In Persia, the festival of Nowruz, which dates back to the
pre-Islamic Zorastrian civilization, is celebrated joyfully, even in present
times. It is Iran’s New Year, and is observed by visiting friends, family, and
sharing meals.
Best wishes to all on the Spring equinox!
This is about children. They feature a lot in my romances because they feature a lot in my life in the form of grandchildren and their friends. Animals also feature ditto. Authors are always told to write about the things they know, so I do...at least to some extent. And certainly as far as children are concerned.
All of my granddaughters love books and all of them enjoy writing stories and poems, many of which give the family pleasure as they note the progress being made and the imagination being shared. Just occasionally, however, things become a little more poignant, none more than this letter from my 6 year old granddaughter who lives in Hong Kong. She and her parents were due to spend 6 weeks with us in the summer of 2020 but Covid put paid to that as they weren't allowed to leave Hong Kong. So now we continue, as we always have, to talk on Skype and to share thoughts on a WhatsApp Family Chat. This includes everyone in the immediate UK family.
Due to the time difference we often wake up in the morning to messages and photos that have been sent while we were asleep and this is what arrived last week.
Given that we are way past Christmas we are taking the greeting as it is intended. We also love the idiosyncratic spellings, the pink pen and the various stickers. The message, sent without any prompting from her parents, is heartrending though. In our UK family we have dogs, cats and a horse, some of which she has already met, and all of whom she has seen on Skype. A Hong Kong high-rise is not the place for pets, however, so she is living for the day when she can play with them all and ride the horse on a leading rein, as she was expecting to do last summer.
Having said that she is managing pretty well on Skype in the interim. She's been known to send her eldest cousin messages during a university lecture and call us up while we are out walking the dog and take the walk through the fields with us. We also manage to play games like UNO or Chess online after a fashion, read books or write stories, and, if they are with her, be introduced to many of her little friends. It's amazing what can be achieved with technology and we consider ourselves very lucky to be able to maintain such a close relationship across the miles. It doesn't make up for that poignant little letter though. Nothing will.
On a lighter note, the middle granddaughter is known for her sense of humour and dry wit. These came into play this week when, to her disgust, she was told that because it was International Book Day she had to dress up as a character from a book she liked. At 14, she thought the whole thing was ridiculous in the way only a teenager can, especially as lessons were still online! She is, however, a very dutiful student, so when the day came she chose Harry Potter as her character. She then mentally donned his invisibility cloak by keeping her camera turned off during her online English lesson. I don't know what costumes her classmates came up with but what I do know is that she won first prize. Obviously her English teacher has a sense of humour too. It has kept the whole family laughing all week.
Now she is back in the classroom and so is our granddaughter in Hong Kong, and hopefully it won't be too long before we can all meet up again. In the meantime I have another book to write...children will feature!!
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| Here's what popped up at the Laramie awards ceremony as ... the Grand Prize Winner! |
It’s movie awards season again, looking different because of the pandemic. Most of the films this year can be seen on television, either pay-per-view or on a streaming service.
I have a great passion for good movie storytelling, so I will don my tiara and let you know my favorites of the year —
So there you have it, Eileen’s favorite movies of the year of the plague. I’m so glad
I had them to keep me company.
See you at the movies!
Like millions of people in North America and Britain, I watched the recent Oprah Winfrey interview with Meghan Markle and Prince Harry. When the couple married almost three years ago, my husband and I happened to be in the UK on vacation. We visited the church at Windsor Castle, where the wedding would take place and watched the preparations underway. On May 19, 2018, the day of the event, we took a train from the Lake District to Edinburgh. At the decorated train station, a woman set up a festive table with afternoon tea for sale.
Meghan and Harry’s honeymoon with the press and public deteriorated quickly after that, as did their relationships with people in the royal family. A year ago they gave up their duties as senior royals and moved to Canada, a Commonwealth nation where Meghan had lived and worked as an actress. When the UK and Canada refused to pay for their long-term security, they settled in California with plans to pursue non-regal ventures. In their interview with Oprah, they said that unfair and hurtful treatment by members of the royal family, the palace establishment and the British media forced them to take these steps.
Everyone I know, including me, has watched the Netflix series The Crown, which chronicles the life of Queen Elizabeth II from girlhood to recent times. A theme I take from the series is that the personal lives of royal family members come second to protecting and preserving the institution of The Crown. In the Oprah interview, Harry said that all of his relatives are trapped in their royal roles. The Netflix show suggested the Queen might have been happier living a simple life in the countryside with her horses and dogs. But then she wouldn’t have fame, fortune and a place in history. Many would choose the trap.
The media loves drama. It sells newspapers and gets people to watch shows like the “bombshell” and “explosive” Oprah interview. The UK tabloids exploited and maybe created the Meghan vs Kate conflict. This narrative serves The Crown if Kate generally comes across better, since she’s a future queen. Harry told Oprah that the royal family needs positive coverage by the press. The monarchy isn’t secure forever and the country has many anti-royalists. While the Queen is beloved, her successor Prince Charles isn’t. But Will and Kate look on track to replacing the Queen in people’s hearts. They also have three children ahead of Harry in the line of succession. Harry's drop to the # 6 spot makes him less important to The Crown. That's why their son wasn't made a prince and perhaps why the palace made little effort to protect Meghan from media criticism and lies, as she said in the Oprah interview.
Both Harry and Meghan made a point of telling Oprah they still get along well with his grandmother, Queen Elizabeth. Harry followed up the interview by making it clear that the Queen and Prince Philip weren’t the unnamed royals who made racist remarks that were arguably the interview’s biggest bombshell revelation. This shows that the young couple's intentions haven't strayed completely away from their prime roles as members of the royal family—to protect and preserve the person who embodies The Crown.
I am the author of two mystery novels, Deadly Fall and Ten Days in Summer, both set in Calgary, AB, and featuring insurance adjuster sleuth Paula Savard. My short stories have won contests and appeared in magazines and anthologies, most recently in Writing Menopause, Long Lunch/Quick Reads and AB Negative. I belong to the Alexandra Writers Centre Society, Crime Writers of Canada and the Writers Guild of Alberta and serve on the board of When Words Collide Festival for Readers and Writers. A native of Montreal, I live in Calgary, where I love hiking in our nearby Rocky Mountains.
Thank goodness in the New Millennium—which really isn’t all that new anymore—it
was possible for thirty-something businessman, wearing after-five attire, to
sit in a bar late at night and have a drink without being eyed, and raked over
by suspicious minds. Well, almost
possible, anyway, but “shame, shame, shame,” as Gomer Pyle used to say, on
their potty minds. My friend, DJ was business professional, whose job as a
stock broker required a lot of socializing. And that’s what he’d been doing,
on a Thursday night in Bellevue, Washington, Seattle’s sophisticated neighbor.
Earlier in the evening, one of his clients, a gallery owner and artist
in his own right, had an art showing. DJ had attended, done the wine-and-cheese
thing, and trolled for new clients—unsuccessfully, as it turned out, and left
around 11:00 p.m. Along with some of the art lovers he’d gone to kill the
effects of the wine with a cup of coffee at a swanky restaurant and lounge called Benjie's,
but they’d left, he was blissfully alone, enjoying the ambiance and the
relative quiet.
Benjie’s was located in the penthouse of a bank building. Its décor was
chrome and black leather with recessed lighting and wide floor-to-ceiling
windows. Even if blurred by Puget Sound
rain, they framed the city lights and eliminated most of the street noise. Another part of
the architecture was the bar, which was designed to let people watch the chefs
at work. Benjie’s specialty was omelets for the light-night, crowd. DJ was a
regular because he liked to sit at the bar and listen to snatches of the cook’s
conversations, and watch their economy of movements as they prepared the orders
coming in.
That Thursday night DJ heard enough of the waiter’s whispered
conversations to know that there was tension in the air. Apparently, Vinnie,
the head chef, had been cooking steadily since 10:00 a.m. that morning—nearly
12 hours standing at the hot stoves. While
he flipped eggs and cheese in a small pan, it was obvious the long day was
taking its toll. Tufts of bleached blond hair stuck out from under his tall,
white hat. The hat, itself, was decidedly askew. His apron was fresh, but his
face glistened with steam and sweat. His slightly hunched posture looked so
tense, DJ later told me his own neck and shoulders began to ache, sort of a
kitchen couvade.
Three of the waiters on duty, two men and a woman, all young and collegiate-looking, seemed just a little anxious, but one, a man named Kirt,
was apparently oblivious to the tension. He was also oblivious to the fact that he was giving Vinnie extra
aggravation. DJ was familiar with Kirt; he had a
bubbly personality and treated every patron as if they were a welcomed regular. However, he stopped and talked too
much—annoying under the best of circumstances and a powder keg under the
worst. And that night, circumstances
were at their worst. Vinnie snatched the order slips out of Kirt’s hand, and barked out his name when the
orders were ready for pick up. Unfortunately, due to his chatting, Kirt didn’t always hear his call,
and his name seemed to be called four times more often than those of his fellow
waiters. It was a situation ripe for
potential.
“Kirt, please." Vinnie slapped yet another dish on the bar
between the kitchen and the lounge.
Kirt was at the far end of the room, taking another order and didn’t
hear.
“Kirt, order up,” Vinnie called again.
That time Kirt heard, but a man at a window table detained him.
“Kirt! Get your ass in here!” The over-heated cook roared.
Kirt’s fellow waiters stepped aside to clear a path, and Kirt responded
immediately, practically speed walking through the archway into the
kitchen. Just before loading his arms
from wrist to elbow with assorted-sized plates, he gave another order to
Vinnie.
“Tell them there’s none left,” Vinnie snapped, as he looked at the new
request.
“Tell them yourself,” Kirt snapped back.
With a lot of unnecessary clatter, Vinnie slammed his way through a
refrigerator and several cupboards.
After gathering his ingredients, he mixed, poured, and stirred in a series
of small, round-bottomed sauce pans. DJ said he never saw him leave the stove
for a minute, but suddenly the unmistakable odor of burning food began to waft
ever-so-gently toward the bar. That was
evidently Vinnie’s own particular boiling point. With a magnificent and enviable windup, he
snatched the offending pan off the stove and heaved it and its contents against
a far wall. The pan ricocheted back, left
a black mark on the white paint, and dropped conveniently into a nearby garbage
can with a cacophony that stopped the diner’s conversations. A sunshine yellow assault of eggs, milk and various-colored peppers flew up in a
leap Nureyev would have envied. A confetti of ingredients splattered the walls
and appliances in a six-foot radius, but most of it hit the wall near the black
mark. Like a slow-motion action
sequence, the goo slid slowly and inexorably toward the floor, leaving cheery
streaks of yellow dotted with red and green.
For a moment the room was so quiet even the distant sounds of
freeway traffic could be heard. Then conversations resumed as the waiters and remaining
kitchen staff raced to the scene like reporters to the site of a disaster. The wall’s egg-tempura vanished under an
assault of paper towels. While some
hands wiped the appliances down, others patted Vinnie soothingly, talking softly
in attempts to diffuse the situation.
“That was the last order, Vinnie.”
“You’ve had a really long day.”
“Go home; we’ll take care of things.”
Impervious to it all, Vinnie pushed everybody aside and stormed out
through the lounge, his apron strings floating behind him.
It was over in a flash. The majority of the diners probably weren’t even aware of the great drama
that had just taken place. DJ was just lucky enough to have seen it all from start to finish. And what a
great ending since he didn’t particularly like omelets.
SO---funny or unkind to laugh?
Have you ever tried to capture a childhood memory -- that illusive remnant of an adventure softened by the shadows of time? As adults, we might wonder if those events really happened, or if they are only figments of our imagination. We might laugh now at our naiveté, but at the time, those painted carousel horses were very much alive, the pirate ship held tons of gold, and the cowboys always won. For me, there was a candy dish; but not your ordinary candy dish of course…
"Are we there yet?"
The road was bumpy, and Dad swerved to
miss a snake slithering across the gravel.
It was hot, but July is always hot in Iowa, and back in 1956, air
conditioning wasn't included on the sticker price of our Chevy station
wagon. It didn't bother me, though,
because I was seven years old. I was
tough, and not about to let hot weather stop me from enjoying the drive that
would take me to my adventure.
Bugs splattered against the
windshield, and a big grasshopper ricocheted off the rear view mirror to land
on the back seat. Dad said to get it out
of the car, but one look at those beady eyes convinced me it wouldn't hurt if
the grasshopper went with us.
Dad was taking me to my Aunt Bea's
-- a farm with horses and other animals and homemade cookies and my cousin
Craig. We would take baths in a
galvanized tub hardly big enough to sit in; we had to hand-pump water into the
kitchen sink. We played from sun-up
until Aunt Bea rang the huge dinner bell, then after meals we played some more.
At that time, there were no
convenience stores on the corners, no public swimming pools and skating rinks
or shopping at the mall every afternoon.
There were no computers, video games or cell phones; no colored TV in
every room or central air conditioning.
Instead, we had acres and acres of green grass
and blue sky in which to play; square hay bales to hide behind when playing
cowboys; a big house with a huge porch and cookies hot from the oven. Our imaginations never limited the source of
our adventures, and we didn't need a lot of toys to occupy our time. Unless, of course, you counted the dollar's
worth of plastic cowboys we bought at the local Five & Dime.
Aunt Bea had a big old farmhouse --
far too large for just the three of them, so the front rooms had been closed
off by a set of pocket doors. White
slipcovers blanketed the furniture and the draperies were always closed. Voices
echoed eerily off the chill walls and hardwood floors should anyone happen to
step into what looked like a mausoleum.
It was as though an entirely
different family lived there, but they were never home. Even so, you had to walk past the connecting
doors quietly, for it wouldn't be polite to disturb them.
"Don't say a word," my
cousin would whisper, a finger to his lips.
Of course, I believed him -- he was older than me and he lived there all
the time.
It was more fun living in the back
of the house, anyway, because there were two kitchens. In one, Aunt Bea put up summer vegetables
from the garden. There were big wooden
worktables, the pump to get water into the sink, and a big, pot-bellied
stove.
Aunt Bea made cookies in the other
kitchen. It was by the living room,
where Uncle Clair watched black & white TV and an old sidesaddle hung on
the wall. My cousin and I would lie on
the hardwood floor and play with little cars that went in a metal garage and
rolled down the ramp to the car wash.
Every day we played cowboys, hiding
behind hay bales and shooting at each other with plastic handled pistols. We'd take turns being the cowboys and bad
guys because it was only fun when there was someone to shoot at. After all, with just two of us, it would be
too easy to steal horses from imaginary outlaws. Even so, it was easy to get bored. So we would hide out and try to decide what
to do next.
We could go get something to eat or
drink. It was hot and we played
hard. Of course, we couldn't just walk
in and ask -- that would have been too simple -- so we decided to sneak in
through the front of the house.
The old weathered boards of the
porch creaked beneath our bare feet. The
screen door swayed on rusty hinges and created eerie noises that belonged to
the inky night, not to broad daylight. I
giggled and my cousin shushed me -- we couldn't dare be caught. We silently crept closer to the door, keeping
low beneath the windows. Craig turned
the handle -- a soft click and the door squeaked open, inch by noisy inch. I held my breath, sure that any second we
would be discovered. Craig pushed on the
big wooden door -- I grabbed his arm and hung on. After all, he was bigger than me and much,
much braver.
Shadows loomed gigantic across the
wood floors. Shrouded furniture turned
to ghostly shapes before our eyes and towered larger than any monster either of
us had ever seen.
"Let's go," I whimpered,
ready to forget the entire escapade.
"We can't," Craig jerked
me to a stop and pointed.
There, like a glittering crystal
crown, a candy dish perched on top of the dark wood coffee table. We stood in silent awe as it beckoned
us. Sunshine filtered through a gap in
the draperies to form a spotlight, causing the crystal to wink knowingly at us. Dust motes floated down the sunbeams and
danced around the crystal, paying homage.
We
crept on hands and knees now, our eyes wide and our hearts pounding. Any minute unbidden creatures would jump up
and screech at us from behind the white sheets.
Beasts from beneath the couch would snatch our legs and drag us,
screaming and fighting, beneath the draped edge, never to be heard from
again.
Regardless of the danger, we
slithered closer, for the candy dish proved a stronger lure than the threat of
unseen monsters.
Even as our grubby hands touched the
sparkling cut glass, we cast furtive glances over our shoulders toward the
doors that separated this section from the real
house. Craig whispered to be
careful, for we not only had to remove
the lid without letting it click against the side, but we must put it back so no one would know we had
been there.
Our adventure became more difficult
the minute Craig lifted the lid. It had
a fluted edge, and if the little curves didn't fit together just right, it
would fall off to the side and break.
Not to mention making an incredible noise.
I could hear Aunt Bea moving around
in the kitchen on the other side of the pocket doors. The dog barked outside, and a horse neighed
in the distance. My heart beat louder
than any ordinary noise, and I knew for sure she could hear us. I held my breath as I reached into the
bowl. My hand closed around the prize --
sweet, hard bits of sugar. As quietly as
we had come, we left, pulling the door softly closed behind us.
Those few seconds were as long as we
could remain quiet. With whoops of
laughter, we jumped off the porch and raced for the hay bales, falling down to
the ground only after we were safely out of sight and no one the wiser. We laughed as we ate the spoils of our
adventure, arguing already over who would lead the secret raid tomorrow.
We never questioned
the reason for a candy dish in a room no one ever entered. After a week of raids on the ghostly haunt,
we never once thought it unusual that the candy dish, sitting alone in a room
never used, was always full. After all,
it was summer on the farm, and at seven years of age, it's easy to believe in
magic.
***
If you like short stories for a change of pace, I invite you to grab a copy of “Before Tomorrow Comes” -- Can five women with tender hearts find the love they deserve before their secrets and pasts are exposed? This, and all my romance novels are available at Books we Love www.bookswelove.net.
Here’s hoping your memories are magic.
Barb Baldwin
Vanessa C. Hawkins Author Page
In the context of stories, it is often the case that a dash of ingenuity and a pinch of drive, combined with a healthy dose of creativity seasoned with levity and charm, can create a wonderful snack on a rainy pandemic day. The great thing about stories, is that no matter how much you indulge, you will never get fat, or feel bad about doing so.
Unless you're an author in need of an oven light. Or whose cupboards are bare of ingredients...
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| Darn... out of inspiration again. |
It happens to us all. Like wrinkles. Even very young authors—and I use the term young in reference to career and not to one's duration within the universe—who start out fresh and full of paragraphs will eventually find themselves struggling to mix up something that sates their palate. It is perhaps the eternal struggle for scribes everywhere, and without a Gordon Ramsay to hurl abuse at us until we write better, what is one to do?
Carry a notebook for on the spot inspirations? Yes! You never know when you'll think of a new recipe.
Go for a walk, or listen to music or read or improve one's own world vision through others? Absolutely! Then write about what you know!
Though of course, it is always easier said than done, and until someone invents a Ducolax for writer's block, we may all feel up *%&# creek without a paddle sometimes.
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| How the heck do I pass this?! |
My solution was to add another cook to the kitchen, because after having a baby, going back to work, caring for the needs of my husband on top of all the other great and no-so-great things that goes along with being alive, I found myself too busy to deal with the enormous block that had been shoved up my tookus.
But—pun intended—I was lucky to have a secret weapon up my arsenal.
A good friend who I had been writing with for years, and who seemed inclined to write about dragons and romance and loose vampire police women in the 1920's prohibition era.
Sound spicy? We like to call it Urban Fantasy Fusion.
Not really, but I'm trying to keep with the cooking theme, so just go with it. Scarlet Fortune and Shad O'Rahin: two individuals embroiled up to their fangs in bootlegging shenanigans, monster hunters and strange affections. Coming to you piping hot September 2021, and lovingly prepared by word culinarian Tara Woodworth and Executive Chef Vanessa C. Hawkins!
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| We don't have the cover art done yet... |
Of course, what worked for me may not work for everyone. In the grand scheme of things, whether one decides to include another in their endeavors, scribble words on a page until they make sense, or cry in darkness of your room at night while second guessing everything you've ever done or written... an author's cookbook is defined by the author itself. Do what you need to do to keep serving up delights.
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| Poe cried a lot and he became famous... after he died... |
Fatten your readers with smut and romance, sadden them with drama and fright! Serve them up something disturbing, leave them feeling full and complete! It is impossible to satisfy every taste, but write for yourself first. And figure out who may like Urban Fantasy Fusion later.
Did I mention it comes out in September? Yeah?
Okay... just making sure.
I hate writing introductions because my first thought it how can I make this as extra as possible. Honestly, I'm not that interesting. I write books sometimes and hang out with my family and eat nacho's on Friday nights when my daughter goes to her Grandparent's house. Sometimes I dress spooky, but lately because of Covid (yeah... Covid. Right...) I've become too fluffy to fit into my goth clothes. I'm married. I like comics, and I like sleeping in, though I rarely get to do it these days.
I'm currently working on a sweet Christmas story. So far I haven't had to worry about time of death as no fresh body has landed in the snow around my heroine's country house. While I do not plan to kill anyone in my current work-in-progress, the same couldn't be said about my previous stories.
In an investigation, it helps to determine the time and cause of death. We've all heard the terms algor mortis, livor mortis, or rigor mortis, but what do they mean, and mostly importantly how and why do they occur?
Sooner or later, preferably later, we all die, but what happens to our physical body between the time we die and the time we become dust or ashes?
By nature, I'm a very curious person and I ask lots of questions. Sometimes, too many. 
If I'd pursued my degree in science instead of switching
to accounting, I would have become a pathologist/medical
examiner/coroner, so when I stumbled on an article about the weird things that happen after you die, I couldn't resist reading--and sharing.
The process of decomposition starts just minutes after death. When the heart stops beating, we experience algor mortis, or death chill, when the temperature of the body falls about 1.5 degrees Fahrenheit an hour until it reaches room temperature. Almost immediately, the blood becomes more acidic as carbon dioxide builds up. This causes cells to split open, emptying enzymes into the tissues, which start to digest themselves from within.
Gravity makes its mark on the human body in the first moments after death. While the rest of your body turns deathly pale, heavy red blood cells move to the parts of your body that are closest to the ground. This is because circulation has stopped. The results are purple splotches over your lower parts known as livor mortis. By studying the markings of livor mortis, the coroner can determine when the victim die and if the body was moved.
Rigor mortis is when a dead body becomes stiff and hard to move. Rigor mortis generally sets in about three to four hours after death, peaks at 12 hours, and dissipates after 48 hours. It is caused by the pumps in the membranes of our muscle cells that regulate calcium. When the pumps stop working in death, calcium floods the cells, causing the muscles to contract and stiffen.
Putrefaction follows rigor mortis. This phase is delayed by the embalming process, but eventually the body will succumb. Enzymes in the pancreas make the organ begin to digest itself. Microbes will tag-team these enzymes, turning the body green from the belly onwards. As this bacterium breaks us down, it releases putrescine and cadaverine, the compounds that make the human body smell in death.
After putrefaction, decay moves quickly to turn the body into a skeleton. However, some bodies take an interesting turn on the way. If a body comes into contact with cold soil or water, it may develop adipocere, a fatty, waxy material formed from the bacteria breaking down tissue. Adipocere works as a natural preservative on the inner organs. It can mislead investigators into thinking a body died much sooner than it actually did.
This last one sounds strange, and creepy, but apparently a body doesn't just twitch as it goes through the process of decomposition, it can move quite a lot...
Now, this was everything you probably didn't want to know about what happens after you die.
Happy Reading & Stay Safe
JS
Reference: Treehugger.com
I grew up in Shawinigan, a small French Canadian town, attended military college, married a young officer, and raised three spirited children. Over the years, I enjoyed many wonderful postings in many different regions of Canada.
After my children left the nest, I began writing. Three years later, I captured my dream of becoming a published author with my underwater novel “Salvaged”.
Many of my romantic suspense novels are set in Canada or feature Canadian characters. One of my latest series also involves time travel.
I'm not sure where time flew, but decades later, I ended up writing under the Northern Lights in Alberta while spoiling a gorgeous little granddaughter.
Erin Go Bragh and happy Saint Patrick's Day! 
Eileen O’Finlan was a member of the Worcester Writers Workshop for many years and now hosts a writing group at her home in Holden.
Kelegeen, published by BWL Publishing, is her debut novel. She is currently working on the sequel to be titled Erin's Children set in Worcester, Massachusetts.
Eileen is a holds a Bachelor’s Degree in history and a Master’s Degree in pastoral ministry.
When not writing or working her full-time job, Eileen facilitates online courses for the University of Dayton, Ohio.
Download the free copy of our March book of the month, Murder and Mint Tea, Book 1 in Janet Lane Walters' delightful mystery series, Mrs. Miller Mysteries. Free for our readers as a PDF download. Just visit the site and click the book cover to download. https://bookswelove.net
Our Newest Releases March 2021
Visit our website at https://bookswelove.net for details
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My novel, Grace, Lady of Cassio, begins in 1331 during
the reign of Edward III. It will be published in August 2022.
At
heart I am a historian. My novels are rich in historical detail that requires
intensive research, some of which I am sharing in this blog.
Food and Drink in 14th Century England
In
the Great Hall. A lord, his
lady and guests sat at a table on a dais at one end of the great hall. A white
linen tablecloth covered the table. The best food was placed before him on a
long, narrow coloured strip of fabric. Everyone else sat on benches at trestle
tables at right angles to the dais. They ate food appropriate for their rank
the lowest ate pottage.
Restrictions.
The
Church forbade consumption of meat on Wednesdays, Fridays Saturdays, and during
Advent. In Lent eggs were not allowed. Fish replaced the prohibited food.
Breakfast.
Noble
households. The lord and his lady, if he was married, their most important
guests and senior officials broke their fast with bread, cheese, ale or
buttermilk. In accordance with the belief that servants became lazy if they ate
too much so they were not served breakfast.
Dinner.
This
opulent main meal was served between approximately between 10 a.m. and 11 a.m. After
the priest said prayers, fresh fruit stimulated the appetite. Two people shared
food on a stale bread trencher that soaked up juice and sauce. First, the lord
helped himself first to food. After he sampled the dishes, they were passed to
his guests.
The first course numbered a variety of
meat dishes; to name a few, meat pottage flavoured with herbs, spices, and
wine, or one containing, for example, savoury chicken, pheasant or swan with
boiled meat, and venison seethed in almond milk and other ingredients. Some
dishes were a combination of sweet and savoury. Four courses followed. The
second with a variety of roasted, expertly carved, exotic meats, among others
stork, peacock, heron, and larks. The next with small birds and cooked fruit,
maybe baked, stewed in wine, or cooked in sugar syrup etc. A last course of
fruit, nuts, cheese, and sweet and savoury wafers accompanied by spiced red wine ended the meal.
On days when eating meat was prohibited,
they ate four fish courses of fish cooked in different ways, for example, fresh
fish, smoked fish, shellfish pickled in brine, salt fish and stewed fish.
Vegetables were incorporated in pottages
and other recipes.
Large and small sweet and savoury pies,
some called coffins because of their shape.
Supper. Served at sunset,
at the castle or manor for those seated on the dais supper was a light meal,
Usually with one main dish, maybe white bread, side dishes and cheese. After
supper sometimes they danced, or professional entertainers such as acrobats,
jongleurs, minstrels and storytellers performed. If not a knight or the lord’s
lady might recite a story. Sometimes a squire played an instrument and sang.
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| London Bridge in its hay-day |
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| Precarious location but folks could fish from the lower level |
This is a notorious story of early London, humorous if not a little sad. I used a portion of this in my novel Highwayman which produced a snicker or two from my readers.
IN the 12th century, John Overs rented ferries that traversed the River Thames. He was as stingy as they came, except he allowed his daughter a fine education which must have drawn heavy coins from his purse.
John rivaled the richest Alderman of London/Southwark when it came to his income, yet what he wore and where he lived were deemed quite miserable. He refused to provide a dowry for his daughter when she came of age, even as a handsome fellow wooed her and was successful in gaining her adoration. All this took place behind John Overs’ back.
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| Southwark Side of London Bridge |
He constructed a unique way to save money, even as his daughter balked at the plan. But being a good daughter, she went along with it.
John Overs’ unique plan devised his own death. He reckoned his servants would fast for 24 hours and pray over him during this time, thus saving food and ale in his larder.
Unexpectedly, his servants raided his stores and struck up the lute. They partied, gobbled up his food, all the while sang and danced. Only a servant girl—here’s where the story gets muddled. Some say a maid, others a young man—stood near the body, watching for a specter to rise, which she would tend to with an iron wrought skillet.
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| More of London Bridge in its prime |
John Overs listened to this until he was rigid with anger. “Stirring and struggling in his sheet, like a ghost with a candle in each hand, he rose up to berate them for their boldness, but when the maid saw this, she thought the devil rose in her master’s likeness.” She took the skillet in hand—here’s another anomaly. The below source states a young man grabbed hole of an oar, but why would John Overs have an oar in his bedroom?—and bashed poor John Overs over the head, “actually struck out his brains.”
John Overs fell back onto the bed, dead as a knob, his face showing surprise at the outcome of his own parsimonious.
“The estate then became that of his daughter, and her lover, on hearing of this, hastened up from the country, but on hurrying to lay his hands on the fortune, rode too speedily; his horse stumbled, and he broke his neck on the highway.”
Downtrodden by two successive deaths Mary Overs handed over a goodly sum of money to have her father interred in a nearby church, but being excommunicated from the church for his extortion and usury, the Abbot did not allow this. His body was dug up and flung onto an ass, which “proceeded with a gentle and solemn pace through Kent street and along the highway to the small pond once called Thomas-a-Waterings, at that time the common place of execution, and shook the Ferryman’s body off, directly under the gibbet, where it was put into the ground without any kind of ceremony.”
Mary Overs could not overcome these troubles and went into a nunnery, donating a majority of her father’s wealth to build a church, St. Mary Overy’s. Shortly after this, she died and was buried in the church her father’s penury produced.
The end.
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Many thanks to: The Gruesome History of Old London Bridge by Geoffrey Abbot. Eric Dobby Publishing Ltd, 2008, Kent, UK.
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