Have Your Cake & Read It Too

Oh, No She Didn't!

2012-02-07T00:57:00.004-05:00

I will be the first to admit, my dear Cake Readers, that I, like half the English-speaking population out there, have a bit of a love affair with my cell phone. It’s with me almost everywhere I go: tucked under the pillow at night, laid by the side of the bathtub, slipped into my beach bag, chilling in the cup holder of the boat—hardly anything is off limits.

Notice I said hardly. That is because, my friends, there is one final place in the world where my phone will not make an appearance. It is the one last hold-out, the final frontier of inappropriateness which I can not—ney, will not—cross.

I speak of . . . the public restroom.

In a time not too long ago, a public restroom was a place where one went, took care of business, and went on their way. There was no eye contact, no chatting with strangers (with the obvious exception of asking for a square to spare when necessary, of course), and certainly no subjecting fellow restroom goers to the every detail of your life.

But that has all changed. That last, final holdout of etiquette has not only been breached, it has been stomped to the ground and set ablaze. I ask you: How in the name of all that’s sacred did we come to the point in our civilization where someone thought it was okay to bring their cell phone into the public restroom and actually use it?!

Only yesterday I was in the restroom at HomeGoods and some mutton-headed idiot came in, chatting away with her boyfriend on her cell phone. She continued through my flushing of the commode, of my hand washing, and my overly loud hand drying. She continued through her own business (wink, wink), through her own flushing, and through her own halfhearted one-handed finger washing. As I glared daggers at her, for the first time in my life considering confronting a perfect stranger in public and illuminating their horrible misdeed, she breezily pushed on past me, never pausing in her discussion.

Oh dear Lord in heaven, what have we come to??

WHEN did it become okay to broadcast your business, not to mention the business of others, to whatever god-forsaken soul is on the other end of the line? When was it no longer an embarrassment to allow those you are having a phone conversation with to hear you enter the echoing confines of the restroom, to relieve yourself (which by the way, can not help but be an audible task), and to flush the toilet?

As far as I’m concerned, talking on the cell phone in a public restroom is tantamount to bringing a recorder, a microphone, and an audience with you. Why, oh why would you do that to your fellow restroom goers? What happened to modesty, discretion, and oh, I don’t know—common sense?

And by the way, what is so unbelievably important that you can’t call that person back in a few minutes? Or that you can’t wait outside until such time that this incredibly vital conversation is completed?

Is the person you are talking to about to be forced to walk the plank by Somalian pirates, and your ill-advised Big Gulp of hours earlier is in coming back to haunt you? Are you attempting to make it into the Guinness Book of World Records by having the longest uninterrupted conversation via cell phone ever recorded? Are you trying to prove to the world that you are the most vile, unrepentantly rude person to have ever walked the earth? Really – that was the one you were going for? Well, congratulations, you’ve succeeded!

*Big breath*

Okay, so rant mostly over. If any of you are guilty of this, I beg you: please, in the future, have a teeny, tiny care for the unnamed men and women who are unlucky enough to have to use a public restroom in the first place: The ONLY call that has any business there is nature's!

So, am I the only one who is offended by this? What is your pet peeve?

I made the most fabulous 18th century recipe this week that I was planning on sharing, but in light of the topic, I felt if best to save the Chocolate Puffs for next week ;) See you then!

Music To My Ears

2012-01-30T23:56:00.003-05:00

When I was young, I had all kinds of lofty aspirations in life. Most important of all was the desire to be considered truly accomplished at something. I will never forget being ten years old at a friend’s house hearing about her sister, the champion equestrian. I had a little moment of panic thinking, will I ever be good at something? I can clearly recall telling myself that it was okay, ten years old was still young enough—if only just—to pick up a hobby or sport and become a savant at it.

Interestingly enough, I had an odd combination of overconfidence, competitiveness, and fear of failure that resulted in me having absolute faith that I could be great at something…so much so, that I didn’t need to test the theory to believe it. So, I had no need to run a mile or swim to the other side of the pool and back—I already knew I would be the best at it. Rather convenient way of looking at things, no?

But that logic was starting to wear a little thin, and I was starting to feel like I was losing my window to ‘start young’ so that I could become an expert at something. Grand thoughts of mortality for a 10 year old, right? But regardless, I needed to chose something and go with it. The time was now. If I wanted to be in the Olympics or hold an audience’s rapt attention, I had to get cracking.

To that end, I decided that I had it in me to be a concert pianist. And before you ask – no, I have no idea where that particular decision came from. I mean, no one in my family even owned an instrument, let alone played one. But there was something about watching a pianist on TV, or even the music teachers at school, that somehow just convinced me I could do it. And we’re not just talking learning to play; I wanted to master it.

To this day, I have no idea how I successfully convinced my parents go along with this new life plan, but somehow I did, and not only did they book lessons for me with a quintessential (I’m going to pause here to say that I spelled that word right the first try- what?!) white haired old lady who taught out of her home, but they actually bought a piano. Incredible! It was a sturdy old upright, not the least bit in tune and covered in layers and layers of paint, the last of which was a dingy white that flaked away every time you played it, walked by it, or even looked at it.

With little choice on where the thing should go, it took the place of honor right in the very center of the house, against the wall of the living room. Perfect – no matter where someone was in the house, they could not escape the discordant sound of ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’, “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” and the ever-popular repetitive practice scales.

The very best part was that I suddenly had a parent-sanctioned way to annoy the tar out of my older brother. I would lie in wait until he went to turn on the TV for his favorite show. The very moment the theme music started, I would dart from the hallway, mount the bench, and go to town on the keys. He’d get so mad, calling out to Mom or Dad to shut me up. But it didn’t matter – I totally had immunity. I was practicing, and they were paying good money to send me to those lessons and buy that piano. Nurturing the fledgling musical talent growing within me like a baby bird (ugly, blind, and completely unrecognizable) had become an investment in my future, after all.

This went on many an afternoon, and I can remember subjecting my brother to the smug, satisfied expression I had developed with the sole goal of driving him crazy. It worked every time. He hated me, and by extension that piano, so much that fire would shoot from his ears at the first tinkling note.

It. Was. Awesome.

Unfortunately, all the fun I had annoying my brother didn’t quite make up for the tedium of the actual practice. I would painstakingly pick out the notes, frustrated with the fact that I wasn’t magically able to play Beethoven within the first two months. What the heck – I was supposed to be a savant! A natural! In my mind, I would set my fingers to the keys and beautiful music would waft to the heavens like musical angel wings. I could almost hear the notes in my head – why wouldn’t my fingers cooperate?

So yeah, I totally gave up. Just like soccer, horse-riding (hey – I was totally traumatized when that horse almost ran me down in the corridor!), French horn, the French language, the Russian language, and absolutely anything sports related. I had no patience for the long and steady practice that becoming good at something requires. And, sadly, I passed through my childhood, teens, and even early twenties without mastering a single thing (with the possible excepion of annoying my siblings, which was indeed a bit of an art form in itself). I thought that my time had well and truly passed . . . until the day I tried my very first batch of homemade icing :)

Eventually, I did find that special something that I could do well :) I’m by no means a savant, but I have a passion for baking that for the first time in my life means I’m willing to do all the practice it takes to do it well. I’m pleased that I have an affinity for it, and alas, I didn’t need to start when I was ten ;)

But do you want to know the true twist to this story? Years later, my brother sat down at the piano and found his true love. Little did we know that all that time, the talent lay deep within him—not me. For all of his fussing and hollering at how much he hated the piano, it would ultimately become a siren for him, calling him back again and again until he successfully taught himself to play as beautifully as anyone I’ve ever heard. I hear his amazing work these days and smile, amazed at how things turned out.

Just as I labor in the kitchen, creating the perfect recipe to suit my mood and taste with nothing but a handful of ingredients found in every pantry, my brother creates in his music room the most heavenly of compositions, all made by the simple touch of warm fingers to cold keys of black and white. He is a true artist, with a creative spirit I can’t help but envy, and all I have to say is that I am glad he discovered his talent later in life, as I would surely have covered my ears in dismay as a child, and then wouldn’t I have missed out ;)

There is a reason why have been thinking about this story, my dear Cake Readers.

I’ll let you in on a little secret. For the first time in our lives, Andy and I are collaborating on a project that I am so proud of, I can hardly stand it. Soon, all will be revealed, but in the meantime, below are some of my favorites of brother’s pieces with which to whet your appetite :)

Now tell me - what are you good at? Have you ever played an instrument or learned to speak a foreign language? Did you find your calling later in life?

(That’s my dad flying for the video, by the way!)

You can also find out more about him at www.LineAndLandscape.com

Just for Giggles :)

2012-01-24T11:26:00.004-05:00

I'm gonna be honest, my dear cake readers. Between my fast approaching deadline, my recent presentation, and preparing for the lovely Catherine Gayle's visit, I totally neglected my blogging duties. So today, I decided to just show you a few videos that made me laugh out loud. After all, who doesn't love (or need!) to laugh?

Just a word of warning: don't watch at work - you'll give yourself away with giggles ;)

(This would totally be me with Darcy, lol)

Have a great week everyone!!

Ye Ole Bucket List

2012-01-17T00:02:00.002-05:00

Hello Dear Cake Readers!

Today I am at LadyScribes blog, talking about my newly written bucket list. I hope you'll drop by and tell me what's on your list, or help me come up with something new that is fabulous to add to mine :)

Click Here

Have a great week, and I'll see you here next week (when, I should mention, I will be a year older ;) )

All That Glitters

2012-01-10T10:19:00.003-05:00

Most of you know that I have a part-time day job, to which I go about once or twice a week and look at sparkly things all day, er, I mean—sell jewelry. I picked it up last Christmas to earn a little extra cash during the slow time in the writing industry. Up until that point, I had worked day in and day out from home, completely alone save for the pups curled at my feet. Living so far from civilization as we do, I rarely left the house, and my poor husband became my portal to the real world.

When he came home after a long day at the office, I would immediately accost him. “How are you? How was your day? What did you do? Who did you talk to? Anything new in anyone’s life? PLEASE TALK TO ME!!

Poor Kirk. A talker he is not (see how perfect we are for each other?), but he struggled to answer my questions with something other than fine, fine, not much, not really, and not that I know of. He’s a trooper, but even so, I started picturing myself at an old school typewriter, typing the same line over and over again: All work an no play makes Erin a dull girl.

So yeah, I got a job. It was actually a big leap for me—I had never worked in retail before. I was at least choosing something I loved—jewelry—but it wasn’t as though I was any sort of expert on the subject. Still, it was fairly close (if 40 minutes is close), I was familiar with the store after being a customer for almost 5 years, and, best of all, they offered to hire me (bird in the hand, and all that).

And you know what? I loved it! It was actually great to get out of the house for a real purpose, to put on makeup and wear nice clothes, and to bring home a semi-regular paycheck. But most of all, it was wonderful just to have the opportunity and reason to talk to people. I was happy to see each person who walked in the door, plus my coworkers were great. They devoured anything I brought to share (doesn’t that make a baker feel good?) and indulged my need to engage in conversation.

At the day job, as I came to call it, I had eight guilt-free hours to NOT think about writing, my characters, plot points, and keeping up with industry news. It was wonderful to use an entirely different skill set, allowing myself to simply be personable, to pick out pretty things, and to help people find that perfect something for the loved ones in their lives.

And, happily, I found that I was good at it. That was especially nice back before I had a contract or even an agent. For a struggling writer who felt as though I had spent the preceding year and a half in a vacuum of uncertainty, it was a confidence booster to have something I could point to and definitively say that I was successful at it. And it was fun! People almost always buy jewelry for a happy occasion: weddings, birthdays, anniversaries, graduations. Chatting about what made a purchase special for that person makes me happy. And for the not-so-happy times, it was almost always something poignant that gave me a watery smile. A locket to house a picture of a lost love one, sizing of a ring passed down as an inheritance, a breast cancer awareness charm to show solidarity.

At this job, I discovered a different side of myself. I didn’t know I’d be a good salesperson, or that customers would remember me a full year later when they came back in for Christmas. I learned I wanted the *right* sale much more than the *priciest* sale. I learned that I am satisfied with a job well done whether it is a well-written story, a yummy cupcake, or a happy customer.

When I started at the jewelry store, I would be quick to tell people that it wasn’t my ‘real’ job, that I was a writer by trade and only worked there for fun. I was a college grad, after all, and this job was just a hobby. What an idiot. Just because it’s retail doesn’t mean it is any less meaningful, any less fulfilling than any other job out there. Now, I take pride in my day job. A job well done is a job well done, no matter what that job is.

And, guess what? After a year working at my jewelry store, I recently learned that I am being promoted to diamond sales! Helping people pick out engagement rings? What could be more romantic than that! It was wonderful news for me, something I didn’t expect it at all since I work so little. But the true joy of the promotion was knowing that my work there was appreciated, and that they really want me to be there. That, my dears, is a very nice feeling indeed.

Perhaps I’ll buy a piece of jewelry to celebrate ;)

How else am I going to celebrate? With crepes!! Seriously, we bought a crepe pan and everything. Tonight the experiment begins using Alton Brown's recipe - stay tuned for recipe success (I hope)!

The Art of Setting Attainable Resolutions, Part Two

2012-01-03T00:17:00.006-05:00

So last year, I wrote a blog called The Art of Setting Attainable Resolutions, which was a fun, overdramatic telling of all the things I wished for in the coming year. If you haven’t read it, you really should. Talk about shooting for the stars! It started with a bang with my hopes of getting a top-pick agent, catching the eye of multiple publishers, and finally going to auction. Hehehe, isn’t it funny how over-the-top those goals were? Ridiculous, I know. Although . . . Wait a second! Perhaps it wasn’t so crazy after all! I seem to recall a certain Publisher’s Marketplace Announcement:

FICTION Women's/Romance Golden Heart finalist Erin Knightley's MORE THAN A STRANGER, pitched as a Regency-style YOU'VE GOT MAIL, in which the heroine falls for an enigmatic stranger, unaware he is her brother's oldest friend and the same man she shared a childhood correspondence with before he broke her heart, to Kerry Donovan at NAL, at auction, by Deidre Knight at The Knight Agency (World English).  Deidre.Knight@knightagency.net

(And yes, it still makes me giggly to read this!) I still can hardly believe how things unfolded this year with my writing—I'm such a blessed and lucky lady! Anyway, from there, I went on to wax poetic about my dreams of being stopped by Julia Quinn at conference…

O. M. G. That really did happen? It felt like just a dream! The only thing that would have made this year better is if I had actually managed to meet Colin Firth as hoped for in my resolutions list…

*Blinking*

Holy prophetic resolutions, Batman!! With the exception of moving to a summer home in Italy and shedding pounds, my ‘resolutions’ produced uncannily awesome results! All kidding aside, this past year has been beyond extraordinary for me. The amazing things that happened to me were a combination of luck, hard work, stick-to-it-iveness, and perhaps a little something more.

Did writing out my wildest dreams contribute to the success of this year? You know what, I actually think it did! There is so much to be said for the power of positive thinking, for putting your hopes and dreams on paper, and for aiming crazy high when shooting for our dreams. It certainly can’t hurt, and as last year’s resolutions seem to indicate, it may actually help.

So, what are my resolutions this year?

1) For my first two books to be a success (are you listening, Mr. New York Times Bestseller List maker?)

2) To learn to write a great novel in three months or less (stop snickering – it could happen!)

3) To have Hugh Jackman teach me to surf (hey, if mentioning Colin Firth worked, there is no way I'd pass up the chance to meet a wet, shirtless Hugh Jackman!)

4) To make enough money so that my husband can quit his day job and take up the two duties we agreed he would be responsible for if I ever became a sugar mama: to learn Italian and to maintain six-pack abs (admit it; you wish you’d thought of this one)

5) To develop a sugar-free, fat-free, calorie-free cupcake that is both satisfying and delicious, and actually helps you lose weight just by eating it (I promise to give the recipe away for free if I do, generous soul that I am)

6) To bring about world peace (I might as well use my magical resolution power for good, right?)

So there you have it, Erin’s New Year Resolutions, 2012. Now, tell me yours! What was your favorite success of last year, and what do you hope to accomplish this year?

To start the year out right, here is an absurdly delicious, absolutely nutritious recipe for Borscht, a hearty Russian soup. I made it today, and I have to say it was crazy good! As we all know, you can’t get anything done on an empty stomach, so make some soup, write your resolutions list, and get cracking!

I am more a baker than a chef, so when a recipe works perfectly as written, I don’t mess with it (too much, lol). Here is the link to Food and Wine Magazine’s Chunky Borscht: Click Here. Enjoy!

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-19T23:24:00.003-05:00

As the chaos of the holidays swallows me up, I wanted to take a moment to wish each and every one of you the very best Christmas ever. It's been a darn fine year for me, and I'm eagerly looking toward the future. Here's to a year of dreams coming true, friendships made, goals achieved, and the seemingly impossible made possible!

Below is a clip from my favorite holiday special of all time: A Charlie Brown Christmas. It combines all my favorite things: the true meaning of Christmas, Snoopy, that great piano music, and the world's best Christmas tree. Enjoy, and as I take off next week from blogging, I hope that you and yours have a magical, wonderful, delightful Christmas. Now... See you next year!!

When Ugly is Beautiful

2011-12-13T11:58:00.002-05:00

Working part time in a jewelry store, I have the opportunity to meet a lot of people. I love jewelry, and often enjoy getting people to try on pieces they may normally turn away from. This week, I was showing a couple in their mid-sixties some gorgeous pieces of chocolate diamonds, and the woman fluttered her hands nervously when I pulled out a ring.

“Oh, no, my hands are so ugly. I can’t wear rings.”

I was taken aback. She really meant it, as if her hands were somehow hideous monsters instead of the capable appendages they were. And honestly, this wasn't the first time I had heard this complaint from women of a certain age. I understand that we all have something about ourselves that we hate, and those things can often be magnified as we age, but I just couldn’t accept that kind of reaction.

I looked her right in the eye and said, “Your hands are beautiful. They are beautiful for all the things they make possible for you, for all that you have done with them, and all that you will do with them.”

She smiled and nodded, and they went on with their day, but it really got me thinking. How often do we get caught up in the vanity of things and forget to give thanks for the blessing those things truly are to us?

Shortly after I quit my job in 2009, something inside me went haywire. The technical term of the diagnosis was chronic autoimmune idiopathic urticaria… otherwise known as hives. I had them for days, then weeks, and later months. Huge portions of my skin would be covered in them, leaving me miserably itchy and horribly uncomfortable. Even worse, they were horrendous looking, like I’d been stung by hundreds of bees, and it left me very self conscious to go into public. What if they thought it was contagious? What if they judged me, or thought I had leprosy or something?

I went to doctor after doctor, underwent a battery of test, and was poked, prodded, and questioned within an inch of my life, all to have them say: We don’t know what’s causing it. We don’t know how long it will last (maybe forever). We don’t know how to stop it. I was prescribed pills and foul-smelling creams, assigned literature to read and diaries to keep. At one point I looked in the mirror and asked myself, is this going to be the rest of my life?

I went on the offensive, cutting possible allergens from my diet (gluten, dairy, and eggs – all at once), ditching all beauty and laundry products containing any sort of chemical, and carefully documenting daily life to try to uncover possible triggers. I lathered on the disgusting prescription cream when things got bad, and drove my poor hubby to the other side of the house from the chemically smell.

And none of it helped. Over and over and over again, the hives would erupt, leaving me in despair. And then one day, I decided to look at things differently. Why was I having hives? Though I couldn’t be sure of what I was reacting to, I did now the body chemistry behind it. Sparing you lots of technical jargon, the answer was my body was actually trying to help me by releasing histamines to protect me—unfortunately the response had gone haywire, and was seriously out of whack.

So, after nearly six months of misery, I decided to change my approach. My skin was upset, my body out of kilter, and I needed to calm it. Instead of despising my own body, as I had begun to do, I need to be thankful for it. I needed to focus on the good, be understanding of the bad, and be confident of my body’s ability to figure things out.

I ditched the nasty creams, and instead turned to olive oil. Soothing, all natural, and used for millennia to better skin, each morning I would gently rub it on the hives, taking the time to say out loud why I was thankful for my skin. The reasons were many. Absolutely everything we do through life is made possible by the miracle of our skin. The most obvious is that we are able to live because of our skin – without it we could not survive. But there was so much more than that. We are able to experience so many things; to feel a loved one’s touch, to relish the warmth of the sun, to feel the softest breeze. We can move, and dance, and run thanks to it. It was beautiful for all the ways it allowed me to experience and thrive in this world, and I was so thankful for it, regardless of its flaws.

In the weeks to come, that time each morning became an unusual mix of meditation and prayer. I actually made peace with my skin and the troubles I was having, and my anxiety and self-consciousness diminished. And do you know what? Within weeks my hives went away for good.

So, why have I told you all of this? It is because I learned something through the experience, and I try to live by that lesson now. That lesson is to be thankful for what we have, even when it is causing us problems or pain. I learned to consider the big picture, and to look past the imperfections that may be on the surface. Now I look at the ugly scar on my back and realize it is infinitely more beautiful than skin cancer. I am thankful for my big ole feet because I must surely have better balance than those with small feet. And I hope that as I age, I’ll feel blessed for the smiles that gave me crows feet and for the age spots that resulted from so many wonderful times in the sun.

So for all you out there who may look at a small part of yourself and be unhappy, take a moment to rejoice in the good. I think you may just be better for it!

So, do you have something about yourself that you hate or are embarrassed about? Tell me something good about that one thing! And if it’s your neck or your hands, I highly suggest buying some gorgeous piece of jewelry to make you feel better about them ;)

As a side note, one of the doctors later called to see how I was doing, and was surprised and thrilled to hear of my freedom from the hives. I thought she might think I was crazy when I told her what I had been doing, but she was very receptive, telling me she was a strong believer in the mind/body connection when it came to healing. Who would have thought!

Oh, Christmas Tree

2011-12-06T11:39:00.004-05:00

Last night, after a week of staring at our sadly naked Christmas tree, Kirk and I finally dragged out the boxes of ornaments stashed in the attic and got to work. After a short scuffle over Christmas decorating music (Tran Siberian Orchestra, Kirk? Really?), we opened the boxes and got to work.

For me, decorating the tree has always been something of a walk down memory lane. As each ornament comes out, I’m reminded of Christmases past, like when fourth-grade me labored over the fabric patchwork ornament, or when we celebrated our first Christmas as a married couple with the adorable bride and groom ornament my mom gave us. I smile at the Snoopy bulb marked with the year of my birth, and the Precious Moments one from my middle school years.

I love the tiny little Snoopy vignettes that can fit in a tablespoon, and the classic car one my parents gave Kirk one year, and the little wood second-grade me stamped with glue and sprinkled with green glitter.

As always, we loaded up the tree with tiny multi-color lights as well as a strand of chunky bulbs—just like the trees of my childhood. I’ll never have one of those elegant, white-light strewn trees with matching bulbs and perfect symmetry. No, for me it’s all about evoking the fun and playfulness of the many Christmases of my past. I think I’ll always cherish those wonky handmade ornaments and dingy, aged plastic figurines that get tucked away oh-so carefully each year.

As we were finishing up last night, I looked to Kirk and said, “You know, I don’t even know why or when the tradition of dragging a tree in our homes at Christmas started. What does it have to do with anything?”

He merely shrugged. “Haven’t a clue”

I started to head to the trusty iPad and Google the answer, but for some reason, thought better of it. You know what? It doesn’t matter to me how the tradition came to be, or what their thinking behind it was. I only know that for me it is a perfect time capsule, a way to remember all the wonderful memories of the Christmases I have shared with my loved ones. It’s about making new memories, of sharing true quality time with my hubby, and having at least one tradition that will always be in my household.

Do you put a tree up each year? Do you have the handmade ones, the store bought kind, or a mixture? Wouldn't you agree that the classic White Christmas and Let It Snow are SO much better for decorating than Trans Siberian Orchestra?? ;)

I have the perfect recipe for you today - the same one I used decades ago to make ornaments for my Nana and Papa as Christmas gifts :) It's the perfect way to make something memorable for you to look back on for years to come. Enjoy!

Homemade Dough Ornaments:

- 2 cups flour

- 1/2 cup salt

- 3/4 cup water

Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Combine ingredients and kneed for about 10 minutes. Roll out to desired thickness (about 1/4 inch) on floured surface. Using cookie cutters, cut out shapes, then punch a hole for hanging. Bake for 30 minutes, and cook completely on a rack.

Decorate using acrylic paint, glitter, etc. Allow to try completely. Spray with clear polyurethane on both sides to preserve. Hang from tree with string or ribbon.

The Simple Art of Giving Thanks

2011-11-29T12:00:00.002-05:00

Today is a simple blog. A blog of thanks.

First of all, I’m thankful for today, which is the one year anniversary of the first day of the rest of my life. Two simple yet life altering things occurred on this day last year. One, I finally mailed my Golden Heart entry, cutting it so close that I had to overnight it. Two, I received a short, inauspicious email on one of my Yahoo loops about a little contest that would occur the next day called Deidre Knight’s “She’s Just That Into You” Speed Dating contest. I was exhausted from the marathon of putting together the GH entry, but I thought, what the heck—I’ll give it a shot. Man, am I glad I did!

You all know of the amazing, dream-like year this has been for me. I’m constantly thankful for the amazing support each and every one of you has shown. I have no idea how I came to be so lucky to have you all in my life, but I’m so happy that you are :)

I’m thankful for my little house, and my three pups, my tall, dark, and handsome hubby and our Thanksgiving dinner for two.

I’m thankful for Alton Brown and his ridiculously awesome recipe for the world’s best turkey. There is nothing like bringing that iconic, perfectly browned bird to the table and watching it disappear before my eyes.

I’m thankful for traditions, for gigantic balloons, for overzealous flag girls and smartly outfitted marching bands. I’m thankful for the dog show that I would never want to watch on any other day, but somehow has me riveted on Thanksgiving. Oh, and I’m thankful for the movie “Best in Show” which makes me snicker while watching the dog show.

I’m thankful for generous offers from neighbors, for delicious desserts, for the joyful screams of sugared-up kids . . . and the blissful silence of our own home.

I’m thankful for cyber-shopping and free shipping, ‘cause there ain’t no way I’m losing precious sleep to stand in line at o’dark thirty for a cheap tv or one of three Xboxes. Jus’ sayin :)

I’m thankful for fresh-cut Christmas trees, and good ol’ boy farmers with long grey beards, overalls, and a ready laugh.

I’m thankful for gaudy, multi-colored lights covering the yard in house in the most National Lampoons Christmas Vacation-esque way. It’s so much more fun to be colorful than tasteful ;)

Last but not least, I’m thankful that this week, I learned I am not the only one who screams like a girl when a radioactive spider pops up out of nowhere. Not naming any names, but his name rhymes with lurk and is regularly preceded by ‘Captain’ thanks to a certain Starship Enterprise commander in the 60’s.

Tell me the one thing you are most thankful for this holiday season! What traditions are you looking forward to this Christmas? And have you ever heard your husband scream like a pre-teen at a Justin Bieber concert?

Today’s recipe is one that I originally got from my mother-in-law, and have used at every pot-luck and Thanksgiving day feast since. It is simple, utterly delicious, and wonderfully easy.

Homemade Cream Corn

½ block of cream cheese, softened (4 oz.)

2 Tbsp butter, softened

2 Tbsp water

2 tsp sugar

1 bag frozen corn

Combine in crockpot or in a medium saucepan on the stove over medium low heat. Stir occasionally until well-heated through. Enjoy the deliciousness and numerous accolades :)

Dream a Little Dream

2011-11-22T09:10:00.002-05:00

After the excitement of Thursday's post (yay gorgeous new cover!! If you haven't seen it yet, look below), I felt inspired to write about following one's dreams. Stop by and tell me what your dreams are if you get a chance!

Click Here for my post at Lady Scribes

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I don't know about you, but I have A LOT to be thankful for this year!!

It's Here! It's Here!!

2011-11-17T11:59:00.001-05:00

Without further ado, I present to you...

MY COVER!!!!

Click here for larger version

Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it glorious? I hope someday to meet the incredible artist and lovely design team who put it together so I may give them a big, fat, inappropriately long hug :-) Now I can hardly wait to have the cover added to Amazon, where the book is already available for pre-sale (click here). I'll keep you posted!

Now - somehow I must now figure out how to get my head out of the clouds and actually get to work! Happy day all :-)

Dear Mr. Firth

2011-11-15T11:55:00.006-05:00

If you have heard the rumors (or even if you have not), I am here to confirm them: Yes, I, Erin Knightley, met, spoke with, hugged, and took a picture with the one, the only Mr. Colin Firth on Wednesday last. And yes, I am still swooning at having actually touched Mr. Darcy.

I also must, regrettably, confirm another unexpected truth of myself. Though I am a writer by trade, trained in the art of the manipulation of language into the most pleasing arrangement possible, there were only two words I was able to spit out when faced with communicating with the Oscar-winning, British accent speaking, taller-than-expected actor. Despite the clever and perfectly droll little bits of conversation I had dreamed up on the way there with just such a fortuitous meeting in mind, I took one look at the handsome, long-admired figure advancing upon me and my brain cells promptly abandoned me, fainting like preteens at a Justin Bieber concert and leaving me with this blathering bit of nonsense:

“Er, uh, you’re… you’re wonderful!”

*palm to forehead* Really? Really? A good half million words under my belt as a writer and that’s what I say in that crucial moment? Was this what Ralphie had felt like in A Christmas Story, plotting and planning for weeks what he would say to Santa (Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle!), only to choke the moment he was face to face with the fat man himself, nodding dumbly at the prospect of a nice football?

But alas, it’s not quite the same. Ralphie, after all, seized the moment to stop his descent on the red slide of death, claw his way back up, and spout off the exact thing he had wanted to say in the first place, albeit with a somewhat maniacal gleam in his eyes. Now, this tactic may have earned him a boot to the forehead, but at least he had taken the opportunity.

Alas, my moment was over almost as soon as it had started. Colin was humble, and gracious, and very patient with us dumbstruck fans, but the man had a job to do, and he was quickly whisked away back to the set, ready to resume filming. So here I am, a speechless writer so lost for words, she couldn’t even convey to her romance idol exactly how much he meant to her and the romance world at large.

Well, guess what. I may not have clawed my way up the red slide of dumbstruck silence at the time, but what is a blog if not a forum to write out all the things I want to say? So here it is. Carpe Diem, no matter how late:

Dear Mr. Firth,

I think every woman can remember the moment that she witnessed what love must truly look like, what it must truly even feel like. There are movies aplenty where love is presented in all of it’s passionate and over-the-top glory, but we, the critical viewer, knows that this is merely the kind of obvious and too-quickly-resolved romance that is manufactured to evoke a smile or perhaps a few tears. But then, there are those precious few that seem to get it all right. They invites their rapt viewers to watch, to dream, to envy, to imagine what it must feel like to not just observe, but to actually be that heroine, gazing into the eyes of her very own hero.

You, Mr. Firth, have evoked these feelings from the audience for not just one or two movies, but through many. You are the leading man in no less than three of my favorite movies, Love Actually, Bridget Jones’s Diary, and of course, the incomparable Pride and Prejudice. The last is truly a masterpiece, so beloved that even fifteen years later, it is every bit as powerful and compelling as the day it first came out.

The words were the author’s, but the delivery was all yours. Your glaze slid through Elizabeth Bennet right to our own hearts. We weren’t just watching a movie, we were experiencing it. Your effortless portrayal of one of the greatest heroes of all time moved us, drawing us in to this timeless story, making our hearts pound and our breath catch. You mastered the complexities of Mr. Darcy’s character, conveying his love and inner struggle with little more than a searing look or a pregnant pause. You made him human, approachable, real to the extent that we could imagine Mr. Darcy’s intense gaze settling upon us, loving us, wanting us with a reserved passion that supersedes all else.

For those of us who have known the joy of true love, your performance reminded us of that feeling when the world slips away, and it is just you and your beloved. It made us turn to our loved one with refreshed joy, remembering those days of butterflies tickling our stomachs at the mere sound of his voice. For those who have never known love, watching your portrayal of Mr. Darcy could, for some small moment in time, fill that place for them, showing them the depths of the heart and all the goodness that could come from it.

I must clarify that it is you the actor, not the just character that you play. It is the softness of voice, the certain indefinable quietness that makes one wonder if shyness lurks beneath that handsome, movie-star façade. It’s a vulnerability that, no matter how brazen the character, somehow still simmers in the background and manages to tug at the heart strings. It’s that certain approachability, that talent of drawing us in and making us believe.

Some people may look at the gathering of women waiting around for an autograph or a photo with their favorite actor to be silly or even a bit pathetic. But I see woman who have known joy from the work you have done. The flushed cheeks and shining eyes—not to mention tied tongues—reflect the sigh of bliss they have all experienced at some point thanks to a smile, a character, a perfectly delivered speech or even a single fathomless look.

Is there any better measure of success for an actor? To know that what you do matters because someone is better off because of it?

Thank you for your working to bring our favorite characters to life in such a way that we cannot help but love them. Be it Mr. Darcy, Mr. Mark Darcy, or even Jamie Bennett or King George IV, you make us truly care about their struggles, and therefore rejoice in their triumphs. Your portrayals inspire those of us who peddle in creativity, making us strive even more to create that perfect hero in all his perfectly flawed and inherently human glory.

And that, in my eyes, makes you a hero in your own right

Sincerely,

Erin Knightley

So, what would you say to Colin (or your favorite star) if you saw them in person? Please say you would be more eloquent than me!

Things That Go Tap in the Night

2011-11-08T00:00:00.002-05:00

It was a dark and stormy night. Okay, so not so much stormy as mildly cloudy, but still. It was late, and I still had much work to do. Hubby and the pups were making too much racket for my creative side to be happy with, so I banished them to the top floor of the house while I retreated to the basement.

The air was cool, but the space blessedly quiet. Finally I was able to get into the groove of writing, and before too long I was deep in the story, my surroundings falling away as I immersed myself in Regency England. I was typing happily away when a sudden scratching sound brought me screeching back to the present.

Scratchy scratchy scratchy…

There it was again! I froze, my heart beating in my ears as I evaluated the situation. I knew Kirk and the dogs were still upstairs—the sound of the basement door opening is unmistakable, so I knew they couldn't have sneaked downstairs.

Scratchy scratchy scratchy…

Oh God, there was something down there with me. Right. Behind. Me. I swallowed, my whole body rigidly tense. It was going to be a mouse. I just knew it. I was going to turn around and a freaking little mouse was going to dart away, escaping into some unseen crevasse and leaving me unable to sleep for days.

Scratchy scratchy scratchy…

There was nothing for it; I had to turn around. Without a doubt something was there walking behind me, and be it mouse, rat, or something even more sinister, I had to know what it was. Taking a bracing breath, I slowly, carefully swiveled in my chair, spinning until I could see the ground directly behind me and then…

OH MY GOD!!! OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG!! It wasn’t a mouse or even a rat, it was a SPIDER GINORMOUS ENOUGH FOR ME TO HEAR HIM WALKING BEHIND ME!!

In utter horror, I flailed around looking for something on my desk substantial enough to smite him from the face of the earth. Generally I prefer the live and let live philosophy, but once you are big enough to wear tap shoes and pound out some Fred Astaire moves, I’m sorry but you gotta die. Immediately.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t wearing any shoes and all I really had on my desk were loose papers. I found a pack of index cards, but I couldn’t risk him bench-pressing them off and coming after me.

Meanwhile, I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, for once in my life perfectly okay with sounding like a six year old girl. I can hear the dogs scrambling down the stairs and pacing back and forth in front of the basement door, but damn if they hadn’t opposable thumbs to open the door and come rescue me. Kirk, however, with is wonderfully dextrous hands and multitude of weapons to choose from upstairs (butcher knife, anyone), is nowhere to be found. He would later claim that he couldn’t hear me, but I firmly believe that he heard the I’m-about-to-be-eaten-by-Aragog scream and decided to sit that one out.

The spider started to move at this point, looking like nothing so much as Thing from the Addam’s family, only slightly more hairy and WAY more creepy. At last my hands find something much more substantial on my desk—my go-to research book, What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew. Its shiny, unblemished cover glinted in the light, and I paused in indecision.

And then he moved again. Towards me.

And I threw the book at him.

Literally.

So therein ends the tale of the tap-dancing spider and his death by Charles Dickens. I’m beginning to think living out in the sticks isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Overdramatic snakes? Check. Radioactive spiders? Check. Please next time can it simply be an ax murderer or a boogy man – in other words, something less horrifying?

What is your most heebie-jeebie inducing critter story? And really, have you ever in your life heard of a spider so big you could hear him walking behind you?? *shivers*

For today’s recipe, I thought I’d find a recipe both yummy and tasteless under the circumstances. How do you think I did? ;)

Click Here

And because I thought a tribute was in order...

A Walk in the Woods

2011-11-01T01:39:00.004-04:00

Nine years ago, when Kirk and I first moved to Raleigh and we were still poor, starry-eyed newlyweds, we stumbled upon a little-known spot on the city’s reservoir where we could truly get away from it all. We didn’t have a boat, or even know anyone else who did at that point, and this perfect little place could not have been a better find for us.

There wasn’t a beach or a parking lot or anything remotely organized there, just a dead-end street with a long, snaking trail leading through the woods and popping out on the main lake some half-mile later. Another trail wound around the peninsula, giving us the option of hiking for miles if we wanted.

Our first fur baby was still little more than a puppy, an exuberant one-year-old who had never seen such a glorious expanse of woods, nor experienced the soaring freedom of leash-less living. She bounded through the forest, crashing through underbrush and leaping over logs. Many a squirrel was treed by our lightning-fast Sadie, each holding her attention for a frustrated minute or two until she relented and sprinted off to the next great thing.

As Kirk and I hiked the well-laid trails, Sadie explored the wildness extending beyond the beaten path, crisscrossing in front of us just enough for us to know she was still close by. Occasionally we would linger on the shore, soaking in the sun and listening to the quiet lap of water caressing the rocky beach. It was here that our little rock-hound discovered her obsession, watching us with laser-like focus until we threw the next rock for her, and then the next.

Soon, we added Maggie to our little clan, and the trips to the trail doubled in fun. Black lab Maggie could hardly believe her eyes when the trail opened up to the expanse of shoreline, and she happily frolicked and played like the pup she was. On the way back to the car, she and Sadie would dash in and out of the woods, somehow perfectly capturing the look of carefree joy, tongues hanging from their mouths as the wind ruffled their fur.

And then we finally bought our first boat, and the trips to the trail became less frequent. Instead of hikes to the shore, we could finally have our fun on the water, wakeboarding, swimming, and surfing until our hearts were content. The girls remained behind those days, their faces watching forlornly as we pulled from the driveway without them.

About five and a half years ago, we found our current home, and they once again knew the joy of frolicking out doors. Unfortunately, we still lived in a neighborhood, so they had to keep their wandering down to a half acre or so. Though they ran freely though the back yard, they never quite recaptured the same verve for life they had discovered in the woods. Every fall, Kirk and I would think of the old trail, of that special place where freedom lived. With the lake behind us, it just didn’t make sense to pack up our now three-strong pack of pups and drive the near hour to the reservoir.

But something occurred to me this past Sunday morning. The drive was never going to get any less. Either we made the priority to go or we didn’t; we couldn’t just keep saying, ‘but it’s so far.’

So, we pulled out the old towels, packed up water bottles and leashes, piled our three eager and slobbering dogs in the car and headed for our place. It had been so long, even the roads themselves had changed, and we had to google the new route as we drove. Fifty minutes, a few quick stops, and a whole lot of dog breath later, we were there. Despite the changes going on only a mile away, the dead end street was still the same—exactly as it had been half a decade earlier.

The air was crisp and cool, the delectable smell of autumn heavy in the air. Sadie and Maggie cried with impatience as we untangled their leads and prepared for the hike. As always, we hiked the first quarter mile with them on their leashes. They strained and pulled, their noses lifted to the air and their bodies quivering with energy. Little Darcy had never been here, but she sensed her sisters’ excitement and shook with the thrill of it all.

When we found the right spot, we made them sit, poised to unclip their tethers and set them free. In that moment, I eyed Maggie’s graying muzzle and Sadie’s clouded eyes. Our girls were getting old, and seeing them in the place of their youth suddenly drove home the truth of it. We’d let way too much time march by, depriving them of this special place with a thousand little excuses.

It had been years since Sadie had let loose and really ran, would she still have it in her? Maggie played in short bursts with Darcy in the backyard, but what about a two hour romp through the woods? Would she be able to keep up?

The world seemed quiet in that moment, as they all sat and waited. At last the scrape of metal on metal met my ears as Kirk unclipped their leashes…and then they were off.

Like the puppies they had once been, they streaked through the underbrush, soaring over the land so fast I marveled that their paws even touched the ground. As Kirk and I smiled and began our hike along the old familiar path, we listened to the rustling of foliage and the pounding of feet as they whisked by, zig-zagging back and forth just as they did so many years ago.

When the light began to wane and the crispness in the air turned to nippiness, we at last made our way back to the car, not even needing to clip the leashes to their collars. They were spent like a trio of 5 year old kids after a particularly spectacular Christmas—happy, exhausted, content to be by our sides. As we packed them up and started out on the long track home, I watched the trailhead diminish in the sideview mirror, growing more and more distant as Kirk drove onward toward home. I felt somehow . . . grateful. Grateful to have rediscovered this place, grateful to have given my pups a day of pure joy, grateful to have reawakened the memories of how things used to be.

Sometimes the greatest joys in life are the simplest ones, are they not? A quiet wood, a long empty trail, and the company of those we love is all it takes to make a perfect day become a perfect memory—one I hope we will repeat with much more frequency from now on :)

Is there a place you love to go, that reminds you of who you were and where you’ve been? Do you make time to visit, or has it been a while since you’ve been back?

In honor of our trail adventure this weekend, I thought I would do a Trail Mix inspired muffin. The original recipe is here.

Happy Trails Muffins

2 and 1/4 cups all purpose flour

1 cup granola

¾ cup packed brown sugar

2 tsp baking powder

½ tsp salt

2 eggs

1 cup milk

1 tbsp sour cream

1/4 cup oil

1/2 cup unsweetened applesauce

1 tsp vanilla extract

1/3 cup mini chocolate chips

1/2 cup chopped dry roasted peanuts, lightly salted

1/2 cup raisons

1/2 cup dried cherries / cranberries/ blueberries/ or apricots

Pre-heat oven to 375

In a large bowl, combine flour, granola, cereal, brown sugar, baking powder, and salt. In a separate bowl, beat eggs, milk, sour cream, oil, apple sauce, and vanilla. Stir into dry ingredients until moistened (don’t overmix). Fold in remaining ingredients.

Fill paper-lined muffin tins 3/4 full. Bake for 15-18 minutes, or until toothpick comes out clean.

Changing Gears

2011-10-25T10:18:00.002-04:00

Hi Cake Readers!

Today I'm at Lady Scribes talking about the huge paradigm shift I'm attempting in my writing today. Stop by and say hello if you get the chance. I can use all the encouragement I can get :)

Click HERE

Have a great week, all!

Breaking Away

2011-10-18T01:15:00.006-04:00

Sometimes the greatest things happen when we let go of our crutches and face challenges head-on. Oddly, I am put to mind of the experiences I had when I was nineteen, when I went to Russia for the summer to work on an international scientific drilling project near Lake Baikal. We—the two other students who worked in the paleoclimatology lab and me—arrived in Moscow a bit timid and a whole lot of excited. We were to have a two day layover before our flight to Irkutsk, and we intended to make the most of the time, seeing all the sights with the help of our guide Sasha.

Russian Erin - or Erina as I was called :)

On the morning of the first day, Sasha collected us bright and early from the dank and wholly unluxurious youth hostile we had all slept rather poorly in our first night. We had been shocked when the sun didn’t set until near midnight, and then reappeared a little after four in the morning, complete with loud, obnoxious birds heralding the start of the day. Despite our exhaustion (and the mystery-meat breakfast we consumed), our enthusiasm for the day was palpable, and we followed behind Sasha like three adoring puppies.

On a speedwalk tour that would have done Richard Simmons proud, Sasha showed us one thing after the other, zooming past historic buildings, enormous statues, and lovely greenways. For each sight he had a bit of description, some small piece of history or note on the architecture. He even gave us a speed tour of the art museum, squeezed in between grabbing blinis and glimpsing a street bazaar.

As the afternoon progressed, Sasha decided we should see how the metro system worked. With we three bedraggled Americans trailing behind, he ducked into the nearest stations and showed us how to buy the tokens. Popping a few into the slot, he motioned for us to go through the one-way turnstyle. We did as we were told, obediently pushing through single-file. Once we were all on the other side, we turned back to wait for him to follow.

Instead, he held up a hand and saluted us. “Okay, have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” And then he left.

Just like that.

The second we realized he wasn’t kidding, we tried to find a way to follow, but the exit was on the other side of the terminal, and Sasha had already vanished into the crowd. We looked to each other with widened eyes, identical looks of panic within their depths.

We were alone.

In a foreign city.

With no grasp of the language. Or money system. Or even the laws.

And no contact information for anyone in the whole country. Make that continent.

We had two choices. We could find the exit, hail a cab, and point to the map that had the youth hostel circled on it. We could hole up in our rooms, bemoan the fact we had been abandoned, and forget about the truly important sights we had not yet seen: The Kremlin, Red Square, and Arbot Street.

Or.

Or we could strike out on our own. We could pull out the map, try to make sense of the foreign words and pictures, and find our own way. Or… possibly get so lost we ended up with our passport pictures plastered on the side of kefir cartons everywhere.

After a quick powwow, an agreement was reached: It was time for adventure. I pulled out the city map I had tucked into my bag earlier, and we poured over the rainbow of tiny lines delineating the metro system. Before long, we started making sense of the map, matching the queer words and symbols with the ones on the signs in the metro. Once we decided on a plan—two transfers to reach the station nearest the Kremin—we stepped onto the escalator and descended down, down, down into the impossibly deep depths of the metro system. When at last we reached the platform, we could hardly believe the scene before us.

Like an impossibly gorgeous set piece from one of those sweeping old Hollywood movies, the station platform stretched before us in all its gilded glory. Exquisite chandeliers hung elegantly from the high, arching ceilings, their glittering light filling the open space like a ballroom hung with countless blazing candles. Marble gleamed beneath our feet, climbing the walls and paving the ceiling in an opulence unlike anything I had ever seen.

It was surreal, as if we had stepped into a fairytale, lacking only in elaborate costumes to bring the masquerade to life. Instead, ordinary people in t-shirts and business suits flowed past us like water parting around a time-worn boulder in a swiftly moving river. It was oddly hushed, as if they too understood the need for reverence in this unreal place.

We made our way to the train, which was filled to brimming with busy Russians. The smell of undeodorized bodies in the close space was incongruous with regal platform outside the windows. I had never been on a subway train in my life, and here I was on one in the very bowels of Russia, surrounded by people who smelled, looked, sounded, and acted differently than anything I had ever known. I had never felt farther from home in my entire life, from anything at all familiar. When at last the doors opened, we bustled out and headed for the signs pointing us to the next line. We took yet another escalator even deeper into the earth, if that was even possible, then traversed a long tunnel toward the platform.

Again, no one around us spoke, and we silently trekked over the tiled floor, exchanging glances at the strangeness of the place. In the distance, the soft, smooth sounds of a lone flute broke the silence, calling us forward like a siren’s song. The notes were dark and low, purer than any I had ever heard. As we drew closer, the haunting tune grew louder, each poignant note clear and melodic, caressing us like dark velvet on a winter’s night.

It was beautiful, and hypnotic, and I could no more ignore the desire to fill the purple-lined flute case with the flash of silver rubles than I could deny myself the need to breath. He earned his money that day. Thirteen years later, I can still remember that moment as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

The other two platforms were every bit as beautiful as the first, though the styles were different. In one, huge painting drew the eye, framed by intricate stone carvings. The lighting was different here, with large fixtures dotting the ceiling. The other had walls done entirely in mosaics, breathtaking in the grandness both of scale and design. When at last we rode the seemingly unending escalator back to the surface, it was jarring to return to the noise and pace of the city above.

One of the less ornate platforms :)

We spent the day exploring the Kremlin, glimpsing Lennon’s tomb, and marching through the Red Square. We marveled at the brightly colored, iconic roof of the cathedral and pictured the imposing armies that had once filled the huge space. Next we found our way to Arbot street, and were relieve to discover many of the vendor’s spoke English. We haggled for the first time in our lives, buying silly trinkets and priceless baubles alike.

By the end of the day, we confidently strode back through the waiting turnstyles of the subway, willingly plunging into the earth once more. When we finally arrived back to the hostel, it was with a sense of accomplishment. When abandoned by our guide, we had boldly moved forward to explore our surroundings. Because of it, we experienced things we never would have had we stayed by his side, or retreated to the hostel. We had found beauty and wonder in this foreign place, intimidated no more by the strange symbols making up their words. We had laughed, we had seen, we had made memories for a lifetime.

So, what has me thinking on this experience from so long ago? I’ve decided that, for a little while at least, I need to let go of my crutch and move forward. I’m referring to the internet—and the hours and hours that can be wasted each and every day as I interact with friends and writers on the Yahoo loops, Twitter, and Facebook. I always want to be up to date, to know what’s going on in the industry. I spend so much time exploring what others are saying, I’m starting to loose my own need to create. So, I’ve decided that for the next six weeks, I’m going to turn off my wifi for a minimum of 8 hours a day, and go about the business of exploring my imagination. Who knows what sort of beauty lurks there if I never completely unplug and allow myself to find out? My ultimate goal is to finish the revisions for Book 2 a full two months ahead of schedule.

No dogs, no email pings, no tweets or news updates. No sneaking a peak at celebrity gossip or getting sidetracked by funny pictures or facebook statuses. No obsessing about when genre is selling better and why. Just me, my story, and endless possibilities. Wish me luck! (And yes, I will still be blogging as usual)

Click Here for some gorgeous pictures of the Moscow Metro :)

In honor of my recently unearthed memories of Russia, I found a wonderful recipe for blinis—otherwise known as Russian Pancakes. Much like crepes, they can be filled with anything from sweet (berries, chocolate, honey) to savory (ground meat, sautéed vegetables, cheeses). I had a lot of fun making them – and I hope you will too!

Click Here for the allrecipe.com recipe :) I’d make it my own except…I don’t want to! They are perfect as presented. My only tip is to use lemon juice for the citric acid. For my experimental blinis, I had a berry and whipped cream version for a post lunch dessert, and a ground turkey with spicy tomato sauce for dinner. Both were equally fabulous, if I do say so myself :)

The Original Social Media

2011-10-11T10:49:00.001-04:00

In this day of technology and endless social media, it seems like we are constantly connected to our friends. Between texting, tweeting, facebooking, e-mailing, and calls, rarely an hour goes by that something hasn’t buzzed, dinged, chirped, or vibrated, letting us know such vital details as what our friends had for lunch, what made them laugh, or what evoked a frowny-face emoticon. And yet, in the midst of all this connectivity, there seems to be a bit of a disconnect.

It was this weekend that I rediscovered that elusive thing that seems to been disappearing in our modern lives. The joy of the common get-together.

After weeks of anticipation and planning, five of my critique partners converged on my house for a weekend writer’s retreat. Interestingly enough, though we had been friends and crit partners for a year and a half, I had never even met two of them. In both cases, we hesitantly eyed each other, mentally matching the tiny profile pictures to the stranger before us. And in both cases, we were grinning and hugging within seconds—reunited despite the fact we had never met.

We arrived at my house close to dinner time, and as I flitted about my fantastically renovated kitchen (I swear I shall never take it for granted!), I couldn’t help but smile with joy at the lively conversation and frequent giggles emanating from the girls as they chatted on the couch. There was a vibrancy to the place unlike anything we could feel online, an energy that built as the evening progressed.

By late evening, we had relocated to the screened-in back porch, and the sound of laughter echoing up and down the lake masked even the most robust crickets and toads that normally serenade the night. We talked about any and every thing, frequently busting out in laughter until we were gasping for air. When the clock chimed midnight, we were all holding our aching sides but showing no signs of slowing down.

We talked about happy things, sad things, absurd things, and things that made us go hmm. We pondered the industry, life, love, and the future, while reminiscing about the past and how much we had grown as writers since finding each other. It was two in the morning before we finally headed to bed.

The next morning, we swore to one another that work would be done, and we buckled down to try to help each other tackle whatever was forefront on our minds. One by one we went through the group, listening, suggesting, plot hashing, and problem solving.

By the end of our retreat, I think it is safe to say that each and every one of us felt invigorated, our sense of excitement and optimism renewed. The well of our creativity had been filled to overflowing, and we were all eager to get back to our respective projects and apply all the wonderful ideas and suggestions that had been bandied about.

I’m so grateful for all of the technology that allows us to stay in touch with people no matter how far across the globe they live. Whether half an hour away, half a continent away, or literally half the world away, they are only as distant as a few strokes of the keyboard. But nothing, absolutely nothing compares to the beauty of visiting in person. To see the myriad of expressions flit across their faces, to hear their mirth or sympathy, to feel a conspiratorial hand on your shoulder, or to offer a full on bear hug. These are the things that enrich our relationships in a way no bit of technology ever could.

Be it a conference, a retreat, or just a lunch between friends, I just want to say thank goodness for the original social media: the incomparable, irreplaceable, unduplicatable art of the simple get-together.

Do you have friends online that you would love to meet in person? Do you feel reinvigorated when you attend conferences, or visit family and friends after a long absence?

And for the perfect make-ahead lunch for a group, try my favorite go-to recipe: Zesty Chicken Pasta Salad.

Ingredients:

- 1 pound boneless, skinless chicken

- 1 packet McCormick’s Zesty Herb season/marinade packet

-mix packet with 1/3 cup water, 3 Tbsp Olive Oil, 3 Tbsp vinegar

- 1 pound penne pasta

- 2 peppers (red and/or yellow) cut into small pieces and coated with olive oil

- 1/2 cup sundried tomatoes, cut into small pieces

- 1 cup grape tomatos

- small bottle ranch dressing

Mix up the marinade, then divide in half. Set one half aside, and use the other half to marinate the chicken in a ziplock bag with for about 15 minutes. Grill chicken (discard bag and used marinade). Either grill or sautee the peppers until lightly roasted. When chicken is done, let rest for five minutes then shred using two forks.

Cook the penne until al dente. Combine all ingredients in a large Tupperware container, and add ranch to desired taste (I usually add about a half a cup.). Pour the reserved marinade in, cover with lid and shake vigorously. Enjoy either warm or refrigerated :)

It Ain't Over...

2011-10-06T09:10:00.003-04:00

I don’t know who the genius was who first said “It ain’t over til it’s over,” but I got to hand it to him—I think he may have been on to something.

I’m sure you’ll remember my end-of-season gardening wrap-up a few months ago. It was ugly. Really ugly. And the worst of it was, I had tried so hard. Nobody wanted to grow veggies as badly as I did. For two years now (remember this?), I slaved over gardening, building the perfect raised bed, buying the best, most expensive organic soil, tending to my budding plants religiously. I was careful not to over water, careful not to underwater, diligent about weeding, mulching, and fertilizing. I talked to the plants, for heaven’s sake.

And for all my tender loving care, for all my dedication, I got . . . nothing. Zip. Zero, Bupkis. (Now doesn’t that word look funny written out!). Any way you look at it, Mother Nature had given me the shaft. Why, I can’t begin to imagine. All I wanted was a few tomatoes, maybe an herb or two. Was that too much to ask?

Apparently it was.

In udder disgust, I threw up my hands and threw in the towel. That was it. Screw organic farming. Next year, I was going to buy the chemicallyist chemicals Miracle Gro could conjure and I was going to lay it on so thick the freaking dirt would glow in the dark. For now, however, my pathetic excuse for a garden could suck it.

Turning my back on my spindly, fruitless tomato plants, I put it out of sight and out of mind.

Well. Yesterday, I decided the weather was just too gorgeous to be cooped up inside, and took the dogs outside to play. Despite my best efforts, black lab Maggie managed to evade my watchful eye for the three seconds required to romp into the lake, splashing in like a hundred pound duck on a botched landing. Knowing she had won this round, I gave up trying to corral the dogs on the upper tier of our yard and tromped down to the dock for the first time in at least a week—probably closer to two.

And that’s when something odd caught my. Red. Bright, tiny pinpoints of red, peppering a plant in my peripheral vision. I froze. Could it be? Could it really truly be . . . there was only one way to find out. Taking a breath, I turned and looked, and instantly gasped in amazement. My grape tomato plant was positively exploding with fruit!

Pulling my shirt tails up in an impromptu sling, I dashed to my planters and began plucking my bounty. There must have been dozens of them! For every one I plopped in my shirt, I tossed one in the lake since it had over-ripened. And it wasn’t just my grape tomato plant; one, single, brave young tomato clung to my Better Bush plant, offering itself up like pretty little Christmas gift.

I laughed, and danced, and popped the luscious red fruit in my mouth. Success!! In the most primitive way I know, I had done something. Erin plant food. Food grow. Erin eat.

Haha! The circle of life, played out right before my eyes in my own backyard. The moral of the story? Never give up! Never surrender! Success may be just around the corner, so don’t give up yet because baby, it ain’t over till it’s over!

So take heart, my dear Cake Readers. If you are working toward something that you really want: publication, a job, a family, anything—have faith! You never know when the fruits of your labor may come to pass, and all the work will have been worth it :)

Minor Delay...

2011-10-04T10:43:00.002-04:00

I thought I'd be able to post a blog by noon today, but . . . not so much, lol. After spending the week visiting my sister, I returned last night happy but exhausted. I'll post this week's blog Thursday instead. Sorry for the delay, but I promise anything I write right now won't be worth reading!

See you Thursday!

Guest Blogging Today

2011-09-27T09:35:00.002-04:00

What fabulous treasure did I find buried in my basement this weekend? Stop by The Lady Scribes blog to find out!

Click Here

I hope to see you there!

The (Teal) Warrior Spirit

2011-09-20T10:20:00.002-04:00

This past Saturday, my husband kissed me goodbye sometime around 0-dark-thirty in the morning to head to work, and I snuggled deep into my mountain of blankets and sheets, relishing the cool air wafting in from the open windows in the bedroom and savoring the patter of rain. Blissful in the knowledge that I had hours yet to sleep, I quickly drifted off.

Five seconds later, my alarm pierced through the haze of perfect sleep, its annoying little tune chirping happily in my ear. I cracked an eye as I batted around for my phone, smacking the snooze button. It was seven thirty, but it felt more like five in the morning. The day was cold, grey, and wet—official ‘sleeping in’ weather. The night before, getting up early and driving the hour into Raleigh to join my Heart of Carolina fellow romance writers for the Ovarian Cancer awareness walk seemed like a good idea. The brisk, drizzly weather, however, was doing its best to convince me otherwise.

Another alarm, another snooze. And another. And another.

Until, somehow, I pryed open my eyes and peered at my clock . . . eight-thirty! I groaned and rolled over. All I wanted to do was sleep. I mean really, would anyone miss me if I didn’t show up? I hadn’t even told anyone I was coming, so the answer was a resounding no. The warm cocoon of my covers beckoned, but with a sigh, I tossed everything off and got to my feet. The cause was important to me, and I couldn’t miss it on account of a little cold rain and dark clouds.

In less then twenty minutes, I was dressed, the dogs were taken care of, and I was out the door. It was slow going navigating the Saturday morning traffic in the relentless rain, and I took the time to stop to buy a poncho before finally making it to the high school that was hosting the event.

As if by magic, the rain slackened as I got out of my car and headed around the back of the building toward the registration area. All around me, people dressed in varying degrees of tealness—teal shirts, hats, bracelets, wigs, and even retro sneakers—streamed toward the event. I laughed, despite the crappy drive and the icky weather, when a teal-outfitted basset hound trotted past me, followed by an ovarian cancer awareness t-shirt wearing golden retriever.

The crowd thickened as I approached the line to check in. There were kids running past giggling, babies cradled by teal-wearing parents, teenagers clumped together in groups, families laughing and friends chatting. There were white-haired ladies, teal-haired kids, and several bald-headed participants of all ages. At the registration desk, the lady behind me handed back the white event t-shirt with a grin. “Sorry,” she said, holding up another shirt, “I didn’t realize there was a differed one for survivors.”

She was beautiful, with short silver hair and a ready grin, but there was no mistaking the steel in her eyes. “Wow,” I said, offering her a smile, “it’s an honor to meet a true warrior.”

Her grin widened. “Why thank you!”

After getting my own shirt, I headed off in search of the HCRW booth, where I knew I would find my friends and fellow romance writer. It wasn’t long before I spotted them, damp, bedraggled, but in high spirits. We were all members of Heather’s OC Warriors, and rallied around our friend and one-week-free-of-cancer survivor Heather McCollum. Her teal wig, teal knitted cap, and brilliant smile—not to mention her tall, kilt-wearing Scottish husband—made her hard to miss. The dreariness of the morning, the difficulty getting up, the crappy hour-long drive in the rain—all of it melted away and my spirit rejoiced at being in the company of such amazing people all united for a wonderful cause. The other members of our team included Sabrina Jeffries, Deb Marlowe, Katharine Ashe, Virginia Kantra, Marcia Colette, Mari Freeman, and Jennifer Harrington. Many others who couldn’t be there also contributed, be it with book donations or money.

Katharine Ashe, Me. Heather McCollum, Deb Marlowe, Sabrina Jeffries, Marcia Colette

Soon, the PA system crackled to life and the walk began. As we followed the crowd down the residential streets, covered by over-eager crepe myrtles and interlocking branches of oak trees on either side of the blacktop, we laughed and chatted together, inspired by the palpable feeling of community to be involved in such a great cause.

The walk was Heather’s first since being subjected to the rigors of chemo and radiation. She was amazing! Like the warrior she is, she powered through, accepting our helping hands when needed, and keeping a strong, steady pace throughout the whole of the 2K walk. All around us, we could feel the love and support of all the participates—children, mothers, grandparents, friends, husbands, and, most inspiring of all, survivors. All of these people, joined together in their fight against ovarian cancer, taking a stand against the near silent disease. SHOUTING against the whisper, as Heather would say.

(Yes, I know it's a dreadful picture of me, but its the only one I have on the walk itself!)

At the end of the walk, we toasted each other with Chick-fil-a sandwiches and cold bottles of water. We cheered when Heather’s OC Warriors came in 5^th place for money raised, and gasped with delight when the total amount raised by the walk was announced: over $300,000!

It’s absolutely amazing what we can do when we join together. Strangers, friends, and family members alike, coming together for one special day, throwing their collective support behind the cause. It was inspiring, heart-warming . . . and way better than sleeping in on a rainy September morning could have ever been ;)

Have you ever joined in a walk/run for a cause? What are the causes/charities that are important to you?

Today’s recipe is more than just a list of ingredients; it’s a recipe for a long and happy life. Below are the list of symptoms to be aware of the whisper-quiet symptoms of ovarian cancer. Together, we can SHOUT against the whisper!

Symptoms can be subtle, and confused with those of other diseases or conditions. And in our busy lives, they are easily overlooked. This makes ovarian cancer hard to diagnose. Know your body and watch for the following symptoms:

· Bloating that is persistent

· Eating less and feeling fuller

· Abdominal pain

· Trouble with your bladder

See your gynecologist if you have these symptoms almost daily for more than a few weeks. Experts suggest a combination pelvis / rectal exam, a transvaginal ultrasound, and a CA-125 blood test.

Additional symptoms may include fatigue, indigestion, back pain, pain with intercourse, constipation, and menstrual irregularities, although these symptoms are found equally in women without the disease.

From the symptoms consensus statement endorsed by the Ovarian Cancer National Alliance.

Please visit the OCNA for more information: http://www.ovariancancer.org/

My Apple Symphony

2011-09-13T01:31:00.005-04:00

There are few things better in life than the tickle of creative energy that skitters down ones spine in a moment of genius. And I should know, because I TOTALLY had one :) Moment of genius, that is. And that, dear Cake Readers, is why today’s blog doesn’t just end with a recipe; today’s blog is a recipe.

It all started with that innocent trip to the mountains. After bringing home that glorious box of honeycrisp apples, my mind boggled with all of the things I could make. Apples. Apple pie. Applesauce. Apple fritters. Apple pancakes. Apple . . . cupcakes?

Well, why not?

The idea instantly took hold, and I spent the next few days brainstorming the idea. What would make the best apple cupcake? Cinnamon and apples, most likely. Maybe caramel? A healthy dose of vanilla? I even considered peanut butter (who doesn’t love apple slices with peanut butter?) I googled some recipes, but nothing fit the bill of the interesting yet totally delicious creation I could feel brewing within me.

As I churned out yet another apple pie last Friday, the answer hit me. Apple Pie Cupcakes! I was drooling already, and I hadn’t a clue what the cake would actually consist of. There were a few things I knew that I didn’t want: a spice-like cake, cream cheese frosting was out, as was anything too cloying. I wanted the flavors to be fresh, creamy even with a hint of its namesake as opposed to something too heavy handed.

As I turned the possibilities over in my head, I was forcibly reminded of when I was a kid of about eight or nine. I wanted so badly to be a good piano player. I could hear the beautiful music that I wanted to play in my head as I stood with my hands poised above the keys, ready to bring life to the composition. When at last I boldly struck out, the discordant mash of clashing notes never failed to surprise me. Why couldn’t I make the notes in my head come to life on the piano? Why must it always defeat me?

With the hopes and dreams of a perfect recipe floating through the ether, I was determined to bring the goodness to life. Most of the time, I am a recipe manipulator, tweaking tried and true recipes to hopefully improve some small part of them. This time, however, it was all me. Because of that, I knew it was possible that the resulting physical manifestation of the recipe in my head could be all wrong, jarringly out of tune as the notes of the piano had been so long ago.

By Saturday morning, my time was up: I had promised cupcakes to my fellow Heart of Carolina Romance Writers, and cupcakes I would deliver. Rolling up my sleeves, I pulled out all the normal ingredients for baking: Sugar, flour, vanilla and butter. Eggs, salt, baking powder, and a measuring cup filled with milk.

And finally, inspiration struck. What was apple pie without the crust? Pulling out the leftover crust dough from the fridge, I set to work rolling it out. I unearthed my biscuit cutter and cut round after round of crust disks. After filling my cupcake pans with liners, I dropped a disk of dough in the bottom of each, and tossed in the oven. Next, I whipped up the apple pie filling recipe, and popped that in the oven as well.

As the scent of pie filled the kitchen, I began to prepare my favorite vanilla cake recipe. For a bit of mischief and fun, I substituted applesauce for the sour cream, and tossed in a dash of cinnamon. The timer beeped, and I pulled out the pie crusts and apple filling. Excitement danced within me, and I grinned as I spooned the filling over the crust, then topped with the cake batter. It looked divine!

Into the oven the baby cupcakes went, and I set aside my expectations as I dove into the frosting. Even through the cake itself received a nice dose of cinnamon, I decided to go with a cinnamon vanilla buttercream frosting. It was a gamble, but I hoped that if I used a light hand, the flavors would please instead of overwhelm.

An hour later, the cupcakes were cooled, frosted, and awaiting the ultimate test. After a whole morning of preparation, would my recipe clash like the echoing roar of unskilled hands banging on a piano? Would it be like the Nutella incident of ’09, when I discovered sometimes even the most promising ideas could end in utter—and disgusting—failure? With hope and trepidation warring within me, I took my first bite. . . and nearly cried.

They were, my friends, near-tears of triumph. I may not be able to bring an instrument to life, but in this one moment, I made a handful of simple ingredients sing. The crunchy, flaking crust, the luscious, rich apple filling, the heavenly cinnamon apple cake and the light as air frosting melded like Mozart’s finest symphony, bringing joy to my heart and rapture to my taste buds.

I’ll never be a musician, never understand the language of music as played out over tiny black and white keys. But that day, I found that I did have the power to create beauty, just as musicians and composers have all through history. My medium was simply of a more culinary variety.

I hope that you try this recipe, my dear Cake Readers, despite the fact I know it is more labor intensive than usual. It is one of my finest creations, and I hope to share it with you, even if I can’t bake for you all in person.

On a side note, I must say that I find it ironic that the musical inclination gene may have passed me by, but it did indeed seed itself within my family—in my own brother, in fact, who once upon a time hated my hapless piano attempts most of all. He is now a continuous source of inspiration for me, pulling from the air the most beautiful of notes and setting them together in a way I could have only dreamed of as a child. For a ‘taste’ of my brother’s original creation, click here. For a taste of mine, scroll down :)

Apple Pie Cupcakes – a truly original creation by yours truly. This recipe makes 24 cupcakes

Crust: (and yes, you can just use the premade kind from the store) 1 full recipe will make enough for the crust bottom as well as the optional crust garnish

- 2 and 1/4 cups all purpose flour

- 1 tsp salt

- 2 tsp sugar

- 1 cup shortening

- 1/4 to 1/3 cup ice water

Combine the flour, salt, and sugar, mix. Add shortening, and cut into flour using a pastry knife or two regular knives until mixture resembles coarse, pea-sized crumbs. Add water a little at a time, stirring with a fork until mixture clings together. Taking care not to over mix, divide the dough evenly and shape into 1 inch thick disks, wrap with plastic wrap, and place in refrigerator for 15 minutes.

Filling:

- 2 apples - honeycrisp are my very favorite - Very thinly sliced and cut into small wedges (I use the apple peeler/slicer/corer that I got for $19 at the festival, but which they sell in novelty kitchen supply stores or online)

- 1/3 cup sugar

- 1 Tbsp cornstarch

- 1/4 tsp. ground cinnamon

- 1/8 tsp. (a pinch) nutmeg

- 1 tsp lemon

Combine in bowl, tossing well. Place on a foil lined cookie sheet and put into preheated 400 degree oven for 20 minutes

Roll out pie crust. Cut out 24 small circles and place in the bottom of cupcake liners. Place into 400 degree oven for 10 min or until lightly browned.

Set apples and crusts aside to cool, lower the oven temp to 350, and make cake batter

Cake

- 1 stick butter – softened

- 1 cup sugar

- 2 eggs – room temperature

- 1.5 cups self rising flour (or 1.5 cups cake flour, 2/3 tsp baking powder, and a pinch of salt)

- 1/2 cup milk – room temperature

- 1 heaping Tbsp apple sauce

- 1 tsp cinnamon

- 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

Cream butter and sugar for 3 minutes on medium speed. Add eggs one at a time, beating well between each addition.

Add 1/2 cup flour, then ½ of the milk and apple sauce, then 1/2 cup flour, the rest of the milk and apple sauce, then the final cup of flour.

Add the cinnamon and vanilla, mix.

Add a spoonful of the apple mixture to the top of each of the crusts inside the cupcake liners. Fill the rest of each cup with batter – about 2/3 to 3/4 full. For easy control and optimal neatness, place the batter in a gallon-sized Ziplock bag and snip one corner with a small hole.

Bake for about 14-16 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean from the middle of the cupcake. Cool on rack for 5 minutes before removing from pan.

Frosting

- 1/2 cup butter, softened
- 1/2 cup shortening
- 1 pound (about 4 cups) powdered sugar
- 1 tsp cinnamon
- 1 tsp vanilla
- 2-3 Tbsp whole milk

Cream together butter and shortening. Add powdered sugar one cup at a time, moistening with milk 1 Tbsp at a time as needed. Add cinnamon, vanilla, and additional milk as needed for desired consistency.

Top cooled cupcakes with frosting and leaves formed from the leftover crust dough, brushed with egg and food coloring, and baked at 400 degrees until golden brown.

Is it a lot of work? Well, yeah. Is it worth it? Heck yeah!!

Apples to Apples

2011-09-08T02:50:00.002-04:00

This weekend, Kirk and I made our annual trek to the mountains to partake in the Hendersonville Apple Festival in western North Carolina. It has become something of a tradition to attend the festival with our friends Jacob and Sara (remember them?), and though the day felt like nothing so much as summer, we indulged our fancy, pretending that the air held the promise of crispness, and cooler temps were just around the corner.

As we perused the offerings of the many tables, sampled the delicious apples, and indulged in once-a-year treats, my grandfather came to mind. We recently marked the four year anniversary of his passing, and as we passed booths promising fresh apple slushies, apple turnover, homemade apple ice cream, and hand-dipped caramel apples, I smiled at the distant memory that floated to the surface.

Nana and Papa’s small, rectangular house squatted on their postage stamp-sized property, with a concrete driveway lining the right side of the lot, and a detached one car garage tucked in the back. Within the confines of the fenced backyard, the grass was immaculately maintained, the roses along the house flourished, and the small vegetable garden along the side of the garage offered its bounty.

Come late summer, the lone tree that was centered in the yard exploded with a harvest of tiny green apples. These apples were an enigma to me. Perfectly formed miniature versions of the apples I ate at snack time, they taunted me from their unreachable heights, surely at least 6 feet above the ground. Of course, there were always plenty of ugly, browning apples littering the ground beneath the canopy, but if the tree had thrown them away, I sure wasn’t going to eat them. Besides, the five-second rule had clearly been broken as I had never actually seen one fall. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. I tried valiantly to shake one of the forbidden fruits to the ground, but the sturdy trunk refused to sway even a little. Not only could I not move it, I couldn’t even climb it due to its skinny diameter and high up limbs.

After plotting unsuccessfully to pick one on my own, I begged and begged Papa to get one for me. Again and again he shook his head, until at long last he finally reached up and plucked one for me, handing it to me with merriment in those rich blue eyes and an innocent smile on his thin, flesh-colored lips. Almost the moment it was in my hand, I eagerly sank my teeth into the surprisingly hard flesh.

Immediately, the starchy, sour flavor flooded my mouth, causing my lips to involuntarily pucker and my eyes to squint. Blinded by the tears that sprang unbidden to my eyes, I was aware of the sound of laughter from the exact location where Papa had stood moments before. Was he laughing at me?!

I spit out the offending bite and wiped at my tears with the back of my sleeve. I was tempted to wipe my tongue as well, but settled on spitting a few more times. When I was recovered enough to look up, I focused on my Papa, who was trying hard to control his laughter. My eyebrows came together huffily and my hands went to my hips. “Why did you let me eat that Papa?” The hurt and accusation were clear in my whining tone.

Smiling gently, Papa put his huge hands around my thin shoulders and squeezed lightly. “Because you asked, Little Bit, and Papa can’t deny you nothing.”

That’s how I will always remember him: as tall as a giant, chuckling merrily with that raspy, throaty quality that accentuated his many decades on this earth. Piercing blue eyes focused right one me, as if I had something important to say, even at the age of five. And always, always indulging his grand kids. It makes me smile just thinking of him, and the twinkle in his eye as he handed me that apple. I'm so glad that we were able to make it to the festival this year, which brought about this special memory in the first place. Who knows, maybe next year's festival will shake another great memory loose for me, too :)

Do you have traditions that help you to ring in fall? Apple orchards, or football games, or one last s’more around the campfire? Does food ever trigger memories for you like it did for me?

This is actually the very first recipe I ever posted on the blog, but it is so yummy, I decided to share it again so my newer Cake Readers had a chance to try their hand at total awesomeness in the form of apple pie :) The recipe is based on the Perfect Apple Pie recipe at KraftFoods.com – I simply lowered the amount of sugar in the filling, added a pinch to the crust, and used Honeycrisp apples because they are the best EVER (and available by the bushel at the festival, lol)

Glorious Apple Pie

Crust: (and yes, you can just use the premade kind from the store)

2 and 1/4 cups all purpose flour

1 tsp salt

2 tsp sugar

1 cup shortening

1/4 to 1/3 cup ice water

Filling:

4 large or 5 medium apples - honeycrisp are my very favorite - Very thinly sliced and cut into small wedges (I use the apple peeler/slicer/corer that I got for $19 at the festival, but which they sell in novelty kitchen supply stores or online)

1/2 cup sugar

1 and 1/2 Tbsp cornstarch

1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon

1/4 tsp. nutmeg

Combine in bowl, tossing well, set aside.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Pull dough from fridge, sandwich between either 2 large pieces of plastic wrap or parchment paper, and using a rolling pin work until large enough to cover the bottom of a 9 to 9.5 inch pie pan. Peel away to top piece, then invert dough into pan and peel away remaining piece of wrap/paper. Adjust to fit pan without stretching, making sure no air bubbles are trapped at the bottom.

Add apple filling

Work the top piece of dough the same as the bottom piece. Place over filling, crimp bottom and top pieces of dough together, and cut steam vents into the top. For a shiny crust, beat an egg and brush it over the dough, sprinkling with sugar if desired.

Place on a cookie sheet to catch overflow, and place in oven. Bake 45 to 50 minutes

Still Alive

2011-09-06T18:11:00.002-04:00

Hi All

Just a quick note to assure you that yes, I am still alive :) Thanks to Irene, we were without power for three LONG days, and without internet, cable, or phone for almost a week. And no, I'm not sure how we survived, either ;) We headed to the mountains the day after we got internet back, and wouldn't you know it - no internet at the house we stayed.

We returned last night, only to have the power go out AGAIN. Sigh. Luckily, it came back on as we were getting into bed. So, all this is to let you know that I have an more than a few technical difficulties, but that everything is okay. My plan is to have a blog up by Thursday morning. Sorry for the delay - I promise that, with the recipe I have in mind, it will be well worth the wait :) (I did mention that I was at an apple festival, right?)

Only You...

2011-08-23T02:47:00.002-04:00

...can prevent writer’s butt. And forest fires. But mostly writer’s butt. Truly, I spend very little time in the forest these days, so I’m not sure I’m much good at preventing forest fires.

However, sitting for hours upon hours in front of my computer, snacking the day away as I float from the dining room table, to the couch, to my office, and back, has not been kind to my waistline. After spending Saturday on the boat (in a bathing suit, of course) sitting beside my lovely and uber-fit friend, I’ve decided it’s time for me to get my tush in gear.

Now, any normal person might say, “Hey – why don’t I start running again!” or “I know, how about a nice refreshing swim?” or better yet “I’ll join a gym!”

Yeah. Not me. First of all, I positively melt in the southern heat, and running while getting all icky and sweaty as the sun beats down on me is not my idea of a good time. And swimming, well, its too tempting just to paddle around and play when I’m in the lake. And heaven knows I live too far out to belong to a gym.

So, what’s my solution?

Waterboarding. Okay, so it’s actually P90x, but it might as well be waterboarding. Having successfully completed the program two years ago, I thought, sure, I can do this again! Piece of cake. An hour and a half of exercise six days a week? Sign me up!

Well, two days in, all I have to say is uuhhhggggnnnrrrrr. Didn’t get that? That would be the unintelligible moan you would have heard if you were sitting here with me instead of reading my written words.

My back hurts. My shoulders hurt. My legs feel like two well-formed stacks of jello. My arse hurts, my chest aches, heck, even the balls of my feet aren’t happy. It is only through a miracle from heaven that Tony Horton didn’t devise an exercise to bulk up the muscles in my fingers, therefore leaving me with the ability to type.

So, what on earth made me think that I could do this? Rake myself over the coals each day (except Saturdays – yay!) before collapsing on the couch each night as a useless, half-dead bag of quivering muscles? I’m convinced I have some sort of inherent disconnect between what I can do and what I think I can do.

Seriously, do you ever watch, say, HGTV and go, yeah, I can retile my kitchen! Or observe a reality show where some former Navy SEAL make a fire out of a tin can, a marshmallow, and a button and roll your eyes and think, well, who couldn’t start a fire with those things? Do you sit on the couch and shake your head at the Tour de France cyclists and wonder how far you could bike if you had a $15,000 carbon-frame bicycle in your garage? How about those cake competition shows that you know you could kick there butt in if you were there?

Honest to goodness, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I have some crazy, delusional side of me that doesn’t seem to get that I’m not superwoman. No, I can’t make snowshoes out of the rusted engine of an abandoned lawnmower. No, I will never be able to bike my way through the French Alps, no matter how expensive my bike is. And if I am ever dropped on a desert island without a lighter or a pack of matches, I’m just gonna have to learn to like sushi.

Honestly, I should just give up now and donate my P90x DVDs to some college kid who can actually do this stuff.

But then again… there is a lot of power in mind over matter. I mean, I said I could do a triathlon, and I did. I wanted a screened in porch, hardwood floors, and a finished basement, so I built them. I believed I could make a wakeboard groomsman cake despite the fact I'd only worked with fondant once before, and I figured out how to do it. I envisioned a career as a writer, so I sat down at the computer and wrote.

Which brings us back to the dreaded Writer’s Butt. Perhaps I can suffer through a little soreness if it means feeling good about myself and being as healthy as I can. Perhaps the pain, the sweat (ew), and the exhaustion are worth it. After all, I’ve done this before. I can do it again. And with time I’ll conquer the things that have been bothering me. No more tiredness, no more feeling blah, and no more Writer’s Butt.

Only I can prevent forest fires and a flat butt. And by jove, I shall.

So tell me, what impossible task do you think you can do? Have you ever tried it, or are you happy knowing that you could do it, if you ever decided to try? ;)

More Than Words

2011-08-16T09:42:00.002-04:00

The motions are so familiar to me by now, I really don’t need the recipe that stands at the ready on my iPad as I mush bananas with my pastry knife. I’ve made this banana bread again and again, surely dozens of times over the years. It’s my way of communicating with others; to celebrate a new baby, to welcome new friends and to offer cheer to old ones, to teach little ones to bake, or to give small comfort to my family. And, for times like today, to offer my condolences in the way I know best.

Carefully measured sugar blends with butter and soft white cream cheese, and I listen to the beating of my KitchenAid, its steady thump the heartbeat of my kitchen. Words are the medium in which I have staked my career, and yet at times like these, I can never seem to find the right ones. No words can properly express sorrow or sadness for the loss another has suffered. There is no right thing to say, no words for me to offer condolences in a way that scratches the surface of the true emotion. Without words, baking is my true medium.

Adding the eggs one at a time, I watch them swirl into the batter, adding a hint of color to the creamy mix. The dry ingredients come next, dusting the surface before being scraped into the mixture. I time the addition of each cupful just so, achieving the perfect, slightly stiff consistency. Gently, purposefully I add the bananas, working the spatula with a practiced hand until I sense the moment is right.

A few miles away, tears fall like raindrops, splashing on the empty place once filled with sweet smiles. Silence replaces the hum of life, a quiet so foreign it roars in the ears. In my own home, my oven beeps—the temperature is just right. In goes the carefully filled pans, and I settle back to wait. When the next beep comes, the house is warm and fragrant, and in the batter’s place is golden, domed goodness.

I can’t find the words, but I can offer sustenance. Sweet, dense bread, a flavor well-known from childhood. Soon it’s wrapped and ready. With sure hands I hand over my offering. In it is my heart, my prayers, and those unfound words.

I’m grateful for this, my comfort food, for always knowing what to say.

I hope you’ll forgive the melancholy mood. At times like these, it strikes me how elemental baking is for me. It is the physical manifestation of my wish to create for others, to have something to offer them that is of myself. I’m infinitely grateful that God saw fit to give me this unexpected talent. With out it, how else am I to share glimpses of joy, welcome, celebrations, and caring? Truly for me, a baked good is worth a thousand words. Is there anything like that for you?

The following recipe is an adaptation of a Southern Living recipe, and will make two loaves.

The Perfect Banana Bread

-3/4 cup butter (1 & 1/2 sticks of butter) softened

-8 oz of Neufchatel cream cheese (1 package) softened

-1 and 1/2 cup sugar

-2 eggs

-3 cups all purpose flour

-1/2 tsp baking powder

-1/2 tsp baking soda

-1/2 tsp salt

-4 large ripe bananas – ripe

-1/2 tsp vanilla

-pecans or walnuts optional

Preheat oven to 350. Grease and flour 2 loaf pans

Cream together butter and cream cheese, then gradually add sugar. Once combined, beat on medium high for 3 minutes. Add eggs one at a time, beating until just blended after each one.

Combine dry ingredients in a separate bowl. Slowly add to batter while blending at low speed until just combined. Add bananas and vanilla and stir by hand until well combined.

Divide batter evenly between the two pans and place in oven for 1 hour or until a toothpick comes out cleanly. During the last 15 minutes, tent a piece of foil over the pans to prevent the top from over-browning. Cool on racks 10 minutes before removing from pans.

The Constant (Wannabe) Gardener

2011-08-08T23:58:00.004-04:00

I want to be the eccentric old writer who lives in the rambling, ancient house covered in vines blooming with heavy purple flowers and surrounded by gardens covering every square inch of my property. I want to rock on the porch swing and look out over the lush landscape, mildly ordered and carefully unstructured. I want hydrandrea blooms the size of my head, and peonies of every color, and vividly verdant evergreen plants that offer tiny red berries against the white blanket of winter.

All through the spring, summer, and into fall, I want to fill my home with flowers, brilliant pops of color that brighten my mood and my life whenever I look at them. I want my husband to roll his eyes and chuckle when I exclaim over a perfect new rose bush, or declare that a particular bloom has the finest scent ever to touch my nose.

I hope that the neighborhood children peer through the slats of my vine-covered picket fence and make up stories about the strange old couple within. They’ll whisper of walls covered in actual books—the kind you actually have to hold in your hand and turn each and every page—and notebooks filled with the curling, uneven stokes of a type of writing called cursive. Through the swaying branches of the weeping willows standing guard in the front yard, they’ll catch fleeting glimpses of the stately old house. Every now and again I’ll look furtively out the window and swish the drapes closed dramatically, if only to give them further fodder for their gossip.

Behind our house, fountains will gurgle, whirly gigs will turn, and birdhouses adorned with copper roofs and tiny shutters will be home to happy songbirds of every color. Kirk will tinker in the quaint shed out back, biding his time in whatever way that pleases him. Our dogs will sun like lions on the grass, moving every so often to keep up with the slow spin of the earth beneath their lazy bones.

At mealtime, my table will be heavy with the bounty of my gardens. Bright red tomatoes and emerald leaves of lettuce, crisp, cool cucumbers and the sweetest sugar snap peas ever grown will fill our salad bowls, our crisper, and our bellies. Dried herbs will hang from the cupboards while fresh ones crowd my windowsills, their fragrance mingling pleasantly with the fresh flowers filling glass bowls on the kitchen table.

Yes, my future will be filled with gardens, and sunshine, and flowers, and neatly pebbled paths. And in the meantime, I will ignore the sparse, spindly branches of my much-tended tomato plants, forgiving them once again for stubbornly refusing to produce so much as a single tomato. (Yes, somehow this year managed to be even worse than last year, though I wouldn’t have thought it possible). I’ll chalk up the cost of their organic soil and fertilizer to my continued learning experience in how not to grow a garden. I’ll overlook the sagging retaining wall, barren grounds, and wholly uninspired box-hedges and think of how glorious things will be when I finally grow that green thumb.

I would say I don’t know why I try, but I do. I want a garden. I want to look out with pride at the things that I grew. Why nature keeps thwarting me so thoroughly, I can’t imagine. Alas, I can already tell you that I will try again next year (this time with more squirrel-proofing, if the rascally fellows are indeed my saboteurs, as I suspect). And the next year, and the next. I‘m going to keep trying until I succeed, by jove, and when I do, I will shout it from the rooftops that I have at last tamed nature, and have brought food to my table through the sweat of my brow.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to run to the grocery store for the ingredients for today’s recipe.

:) Please tell me I am not the only one who lacks the tomato-growing gene. Have you tried and failed to grow something? If you’ve succeeded, I don’t want to hear from you. All right, you can post, but I will NOT be smiling when I respond, lol. All I have to say is thank goodness for grocery stores, because without them, I’d truly be up a creek!

Below is one of my very favorite recipes, made by my husband from the freshest of ingredients. For now, the veggies are store bought, but someday…

Garden Delight

-2 pounds tomatoes (fresh or canned) chopped

-1 carrot, chopped

-1 stalk celery, chopped

-1 small zucchini, chopped

-1 small squash, chopped

-1 medium onion, chopped

-1 clove garlic, crushed

5 Tbsp olive oil

salt and pepper to taste

a few leaves of basil to taste

Place all ingredients together in a large saucepan and simmer for 30 minutes. Puree the sauce in a food processor. I like mine to have a slightly grainy texture so that I have a little something to bite into, but you can puree as smooth as you like. Either serve hot over pasta or cold as a soup. Enjoy!!

Guest Blogging Today

2011-08-02T09:17:00.003-04:00

Happy Tuesday, all! Today I am blogging at the Lady Scribes blog. Curious to see exactly how many outfits I fit into my one little carry-on for my trip to NYC last month? Stop by and see the video - I bet you're gonna be surprised!

Click Here

I hope to see you there!

The Name Game

2011-07-26T00:12:00.002-04:00

A rose by any other name… would sound kind of strange. This, my dear Cake Readers, is a lesson I have learned over the past four days. Why? Because I made the unwelcome discovery that Erin Kelly is published by Penguin… and I don’t mean me. Oh, no. My name—the one I’ve had since birth—was suddenly mine no more.

Tragic, I know.

But it could be fun to come up a new name, right? You would think, but no, actually, it was most certainly not. It was basically me, emailing every contact I have, saying “How about this one? What do you think of this one?” In summary, I made a pest out of myself.

I may have even become a little obsessed. At work, I thumbed idly through the customer database, whispering my first name with the last name candidates. I pulled out my yearbook, trolled websites, and even unearthed the phonebook. On Saturday, Kirk and I went to see Harry Potter, and as the credits rolled, so did my husband’s eyes—he must have heard me fitting “Erin” in front of the names as they scrolled. (Well they were British names, after all!)

The obsessing didn’t stop there. I pulled out a notebook and began signing different names, I opened Word and typed them in pretty fonts. I went to the bookstore and researched what author I’d be next to on the shelves if I chose one name or another. I shot still more emails to my poor crit group getting opinions.

The problem was—nothing felt right. None of these were me. It felt like such a huge decision. I would be known by this name indefinitely, after all! My books would always be somewhere, touting the name decided on this weekend. I went to bed last night worrying about it, and managed to even dream about it.

It wasn’t until this morning that I took a deep, long breath and realized: Shakespeare was right. A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet. An author by any other name would still write just as well.

And an Erin by any other name would still be me :) So, without further ado, allow me to reintroduce myself, dear Cake Readers.

Erin Knightley, at your service.

What can I say? If it was good enough for Jane Austen, than it’s good enough for me :)

So, if you were in my shoes and had to choose a new name for yourself, what would it be?

Hallelujah!

2011-07-19T01:23:00.003-04:00

I’M GOING TO BE PUBLISHED!!!

Holy dark chocolate, batman, does it feel amazing to be able to say that! It’s the phrase I have dreamed of saying a thousand different ways in the last few years, and now that it is here, I can hardly believe that it’s real.

Quick note: If this is a dream, please no one wake me!

In all seriousness, I have been in a fog of giddiness ever since I got the news that one of my top pick publishers had made an offer. It’s not everyday your dreams come true, after all :) Today, proof that no pinching is necessary will come in the form of the Publisher’s Marketplace announcement:

Erin Kelly’s Golden Heart finalist and debut historical, MORE THAN A STRANGER, a Regency-style YOU'VE GOT MAIL, in which the heroine falls for an enigmatic stranger, unaware he is her brother's oldest friend and the same man she shared a childhood correspondence with before he broke her heart, at auction to Kerry Donovan at NAL by Deidre Knight at The Knight Agency (World English)

How official is that?! Publisher’s Marketplace, people! THE place for industry news and deals. As silly as it sounds, I’m totally framing that blurb!

So, for those of you that wanted to know how it all went down, I’ll start with the fact that I had no idea when I turned my last revision into my agent, Deidre, that she would love it and have it turned around on submission to all the major houses in less than a week. Don’t get me wrong—I was really happy with the current version, but I think I had become so mired in the revision process, I just assumed there would be more. Suffice it to say, I was shocked when I got the news that we were ready to submit.

The submission went out the Friday before I left for Nationals, meaning I was a whole ‘nuther level of neurotic once I was there. First the Golden Heart awards to think about, and now the fact my manuscript was actually in the hands of the editors I had only been able to read about and lust after from afar? On top of that, I was trying to keep the whole thing on the down low, though I’m not sure how well I succeeded.

I was, in a word, a wreck.

During the course of the week, I actually met with a few of the editors who where reading my work. I couldn’t believe it—I thought for sure no one would pick it up until after the craziness of Nationals. Yet there they were, quoting from the book and laughing about their favorite scenes. I ain’t gonna lie—it was amazing! These women, who I respected immensely and truly enjoyed meeting, really seemed to see something in me. ME! Little old me from backwater North Carolina, with a science background, no less.

Once conference was over, I came home and began the waiting process. A week later, when Deidre told me one and possibly two of the editors were considering making offers, I nearly came out of my skin. Those few days were the longest of my whole life. What if they changed their minds? What if the powers that be decided I wasn’t right for them? What if they came to their senses and realized I was just a hack?!

Poor Kirk. I think he was relieved when, last Sunday, he had to pack up and head out of town for work. I know I wouldn’t have wanted to live with me as I obsessed about whether or not anything would come of it. And then…

And then The Offer came in. The feelings I had were nearly indescribable—joy, excitement, the overwhelming gratitude to God, to my family, to all the people who had helped me. I also remember an immense feeling of relief, so powerful it was like liquid silver in my veins, slipping and sliding through me, touching every cell in my body.

The absolute worst part was that I couldn’t share the news with anyone. It was TORTURE!! That night, I went to the ATM and got a twenty out, then headed to the local organic farm that also sells homemade ice cream. Handing over my cash for a cone, I asked the girl if she knew who I was. She shook her head, more than a little bewildered at the erratic, flushed customer with the wild eyes and maniacal grin. Knowing that the cash kept me anonymous, I spilled the news. “I’m going to be published!”

She smiled and nodded. “Um, that’s great.”

But it only got better. The next morning, another offer came in. What?! How was it possible that TWO publishers could both want me? Over the next twenty four hours, I waited with my heart in my throat as the two went to auction. The poor dogs—the only witnesses to my craziness—didn’t know what to make of me. It was beyond surreal at this point. I was delirious from not being able to tell anyone, exhausted from lack of sleep, and wound tighter than an eight day clock with anticipation for the outcome.

When at last the dust settled, I ended up with the fabulous Kerry Donovan at NAL (an imprint of Penguin) with a three book deal. I literally jumped for joy, right there in the middle of my day job, whopping like ten year old girl and grinning like a fool. Next to when my husband proposed to me, it was the single greatest moment of my life. That single moment has been followed by a thousand smaller ones, thanks to all the congrats, kind words, and shared celebrations from all of you. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart!

Dreams really do come true, my friends.

(Actual jumping for joy, lol!)

Though we don’t have a release date yet, we are looking at around early spring 2013 for release of the first book. When that day comes, I do hope one of you will be kind enough to bring a scraper to peel me from the ceiling ;)

(PS - I’d take the opportunity to thank all those who helped get me to this point, but I’ll just refer you to last week’s blog instead, lol!)

I'd Like To Thank...

2011-07-12T00:25:00.008-04:00

My, oh my, has it been a whirlwind past couple of weeks! The conference was an absolute blur, so jam packed that the only reason I ate anything at all was because I had scheduled all my meals with others ahead of time, lol.

It was and is an incredible honor to have been a finalist in the Golden Heart contest. Having that little ribbon at the bottom of my name badge was like magic—instantly encouraging all kinds of wonderful new people to talk to me. Complete strangers offered their congratulations, asked about my manuscript, and wished me good luck. It was humbling and inspiring all at once. Yet again, I was potently reminded of what an awesome institution RWA is.

When the big awards night finally arrived, I was giddy with excitement that my husband, sister, and mother joined me. It was so fun to have them witness one small part of the life I live on the side—all the people I talk about, all the energy surrounding the event, and the sheer mass of the event.

When all was said and done, I was not the winner in my category, but my only regret is not getting to say my speech. Okay, that’s a lie—one foot on that stage during rehearsals and I was TERRIFIED that I would win and have to give a speech to the yawning expanse of that New York ballroom. But I did want to have the opportunity to thank all the people that helped get me to that point.

So, my dear cake readers, I’ve decided give my speech after all. Without further ado, here is my not-an-acceptance-speech speech :)

There are so many people I have to thank, I think it best to just start at the beginning. To my amazing parents, who always encouraged us to follow our dreams. You were no less supportive of me when I announced I wanted to be a romance writer than you were when I declared Marine Science as my major in college. Now that is truly supportive parenting!

To my brother, who indulges his creativity after the work is done and the house is quiet, composing such beautiful music that one can not help but be inspired. To my sister, who broke from her cocoon in such magnificent fashion, reaching for her dreams and succeeding beautifully. It was through your example that I learned that stardust can not be captured if you don’t reach for the stars. It also helps that, as a fellow writer, I have someone to call and complain to at midnight when my characters are refusing to cooperate.

To my agent extraordinaire, Deidre Knight. It never ceases to amaze me that I somehow managed to land such an awesome champion, and I am forever grateful that you decided that you really are, as the contest stated, "just that into me."

To RWA, to my phenomenal local chapter HCRW, my dear friend Heather Snow, and to the amazingly talented and generous ladies of my Historical Romance Critique group. The support and camaraderie that the romance writing community continues to show is nothing short of awe-inspiring.

And lastly, to my husband. I could never hope to craft a hero more perfect for me than you are. You made MY dreams OUR dreams, putting unwavering faith in my ability. You have supported me in every way imaginable, and it is through your sacrifice that any of this is even possible.

I am so blessed. God planted some small seed of talent within me, and so many people have been a part of nourishing that seed, helping me in a thousand different ways so that I can continue to grow and thrive as a writer. Thank you so much, this is an honor that I will never forget.

Every word of that is true, and I didn’t need a win to make it so. All of you guys rock – whether you come by the blog religiously, stop by occasionally, or only just found me. Thanks for the kind, funny, and encouraging comments that you leave for me like little rays of sunshine each week. {{{Hugs}}}

So for today’s recipe, I decided to do a version of a dessert I had at John’s Pizzeria in the Theater district of NYC. Their dessert had chocolate on the bottom, mascarpone in the middle, and was covered with amoretto cookie crumbles and chocolate shavings. It was so good, the whole world receded as the creamy goodness filled my senses. Being the cupcake lady I am, I decided to convert the recipe to cake. I give you…

Chocolate and Mascarpone Cupcakes!

Okay, so I don’t actually have mascarpone cheese at the moment (somehow the local Food Lion didn’t see fit to carry it), but as soon as I can find it, I will be trying the recipe I found here, lol! Click Here

For your viewing pleasure, I’ve included some pics from the big night:

The dress (color is grey, not teal!)

Before the awards ceremony

My Mom and Sister :)

A few of my crit group ladies

Julia Quinn (and yes, her hair did smell nice ;) ) PS - Eloisa James juuust made it in the picture :)

Times Square afterwards

I SOO wish I had this cop's name. His expression—and the tilt of his hat—is priceless!

This and That

2011-06-21T09:22:00.002-04:00

Back by popular demand, I am blogging about packing tips at the LadyScribes blog today. I have even included a video tutorial (don't laugh!) to show how to effectively pack an entire nine day trip into one carry-on. I hope you'll join me there, and let me know if you have any other helpful tips: Click Here

Also, next week I will be in the middle of conference, so there will not be a blog next Tuesday. I promise to blog the results of the Golden Heart (are everyone's fingers crossed??), but my next regular blog will not be until JULY 12. In the meantime, I hope you all have lots of summer fun, and I'll see you then!

Close Encounters of the Serpent Kind

2011-06-14T11:08:00.004-04:00

I was on a mission this past week. I was going to finish my revisions if it killed me. And it was—killing me, that is. So, I decided a change of scenery was in order. I dragged out the old lounge chair and hefted across the lawn to a shady spot under a huge pine tree overlooking the water. After carefully spreading a towel over the dingy fabric of the chair, I settled in for some writing.

The day was hot, but the breeze was delightful, and the joy of being out of doors instead of cooped up in my office while I wrote was intoxicating. I was deep into a rather inspired passage of revisions when I caught something moving out of the corner of my eye.

I turned my head and there, not three feet from me, was a long, slender, shiny black snake. We both froze. I must have been sitting very still, with only my fingers tapping on the whisper-quiet keys of my laptop, because it was clear I had startled the thing when I looked toward him.

For a long moment, we engaged in a sort of silent standoff, both waiting to see what the other would do. I should probably mention here that, though I’m not really afraid of snakes, I do have a healthy respect for them. He was about four feet long, with a slender head and round pupils, so I felt fairly confident he was just a common black rat snake.

I smiled—he was just a harmless little bugger. It was funny, really, the way both of us were sitting there like idiots. Neither one of us was going to hurt the other, for heaven’s sake. Hoping to get him on his snakey way again, I said, “I see you.”

BIG mistake.

Having apparently scared the bejesus out of him, he whipped around with lightning speed, facing me fully and suddenly vibrating his tail with rattlesnake-like effectiveness. Adrenaline bolted through my system, stopping my heart before sending it into overdrive, pounding so hard it nearly jumped from my chest.

FLEE, my body screamed, not even letting my mind catch up. Tossing my computer and lap desk to the ground, I scrambled backwards, flailing my arms and legs in my desperate bid to break free from the awkwardly low lawn chair that seemed to be actively trying to thwart my escape.

At last gaining a foothold, I bolted up, throwing myself off balance and stumbling backwards. At this point I must have looked like the giant squid from 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea to the snake—arms wind-milling and legs tangled in the blasted chair, all the while making guttural noises of distress since a scream seemed to be above my powers of speech at this point.

Almost at the same moment, we both made a break for freedom. Snakey rocketed for the woods, hightailing it faster than frightened rabbit. Heedless of my bare feet, I did one of those cartoon escapes, running in place for a second before finally gaining traction and zooming away, leaving my shadow behind to catch up later.

Once inside, I thundered up the stairs and straight to my iPad (you know—because I had ditched my computer outside like a bad habit?).With my heart still pounding in my ears, I pulled up the internet.

You gotta love Google. I typed in “Black snake shaking—” and it auto-filled in “its tail” for me. I felt a little better—at least I wasn’t the only idiot doing this search. So, come to find out, it was indeed the common rat snake—not some insidious black rattler invading the southeast as I had irrationally feared. Apparently, it has the ability to mock a rattlesnake, shaking its tail with that blood-chilling rattle, instantly instilling fear in its hapless victims.

The little bastard.

After pulling myself together, I went back outside to retrieve my computer and shoes. He was still there, sunning near the edge of the woods. I ain’t gonna lie, dear Cake Readers. I threw a pine cone at him. And ran like a little girl when he jumped.

So tell me, what would YOU have done if you had had a close encounter of the snake kind?

And today’s recipe?

Fried Snake, Courtesy of the USGS

Are you listening Mr. Snakey?

Guest Blogging Today

2011-06-07T09:02:00.001-04:00

Hello all! Today I am guest blogging at LadyScribes. I hope you'll stop by and join me there if you get a chance :) Thanks!

Love Story

2011-06-01T23:41:00.007-04:00

He was sixteen when I met him. He was broad shouldered and long-limbed, sitting at my friend’s kitchen table at her sixteenth birthday party. His dark brown hair swooped away from his temples like the wings of a dark, glossy bird, and though he wasn’t talking, his chocolate brown eyes took in everything around him.

I remember his white T-shirt, and his surprisingly strong looking forearms, and how uncomfortable he looked. When I was introduced to him, he barely even looked at me. Despite his less than encouraging reaction to me, my heart beat jarringly within my chest, and I spent the rest of the party pretending to follow conversations—all the while sneaking looks and wondering if he noticed me too.

By the end of the night, my trademark lack of patience got the best of me, and I followed him to his car. The chill of that September night blanketed every surface in dewy splendor, and I remember the millions of tiny droplets on his car, reflecting the rising moon like so many fallen stars.

I wanted him to ask me for my number. Instead, he gave me his. I didn’t know then how shy he really was. With a groan of frustration, I ripped the paper in half and gave him my number anyway.

And then I waited.

I don’t remember when he called, but I do recall meeting at our friend’s house once again, sitting on the carpeted basement steps and wanting him to kiss me so bad, I thought I might burst. Each breath was ripe with possibilities, each shared glance bringing us closer to that inevitable moment. But it wouldn’t happen there. That was for a different night.

A night that will always be a favorite memory. The inky black sky, the quiet of his neighborhood near midnight. Sitting on the trunk of my maroon’86 Oldsmobile. My rapid breath betrayed by the cold night air as it crystallized between us and floated to the heavens. Anticipation coursing through me like a torturous, delicious drug. At long last he leaned toward me, and I toward him. His first kiss.

My last first kiss.

Months later, I remember sitting in his little white car in my parents’ driveway, the drenching summer rain holding us hostage as we were serenaded by the thwap of windshield wipers and the tinny strains of Sweet Home Alabama floating though the humid air. His dark velvet gaze was leveled evenly on me—no more shyness between us. And then those three words spoken, not even fully formed before they were reciprocated. There was no doubt in my mind, in my soul, or in my heart. I loved him. He was meant for me, and I for him.

Everything about him was the perfect foil to me. Patience to my impatience, calmness to my restlessness, introverted to my extroverted. The classic yin and yang. He was good, and sweet, and infinitely kind.

Four and half years after we met, when we were oh-so-mature juniors in college together, a letter arrived at my work. Leave now, it said, and put on your best dress. Be ready by 6. Dinner, a show, a walk at midnight. At last his knee touched the pavement, on a winter’s night in South Carolina, and before the dormant fountain and sleepy, bare trees, he said those magic words. The moon itself nestled in a little black box, anchored by white gold and soft velvet, and with a single, whispered yes, he placed it on my finger. I cried and clung to him, loving this perfect man who loved me back.

A scant two weeks after graduating college, exactly ten years ago today, in fact, I awoke in my childhood bedroom in the gloomy light of dawn, giddy, electric nerves dancing through my every cell. The day somehow rushed by with exquisite slowness, snippets and moments preserved in memory among the whirlwind that was to be my wedding day. The artful working of my hair, the soft tickle of makeup brushes across my cheeks and nose, the jarring smell of nail polish. A blue garter, a white dress, a sparkling tiara, and yards and yards of the precious veil I had spent months making by hand. Stepping from the blinding sunlight into the cool, dark church, and then . . . there he was.

A hundred pairs of eyes watched us, but we only saw each other. His smile . . . I’ll remember it forever. His words of promise, his warm fingers sliding cold metal onto my finger, and then his lips on mine. Joined together as one, at long last. My husband. Are there any sweeter words in the English language?

I remember thinking things could never be better than they were that moment, when we ran from the church and laughed as we embraced, a symphony of tolling bells ringing in our ears and making the very air we breathed dance with excitement.

But I was wrong.

It did get better. It does get better. Every morning I wake with him by my side, every shared kiss, every time his fingers touch mine or I hear his voice on the phone, my life gets that much richer. His quiet words of support, his endless championing and his faith in me even when I had none in myself; all of it is precious to me.

I know, dear Cake Reader, that I am blessed. I am a writer because of some small seed of talent God planted in me. I am a writer of romance because I know love so completely. I am a writer of romance pursuing my dreams because of the man who makes it all possible.

To Kirk ~ My Love, My Life, My Very Best Friend ~ Happy Tenth Anniversary.

At the tender age of seventeen :)

June 2, 2001

On our fifth anniversary

Seventh Anniversary

A candid shot on our 8th anniversary

9th Anniversary. My Hero :)

Until Thursday...

2011-05-30T23:28:00.003-04:00

I am a writer of romance.

I spend my days weaving stories with the sole purpose of making my readers smile someday. It is my goal to craft a story so well that, when my hero and heroine fall in love, my reader will be right there with them, sighing or grinning or crying tears of happiness. It is what I strive for day in and day out as I write, and delete, and edit, and rewrite.

I write romance because I love love. And this Thursday, love will be at the heart of the matter as I celebrate a very important anniversary. So what is the occasion? Alas, dear Cake Reader, you will have to wait two more days to find out because, in honor of this very special day, I will be posting my blog Thursday instead of Tuesday. I hope you will join me on this wonderful occasion.

And don’t worry – it’s black tie optional ;) Until then!

Lazy Sunday

2011-05-24T00:42:00.004-04:00

My poor husband is not a fan of Sunday evenings. Come six o’clock on the lake, all the weekenders have packed up, and only a few boats remain. To him, it represents the death of a weekend, and the impending birth of a new work week. As for me, I relish the peace as the water once more grows still.

The sun, while still bright, has fallen behind our neighbor’s trees, saving us from its hot rays and squint-worthy glare. On nights like this, we can frolic in the lake as if it was our own personal pool, stretching endlessly in both directions.

Our puppies can play along side us, champion dog-paddlers that they are, their little paws pumping rhythmically beside us as they glide through the satin water. With no worries of careless boaters, I can lay on my back as I swim, my legs kicking lazily as I watch the clouds float by.

When I finally emerge from the water, I tend to my tiny little garden, filled with hopes and dreams in the form of tomato plant seedlings, despite the gardening debacle of last year. I am an optimist, after all, and this year my lovingly tended plants will thrive.

Big black dog still splashes happily in the water, my first-born follows behind me with her ever-present rock, and little pup runs circles around my husband with youthful abandon. My whole world is here in my backyard, together for this one perfect evening.

Though this is the time of the week Kirk dreads, for me, it is magic. It fills my heart to hear nothing but the lapping of water, or the yips of my littlest pup as she tries to keep up with her sisters. I love that I can talk with my husband about nothing and everything as we float freely in the summer hush, or sit on the dock, or smile at the dogs’ antics.

Of course, it’s not a fair comparison, for I no longer live the rat race as I once did. But life has so many blessing, some huge and obvious, some quiet and simple. For me, Sunday nights are a private blessing, one best experienced with family, but shared with the world :).

Now don't laugh - but at the bottom of this post is my very first attempt at a movie. It's not very long, but I hope you enjoy!

Tell me about your favorite little moments – the ones you store away for later, and think on with a smile.

Okay, my dear cake readers, I have some sad news. In five weeks time, I must fit into one fantabulous ball gown for the Golden Heart award ceremonies. Why is this sad, you ask? Because I have banned sweets from my house! So here is a very simple, back-to-basics ‘recipe’ that made me very happy today:

Homemade Juice-sicles!

I bought a very inexpensive popsicle maker, filled it with juice (I chose V8 V-Fusion Pomegranate Blueberry with 100% fruit and veggie juice), and waited (impatienty) for the magic to happen. 25 calorie, all natural yummy summer treat? Sign me up!

A Little Something Different

2011-05-18T12:07:00.002-04:00

I just wanted to let everyone know that I am doing a guest blog at The Ruby Slippered Sisterhood on Thursday, May 19th. I hope you will all stop by and say hello there! Next week I will return to your regularly scheduled programming :)

Let Them Eat Pie

2011-05-10T15:48:00.003-04:00

I don’t recall if I mentioned it before, but the heroine of my second manuscript, More Than Tempting, is actually a baker. I know – wherever did I come up with that? ;) It is a bit outside the norm to have a bluestocking lead in a Regency novel, but I knew she would be the perfect foil for my hero, Richard. Richard is the brother to the heroine in my first manuscript, and I very quickly fell in love with his charm and charisma.

Writing Jane’s character was so much fun—and I’m sure you know why. I could feel her as I wrote. I knew what made her tick, and what baking was to her, and how she could express herself to others. When she was mad, she could pound bread dough into submission. When she was worried, she could retreat to her kitchen to busy her hands with the soothing routines of whisking or chopping. And when she was in love . . . well, that’s when she really came alive. Anyone who tasted her creations couldn’t help but sense the passion behind it.

That passion leads to the creation of a recipe that reminds her of Richard. When I was contemplating what that recipe should be, I went through a lot of research as to what would be available to her in the spring of 1819, both for ingredients and technique. In the end, I came up with something that I had never even heard of, let alone tried. Here is the excerpt:

Last night she had made biscuits baked with a lemon curd filling. They were delicious, and had sold very quickly this morning, but it wasn’t quite right. Biscuits were too sweet. When she thought of Richard, she wanted a little more tartness, something with a more memorable presence. Perhaps an unexpected element or two. After mulling it for most of the day, she finally had it.

Puff pastry on the bottom. Tart lemon custard filling laced with tangy rhubarb. A generous portion of meringue on top. She nearly laughed aloud; it would be perfect.

Well, at least it sounded perfect, lol. In reality, I hadn’t a clue if such a thing would work. Wouldn’t you know it, just last week, I was trolling around Fresh Market, and I happened upon a container of fresh rhubarb, nestled in all its rosy glory amongst the ripe strawberries and raspberries. As I stood in the middle of the produce section, I couldn’t suppress the giddy grin that came to my lips. I’d never had rhubarb in my life. What if I tried the recipe I had invented for my heroine? With my new kitchen just begging for a proper baking challenge, I tossed the package in my cart and went in search of the lemons.

That night, I went to work on the creation. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before I was seriously doubting the idea. The fresh rhubarb smelled awful. Like celery—which I hate—dressed in pink sheep’s clothing. Resolutely, I kept chopping, hoping I wasn’t about to ruin a perfectly lovely lemon pie. As the filling simmered on the stove, I took the plunge and tossed in the icky pink stalks. As I stirred, the yellow mixture blushed like the first hints of a summer sunset.

Well, if it had to suck, at least it would look pretty.

Once everything had thickened, I spooned it into the waiting pie crust and went to work on the meringue. Spreading the thick, gooey white fluff over the top, I knew that not only would it look pretty, but the topping alone would be worth it. Seriously, there are few things better on earth than a simple, perfectly whipped meringue.

The whole thing when into the oven, and I began to pace. For some reason, I couldn’t wait to see how it would all turn out. It was like a small part of my imagination—my books—come to life, right in my kitchen. I was making the very thing my heroine had invented, a recipe that was meant to capture the essence of her hero. If it was terrible, for some reason I was afraid it would ruin the magic of their chemistry. What if I didn’t know them at all?

When the peaks were gently golden, I slid the pie from the oven and set it out to cool. It actually smelled quite nice. It was a good sign, but I still had to wait for the pie to first cool, then chill in the fridge.

At long last, dinner had been cleared away and the moment of truth was upon me. I pulled my creation from the fridge, cut a slice, and sat down to my plate with fork and hand. The tines glided through the creamy filling as I gathered my first forkfull, took a bracing breath, and popped it in my mouth.

And smiled.

It was absolutely delicious. The rich, tangy filling was like cool silk against my tongue, the tangy, tart flavor cut by the sweet, cloud-like meringue. The crust was beyond perfect, buttery, flaky, and just the tad bit sweet. I would have never known that the hint of rouge in the pie was actually rhubarb—it only added an unexpected…something. I don’t know what, just a suggestion of something adventurous.

Exactly as my heroine had wanted :)

Have you ever connected with a particular character? Either while writing or reading, was there something about them that just spoke to you? Have you ever brought some small part of them to life? If you haven’t, you really should!

So here it is, my Lemon Blush Pie:

Crust (yes, you can use pre-made):

1 cup and 2 tbsp all purpose flour

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 cup cold shortening (I refrigerated mine for an hour)

1 tsp sugar

3 – 5 tbsp ice water

Combine the flour, sugar, and salt, mix. Add shortening, and cut into flour using a pastry knife or two regular knives until mixture resembles coarse, pea-sized crumbs. Add water a little at a time, stirring with a fork until mixture clings together. Taking care not to over mix, shape into 1 inch thick disk, wrap with plastic wrap, and place in refrigerator for 15 minutes.

Preheat oven to 425. Roll out dough on floured surface and fit into 9 inch pie pan. Crimp edges, poke holes in the bottom with a fork, and place in over for 30 minutes. Cool on wire rack,

Filling

5 tbsp cornstarch

1 and 1/4 cups sugar

1 and 1/2 cups water

1/2 cup lemon juice

1 tsp lemon extract or 1 tbsp lemon zest

4 egg yolks (save whites for meringue)

3/4 cup rhubarb, finely chopped or food processed.

1 tbsp butter

Whisk cornstarch, sugar, and water together in a medium saucepan. Add the lemon juice, extract/zest, yolks and rhubarb. Cook while stirring constantly until mixture begins to bubble and thicken. Remove from heat and whisk in butter. Either place directly in crust, or strain to remove fibers/zest (I didn’t strain).

Meringue

4 egg whites

1/3 cup sugar

Reduce oven temp to 350 degrees. Beat the egg whites until soft peaks form. Slowly trickle in sugar until completely mixed. Beat until the mixture is glossy with firm peaks. Spread over filling, covering completely. Lift spatula to create peaks. Bake until meringue is golden brown, about 10-15 minutes. Cool on rack, then chill in fridge.

Happily Ever After

2011-05-03T02:27:00.003-04:00

A funny thing happened Friday morning somewhere between my Cheerios breakfast and grilled cheese lunch. In the middle of my very normal day, I got to see a fairy tale come to life.

Up until the night before Prince William and Catherine Middleton’s wedding, I really had not paid much attention to the couple, or the events unfolding half a world away. Why should I? My love affair with England can be narrowed down rather succinctly to the years between 1810 and 1825 or so. Not strictly Regency, but close enough. And not even the Britain of real life, actually. Just the one where dashing earls and dukes win over their headstrong ladies, and the servants are always happily loyal and the smell of hothouse flowers and beeswax candles can drown out even the worst smells of the city.

I’m well aware that the London of today is very modern, with their share of political unease and clashing of classes. The era of the haute ton and all the finery and privilege is well and truly over.

But for some strange reason, the young girl within me stirred to life as the excitement built the day before the royal wedding. What would a rags-to-riches, modern day princess-to-be wear on her wedding day? Would people still throng the streets, looking for a glimpse of the happy couple like they had three decades earlier?

On a whim, I called a friend a little after nine that night and asked if she wanted to join me to watch the recorded wedding. She did, and by the time she arrived the next morning, I was assembling the ingredients for some remarkably delicious scones and heating the water for tea. She had worn a rather fetching hat of her daughters, while I had opted for my own mini fascinator.

With warm scones in hand and freshly steeped tea on the coffee table, we hit play and settled in to watch the wedding of the decade.

The two princes were handsome in their respective uniforms, Prince William looking a bit nervous while Harry flashed his cheeky grin. We giggled together like school girls as the men strode into the church, strong, and young, and delightfully happy. We watched with awe—and some laughter—as the guests arrived. The gravity defying headpieces of the ladies, the debonair morning suits of the men—it was all so very British.

At last we saw a flash of white as the bride was whisked into her waiting car and ferried across town to the Abbey. We held our breath and waited, hoping against hope that her dress would be perfect—the fairytale gown that we secretly wanted it to be.

The car stopped, the bride disembarked, and the world collectively gasped at the utter perfection of the moment. The dress exceeded my every hope, the veil was divine, and the tiara made every woman in the world smile and nod approvingly. No garish jewels, or plunging necklines, or modern silhouettes. Just the personification of grace and beauty.

We watched her every step as she and her father proceeded up the aisle, angelic music rising through the trees into the soaring rafters. The abbey seemed alive at that moment, filled with palpable joy, and hopes, and whimsy.

At last they reached the alter, and the groom held out as long as he could before finally turning to see his bride. We sighed with satisfaction at the look of honest love and admiration he bestowed on his soon-to-be wife. After a beautiful ceremony—one that felt as though it really meant something—the deed was done, and the newlyweds made their way to the waiting carriage. I think we all read Catherine’s lips and grinned when she said, “I’m so happy!” at the end of it all.

We watched as they made the journey to the palace, waving regally from the century old carriage. Flags waved, people cheered, and good wishes abounded until finally the couple emerged on the famous balcony.

Then, at last, the prince kissed his princess, and the whole world cheered. And then they did it again, just because they could :)

My hubby asked me later what on earth the big deal was, because for the life of him he couldn’t see it. I think it was just a perfect moment in time, when we could all believe in love, and fairytales, and a genuine happily ever after. With a happy sigh I can go back to writing my own HEAs, knowing that, somewhere in the world, a prince has chosen his princess not for her connections, not for money, and not because anyone told him to. No, he chose her only for love, and I’ll drink (tea) to that.

Did you watch the royal wedding? Were you one of the diehards who set the alarm for unspeakably early hours in order to watch it live? Were you mocked by husbands/boyfriends/bosses/friends? And was it all worth it? :)

I had a completely different recipe ready for this week’s blog, but changed my mind after the scones turned out so dag gone delicious. Here’s to the happy newlyweds!

Union Jack Scones (red, white, and blue, of course!)

(Slightly altered from recipe found here)

1/2 cup (1 stick) frozen unsalted butter

2 cups all purpose flour

1/3 cup sugar

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup sour cream

1 large egg

1/2 cup fresh or frozen blueberries

1/3 cup strawberries, chopped

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Using a food processor with grating blade, grate the butter. Combine flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt, in a separate bowl, then pour over grated butter and pulse until combined. Add sour cream and egg, and pulse again until combined.

Toss in blueberries and strawberries, and lightly pulse until just combined. Turn dough out onto parchment paper-lined cookie sheet. Pat into an inch thick round, then sprinkle with coarse sugar. Use a sharp knife to cut into 8 triangles, and separate them on the parchment paper on a cookie sheet.

Bake until golden, about 14-17 minutes. Cool on a rack and serve with whipped cream.

The Anatomy of a Revision

2011-04-26T01:22:00.008-04:00

Start with a first draft. Recognize that it has certain potential, but a complete lack of "Wow" factor:

Do your best to dress it up, adding small touches of beauty here and there:

Come to terms with the fact that you've done naught but scratch the surface of what needs to be done. Roll up sleeves and begin taking things apart:

Finally, get to the bare bones, that place where all the bad has been purged:

Pause for a victory dance. Ignore the dust as it settles around you:

It's time to rebuild! Start with the foundational basics:

Polish, polish, polish: Everything must be smoothed out at this stage, otherwise imperfections will be apparent in the finished product:

Finally, the layer of beauty necessary for both beauty and utility can be laid:

Work, work, and more tedious work must be diligently attended to in order to reach the final product, no matter how grueling, painful, or exhausting. Then, and only then will the revisions be successful, and your final, flawless product can be revealed:

Hip, hip, hooray!! When all is said and done, the pain of the labor will begin to fade, and your final, revised product will be there for all to enjoy :)

So tell me - how does this compare to your revision process? Do you ever feel like you've bitten off an impossibly big chunk, only to find that you can handle it if you take it one day at a time? Thanks so much for stopping by - I am SOOOOO glad to have my kitchen back, and inaugurated it with cookies last night :) Recipes shall start again soon!

Note: I am grieving the loss of my last 2 months of cell phone pictures :( Stupid, stupid pieces of . . . electronics. Anyway, many of the 'during' shots were lost, such as the tile and trim work, as well as the hard work Kirk put into building that gorgeous entertainment center on the back wall of the living room. Well, I guess things could always be worse, now couldn't they . . .

Regency Rake Version 2.0

2011-04-19T02:00:00.003-04:00

Last week, I went to my very first RT Booklover convention, which quite spectacularly melded the worlds of readers and writers alike for five blissful, fantasy filled days. The conference offered workshops, meet and greets, book signings, mixers, and even two full-blown balls.

Now, as a Regency era writer, for the most part I lived vicariously through the fun and outrageous fairy costumes, vampire drag, and even the gloriously quirky fashion sense of steampunk lovers.

Throughout the conference, I met readers, writers, editors, agents, photographers, artisans, vampires, fairies, harem girls, a few male cover models, and one werewolf. But it wasn’t until the last night of the conference that I saw him: the man of my Regency dreams.

It was late Friday night, and I was sandwiched between friends at the bar in the open mezzanine of the hotel lobby. It was late, and above us, the Vampire Ball was starting to die down, with the occasional gothic attendee disembarking the escalator and sidling up to the bar.

With a yawn—it was three o’clock in the morning to my eastern standard time internal clock, after all—I glanced around. Movement on the balcony above caught my eye, and I glanced up in time to catch a man stroll up to the railing and pause for just long enough to make me gasp. It was like my own Mr. Darcy, come to life.

Clad in a sleek evening coat with tails, his buff breeches tucked into a pair of black, shiny top boots, he casually observed the lobby below like a lord taking stock of his servants. In those few moments, he positively exuded confidence and debonairness.

Unable to speak, I urgently smacked the friend beside me and pointed, but seconds later Mr. Darcy stepped back and disappeared, like a figment of my imagination.

“Oh good lord, tell me you saw that.” I beseeched my friend, whose eyes were nearly as wide as my own.

“What?” she said, grinning mischievously. “A handsome, dashing stranger in top boots and breeches? Oh, yeah, I saw him.”

My heart thudded—so he was real! “I MUST have my picture taken with him. When else am I ever going to find a man in Regency wear, right in my hotel?” I was NOT going to let the opportunity pass me by. Grabbing my camera, I dashed for the stairs, running up them two at a time.

The landing was clear of all but a few vampire stragglers, so I made my way to the ballroom, uncaring of the fact I stuck out like a sore thumb in my jeans and t-shirt among the fancy dress of vampires and vampire slayers alike. Mr. Darcy was here, and I was going to find him.

I pushed into the room, weaving my way through the banquet tables, squinting in the darkness as blue and red lights flashed on the dance floor. My quarry was nowhere to be seen, eluding me in the dark room as the rhythmic music thumped against my chest.

Disappointment tugged at my heart. What if I couldn't find him? The crowd had thinned out, and I carefully studied each person I passed. As the minutes ticked by, I began to despair that I had missed my chance. Perhaps I wasn’t meant to come face to face with the fantasy of a Regency rake. Perhaps fate was keeping me from encountering the very figure I spent my days writing about.

I turned one last time toward the dance floor, and suddenly, there he was. I took two steps toward him as he strode purposely my way. I smiled nervously as I clutched my camera. This moment was to be mine. Elizabeth Bennett, eat your heart out.

The music came to a close as he stepped from the dancefloor, his back boots shining in the flashing lights around us. Just as he neared close enough for me to talk to, the DJ started a new song, and the harsh notes of modern pop pulsed through the air around us.

Immediately, Mr. Darcy stopped and turned to the man beside him. I watched in utter disbelief as the men clasped hands and jumped up and down like a couple of school girls, squealing, “Lady Gaga!” before turning on their heels and sprinting back to the dance floor.

Poof!

And just like that, the fantasy popped like an overfilled balloon. I’m not sure if I will ever look at Mr. Darcy the same again, lol!

Tell me the truth: Would you want to meet a real, live Regency rake? If not, than who is it that would have you whipping out your camera, desperate to catch the moment you met them on film? Captain Jack Sparrow? Wesley from the Princess Bride? Robinhood?

Kitchen Update: The home stretch!! All the remains is for me to grout the newly tiled backsplash, to touch up the trim that Kirk installed this weekend, and to unearth the cupcake pans. Yay!! Pictures to follow next week J

Happiness Is...

2011-04-05T10:07:00.002-04:00

This weekend, I answered the phone and heard a very unexpected surprise. No, not anything with the Golden Heart; no, this was even better. My old driller and dear friend, Jimmy, called to see how I was doing. :)

“I’m jus’ sittin’ here watchin’ my grandson’s ballgame, and you popped inta my mind. I thought, ‘ya know, I wander what that girl is up to.’ So, I picked up the phone to give ya a ring.”

Lord, that man knows how to put a smile on my face :) For a quarter hour or so, we shot the breeze and caught up on each other. He offered his hearty congratulations on being a finalist, and I lamented the absence of fish taking his bait this season. I could picture him plain as day, with his white mustache and decades old Alabama Crimson Tide hat perched on his head, wearing a well-worn pair of blue jeans and a button-down flannel with the sleeves rolled up as he sat on the bleachers. His arms would be crossed against the almost overwhelming impulse to tell them dag-gum coaches what for.

As he talks with me, gruff and brusque as ever, I can’t help but think on how much my life has changed in the past year and a half. Memories slip through my mind of the not so distant past, which somehow seems like a different lifetime altogether. Each step I take towards publication takes me that much further from those years of hard labor, Alabama heat, and the job that demanded so much of my mind, body, and soul. I think back on that time and wonder how on earth I ever did it. Cozy in my home with lounge wear on and a laptop computer at my fingertips, it is easy to forget those years and the person I once was.

But sitting there, laughing out loud with one of the truest, most genuine people I have ever met in my life, I’m infinitely glad for that time in my life. Where would I be without my own, personal Good Ol’ Boy cheering me on? A man who, two years after parting, would be sitting at a little league game, thinking about the crazy girl he used to work with who dropped everything to chase her dreams? I don’t even want to know.

I’m so grateful for the winding path of life, which brings into our lives a cast of characters who help to shape who we are. Jimmy is my greatest gift from that particular turn in the road. We just never know when we will meet someone who will make a long and lasting impression on our lives, be it a future husband, best friend, confident, or even your own personal cheerleader, calling to say hello and brighten your week.

Who are some of the people in your life who became an unlikely friend? Have you ever been surprised by the impact someone made in your life?

Speaking of meeting new people, I will be at the RT Booklovers Convention this week If any of you are planning to attend, I hope you’ll let me know!

A Golden Opportunity

2011-03-28T23:57:00.003-04:00

It was 6 am. As much as I tried to squeeze my eyes closed and deny the truth, like it or not, I was wide awake. The three or four butterflies traipsing around my tummy when I went to sleep the night before had somehow managed to clone themselves into a veritable army. Yes, there would be no more sleep for me this morning. I was too daggone excited.

About what, you ask? Well, let me back up.

It all started in Chicago. Last April, I attended my very first writer’s conference. Almost a complete newbie, I clung like a spider monkey to the only person I knew—my friend Jodie. Soon, she had introduced me to the awesome ladies of my online crit group, and I began to relax. Everyone I met seemed so lovely and open, it was easy to mingle and make friends.

It was during this conference that I met four amazing ladies: Heather Snow, Cat Shield, Rochelle Staab, and Erica O’Rourke. Besides being fantastic people, I soon discovered that they were all Golden Heart® finalists. What’s this?, I asked, unfamiliar with the name. I soon learned that it was a prestigious contest held by the Romance Writers of America for unpublished writers. Sort of the Olympics, or the Academy Awards of the Romance writing community.

I could see the instant respect the GH finalists enjoyed; that certain credibility it seemed to lend them. It was a conversation starter and a great way to network. By the end of the conference, my interest was definitely piqued. When I arrived at Nationals a few months later and could see all the doors that were opened by those little yellow ribbons attached to the name tags of GH finalists—not to mention that wonderful camaraderie the finalists shared—I *wanted* it. I started planning then and there to enter come November.

After endless revisions and agonizing over every word (thank you crit partners who stuck with me!), at last I posted my entries in the mail. And then waited. And waited. And waited.

And then finally, March 25th arrived: the day the calls to the finalists would be made. Yep, with my nerves shot and the butterfly army rioting, I already wanted the day to be over the moment I opened my eyes.

To be honest, for months I had fluctuated wildly between 'hey, I have a chance' to "OH MY GOD I'M THE WORST WRITER EVER." That morning, I was leaning toward the latter, but still a beacon of hope shined in the back of my mind. Perhaps I had a chance [biting nails nervously] With the possibility of sleep was nil, I puttered around the house, toting both phones with me just in case. At one point, I even jumped out of the shower to turn my ringer on when I remembered my cell phone was on vibrate.

At around 9:30, I was watching Dr. Phil when the caller id flashed on the tv. My heart stopped dead in my chest. Seconds later, the phone itself started ringing, and I stared at it like it was a snake. If this was a telemarketer, I would *KILL* them. Feeling like someone had just put me on a Tilt-a-whirl, I slowly picked up the phone with a tentative "Hello?" The woman asked for Erin, and my heart began to pound wildly. "Yes?" I got as far as her telling me she was from the RWA and the room started to spin.

I tried to listen to her instructions, but honestly, my brain was somewhere in outer space, giddy and weightless and soaring all at once. I was a FINALIST!!! When I hung up I was nearly hyperventilating, and since I couldn’t even fathom getting a proper sentence out of my mouth, I just tweeted: “AAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!” Luckily, at least one of my writer friends understood, and soon we were celebrating. I emailed my awesome crit partners and my agent, called my dear friend Heather, then belatedly realized I had to call the hubby and fam, lol.

Since Friday, I have been floating around in a pink bubble of happiness, thankful and humbled by all the well-wishes I have received. Though I have my fingers crossed that I do actually manage to take the award (and by take, I mean snatch from the real winner and run for the hills, lol), I can’t imagine that it could feel any better than I feel right now. It’s a feeling that I wish for each and every one of you at some point in your live :)

Thanks for being such awesome readers. I love you all! Heck, I love the whole world!

So, tell me about something that made you really, really happy recently. I can’t wait to share in your joy as you have shared in mine. :D!

A Spring In My Step

2011-03-22T00:00:00.004-04:00

Okay, so I know I waxed poetic about the snow, and I know that I grumble all summer long about how blasted hot it is, but I just want to say: hallelujah, it’s SPRING!! Can I get an amen?

Seriously, this has been the longest, coldest, darkest winter ever recorded in the history of all of mankind (as scientifically determined by me freezing my tushie off for the past four months), and I have never been more excited to see a blooming goldenrod bush in my entire life.

Tada!

This weekend, we were even able to crank open the windows and wear short sleeves. I feel enlivened. I feel invigorated. I feel…stuffed up. Whatever – I’ll take a little sinus hassle if it means frolicking through the backyard with naught but a sundress on. I’ll suffer the neti pot for the decadence of enjoying our first boat cruise of the year. (Although, really, I think that medieval torture device should have stayed in the dark ages where it belongs. I use it, but it is so wrong.)

But best of all about the coming spring? How much it inspires me. With the return of light in the evenings and a warm breeze through my house, I am invigorated with all the possibilities. I want to clean, to check things off my to-do list, and—best of all—I want to write. What is it about the spring air that absolutely begs for a happily ever after?

Today, in a rare act of self-indulgence, I snuck out and saw a movie all by myself (a love story -purely for research, of course!). When it let out a little after six, I stopped for an ice cream cone and wandered around the charming little plaza amidst the stores and restaurants, nodding to the shop workers and passerbys alike. Before long, a sun-drenched bench beckoned, and I sat alone in the waning sunshine, watching four young siblings play Simon Says on the turf ahead of me. As I lapped at the last vestiges of creamy, strawberry goodness, I smiled at the memory of the games of Red Rover, Red Rover, dodgeball, and Red Light, Green Light a thousand years ago, when I was that young.

Those sweet memories led to others: flying a kite on a brisk Kentucky spring day, lying back on the soft bluegrass and watching the swiftly moving, diaphanous clouds morph rapidly from an elephant, to a peanut, to a hot air balloon against a brilliant blue backdrop. We even had a real hot air balloon land in our yard once, like a colorful, graceful jellyfish floating down from the heavens. I was slightly older then, around 11 or 12, but still young enough to feel the rush of delight at such a wondrous thing. Even now, every time I see one in the sky, a brightly colored dot hanging against an endless blue canvas, I think of that day and smile.

Spring has always brought light, and warmth, and color, and life. As I breath in the new season, that indefinable taste of happiness, an odd sense of hope washes over me. Hopeful for good news with my writing, hopeful for a finished kitchen, hopeful that the coming pollen won’t lead to more neti pot use ;)

What are some of your favorite springtime memories? Have you been enjoying the same beautiful weather as we’ve been blessed with here? And if any of you are spring-cleaning…can you come over here and help me?? :)

Cabinets are scheduled to be installed starting today – hooray! Another two weeks for the countertops, but the hardwoods are nearly completed and the entertainment center is taking shape! It won’t be long now until everything’s done and I can post pics!

The Underwater Cave

2011-03-08T01:41:00.004-05:00

As I’m sure you well know by now, I am currently a resident of Chaos, population 2. Or rather 5, if one includes the pooches, and I always do. For the most part, having my house in such disarray has driven me a wee bit crazy. Or a lot crazy. Really, who’s counting? (Me! I am! Get me out of this dust infused, manual labor-requiring nightmare!)

Ahem…

There have been some very bright spots, however. One of which was the rediscovery of my Young Authors books, written when I was in elementary school. Pulled from obscurity during the great box-up of all our crap- er, stuff, I dropped what I was doing and plopped down on the couch to take a closer look. Bound with cardboard and contact paper and carefully illustrated with colored pencils, these simple, homemade storybooks represent the beginning of my career as a writer.

I read through them and couldn’t help but laugh. Simplistic, imaginative, and fun, the story they really offer is a glimpse into the child I once was. For you, dear Cake Readers. I thought I would share the original Erin Kelly masterpiece: The Underwater Cave.

As any budding authoress knows, the first page is reserved for a shout out to those who made the book possible. The dedication succinctly sums up all the important people in my life at that point: My Mom, Dad, brother, sister, dog, bird, and cat. *sniff* Poetry, isn’t it? I’m sure my bird was greatly honored by the mention :)

Because I am feeling like a nostalgic old fool, I decided to publish some of this great novel. Without further ado, the literary stylings of ten-year-old me:

Chapter 1: Catalina Waters

We were looking for shelter. We had very little food. Me, Erin, and Ernie were all miserable. We had not any parents, and it was up to me to take care of everyone. And that’s how the adventure started, One day we were swimming in the ocean, cooling off. All of the sudden I heard a horrid scream! I jerked my head around to see my younger brother trying to get away from a shark!! I swam out to get him and all the sudden, something lifted us up! It was a dolphin!

The dolphin swam to my youngest brother Eric, and picked him up and carried us out ot deep sea, maybe 75-100 feet. I was terrified! And then, to add to my death defying experience, he dived into the water. Her went so fast, it took him 15 seconds to get to his destination at the bottom of the sea. He went a little slower until he got to a cave. He went inside and let us down in front of a very old man. And all of the sudden, we could breathe again! I and my brother were gasping for air.

Chapter 2: The Old Man

The old man looked at me and said, “You have been chosen.” Then he led us into a strange room filled with underwater beings. He went on. Finally we ended up in a very, very, beautiful room. There were there other children who looked exactly like us, like twins to us. He waved his hand towards three empty chairs. We sat down. Then he identified himself. He said, “My name is Sire Petroid, King of the Lost City.” I was speechless! Then he said, “These are your shadows. They are noting but black in the sun, but are real in The Lost City,” (Me, still speechless).

Then he turned to me and my brothers. He looked at our hands and blinked his eyes. And in a flash we had crystals on our hands. Then he looked at our foreheads and nodded. We had beautiful crowns on. I even had makeup and outrageous jewels on. We were fascinated by this trick. I turned to him and said, “I am grateful for what you have done, but why?” He responded to me, “You have been chosen by the people of my town.

Chapter 3: The Young Princess

“You see, when you were born you were born down in The Lost City, your mother was one of us. And when I saw you, I knew that you were the one, the princess of our kingdom. But when your mother found that out, she made an agreement with me, and the agreement was that you were to live above sea until the age of 15, then you were to come down to your home town to rule our land for us and give us what we need. I looked at him and said, “But I am only ten years old, why now?” He looked at me like he was about to tell a long story, not just long, but LONG.

Okay, I will spare you from the rest of the book (and that LONG story) :-) Needless to say, it all works out in the end. It really is fun to see the beginning spark of the author within—though I am sure you will be relieved to know I am now much more judicious with my use of exclamation marks, lol. It makes me wonder if anyone else saw traces of who they would become in their young selves. Early on, when we could focus on naught but what makes us happy? My husband had his tinker toys, my dad surely played with toy planes. Did your interests in childhood blossom into what you do today? If you have children, do you watch them with their interests and wonder if you are seeing the very beginnings of their future careers?

Only a few more weeks, and I’ll be back to posting recipes. I can’t WAIT to pull out my bowls and pans and get to work creating something yummy! Kirk has already requested cookies, so I’ll have to think long and hard about the perfect recipe to christen my new kitchen.

A Day in the Life of Being Kitchenless

2011-03-03T11:27:00.002-05:00

Erin’s Kitchenless Journal

Day 1

Wow, it is so weird not to have the oven and stove at my fingertips. Or a sink. Or a pantry. It’s like an adventure! We’re like Robinson Crusoe, without the beard or scary cannibals! I know, I’ll grill a delicious pork loin, microwave SteamFresh veggies, and pour wine for the hubby :)

Day 3

Okay, at some point I should probably wash those grilling tongs and wine glass. If I could find the dish soap, that would be a positive step. And if the bathroom sink were a little deeper, that would make things so much easier. Hmm, perhaps Lean Cuisine has a yummy entrée I can pop in the microwave.

Day 5

If I look at one more Lean Cuisine, I am going to hurl. Oh, wait—what did that commercial just say? $5 footlongs the whole month of February? SCORE! I love Subway. And there are so many different subs to choose from! Man, it is just so nice to have an excuse for eating out.

Day 9

If I ever meet Jared, I will ask him how the hell he ingested so many &*#$ing sub sandwiches. . Subway should give away free subs for life more often as a promotion. After 4 days, the winner won’t be coming back and just think of all the marketing they’d get out of it. Man, I’m a marketing genius! I guess I should give the nicer restaurants a try now.

Day 11

(in fetal position on dust-covered couch, watching dust-covered tv. An orange peal, granola wrapper, and empty Redi-whip can littered on the tray before me)

Day 12

Did you ever know that you’re my hero? Did you ever know that you’re the wind beneath my wings? {Neighbor blinking} “Um, does that mean you do want to come over for dinner tonight?”

There’s a special place in heaven for neighbors and their extra pot roast. It was simple fare: meat, veggie, and rolls. I may contact Michelin to see about getting her a star rating from them. Brilliant. Best food of my life. I may have licked the plate. And Kirk’s.

And those box cupcakes with the canned icing? Best ever. EK heart Neighbor 4ever

Day 15

THE CABINETS ARE COMING! THE CABINETS ARE COMING!!! The rescue squard, er, delivery company called to schedule delivery today. Shoved aside the loaf of banana bread I have been eating on for three days (again, EK heart Neighbor 4ever)

:) Can you tell I’m ready to have my kitchen back? So have you ever reached the point where there was nothing you wanted more than a home cooked meal? Have you ever looked at a food that you once adored and considered chucking it out the window? *coughsubwayclubcough*

My recipe for the week? Wait for a neighbor to have pity on you and feed you a hot meal ;) Lord, I can’t wait to get my kitchen back and start inventing new recipes again! Happy week to you all, and yes, I did finish my revisions. Hooray!!

This is a Test, This is Only a Test

2011-03-01T10:13:00.002-05:00

Good morning, dear Cake Readers. I just wanted to post to let you know that I am concentrating on finishing my revisions ( al...most...there...), so I'm delaying this week's post until such time that I am not revising like a mad woman :)

I plan on posting this week's blog by Thursday at noon. Wish me luck, and I hope to see you back here then!

The Ending of an Era

2011-02-21T20:15:00.006-05:00

Eighteen years ago, I was a young, fresh-faced freshman in high school, worried about boys, cars, boys, and what I would do that Saturday night. And boys :) I worked at Little Caesars Pizza (constantly getting in trouble for making pizzas the way I wanted them, not with the militantly rationed toppings they wanted us to use), I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life (I knew it would involve water one way or another), and I couldn’t believe my parents had the audacity to tell me what to do.

I was a fashion disaster, no one had ever told me what hair product was (hence my brother’s nickname for me: Bushy Haired Cave Woman), and I hadn’t a clue who I really was as a person

Back then, the internet was a new-fangled mystery to me, cell phones were few and far between, and I had never even heard of a Starbucks. Grunge was in, Richard Gere and Cindy Crawford were voted the sexiest couple alive, and Justin Bieber hadn’t even been born yet.

It was the spring of 1993, and I’ll never forget when my sister brought home her two new little kittens, Rush and Indy. Rescued from inside the wall of a barn, they were tiny and inquisitive, their little heads swiveling to take in their new surroundings. They were so stinking adorable, we could hardly keep our hands off of them. They were nearly identical in color, both silky black with white chests and paws, and both had large, luminous yellow eyes. The biggest difference was that Rush was a big, fluffy furball, while Indy was sleek and streamlined.

Rush and Indy age 3. I'm seventeen here :)

Over the next few years, I got my driver’s license, met my future husband, and graduated high school. The summer before I left for college, my sister moved to California, and the cats moved in with my parents. Whenever I returned from school over the next four years, they would always be under foot—Indy inquisitive and adventuresome, and Rush just wanting to be pet.

In 2001, I graduated college and Kirk and I were married two weeks later. Wanting to fill our new (exceedingly tiny) home with love and warmth, we agreed to take the cats from my parents. When we returned to KY after our honeymoon, we packed up the car, put the cats in the carrier, and listened to them yowl the whole 500 mile journey to South Carolina.

The cat carrier in in the back window. (Yes, that's my brother and Kirk pushing our dead car in the Arby's parking lot, lol!)

Those first few months are some of the happiest in my entire life. Each morning I would wake up to my husband—and two randomly situated cats on the bed with us. With our meager, fresh out of college and just married funds, we bought them a little cat perch, and they spent hours on end staring at the front yard and all the birds and squirrels therein. During that time, we learned the reality of dealing with litter boxes, vet bills, and buckets and buckets of cat hair. We weren’t cat lovers in general, but we certainly liked these two. They were low maintenance and had spent much of their time grooming or cuddling with each other.

Kirk looks like such a baby, and we were married at this point!

By the end of the year, we were able to get our first dog, and they learned to deal with little Sadie in the tiny space. After months of close quarters—during which time Sadie grew to twice her size—we finally moved to a townhome that offered twice the space, and everyone was happy. With the tiny fenced in patio, we were even able to keep the door open, allowing the animals to sun on the patio.

When Kirk got his first job offer, we packed up and headed to our new life in North Carolina. I have such wonderful memories of buying our first home, wandering from room to room in wonder of the fact it was ours. The cats loved this house because of the proliferation of long, full length windows letting the light to pour in, allowing a view of anywhere in the yard they cared to watch.

Soon, our black lab Maggie joined the bunch, and the cats took more to themselves. We coexisted for years in that house, while I changed careers, we got our first boat, and actually started earning enough money to decorate the house. We were growing up, with a mortgage, car payments, and the occasional date night.

Before too long, we decided to move out to the boonies, where it was 15 minutes to the nearest store, but the lake was in our backyard. After the move, the cats spent much of the time holed away, none too happy about losing their floor-length windows and busy street to watch. It would be a year before I screened in the back porch, and they forgave us as they soaked up the sunshine and watched the world go by. The call of the wild was too much for them, and many times they’d run for freedom when we opened the door, and we’d have to call the familiar, melodic refrain, “Here Rush, here Indy, here Rush!”

When they returned, they would be dusty, with fur smelling of leaves and that unmistakable air of lionlike pride glinting in their amber eyes. We’d chastise them and tuck them back inside, but it wouldn’t be long before once more we’d have to call to them.

My animal kingdom :)

Two years ago, we decided that we would make them indoor, outdoor cats if they wanted to be outside so badly. A month later, Rush was attacked by some unknown animal, and after a two week fight for his life, we had to say goodbye to our sweet, cuddly fluffball.

Sweet Rush

For the first time in his 16 years, Indy was without his brother, friend, and playmate. We tried to fill the void, but he’d never been a people cat, and he stayed mostly to himself. Finally, after a month of loneliness, he joined us one day in the living room, and curled up beside Maggie. Maggie gave a warning growl, the low rumble menacing and fierce, but Indy simply ignored it, and Maggie eventually gave up and went back to sleep with a sigh.

Sadie chose the cat bed over sleeping with Indy

Maggie gives up and lets Indy join her

That incident set the tone for Indy in the house – ignoring us most of the time, slipping in beside us some of the time, and running through the house with random bursts of energy when we least expected it. Despite his age, he was always jumping and running around, looking and acting exactly like he did when he was three. Every now and then I’d pick him up, hold him to my chest, and stand at the window, cuddling him until he pushed away. Sometimes he would let me hold him for up to a minute, which was progress.

And then, this week, things suddenly changed. He no longer was waiting for the bedroom door to open, only to be chased by Darcy as was inevitably the case since our newest addition joined us in August. He no longer meowed indignantly for food at the end of the night, or tripped me in the bathroom on his way to jump in the tub after my shower. I plied him with all sorts of different foods, none of which enticed him, and he would only drink if the water was dripping from the faucet. For the most part, he curled up on the dining room chair in the sunshine, and simply slept.

Knowing what may be next, we made a vet appointment for Saturday. Friday I held him, and though I was happy he let me, it worried me all the more—he was not a cat who liked to be coddled. Friday night I laid him gently on the bed, something we haven’t allowed of any of our animals for years, and let him sleep between us. He was quiet, but then again, so were we. He curled in a small, black ball and stayed there until I woke him the following morning.

When we prepared to leave, we took him outside and let him soak up the gorgeous sunshine, his amber eyes blinking and taking in the trees and the clouds and the rustling wind. At the vet, the doctor shook his head, and we said our goodbyes.

Later that day, we buried him beside his brother, in a sunny patch of land overlooking the woods and the water. I laid on the grass and watched my husband dig, thinking of how much of my life Indy had simply been there. Not lovey, not overly fussy with us, just around, watching our lives as he lived his. From teenager and kitten to a woman and her cat, he was my companion for nearly two decades, and I was his person.

I’ll miss him.

Romancing the Writers

2011-02-15T13:47:00.003-05:00

This Saturday, as I sat surrounded by great friends, good food, and enough fruity pink drinks to make the girls from Sex and the City jealous, I couldn’t help but be grateful for having found the organization that introduced me to these women and their monthly meetings: Heart of Carolina Romance Authors (HCRW).

Last year, when I finally typed THE END in my first novel, I pulled my head from the sand and wondered, what next? I hadn’t the first clue. Not only had I never met a fiction writer—of romance or any other genre—I only knew of one other person who even read romance. For the previous six months, I had been almost completely alone—emotionally as well as physically—on my journey toward finishing my book and working toward publication.

And then, last February I began Googling, and stumbled across HCRW. By sheer providence, their monthly meeting was scheduled for the next morning, and through a rapid-fire email exchange, I planned to meet the president at a nearby café before the meeting. Little did I know how much my life would change :)

During that very first meeting, I met and chatted with Karen Hawkins (eek!), Sabrina Jeffries (holy cow!!), Claudia Dain (yikes!), and many other published and unpublished authors. These woman welcomed me with open arms, and despite my awe at being in the presence of such accomplished writers, I was actually able to hold intelligent conversations with them.

In those short few hours, I learned more about the publishing world than I had learned in the whole of the previous year. The sense of community, of genuine camaraderie and eagerness to support each other was completely wonderful – and I suddenly knew what I had been missing.

That first meeting led to one-on-one lunches. Those lunches led to friendships, one of which led me to my current crit group, and my crit group helped me hone my craft tremendously. Through my new friends, I learned of contests—several of which I finaled in—and conferences, where more wonderful friendships would be made and valuable networking connections established. Along the way, I’ve even been able to help other writers, and have had the great joy of watching them succeed.

I’m in awe of the amazing writers I am so blessed to call my friends. They have commiserated with me when I had disappointments, celebrated with me when I had joyful news, and helped me when I wasn’t even sure what I needed.

On my one year anniversary with the group, I just wanted to say thanks for everything, guys! You’ve enriched not only my writing, but my life as well. Not to mention my vocabulary, but that’s a whole ‘nuther blog, lol!

Do you have a special group of friends who have made a difference in your life? And be honest – have you ever wonder what the conversation would be like at a group dinner with a bunch of romance writers? ;) And just for fun, write a response that fills in the following blanks:

He picked up his _________ and turned to her, _______ lighting his eyes. “Just call me ____________, sweetheart.”

The recipe for this week? Pomegranate Martinis! Quick, easy, and delicious—an especially appropriate when one’s soon-to-be renovated kitchen is in shambles:

2 ounces citron vodka (ginger ale for non-alcoholic)

1 ounce orange liquer (orange juice of non-alcoholic)

2 ounces pomegranate juice

1/2 ounce lemon juice

Shake in a cocktail shaker with ice, and strain into a chilled martini glass, and garnish with a lime. Enjoy!

Going Old School

2011-02-08T11:33:00.004-05:00

So this week, we bought a new fancy LED, internet-ready, 3D capable TV. (I know, we’re idiots, but it was on sale). We spent the next few days fiddling with the display, trying to figure out the settings, and downloading apps. Last night, as I was choosing which Van Gogh masterpiece I wanted to be my screensaver, I started to wonder if perhaps things had gone a bit too far.

Four short years ago, I had the distinction of never having had cable/satellite in my home. In my childhood home, we had a huge, wood-encased monstrosity of a television, tucked against the wood paneling in the living room. We had all of four choices of channels until I was in my teens, when the WB came on the network scene. Ungainly antennae rose from the back, mocking us as we twisted them this way and that, trying to get a relatively snow-free picture—relative being the key word.

During those years, my parents generally limited our TV watching to 1 hour a day. Though we’d try to get around the edict, peaking around the hallway corner or passing through to get yet another glass of water from the kitchen, for the most part, we had to find other ways to occupy our time. For me, that meant hitting the great outdoors on the nice days, and reading, drawing, and pestering my siblings on the bad weather days.

Back then, playtime never included the family computer, which was tucked amongst the cluttered disarray of my father’s study. Its black and white DOS prompted screen was a mystery to me, used only for typing school reports when my father pulled up the word processing screen. When my homework was done, the rhythmic screech of the dot matrix printer filled the house, assaulting our ears for minutes on end as it labored to produce its uninterrupted line of pages.

Of course, in those days, no one had ever heard of the internet (at least not in my world), and cell phones were as heavy as bricks and about as unwieldy, an expensive luxury that allowed the user to communicate fuzzy and broken sentences to the baffled person on the other end of the line. For the most part, landlines were the only reliable form of instant communication, and long distance rates made phone calls to my grandparents very special events, indeed. On those rare occasions, we three kids would be charged with sitting in a row near the phone, so no time was wasted in the handoff as we each had our minute on the phone.

Back then, my parents had no trouble monitoring our phone use. I distinctly remember being grounded when I was in middle school after my father picked up the phone close to 10pm, and instead of a dial tone he heard his little girl on the phone with a boy. Of course, the one thing that we kids could get away with was prank calls, since there was no such thing as caller ID until I was at least in my teens. Does anyone else remember the hilarious prank calls Bart used to make to Moe’s Tavern on the Simpsons? Such a thing would be impossible now. I guess that’s a good thing, lol!

Sigh :) Back in those days, technology was a sidebar to my otherwise hands-on life. I read paperback books, I doodled on notebooks, I used the home phone to let my friends know I was on my way over, and played games using a dice or a little silver thimble or shoe. Research involved a trip to the cool and quiet library near town, where we spoke in hushed tones and spent hours searching through microphiche and pouring over the tiny cards of the library catalog, looking for just the right book or article about the subject we were researching. With success came the digging in pockets for dimes for the copier, the handing over of library cards, and the toting home of an armful of books.

And now? Well, in the hour it has taken me to write this blog, I have exchanged four emails, checked my chirping Tweetdeck, and Googled the following things: how to spell ‘mirophiche,’ Monopoly pieces (and yes, I am ashamed), and Raleigh weather. Thanks to the Google logo shout-out today, I also got sidetracked trying to remember who the heck Jules Vern is (today’s his 183rd birthday, and he wrote 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Around the World in 80 days, and other brilliant works of fiction). Though I used my laptop for these searches, I also could have opted to use my iPhone or my shiny new TV. If I had decided to go old school and head to the library after all, I probably would have googled their hours, then used my GPS (either in my car or on my iPhone) to get there.

In a way, our lives are infinitely more enriched for all of the connectivity and information at our fingertips. But for all of the technology out there, I think we have to make a real effort not to live in 2D – or even 3D (as touted by the movie industry, anyway). Instead, we need to remember to live with all our senses, in person whenever possible. Texting, and Wikipedia, and Twitter are all great tools, but let’s not forget to set aside technology now and again, and live the life directly at hand. This week, I want to make an effort to return technology to the background of my life, instead of living my days saturated by it.

So my challenge to myself this week?

-No more than 1 hour of TV.

-Dinner at the kitchen table with my hubby

-Have lunch with a friend this week

-Write and mail at least one letter

-Browse through my mother’s old recipe cards for dinner ideas this week.

-Instead of turning on an exercise DVD, take the dogs for a walk

I want to hear about how different your life is now compared to the technology of your childhood. Are you willing to join me in my challenge? What will you do differently this week?

Today’s recipe? Back to basics! No microwaves, no refrigerators, no mixers or ovens. Just you, a spoon, and a stovetop are all that’s needed for these yummy no bake cookies!

Cocoa No Bake Cookies

1 and 3/4 cups sugar

1/2 cup milk

1/2 cup butter

4 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder

1/2 cup peanut butter (crunchy or smooth, your choice)

3 cups quick-cook oats

1 and 1/2 teaspoons vanilla

In a medium saucepan, combine sugar, milk, butter, and cocoa. Slowly bring to a full boil, then cook for two minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from heat and stir in peanut butter, oats, and vanilla. Drop by spoonfuls onto wax paper and let cool until hardened.

The Celebration Continues :)

2011-02-01T13:13:00.002-05:00

In all the excitement of the last week (I still can’t believe I actually have an agent - woohoo!), my thoughts wandered inevitably to the very beginning of my writing career, and how much things have changed since then. I originally sat down and began writing my first novel in June of 2008 during the 7th anniversary trip Kirk and I took to Gulf Shores. With my shiny new MacBook Pro in hand and an uninterrupted week away from work ahead of me, I eagerly wrote my very fist sentences:

Lady Evelyn Moore, oldest daughter of the fifth Marquis of Granville, doting sibling to three beautiful sisters and one dashing older brother, loyal friend and confidant, and proud granddaughter of the Duchess of Kensington, was about to take a stand.

Literally.

By the end of the week, I had my first chapter (not to mention a very nice tan, lol) and could scarcely believe I was actually doing it: actually sitting down to write a novel as I had been wishing to do for the past four or five years. The giddy, heady sense of accomplishment lured me back to the computer again and again, writing more and more chapters —despite the fact I hadn’t a clue what I was doing.

In the weekends following our return, I would hole up on the back porch with my laptop, and click away at the keyboard with slow, measured strokes. Sometimes, when I wasn’t too exhausted after a day in the field, I would work late into the night in random hotel rooms all across Alabama, squinting in the dim florescent light on the single bedside light. It was a slow process, but infinitely fun, and I am glad each and every day that I decided to undertake the challenge.

Over time, my fingers became more nimble and my writing more polished, and by July of 2009 I decided to take the crazy leap of faith and quit my job to write. In January of 2010, I completed that first novel, celebrating with a joyous 2 AM iChat with my sister on the west coast. I remember screams, cowbells, and the groggy emergence of my husband from the bedroom to kiss my cheek and offer a sleepy congratulations.

I had my novel, and it was a thing of beauty: brilliant, perfect, and positively swoon-worthy.

It was only later, when I had the benefit of my fabulous crit group, that I realized that most of what I had written was rubbish :) ‘Was’s’, and ‘that’s,’ and ‘out of’s’ abounded, bogging down the action and showing my newbieness. I learned that I was heavy on the well-worded but pointless scenes, and light on conflict, goals, and motivation. That very first sentence was eventually cut, as was much of the first 4 chapters. As a matter of fact, in the year since that triumphant typing of ‘The End,” I have revised, edited, and in some places completely rewritten much of the manuscript. I received good and bad contest scores, good and bad advice, and good and bad feedback from agents.

I’ve learned so much about the art of telling a story, of holding readers’ interest, and navigating the waters of the publishing world. The first manuscript took years and many rewrites – and in fact I am about to embark on yet another revision—but the second ms I wrote in under 6 months. And, if you ask me, even as a first draft it is much better than my first book.

But I never gave up on that first novel, and after all those rewrites and revisions, this was the one that caught my agent’s attention. With invaluable advice from my her, I truly think I finally have the tools to make that first novel as good as I always wanted it to be. Even with the crazy amount of work looming in the month ahead, and the daunting task of actually becoming published, I’m still sitting here grinning, thinking, Wow, I can’t believe I finished a novel :) I can hardly wait until the day I can say, Wow, I can’t believe I wrote a published novel!

Have you ever set an impossible goal, and just went for it? Are you working towards one now? Whether it is writing a book, learning another language, completing a marathon, or even raising a relatively well-adjusted child ;) Tell me about it!

The recipe this week is born of decadent celebration :) I hope you enjoy this light yet rich, crunchy and smooth treat:

Sarah Bernhardt Cookies

(Slightly modified from recipe found here)

1 package macaroon cookies

Filling:

3 oz semi-sweet baking chocolate

1/4 cup sugar

1/4 cup water

2 egg yolks

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Topping:

6 oz semi-sweet baking chocolate

1 tablespoon shortening

For filling: In double broiler over simmering water, melt chocolate, stirring until smooth. Set aside to cool. In a small saucepan, combine sugar and water, heat to medium high, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Remove from heat.

Place yolks in metal stand mixer bowl. Set over a pan of simmering water (I used same pan still simmering from double broiler). Whisk yolks constantly until warm to the touch (about 2 or so minutes). Transfer bowl with yolks back to mixer stand and with the whisk attachment beat at medium speed. Slowly add hot sugar water. Turn speed to high and allow mixture to beat until light and fluffy (about 3 minutes). Turn speed down to medium and drizzle melted chocolate in slowly until well combined, scraping down the sides as needed. Place mixture in fridge to cool for about an hour.

Once cooled, place filling in piping bag with large tip. Pipe in swirls onto the bottom (flat side) of the macaroon cookies. Transfer to freezer until very firm (about an hour)

To Top: Melt chocolate in double broiler. Once smooth, stir in shortening and remove from heat. Allow to cool til just warm.

Remove cookies from freezer. Working quickly so filling doesn’t melt, place cookie on a wide fork over chocolate and spoon chocolate over the whole cookie. Place filling side up on a cooking rack over a cookie sheet and refrigerate until ready to serve.

Enjoy and share!

Drum Roll Please

2011-01-27T23:37:00.003-05:00

Why am I posting today? Well, I am completely thrilled to announce that I . . . HAVE AN AGENT!! Woohoo!!

And not just any agent :) Deidre Knight is the dynamo president of The Knight Agency, which she founded in 1996. We found each other when I entered the speed dating contest on her agency's blog back in December. Turns out, my writing must have resonated with her, because a little over a month later, I am proud, humbled, and downright stoked to join TKA's family.

As for the timing... well, lets just say it was a heck of a birthday gift! Okay, I better stop giggling and go to bed :)

Me and My Sister

2011-01-25T14:59:00.002-05:00

There is really something to be said about casting away your timidness and living in the moment with full joy. For some reason, the moment my sister and I get together, we tend to do just that… to the bafflement/disdain/mild amusement of those around us.

I mean really, TWO FEET of snow? How can you not play in that?? So deep it spills into your boots and dampens your sock, kissing your skin with frosty goodness. So fresh, heaping handfuls must be gathered and eaten, pausing only to huff great gusts of air in an attempt to warm frozen throats. So perfectly preserved, just waiting to be frolicked in, churned up by prancing boots and shaped into angels with the flailing of outstretched limbs. So malleable, it begs to be formed into an evil, robot mini-snowman and his league of tiny snow followers.

With frozen noses ready for indoor adventure, we turn our sights toward hunting of the most civilized variety. In the close, overstuffed confines of a busy consignment shop, dusty treasures can be discovered, nestled among the whicker dress forms and ceramic pillboxes. Vintage, sneeze-inducing fabrics of every color and pattern drape couches, chairs, and settees representing every decade of the 20^th century. Buckets and buckets of costume jewelry winks from within their glass prisons, begging to be released on bail with the hopes of dressing our ears or draping our necks just as they did in decades past.

Tucked behind the imposing dining room table in a cramped room little more than a widened hallway, a dainty princess chair awaits, all high-backed, curving perfection among its dour neighbors. With carved wood flowers and pertly tufted upholstery, it practically begs us to take it home, promising to be the ideal frosting in a strawberry and orange flavored office.

Onward to the hole-in-the-wall restaurant, inauspicious in its ungilded surroundings, patronized but only for our ravenous appetites built from the furniture hunt. Sitting down at empty tables, we put ourselves in the patrons’ hands. From their unadorned walls to the long, simple counter, we had no reason to suspect that the Italian feast set before us would charm us so thoroughly. Why ever would we hold back our joy, despite the employees’ amusement at our moans of culinary appreciation and the sighs of utter bliss? Loaves of tender white bread and fresh made mozzarella call like the sirens they are, and our arms are filled with their goodness as we wave goodbye with fluttering fingers.

Back in the house—the very epitome of coziness—we eye the old bathroom floor and picture the possibilities. Pry bars to subfloor reveal the muted beauty of ancient hardwood floors, veiled like a bride on her wedding day. Like the kids we are on the inside, we dance in glee, doing an impromptu jig for our discovery. Hard work, sweat, dust, and screeching wood twist together, creating the symphony of home improvement. Sore and exhausted, we collapse in bed—but still giggle fits find us.

I am beyond grateful for a sister who is every bit as silly and adventurous as I am. Vacations together, whether in the British Isles or in a tiny, snowbound cottage in New England, are always just the thing to rejuvenate my spirit and bring my inner child to the forefront. And really, where else can I get a chocolate icing-slathered, chocolate chip muffie adorned with multi-colored flame candles?

Do you have someone in your life who tends to bring out the kid in you? Someone who is your perfect travel companion or who can make you throw your inhibitions to the wind? Tell me about it!

Never heard of a muffie? Me neither! My sister introduced me to this delightful desert - lighter than a cookie, but more yummy than a muffin. I haven't had time to develop my own version yet, but here is a great recipe that I found online at food.com. Check it out! Click Here

Princess for a Day :)

2011-01-18T10:44:00.004-05:00

It’s my berfday :)

Okay, maybe not today, exactly, but it is this week. And I can assure you: I am NOT one of those women who dreads the turning of one year older, and I doubt I ever will be. For me, is the perfect time to wallow in self-indulgence, to accept as many good wishes as those around me see fit to give, and to eat whatever the heck I want (read: Japanese Steak house).

When I was little, we may not have had a whole lot, but that doesn’t means we couldn’t put together a mean birthday celebration. The day would start with exuberant birthday greetings, at which time it would be announced that today was Erin’s day, and whatever I wanted goes. Being the youngest of three, I looked forward to this day allll year. The ability to trump any of my brother’s and sister’s wishes? Brilliant!

As silly as it may seem, perhaps the best and most loved tradition of all was the ability to choose my cereal of choice. I have mentioned before how my mother was careful to feed us only the most nutritious, wholesome foods when we were little, so this little luxury was of utmost importance. We each had one shot—one!—to choose our junk cereal for the year, and I agonized over choosing just the right one. Fruity Pebbles? Lucky Charms? Trix or, heaven forbid, Cookie Crisp? No, even I, at the tender age of 7, couldn’t bring myself to choose the last one. I think those magically delicious freeze-dried marshmallows that wily leprechaun peddled won out most years.

After a big bowl of sugary goodness, I’d get a special lunch with a sweet note tucked in by my parents for later discovery. I’d float through the day in a haze of happiness, proud to wear whatever construction paper crown or gaily colored sticker my teachers deemed appropriate for the beaming birthday girl.

Once home, it was party time. My favorite dinner would be prepared, the China would be laid, and I would avail myself to the place of honor at the head of the table. I’d revel in whatever decorations had been hung—the age old, plastic Happy Birthday banner, various colored crepe paper streamers, and the ubiquitous balloons. I’d ohh and ahh at the bouquet of flowers my father would offer, and squeal with delight when at last the cake my mother prepared would be laid before me.

The candles would be lit, the lights turned back, and every person present would belt out the birthday song with absolutely no regard for harmony or pitch. I would tear into the offered presents with abandon, squealing with glee with each newly revealed treasure. A Barbie here, a book there, none were expensive but all were prized, accepted with all the fervor and excitement of a Nobel Peace Prize.

The coup de grace would come last: the ability to choose the TV programs for the evening. Oh, the extravagance! After being princess for a day, I would climb sleepily into bed, grinning goofily for all the joys the day had brought.

I’m happy to say that that pleasure has never diminished. After realizing how much birthdays meant to me, my hubby has gone out of his way to help me celebrate in style over the years. Since I am heading to see my sister this year for my birthday, he surprised me last night when I got home from work at 10:30. For the few hours we shared before bed, he lavished me with all my favorite things: Grilled steak, roasted potato, and sautéed kale dinner, a homemade cake with icing he made using my own recipe, a perfect little pint of Haagen Dazs, a glorious bouquet of flowers, and—last but certainly not least—a wonderful present that I had seen weeks ago and had dearly wanted.

Here’s to spending simple birthdays, celebrating with the small but wonderfully delightful treats that are from the heart, and sharing that special day with those we love. I wish for all of you the same joy and celebration on your own birthday as I have always been blessed to have on mine.

Cheers!