I contributed to a piece that Indyweek has published. It’s a roundup of 100 local dishes. It’s alphabetical and mine are scattered throughout and include things like chicken and waffles, meringues, a hot dog with crinkle fries and a corned beef eggs Benedict.
If you’d like to take a peek, here is the link to the online version. 
Thanks for your time.
People say that Australia is full of things that want to kill you. Vicious boxcar-sized sharks, Rocky Balboa Kangaroos, insects, snakes by the bushel. One of the deadliest is called the common adder. How scary are your snakes that a lethal one is called “common”?
I don’t even want to hear about the one they call super rare. What does it do? Kill you, your ancestors, and all of your yet-to-be-born descendants?
And you don’t ever want to know how they feed their babies. I am not kidding.
And the cute, cuddly Koala bear? They are horrifying, disgusting animals which are crawling with…Chlamydia. In some locations, 90% of them are infected.
But Australia’s got nothing on the good old US of A. From sea to shining, murderous sea, there are things large and small that can tuck you in for a nice long dirt nap.
Bullwinkle J. Moose may be cute and sweet on TV, but moose attacks kill three to four humans a year.
Mountain lions, cougars, and Catamounts are different names for the same animal. And, this animal can and will end you. In the last 120 years, ninety people have met their end on the wrong side of these feline assassins. Think it can’t happen in the heart of NC?
Think again, o deluded Tar Heel.
One day about four years ago, I was in the woods, walking my dog. We came around a bend in the trail, and fifty feet away, and on the other side of a creek was a mature mountain lion. We quickly turned around and went home. My local animal control officer informed me that I was far from the only person to have a sighting.
So, keep an eye on toddlers and small pets.
I love bears; nay, I adore them. They’re big and gorgeous and have squishy little faces that I just want to kiss. According to statistics, approximately three people die each year from encounters with Pooh’s cousins.
But I’m convinced these reports result from doing it wrong, and the fake news of anti-bear propaganda. 
*Disclaimer: For legal reasons, I do not advocate bear/human interaction.
Dogs take 35 lives a year. But I blame the majority to horrible owners who shouldn’t even own stuffed animals. Dogs are too good for us, and not natural born killers.
Snake aversion is common. The fear is not misplaced. Those evil, lethal reptiles injure 7-8 thousand people each year, and around five people die from those attacks. I’ll let you in on a secret; snake enthusiasts weird me out. It’s unnatural.
Smaller does not, unfortunately, mean less lethal.
1000 people in the US are killed each year by bees. One bite is all it takes for the allergic, and swarms of up to 800,000 have murdered the non-allergic.
But the creepiest killers are ticks. They have neither venom or poison. They kill by spreading disease. 
They can give you Rocky Mountain spotted fever, which I’ve had. They can give you tularemia, which my father has had. Among the 16 other bugs they can give you is Lyme disease, Bourbon virus, and something horrifyingly called 364D rickettsiosis.
But wait, there’s more!
Carried in the blood of lone star ticks is the newly recognized Alpha-Gal allergy, which makes you allergic to red meat. No more steak, burgers, bacon or Eastern NC barbecue for the rest of your life. How evil and vindictive is that?
There is real danger out there. There are things out to make us dead. I’d tell you to stay in bed with the covers pulled up, but as a result of outlawing DDT, there’s been a real resurgence in bed bugs, so…
Thanks for your time.
Picnics and eating outside are two different things. It doesn’t matter if it’s the rich and famous dining on the patio at a fancy restaurant or a couple of kids eating PBJ’s on the back porch—it’s not a picnic.
Picnics are special. They’re occasions. They’re a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou. They’re soft focus and sweet music. They’re courtships and Brideshead Revisited. They’re white Victorian lawn dresses and Gibson girls playing croquet. They’re special.
The menu is up to you, but there is one that has stood the test of time. It’s also the menu of choice for just about every picnic scene of every American book ever written. There are only four items.
The Perfect Picnic
Fried chicken
Potato Salad
Chocolate cake
Lemonade (pink lemonade is also acceptable, you wild thing)
That’s it. It’s not technically illegal to serve store-bought grub, but it really, really should be homemade. Use your own favorite recipes and make it yourself. It will be a picnic that your guests will forever flash to when they hear the word “picnic”.
And, in case you’re lacking a ridiculous, gorgeous, delicious chocolate cake recipe, here is the best one I’ve ever made. It comes from the Barefoot Contessa, Ina Garten.
When you make the cake batter, it will be thin. Crazy thin. You will panic and think you messed up. Everybody, when making it the first time, thinks this. I promise, you haven’t. It will be the consistency of heavy cream, and that’s how it’s supposed to be. This batter is perfect and will make a delicious cake with the required structural integrity to hold all the scrumptious frosting. It’s a confectionary miracle.
Remember, you have not messed it up. It will be spectacular—the Platonic ideal of a chocolate cake.
Beatty’s Chocolate Cake
Recipe courtesy of The Barefoot Contessa
Butter, for greasing pans
1 ¾ cups all-purpose flour, plus more for pans
2 cups sugar
¾ cups good cocoa powder
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup buttermilk, shaken
½ cup vegetable oil
2 extra-large eggs, at room temperature
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 cup freshly brewed hot coffeeChocolate Buttercream, recipe follows
Preheat oven to 350. Butter 2 (8-inch) round cake pans. Line with parchment paper, then butter and flour pans.
Sift flour, sugar, cocoa, baking soda, baking powder, and salt into bowl of electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment and mix on low speed until combined. In another bowl, combine buttermilk, oil, eggs, and vanilla. With mixer on low speed, slowly add wet ingredients to dry. With mixer still on low, add coffee and stir just to combine, scraping bottom of bowl with rubber spatula. Pour batter into prepared pans and bake for 35 to 40 minutes, until toothpick comes out clean. Cool in pans for 30 minutes, then turn them out onto cooling rack and cool completely.
Place one layer, flat side up, on flat plate or cake pedestal. With knife or offset spatula, spread top with frosting. Place second layer on top, rounded side up, and spread frosting evenly on top and sides of cake.
Chocolate Buttercream Frosting:
*You can double this recipe, if you like. Then, in addition to frosting the cake thicker, you can pipe on some decorations, too.
6 ounces good semisweet chocolate (don’t use more chocolate than asked for; the frosting will get too hard, and even crack in places)
½ pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 extra-large egg yolk, at room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 ¼ cups sifted confectioners’ sugar
1 tablespoon instant coffee powder
Chop the chocolate and place in heat-proof bowl set over pan of simmering water. Stir until just melted and set aside until cooled to room temperature.
In bowl of electric mixer fitted with paddle attachment, beat butter on medium-high until light yellow and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add egg yolk and vanilla and continue beating for 3 minutes. Turn mixer to low, gradually add confectioners’ sugar, then beat at medium speed, scraping down bowl as necessary, until smooth and creamy. Dissolve coffee powder in 2 teaspoons of hottest tap water. On low speed, add chocolate and coffee to butter mixture and mix until blended. Don’t whip! Spread immediately on cooled cake.
Summer in North Carolina can try men’s souls. Some days it’s so gross out there it feels like you’re walking through warm Jell-O.
Which makes those glorious days when it’s not too hot and the humidity is low all the more special. So Gentle Reader, the next time that you wake up and discover that today we’ve won the meteorological lottery, whip up some grub, gather together your friends and family, and picnic the heck out of it. 
Thanks for your time.
This week, Gentle Reader, you will learn many unsavory facts about me.
I was raised Catholic-ish, and I’m Italian. Lent is the Catholic Church’s six-week spring festival of disgrace and remorse dedicated to fasting and abstinence. There’s a population within the church that call themselves Flagellants. Their practices include whipping themselves and the wearing of hair shirts which are basically the itchiest underwear ever devised by man.
And, lest we forget, “Mea maxima culpa”, comes from Rome (Italian, remember?). Translated, it means, “Dude, my bad, totally.”
All of this means I know from guilt.
Lately, I’ve been dwelling on my misdeeds. The vast majority were committed because I thought I was either smarter, wittier, or wiser than your average bear.
Through living for more than half century and looking at myself with a sober, unsentimental eye, I’ve realized that I know much, much less than even the dumbest bear.
I walk around most of the time with the same look on my face…
So, what follows are my apologies for my personal defects, flung into the universe as a moral flagellation. And in return, it should probably garner a stiff dose of well-deserved public shaming.
To anyone who’s ever known me, I apologize for being full of horse hockey. Occasionally I am funny-sometimes on purpose, sometimes by accident. But frequently, I am less Oscar Wilde and more Oscar Mayer. And sometimes unfunny veers into unkind. I’m filled with remorse for unintended, thoughtless cruelty. Like everyone else, I may have misanthropic thoughts, but they’re supposed to stay inside my head, and not wander the countryside hurting feelings and wreaking havoc.
Years ago, in the grocery store, a little old lady asked me to read a label for her as she had forgotten her glasses. I felt impatient with her. There was no way anybody’s vision was that bad. She just wanted conversation.
Speaking now as someone who without glasses can barely differentiate between up and down, I am heartily sorry.
I’m not even close to being a perfect-adjacent mother. But on two occasions, I was the worst, and the guilt still haunts me.
When The Kid was elementary school-aged, my child had been sick for a week. My mom was convinced a doctor was needed. But my mother’s a nervous Nellie, and I knew better.
Um, no. When we finally did visit an MD, The Kid was diagnosed with a severe ear infection which almost required hospitalization. 
Once, when a college term was up and a lengthy break commenced, The Kid was driving home from school—a seventeen-hour trip. We were expecting our little scholar on Saturday afternoon. Saturday morning the dog began barking like crazy. I groggily glanced at the clock, and decided that Petey was home from work, in the bathroom, and our pooch was eager to go for a walk. I rolled over and went back to sleep.
Only.
Only I’d misread the clock. It was earlier than I thought, and the dog wasn’t barking at Petey, he was barking at The Kid, who’d come home early to surprise me, but had lost the house key. I never heard the knocking. I was woken later by my spouse telling me, “Hey. The Kid’s downstairs.”
Thinking about that poor child, after that long drive getting the awful surprise of being locked out and ignored guts me.
I am a horrible mother.
There are tens of thousands more regrets, but due to space constraints, I shall only name one more.
I am heartily sorry to my sweet spouse. For the thirty-five years we’ve been married, I have never, not once, shut up.
For all that I’ve said, and all that I’ve left unsaid my profound apologies. 
Thanks for your time, and I’m so very, very sorry.
To Read Part One, Click Here.
Nobody ever did let me see a mirror, but it must have been pretty scary, even after they stitched it up.
I was sitting up in bed a day after the surgeries. An orderly and family friend Ken, walked past my open door. He hadn’t heard of my misadventures yet.
I raised my hand and waved. “Hey Ken!”
He returned my hello, and walked out of sight. And then I heard a strange, strangled yelp. He spun around and walked back into view, his face as white as his uniform.
“What happened?!?” I actually thought he was going to cry. I ended up consoling and reassuring him.
When I was released from the hospital, before Petey took me home, I made him take me to my savior’s house in Okisko to thank him. And that’s where it gets a little weird.
It seems he and his family were a traveling band of Gospel singers. He was supposed to be in Church that Sunday night. He’d planned to be, he always was. But, as he was getting in the car with his wife and kids to go, he stopped. He didn’t know why, but he knew he had to stay home that night. It would be the first time in many, many years that a Sunday evening wouldn’t see him in church.
But he was there, to help us, and keep us safe until the ambulance came.
The Kid and Riker, on our front porch.
My house now is on a road that has a twist and a hill at the same place. Twice in the last ten years or so, late at night, there have been bad collisions out there.
Petey was doing another overnight at a hospital the first time. I called 911 and ran out to do what I could. The driver and passenger in the first car were hurt, but basically okay. The other car was a different story.
The passenger was shook up, but also okay. The driver was seriously hurt; best case scenario both his legs were just badly broken. I told everybody the ambulance was on the way, then I crouched down by the injured driver and stayed with him until the paramedics came. 
Last night it happened again. I pulled on my rain boots, told Petey to call 911, grabbed a flashlight, and ran out. A car passing had been t-boned by a car that ran the stop sign.
One car had landed in my neighbor’s yard. The other was still partially in the intersection. The driver had exited, but the passenger side had been hit, and the woman sitting there had been hurt—her arm and shoulder were broken in at least two places, probably more.
Petey came out and looked after one driver, a neighbor looked after the other, and I leaned into the car to talk to the woman. I covered her with a coat, and gave her my hand. I could tell by her chattering teeth she was trying to go into shock. I tried to get her to slow her breathing, so she wouldn’t hyperventilate. I held her hand, and told her I’d stay until the ambulance came.
But every second I waited, I thought of my own wreck. And I remembered the fear and guilt and shame I felt. And how my rescuer’s presence calmed me and made the whole nightmare easier to bear.
I will never ever be able to thank that man in Okisko enough. So, holding a couple of very frightened hands is the absolute least that I can do.
Thanks for your time.
There were seven kids in the Taber family.
Sonny was the oldest by a wide margin. He was the child of the father Al’s first marriage. After his first wife died, they moved to New Jersey. There Al met and married Carrie.
The next oldest was Molly. She appointed herself CEO of the children. Molly was convinced she knew what was best for each and every member of the Taber brood. She still does, but it always, always comes from a place of profound love.
She married Bill, a boy who even at a young age had a black and white moral code that informed his life. In many men this could make them insufferable prigs, but the young man’s belief system was based on humanity and compassion. This made him one of the moral centers of the family he joined.
At one time or another almost every member of the family turned to Bill for guidance. He pulled more than one relative from the edge of ethical or financial cliffs.
The next in line was Bobbie. She married Bob at age 16, and they raised three boys. A few years after Bob died, she passed away. 
It’s been nearly twenty years, but sitting around the dinner table, the family feels her absence. She was the cook of the family. Her meals and desserts were legendary. Her lemon meringue pie is still spoken of in the hushed tones one would use for black magic.
The next child was Tootie. Her heart has always been so full of childlike joy that giggles regularly escape and erupt which fill others with that same happiness. She married Dave, a young man in the Coast Guard. They moved to North Carolina and started their family. After Al and Carrie passed away, she chose to take in her younger brother and sister. 
Tootie, her husband, and children settled on the west coast. And each and every day she lives her life full of the joy that continues to nourish her entire family, and everyone lucky enough to be around her.
The next child was a son, Tommy. By this time, Sonny had his own family, so Tommy was both the baby and the only boy. This translated into a young man full of mischief, but fiercely protective of his family. After serving in the Army, he married Sandy.
They had three children and Tommy, along with his bride, are still full of fun and mischief but also ready, at a moment’s notice, to throw down in defense of any member of the clan.
The youngest daughter was Patty. She was barely an adult when both parents died. She still lived at home with the youngest. Vowing to keep her brother with her, she moved to North Carolina, where she met the man she would marry, Glen. The couple had two children.
Despite the frequent moves that came with a military life, this unit became an enduring, stabilizing force of the Taber tribe. They’re known for the consistent, thoughtful generosity shown to family–both traditional and the unofficial members acquired along the way.
The youngest is Kenny. The second half of his childhood was spent with Patty and husband. He was uncle and older brother to their children. He married Kathy, and joined the Coast Guard just like Glen. They had two daughters and settled in the Northwest. He lives thousands of miles away from his pseudo-siblings, but he’s only one phone call away from big brother detail.
This collection of souls may not seem all that much more special or interesting than millions of other families. But I happen to know that they are, in fact, both unique and exceptional.
Because, Gentle Reader, they are my family.
Thanks for your time.
She was the living embodiment of the old saying that beauty is on the inside.
Being stationed in Puerto Rico on a military base was an interesting state of affairs.
We were literally living in a vacation paradise. We got to experience a culture that for some, was completely unlike anything we’d ever known. Rent and utilities were provided by Uncle Sam and thus microscopic compared to living stateside. There were also far fewer opportunities to spend money on shopping, and eating out.
All of these factors meant that most families had an unusually large amount of disposable income.
I can’t speak to “Teen Town”, I wasn’t a ‘teen’ when we lived in Puerto Rico.
The military takes family morale very seriously. There were swimming pools, movies, bowling, beaches, theme nights at the base clubs, USO shows, sponsored trips, and horse stables. Our ranch was the Lazy R.
This is actually my Lazy R, back in the day. It sure did seem bigger then.
Most horse folks in the area knew that the people at Lazy R had a soft spot for animals in trouble. Sick, abused or neglected, we could almost always be counted on to step up, take them from the situation, and give them a good home where people would love them and take care of them.
More Lazy R.
One day my dad told me about a young mare that had had some troubles in her life but needed somebody to love her, take care of her, and make her feel safe.
Her name was Coqui.
The horse on the far right looks just like Coqui.
She was a beautiful little horse; her coat was a deep, rich chestnut flecked with black. Her flowing mane and tail were a deep ebony. Her head and ears were small and aristocratic. Her large intelligent brown eyes were heart-breakingly sweet. Coqui was almost perfect—she only had one flaw.
Her mouth was completely mutilated. Her lips were scarred, twisted and mangled.
Dad explained that almost before she was old enough to be ridden, she had been stolen, by what had to be people fashioned from pure evil. They didn’t have a bridle but wanted to ride, so they used a makeshift bridle.
Made from barbed wire.
A Hackamore.
Because of the damage, she could only be ridden with a hackamore. Instead of a bit that went between her teeth, a hackamore had a padded leather band that went around her muzzle. The light pressure provided was enough to use on a well-trained, responsive mount.
I’d never been around a horse with a sweeter disposition. She was eager to please in everything she did. Instead of angry and skittish, the unspeakable abuse had made her wise and gentle.
She wasn’t a very fast horse, or outrageously nimble. But she put her whole heart into everything I asked of her. I loved her, and she loved me. We were inseparable. I would have lived at Lazy R if I could. Or failing that, happily shared my bedroom with her.
I try to live in a way that leaves me with few regrets. But one of my biggest concern that sweet little mare.
When it came time to move to our next home, we had to sell all three horses. But, I really hate endings and goodbyes. I guess that as a military brat, I’d lived through too many of them.
Because of my weakness, the day we handed over the horses, I couldn’t face it and stayed home. I never said goodbye to my sweet, sweet girl. I so wish I had.
So, I have a bit of advice. Rarely in this life do we get the foreknowledge and opportunity to say a final goodbye. If you can, do it. 
Saying goodbye hurts, but it’s an honest pain that we owe to ourselves and the ones we love. Consider it the price of admission.
Thanks for your time.
Ladies and Gents…welcome to 1973.
Cathy Ange and I were in love.
It was the spring of 1973, we were in the third grade, and over the moon.
For Donny Osmond.
Santa had brought us his album, Crazy Horses. At the Ange’s house, Cathy would place the album onto her turntable in a pain-staking ritual that would have us both nearly in tears of impatient frustration.
Then Donny would sing. Cathy and I rolled around on her bed shrieking like lunatics. It resembled some type of possession and makes me wonder if the children in Salem were less affected by witchcraft and more by the dulcet tones of that purple-socked Osmond brother.
I couldn’t wait until Marie was my sister-in-law.
Strangely, we never had any jealousy. If Donny had shown up to take us away from home, family, and Central Elementary School, we’d have shared him.
He’s a Mormon you know—just sayin’.
In the days before the internets, the only ways to be close to one’s idol were infrequent television appearances and print media, aka fan magazines.
There were titles like Tiger Beat, Spec, and my favorite, 16. That year 16 had a story about Donny which was printed in installments. Like the 19th century serializations of Charles Dickens’ novels in monthly publications, only with more teeth and less literary value.
As school ended for the year I was in clover. My best friend and potential sister wife, Cathy lived five houses down. I was once again on my championship softball team, ‘The Stripers’. I had the run of the neighborhood on my groovy pink Schwinn, and later in the summer, I was going to a sleepaway girl scout summer camp.
Life was good.
Then my parents and the President of the United States ruined it all. My father had received transfer orders and by early fall we would be living in Puerto Rico.
Puerto Rico! My knowledge of that Caribbean island began and ended at having maybe heard the name, maybe. It might have been Venus as far as I was concerned.
And the last time we’d moved I had only been five. I’d loved our home in Mobile, but my world had been much, much smaller there. This time I was old enough, and integrated enough into my community to know how much I’d miss it.
But there was a much bigger problem. I would not be able to go.
At the time of the move I would be about seven months in on that eleven-part Donny Osmond magazine serial. And unless I had an official, notarized guarantee of an uninterrupted flow of 16 Magazines, I was going nowhere.
My mom sorted it. She marched me across the street to her best friend, Miss Judy’s house. I explained the situation and told her I’d bring her the cost of the mags, along with money to mail them to me. She agreed.
Crisis averted; move assured.
The move to Puerto Rico was probably my hardest childhood move. But once we got there I realized how lucky I was. It was like three years in summer camp. We hiked and swam in both pools and ocean. We had our own horses, and rode in horse shows. And, I discovered, to my delight and my parents’ horror that I am a bit of a risk-taking daredevil.
That’s me and my little brother Bud, at Survival Beach, which was across the street from our house, and then just a hike down a sheer, slippery coral cliff. I’ll bet you can’t guess why it was called “Survival”.
I learned about a new culture and discovered Puerto Rican cuisine which is about the best food ever. We lived on a tiny base, and knew every single person, like Mayberry with palm trees.
So the move I didn’t want to make turned out to be my favorite posting.
But, I’m still waiting for that visit from Donny.
Thanks for your time.
It was Chef Chrissie’s birthday yesterday. Petey called him. Three days earlier, Chrissie called. It was Petey’s big day.
Petey met Chrissie and the rest of the Murphy clan in Elizabeth City when he was about nine. Five years later I became acquainted with them, also at the age of nine.
Mama Cat is the matriarch of the family, and one of my all-time favorite people. Since they did a lot of entertaining the food that came out of her kitchen was very different from the kind of meals my mom prepared.
Bob Vila, circa 1978. He looks like the sleazy prof that sleeps with undergrads.
There are dozens of discoveries I made at the Murphy’s; about all kinds of things, not just food–the first time I ever saw PBS’s This Old House was at their place.
I learned how to make rolls, buns, or anything unsliced and crust-covered bakery fresh: preheat your oven to 350. Moisten the exterior of the bread product and put into the oven, right on the rack. Let it cook for 13 minutes for frozen fare and 8 for non-frozen.
One item which I first had at the Murphy’s not only affected me, but my entire family.
Ranch dressing.
I think it may have been on a spinach salad, but it was the first time I ever ate a salad and enjoyed it. It wasn’t the last time, though. I also took this intel home, and introduced this magical, garlicky elixir to my family. I’m firmly convinced my brother would eat car parts, stuffed animals, and kale if drenched in enough ranch.
And this brings me to this week’s recipe.
Last week my folks met us at a cafeteria for Petey’s birthday lunch. I had chicken tenders and fried okra as part of my meal, along with some ranch in which to dunk it.
My mom, though went all in. She ordered ranch chicken casserole. It was a dish she’d never had before, but the “R” word in the name sold her.
I think maybe she would have liked a refund. She said it was dry, and the ranch flavor was akin to the weird flavor and texture that happens to off-brand fat-free.
I decided to create a version that she would enjoy. But I also wanted something that didn’t call for canned cream soups. Most recipes I found online have at least one or two varieties, but I think they taste like the can they come in. 
I also wanted something that was quick and easy, so making a cream soup from scratch was too much. I settled on two cups of old-school ranch dressing; the envelope type made with one cup of mayo and one of buttermilk.
Ranch chicken casserole, redux
2 ½ cups rotisserie chicken shredded
12 ounces egg noodles, cooked 5 minutes less than directed then drained
2 cups freshly made ranch dressing, buttermilk style
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
1 minced shallot
1-10 ounce bag frozen peas and carrots, thawed and allowed to drain off excess water
Salt & pepper
2 cups shredded cheddar cheese
Smoked paprika
Preheat oven to 350.
Mix together first six ingredients. Lightly season, then taste and re-season, if needed.
Pour into a greased 9X13 or 3-quart casserole dish. Cover with foil and bake for 30 minutes.
Uncover top with cheese and sprinkle with paprika. Cook on middle rack under low broiler for 15 minutes or until bubbly.
Let sit for 10 minutes before plating. Serves 8.
I love and appreciate both of these mothers very much. My own mom raised me, fiercely protected me, taught me, and nurtured me. She gave me life.
But Mama Cat gave me ranch dressing.
Thanks for your time.
So, I’ve been feeling kind of overwhelmed lately. 
There’s lots of shopping. The Kid and I are making tons of gifts from the kitchen, and I’m making my only child two pretty involved presents.
But, I’ve been reading a library book every spare second I can shave off something else. It’s a special book, and it’s got to go back.
My local library has a new program. It’s called “Lucky Day”. The titles are brand new releases which are out of regular rotation. They can’t be held or renewed, and are only loaned for seven days. With this collection, you can score a new release without weeks of waiting in a queue.
This year, I’ve discovered two new authors from this program. Their writing is very different, but shares one trait that I love.
They’re both capable of delivering big surprises.
The first is The Nest, by first-time novelist, Cynthia D’Aprix Sweeney. It was named best book of 2016 by People, the Washington Post, and NPR, among others. So, when I saw it amongst the lucky days, I grabbed it.
I’m so glad I did. On the surface, it’s just another story about an upper-middle-class dysfunctional family in New York City fighting over an inheritance. But it is in no way formulaic. The characters are interesting, and infuriating, and unexpected. It is not a neat little story, with a neat little ending. Normally I like my stories wrapped up in a tidy bow, but this story is so skillfully told, the only disappointment is that the story ended.
The second book’s The Woman in Cabin 10, by Ruth Ware. This is actually her second book. The first was, In a Dark, Dark Wood and her newest is The Lying Game, the lucky day book I was scrambling to finish yesterday before the library police came to my house.
These books are mystery/suspense, and oodles of fun. They are told in first person by a woman who finds her voice and strength, and eventually accepts and understands her weaknesses. There are buried secrets, love gone awry, betrayal, and cosmic justice. Just when you think you’ve got one thread figured out, a loose end crops up that unravels everything. These British books are all full of scenes that take place in a cold rain, frigid bodies of water, or snow. They’re put on your softest flannel pj’s, grab a warm blanket, a hot drink, and snuggle in kind of books.
My last book is a new book by an old friend, To Be Where You Are, by Jan Karon, another lucky day title.
I’ve been reading Jan Karon since she started writing her Mitford books in 2005. When I read her first, At Home In Mitford, Ms. Karon was living in Blowing Rock. Mitford is loosely based on that High Country village.
Her books are gentle and charming. It’s like spending the weekend at your grandmother’s house and being tucked in by her under a faded quilt. It’s familiar, but not home; where you’re especially welcome, fussed over, and made to feel very special.
There is a term I’ve heard, “self-care”. It sounds kind of new age-y and annoying. But it just means to take care of yourself. When the demands on you are making you so crazy you find yourself hating the season—stop.
Take a break, get comfortable, and read a book.
Unless you’re not a big reader.
Then come back next week, and I’ll suggest a movie or two you might like. But for now, take a breath, and have a happy, happy holiday.
Thanks for your time.
bull city mom 