively).  Usually only during season-end sales or when I’m on summer and winter break.

So, back to the story.  I located a lovely floral tea kettle, tea pot, and a 4-quart floral stove top cooking pot with a lid too.  All on sale, all well made.  All stamped beneath “Pioneer Woman”.

Oh.  This was unexpected.

I watch a few cooking shows but never “Pioneer Woman”.  Apparently, I’m the only one not familiar with the program.

No, I did not binge watch the show.  I looked at an apple dessert receipt and something called Funeral Potatoes and saved both to iPhone for later reference.

Was that the end of it?

Of course not!

Walmart has a website you know.  Walmart also has free, speedy delivery.  (Remember the master bed room re-do? I shopped online at Wayfair and Overstock for all but the chair and ottoman.)
Connie purchased the Spring Bouquet 12-piece dinner set, storage bowls, 2 casserole dishes for the oven, salt and pepper shakers, and a few other misc. items.


This is getting a little out of hand.  I’m adapting recipes (scones and Pioneer Woman’s grits) to be gluten-free.  I’m inviting family over this weekend too.

I was thrilled I located powdered peanut butter in the market when I went shopping.

I hate to shop, remember?

I actually went shopping (of my own free will) twice last week.

I’m becoming a suburban Culinary Artist, I realized.

An unwilling Culinary Artist.

I’m certain this phase will pass—soon.

My husband loved the pot-roast, Funeral potatoes, salad, and gluten-free dessert I served to dinner.
After hand washing my new casserole dishes this evening, it was time for a manicure.

My husband was pleased with my lilac shade of nail polish, too.

Happy Reading!

Connie Vines

Links to my novels:

https://books2read.com/u/mVZLor

amazon author central https://www.amazon.com/default/e/B004C7W6PE?

In the Name of Love by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

http://bwlpublishing.ca/authors/donaldson-yarmey-joan/


Family love stories

#1

My husband and I lived on an acreage and my husband work in the country for an oil company. Therefore he didn’t make it into town to buy me a Valentine’s card. So early Valentine’s morning he went outside and packed some snow into a pile. He got a can of red spray paint and painted a heart with an arrow through it on the snow. He also printed Be My Valentine on it. I could see the pile of snow from the kitchen window for months as it was the last snow to melt in the spring.

#2

My mother had moved from Alberta to B.C. to pick fruit and then got a job at a store in Vancouver. Mom’s parents, my grandparents sold their farm in Alberta and bought an acreage near Vancouver. My father was in World War II and was repatriated to Vancouver when it was over.

When dad left the army he got a job and began to look for a place to buy. My grandfather’s health was bad and so they decided to sell their acreage. One of mom’s friends was my dad’s sister and my dad found out about it through his sister. He bought my grandparents acreage and met my mother. They married seven months after meeting and were married for fifty-four years.

The way dad put it: He bought the acreage and got the daughter for free.

Under the Northern Lights by J. S. Marlo

J. S. Marlo BWL Author Page

Hello, everyone!

I’m JS Marlo, but my hubby calls me Marlo, which is why I chose that pen name. “Voted Out”, my first novel with BWL,  was released two weeks ago, and it’s my first time on this blog, so I’m not too sure what I’m doing. I can’t believe my publisher gave me access to all those buttons in the blog. Trust me, it doesn’t matter if it’s supposed to be fool proof, I could manage to derail a train, any trains, even one that is docked at a railway station. My publisher is brave…

I was born in Quebec, but I've lived all across Canada. Two words: military wife. Nowadays, when someone asks me “Where do you live?”, I answer “Northern Alberta”. Quite often that person will say “Oh, Edmonton”, and I will reply “No, no. Keep driving from Edmonton, keep driving north for another five hours, and don’t forget to fill up on gas. That are no gas stations in the last 200 kms. Then you’ll find  me—under the Northern Lights.”

Someone asks me once to describe the northern lights, but I couldn’t. The first time I saw them, I just stood there in the cold, staring in awe at the night sky. It’s almost like looking at the ocean and seeing waves roll in at twilight, but not quite. One moment the sky is dark, then seconds later, an invisible hand streaks the heaven with colorful waves, and then the waves waltz for a few seconds, a few minutes, a few hours. Most of the northern lights I’ve seen were light blue, green or turquoise, but I recall two magical instances when I was transfixed by the sky’s ethereal beauty.

Many years ago, hubby and I were driving back from visiting our daughter in university at the end of September. We were on that long stretch of road in the middle of the forest (the 200 kms without gas station, or any other structures) around 2am, when suddenly the sky lit up. Waves upon waves of bright turquoise, rich purple, and striking red dance above our heads. We were driving straight north, but the northern lights played havoc with the compass on our SUV. The compass twirled around. N, NW, SW, S, SE, N, SW… We stopped alongside the road. And watched. I can’t remember how long we stayed there, but I remember the beauty of it.

The second instance was a few weeks back. When I checked to make sure my back door was locked, I looked outside. When you can see the northern lights through the window, you know they are bright, so I stepped onto the deck. Despite the streetlamps, I saw pink and purple peeking at the edge of the turquoise. We’ve been spoiled this fall as Mother Nature has given us many amazing nightly shows. Maybe it’ll continue throughout the winter.

Many of my friends want to come visit me so they can see them, but I can’t promise that the sky will light up any more than I can promise a cloudless night will await them weeks ahead of time.

Some say in the silence of the night, you can hear the northern lights sing. Maybe one day I will hear them.

JS

J. S. Marlo's Website

Well, what have I been up to? by Nancy M Bell

You can click here to find out more about His Brother's Bride.

Now on to the good stuff. I just got back from a 15 day cruise from Fort Lauderdale to Los Angeles. I know! How cool is that? It was a wonderful time with stops in Aruba, Cartagena, Columbia, the Panama Canal, Puentareans Puerto Rico, San Juan del Sur Nicaragua, Huatalco Mexico ( a well kept secret) and Puerto Vallarta Mexico. We went on two tours through mangroves. One outside Caragena where the water was thigh deep and there were no crocodiles. We got in low riding dug out canoes which a local guide poled through the waters past birds and a fisherman who demonstrated how to fish with his net. Then a taste of coconut water right out of the coconut and traditional dancing. I got to take part with a young native man, what a blast. The mangrove in Puerto Rico were another story. We sailed along (in a much bigger boat than Cartagena) the Tarcolas River seeing many birds and lizards. The waters are deep and they do contain many crocodiles! We saw some smaller younger ones and then were thrilled to see Tornado (as the locals call him) The crocodile is a huge 14 feet long. He lay half-submerged only a few feet from us. Then submerged and went off in search non vigilant cattle looking to drink from the water's edge.

Panama Canal was amazing, takes all day to go through the three locks and across Gatun Lake.

In Nicaragua, we visited a 16th century church built by the Spainards. Then we traveled to Amaya which is where the first female president of Nicaragua lived, it is now a resort for people to relax at. No WIFI, no TV etc. It is right on the huge Lake Nicaragua which is home to two large volcanoes. The acid rain from the volcanoes can be an issue for the surrounding farmers. The flowering trees were spectacular, the rainy season is just starting so much of the landscape was sere and brown, but starting to bloom.

In Puerto Rico brilliant yellow trees flared on the hill sides, they are called Yellow Oak by the locals or The Sun Is Shining Tree. We also saw Plumeria trees blooming in Mexico and Nicaragua.

I didn't manage to get any good pictures of the beautiful yellow trees. I've also been keeping busy promoting my Canadian Historical Bride book His Brother's Bride. Here's a small excerpt:

From Chapter Eight

The low winter sun bathed the snow in a red-orange glow and touched the bare trees with gold. Annie’s breath puffed out before her as she struggled to wade through the knee deep snow. Where were those blasted cows? She’d searched all their usual haunts when they managed to knock down the cedar rail snake fence. Today they’d simply walked over the top of it where this afternoon’s wind piled the drift high and hard enough to make easy passage.
She glanced at the sun. If they didn’t miraculously appear soon she’d have to leave them. Father would be livid, but there was no way Annie wished to be caught in the wintery bush after sunset. The moon was full and the chorus of hunting wolves had serenaded her for the past two nights while she lay with the quilts pulled up to her nose in bed.
Sighing, she stopped on the edge of the gully where the small creek lay frozen below. No sign of the five cows she was searching for. Thank heavens for small mercies the bull was in the barn and so she wasn’t also dealing with his fractious nature. Most of the time the animal was quite tractable for her, but in the bush with his harem…? Annie shook her head. Quit woolgathering, girl. Or you will be wolf bait. She let go of the trunk of the maple sapling she was using to balance and stepped back. The wind changed and she froze. Is that them? Is that Sally’s bell?
The evening wind carried the distinct, but faint, clang of a cow bell. Annie frowned, they never headed east when they went on a ramble, especially in the winter. Setting her jaw, she turned her footsteps toward the sound. Now she’d found a trace of the missing animals she couldn’t very well in all good faith head for home. Although that was exactly what her frozen fingers and toes were urging her to do. Wrapping the scarf tighter around her neck and lower face she set off.
A branch sprang back at her and slapped her cold cheek. Uttering words which would earn her a beating if Father ever heard her, Annie blinked back the sting of tears and plowed on. If only Steve and Evan were home she wouldn’t be out in the rapidly darkening woods on her own. Ivan was helping search but only closer to the house. Why couldn’t the stupid war in Europe just end? Annie missed her brothers more than she ever thought she would and not just because they made her lot in life easier. She forced herself to keep moving, distracting herself with thoughts of the war and her brothers. Evan’s last letter had the return address of a convalescent home, he said he was fine but had come down with the influenza that seemed to be running rampant through the wet muddy trenches in Belgium and France. Some associates of Father’s in London had sent some newspapers with their last post. Of course they made the whole affair seem much more glory filled than it was, but Father said if you read between the lines and what they weren’t saying you could determine a great deal.
A loud moo startled Annie so she nearly tripped and landed on her bum. Only by grasping a young birch sapling did she manage to avoid falling. However, the tree did dump its small load of snow on her head. Yelping, she jumped back and beat the wet snow from her coat and scarf. The light was fading and the bush was full of deepening shadow. The cow mooed again and she turned in that direction. In a few minutes she came across the track the silly things had beaten in the snow. Moving quicker on the easier going Annie called for the herd. If she was lucky they would be cold and hungry and quite tired of their adventure and happy to come to a familiar voice. Only Sally and Maud were still milking, but their udders should be making their demands made by now too. Another point in Annie’s favour.
Shoving through some serviceberry bushes she emerged into a bit of a clearing. Releasing a sigh of relief at the sight of all five missing bovines, she spread her arms and began herding them back toward the barnyard. The sun was mostly behind the trees and low hills but there was still enough light in the sky for her to determine which way was home. A long shivering howl rose into the clear royal blue heavens which was answered by another and then another.
“C’mon, girls. Get moving unless you’d rather be somebody’s dinner.” She waved her arms and the cattle obligingly moved off toward home. Annie smiled, their sense of direction when it came to food and home was probably more finally honed than her own. Although, left on their own they would have stayed where they were waiting for someone to come find them and urge them home.
“Need some help?” George’s voice sounded from the deep shadow just to the right of the trail.
“George? Is that you?” Annie couldn’t keep the breathlessness sound from her voice. “You scared the life out of me,” she declared coming even with him. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Ivan told me which way you were planning to go.” He fell into step beside her, the cows moving ahead of them at a quicker pace now.
“You went to the house? Was that wise?” She frowned at him.
“Just by luck Mister Miller sent me with a message for your father. It was fairly late when I arrived and Ivan was just coming in from the bush. Mister Baldwin was worried for you and I volunteered to go out and look for you. Your mother didn’t want him out in the dark with that cold he has.”
“Well, I’m glad it was you who found me. Go on, git up there, girls,” she interrupted herself to urge the cows on.
“I’m happy to hear that.” George took her mittened hand in his.
“You must be frozen! Where are your mitts?” Annie was aghast to see his hand was bare.
“Don’t have any, I’m afraid.” He shrugged.
“Why, that ridiculous! Surely the Millers can spare you a pair of mitts!”
“Not so far, but the winter’s young yet. It’s just the end of November.”
Annie stopped in her tracks digging in the big pockets of her coat. She pulled out a pair of thick hand knit mittens and shoved them at him. “Here, they’re a bit tattered, but they’re warm.”
“No, now. They’re yours, I can’t just take them.” George shook his head.
She ducked her head. “I made them myself. It would please me if you would wear them.”
“In that case, how can I refuse,” he replied gallantly and pulled the mitts over his reddened hands.
“Oh, I can see the lights of the house. We’re almost home. You must come in and get warm,” Annie insisted. The cows broke into a shambling trot at the scent of home and scrambled back over the drift and broken fence into the barn yard.
George halted and caught her hands again. “I mustn’t. Mister Miller was expecting me back some time ago. I still have chores to do there.”
She tipped her head back to see his face better in the strengthening moonlight. “You won’t be in any trouble will you? For being late, I mean?”
“I would for sure, except your father was kind enough to write me a note explaining he asked me to go and look for his lost cows. No, that should set things right.” He paused and leaned down to brush her cheek with his. “You go on in the house, I’ll lock the cows in the barn and throw them some hay. I have permission to borrow a lantern for the walk home. Go on.” George released her hands and gave her a gentle push. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
“You will be careful? And be sure to take a full lantern.”
He nodded and moved toward the barn.
“Good night then, George,” she called softly.
“Good night, Annie.” His voice floated back to her through the moonlit shadows.

Curious Facts about Lobsters and Oysters in 18th Century North America

by Kathy Fischer-Brown

Eighteenth century America holds a certain fascination for me. An old mentor, who had a strong predilection for the spiritual world and reincarnation, once postulated that I had lived a previous life in that period. She told me she sensed it in my writing. (Whether or not this is true is not up for discussion here, but I thought it was pretty cool at the time that Norma thought so.) At any rate, I am drawn to the period, and now, as I call on years and years of previous research and knowledge, and travel new paths in preparation for writing a novel in Books We Love’s “Canadian Brides” series, I am steeped once again in discoveries.

Of the many details of life in a former age, we historical fiction writers find nothing too insignificant or mundane. In other words, everything has importance, from the fabric of the clothes they wore and how it was made, fastened, and laundered, to the way they lighted and heated their homes; how they traveled and where they stayed when away from home; the sights, smells, sounds; and, yes, the food they ate, and how it was procured and prepared.

As a modern day “foodie,” I love cooking (and eating) and trying recipes from other cultures, and even have dabbled in “receipts” from the era I find myself steeped in for the time it takes to research and write my book. So this sort of thing is right up my alley.

In matters of food, I am amazed at how trendy tastes can be. Take lobster, for example. Not to mention that I love lobster (boiled, broiled, baked, steamed, grilled, sautéed, stuffed, on a roll, in a salad or casserole…you name it), I was surprised to discover that back in colonial America, the lobster suffered from a terrible rep. The first settlers in New England went so far as to regard them as a problem. (Yikes, we should have such problems today!) Chalk it up to the lobster’s amazing abundance. They were so plentiful, for example, that following a storm, lobsters would be found washed up on beaches in piles up to two feet high. People literally pulled them from the water with their bare hands. And they grew to be humungous, some weighing in at 20 to 40 pounds and up to six feet long. (Imagine that tail, grilled, with drawn butter, garlic, and lemon juice.)

Of course, if you consider how stinky a pile of dead lobsters can be on the beach in the midday sun, you’d understand some of the 

An illustration by John White depicting Native American
men cooking fish on a wooden frame over a fire.
—Library of Congress

complaints of our ancestors. Other reasons for their shunning, I’m still scratching my head over. Because people literally grew sick and tired of eating them, time came when lobsters were considered unfit for anyone except the abject poor, criminals, indentured servants, and slaves. And even those people complained that having to eat them more than two or three times a week was harsh and inhuman treatment. To add insult to injury, lobsters were fed to livestock or ground up and used as fertilizer. Native Americans used them for bait and ate them only when the fish weren’t biting.

These days, as David Foster Wallace wrote in “Consider the Lobster,” his excellent article published in Gourmet Magazine (August, 2004), “lobster is posh, a delicacy, only a step or two down from caviar. The meat is richer and more substantial than most fish, its taste subtle compared to the marine-gaminess of mussels and clams. In the U.S. pop-food imagination, lobster is now the seafood analog to steak, with which it’s so often twinned as Surf ’n’ Turf on the really expensive part of the chain steak house menu.”

Sad to say, this increase in price and prestige is due in part to the fact that the once monumental populations of these delectable crustaceans is in steep decline. In Long Island Sound, where my uncle used to skin dive for them, their numbers are almost at extinction levels.

Oysters—which for over a thousand years—had been a delicacy on European menus, are mollusks that can be compared in sheer numbers to those of the lobster. They too were more prodigious and larger on the seventeenth- and eighteenth century North American shores than those we’re used to seeing these days and those in the settlers’ countries of origin. A staple in the diet of Native Americans living in coastal areas, oysters then could reach nearly a foot in size. Liberty Island—the site of the Statue of Liberty—was named by the Dutch as one of three “oyster islands” in New York Harbor due to the local Algonquians’ preference for a place over-flowing with oysters. These were the same natives who taught the Pilgrims and Jamestown settlers how to cook them in stews to stave off starvation, and they soon became a common item in our ancestors’ diets. Stewed or pickled, oysters also became a popular trade item.

For any daring enough, here is a “receipt” from Vincent La Chapelle (1690-1745) in his The Modern Cooks and Complete Housewife’s Companion, (curtesy of Colonial Williamsburg):

TAKE some Chibbols, Parsley, and Mushrooms, cut small, and toss them up with a little Butter; put in the Oysters, season them with pounded Pepper, sweet herbs, and all spices, leave them with a little Flour, and add a little Cullis or Essence; then take your small French Loaves, make a little Hole in the Bottom, take out the Crum, without hurting the Crust, fill them with your Oyster ragout, and stop the Holes with the Crust taken off; place your Loaves so filled in your dish, with a little Cullis or Gravy over them, let them get a Colour in the Oven, and serve them up hot for a dainty Dish.

I’m sorry to say that, with the exception of Winter Fire, my historical romance, and The Partisan’s Wife (book 3 of “The Serpent’s Tooth” historical trilogy), I haven’t incorporated the food of the era as much as I would have liked. This will not be the case in Where the River Narrows, my Canadian Historical Brides book (with BWL author Ron Crouch) based on the history of American Loyalists in Quebec during the American War for Independence (pub date August 2018).

American version of The Complete Housewife,by Eliza Smith

For my next blog, as I continue searching for the minutia of everyday life, I will post another snippet of the commonplace things that make eighteenth century North America so unique for me. So, please tune in again. And thanks for reading.

~*~

Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels, Winter Fire, Lord Esterleigh’s Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan’s Wife, and The Return of Tachlanad, her latest release, an epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her Books We Love Author page or visit her website. All of Kathy’s books are available in e-book and in paperback from Amazon, Kobo, and other on-line retailers.