It's a Very Merry Cajun Christmas---Love Potions, Bachelor Auctions, Hollywood Productions, and Gypsy Magic! By Connie Vines

How Do Cajuns Celebrate Christmas? 

Cajun Christmas traditions that mark the holidays always involve lots of laughter in the company of friends and family. Many holidays dinners include having seafood dishes like seafood gumbo and oyster dressing. Look for Cajun sausage and fried turkey--or signature Lousiana Turducken!

"What is a Turducken?" you ask (wondering if it's some type of Swamp Creature that crawled out of the Bayou).

Turducken is a true showstopping main course for Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. The term "turducken" is a combination of the words "turkey," "duck," and "chicken".  Turducken combines the flavors of moist roast poultry and savory stuffing into one glorious dish. It is not difficult to make, but it is a little time-consuming,

When sliced, each piece of turducken contains portions of all three birds with stuffing in between the layers.

Cajuns love to cook, love their family, and... they love to party and celebrate life!

After you've consumed your holiday dinner and are sitting by the fireplace and relaxing, You might like to enjoy a new ebook to read.

Here's a little sample of Cajun life, "Gumbo Ya Ya" style:

"Marrying Off Murphy" Excerpt:

"You forgot about the rehearsal?" Tallulah said in an exasperated voice. "Murph, I reminded you. Twice."

"It'll be okay," Sylvie promised.

Tallulah glanced after her stepbrother. "I hope so," she said under her breath.

"Let's go over the program again," Sylvie coached Murphy behind the temporary rigged curtain inside the crowded restaurant.

"I smile, walk down the runway, take off my jacket, turn around, and then walk back to the podium."

"Smile," she instructed.

He complied, and Sylvie rolled her eyes. How could someone fail smiling? Murphy, try again."

Instead, he ignored her instructions and fiddled with his tie.

Pushing his fingers away, "Stop it. Listen to me," she snapped. "Pull yourself together!"

The frenzied sounds of bidding for the first bachelor filled the room. "Hear that? It's the emcee's job to pump up the bids. Just strut your stuff."

"Strut my stuff?" he yelped.

Sylvie seized him By the hand to keep him from bolting. "It's an auction, a bachelor bidding war, remember? The proceeds go to charity."

Tallulah parted the curtain and shoved Murphy onto the stage.

Fragrances and scents have the power to transport to a time and place long forgotten.     

"Love Potion No. 9"

"Don't shake your finger at me, Simone Basso. I know what I'm doing," Persia Richmond said, holding a pipette to fill a crystal half-ounce atomizer with perfume. The top notes of peach blossoms and bergamot, and mid-notes of gardenia, honey, and tuberose tantalized. While the tuberose, being the most carnal of the floral notes, and the high-ticket natural essence for her fragrance compound, merged with peony and orange blossom to temper the intoxication properties. The base notes lingered, while a hint of something unnamed and mysterious beguiled and skimmed across the narrow processing room, saturating her senses.

The fragrance was News Orleans; culture at its most upscale moment and Mardi Gras at its naughtiest.

Success!

This was a signature fragrance.

Her signature fragrance.

This was her--

"I've done warned you and warned you about messing with love potions!" Simone leaned over Persia's shoulder to hiss the words into her ear. Her statement yanked Persia out of her state of bliss and sent her heart thundering.

"You worry too much, Simone." Settling down her atomizer, she rearranged her test tubes. "This is a perfume. Nothing more, nothing less."

"That be no French perfume you be selling."

"I've extracted essences from bayou plants before, and you didn't object."

"You be using flowers then. Not that root!"

Persia frowned. She'd extracted the essence using the enfleurage procedure--a time-honored perfuming method. "Simone the scent is pure--"

"That root be pre alright. It be pure trouble from a voodoo love-plant!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Simone. There's no such thing as a voodoo love-plant."

"A Slice of Scandal"

"Hey, now, 'dis key lime pie's like de one I serve at my restaurant. Simple to make and good to eat! Key limes perk up de mouth and makes you Hoppy."

Producer/Director Julia Kincaid focused on her monitor and adjusted the mic of her headset. "Camera One, tighten that headshot," She watched as the camera feathered over the chef to capture the best angle. The camera should have loved franklin. His height was average, his black hair, short and curly and his skin took on a polished bronze color under the harsh camera lights, but the camera didn't like  Franklin. There was something about his eyes: the dark agate, forbidding, and expressionless, and the grayish ring that clung to the end of the pupil that was difficult to erase.

"Okay. Now hold it, while Chef Franklinpullins the second pie from the refrigerator. Follow him back to the island. Good."

When the chef stood on his mark, Julia said, "Cue the music. Okay. Two, scan the audience. Back to Franklin. Focus on the pie..Camera One, close-up on the chef...Hold it."

The studio audience uttered a collective sigh when he lifted his fork to take a bite of the pie.

Julia watched as Franklin Grabbed his throat. "What's going on?" she shouted.

From her left, she heard J.D. groan. "He's spitting out the pie. Hell, there goes the show's ratings!"

Julia hopped down from the camera and took off at a full run.

Gone was the applause. People jumped to their feet. They screamed.

"J.D. call the paramedics...someone grab the AED kit off the wall!"

1-800-FORTUNE

The moon was full; huge in the sky, a brilliant iridescent orb that stared down at the earth. Enza allowed the energy to feather over her as she removed the silk cloth protecting her Tarot cards.

There are event-eight cards in the Tarot deck. Four suits of fourteen cards each. Swords, Cups, and Pentacles, and twenty-two cards called the major arcane--the big mysteries.

Enza's mother told her she would learn to associate the picture cards with people.

The Tarot was very clear in meaning.

Not for spells and chants ar you damned but for the abuse of your gifts.

Enza glanced out the window and into the moonlight washing across the cobblestone street outside of the French Quarter.  The Roma, though, they traced their roots back to ancient Romania, never consider themself twenty-first-century gypsies. Her mother came from a stricter branch of the gypsies, rooted in the Bohemia hillsides of what is now called the Czech Republic. Her family displayed no read palms upon the shop doors or upon their carts. Nor did they dabble in the black arts. They followed the old ways...

🦃Happy Holidays and 🎅Merry Christmas, 🎄,

Connie

BWL Author Page

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/vinesbwl

Amazon/Connie Vines

Follow me here:

https://www.instagram.com/connievines_author/?hl=en

https://www.facebook.com/ConnieVinesAuthor

Follow me on Twitter

My Website

Why Write Fan Fiction When You Could Write Something that REALLY Blows? by Vanessa C. Hawkins

 Vanessa Hawkins Author Page

Get it? Blows... if not then read the title again, and strap in for a punderful time with your favorite fun-loving blogger/extrovert, needs-to-get-out-in-the-sun-more, weirdo. 

I know, I know... I only have one... and it's in my room.

So for those of you who don't know what fan fiction is, allow me to explain. Fan fiction is when you watch the first four seasons of Supernatural, realize that the subsequent seasons suck and Dean is obviously meant to be with Castiel, and finally after a stupid amount of time writing alternate realities in your mind, you post these alternate realities--which are obviously better and why the producers of the show didn't contact me about my ideas, I'll never know-- on the internet. 

Did you catch that? No? Okay... how about this!

Though I must admit I never actually posted my fan fiction on the internet, in retrospect I'm glad I didn't. It was entirely the fault of dial-up, mind you--the age old tradition of using one's phone line to obtain a crappy internet connection. But it was enough to keep my alternate ideas away from the public eye or becoming something like Fifty Shades. 

Yes, that's right. I'm old. PlayStation 1 old...

There's a PlayStation 5 now?!

Also yes, Fifty Shades started out as a fan fiction... and yes... UGH! I still hate it.

So, I'm not saying that fan fiction is lame. I mean a lot of it is... and a lot of it's just smutty bullhump that some people like ejaculating online, *COUGH!* E. L. James **COUGH COUGH!** but not all of it's bad! I promise! In fact, my first foray into writing fanfics--that's a little word we pros like to use to seem like we know a thing or two--was definitely what got me on the path to published writer bliss! And despite my fan fiction being anything BUT cool, it was practice, and practice makes perfect...

or at least it made me a less crappy writer...

Ahem! You weren't supposed to laugh at that...

But my point--and yes I sometimes DO have one--is that although fan fiction is a self-indulgent mess that we love developing and getting into, sometimes we ought to turn off Pornhub, go out into the world, and find a human being by ourselves that we can love and cherish and make ours forever and ever and ever!

Buffalo Bill gets what I'm sayin'!

I mean, copyright aside, I'd be cool with peeps writing fan fiction of MY work. It meant I had a fan! But then again, I'm not so sure I'd recommend any aspiring writer to get one foot in the door by doing that unless you want to change pretty much everything to avoid lawsuits. 

Did you know Christian Gray was really Edward Cullen? Did you know what's-her-face was really Bella Swan? E. L. James proves that anything can be possible! But I wouldn't bank on those re-written fanfic bucks just yet...

In fact, some writer's vehemently oppose it. Look at ol' George...

We would the blog be without George? 

He believes that it's a bad route to being a professional writer. Build your own worlds and characters! he says! I tend to agree with him... though I also agree actually finishing what you started to write is good advice too... *hint hint George* 

So! I guess the moral of the story is: Write Fan Fiction! Make bucks! But be sure to change just enough around so Lionel Huts doesn't come knocking at your door...                                                                                                Or!--the alternative--Don't Write Fan Fiction! Don't even finish your series! Make bucks! Sell out and help produce a great series on HBO that ends like a blind date with bad breath. 

Yes... I signed the Game of Thrones Petition...

And no, I have no idea what I'm doing. No one does. At least that's what I tell myself at night to feel better. 

Just do you and have fun so later you can go back to crying over your manuscript in peace...

Where are my fan fiction or didn't finish my work in progress BUCKS? *cries*

 

Cornish Pasty - A Meal For The Miners by A.M.Westerling

Cornish Pasty – A Meal For The Miners by A.M.Westerling

Love Regency romance? Find this one at your favourite online bookstore here: https://books2read.com/The-Countess-Lucky-Charm

"A.M Westerling's "The Countess' Lucky Charm" is a keeper. Combine "Pygmalian" (with a happily-ever-ending), throw in a smidgeon of "Oliver Twist," add a healthy dose of love and passion, a trek through the Canadian wilderness and a host of finely drawn secondary characters, and you'll find a terrific read." Kathy Fischer-Brown

***

Okay, enough shameless self promotion. *silly grin* Today I’m sharing a classic British recipe that originated in Cornwall, the setting for my current project, a Regency romance titled Sophie. It’s Book 1 of The Ladies of Harrington House series. My hero Lord Bryce Langdon eats a pasty one day while having lunch in an inn in Truro.

It’s thought the pasty originated as a convenient meal for Cornish miners who were unable to return to the surface at lunch time. Their hands would be dirty but the pasty could be held easily by the crust and provided a hearty meal.

***

Picture and recipe found here:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/classic_cornish_pasty_67037

Ingredients

For the pastry

·         500g/1lb 1oz strong bread flour

·         120g/4oz vegetable shortening or suet

·         1 tsp salt

·         25g/1oz margarine or butter

·         175ml/6fl oz cold water

·         1 free-range egg, beaten with a little salt (for glazing)

For the filling

·         350g/12oz good-quality beef skirt, rump steak or braising steak

·         350g/12oz waxy potatoes

·         200g/7oz swede/turnip

·         175g/6oz onions

·         salt and freshly ground black pepper

·         knob of butter or margarine

Method

1.    Tip the flour into the bowl and add the shortening, a pinch of salt, the margarine or butter and all of the water.

2.    Use a spoon to gently combine the ingredients. Then use your hands to crush everything together, bringing the ingredients together as a fairly dry dough.

3.    Turn out the dough onto a clean work surface (there’s no need to put flour or oil onto the surface because it’s a tight rather than sticky dough).

4.    Knead the dough to combine the ingredients properly. Use the heel of your hand to stretch the dough. Roll it back up into a ball, then turn it, stretch and roll it up again. Repeat this process for about 5-6 minutes. The dough will start to become smooth as the shortening breaks down. If the dough feels grainy, keep working it until it’s smooth and glossy. Don’t be afraid to be rough – you’ll need to use lots of pressure and work the dough vigorously to get the best results.

5.    When the dough is smooth, wrap it in cling film and put it in the fridge to rest for 30–60 minutes.

6.    While the dough is resting, peel and cut the potato, swede and onion into cubes about 1cm/½in square. Cut the beef into similar sized chunks. Put all four ingredients into a bowl and mix. Season well with salt and some freshly ground black pepper, then put the filling to one side until the dough is ready.

7.    Lightly grease a baking tray with margarine (or butter) and line with baking or silicone paper (not greaseproof).

8.    Preheat the oven to 170C (150C fan assisted)/325F/Gas 3.

9.    Once the dough has had time to relax, take it out of the fridge. The margarine or butter will have chilled, giving you a tight dough. Divide the dough into four equal-sized pieces. Shape each piece into a ball and use a rolling pin to roll each ball into a disc roughly 25cm/10in wide (roughly the same size as a dinner plate).

10. Spoon a quarter of the filling onto each disc. Spread the filling on one half of the disc, leaving the other half clear. Put a knob of butter or margarine on top of the filling.

11. Carefully fold the pastry over, join the edges and push with your fingers to seal. Crimp the edge to make sure the filling is held inside – either by using a fork, or by making small twists along the sealed edge. Traditionally Cornish pasties have around 20 crimps. When you’ve crimped along the edge, fold the end corners underneath.

12. Put the pasties onto the baking tray and brush the top of each pasty with the egg and salt mixture. Bake on the middle shelf of the oven for about 45 minutes or until the pasties are golden-brown. If your pasties aren't browning, increase the oven temperature by 10C/25F for the last 10 minutes of cooking time.

***

Now that you’ve made your pasties, munch on one while you’re reading the next scene from Sophie. The previous excerpts can be found in order in my posts from August 25, September 25, October 25 and November 25. Enjoy!

The nerve of Leah, fumed Sophie, sitting beside Lord Langdon despite the impropriety of it all. Mama would doubtless have a few choice words later - she didn’t believe in airing the family dirty laundry in public and for that Leah should be grateful.

Lady Harrington clapped her hands. “Sophie, Catherine, you may begin.”

Conscious of Bryce’s eyes on her every move, Sophie glided over to stand beside the pianoforte. She cleared her throat and picked up the sheaf of lyrics, fidgeting with it while she waited for Catherine to seat herself. Catherine ran her fingers up and down the keys a few times then nodded to Sophie before playing a few bars.

Sophie began to sing:

“Alas my love you do me wrong, To cast me off discourteously, For I have loved you well and long, Delighting in your company.”

She finally dared to look at Bryce in time to see Leah drop her fan at his feet. Sophie almost choked at her sister’s blatant ploy but he appeared not to notice Leah’s fan on the floor beside him. Sophie started the chorus:

“Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves was my heart of gold, And who but my Lady Greensleeves?”

She risked another glance at Bryce. He’d picked up the fan and held it in his hand. Obviously uncomfortable, he offered it to Leah, who batted her eye lashes at him. At the sight of the brazen deed, Sophie’s voice cracked on the opening notes of the next verse, drawing a shake of the head from Mama. She composed herself and managed to finish the verse.

Again she looked over to her sister and their guest of honour and repeated the chorus. During this Leah held a handkerchief to her eyes and dabbed at them, as if moved by the music. From time to time she peeped sideways to Bryce and when he appeared not to notice, dropped her handkerchief on his lap.

The little minx. Annoyed and more than a little irritated, Sophie mispronounced a word, drawing a horrified look from Mama. Look at Leah, Sophie wanted to scream, not at me. She managed to draw a quick breath and began the third verse:

“I have been ready at your hand, To grant whatever you would crave, I have both wagered life and land, Your love and goodwill for to have.”

Sophie mused on the last phrase while she began the chorus. Is that why Leah’s actions irritated her so? That Sophie wished for Bryce’s love and goodwill? No, she corrected herself. Not love but certainly goodwill and his favorable regard although why that should be so important to her didn’t make sense.

She sang the next few bars and looked over in time to see Leah make google eyes at Bryce. Would the brat never stop her wanton actions? Sophie missed a high note on a passage in the chorus she’d mastered many times before. Catherine glanced over and shook her head. Papa merely smiled, that indulgent twist of his lips that he used only with his daughters.

Sophie soldiered on. Next when she looked over, Leah tapped Bryce on the knee with her fan and leaned in close to him. Sophie almost choked then started on the wrong verse, drawing a hiss from Catherine. “Sophie, what is the matter with you? Pay attention.”

Lady Blackmore coughed into her elbow; Lord Blackmore stifled a smile. Surely they must find Sophie’s performance lacking. Or had they spied Leah’s shenanigans? Sophie could only hope that they realized the problem lay with Leah, not Sophie. With that, she sucked in a huge breath and with a nod to Catherine began the proper verse. She ignored Leah and their new neighbour and sang instead to the vicar and his wife. That worked and why hadn’t she thought of that earlier, she scolded herself.

Mercifully the song came to an end. She placed the sheets of paper back on the stand and inclined her head at the smattering of applause. “I do thank you,” she said, “but it’s Catherine who is the musical one, not I.”

“We’ll take a small break to refresh ourselves and then Leah shall read her poetry,” said Lady Harrington. Her mother gave her a speculative look then turned towards the Blackmores.

Disappointment at her performance of the piece bubbled through Sophie. She’d wanted to impress Langdon, not make an utter fool of herself. She needed a beverage to wet her throat and wash away her frustration with her recital and she sidled to the decanters of wine. Bryce joined her and she clutched the edge of the table for a moment to steady her nerves.

 “I much preferred your show this afternoon.” He glanced down to her satin slippers. His meaning was clear – he referred to the sight of her unshod feet on the beach. A warm flush crept over her cheeks and she glanced about to see if anyone heard. Everyone else was engaged in conversation except for Leah, who gave her a glowering look. Her sister stood and looked as if she meant to come over but thought better of it and sat down again.

Sophie peeped up at Bryce through her lashes. If Leah could play the coquette without drawing notice, so could she. “Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you find my vocal skills lacking?”

Wild Bill or Buffalo Bill by Katherine Pym

Buy Here

 ~*~*~*~

From L-R: Wild Bill, Texas Jack, Buffalo Bill

I get these two mixed up. Even as they are different, they look sort of alike, maybe because of their long hair and similar beards. They both lived life to extreme, and they were friends.

Nine years difference in their ages, their lives paralleled in many ways. The two Bills were born in the same neck of the woods; James Butler Hickok (Wild Bill) in Illinois in 1837, and William Frederick Cody (Buffalo Bill) in Iowa in 1846.

Both came from religious families, Wild Bill-Baptist; Buffalo Bill-Quaker. Both families disagreed with slavery. Wild Bill’s parents worked in the Underground Railroad, helping slaves escape from the South. Buffalo Bill’s father was stabbed to death during an anti-slavery rally.

Both Bills rode for the Pony Express (at different times), and fought on the same side during the Civil War, where Wild Bill and Custer became fast friends. During the Indian Wars, Buffalo Bill guided a wagon train with Custer.

Both worked for the same stagecoach company in Fort Leavenworth, KS. During one trip, the stagecoach broke down, and Wild Bill, waiting for the repair crew, slept in the bushes while the passengers remained in the coach. During the night, Wild Bill was attacked by a bear. The passengers found him the next morning critically wounded, the bear dead with a stab wound.  

Our daring Bills performed in the same stage play where they showed their prowess shooting at targets, thrilling the audience. 

After the Civil War his life and Wild Bill's found separate paths, although they were lifelong friends.

Wild Bill Hickok

Captain Jack Crawford summed up Wild Bill as one fraught with faults but carried a gentleness about him until riled by insults. He was a good friend and generous to a flaw, but he had no qualms killing a man who did him an injustice. Toward the end of his life, Wild Bill spent most of his time wandering saloons, & playing cards.

He usually sat in a far corner with his back to the wall, but on one particular day, someone sat in his usual seat. Wild Bill reluctantly found a chair at the corner table, and sat with his back to the door.  That’s where Jack McCall found him, and shot him point blank in the back of the head.

Buried in Deadwood SD, everyone who knew Wild Bill mourned his death. He was only 39 years of age.

Buffalo Bill Cody

Charismatic Buffalo Bill’s moniker came when he worked for the Kansas Pacific Railroad, hired to provide buffalo meat for the workers. Over a period of 18 months, he killed more than 4000 buffalo.

From Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buffalo_Bill):

"Cody and another hunter, Bill Comstock, competed in an eight-hour buffalo-shooting match over the exclusive right to use the name [Buffalo Bill], which Cody won by killing 68 animals to Comstock's 48."

Buffalo Bill was a restless man and entrepreneur. He went on to tour with his Wild West Show in Europe and America, where most of the audience knew the names of his headliners, both American Indians and gunslingers. They showed the world how crazy was the wild west. It ran successfully until its final show in 1906. 

Buffalo Bill died in 1917 while visiting his sister in Denver, CO. He requested to be buried on a mountain overlooking the Great Plains, but rumor has it his body was spirited away and now rests in the hills above Cody, WY. He was 70 years old.

~*~*~*~*~

Many thanks to:

Wikipedia, & Wiki Commons, Public Domain

https://www.codyyellowstone.org/yellowstone-travel-blog/top-10-things-you-dont-know-about-buffalo-bill/

https://www.legendsofamerica.com/we-buffalobill/

https://www.legendsofamerica.com/we-billhickok-hough/