Tag Archives: Family

Turkey Day, Comfort Food, and Why I’m Grateful

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   Hey, friends, welcome to a very festive, happy and grateful lagoon!

Why? Maybe I’m just blown away by the mega-words flowing from our mermaids’ talented fingers during the Month of Nano. Or, maybe it’s the new titles falling from the sky keyboards in the lagoon this year (too many to list here!) Maybe it’s Pintip, who will emcee the 2018 Golden Heart Awards at RWA in Denver!

Congratulations, Pintip!

And those Nano totals? YOW. Denny, Kim, Carlene, Alethea, Pintip. You finny sisters are my inspiration.

If I could just stop doing this in my own writing:

 

Eventually I’ll get to do something like this:

This is not getting us to the topic today, however!

We’re talking Comfort Food in this post, and a big shout-out to those of us who will be in the kitchen. Not me, friends. My only job on Thursday is to bring brownies to the home of my friend Colleen – who is also going twenty-first century with her Turkey Day feast. She ordered it from DeCicco’s in Yorktown, NY, and my plate will be heaped with those trouble-free dishes. No sweat here, we’re kicking the roasting pan to the curb!

I think this is the third year I haven’t made a Thanksgiving dinner, and I admit – there are a few things I miss.  Things I learned from Mom, recipes I love to make, share and eat. Smell and taste are tremendous memory triggers. When I make these dishes, she’s a little closer – in spite of the years since she sat at the kitchen table with the newspaper while the timer ticked away. Here are two of my favorite recipes for the Thanksgiving table:

Sweet Potato Casserole

You haven’t lived until you’ve had mine: fresh sweet potatoes (or, in my house, yams) are peeled, sectioned and microwaved until tender (but not mushy). Wield your vintage potato masher until the (yams) are broken down, but retain character (lumps)(chunks). Blend in a carton of evaporated milk. Add some melted butter. A teaspoon of vanilla. Break up some walnuts or pecans into the mix, if you like the texture and flavor. A teaspoon of cinnamon! And lots of brown sugar. Don’t be shy, toss in a handful or so. Turn it out into a buttered casserole dish and give it 30 minutes or so in the oven at 350°. Yum. 

Cranberry Sauce

I miss my homemade cranberry sauce more than anything. You’ll want just three ingredients: a bag of cranberries from the store, a cup of white sugar, and 3/4 cup orange juice. Dump the berries into a colander and rinse, then pick them over to find the icky ones. Toss those out. Now, in a medium saucepan (2 quart or so), blend the orange juice and sugar. Set over medium high heat, and wait for some drama. When the sugar/juice starts to boil, toss in the cranberries. Stir, then settle back and wait for the mixture to boil again. Boil for FIVE MINUTES. Set a timer, woman, and watch that your heat is high enough to boil and low enough to keep from boiling over! The fun is hearing the cranberries pop and crack as they cook. Move the pan to a cold burner when the timer dings and stir it for a few minutes. Set it aside to cool completely. A pretty crystal dish will show off the jewel color of your creation.

Other family favorites include dressing (not stuffing), made with herb bread baked in our bread machine, and a rice pudding recipe from the Southern Living Cookbook (Mom never made that one, but the cookbook was a Christmas gift soon after I married, and I treasure it – p. 77, Best Banana Bread Ever).

Some dishes became standards over the years as times changed and my own children grew up. Cup Salad (five ingredients: open, dump, stir, chill) replaced the Ambrosia (tediously hand-sectioned oranges and coconut) Mom made for my father.  A church cookbook I bought on a North Carolina beach vacation yielded a recipe that became a favorite each year at our transplanted New York table: a strange mix of lemon and lime Jello, mayonnaise, cottage cheese, chopped walnuts, and canned pineapple tidbits. When I set it on the table the first year, the assembled company recoiled at first. After their first tastes, however, they decided it was too delicious to have the plain-Jane name, “jello salad.” A raucous Turkey-day debate finally re-named it: Martian Salad.

And so it goes. Every generation finds its way to a new variation on the meet/greet/eat/drop theme of the day. In our own home, Andrews standards (creamed onions, creamed potatoes, turnips) never made it to the table. Hosford (maiden name) traditions like mince pie and green bean casserole were also set aside in favor of the new tastes and habits of our generation and our children’s.

One theme that remains, solid and unchanged, is the yearning for connection. Travelers make their way cross-country, clog highways or simply cross town to seek family and friends. New families form for the day, when distance and budget prevents travel. In another town, a church sets a table for “anyone who lacks a family today.”

This is why I’m grateful. In spite of the past year’s trials, I have friends who are eager to see me, and my brownies. My children will call home. One will probably celebrate with friends and his father; another is moving into a new home, and sitting down with her sweetheart’s family.

That connection, that love, those memories. They keep us grounded.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours this week, and blessings to you who set a place for “one more.”

 

 

WHY thank you, Mary Buckham ;-)

Carlene Love, Marketing, mermaids, Motivation, Publishing, Writing, , , , , , , , ,

CarleneLoveHello fishy friends,

Welcome to today! Let me get straight to business, as a good student of Mary Buckham would do. Last month, my local writing chapter, Romance Writers of America-San Diego, hosted Mary as our guest speaker and her craft and branding workshop was outstanding. I highly recommend you check them out. I’m not one to take pages and pages of notes because I like to listen to all those little one-liners and short stories the speaker usually throws in between the meat of the presentation. Well, I ended up with a couple pages of “Mary-isms”. I loved them! She’s great. My favorite, however, was this:

It’s not about what you do, it’s about why you do what you do. That’s what the readers are connecting with.

She then challenged us to figure out for ourselves why we have to write and proceeded to briefly mention Sherrilyn Kenyon. My heart instantly warmed. Mary asked the room if anyone was familiar with Sherrilyn’s why story. Several hands shot up, mine included. I also got goosebumps. Anyone who knows me understands the deep love I have for SK and I knew exactly what Mary was talking about in that instant. If you’ve read any of SK’s books, but especially if you’ve heard Sherrilyn speak, you know why she writes. She doesn’t have to spell it out. Attend one of her signings, and you will pick up on it. I won’t try to put it into words or speak for my favorite author, but I can tell you Sherrilyn is coming from a place that was once painful and her why, in my mind, is that she wants her readers to know that it will be okay and they are not alone.

Redemption. Family. Forgiveness.

As her devoted reader, I believe that combination is Sherrilyn’s why. 

Sometimes when you are posed a question, does your mind become a blur? Do you become either a completely blank slate or are you inundated with thousands of pieces of what could eventually be a clear answer to the question if you could only sort and connect them? That is often me. But when Mary challenged us to figure out our why that day, as easy as a passing breeze, it came to me. It was that I never want anyone to feel ashamed or alone because of things they’ve done or have had done to them in their life. Too many people, with generous and kind and thoughtful souls, suffer the judgment of others before they are given a chance to show their worth.

Worthy. Second Chance. Unashamed.

That combination is my why. 

What is yours? I’d genuinely love to know.

BIF-CoverA HUGE thank you to Mary Buckham for posing this question to a room of people who most certainly all have a why. And to Dianna Love, co-author of Breaking Into Fiction, which I highly recommend for every writer out there. It’s the craft book I finally understand and I use it with every story I write. And to Sherrilyn Kenyon. For her bravery.

Find more about Mary HERE at her website.

Find more about Dianna Love HERE at her website.

Find more about Sherrilyn HERE at her website.

Find more about me, Carlene, HERE at my website.

Fishy kisses,

Carlene Mermaid

Is it Christmas yet?

Conferences, mermaids, Motivation, Susan Jeffery, Writing, , ,

SusanMermaidFriends, I have a confession to make today.  And a story to tell.

Confession: After a summer of industrious writing almost every single day, my writing urge came to a screeching halt.  Sometime in August, I believe. Definitely about a month ago.  Maybe more. I didn’t panic, because I was sure the root cause would be discovered eventually, and we’d get our little writing choo-choo back on track.  And, with the school year started, I’m not exactly eager to strain my back getting pages out. I have Freshmen to train, and Seniors to tame, and a library to run – that is the priority now, until next May. If the writing waits, it waits. I’ll live.

At least, after the CTRWA Cherry Adair workshop last weekend, I do know more about why my story is stalled. Gang, it’s not pretty. Ms. Adair diagnosed my story as “thin”. She had ideas, and my chapter mates backed me up with suggestions for an intriguing bad guy and a twist. Once I get her plot board out of the car, I’ll clean off the dining room table and get my butt back in chair.  And that’s my confession.  Which brings me to my story, which is about a much earlier stall in my writing career.

Where I write these days.

Where I write these days.

Story: A long time ago (about 1992), I hung up my keyboard and quit writing. I’d moved to New York two years before, and I was so homesick I really wanted to quit everything – family, home, marriage, kids, all of it. Sitting at the keyboard was an anxiety-riddled exercise. I was an award-winning author with a book out, and I needed to produce, but I was stressing myself out of it.  I’d been writing for ten years, and I couldn’t think of a thing to say. There had to be some peace, somewhere.  I was desperate to escape my disappointment and self-hatred, so I killed it, my writing, that part of me.  Writing couldn’t fight back, because it was in me, and my struggles with it were damaging me.  I announced I was done with writing, refused to think about writing, and said I was moving on. Done, Dead, Fini.

Except it wasn’t dead. Part of me knew I was able to write, just that I couldn’t or wouldn’t make a story happen at that point. I wasn’t going to write a book, but I would write letters. I wrote looooong letters to friends (in the days when people still wrote letters, before the internet killed written correspondence). I wrote notes to my mother and sister.  I wrote directions to patterns for the sewing classes I was teaching.  And I wrote Christmas letters.

My Christmas letters eventually became the highlight of my year.  I started them by mid-November, knowing I would need a month to create and polish what I wanted The World to know about Our Life This Year.  Each character would get his/her own summary of the year’s ups and downs. I chose a theme each year, opened with a question, wound up with an answer, and a recommendation for calming down, loving everyone and eating another slice of pie. I wrote, trimmed, condensed, and molded my story to fit a single typed page. I reduced margins, added my own illustrations and signed all our names.

    I wrote every letter to a friend I had in mind as I wrote, as if I were telling the story to her.  And I wrote the ending until I cried. It was probably my favorite part of the process, because if I could write something that made me cry, I could be pretty sure my readers would feel my depth of emotion for the topic, and maybe they’d be moved, too.

Not all of the letters are in my Christmas closet, the cubby where we keep all the trimmings. Somehow I don’t worry about this much, because another friend has kept all of them, and I know she’ll send copies if I ask. It’s not so important that I have the record of them.  Writing those letters made me happy, and made other people happy. That was enough.  And yet…

Going back to my lack of interest in the summer’s writing this past month, I was wondering just this week – would I be able to kick start my writing a little bit, if I started my Christmas letter early?  I feel better, knowing I could have fun, writing another. Maybe it’ll start the juices flowing. And, since I’m wondering about it, I’ll also ask you the question:

How do you get yourself back in a butt-chair-write mood?

There and…well, Still There

Alethea Kontis, , , , , ,

One of my favorite days of the year is December 21st: Yule, also known as the Winter Solstice. This is the shortest day of the year and the longest night, marking the return of the light to the world and increasingly brighter days, which I’ve found makes me rather happy. It’s a bit of an emotional New Year, inspiring me to a new outlook on life.

I spent most of December 21st, 2013 crying like my heart was broken.

My little sister Soteria called that morning to tell me two things: that Mom and Dad had arrived safely at her house in Charleston, SC from their home in FL the night before, and that she’d gotten the results of her MRI. Turns out the reason her right side had been numb off and on for three months was a severely herniated disc in her neck that was pressing so hard into her spinal cord it was bruising it and cutting off the flow of spinal fluid. But this was nothing compared to Dad, who was apparently in so much pain from his arthritis that he was having a hard time moving around. He’d been telling us over the phone how fine he was, and as soon as Soteria discovered just how fine he wasn’t, she called.

I’m not sure if I cried on the phone, but I certainly sobbed all the rest of that morning.  I forced myself to relax enough to finish my ARC of Sarah Addison Allen’s Lost Lake (which you all need to buy immediately when it comes out in a few weeks, BTW). Sarah’s novels contain a lot of family and a little bit of magic, with a sprinkle of the South and a side helping of hope…and when I turned the last page, I had an epiphany.

There was absolutely no good reason why I wasn’t in Charleston.

Joe and I wouldn’t be picking up his daughters and heading to his parents’ house until Christmas Day anyway, which was the same day my parents planned on driving back to Florida from Charleston, since Dad had to return to work. I talked with Joe — we decided I’d leave immediately for Charleston, and then drive to his parents’ house on Christmas Day from there. I’d only arrive at his parents’ a few hours later than we planned, and were going to take two cars anyway, to accommodate presents. I showered and threw a bunch of stuff in a suitcase. Joe gave me the keys to his car, on which we’d just put new tires, and helped me load the trunk with the Christmas presents my family had all painstakingly mailed to me in multiple boxes over the past few weeks.

I felt a little guilty about driving all their presents back to them…but not too much.

I was on the road by 3pm and in Charleston a little after midnight. I had told Soteria and her husband that I’d be coming, but my parents didn’t know. My family has come to my rescue many a time over the years, and now it was my turn. Needless to say, surprising my parents when they heard voices and shuffled out of the bedroom at 1am was one of the most wonderful moments of my life.

Our tired little family had a magical early Christmas morning on December 22nd, full of songs and presents and love. The next two days were filled with the very emotional closing of Soteria’s retail shop in Charleston, and conference calls with our aunt–Dad’s sister–in Baltimore about what to do about Soteria’s MRI.

On Christmas Day, I didn’t drive to Joe’s parents’ house. Instead, Soteria and I got in the car and spent 13 hours driving to Baltimore. On December 30th she had surgery, and we spent New Year’s Eve together in a top floor corner room of Johns Hopkins hospital watching fireworks over the Baltimore Harbor.

Soteria is doing great. We’re recovering at my aunt’s house in Baltimore. Since I don’t have any book events scheduled until Marscon, I’ll be staying here with Soteria. Her follow-up appointment in January 8th, at which point the doctor is sure she’ll be able to fly back to Charleston…and then Dad flies into Baltimore on the 11th for his appointment at Johns Hopkins.

January 11th is also my birthday.

So while it looks like 2014 is shaping up to be yet another fantastical, whirlwind chapter of the adventure that is my life, let’s talk about what I’m most proud of in all this: MY SUITCASE.

I left home at the spur of the moment–packing for three days in sunny Charleston, SC. This could have been a major disaster (Baltimore is significantly less sunny). But for once, my many years of conventioning served me well and I have with me everything I need.

Contents of Alethea’s Magical Suitcase:
underwear & socks & bras
bathroom bag
makeup
yoga pants
jeans
three t-shirts (to both wear and sleep in)
sports bra & running shorts
cute short dress
short black skirt and two nice shirts
1 pair of sneakers
1 pair of mary janes

I’m not saying it’s the most *compact* suitcase-packing ever, but I didn’t care, because I was driving.  I had a dress for both the Dixie Dunbar Christmas Eve/Closing party and New Year’s Eve, I had a skirt to wear for the party on New Year’s Day when Nana and I made loukoumades for 3 hours, and my aunt has a small gym in her basement for which I am 100% prepared. (I should add that the suitcase was made even more perfect by the addition of my TARDIS  hoodie, which I’ve been wearing almost every day since early-Christmas. Thanks, Mom!)

Sure, I do laundry every 3 days. Sure, I’ll be sick of these clothes eventually. And I suppose I could go out and buy more things, but I don’t need to.

Somewhere in Northern Virginia there is a tiny Christmas tree in our apartment with unwrapped presents under it for me, and I won’t get to them until after my birthday. It’s a little strange, but so is life. The journey is what it’s all about.

Just make sure you’re packed for it.

*grin*

My question for you guys is: What are some of the items in your suitcase *you* can’t live without?

Happy New Year to all!! xox

 

 

Happy Valentine’s Week – Day Three

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Happy Valentine’s Week from the Waterworld Mermaids!!!

Here in our lovely mermaid lagoon, we are all abuzz with the holiday of love. And because we’re in such a happy mood, we wanted to share some stories and memories from mermaid-pasts. Best of all, we’re celebrating all week long! We hope you enjoy!

Ever notice how love can inspire music and music often has a hand in love? Whether the feelings are between significant others or family members, today’s stories mix these two beautiful things – love and music….

 

Songs in the Key of Love
Denny S. Bryce

He had a voice like smooth raw silk—deep and rich and soft and strong. When he sang, with his lips next to my ear, his breath was warm and cool, and always made me smile.

He loved to sing. He would burst into song anywhere, any time. When we sat in the car at the gas pump, or as we shopped for groceries, or walked across the football field after he’d coached a game.

It took a few months, but eventually, I joined in and sang the words I knew to whatever song he was singing. But my voice never sounded as good as his. So I mostly sat back and let him sing to me. He liked it best that way.

He wasn’t showing off. No, but sometimes talking didn’t do what he wanted it to do. His words weren’t as good as the lyrics on the radio. It was easier to say what he wanted to say with a song.

So he’d serenade me.

After a while, I stopped noticing when he sang, or that he wasn’t singing as much anymore.

Then one night we were in the car driving back from, or driving off to, somewhere, and a Stevie Wonder song came on the radio. It was from a 1976 album, Songs in the Key of Life, one of my favorites from back in the day.

He pulled over to the side of the road, and started singing…

“As”.

If you’re not familiar, here are some of the lyrics…

You know what I say is true
That I’ll be loving you always

(Until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky)
Always
(Until the ocean covers every mountain high)
Always
(Until the dolphin flies and parrots live at sea)
Always
(Until we dream of life and life becomes a dream)

Did you know that true love asks for nothing
No no her acceptance is the way we pay
Did you know that life has given love a guarantee
To last through forever and another day

Well, let’s just say, I started listening again…and heard every word when he sang.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

 

Song from the Heart
Masha Levinson

This thing I hold in my arms is more like a loaf of bread than a baby.  And not one of those pretty loaves either.  He’s all beat up looking.  Black and blue.  As if he’d been in a fight and is now sleeping off a horrid hangover.  Except unlike most drunks, this one isn’t staying quiet.  He’s screaming as if belting out a tune for the cheap seats at Lincoln Center.  And it’s 2:30 in the morning.  And I’m tired.  And cranky.  And I want to go to sleep.  And he won’t cooperate.  The spindles from the creaky rocking chair are digging into my back.  My arm, the one his lumpy head is resting on, has long ago fallen asleep. Why won’t this kid sleep?

It’s half an hour later when his eyelids begin to flutter up and down.  Small veins weave around his translucent skin.  His fragility amazes me.  Twenty minutes later, he’s finally asleep.  I exhale.  As if holding the rarest of gems, I will my body off the chair, cringing when the hinges squeal.  I hold my breath.  He doesn’t stir.  Step by step, I make it to the crib.  The side is up.  I can’t reach in there.  I look around the semi-lit room and see the stepstool.  I hold him in my arms and with one foot drag it toward his crib.  His eyes flutter open.  My breath hitches.  He closes them.  I place the stool in front of the bed and gingerly climb on it.  The crib is still too high for me.

Each time, before I lower him into the crib, no matter how tired, I lean over and kiss his satiny forehead.  Tonight is no different.  He sighs.  I smile.  I lean over and place him, as carefully as if he was the most fragile loaf of bread, onto the sheets.  I hold my breath and wait.  Sometimes he wakes and sometimes he doesn’t.  He continues sleeping. I exhale and creep out of the room.  I crawl into my bed.  My body begins to drift off as the last thought flutters through my mind.  I wonder if he’ll ever know what I did for him.

Fourteen years later I’m sitting in front of the school, waiting to pick him up from a homecoming dance.  It’s Saturday night.  Request night on the love station.  I’m tapping my finger on the steering wheel.  The music filters off and then I hear it.  “Our last dedication is to Masha from her brother and for everything she did for him.”

I stop tapping.  And breathing.  The intro to the song begins to fill the car.  A moment later the words come across my old radio loud and clear.  I am no longer left to wonder.

The song he chose is Hero.

 

We hoped you enjoyed our stories today. Come back tomorrow for more sweet stories that are sure to make you feel all gooey (in a good way)!

 

 

Bonding with My Baby Girl

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I am not a gamer . . . never was. My eye-hand coordination sucks! God forbid I would have to rescue Princess Peach or save humans from invading aliens.

But this year, one of my goals was to be able to bond with my 16 year old ‘Gamer’. She’s as apt to be playing her new Skyrim (roll playing game–the fifth one in the Elder Scrolls series after Oblivion for those who are in the know) as she is splatter painting a Jackson Pollack-ish impressionistic piece of work.

So a few weeks ago I started playing “Oblivion–Elder Scrolls IV” in hopes of understanding why the game is so fascinating. I’ve watched both her and my older daughter playing for the past year or so. The scenery is breathtaking and some of the villages in the fictional world are some place I would love to vacation. The homes are quaint with old world wonder and chests/dressers filled with odds and ends–magical, mystical and gold!!

The music is soothing–spa quality, tranquility that will lull you under it’s spell if watching as a spectator and carry you through on your journeys as a player. I can learn and be anything–a mage, a fighter–even a thief–all while still saving the villagers and Empire from the evil daedric lords and the Oblivion Gates in which imps emerge and set havoc to the villages.

Nothing like getting caught up for a few hours to de-stress and then go to pick up daughter and be able to talk about finding Ancient artifacts needed and how she conquered the quest to get ideas and share in something common for a change . . . and now back to motherhood . . . go put your laundry away!