Writing About What You Know by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

       

       I took many writing courses and bought just about every book I could find on writing when I was an aspiring writer. In the classes and in most books I was told to write about what I knew. I had to experience life before I could write about it. I also found out that to compensate for lack of knowledge many writers do months of research to get an understanding of the subject they want to write about. They learn what a lawyer would say in court or what a pilot would do in a certain situation.

       But it is the hard emotion that goes with any experience that is hard to duplicate. We have all been scared, but how many of us have felt a deep-seated fear that is immobilizing? We have all felt sadness, but how many of us have had our sadness lead to depression and suicidal thoughts? Experiencing the emotions make it almost effortless to write about them in an authoritative voice.
       Plus, living a certain lifestyle makes it easier to describe that way of life. Many writers do dredge up life’s trauma to make their writing more believable. And many authors have turned their unusual upbringing into bestselling fiction and non-fiction. Take for example, the non-fiction bestseller Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt. To make up a childhood like Frank’s would be tough for someone who has not lived it.
       When I was doing my assignments for class I tried to write about what I knew but it was hard to make something exciting out of something so boringly normal. So I wrote the following poem.

 

What I Know

 

My parents never divorced, they
seldom even fought. I was not
abused, not emotionally,
physically, mentally.
I was never raped.
I was not kicked
out of the
house.
I
did not
live on the
streets. I do not
smoke. I don’t do drugs.
I’ve never had a merciless,
pounding hangover. I have not
been in an accident. I have not had a
serious, debilitating, life-threatening illness.
                    I am no minority.
                    I am not disabled.
                    I have no physical
                    deformity. I have
                    not been a victim
                    of a crime, nor am
                    I a shady criminal.
     I have not been discriminated against.
              I am not a lesbian. I am not gay.
                      I am not too skinny nor am
                           I overweight. I have not
                               loved and lost; I have
                                  not lost a loved one
                                        I am not too tall
                                               or too short.
                                                                 I
                                                    certainly
                                               do not stand
                                           out in a crowd.
                                         I have not, at all
                                  been very noticeable
                  With such an ordinary, tedious
           mundane, uneventful life, how will
I ever be able to write about what I know?


       My first published article was about an injured hawk my son and I had found alongside the highway and how we looked after it for a few days until it was able to fly away. Then I tried historical and travel articles. I progressed into travel books, writing seven about what there is to see and do along the roads of British Columbia, Alberta, the Yukon, and Alaska.
       I have loved reading mysteries since I was a child so I decided to try my hand at a mystery novel. Since I knew about travel writing, I made my main character a travel writer. She gets drawn into solving murders while researching places for her travel articles.
       So my experiences have made it possible for me to write about what I know.

 

http://thetravellingdetectiveseries.blogspot.com/
http://www.facebook.com/writingsbyjoan

 

Books of The Travelling Detective Series boxed set:
Illegally Dead
The Only Shadow In The House
Whistler's Murder

http://amzn.com/B00KF07FQM


Gold Fever

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PEOSJR8

DRAMA IS ALL AROUND YOU BY RITA KARNOPP

Have you ever noticed there is drama all around you?  Pay attention!  There are always people who wear their problems on their sleeves – as the old cliché goes!  But that’s great for us . . . listen to their passions, their dramas, their dilemmas, their successes and failures, and even their sorrows.  You can even pick up drama in newspapers, magazines, and the news.  It’s all around us . . . start jotting down notes of inspiration.

You might see an interview on TV – the guy is a sole survivor in a war-torn country.   Don’t you really want to know how he survived when no one else did?  How about a mother who takes her life . . . and that of her daughter – why?  Aren’t your story-telling feelers asking you ‘what would make her do that?  If you see a guy that is trying to survive in the desert, no modern help-just him and the elements – don’t you wonder what on earth brought him to make that decision?

You hear about a priest who leaves his devotion and suddenly marries.  Wow – doesn’t that spark your creative spirit and make you wonder why?  What would bring him to this decision?  How difficult was it?  What does his family and friends think about this?  How does this affect his life now?  Does he regret it? 

There are the numerous, horrendous killings and sad disappearances in real life . . . that could spawn hundreds of books. 

So why don’t we write about them?  Well . . . we do!  There's drama all around us and if you’re one of those smart authors – you’re finding material for your stories every time you listen to the world around you or you open your eyes – drama unfolds at every turn. 

What sets one writer out from another is their passion to write the story.  They take the ardent fervor for life and fill in the blanks that take the reader on a journey.  Sometimes it’s uplifting and other times it’s nitty-gritty and even devastating.

The drama all around us results in the birth of innumerable ideas that becomes the basis – the drama – for yet another wonderful read.  Key here is to tell your story with passion.  Your reader will believe every word as though they heard it on the news or read it in a paper or online. 

 Rita Karnopp
Author ~ Romancing the West

ritakarnopp@bresnan.net

http://ritakarnopp.com

http://mizging.blogspot.com

Waiting for Downton Abbey by Karla Stover

Waiting for Downton Abbey, by Karla Stover

     We are eight weeks away from the next season of Downton Abbey and many viewers are hoping the eldest daughter, widow and born-to-the-manor, Lady Mary will find romance with her widower brother-in-law, Tom, the Irish Republican and the family’s former chauffeur. Tom has settled in above-the-stairs fairly well, and is accepted by most people, but in real life that was not always the case. Take Margaret Powell’s autobiography, Servants’ Hall, for example. Ms Powell worked for the Wardham family at their Redlands estate. In the book, she recounts her life as the family cook, along with the marriage of parlor maid, Rose to the son-of-the-house, Gerald. The fact that Rose insisted on maintaining her friendships with the staff after her marriage didn’t bode well.

     I’m a sucker for well-written memoirs. When I want to binge on a particular type of book, such as life-below-the-stairs, I go to Alibris and plug in the title of a book, such as Servants’ Hall. When the book comes up, there is a spot on the right side labeled,” More Books Like This.” Thus, I read Rosina Harrison’s book, Rose: My Life in Service, which led me to her biography of the Astor’s butler, Edwin Lee and that led me to Eric Horne’s What the Butler Winked At. Though pretty tame by contemporary, tell-all standards, Mr. Horne’s book was a sensation when it came out, as those above the stairs panicked for fear of what they might read about themselves.

     When Call the Midwife, a series based on Jennifer Worth’s books, started showing on PBS, I found her other books on Alibris and read them all. That’s not to say, “More Books” doesn’t sometimes go off on a bit of a tangent. It also recommended Belle de Jour: Life of an Unlikely Call Girl. Maybe the anonymous who wrote it needed a midwife.

     And now I seem to be off on my own tangent. Here I sit, reading Mollie Moran’s, Minding the Manor while I wait for Downton Abbey to start. I sit knowing full well Lady Grantham will soon be simpering over Lady Mary; Lady Mary will be swanning around, and poor Lady Edith will still be looking for a man.

                                                                 Author of A Line to Murder

Shabby Chic Birthday Card by Cheryl Wright

It was recently a crafting friend's birthday, and knowing she shares my love of cards that are vintage and/or shabby chic, I got to work.

Shabby Chic, in particular, is generally based around pastel colors such as pink, blue, mint, and soft lemon or lavender. It often includes flowers, pearls or rhinestones, ribbons, and generally contains some distressing. (Distressing is the art of making something look old, even though it's new.)

Go to this link on Pinterest for a great example of shabby chic.

I just adore this style of cardmaking, and use it a lot.

Taking into consideration my friend's style preferences, this is the card I made for her.

My friend loved her card, as I knew she would (simply because of the style).

Thanks for stopping by, and don't forget to join my Facebook page. I have a giveaway running at the moment, and I'd love for you to enter.

This month's prize is a print copy of Don't Tell, Don't Die plus a custom-made keychain.

Til next time,

Links:

My website:  www.cheryl-wright.com 
Blog:  www.cheryl-wright.com/blog
Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/cherylwrightauthor

A Soldier’s Breakfast by Jude Pittman

A WWII Memory, dedicated to my Uncle William (Bill) Shipton (Canadian WWII Veteran) and my daughter Major Billie Cartwright (Active US Army Reservist)

Originally published in Western People Magazine, May 1991 as Egg on His Face

Bill was in his glory. Finally after weeks of courting young Phyllis Quelch, he'd been invited home to dinner. He pressed his uniform until the creases cut and shined his shoes until he could see his reflection.

Bill wanted to be sure that the Quelches recognized him as a serious young man with his own land and big plans for the future. Once the war was over he'd be returning to his homestead in Alberta, and it was going to take some doing to convince Phyllis to give up her life in England for the rough Canadian prairies. This dinner was Bill's chance to win the Quelches approval, and when he met them at their humble cottage he flashed his brightest smile and prepared to charm them with his native Canadian wit. The Quelches were a pleasant couple slightly reserved in the manner of the British but they soon warmed to Bill and after dinner they invited he and Phyllis to join them at the neighborhood pub.

The evening passed in easy camaraderie. Bill entertained the Quelches with amusing tales of life on the Canadian wilderness, and they responded with anecdotes of English country life. By the time they started home it was raining heavily, and Mrs. Quelch insisted that it was not a fit night for Bill to bicycle back to the base. He gratefully accepted a bed on the living room sofa and was soon fast asleep.

Rising early the next morning to the smell of sizzling bacon, Bill slipped into the little kitchen to greet Mrs. Quelch.

"The top o'the mornin to ya," he quipped. "When I heard you humming away at that stove I thought for a sec I was back home with my Mum."

Smiling shyly, Mrs. Quelch poured him a cup of tea, dished up several slices of bacon and four eggs onto an old crockery plate and set it carefully on the warmer.

"That smells mighty good, ma'am," Bill said, gratefully carrying the plate to the little breakfast nook and happily digging into his breakfast. The portion was just right for his vigorous appetite, and pleasantly filled, he waited eagerly for Phyllis and her Dad to join them. When they finally gathered around the table, Bill wondered that all they ate was toast and tea, but assumed they'd adopted the modern habit of saving their appetite for the mid-day meal.

When Bill prepared to leave for the base Phyllis offered to ride part way and Bill delightedly accepted her company. They hadn't gone far though, when she stopped her bicycle and turned to him with a serious expression on her face. "Bill," she said. "Have you any idea what you've done this morning?"

"Done, why I haven't done anything at all, other than pass the time of day with your Mum and enjoy her fine breakfast."

"That's just it. You ate the entire family's ration of bacon and eggs this morning. We save our eggs all week long so on Sunday morning's we'll have enough to share at breakfast."

Well, the ground should have opened up and swallowed Bill. Never had a young man been so embarrassed. Back home in Canada--what with their own hogs and chickens--it was nothing to eat a rasher of bacon and six or seven eggs for breakfast. It hadn't even occurred to him that the plate Mrs. Quelch put on the warmer was for anyone but himself.

Bill's face flamed. He mumbled his apologies to Phyllis, bid her good day, and pedaled like a madman to the base. Wheeling in through the gates he headed straight for the mess hall. Bill had long been in the habit of offering a helping hand in the kitchen when no one else was willing, and his easy acceptance of even the meanest chores made him a favorite among the cooks. Therefore, when he reached the mess hall and tossed his knapsack in the door he was met with good natured grins.

"Fill 'er up lads," he said. "Whatever we've got to spare and don't stint the bacon and eggs. I've a debt to repay and I'll be thanking you not to make me look bad."

Next, Bill charged across the compound and descended on the warrant officer. "Sir, every month we're entitled to our ration books." he told the startled officer, "and in all these many months I've not drawn any of mine. This morning I made a colossal donkey of me, what with not knowing how hard-up these people are for food, and I'm sure in need of my ration books."

"Well soldier," the officer replied, "you're certainly entitled to them, but it'll probably take a little time for me to round them up."

"That'll be fine Sir. I've a few things to attend to and then I'll be back to pick them up."

With that Bill headed back to the kitchen, and finding the knapsack filled to overflowing, he thanked the cooks and swung the heavy knapsack onto his shoulders.

When the ration books were ready, he shoved them in his pockets, and fetched his bicycle. Then he pedaled furiously for Maidenhead and was soon knocking on the door of the cottage.

"Why Bill," Mrs. Quelch said, when she answered the door. "Whatever brings you back here this morning."

"There's a little matter I need to attend to," Bill said stepping inside the door and heading for the kitchen. "You know ma'am," he said, removing the knapsack from his shoulder. "I've never been so embarrassed in my life as when Phyllis told me I'd eaten the family's breakfast. Now, I'm hoping you'll let me makes amends."

Stunned, Mrs. Quelch's eyes widened in wonder as Bill began spilling the contents of his knapsack across the kitchen table. Then, turning to the astonished woman he reached in his pockets and pulled out the stack of ration books.

"Mrs. Quelch," he said. "I want you to know that as long as I'm around here there won't be any more breakfasts of dry toast and tea," and Phyllis, coming into the kitchen, watched in amazement as her mother burst into tears.

"You know," she told Bill later, "in 21 years I've never seen my mum cry, and I'll never forget what you've done for her today."

 Find more by Jude Pittman at http://bookswelove.net/judepittman.php

A PILGRIMAGE TO THE WW1 BATTLEFIELDS - MARGARET TANNER

REMEMBRANCE DAY - A TRIBUTE TO THE FALLEN OF WW1

At 11a.m. on the 11^th November, 1918, an Armistice was signed and the guns fell silent. The Great War had ended but the repercussions would be felt for years.

If you get the chance, please buy a red poppy and wear it proudly, in memory of the fallen.

Australia was a small country in 1914, with a population of less than 4 million, yet we sent over 300,000 men to the front, Gallipoli in Turkey, Egypt, France and Belgium.  More than 60,000 of our soldiers lie on Gallipoli or in the beautiful cemeteries of France and Belgium, 12,000 miles from home.

Our pilgrimage commenced in Amiens where we were met by our guide who runs tours of the French and Belgium battlefields. He has a wealth of knowledge regarding the battlefields. Using war time maps, he was able to point to within a hundred yards, where my grandfather’s cousin was seriously wounded near the village of Hermes in 1917. Chills ran down my spine, I felt as if a hand was gripping me from the grave. Unfortunately, this relative died of his wounds, leaving a wife and two small children behind.  He is buried in the war cemetery at Rouen, and we were elated but sad when we found his grave.

We visited large cemeteries where hundreds of white headstones stood amongst green lawns with pretty flowers nodding their heads between the graves.

At Thiepval we saw a monument with thousands of names engraved on it, for English soldiers who fell in the area but have no known grave. One of the most memorable monument wasn’t very big.  It was at Fromelles, a bronze statue of an Aussie soldier carrying his wounded mate. 

The battle for Fromelles was fought on the 19^th and 20^th July 1916, Australia had 5,500 casualties the British 1,500.  For over 90 years no-one knew the fate of nearly 300 of these soldiers, but there had been rumours for many years of mass graves in the area, and it was only after a tenacious campaign waged for years by an Australian school teacher that the authorities finally acted, and four mass graves were discovered about three years after our visit. 250 soldiers have now been laid to rest in separate graves in a new Commonwealth war cemetery.  Of the 250 bodies, nearly half have so far been identified by name using DNA volunteered by relatives, but the authorities are still hoping that more soldiers will eventually be identified.

At Beaumont-Hamel is the Newfoundland Memorial, a giant bronze caribou monument, the caribou being the 1^st Newfoundland Regiment’s emblem. The losses here were horrific. During one of the most costly days of the 1916 campaign, the 1^st Newfoundland regiment lost three-quarters of its soldiers in less than half an hour.

On the 28^th May, 1918, the 1^st American Division attacked Cantigny and took the village against overwhelming odds.

The men of the various American regiments who fell in the battles of 1917-18, are buried in a large American Cemetery at Bony (Aisne) on the Somme.

There is a lovely chapel there and staff at the visitor centre were very nice and showed us around. They were surprised at our interest, because they said that sadly not many Americans visited there. Those who came to France always went to the Normandy beaches. Hopefully, with the Centenary of the 1^st World War, this will be rectified and Americans in greater numbers will now come to pay homage to their heroes who fell on the Western Front.

In the Belgium city of Ypres is a soaring stone archway at an entrance to the town. The Menin Gate memorial to the Missing has etched into its walls the names of 50,000 thousand British and other Commonwealth soldiers who served in the region but have no known graves. Even after all these years, they still play the last post every evening as a mark of respect for the fallen.

The largest Commonwealth War cemetery is Tyne Cot with over 12,000 graves in it. More than half the headstones have no name. They bear the inscription “Known Only To God.

We visited large war cemeteries here and beautiful and sad as they were, the most touching was a small cemetery near Passchendale with only a handful of white headstones. Night was falling as we passed through this cemetery, and as we stopped to read the inscription on an eighteen year old soldier’s grave, we whispered that someone from home had come to visit him. When we turned and walked away through the misty rain, all we could leave behind for him was our tears and a red poppy.

Find Margaret Tanner's WWI Centenary Edition and her other titles here: http://www.bookswelove.net/tanner.php

Play Day by Tia Dani

 Yesterday Tia and Dani (us) decided to take a day off from writing and play. We enjoyed a delicious lunch at the Olive Garden and sipped on the wine of the day. We can still taste the sparkling wine, it was so good–name of the wine unfortunately forgotten.

 It was about then we noticed that one of Tia's false eyelashes was coming loose. This was her first attempt to wear them and she seemed to really be having issues. Dani, being the eyelash expert that she is, suggested it might be a good idea for her to buy another pair and instantly decided a trip to the closest Wal-Mart should be the next stop. Besides she wanted to drive her new car. (More on this subject at a later date.)

 Once at Wal-Mart, as we entered the store, the wonderful aroma of cinnamon surrounded us with heady delight. The spicy smell was awesome and all thoughts of eyelashes went on hold as we searched the area for the smell, sniffing up and down the aisles. We finally found the source–in a bin high up on a wall above our heads. Cinnamon pine cones galore. You know the ones, they are around every holiday, bundled in a mesh wrapper and fills the house with glorious cinnamon?

We had to have them, or a candle, or at least something that would give off the cinnamon fragrance. That sent us on another search – find the perfect cinnamon gift for ourselves. Besides, we decided, there is so much that makes fall such a wonderful time. Cooler days, spectacular colors, hearty soups, crusty breads, and pumpkin pie. We've gained weight just thinking about what is to come.

 Yes, we did remember the eyelashes after Tia discovered a 20 dollar bill in the pocket of her jeans. What an unexpected find. Now she had money to get her eyelashes PLUS something cinnamon. We both decided on cinnamon sticks.

It was a good day of shopping.

Since we're talking about shopping. It's time to think about all the grocery shopping to be done for Thanksgiving. We came across this recipe for the yummy Tiramisu we enjoyed today. We're gonna give it a try.

This is a copycat recipe from the book, America's Most Wanted Recipes, by Ron Douglas. We're going to make it and see if it tastes like the one we had for dessert.

                   

                 Olive Garden Tiramisu

1 store-bought 10 to12 inch sponge cake (about 3 inches high)

11/2 tablespoons brewed strong brewed coffee (or instant espresso)

11/2 tablespoons brandy or rum

11/2 pounds cream cheese or mascarpone cheese, softened

1 to 11/2 cups superfine or confectioners' sugar

Unsweetened cocoa powder, sifted

1.   Cut across the middle of the sponge cake, forming 2 layers, each about 1 ½ inches high.

2.     Blend the coffee and brandy. Sprinkle enough of the mixture over the bottom half of the cake to flavor it strongly. Don't moisten the cake too much, or it may collapse on serving.

3.     Beat the cheese and 1 cup of the sugar until the sugar is completely dissolved and the cheese is light and spreadable. Test for sweetness during beating, adding more sugar if needed.

4.     Spread the cut surface of the bottom layer with half of the cheese mixture.

5.     Replace the second layer and top with the remaining cheese mixture.

6.     Sprinkle the top liberally with sifted cocoa.

7.     Refrigerate the cake for at least 2 hours before cutting and serving.

               Makes one 10 to 12 inch 2 layer cake  

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving. Enjoy your family and remember every opportunity that comes your way can bring exciting blessings.

Find Tia Dani's Time Travel romance at  http://bookswelove.net/tiadani.php

It's a Southern Thing by Gail Roughton

Hey, y’all!  Well, Thanksgiving’s near and this Thanksgiving’s really special at my house.  My youngest child is coming home.  He hasn’t been home since September, 2013.  He’s a Navy Corpsman and his specialty training is Field Medic for the Marines.  Because Lord knows he wouldn’t pick something safe like pharmacy or x-ray or lab tech or anything like that.  So this Thanksgiving I’m pulling out all stops.  And the highlight of Thanksgiving (food that is, people are the real highlight of Thanksgiving, we all know that) at our house is dressing. My family loves dressing.  One particular type of dressing.  Miss Emma’s dressing. 

Miss Emma – and please be advised that in the South, all ladies not your mother or your aunt who are some years older than you are addressed as “Miss”, just as all men not your Daddy or your uncle who are some years older than you are addressed as “Mr.” – was the office mother of the Macon, Georgia law firm of where I’ve worked for twenty-one years.  When I first met Miss Emma, she was a very young and spry 74.  In fact, she drove a stick shift and listened to a rock station on the radio.  I helped spearhead a special birthday celebration for her 75^th birthday.  And 85^th, 90^th , and 91^st.   At every one of those birthday celebrations, I gave the same toast, a quote from the Wizard of Oz to the Tin Man:  “Hearts are not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.” 

Miss Emma was a true Southern lady with a strict work ethic and enough love to encompass the world, including every person who ever set foot through the firm doors, whether attorney, bookkeeping staff, paralegal, secretary, law clerk, receptionist, runner, copy clerk.   And pretty much everybody else she ever met.  Her heart was big enough to hold all of us and have plenty of room for newcomers.

Not one for excess sentimentality, she showed her love in concrete ways. Like cooking.   And believe me when I tell you this – Miss Emma could cook.   The break room was fragrant with the smells of fresh baking more mornings than not. Her pound cakes were legendary.  I can still smell the long pans of peach cobbler, baked that morning and still streaming steam.  In the afternoons, a block of cream cheese sometimes took up duty by a plate of crackers and an open jar of her homemade green pepper jelly.  That’s a southern thang, y’all.  Cream cheese and pepper jelly.

She’d collected her recipes years before into a big black notebook, divided into categories by divider tabs. One of my friends made a copy of that notebook when Miss Emma finally retired for good at 92, as well as one for herself and one for me.  Melody made a copy of her copy and gave it to my daughter as a wedding present.  She inscribed it “From Melody and Miss Emma.  She’d want you to have it.”  Her church had the recipes printed in a book and sold them with proceeds going to one of Miss Emma’s special Church projects, but  we prefer our own copies of the original wherein we can still see the notes in her own handwriting:  “Very good”; “Bake at 425 instead of 400”; “Add ½ cup of butter rather than ¼”. 

And so without further ado, because I get teary-eyed when I remember Miss Emma, I present Miss Emma’s Southern Cornbread Dressing, exactly as she wrote it, which is to say, as if she was standing over your shoulder telling you exactly what to do.  It’s the only dressing I make.

SOUTHERN CORNBREAD DRESSING

(With Turkey or Hen) – Serves about 8

2 cups crumbled stale cornbread

2 to 2-1/2 cups crumbled dry white bread (such as leftover biscuits or rolls – biscuits are better)

1 onion chopped fine

2 or 3 stalks of celery chopped fine (about ½ to ¾ cup)

½ stick melted butter or margarine

3 eggs, beaten slightly

4 to 5 cups turkey or chicken stock (after skimming off the grease –see note below)

1-1/2 tsp. salt

½ tsp. black pepper

1-1/2 tsp. poultry seasoning

(**Gail’s addition:  1 ½ tsp. sage)

Preheat oven to 425.  Mix breads, stock, beaten eggs and seasonings.  In the meantime, in a shallow frying pan, melt the butter/margarine and partially cook the onion and celery till it is just limp; then add the whole bit to the first mixture and stir well. This should be soft and runny, about the consistency of cake batter or very thick soup – this is the secret of good dressing, as it will dry out as it cooks.  After you make this a few times, you will be able to tell about the consistency.  Use a shallow pan for baking – a 9 x 13 size, or two smaller sizes – as this should be a rather thin layer.  I grease the pan with butter first.  After about 15 to 20 minutes, I take a cooking fork and run through it and sort of stir it up and then let it continue baking about another 15 to 20 minutes.  Or, you can leave it alone and let it bake smooth – then cut into squares.  Of course, you must have giblet gravy with this.  If you don’t know how to do that, I will be glad to tell you if you will give me a call. (Note from Gail:  That’s Miss Emma talkin’, not me.  I’m not chopping and boiling giblets and have not a clue how to make giblet gravy.  The store-bought turkey gravy works just fine for me.)

NOTE:  As to the stock, I always pour the stock up after baking a turkey or after cooking the giblets (neck, gizzard, heart and liver) and let it get cold in the refrigerator and remove the fat from the top.  Then I put that in the freezer to save to make dressing and gravy the next time I bake a turkey.  Otherwise, you have the problem of baking your turkey ahead of time and not having time to prepare the stock.  It really is too greasy if you don’t remove the fat.  (Note from Gail:  Cans of chicken broth work well also.)

For Oyster Dressing:  Simply add up to a cup of chopped oysters to the batter before baking.

If you don’t mind eating dressing and gravy two times in a row, it’s nice to bake only half of the above and put the balance in the refrigerator and bake it fresh the next day.  Or you can half the whole thing to begin with. (Note from Gail:  Or in the case of my family, you can double it.)

Find Gail Roughton's Country Justice and all her titles here: http://bookswelove.net/roughton.php