Saturday, March 2, 2024

It's 1734. What's for dinner?


                                                                 Purchase the book here 

Conflagration! is my second mystery novel – and my first historical mystery. The prospect of writing a historical mystery was both exhilarating and intimidating. 

While authors always have some wiggle room when it comes to reality, the reality of the modern world is one we are familiar with. We’re living it. I had no idea what life in 1734 Montréal was like. Fortunately, the online resources available via Google and books from the local library helped to transport me back in time.

Marie-Joseph Angélique is at the heart of Conflagration! An enslaved Black woman, Angélique is accused of burning down the lower town and 46 buildings in the process. Court clerk Philippe Archambeau is assigned the daunting task of following the judicial process as it unfolds from incarceration to trial to appeal.

As I delved into life in 1734, and the arson case on the docket, I was thinking about court transcripts and depositions and judgments. I wasn’t thinking about food. That lack of focus didn’t last long. I remember writing one scene where Philippe gets up early in the morning and makes himself a cup of coffee. I remember thinking, “Did they drink coffee in 1734?”

That question led me to explore the food people ate in eighteenth century New France. What was standard fare? A celebratory meal? Where did the food come from? How was it prepared?

Some of these questions (including the coffee one) are answered in Conflagration! as Philippe and his wife Madeleine go about their daily lives. Tea is a common beverage, and at one point, the couple brew a Bohea blend infused with orange peel. Bohea, pronounced bow-hee, is a black tea from China (some say of a low grade) that was so popular at one time the word became synonymous with “tea.”

Philippe also has lunch with a local jailer, Henri Geôlier. More accurately, he shares his lunch with Geôlier. That lunch is cold: ham or boiled eggs; bread; fruit, often dried. There is bread. According to the Canadian Museum of History, bread represented from 60 to 85% of the total daily food intake in New France.

One thing that was not a staple in Montréal as the seventeen hundreds unfolded: posset. This is primarily a British drink, yet it found its way into Conflagration! Philippe is originally from Acadia, where the British-French relationship was less acrimonious, at least until the British began expelling the Acadians in 1755. Posset, for Philippe, is a reminder of how different his Acadie is from Montréal.

The once-popular drink resembled egg nog. Interestingly, the name made its way back into the English lexicon in the 1800s, although by then posset had been transformed into a rich, cold lemony dessert that you can easily find recipes for today.

I’ve come across numerous recipes for the original drink. They invariably have a common foundation but differ in the nuances. Here’s my version.

Posset à la 1734

235 ml (1 cup) light cream

1 cinnamon stick or a sprinkle of ground cinnamon

A sprinkle of nutmeg

3 egg yolks

235 ml (1 cup) sherry or brandy

30 g (2 tablespoons) sugar

Bring the cream slowly to a simmer. Add the spices. Stir regularly. Gently beat the egg yolks and add slowly to the mixture. Continue stirring to avoid curdling. Pour in the alcohol and add the sugar. Simmer the mixture but avoid bringing it to a boil.

Pour into cups, sit back, inhale the delicious aroma, and savour the moment.




 

Friday, March 1, 2024

March New Releases from BWL Publishing Inc.

 



https://bookswelove.net/doucette-h-paul/

Late one night, Gabe Herschon, a gay Jew, was walking home from his job at King Cole’s where he worked as the night manager when he was viciously attacked by four men and left for dead in an alley. The local beat cop found him lying unconscious and nearly dead.

 

When Matt Murphy, an ex-cop and now P.I., found out about the attack, it filled him with a terrible anger. Gabe was a long-time friend. He knew the police could only allocate a certain amount of time to the matter, so he decided to take steps of his own to find and bring these men to justice.

 

In the course of his investigation he soon learned the true nature of bigotry and hate at a deadly cost.

Thursday, February 29, 2024

Those Were the Days--maybe...

 



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More memory lane writing for February, a month I get used to skipping, because the obligation only comes around every four years. Recently, I completed my 79th trip around Our Local Star. So it happens that many of my elder friends spend a lot of time wishing they were 50-60 years younger. 

Sorry to say, but contrary to a lot of what my same-age friends seem to remember, youth wasn't all Golden Days. 

Here's a case in point, a memory I have of a now mostly forgotten blizzard which happened in Massachusetts in February in 1969. This was a year in which my husband had graduated from college but instead of entering the work world, we'd fallen for siren song of those days and dropped out. He was working in a leather shop for a pittance and I was working a few days a week as a nurse's aide in a small hospital about an hour's commute away. We lived in a cabin in the woods near the Quabbin reservoir, which, in those days, was pretty empty of people, although there were a lot of deer, rabbits and raccoons. We had 1930's indoor plumbling, a woodstove and a kerosene heater, which made the house a lot more "modern" than others in the area.  

Other college friends had migrated to the big city of Boston (and vicinity) and were working 9-5 jobs. Sometimes we went in to visit them over weekends. On this particular Sunday, we left late, around 12, I think. It was snowing--but in those days that was not unusual or even a subject of much concern. A big storm was said to be coming in, but we knew the drive back to western Massachusetts well. It was two and half hours, give or take, to dirt road that led to our little house. 

We piled into the car. Our son, then 3 years old, was crying at leaving his same age friend and heading back to the no-kids world of the country. My husband took the wheel, I sat beside him, and we all headed out. First, we'd have to travel north on the 128 beltway before intersecting the secondary road which would take us much of the way across the state to our cabin in the woods. At once the wind picked up, blowing mightily. 

Snow blasted down. It was crystaline, and began drifting across the road, making it hard to see. If you remember old Beetle windshield wipers, you understand they were having a hard time keeping up, so now and then it was hard to see. The traffic, always heavy on the beltway, began to slow. The big cars nearby began to skid and wobble, struggling to maintain their lanes, lanes which were rapidly becoming little but the tracks of vehicle ahead of you. 

It was quickly becoming apparent that we weren't going to escape Boston. On every side, people were heading for the exits. Trucks fishtailed and then jack-knifed, but, intrepid Beetle drivers that we were, we manuevered around them. Still, anxiety increased every moment because there we were in the middle of it--Daddy, Mommy and little boy, all within this German eggshell. And, oh, yes, I haven't mentioned it yet, but I was eight months pregnant. We were beginning to get cold too. It was the old VW tale about the single heating vent burning up the driver's left foot, while icicles formed on the passengers. 

The wind was howling, pushing the trucks. The wipers were no longer keeping up. Nothing to see but blowing snow and red tail lights as ahead, people braked for obstacles we couldn't see. Finally, my husband saw a familiar exit, the way to his parent's house in Lexington. This was problematic, as we currently weren't on good terms. Still, it seemed the only choice. We dove into the exit.

Now there was another problem--drifts were clogging the ramp. The plows, always diligent in these populated areas, couldn't keep up. Cars ahead were getting stuckwhile trying to exit the exit! The heavy cars of those days wallowed and skidded. People were getting out of their cars in that whipping wind, hoping to push themselves free. The little V-Dub became bogged down too. 

"Get out and push!" my husband yelled. So there I was, in my full-length dress, high boots and big belly, scarf tightly wrapped around my head, pushing the car. When he found traction and surged ahead, I fell flat on my face into the snow. He managed to manuever around the stalled cars higher on the ramp, until he encountered the penultimate drift. His forward progress came to a halt.

I trudged back to the car amid wind and blinding white, shivering from the snow still stuck to my bare legs. When I arrived, he jumped out, cried, "You drive  now!" There had been only one car ahead of us, but they were making slow forward progress toward the main road. No waiting there! You just had to merge and pray the crawling cars saw you coming. 

So through that final, high drift, with me on and off the clutch, rocking the car, and with him pushing, we broke free and reached the road. He wore his prized, very cool hat, an old fedora--but this blew off, and was last seen sailing above 128 into a wall of white. 

Now at the top, we paused, changed drivers, and went the final few miles to safety, starting and stopping and negotiating our way through intersections where the lights were not working, and past many, many disabled, abandoned vehicles.

No cell phones in those days, so there were, on the steps of the Lexington house, where. blessedly, the door opened to us. Once inside, I had one of those false labor episodes, which are rather painful. I remember my mother-in-law calling a pediatrician who lived close by, who said he would make his way over if this didn't resolve, but, of course, once I was warm and had changed my clothes, it eventually went away.    

We were in that house for three days, because that's how long it took for all the abandoned vehicles to be cleared from the exit/entrances. Our son was happy to be at his grandparents because there were two teen Aunts to play with him, although, naturally, the elders were definitely ready for us to leave by the time we did. Driving around on the second day, hoping to find an opening, we'd passed by " our" exit, and seen the grill of the car that had been behind us, almost buried under a monster drift that completely had encased it. 

When we reached home, we were delighted that our dirt road had been cleared. My husband forced the car into the drift at our driveway, and then we half-swam half-crawled our way over chest-high snow to the house, towing our little boy and a suitcase. The cats were glad to see us, as their kibble had long since run out and the house was darn cold. The old kerosene "furnace," by itself, kept the place in the vicinity of 45 degrees, so the plumbing hadn't frozen. With a fire started in the wood stove in time we were warm again.

~Juliet Waldron

My historical novels:







 

Wednesday, February 28, 2024

The 100 Rejection Club Or How Writers Find a Support System By Connie Vines

 The old adage among serious writers is to aim for 100 rejections every year.

While I never garnered close to 100 rejections, I've spent my fair share of time on the revision marry-go-round.


At the start of my career, I wrote for magazine publications. While I published half a dozen romantic short stories, my primary focus was the children and young adult market.  

This consisted of historical events/famous people, craft projects/historical cooking and recipes, spooky Halloween stories, etc. Since both sides of my family had a strong oral history and many photos, making history fun was relatively easy for me.

Writing full-length fiction novels requires an almost hermit-like existence. When I was working in the education field, I wrote at night and Saturday afternoons.  

So, since I'm now a professional writer/full-time hermit, where is my support system?

I belong to several well-known writers' groups as a virtual member.






I log onto Zoom two mornings each week with half a dozen authors, all with our cameras off and mic on mute. 

We log on, say hello and a few words of encouragement, then go into dark mode for 4 hours of dedicated writing time. We check in at the end with a wrap-up of what we worked on, but we also just say goodbye until the next day/next week. It's a no-pressure way to socialize and get some writing done. 

The point is that we all need tools and mutual support to keep us motivated and on track.

Not everyone needs this, but I know I do.




Thank you for stopping by today.

Happy Reading :)

Connie


For my books, website, and more:


https://bookswelove.net/vines-connie/

https://connievines-author.com/  (blog link is here, too)


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












Tuesday, February 27, 2024

Introducing Tai-Chi in my next series - by Vijaya Schartz



Find these books and more on my BWL page HERE

As I’m writing the last book of the Blue Phantom series, set in the Azura Universe (Angel Revenge – October 2024) I wonder about the theme of my next science fiction series. There will be a little fantasy, of course, (Magic is only science we do not yet understand). A strong heroine is a must and I already have her. As for my next hero, I’m thinking of making him a Tai-Chi man.


I have been practicing Tai-Chi daily for over a decade, and teaching it for years, and for some reason I never used it for a character in a book. So, for the start of my next series, one of the protagonists will be a Tai-Chi practitioner.

In a violent universe often at war and fighting back evil forces, the art of Tai-Chi, a soft and graceful martial discipline might offer a different perspective. Tai-Chi works with energy gathered from all around us.


Long ago, in imperial China, this secret Marcial Art was practiced by the feudal Chen and Yang families, hence the two main different styles. Chen is more aggressive, and Yang more flowing, but both are deadly.

Intrigued by this secret technique, the emperor summoned the heads of the Chen and Yang families and ordered them to teach his guard the secret art of Tai-Chi. Since they could not refuse the emperor, the two clans taught Tai-Chi not as a Martial Art, but rather as a dance or an exercise for health purposes. So, the fighting applications of each movement were lost in the official Tai-Chi spread through imperial China.

But through the centuries, the Chen and Yang families kept the secret fighting techniques for themselves. Today, with all the dissemination of information, many of these secrets have resurfaced, and although most Chinese masters are reluctant to teach these techniques to Westerners, a few of their students have come forward to teach in the West.

I was lucky to find a teacher who knew about these fighting applications, and as a practitioner of many other martial arts over the years, (Aikido black belt and instructor, Karate, Judo, sword, etc.) I jumped at the opportunity to learn this technique.


Tai-Chi is for everyone, young or old. It has been called stillness in motion. The health benefits have been studied at Harvard Medical School and definitively proven. It’s a long list. Find a Tai-Chi school near you. There are videos on U-Tube. Or watch movies like “Man of Tai-Chi” on Plex with Keanu Reeves as a villain, or “Shang Chi and the legend of the Ten Rings” with Simu Liu.

SHANG CHI and the legend of the Ten Rings

Through my next series, it will be my privilege to open a window on this ancient Martial Art, and maybe inspire some Westerners to try it. The health benefits alone are worth it.

Tai Chi in the park on Tai Chi Day, a few years ago.

In the meantime, you can read about my fighting angels, as they confront evil and demons bent on subjugating the universe. Be prepared for epic space battles.


Vijaya Schartz, award-winning author
Strong Heroines, Brave Heroes, cats

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