Cranberries!

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Thanksgiving is going to be a little different for most of us this year but I hope our readers enjoy time with loved ones in any form that time may take. 

Here are a couple of my favorite recipes with a favorite seasonal ingredient: Cranberries!

Our family never ate canned jellied cranberry again once daughter Marya brought this simple combination home from third grade long ago...

Fresh Cranberry-Orange Relish

Only three ingredients: 

1 bag of fresh cranberries, 

1 cup of sugar

1 navel orange

If you have a fancy food processor: quarter the orange, throw everything in and whizz away until you’ve got a nice, small chunk relish.

If, like me, you only have a blender: cut the orange into eighths and blend that first to get some liquid going, then add the rest. Refrigerate.

We make lots because its SO good with leftovers and on sandwiches!

Lemon Cranberry Scones

2 cups flour

1/4 cup sugar

1 tablespoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 tablespoon finely grated lemon zest

1/2 cup cold butter, cut into small pieces

1/2 cup heavy cream

1/4 cup milk

1 large egg

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 cup fresh cranberries, lightly chopped in food processor

Glaze

1 cup confectionary sugar

1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar

1 and 1/2 tablespoons lemon juice

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Mix the flour, sugar, baking powder, salt in large bowl. Add the zest. Cut in the butter until the mix is crumbly. Stir in chopped cranberries.  In a separate bowl, whisk together the cream, egg, milk and vanilla.  Add to the flour mix to bring the dough together. Shape dough and cut into 2 equal parts. Shape each into a 10 inch round disc. Cut each disc into 6 wedges. Place on a parchment covered baking tray with a few inches between each. Bake for 10-15 minutes until scones are lightly browned on top.

Prepare glaze. Drizzle on cooled scones. Let set. 

Do Short Stories Sell?

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Some years ago, I participated in a reading event at a local bookstore. The theme was short stories. During the question and answer period, an audience member asked the bookstore owner if people bought short story collections. He answered, "No, not even when the author wins a major award." His example was the recent winner of the Scotiabank Giller Prize, Canada's glitziest literary award for fiction. A Giller win typically results in a huge boost in book sales, but his customers weren't interested in buying the winner's short story collection. 

                                     Giller Prize glitz 

Short stories used to be popular. In the 1950s and 60s, writers could make a living by publishing them in magazines. When I started writing around 1990, big mainstream magazines like Redbook and Seventeen included a short story per issue. Neither magazine now publishes in print. A friend who writes short stories says that today online magazines provide many opportunities for short stories, but they often don't attract readers.

My writing has mainly focused on novels, but I got into short stories in my first creative writing class. Short works suit a class or workshop structure better than novels do. I suspect the proliferation of classes is one reason the short story genre has survived. A student can write a story in a week, the class critiques the whole work in an evening, and then the student revises and submits the story to journals that exist to publish the work of emerging writers.  

I've enjoyed writing short stories for reasons other than the relative speed from start to completion. They've been a chance to experiment with styles, characters and locations I couldn't sustain in a novel. I've written short stories with magic realism, a sociopathic narrator, and settings I've visited but don't know intimately. Other stories have led to novels. My series mystery sleuth, Paula Savard, had her origins in my short story, Adjusting the Ashes, about an adjuster dealing with a wacky insurance claim. 

The best explanation I've heard for the decline in short story readership is that television killed it. People in the mood for a short fictional experience have the option to relax with an evening drama or comedy. I'm guilty of choosing these over reading. I wonder if short story writing has responded to the drop in readership by shifting away from popular fiction toward a poetic style that appeals to fellow writers, but tends to be less satisfying to general readers.  

A short story exception that proves the rule is Bloodletting and Miraculous Cures by Vincent Lam. Sales of this book took off after it won the 2006 Giller Prize. A literary pundit noted that the collection of linked stories about medical students got the Giller bump because the writing is accessible, the characters relatable and the stories are strong on plot. Another exception is E. Annie Proulx's Brokeback Mountain, a long short story that had enough going on for it to be adapted into a hit movie, although I don't know how many people read this excellent short story.  

My home province of Alberta, Canada, played the role of Wyoming in the movie, Brokeback Mountain

Enterprising authors say the practical value of short stories today is to use them to draw readers to your novels. You can produce and sell a short story e-book online for 99 cents or offer it for free. If readers enjoy the story, hopefully, it will lead them to buy your novels. I'd like to try this one day with a couple of my longer works. Perhaps foolishly, I would also like to gather the stories I've written and published over the years into a short story collection, even if nobody reads the book.     

Canadian-American actor Eric McCormack hosted the online Giller Prize show on                  November 6, 2020. The Will and Grace star explained that he grew his moustache for a movie.    

Souvankham Thammavongsa was surprised in her apartment when she won the 2020 Scotiabank Giller Prize for her short story collection, How To Pronounce Knife 

“Little Boxes” by Karla Stover

Every morning my husband and I drive out to the woods and walk our dog. There is always so much
interesting stuff to see. Like right now, mushrooms are everywhere. And all summer long wild flowers bloom, my favorites being a shrub called ocean spray and madrone, a tree native to the Pacific Coast from British Columbia to Northern California. Right now it has clusters of red berries which many birds love. However, all waxing nostalgic aside, to get to the forest, we have to drive past new housing developments. (Hear me heave a heavy sigh).

   It’s not that I don’t want people to have homes; it’s just that they all look alike; right down to the colors they are painted.  They make me harken back to a song called “Little Boxes” that my mother used to sing. A woman named Malvina Reynolds wrote it in 1962 for her friend Pete Seeger and when in 1963 he released his cover version, “Little Boxes” became a hit.

 

   The song was written as a “political satire about the development of suburbia and associated conformist middle-class attitudes. It mocks suburban tract housing as ‘little boxes’ of different colors ‘all made out of ticky-tacky’, and which ‘all look just the same.’” “Ticky-tacky" was “a reference to the shoddy material supposedly used in the construction of the houses.” I’m not saying the ones we pass were built of shoddy material, it’s just that they’re boring to look at and don’t have yards where children can play.

When the song hit the airwaves (it reached number 70 in the Billboard Hot 100), there were three opinions: a fellow satirist named satirist Tom Lehrer described it as “the most sanctimonious song ever written.” Leher probably knew whereof he spoke; his songs included, “There’s a Delta for Every Epsilon,” “The Love Song of the Physical Anthropologist” and “Dodging the Draft at Harvard.” Meanwhile, an unnamed university professor said, “I've been lecturing my classes about middle-class conformity for a whole semester. Here's a song that says it all in 1½ minutes.” And historian Nell Irvin Painter offered her thoughts, pointing out “that the conformity described in ‘Little Boxes” was not entirely a bad thing, and in the case of suburbia, “it was a sameness to be striven toward.”

 

If these comments were about writing they would” warn about conformity, (I’m reminded of the Evanovich series) scoff at piety, ( The ‘Father Tim’ books were huge hits when they came out), or embrace “sameness,” (every cozy ever written.)

Which would you choose?

  

Veteran's Day

 

All my books available at

https://bookswelove.net/baldwin-barbara/

Veteran’s Day, or Remembrance Day as some countries call it, is celebrated on Nov. 11 because the Allied nations and Germany signed an armistice, or a temporary halting of hostilities during World War I, on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918. Much has been written about this period of history, and many of you may have relatives who played a part, if not in WWI than in later conflicts. In today’s world, we honor not only those who fought in WWI, but all of our veterans.

My dad joined the Army Air Corp by using his brother’s birth certificate as he was too young at the time to join. After first enlisting, he later re-upped and went to Officer Candidate School and became a pilot. He flew in the Berlin Air Lift at the end of WWII, delivering supplies to blockaded Berlin. During his career he also flew missions to Vietnam and played “cat and mouse” with the Russians during the cold war. He set records for distance and speed as new transport aircraft were constantly being built. When he’d go on a mission, we never knew where or how long he’d be gone. He didn’t talk about it, and now that he has passed away, there are so many things I wish I had asked him. Not so much about where he flew, but why he risked his life; why he stayed in the Air Force for 23 years instead of returning to civilian life.

Because he had retired by the time grandkids came along, they only knew him as Grandpa Rusty, who would pile them in the back of his pickup and take them to Dairy Queen. They never knew that other part of his life. When he was perhaps 75 years old, I decided to write a creative non-fiction story about the Air Lift for his grandchildren. I had to do a lot of research and I was surprised at the amazing things those young pilots did at that time. It was hard to imagine my dad at 23 years of age, a cocky “fly boy” and quite handsome in his uniform. He flew 100 missions along a narrow corridor with anti-aircraft flac exploding on both sides of his airplane. He had little in the way of radar. The planes took off and landed only seconds apart and if for some reason they couldn’t land, they had to return to base without delivering their much needed supplies. It was an operation that people said couldn’t be done and yet ended in success.

My dad lost his vision later in life, and eventually could hardly walk, but every Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day he would be on his brother’s porch for the parade as the bands marched by. And he would say, “Tell me when the flag comes”, and when we told him, he would stand and salute.

I am so proud to be the daughter of a veteran. It’s not said often enough, but THANK YOU to all the men and women who have spent their lives in service to their country to ensure the freedoms we still enjoy today.

Barb Baldwin

http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

https://bookswelove.net/baldwin-barbara/

 

 

 

Featured Author Joanie MacNeil

 

I’m a BWL Publishing Inc. author and you can find me at

https://bookswelove.net/macneil-joanie/

 

I am a contemporary romance author from the Australian Capital Territory (ACT). My novels, range from sweet to sexy stories about new love and second chances. I love to travel and have set my novels and short stories in a range of places: Australia; Scotland; on a Pacific Island cruise; and on the Greek Island of Rhodes, the perfect setting for a romantic short story.

The Trouble with Natalie, No Boundaries and Desperate and Dateless are set in Canberra, the city where I live, and once nicknamed The Bush Capital, because of its abundance of open space. When I came here in March 1971 the population was 137,000. Now it’s nearing 500,000.

For most of my career, I worked as an Executive Assistant. The city and office settings provided ideal backdrops for my city-set stories.

Loving Nick…Again, Sapphire Kisses, and Sweet Temptations are set on the Sapphire Coast, south of Canberra, about a three hour drive over the mountains.

At the beginning of my writing journey, and when the children were young, our family would occasionally escape Canberra’s icy winter chill for a weekend break in a slightly more temperate climate. My son and daughters would go fishing with their dad while I sat nearby in the sand with pen and paper. After dinner, I’d type my notes on a borrowed laptop. These weekends were time out for me as well as family time. Escapism. And isn’t that why we like to read romance stories?

The Sapphire Coast, known for its clean beaches and clear water, inspired me to write my first novel, Loving Nick…Again, as the area is diverse in scenery, from coast to mountains, lakes, state forest, and lovely little historical villages…a refreshing change when compared to life in the city. I love the ocean and just couldn’t get enough of that wonderful fresh sea air and relaxed coastal lifestyle away from the daily grind. What better way to write descriptions and setting than when you’re actually seeing them for real; hearing the lap of the water while walking along the lake’s edge; listening to possums nightly clambering over the roof of the cabin, or seeing them sitting around the base of a large tree while walking through the park at night. I can still hear the wind blowing through the tops of the enormous eucalyptus trees.

As a result of those weekends, I wrote two more novels set around that same area, the northern end of the Sapphire Coast…Sapphire Kisses and Sweet Temptations.

Sadly, the quaint little town of craft shops, Cobargo, a short drive inland, was severely damaged in the catastrophic firestorm on New Year’s 2019/2020.

The thriving little town of Bermagui, situated on Horseshoe Bay, is famous for its deep-sea fishing and fishing competitions. The caravan park there is named after the American author, Zane Grey, not because of his fame as a western novelist, but because he wrote about his big game fishing experiences in Australia.

Loving Nick…Again

Feeling a thousand times better after a long hot shower, Nick grabbed a beer from the fridge and moved out on the deck to relax.  Curiosity overcame him as he watched the new arrival, a woman, unload her car.  He wondered again what brought her to such a quiet coastal resort at this time of year.

Her straight russet hair hung loosely around her face.  She looked soft and nicely rounded, a pleasant change from the pencil thin females he was used to—like Pammy, or like Belinda with her long legs.

This woman was small, about five feet, he estimated, and compact—tantalizingly so.  Perhaps that's what caught his eye.  Nick smiled, reassured he still appreciated feminine charms, and she was definitely built for comfort, not speed.

Now that was a phrase he hadn't thought of in quite some time.

"Nick my friend, there's still hope for you yet," he muttered.  In between sips of beer, he puzzled why, all of a sudden, he'd begun to think like his former amorous self.

But there was something else...the movement of her hips when she walked caused Nick to look more closely as she lugged an armful of linen into the cabin and re-appeared seconds later.

"It can't be," he mumbled distractedly as he rose from his chair on the deck.  "It just can't be."

Long forgotten images, which held a special place deep in his heart, teased at his memory.  He had to know.  Right now.

If he made a fool of himself, well, perhaps the woman would understand and laugh with him when he explained.  Or perhaps she'd think he was coming on to her.  Whatever, he had to know.

He tossed the empty beer can in the trash and headed down the stairs.

His gaze never left her as he walked slowly down the gravel path.  In the crisp afternoon air, the last rays of the sun filtered through the tall eucalypts scattered throughout the park.

He focused on the woman as she moved to the back of her car.  Nick smiled.  It could be.  It just could be.  Though the eighteen-year old woman whose image appeared in his mind hadn't been as shapely as this one, there was something about the way she walked that urged him on.  The beat of his heart began to gather speed with each forward step.

The woman was busy shoving bits and pieces from the back of her car into a plastic laundry basket.  He stopped a few meters away, rested his forearm against a tree and observed her quietly.

It wasn't until she turned and lifted her head, allowing him a clear view of her face, that he could be absolutely certain he was right about her identity.  He nodded and smiled, then moved in for the kill.

"Hello Tiger," he said, and grinned when her blue eyes flashed at him.

At first she frowned.  Her expression changed quickly from startled surprise at the sound of his voice to the shock of recognition.

"How are you, Claire?"  He stepped forward, his gaze roamed over her, took in her soft, feminine curves, the determined little chin, the pretty mouth which had always welcomed his kiss...

His heart lurched, more than it had a right to.  More than he wanted it to.

Claire dropped the basket.  Its contents scattered across the ground.  Her hand flew to her mouth.

         "You!"

The Trouble with Natalie

 

Still shocked, Natalie frantically scrubbed herself dry with a force that left her skin pink and tender. It wasn’t the spider that had sent her into such a spin. Her reaction to the huge Huntsman had been overruled by Luke’s presence. His touch. His gentleness and understanding over her silly feminine fear.

She’d never thought about Luke in any way other than as a younger brother. He’d practically lived with them, with her and Jake, and their father, when his own parents neglected him in favor of spending their time at the pub. She’d become the mother figure in his life, as she had for her own family, when her mother died from complications during Jake’s birth.

But now, fully grown, he was a far cry from the eight year old who’d stumbled into their lives, and the eighteen year old who seemed so unsure of himself as he headed off to university.

Luke DeMarco had grown into one sexy confident man and it was hard to relate the man he was now to the images she remembered of a distressed young boy and a troubled teenager. And at some stage during those missing years, his voice had grown rich and deep, and she liked the way it settled over her.

She tugged on jeans and a sweater and headed to the kitchen to make some hot chocolate. Not that she thought the hot drink would soothe her nerves or help her sleep. Another warm bath might do the trick, but the bathroom was occupied.

And so was the kitchen.

Fridge door open, Luke leaned into the light inside and searched the shelves. Though he wore well-fitting jeans that enticingly hugged his rear, he was shirtless, from what Natalie could see of his strong body. And his feet were bare.

She swallowed, remembering the feel of her fingertips on sculpted muscles. Even now her skin tingled with the memory. Having Luke share the house would certainly be an interesting challenge, to say the least.

He moved slightly, granting her a better view of powerful broad shoulders and an expanse of back that rippled with his movements. The tanned skin added to her perception of healthy fit male. He was taller than she remembered, but ten years could change a man. And those years had made a difference to Luke.

The package was virile, potent and sinfully sexy.