Monkey nuts, lions and waterfalls...by Sheila Claydon

Find my books here

A lot of my books are about other countries. A few of them mention local traditions. The Hollywood Collection is one of them! 

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In the fourteenth century a Sumatran prince sought shelter from a thunderstorm by sailing his ship into the protected inland harbour of a small island. The first thing he saw was a strange beast unlike anything he had seen before. He was told it was a lion - a Singa in Malay. He paired it with the Malay word for city - Pura. And from that time on the small island was known as Singapore. 

It is an unverifiable legend of course but one that is still told with relish today by Singaporeans despite lions never having roamed their island.

It would also be a wonderful beginning for a story of adventure and mystery, especially as in the fourteenth century that inland harbour was no more than a small fishing village. So many characters could be brought to life, so much history reimagined. It would take a better skill than mine to do it justice though, particularly  as modern thinking frowns on misappropriating cultures and ethnicities, so I will skip the intervening seven centuries and concentrate on Singapore today.

In my last post I said I would report back when I returned from visiting my son and family who now live there, and what an adventure it has been. Today it is very far from that small fishing village. Instead, as a result of a programme of land reclamation, the island is 25% larger, with plans for this to reach at least 30% by 2130. 

This reclaimed land has provided space for what will be the world's largest container port when it is complete as well as Jewel Changi, which is possibly the most iconic airport in the world as well as one of the busiest. It has the world's tallest indoor waterfall as well as a 50 metre canopy bridge, a terraced forest setting, petal gardens full of flowers from around the world, a topiary walk, and so much more. It is known as a place where nature meets retail and Singaporeans who are not travelling anywhere, visit it the same as they would any other shopping mall. 

Shopping malls, small and large, are everywhere. They are also an air-conditioned essential in a country that has an average of 83% humidity, which can even reach 100% during prolonged periods of rain. Although I've visited many countries, I have never felt as hot as I did in my 3 weeks in Singapore. I also learned, very quickly, that an umbrella is a necessity. Not just for the unpredictable rain but for the sun. Much better than a sunhat. An umbrella, sandals and cotton clothes are all that are required. Surprisingly, suncream is not such a necessity as it is impossible to sit in the sun for more than a few minutes at a time. There is, however, a lot of shade because, as well as a myriad of covered walkways, there are many well maintained parks and green spaces. One I visited was the Spice Garden, which was amazing, and it was there that I learned the history of the world wide spice trade that dates back centuries, and the part the nutmeg trade played in the development of Singapore. 

We saw and did so many things that it is impossible to list them here, but one of the most interesting places was Clarke Quay, especially as we were lucky enough to go there with a Singaporean who was passionate about its history. He told us that the Singapore River was the centre of trade from when modern Singapore was founded in 1819 for almost two centuries. Barge lighters would transport goods to the warehouses upstream from the ships moored in the deeper waters of Boat Quay. He could remember this still happening when he was in his teens, whereas now that cargo services have been relocated, the Singapore River, Boat Quay and Clarke Quay have become tourist centres. With warehouses redeveloped into bars and restaurants, and the weather at its best after sunset, it is a lovely area to spend time eating and drinking in the balmy air, or taking a river cruise to see more of the sights.

One of the differences in our time in Singapore, however, was the fact that we weren't really tourists. Instead, we lived like the Singaporeans, shopping for food, meeting neighbours, mixing with people from different nationalities, eating often at a Hawker centre, which is a very enjoyable Singaporean experience.These are  open air complexes that sell a wide variety of delicious multicultural food and drinks at affordable price as opposed to the more expensive restaurants and bars. We did manage a few of those as well, however, especially Raffles Hotel. 

Sir Stamford Raffles is known as the founder of modern Singapore. He signed the official treaty that gave the British East India Company the right to set up a trading post and raise the British flag. In his short time there he helped to remodel Singapore into a modern city, established the settlement as a free port, founded an administration of justice to ensure peace and order, abolished slavery, opened schools and established a national library. Although Singapore is now independent there are still many references to him as well as an imposing statue, but, apart from its name, the famous Raffles Hotel has nothing to do with him. 

Originally a privately owned beach house, it was named Raffles when it eventually became an hotel. At that time was considered the epitome of luxury as it boasted the only electric lights and fans in Singapore.  In its heyday it attracted the rich and famous. Nowadays it is the must go place for tourists and we duly visited to sample the required Singapore Sling! A gin based pink cocktail containing pineapple juice, lime juice, curaçao and Benedictine, it has an intriguing history. At the turn of the century ladies could not consume alcohol in public, so drank teas and fruit juices while their menfolk drank gin or whisky. A Raffles bartender, Ngiam Tong Boon, decided to create a cocktail that looked like fruit juice while being infused with gin and liqueurs. He used grenadine and cherry liqueur to make it pink, leading people to think it was a socially acceptable drink for women. How times have changed!

Raffles Hotel has one other tradition. On each table is a small cloth sack full of monkey nuts. Patrons may eat as many as they wish but only if they throw the shells onto the floor. Apparently this harks back to when the floors at Raffles were made of wood and became very dusty. The nut shells helped to keep the dust down and also made it easier to sweep. Nowadays, despite newer flooring, the tradition remains.

Visiting different countries and learning about their history, their culture and their quirky traditions from the people who live there is a privilege, and Singapore and its friendly citizens is certainly somewhere I won't forget.

The Ghosts of Brittany France by Diane Scott Lewis

 

 Isabelle is likable heroine, and I enjoyed watching her make the best of a bad situation. Anyone who enjoys historical romance with a paranormal twist might want to check it (A Savage Exile) out.
~ Long and Short Reviews

Could vampires have roamed the island of Napoleon's final exile? Will a young maid discover the truth, or become a victim?

Purchase HERE

In writing a WWII novel set in Brittany, France, I learned more about their culture. Since October is the time of ghosts, I wondered how the Breton's felt about the otherworld. The most shocking revelation was, they believe the dead are always with them: two worlds in perpetual relation to one another. If the dead rustled the fallen leaves, this was expected, not surprising.

Also, they believe the dead are doomed to return to the land of the living up to three times--though the souls of the damned were usually lost forever. In rare cases, a damned soul might return to scold a loved one, warning them to change their ways before it's too late. People who died violent deaths were forced to linger between life and death until the natural course of their life would be over. These poor souls wandered the seashores and hedgerows awaiting Divine Judgement.

It was once thought the dead didn't immediately enter the Otherworld, but remained near their families for nine generations.

People were warned not to be out at night, and especially not to whistle. This attracted demons and the dead. One man in Northern Brittany was traveling home after dark and whistled to keep up his spirits. Then he heard an echo of his whistle, but this one was clearer and sharper than his. The whistler came closer and the man quickly realized the Devil was on his tail.

Working outside after dark was also a dangerous task. One farmer in Northern Brittany continued to sow his buckwheat after the setting sun. When he heard the cry "leave the night to whom it belongs," he stopped and hurried into his house.

In Southern Brittany, anyone who gazed too long on a will-o'-the-wisp, would go blind. And never look upon the ghostly white clad girls who carried blessed candles in the woods, doomed for using them in a profane manner.

In earlier times people carried rosaries and lanterns if they had to be out after dark. Or they could challenge the dead: "If you came from God, tell me your desire. If you came from the Devil, go on your way as I go mine." 

Information provided by Bon Repos Gites; Ghosts and Revenants of Brittany

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

To find out more about her and her books:  DianeScottLewis 

The time for traditions--Tricia McGill

 

Find all my books here on my BWL author page.

Well, most of the celebrations are probably over with by today so all that is left is the tidying up. I sincerely hope everyone had the best time possible. In these strange times, it is difficult to know what is normal any more. No matter where you are in the world all we could hope for right now is that you were able to connect with your loved ones.

Most restrictions have been dropped in my part of the world—at least for the foreseeable future. However, who knows what is around the next corner. Personally, I am not one for making New Year resolutions as many people do. I tend to face life one day at a time nowadays, which seems to be the best solution in a world that is changing day by day.

The thing I like best about this time of the year is traditions that have stood the test of time. I am not sure if mistletoe is necessary amid the decorations any more—such as a tree with either a star or a fairy on its top, Santa visiting on Christmas Eve to bring goodies to those children who have been good, but it was a well-worn tradition in my household when I was young.

Depending on where you start to look for information on the tradition of kissing beneath this parasitic plant that grows on trees and is poisonous, it seems to have been started by the Druids. Long considered to be a symbol of vitality with uncertain special curing properties, the earliest mention of its romantic powers was from Pliny the Elder, a Roman natural historian. He scoffed at the Druids notion that mistletoe when taken in a drink would aid in fertility.

Later the romantic association was expanded upon by the Norse in the story about Baldur’s mother Frigga, goddess of love. Legend had it that she ordered the plants and animals to promise not to harm her son—all plants except mistletoe. So, good old Loki, god of mischief, then killed Baldur with a mistletoe spear. Frigga’s tears turned into mistletoe berries that brought Baldur back to life, thus making Frigga declare mistletoe as a symbol of love.

Phew and here was I thinking it was a British Christmas tradition whereby if lovers kissed beneath the hanging sprig it ensured everlasting love. But it seems they didn’t start hanging mistletoe until the 18^th/19^th century. Mistletoe was also mentioned in Charles Dickens’ Pickwick Papers where he had young women screaming and struggling until they finally found it useless to resist the lure of being kissed beneath the mistletoe. Woe and betide any girl who resisted being kissed beneath it, for they would meet nothing but bad luck.

Mistletoe is still believed to contain healing properties by some, but there is little evidence to prove its worth as a herbal remedy. Sadly, the American Cancer institute has proven that there is nothing to suggest it contains an extract that will help the body’s immune system to fight cancer.

So there you have it—if you paused to kiss a lover or even a friend beneath the sprig of mistletoe this holiday season, you are almost certainly about to have the best of luck this coming year—or perhaps not. In any case, I wish you all that you wish yourselves in 2022.

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Wedding Rings by J. S. Marlo

 

 

J. S. Marlo's BWL Books

I welcomed a daughter-in-love last month. She is the love of my son’s life, and I couldn’t have picked a better woman for him.

After they got engaged last Christmas, my new daughter and I shared some interesting conversations about wedding rings. She’d read that the wedding ring is supposed to go first on your finger, then you slip the engagement ring back afterward, so she was wondering when or if she was supposed to switch her engagement ring to her right hand before putting it back to her left ring on top of her wedding ring.

I’ll admit staring a bit weirdly at her, only because I had never heard of wearing the wedding ring first. When I got married thirty-eight years ago, there was no Internet. New couples basically followed the traditions set by their parents/grandparents. My mother and my grandmothers wore their engagement rings next to their knuckles, then when they got married, their husbands slipped their wedding bands on top. There was no taking rings off or switching hands. It was simple and straightforward.

So, I did some research on the Internet about wedding rings, and stumbled on some very unusual ones along the way.

The first wedding rings are believed to date back to ancient Egypt, some 3,000 to 4,000 years ago. Egyptians wore their rings on the fourth finger of the left hand, believing that a vein from that finger led directly to the heart. The Romans call this the “vena amoris”, or “vein of love”.

The early Asian civilizations were certainly not as romantic as the Romans. Weddings were seen as a legal contract between a man and a woman, and the wedding rings were considered a physical representation of that binding contract. Therefore,

couples would seal their marriage with puzzle wedding rings which would immediately fall apart if they tried to remove them from their fingers.

Wearing your wedding ring on the left hand is not a global tradition, mainly for one of these two reasons:

-  The word left is derived from the Latin word meaning sinister. Therefore, wearing it on the left hand is considered unlucky or evil.

-  In the Bible it was the practice to wear rings on the right hand, the hand of authority and power, completing the pledge of commitment.

This holds true in countries like Russia, Poland, Norway, Austria, Denmark, Latvia, Bulgaria, Ukraine, Spain, Portugal, Greece, and India.

Interestingly enough, in Sweden and Chile, it is not just brides-to-be that receive engagement rings, men wear them too.

In many cultures, it was traditional for only the woman to wear a wedding ring, but it changed during World War II. Many servicemen began wearing their wedding rings as a sign of commitment and as a way to remember their wives while stationed overseas.

As far as which ring should come first? My new daughter was right about most traditions favoring the wedding ring, but it is also not uncommon to stack them starting with the first one that was received. So, like me, she is wearing her wedding ring on top of her engagement ring.

Happy Reading & Stay Safe

JS

 

 

J. S. Marlo's Website

 

The Smells of Easter

 I love Easter. To me, it's the beginning of new life. It also brings back many memories. Memories of days long past. 

Easter was a busy time in our house during the ’50s.  It began Holy Wednesday, with the baking of our special Easter bread, Paska*, or Babka, as it’s sometimes called.  My sisters and I helped gather the ingredients and set them on the table. Mom stood on a chair and took out the special round pans from the cabinet above the refrigerator. She used those pans only for Easter bread. I’m not sure why, but this bread had to be round. 

 First, we measured the milk and set it on the stove to scald. Next Mom measured the yeast. I loved the smell of it. One year, enticed by the aroma, I stuck my finger in it and tasted it. I couldn’t’ get rid of the bitterness out of my mouth and my brothers, sisters, and mom laughed at me for being foolish enough to try it.  Of course, no one tried to stop me either.  I wondered how something that smelled so good could taste so bad.  

Once the ingredients were mixed together Mom began kneading the dough.  I thought it looked like fun until I got older and she let me try it. Kneading bread dough is hard work and we had to knead it until it blistered. When she kneaded it enough, it was set to rise.  We often sneaked in the kitchen and pinched off a piece and ate it. Something about the taste of raw dough kept us coming back, no matter how much my mom yelled at us. 

After an hour or so, Mom turned the dough out onto a special board my uncle made for her from an old maple table. She reserved a small piece of dough and cut the remainder into even portions for the loaves.  She put the loaves in the pan and took the reserved dough, rolled it between her hands like a snake and cut off pieces to form a cross on each loaf, and after letting it rise again, she put them in the oven. The savory smell of fresh-baked bread filled the house for hours.  The bread was then stored in plastic bags for Easter Sunday and no trying to sneak a piece. 

Holy Thursday was beet-making day.   My mother used fresh beets and horseradish for this delicious relish*.  After she cooked the beets, she grated them on the small side of a grater and suffered many a skinned knuckle. In later years, she purchased six cans of whole beets and a jar of horseradish from the grocery store. I’m not sure what gave her the idea, maybe she got tired of skinned knuckles, but one year she brought out her old meat grinder and attached it to the table, added the beets, grinding them into a finely shredded consistency. I loved watching the beets come through the grinder.  After the beets were ground, mom boiled vinegar, added sugar to it, and mixed it with the beets. When it cooled she added horseradish, tasting it until it was just right.  The vinegar blended with the pungent horseradish and filled the house with its stinging smell. If we got too close it made our eyes water.  

On Good Friday Mom baked a ham and boiled kielbasa.  The kielbasa had been in the refrigerator for several days and very time we opened the refrigerator door, the rich garlicky aroma tantalized our taste buds. Sometimes we opened it just to get a whiff.  As the aroma of the ham and kielbasa wafted through the house our mouths watered, but since it was Good Friday, samples of the delicious smelling meats were forbidden.  We could hardly wait until Easter.  

 Friday night, Mom made sirok*, Easter cheese.  We called it yellow thing.   My older sister and I cracked several dozen eggs into a large pot and beat them with the electric mixer. Mom filled another larger pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. After we added milk, sugar, and nutmeg to the eggs, we beat the mixture a little more. Mom then took the mixture to the stove and set that pot inside the large one, creating a double boiler.   We took turns mixing it since it needed constant stirring.  As the mixture began to curdle, it formed a solid almost scrambled egg texture. The liquid separated and turned a bluish-green. Once it curdled, Mom poured it into a colander lined with cheesecloth.   While it drained, she tightened the cheesecloth into a ball and tied it.  She hung it over the sink from a hook and let it drain overnight.   In the morning, she removed it from the cheesecloth. The sweet-spicy smell of the nutmeg lingered for hours.  

Saturday afternoon, Mom sent one of us to the attic to get the blessing basket.  She lined the basket with a towel, set a loaf of bread, a large piece of ham, kielbasa, sirok, several hard-cooked eggs, and a small container of beets into the basket and covered it with a fancy white doily that she crocheted especially for it. The blessing of baskets was a custom from the old country and even though we lived in Ohio, many churches carried out this tradition. Some still do  and my sister and her family take a basket to be blessed every year. It's a family tradition for them and even the kids, although grouwn still go with them, but that's another story. 

  My father, sisters, and I took the basket to church. This was a special service and before the blessing, we removed the doily.  The Priest went up and down the aisle sprinkling Holy Water over the congregation and baskets of food.   

Easter Sunday after church, Mom took out the blessed food and everyone had a small piece of it for breakfast. After smelling all these delicious aromas for the past four days, we savored the taste. Easter was not only a time to rejoice in the new beginning through Christ but a time to share the love of family and good food.  

 

*Paska or Babka is sweet bread usually with yellow raisins. 

*Sirok – a yellow round ball made from equal amounts of milk and eggs (1 dozen eggs to 1 quart of milk) add sugar and nutmeg to taste.  

 

Beet Relish 

6 cans whole beets grated 

½ cup white vinegar, boiled 

2/3 cup sugar   

Horseradish to taste 

In a large bowl, grate the beets.  Boil the vinegar. Add the sugar to it and let it cool slightly, then pour it over the beets.  Add horseradish to taste. I start with 2 tablespoons, but depending on hot you want it more can be added. 

Geriatric Rebel Available from BWL Publishing

 Forced to stay in a nursing home while undergoing therapy, seventy-two year old, Mike Powell refuses to get out of bed, won't cooperate with the nurses, and won’t take his medicine. At least not until he meets Elsa. The tiny, spunky little Elsa sparks new life into him.

Seventy-year-old, Elsa is left in the home while her son takes a family vacation. She joins forces with Mike, setting the home on its heels, and later discovers deception and fraud. Can they find happiness together?

Who says life begins at 40? Life is wonderful at any age, as long you're willing to live it. Elsa Logan and Mike Powell prove it. And I want to be just like them when I grow up! One of Roseanne Dowell's best, and my personal favorite!
Elsa Logan bears a striking resemblance to a romance writer I know who shall be nameless but whose initials are R. D. ~ Romantic Suspense Author, Gail Roughton

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