……of Book Lovers Holiday Giveaway Hop
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An email has been sent to the winner and she has 48 hours to respond or another winner will be chosen. Thank you to all that entered. Happy Holidays!
Hosted by Miz B at Should Be Reading
This week asks:
What was the last book you could not finish and why?
My response:
This question was hard and took some research. Thankfully I keep a spreadsheet that contains when the book arrived, title, author, who from, review rating, date finished and what challlenges each book falls under.
In 2012, there was not one book that I DNF. But there were a few in 2011 and the most recent was Sixty-Nine by Pynk
It’s New Year’s Eve 2008, and best friends Magnolia Butler, Rebe Richardson, and Darla Clark, all born in 1969, are about to turn the dreaded 4-0 in January 2009. Magnolia, a New Year’s Day baby, is childless, and always a bridesmaid, never a bride. Rebe, the mother of a college-aged daughter named Trinity, has just gone through a divorce from a man whose sexual appetite far exceeded her desires and abilities. Darla is also a New Year’s Day baby, still mourning her husband’s death after five years. After way too many glasses of champagne, Rebe, challenges them to open their minds in a way they’d never done before, daring them to try something new…sexually. SIXTY-NINE is a liberating story about sisterhood and friendship, and about how past experiences and beliefs can influence one’s views about life and sex.
Since it was quite a while ago, I needed to refresh my memory with the synopsis and reading my review. I thought it was going to be a read about friendship dynamics. However, what I did read, I felt it fell under the genre of erotica. I don’t consider myself a prude, but I want a book of substance, and this book didn’t have it.
What was the last book that you didn’t finish?
December is being hosted by Suko’s Notebook
Mailbox Monday was created by Marcia of A girl and her books and is now on tour.
According to Marcia, “Mailbox Monday is the gathering place for readers to share the books that came into their house last week. Warning: Mailbox Monday can lead to envy, toppling TBR piles and humongous wish lists.”
No books for me this week….but I know my TBR will grow as I visit those that received surprises in their mail box.
I am thrilled, no, ecstatic, no, jumping up and down excited, YES!!!
Please indulge me with this introduction. When I first went public with the former CMash Loves To Read, Mr. Aronica, publisher of The Story Plant contacted me to read and review one of his author’s novels, Crossing The Bridge by Michael Baron. And the novel blew me away. Mr Baron went on my “authors to read” list and I have read every one of his books since.
In August of this year, through The Story Plant’s Spread The Word Initiative, I read and reviewed Mr. Baron’s latest novel, Leaves.
Some may know that I am the owner of Partners In Crime Tours, a virtual tour company for authors of mystery and suspense novels. Even though this has always been a favorite genre, I do also enjoy other categories. So on September 7th of this year, I launched Providence Book Promotions, for general literature. And I am honored and humbled for this opportunity that Mr. Aronica has bestowed on me. And that is to, kick off PBP, with one of my favorite authors, Mr. Michael Baron!!!!! YES!!!! I will be reposting my review from August, so without further ado, please help me give a warm welcome to Mr. Michael Baron!!
MICHAEL BARON
I grew up in the New York area and I’ve lived there my entire life. I worked in retail and taught high school English before I got my first book contract. I have gotten several additional book contracts since then, which is fortunate because I didn’t have the patience to work in retail and, while I quite enjoyed teaching, my approach was a bit too unconventional for most school systems. One school administrator told me that, “there are more important things than being a dynamic teacher.” Since I couldn’t name any of those things (at least in the context of school), I figured I didn’t have a long-term future in the profession. Hence, I became a writer, where I believe people appreciate a certain level of dynamism.
Though I started with nonfiction, I have always loved fiction and I have always wanted to write it. Since I can remember, I’ve had a particular affection for love stories. In fact, the very first book-length thing I ever wrote, when I was thirteen, was a love story. Mind you, it was the kind of love story that a thirteen-year-old boy would write, but it was a love story nonetheless. I have a deep passion for writing about relationships – family relationships, working relationships, friendships, and, of course, romantic relationships – and I can only truly explore this by writing fiction. These novels have given me a way to voice the millions of things running through my head.
My wife and kids are the center of my life. My wife is the inspiration for all of my love stories and my children enthrall me, challenge me, and keep me moving (and have served as the inspiration for several of the kids I’ve written about). One of the primary reasons I wrote my first novel,When You Went Away was that I wanted to write about being a father. Aside from my family, I have a few other burning passions. I’m a pop culture junkie with an especially strong interest in music, I love fine food (as well as any restaurant shaped like a hot dog), and I read far too many sports blogs for my own good.
You might have noticed that I haven’t published a photo of myself. This isn’t because I’m involved in the Witness Protection program or because I have an innate fear of cameras. It’s because Michael Baron is a pseudonym. I’m writing these novels “undercover” because they’re not entirely compatible with the nonfiction books I write, and I didn’t want to confuse readers. We’re all different people sometimes, right? I just decided to give my alter ego another name.
You can reach me at michael@michaelbaronbooks.com.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Welcome to Oldham, CT, a small town rich in Colonial heritage while being utterly contemporary. Situated along the Connecticut River Valley, Oldham bursts with color every fall, as the leaves on its trees evolve into an unmatched palette of scarlet, orange, purple, yellow, and bronze. For more than three decades, the Gold family has been a central part of Oldham in the fall, its Sugar Maple Inn a destination for “leaf-peepers” from all over the country, and its annual Halloween party a stirring way to punctuate the town’s most active month.
But this year, more than just the leaves are changing. With the death of their parents, the Gold siblings, Maria, Maxwell, Deborah, Corrina, and Tyler, have decided to sell the Sugar Maple Inn, and this year’s Halloween party will be the last. As October begins, the Golds contend with the finality that faces them, and the implications it has for a family that has always been so close. For some, it means embracing new challenges and new love. For others, it means taking on unimagined roles. And for others, it means considering the inconceivable. Complicating it all is a series of “hauntings” that touch each of the Gold siblings, a series of benign interventions that will remain a mystery until October draws to a close.
Filled with romance, tension, and unforgettable family drama, LEAVES is the first in a series of novels about a world and a family that readers will want to make their own.
Purchase links: Amazon B&N IndieBound
My review, originally posted August 29th, 2012
My Thoughts and Opinion:
Michael Baron has been compared to Nicholas Sparks, but since I have not read any of Mr. Sparks books I can’t compare, but what I do know is that when I first went public with my blog, Mr. Baron’s publisher contacted me to read the author’s book Crossing The Bridge and I instantly became a fan. However, I did recommended his books to another book blogger, Ann from Ann’s Reading Corner who has read Mr. Sparks’ novels and she stated “personally I like Michael’s novel much better than Sparks novels” (you can see her review here). Crossing The Bridge was a short read but written with such tenderness and emotion that it was hard to believe a male author had penned it. Since then I have read every book written by him and we have both grown. His books became full length novels, books that I would anxiously wait for and I am coming up on my 3rd blogiversary. His répertoire of books that I have read are The Journey Home, Anything, Spinning, When You Went Away, and A Winter Discovery. And now Leaves.
Leaves takes place over a period of less than a month’s time. Four siblings have decided that it is time to sell their parents Inn that they have helped with, even as children, since their parents have passed away. Their parents hosted a yearly event and would open the Inn’s door to the small and quaint town of Oldham with a big Halloween party. And this year will be bittersweet as it will be the last day before the new buyers take ownership the next day. In the days before the party, the reader is introduced to the siblings and also a look into their family dynamics.
Mr. Baron has the gift and ability to sweep you away from reality into the story like the winds of autumn sweeps the last leaves off the trees. The characters are so life like that they become one’s own family. The story felt like a real life event, whereas you are looking forward to see what happens as he counts down the days to the Halloween party but then on the other hand, you know that the story will end but don’t want it to be over. His manner of writing flows and is so realistic that it transports the reader right into the middle of the plot. This is the first time that I have read a book that every one of the senses was a vivid experience. Mr. Baron, has shared his music on Spotify to listen to and hear as you are reading, the details of Deborah’s cooking made my mouth water and could imagine the smells in the kitchen, I could create the imagery of seeing the settings, I was able to feel the emotions and tender touches of the characters. And as the days kept getting crossed off the calendar and getting close to the end, I didn’t know whether to read faster to see what happened or read slower so that I could savor this book and not have it end. The ending bittersweet, which I did not see coming (sorry but I will not include a spoiler). The ending is too special to even hint at what happens.
Knowing the style of Mr. Baron’s work, when I read the following from the prologue, I knew that this book, like his others, would tug at my heart strings, take me away and that I would have a difficult time putting it down.
For this October, certain threads would fray and certain binds would loosen. Unspoken words woud be uttered at last while things that needed to be said would be withheld. Tradition would be honored and the past would be rejected. One heart would beat for another’s for the first time, while one heart would stop beating forever. And a message would be delivered that was essential to all who heard it.
Mr. Baron’s, Leaves, is a poignant, compelling, moving, passionate, feel good read. Once the last word is read and the book closed, the characters live on in one’s heart and mind. An absolutely recommended read!!
Read an excerpt:
The River Edge Café had been open for business since the late ‘90s, when a husband-and-wife team made a killing during the tech stock boom and decided to “chuck it all” and follow their passion for fine food. Located on the water between Oldham and Essex, it was popular for its ambitious menu, its beautiful setting, and its attentive staff. However, it had recently lost two executive chefs in quick succession, leading to rumors that the owners were impossible taskmasters and maybe even a little abusive. Deborah didn’t necessarily believe these unfounded stories, but they made her wary through the entire interview process, and even now, in her third meeting with the couple, she wondered if there was something less than genuine behind Carla Bonner’s ubiquitous smile or Vince Travers’s persistence.
“We want you here, Deb,” Vince said. People didn’t really call her “Deb,” but Vince seemed to insist on it. He had been doing so since they first met half a decade ago. “There are maybe two dishes on the menu we think we need to keep. The entire rest of the menu would be yours.”
“It would be like having your own restaurant without the hassle of ownership,” Carla said. Deborah had been in precisely that situation her entire adult life, so she wasn’t sure why Carla thought this was a selling point.
“I’m completely willing to wait until the middle of November if you want to take a couple of weeks off between jobs,” Vince said. “Trina’s an excellent sous chef and she’s doing a great job of holding the fort for us. To be honest, if we weren’t so intent on recruiting you, we’d give her the job right now.”
“That’s very flattering,” Deborah said, wondering how resentful Trina would be of her if she decided to take the position.
This wasn’t the first offer Deborah had received, though it was certainly the most aggressive. She got a couple of calls as soon as word got out about the sale of the Inn. The people buying the Sugar Maple even made her an extremely attractive offer to stay precisely where she was. She never seriously considered it, though. It was hard enough cooking there now that both of her parents were gone. It would be impossible to take direction there from someone else and even harder to watch the inevitable changes they made. Deborah imagined herself collapsing into tears the first time they replaced a table lamp. She was convinced that when she walked out of the Inn at the end of the Halloween party she would never again set foot in the place just so she could remember it forever the way she wanted.
None of the offers she’d received so far had seemed very appealing. She knew that she was running the risk of seeming like a prima donna and she also knew that she should be eternally grateful for the attention, but she couldn’t allow herself to take a position unless it sang out to her. She even considered trying to find a job in a diner or a coffee shop somewhere – something completely one-dimensional with little or no room for personal investment – just to recalibrate. But of course that was ridiculous. How long could she flip burgers before she started slipping exotic ingredients into the ground beef? She had enough money saved to get by for about six months, and if it took that long to find the right spot, that was fine with her.
“I’m not trying to flatter you,” Vince said. “I’m trying to employ you. Your customers will flatter you every time the waitstaff delivers one of your inventions.”
Deborah smiled. The “Deb” thing aside, she’d always liked Vince and she wished the rumors weren’t causing her to question his sincerity. That was the pernicious thing about rumors.
“The package you’re offering is great,” she said, nodding to both Vince and Carla. “I’ve always been fond of this restaurant, and you have a great kitchen. I just need a couple of days.”
“Of course,” Carla said. “Take as long as you must.”
Vince patted her hand. “We’re here for you, Deb. Call me anytime if you have questions. I gave you our home number, right?”
“You did, yes. I just want to take a little longer to think. I’ll call you on Monday.”
Deborah stood and shook their hands. The fact was, she already made her decision, but it didn’t seem polite to turn them down flat. The River Edge Café was a fine restaurant and it did have a sensational kitchen. The more time she spent there, though, she realized there wasn’t anything about this place that felt like home.
She drove through downtown Oldham on the way back to the inn. Waiting for a couple of pedestrians to cross Hickory, she noticed the sign for Sage, the gourmet shop that had opened a couple of weeks earlier. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t visited it yet. When a car pulled out of the parking space across from the store, she decided the time was right. The store was in a moderately large space between a music store and a bookstore. Deborah had a hard time remembering what was in the space before (there had been several shops there over the past few years), but the new owner had done a great job of remodeling it. Lots of blond wood fixtures, warm lighting, and handwritten signage. There was a refrigerator case housing artisanal cheeses and sausages in understated, small-production packages.
Deborah liked being here immediately. Maybe it was the slack-key guitar music coming from the sound system or that one of the front tables was dedicated to the small Tuscan pasta manufacturer she “discovered” a couple of years ago and had used exclusively at the inn ever since. Deborah knew this would be a place she’d visit often. She’d been to all the gourmet shops in the area, and was frustrated by the sameness of them. It was almost as though some food rep came along and set each one up based on some model. This place had a decidedly individual point of view, though. The shelf of spices was an asymmetrical jumble of bottles and tins of different sizes. Next to it was a card that read, “This might not be the prettiest display of spices you’ve ever seen, but it’s hopefully the best. I’ve compared everything on this shelf to the competition and only carry the ones I love the most.” Deborah agreed about the mustard seed, the ground coriander, and the smoked paprika, but she would have chosen a different Telicherry peppercorn.
A man walked up to her while she was standing at the display. “Find anything you like?”
She turned to look at him. He was a little over six feet and lean. And he had very expressive eyes. “Krendahl has better peppercorns,” she said.
“You’re right, but they only sell from their catalog. I tried, believe me. They also import this fabulous five spice powder, but again, I couldn’t get it. Think I should change the card in the spirit of full disclosure?”
Deborah laughed. “Your secret is safe with me. You’re the owner?”
He extended his hand and Deborah took it. “Sage Mixon.”
“Deborah Gold. So the store is named after you and not after” – she reached for a bottle – “Brookfield’s hand-rubbed Albanian.”
He smiled. “You obviously know your spices. Are you in the food business?”
“I’m the chef at the Sugar Maple Inn – at least I am until the end of the month.”
“Moving on to bigger and better things?”
Deborah rolled her eyes. “That part isn’t at all certain at the moment.” She turned toward another display. “I’ve never seen these preserves before.”
“They’re incredible. They’re all made by a single dad out of a barn in New Hampshire. He sweetens them with a ‘proprietary blend’ of fruit juices and balances each with some kind of spice or infusion. The lemon marmalade is mind-boggling.” He picked up a jar and handed it to her. “He adds a touch of Thai basil. It’s amazing what happens.”
Deborah examined the jar in her hand. If nothing else, Sage was an excellent salesman. Of course she would buy this. Before she did, though, she spent another half hour in the store walking from display to display. Sage stayed with her when he wasn’t helping other customers, and it became obvious that there was a story behind everything he carried. She hoped the visitors who flitted in and out appreciated the thought that went into this. More importantly, she hoped that – appreciative or not – the visitors were plentiful. Oldham needed more stores like this one.
By the time she’d finished shopping, Deborah had the marmalade, a salsa from Nogales, a bottle of raspberry thyme vinegar made a half hour away, and a package of stroopwafels made in Montana, of all places. She didn’t need any of it. She certainly had access to just about everything she wanted from the network of suppliers she’d developed over the years. But it was fun buying here and she definitely wanted to support the place.
“Come again soon,” Sage said as he packaged her purchases. “I will. Definitely. Hey, come by the Inn for dinner sometime in the next month.”
“I might just do that. I mean if you know this much about food, you might actually be able to cook.”
Deborah laughed. “Yeah, it’s a possibility.”
He smiled and his eyes danced. Deborah would definitely be back soon.
“We want you here, Deb,” Vince said. People didn’t really call her “Deb,” but Vince seemed to insist on it. He had been doing so since they first met half a decade ago. “There are maybe two dishes on the menu we think we need to keep. The entire rest of the menu would be yours.”
“It would be like having your own restaurant without the hassle of ownership,” Carla said. Deborah had been in precisely that situation her entire adult life, so she wasn’t sure why Carla thought this was a selling point.
“I’m completely willing to wait until the middle of November if you want to take a couple of weeks off between jobs,” Vince said. “Trina’s an excellent sous chef and she’s doing a great job of holding the fort for us. To be honest, if we weren’t so intent on recruiting you, we’d give her the job right now.”
“That’s very flattering,” Deborah said, wondering how resentful Trina would be of her if she decided to take the position.
This wasn’t the first offer Deborah had received, though it was certainly the most aggressive. She got a couple of calls as soon as word got out about the sale of the Inn. The people buying the Sugar Maple even made her an extremely attractive offer to stay precisely where she was. She never seriously considered it, though. It was hard enough cooking there now that both of her parents were gone. It would be impossible to take direction there from someone else and even harder to watch the inevitable changes they made. Deborah imagined herself collapsing into tears the first time they replaced a table lamp. She was convinced that when she walked out of the Inn at the end of the Halloween party she would never again set foot in the place just so she could remember it forever the way she wanted.
None of the offers she’d received so far had seemed very appealing. She knew that she was running the risk of seeming like a prima donna and she also knew that she should be eternally grateful for the attention, but she couldn’t allow herself to take a position unless it sang out to her. She even considered trying to find a job in a diner or a coffee shop somewhere – something completely one-dimensional with little or no room for personal investment – just to recalibrate. But of course that was ridiculous. How long could she flip burgers before she started slipping exotic ingredients into the ground beef? She had enough money saved to get by for about six months, and if it took that long to find the right spot, that was fine with her.
“I’m not trying to flatter you,” Vince said. “I’m trying to employ you. Your customers will flatter you every time the waitstaff delivers one of your inventions.”
Deborah smiled. The “Deb” thing aside, she’d always liked Vince and she wished the rumors weren’t causing her to question his sincerity. That was the pernicious thing about rumors.
“The package you’re offering is great,” she said, nodding to both Vince and Carla. “I’ve always been fond of this restaurant, and you have a great kitchen. I just need a couple of days.”
“Of course,” Carla said. “Take as long as you must.”
Vince patted her hand. “We’re here for you, Deb. Call me anytime if you have questions. I gave you our home number, right?”
“You did, yes. I just want to take a little longer to think. I’ll call you on Monday.”
Deborah stood and shook their hands. The fact was, she already made her decision, but it didn’t seem polite to turn them down flat. The River Edge Café was a fine restaurant and it did have a sensational kitchen. The more time she spent there, though, she realized there wasn’t anything about this place that felt like home.
She drove through downtown Oldham on the way back to the inn. Waiting for a couple of pedestrians to cross Hickory, she noticed the sign for Sage, the gourmet shop that had opened a couple of weeks earlier. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t visited it yet. When a car pulled out of the parking space across from the store, she decided the time was right. The store was in a moderately large space between a music store and a bookstore. Deborah had a hard time remembering what was in the space before (there had been several shops there over the past few years), but the new owner had done a great job of remodeling it. Lots of blond wood fixtures, warm lighting, and handwritten signage. There was a refrigerator case housing artisanal cheeses and sausages in understated, small-production packages.
Deborah liked being here immediately. Maybe it was the slack-key guitar music coming from the sound system or that one of the front tables was dedicated to the small Tuscan pasta manufacturer she “discovered” a couple of years ago and had used exclusively at the inn ever since. Deborah knew this would be a place she’d visit often. She’d been to all the gourmet shops in the area, and was frustrated by the sameness of them. It was almost as though some food rep came along and set each one up based on some model. This place had a decidedly individual point of view, though. The shelf of spices was an asymmetrical jumble of bottles and tins of different sizes. Next to it was a card that read, “This might not be the prettiest display of spices you’ve ever seen, but it’s hopefully the best. I’ve compared everything on this shelf to the competition and only carry the ones I love the most.” Deborah agreed about the mustard seed, the ground coriander, and the smoked paprika, but she would have chosen a different Telicherry peppercorn.
A man walked up to her while she was standing at the display. “Find anything you like?”
She turned to look at him. He was a little over six feet and lean. And he had very expressive eyes. “Krendahl has better peppercorns,” she said.
“You’re right, but they only sell from their catalog. I tried, believe me. They also import this fabulous five spice powder, but again, I couldn’t get it. Think I should change the card in the spirit of full disclosure?”
Deborah laughed. “Your secret is safe with me. You’re the owner?”
He extended his hand and Deborah took it. “Sage Mixon.”
“Deborah Gold. So the store is named after you and not after” – she reached for a bottle – “Brookfield’s hand-rubbed Albanian.”
He smiled. “You obviously know your spices. Are you in the food business?”
“I’m the chef at the Sugar Maple Inn – at least I am until the end of the month.”
“Moving on to bigger and better things?”
Deborah rolled her eyes. “That part isn’t at all certain at the moment.” She turned toward another display. “I’ve never seen these preserves before.”
“They’re incredible. They’re all made by a single dad out of a barn in New Hampshire. He sweetens them with a ‘proprietary blend’ of fruit juices and balances each with some kind of spice or infusion. The lemon marmalade is mind-boggling.” He picked up a jar and handed it to her. “He adds a touch of Thai basil. It’s amazing what happens.”
Deborah examined the jar in her hand. If nothing else, Sage was an excellent salesman. Of course she would buy this. Before she did, though, she spent another half hour in the store walking from display to display. Sage stayed with her when he wasn’t helping other customers, and it became obvious that there was a story behind everything he carried. She hoped the visitors who flitted in and out appreciated the thought that went into this. More importantly, she hoped that – appreciative or not – the visitors were plentiful. Oldham needed more stores like this one.
By the time she’d finished shopping, Deborah had the marmalade, a salsa from Nogales, a bottle of raspberry thyme vinegar made a half hour away, and a package of stroopwafels made in Montana, of all places. She didn’t need any of it. She certainly had access to just about everything she wanted from the network of suppliers she’d developed over the years. But it was fun buying here and she definitely wanted to support the place.
“Come again soon,” Sage said as he packaged her purchases. “I will. Definitely. Hey, come by the Inn for dinner sometime in the next month.”
“I might just do that. I mean if you know this much about food, you might actually be able to cook.”
Deborah laughed. “Yeah, it’s a possibility.”
He smiled and his eyes danced. Deborah would definitely be back soon.
DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me,
in exchange for my honest review.
No items that I receive
are ever sold…they are kept by me,
or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or
Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affliate.
I am providing link(s) solely for visitors
that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.
I am excited about today’s guest because this is her first time visiting us here at CMash Reads. I was contacted by frequent visitor, author and friend, Melissa Foster (Come Back To Me, Megan’s Way and more great books) to ask if I would host today’s guest. And every author that Melissa has recommended have been amazing authors. So there was no hesitation. I ask that you please help me welcome Michaelene McElroy to our group!!!
MICHAELENE McELROY
Michaelene McElroy makes her debut as an author with The Last Supper Catering Company. She lives on four acres in the woods on an island in the Puget Sound of Washington State where magic is ever present.
Visit Michaelene at her website, Facebook and Twitter.
ABOUT THE BOOK
The Last Supper Catering Company is the humorous and heartwarming story of B. Thankful Childe-Lucknow. Turned out with red corkscrew hair, one eye brown, the other green, and gifted with the power to hear the voices of the departed, B. Thankful is cast aside by the town, and lives an isolated upbringing in the woods with Big G, Little G, and Tyler Lucknow.
Tragedy, followed by the discovery of a long-forgotten paint-by-number picture of the Last Supper, thrusts B. Thankful from the safety of everything she has ever known.
Beyond the boundary of her sheltered life, B. Thankful discovers the world’s hard edges as well as its beauty. More importantly, with the help of a cast of quirky and tenderhearted souls (both earthly and heavenly), she discovers why God made her special.
Reviews:
“The Last Supper Catering Company is beautifully crafted, a throwback to a style half forgotten yet sorely missed.” — Nick Bantock, Author/Artist Griffin and Sabine Trilogy
“…With tones of To Kill a Mockingbird and Forrest Gump, this novel tenderly declares its own delicious literary voice of innocence and courage, with rich, full characters and marvelous sightings of what the world could be…A literary gem that begs to be savoured…” – Tess Wixted, Associate Editor, Life As A Human
Read an excerpt:
Following are excerpts from Chapters Three, Four and Five: The year is 1968. Since B. Thankful’s birth in 1950, and her shunning by the town for being “different,” B. Thankful has lived in the woods, protected by Big G, Little G, and Daddy from the outside world, but that’s about to change forever, and it all starts with a wish.
THREEWhen I was seventeen, Daddy took up with the sickness that’s got no cure. As Daddy had no people of his own to care for him, Little G had me move him from his cabin across the river into our house. Though the times had somewhat changed, some folks still saw the world in either black or white, and those same folks didn’t take to Little G swirling the colors together. From the day we moved Daddy in, she made sure her shotgun was always loaded and near the front door. That’s how much she loved Daddy.
I, too, would have done anything for my Daddy, and there must have been some part of him that knew it to be true. One morning, when I finished telling Daddy one of my stories, he rested his tired hand on mine. He watched the curtains lazily rising and falling with the breeze; his tapered breath, best it could, doing the same. Daddy’s speech came out slow, the space between each word giving thoughtful consideration to the next.
“You know what would make me happy before I die, B.?”
Daddy had never before mentioned the absolute, and I was so taken aback by his matter-of-fact way, I lost my reply, could only shake my head. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, fearful if he leaned toward suffering, he might ask me to help him cross over before the hour God intended.
Between breaths as light as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, Daddy said his wish wasn’t for himself, but for Little G, who seemed as near as Daddy to calling an eternal time out. My heart started beating fast because I knew what Little G was longing for, and had been longing for it ever since Big G’s passing, seven years prior.
It was all I could do not to call out my own wish: Please don’t say it, Daddy. Please don’t say it. And then the three words never meant to line up one behind the other did just that: jellied pig’s feet. I grew up spying that nasty concoction in the icebox, and no matter how many times I saw it, it turned me shrill. Tired of my shrieks, Big G hid the jellied pig’s feet under a plastic shower cap, but it was a useless cover up. And, try as I might, I couldn’t hide my disgust when Big G spooned the whole wobbly mess onto a plate and Little G slathered horseradish mustard over each nasty bite. The way it quivered up to Little G’s mouth made it look as if the pig’s feet were making one last attempt at a getaway.
But here’s the thing I’ll never forget–the sound of pleasure coming from deep within Little G, the pure joy lighting up her face, and that same joy resting on Big G’s face as she watched her girl. A kind of holy communion took place between the two of them, like Daddy and me sharing a Banner Bar.
If I could bring a final joy to Daddy by fixing jellied pig’s feet for Little G, I would just have to pull on my big girl boots and make Big G’s god-awful dish. I owed them both that much…FOURNext morning, on the sly, I thumbed through Little G’s recipe box, where I found a worn- out piece of paper with the ingredients for jellied pig’s feet. I recognized Big G’s stiff letter-by-letter way, but she didn’t spell out how much of this or how much of that to use. Deep down in her belly know-how, Big G understood numbers had nothing to do with the righteous power of food; a person’s loving intention was the main ingredient necessary for an eternal soul-to-soul union.
If still alive, Big G could have taught me how she made her jellied pig’s feet with so much love it had reached right in and took hold of Little G’s senses for all of time. Without Big G’s help, my Daddy’s final wish, the only thing he ever asked of me, wouldn’t come true. I couldn’t let that happen. Hard pressed to make Daddy’s wish come to pass, I gave birth to the most far-fetched plan I ever hatched.
I went searching for Little G’s old wooden picture box and found it in the sideboard. If you put Little G in an angry state of mind around you, she took your picture out of the box and placed it in an old medical book under diseases. When things went right again between you, back to the box you’d go. That is, everyone but Little G’s ex-husband, Useless, who ran out on her when she was pregnant with Momma. His picture was permanently glued in the old medical book under warts…
…Thumbing through pictures of long gone strangers, looking for a picture of Big G, I discovered there were notes on the back of each picture…
…There were pictures of folks who loved stews; cornbread (some the way those up north ate it, and those who were staunch in the way of the south); ice cream in every flavor imaginable; barbecued ribs; thick slices of ham with their eggs–sunny side up, scrambled, poached, wrecked on a raft; mustard pickles on buttered rye bread; potatoes–fried, hash browned, boiled, baked; you name it. And some folks yearned all the cold winter long for cobblers filled with the fat berries and juicy peaches only found in the heat of summer.
Finally, I found what I was looking for and sat down at the kitchen table with a picture of Big G. Unlike Little G, who was about as big as a minute—but don’t let that fool you, that woman was strong—Big G was a tall woman with broad shoulders, large hands, and a vestigial third tit. I kid you not. And she wore a look in her eyes that told you she didn’t have the time for much more than a postcard conversation.
Like I said before, the departed had been sharing their stories with me for as long as I can remember, but Big G had never dropped so much as a single word anywhere close to my ear. I closed my eyes, rested my hand on Big G’s picture, and put my plan to the test. My thumb tapped out:
I-n-e-e-d-t-o-t-a-l-k-t-o-y-o-u-a-b-o-u-t-y-o-u-r-j-e-l-l-i-e-d-p-i-g-s-f-e-e-t-B-i-g-G.
Since only Big G had the answer I needed, I couldn’t give up hope. I tapped and tapped. Waited and waited. If by some miracle I reached her, I figured Big G might start with a “Howdy, B. Thankful,” or “Isn’t this a hoot!” But when Big G suddenly came through, she got right to the point, like a postcard. Fortunately, without Wish you were here!
“Ask when the pig was slaughtered, and to see the blood. It should be deep red, not rusty in color. Look for meaty feet. Peel the skin back to see the flesh.”
Somewhere around “peel back,” all of my insides started churning. I was glad for the chair beneath me, for my own feet turned jellylike and would have left me lying in a pool of quiver.
A quick rap to the side of my head brought me back to attention. I rubbed my eyes to prove I was seeing things with my daytime mind and not dreaming. As if she hadn’t dropped dead seven years back, there sat Big G at our kitchen table, just as nonchalant as could be.
I had never actually thought about, or, for that matter, desired to talk face-to-face with the departed; hearing their voices was quite enough. As was its job in the past, my thumb was busy tapping away, but it wasn’t spelling anything. While I was gawkin’, Big G went on talkin’, not giving me one iota of a chance to ponder how this wonder of wonders was possible. As always, Big G’s manner was direct, her words lean.
“You won’t find the soul of this dish in words or numbers. You’ve got to go beyond what you see, into what you feel. I can show you how. Let’s fetch supplies and get to work.” Well, so much for pleasantries…FIVE…It was getting late by the time I got home from my day with Big G, and I found Daddy and Little G in full slumber exactly where I had left them. After I fixed them a simple supper of collard greens and cornbread, which they mostly just poked at, I tucked them into their beds and, as if they were my own children, told each a special story I made up just for them. When I was certain they were asleep, I went about my business in the kitchen with Big G. We had no more than started when Little G called out, “Who are you talking to?”
Big G gave me the hush signal, as if I might tell Little G her dead momma was visiting, and maybe she’d like to put on her chenille robe, come out, and chew the fat with her. I waved Big G off.
“Nobody, Little G. I’m just singing. Are you all right? Do you need anything?”
When she didn’t answer, I hurried down the hall. Frail as a baby bird, Little G was perched on the edge of her bed, her skinny legs dangling over the side. Little G stared down at the very close veins on her hands, and then into my eyes.
“You sure there’s nobody else in the house but your daddy?”
I didn’t think myself lying when I nodded my head. Really, there was no other body in the house…
…Back in the kitchen… For old time’s sake, we kept one of Big G’s aprons on a hook near the pantry. When I slipped it over my head, an unfamiliar sensation moved through my body. My insides grew fuller and my skin turned as tight as a ready to burst watermelon left too long on the vine…
…Please don’t think me crazy, but I got the feeling I wasn’t alone in my own body, someone else working from inside me, tying the apron strings. I looked over to where Big G had been sitting, but the chair was empty; only her picture remained, leaned up against the honey jar. I panicked.
“Big G, where are you?”
“I’m right here, B. Thankful.”
Oh, mercy! Saints preserve me! I swear what happened is not one of my stories. I wouldn’t know how to make this up. If I’m lyin’, let me be dyin’. When Big G’s voice sat in the curve of my ear, I was fine with that, recognized it for what it was. I was even getting used to having her come back for a visit. What I was not ready for was Big G inside of me.
“Get out! Get out!”
“Now, don’t go all haywire on me, B. I’m new to this, too. We don’t wanna get stuck in some oddball way that would be hard to explain, do we? Shouldn’t we give God’s handiwork a try?”
Soon as Big G mentioned God, I recalled Little G saying God had chosen me to do Him a favor one day, and then Daddy telling me God sent me here to do something great. Just in case this was it, peculiar as the setting was, I handed myself over.
“Okay,” I said, same as if Big G told me she was going outside–no mind about it, really. But I had a question I needed answered. “Do I have to talk out loud to you, or can you hear me through my thoughts?”
“Good question. Let’s find out.”
I screwed up my forehead and concentrated, then asked with my mind, “What do I do first?”
“Put all the ingredients on the counter,” Big G answered. It worked! Big G heard my thoughts.
I laid out the ingredients on the kitchen counter: pig’s feet, celery, carrots, garlic, black peppercorns, and bay leaves. My movements were Big G’s movements–quick and sure; my hand, her hand that knew her old knife, had lived all the stories held in its handle. We had become woven into a tapestry of good cookin’ know-how. Together we trimmed the feet, plucking out a bristly stray hair, and then christened the pig’s parts under cold water and scrubbed away anything unholy.
“Good job, B. Now, one more time in clear water, honey, then light the stove.”
Once the fire got going and we put the pot on the stove, Big G started humming Down by the Riverside. My own vocal chords strummed along with her until we were humming in fine harmony.
“I’m like a ventriloquist who swallowed her dummy,” popped into my head.
“Not funny!” But Big G was laughing when she said it.
When the water came to a boil, I carefully set the feet to cooking.
“Now’s the time to add a little salt. Salt now will enter the meat in a slow way; salt at the end will simply sit on top. You don’t want that. And not too much now, you want to add a little more when the time comes to add the vegetables. Okay, B., take some of those peppercorns, about the size of a blackberry not quite ready to pick, and set them down on the board for cracking.”
I gave them a whack and some of the peppercorns turned buckshot, flying out from under the knife.
“Now add the peppercorns and two bay leaves to the pot. Wait.” Big G had me taste a bay leaf. “No, make that two and a half bay leaves.”
Once the liquid came to a boil, I turned it down to a simmer. For the next two hours, the pig’s feet simmered in a relaxed way, the pointed hooves floating to the top and bouncing up and down in a circle like fishing bobbers.
In their own time, the bay leaves gave themselves up to the broth and the peppercorns released their fiery oils. A meaty, yet delicate fragrance tinged with sharpness rose from the pot and found its way into my lungs. A burst of aliveness sent me spinning through the kitchen, where the temperature was no less than a hundred and ten degrees. But I was cool as a cucumber as we sliced through carrots without effort, orange coins stacking up neatly, then chopped sweet celery, and garlic, sticky and sure of itself.
One time, when I was a smidge of a girl, my Daddy woke me from a sound sleep in the middle of the night and carried me outside, where the cold air of winter stung my face, and rain rushed from the sky, as if late for a reunion. Daddy pointed up, and I was put out he woke me just to show me a full moon. Before I had a chance to start squawking, Daddy turned me around to the sky opposite the moon and I witnessed a most rare and mysterious sight–a moonbow. Mystifying as that moonbow was, it paled in comparison to the sanctified magic spinning around Big G and me in our kitchen.
It was around midnight when Big G gave me the go ahead to add the vegetables. I watched as the carrots, celery, and garlic took a slip slide from the board and joined the bobbing hooves.
“Now’s the time to see if a little more salt is needed.”
Oh, jeez, I knew that meant I was gonna have to taste the broth. You’d a thought I was about to take a dose of cod liver oil the way my face squeezed up. With more than an ounce of queasiness, I dipped the spoon into the broth, tiny rafts of pepper floating on the surface. Trying to buy time, I blew on it and blew on it until Big G cleared her annoyed throat.
When my lips touched the edge of the spoon, I tasted how the pork had turned the broth meaty and salty; the fat was smooth on the inside of my mouth. The pepper and bay leaves didn’t bite back; they laced the broth with their spicy perfume. None of the ingredients stood in front of the other; they worked together in harmony.
Big G let out a little sigh, as if she had sampled the broth and found it just right. It was then I knew it had all come together, and I quickly doused the flame beneath it.
“Nice call, B. You recognized the moment of perfection all on your own. Now you need to strain it off. Set the colander over my big earthenware bowl and run some cold water alongside it. The cool water will keep the steam from taking over. Go slow so you don’t burn yourself.”
I watched the broth fill the colander, with fall-off-the-bone tender meat, and vegetables right behind. With the flesh shrinking up some during cooking and the bones of the pig laid bare, a deep and abiding respect for the animal rose within me.
The next part of my job took some getting used to, but with Big G’s expert hand I learned how to crack the joints to extract all the meat. Once the vegetables had been added and the strained broth poured over the meat, I looked upon my very first batch of jellied pig’s feet. By the grace of God, and Big G’s help, I had been shown how to recreate the meal that, even across the great divide, forever linked two souls together.
The most important ingredient not found in the words or numbers was Love. Remember me, for I will remember you.
That ready to pop feeling I had when Big G entered my body was plucked from me, and a big sigh went along with it. I opened my eyes and there sat Big G wearing a blue ribbon smile.
“Well, that was different. I gotta say, B. Thankful, traveling light is a lot better than being stuck in a body. I forgot how tight they feel. And, double G-daughter of mine, I am so proud of you. You accepted your calling with willingness and grace.”
“What calling is that, Big G?”
Big G puffed up as if ready to recite a script she had rehearsed over and over again, her manner of speech, preacher flavored.
“B. Thankful Childe-Lucknow, God has chosen you to walk among the dy —”
An urgent call from Little G sent me running to her room before Big G could finish her sermon…
I, too, would have done anything for my Daddy, and there must have been some part of him that knew it to be true. One morning, when I finished telling Daddy one of my stories, he rested his tired hand on mine. He watched the curtains lazily rising and falling with the breeze; his tapered breath, best it could, doing the same. Daddy’s speech came out slow, the space between each word giving thoughtful consideration to the next.
“You know what would make me happy before I die, B.?”
Daddy had never before mentioned the absolute, and I was so taken aback by his matter-of-fact way, I lost my reply, could only shake my head. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, fearful if he leaned toward suffering, he might ask me to help him cross over before the hour God intended.
Between breaths as light as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, Daddy said his wish wasn’t for himself, but for Little G, who seemed as near as Daddy to calling an eternal time out. My heart started beating fast because I knew what Little G was longing for, and had been longing for it ever since Big G’s passing, seven years prior.
It was all I could do not to call out my own wish: Please don’t say it, Daddy. Please don’t say it. And then the three words never meant to line up one behind the other did just that: jellied pig’s feet. I grew up spying that nasty concoction in the icebox, and no matter how many times I saw it, it turned me shrill. Tired of my shrieks, Big G hid the jellied pig’s feet under a plastic shower cap, but it was a useless cover up. And, try as I might, I couldn’t hide my disgust when Big G spooned the whole wobbly mess onto a plate and Little G slathered horseradish mustard over each nasty bite. The way it quivered up to Little G’s mouth made it look as if the pig’s feet were making one last attempt at a getaway.
But here’s the thing I’ll never forget–the sound of pleasure coming from deep within Little G, the pure joy lighting up her face, and that same joy resting on Big G’s face as she watched her girl. A kind of holy communion took place between the two of them, like Daddy and me sharing a Banner Bar.
If I could bring a final joy to Daddy by fixing jellied pig’s feet for Little G, I would just have to pull on my big girl boots and make Big G’s god-awful dish. I owed them both that much…FOURNext morning, on the sly, I thumbed through Little G’s recipe box, where I found a worn- out piece of paper with the ingredients for jellied pig’s feet. I recognized Big G’s stiff letter-by-letter way, but she didn’t spell out how much of this or how much of that to use. Deep down in her belly know-how, Big G understood numbers had nothing to do with the righteous power of food; a person’s loving intention was the main ingredient necessary for an eternal soul-to-soul union.
If still alive, Big G could have taught me how she made her jellied pig’s feet with so much love it had reached right in and took hold of Little G’s senses for all of time. Without Big G’s help, my Daddy’s final wish, the only thing he ever asked of me, wouldn’t come true. I couldn’t let that happen. Hard pressed to make Daddy’s wish come to pass, I gave birth to the most far-fetched plan I ever hatched.
I went searching for Little G’s old wooden picture box and found it in the sideboard. If you put Little G in an angry state of mind around you, she took your picture out of the box and placed it in an old medical book under diseases. When things went right again between you, back to the box you’d go. That is, everyone but Little G’s ex-husband, Useless, who ran out on her when she was pregnant with Momma. His picture was permanently glued in the old medical book under warts…
…Thumbing through pictures of long gone strangers, looking for a picture of Big G, I discovered there were notes on the back of each picture…
…There were pictures of folks who loved stews; cornbread (some the way those up north ate it, and those who were staunch in the way of the south); ice cream in every flavor imaginable; barbecued ribs; thick slices of ham with their eggs–sunny side up, scrambled, poached, wrecked on a raft; mustard pickles on buttered rye bread; potatoes–fried, hash browned, boiled, baked; you name it. And some folks yearned all the cold winter long for cobblers filled with the fat berries and juicy peaches only found in the heat of summer.
Finally, I found what I was looking for and sat down at the kitchen table with a picture of Big G. Unlike Little G, who was about as big as a minute—but don’t let that fool you, that woman was strong—Big G was a tall woman with broad shoulders, large hands, and a vestigial third tit. I kid you not. And she wore a look in her eyes that told you she didn’t have the time for much more than a postcard conversation.
Like I said before, the departed had been sharing their stories with me for as long as I can remember, but Big G had never dropped so much as a single word anywhere close to my ear. I closed my eyes, rested my hand on Big G’s picture, and put my plan to the test. My thumb tapped out:
I-n-e-e-d-t-o-t-a-l-k-t-o-y-o-u-a-b-o-u-t-y-o-u-r-j-e-l-l-i-e-d-p-i-g-s-f-e-e-t-B-i-g-G.
Since only Big G had the answer I needed, I couldn’t give up hope. I tapped and tapped. Waited and waited. If by some miracle I reached her, I figured Big G might start with a “Howdy, B. Thankful,” or “Isn’t this a hoot!” But when Big G suddenly came through, she got right to the point, like a postcard. Fortunately, without Wish you were here!
“Ask when the pig was slaughtered, and to see the blood. It should be deep red, not rusty in color. Look for meaty feet. Peel the skin back to see the flesh.”
Somewhere around “peel back,” all of my insides started churning. I was glad for the chair beneath me, for my own feet turned jellylike and would have left me lying in a pool of quiver.
A quick rap to the side of my head brought me back to attention. I rubbed my eyes to prove I was seeing things with my daytime mind and not dreaming. As if she hadn’t dropped dead seven years back, there sat Big G at our kitchen table, just as nonchalant as could be.
I had never actually thought about, or, for that matter, desired to talk face-to-face with the departed; hearing their voices was quite enough. As was its job in the past, my thumb was busy tapping away, but it wasn’t spelling anything. While I was gawkin’, Big G went on talkin’, not giving me one iota of a chance to ponder how this wonder of wonders was possible. As always, Big G’s manner was direct, her words lean.
“You won’t find the soul of this dish in words or numbers. You’ve got to go beyond what you see, into what you feel. I can show you how. Let’s fetch supplies and get to work.” Well, so much for pleasantries…FIVE…It was getting late by the time I got home from my day with Big G, and I found Daddy and Little G in full slumber exactly where I had left them. After I fixed them a simple supper of collard greens and cornbread, which they mostly just poked at, I tucked them into their beds and, as if they were my own children, told each a special story I made up just for them. When I was certain they were asleep, I went about my business in the kitchen with Big G. We had no more than started when Little G called out, “Who are you talking to?”
Big G gave me the hush signal, as if I might tell Little G her dead momma was visiting, and maybe she’d like to put on her chenille robe, come out, and chew the fat with her. I waved Big G off.
“Nobody, Little G. I’m just singing. Are you all right? Do you need anything?”
When she didn’t answer, I hurried down the hall. Frail as a baby bird, Little G was perched on the edge of her bed, her skinny legs dangling over the side. Little G stared down at the very close veins on her hands, and then into my eyes.
“You sure there’s nobody else in the house but your daddy?”
I didn’t think myself lying when I nodded my head. Really, there was no other body in the house…
…Back in the kitchen… For old time’s sake, we kept one of Big G’s aprons on a hook near the pantry. When I slipped it over my head, an unfamiliar sensation moved through my body. My insides grew fuller and my skin turned as tight as a ready to burst watermelon left too long on the vine…
…Please don’t think me crazy, but I got the feeling I wasn’t alone in my own body, someone else working from inside me, tying the apron strings. I looked over to where Big G had been sitting, but the chair was empty; only her picture remained, leaned up against the honey jar. I panicked.
“Big G, where are you?”
“I’m right here, B. Thankful.”
Oh, mercy! Saints preserve me! I swear what happened is not one of my stories. I wouldn’t know how to make this up. If I’m lyin’, let me be dyin’. When Big G’s voice sat in the curve of my ear, I was fine with that, recognized it for what it was. I was even getting used to having her come back for a visit. What I was not ready for was Big G inside of me.
“Get out! Get out!”
“Now, don’t go all haywire on me, B. I’m new to this, too. We don’t wanna get stuck in some oddball way that would be hard to explain, do we? Shouldn’t we give God’s handiwork a try?”
Soon as Big G mentioned God, I recalled Little G saying God had chosen me to do Him a favor one day, and then Daddy telling me God sent me here to do something great. Just in case this was it, peculiar as the setting was, I handed myself over.
“Okay,” I said, same as if Big G told me she was going outside–no mind about it, really. But I had a question I needed answered. “Do I have to talk out loud to you, or can you hear me through my thoughts?”
“Good question. Let’s find out.”
I screwed up my forehead and concentrated, then asked with my mind, “What do I do first?”
“Put all the ingredients on the counter,” Big G answered. It worked! Big G heard my thoughts.
I laid out the ingredients on the kitchen counter: pig’s feet, celery, carrots, garlic, black peppercorns, and bay leaves. My movements were Big G’s movements–quick and sure; my hand, her hand that knew her old knife, had lived all the stories held in its handle. We had become woven into a tapestry of good cookin’ know-how. Together we trimmed the feet, plucking out a bristly stray hair, and then christened the pig’s parts under cold water and scrubbed away anything unholy.
“Good job, B. Now, one more time in clear water, honey, then light the stove.”
Once the fire got going and we put the pot on the stove, Big G started humming Down by the Riverside. My own vocal chords strummed along with her until we were humming in fine harmony.
“I’m like a ventriloquist who swallowed her dummy,” popped into my head.
“Not funny!” But Big G was laughing when she said it.
When the water came to a boil, I carefully set the feet to cooking.
“Now’s the time to add a little salt. Salt now will enter the meat in a slow way; salt at the end will simply sit on top. You don’t want that. And not too much now, you want to add a little more when the time comes to add the vegetables. Okay, B., take some of those peppercorns, about the size of a blackberry not quite ready to pick, and set them down on the board for cracking.”
I gave them a whack and some of the peppercorns turned buckshot, flying out from under the knife.
“Now add the peppercorns and two bay leaves to the pot. Wait.” Big G had me taste a bay leaf. “No, make that two and a half bay leaves.”
Once the liquid came to a boil, I turned it down to a simmer. For the next two hours, the pig’s feet simmered in a relaxed way, the pointed hooves floating to the top and bouncing up and down in a circle like fishing bobbers.
In their own time, the bay leaves gave themselves up to the broth and the peppercorns released their fiery oils. A meaty, yet delicate fragrance tinged with sharpness rose from the pot and found its way into my lungs. A burst of aliveness sent me spinning through the kitchen, where the temperature was no less than a hundred and ten degrees. But I was cool as a cucumber as we sliced through carrots without effort, orange coins stacking up neatly, then chopped sweet celery, and garlic, sticky and sure of itself.
One time, when I was a smidge of a girl, my Daddy woke me from a sound sleep in the middle of the night and carried me outside, where the cold air of winter stung my face, and rain rushed from the sky, as if late for a reunion. Daddy pointed up, and I was put out he woke me just to show me a full moon. Before I had a chance to start squawking, Daddy turned me around to the sky opposite the moon and I witnessed a most rare and mysterious sight–a moonbow. Mystifying as that moonbow was, it paled in comparison to the sanctified magic spinning around Big G and me in our kitchen.
It was around midnight when Big G gave me the go ahead to add the vegetables. I watched as the carrots, celery, and garlic took a slip slide from the board and joined the bobbing hooves.
“Now’s the time to see if a little more salt is needed.”
Oh, jeez, I knew that meant I was gonna have to taste the broth. You’d a thought I was about to take a dose of cod liver oil the way my face squeezed up. With more than an ounce of queasiness, I dipped the spoon into the broth, tiny rafts of pepper floating on the surface. Trying to buy time, I blew on it and blew on it until Big G cleared her annoyed throat.
When my lips touched the edge of the spoon, I tasted how the pork had turned the broth meaty and salty; the fat was smooth on the inside of my mouth. The pepper and bay leaves didn’t bite back; they laced the broth with their spicy perfume. None of the ingredients stood in front of the other; they worked together in harmony.
Big G let out a little sigh, as if she had sampled the broth and found it just right. It was then I knew it had all come together, and I quickly doused the flame beneath it.
“Nice call, B. You recognized the moment of perfection all on your own. Now you need to strain it off. Set the colander over my big earthenware bowl and run some cold water alongside it. The cool water will keep the steam from taking over. Go slow so you don’t burn yourself.”
I watched the broth fill the colander, with fall-off-the-bone tender meat, and vegetables right behind. With the flesh shrinking up some during cooking and the bones of the pig laid bare, a deep and abiding respect for the animal rose within me.
The next part of my job took some getting used to, but with Big G’s expert hand I learned how to crack the joints to extract all the meat. Once the vegetables had been added and the strained broth poured over the meat, I looked upon my very first batch of jellied pig’s feet. By the grace of God, and Big G’s help, I had been shown how to recreate the meal that, even across the great divide, forever linked two souls together.
The most important ingredient not found in the words or numbers was Love. Remember me, for I will remember you.
That ready to pop feeling I had when Big G entered my body was plucked from me, and a big sigh went along with it. I opened my eyes and there sat Big G wearing a blue ribbon smile.
“Well, that was different. I gotta say, B. Thankful, traveling light is a lot better than being stuck in a body. I forgot how tight they feel. And, double G-daughter of mine, I am so proud of you. You accepted your calling with willingness and grace.”
“What calling is that, Big G?”
Big G puffed up as if ready to recite a script she had rehearsed over and over again, her manner of speech, preacher flavored.
“B. Thankful Childe-Lucknow, God has chosen you to walk among the dy —”
An urgent call from Little G sent me running to her room before Big G could finish her sermon…
MICHAELENE McELROY IS HOSTING A SPECIAL GIVEAWAY.
HERE ARE THE DETAILS:
As the story for The Last Supper Catering Company unfolds, B. Thankful learns about the power of food prepared with love, the communion that takes place between the giver and receiver, and the eternal bond that remains even after the giver has departed from this world to the next. When B. Thankful discovers that her ability to hear the voices of the departed is the magic needed to fulfill the wish of the dying, she becomes a conduit between earth and heaven (where the recipe now resides).
Close your eyes and let your heart lean back in time to a moment when you tasted food prepared with so much love, it’s the one meal you would want for your last supper. Who prepared your favorite dish that will forever sing Remember me, for I will remember you? Send in your stories and recipes and the winner will receive an autographed copy of The Last Supper Catering Company.
Visit Michaelene’s blog here to enter.
Giveaway ends December 21st. Good Luck
DISCLAIMER
No items that I receive
are ever sold…they are kept by me,
or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
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Over the past couple of years I have ventured out and have read some memoirs that have truly impacted me and that I enjoyed reading. So when Nicole from Tribute Books contacted me about today’s guest, I wanted to be part of the tour. I have the pleasure to introduce you to Mr. John Catenacci!
JOHN CATENACCI
After spending his youth doing cement construction work while getting his education, John Catenacci earned a Bachelor’s degree in chemical engineering. He went on to work on the Apollo 11 Project as a member of the USAF in California, then as an engineer for the Dow Chemical Company in Midland, MI, doing both process research as well as designing and building chemical plants.
Mid-career he became interested in group dynamics, leading to another 20-year career in team building that took him across the U.S., Canada, Europe and Saudi Arabia.
With a sprinkling of published short stories and articles in small magazines along the way, his abiding passion has always been writing, something now coming to fruition in this, his first book.
Visit the author at his website and Facebook.
DIANA
Author Interview
Please tell us about your current release.
I will use the back cover copy as it works pretty well on its own.
John Catenacci is enthralled from the start by the beauty, radiance, and mystery of the much younger woman he meets at a party. Dianna “is in Technicolor and everyone else is in black and white.” Expecting to be the teacher, not the student, John is humbled by the gradual discovery that the opposite is true, in their marriage and in life. The author is profoundly awed by Dianna’s courage, determination, and lightness of being that remains entirely undiminished in the face of what becomes a seventeen-year battle with an aggressive form of breast cancer. John accompanies Dianna each step of the way, and is increasingly amazed by the undeniable healing affect she has on others. Theirs is a shared spiritual journey into the nature of love and transformation. Even after her passing, their relationship pierces the illusion veiling this reality.
Can you tell us about the journey that led you to write your book?
At some point in our life together, I began to notice Dianna was living her life in a genuinely powerful, almost mysterious (to me) way and suggested to her that I write her story. She was as delighted as any child running down the stairs on Christmas morning. But, as her health deteriorated, I became focused on care giving and put the writing aside. After she died, I was engulfed in grief and for a couple of years I just couldn’t climb out of it. One day, I happened upon a book by Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way, which I credit with guiding me back into the game.
The book is in five parts. The first four recount our life together with the fifth devoted to my personal spiritual journey of coming to terms with her leaving, my long view of who she was and what I learned from her. The first four parts flowed like water once I began to write but I struggled mightily with the last part. Yet it is this last part that weaves together the whole of her life, her message, in a way very satisfying to me.
Can you tell us about the story behind your book cover?
Well, originally the cover was going to be centered on the photo of Dianna that is now on the back cover. I love this photo of her – it is quintessential Dianna in an image.
However, my editor, Marly Cornell, convinced me this was going to be an ineffective cover and, after accidentally seeing the photo of Dianna and me from the rear taken by a dear friend/professional photographer, Giovanni Sanitate, she instantly said, “This is the one. Use this one.” Well, it has taken most of my life but I have finally learned to listen and follow advice when the advice comes from someone I respect. So, now, everyone gets to see my bald head instead of Dianna. More mystery, more intriguing, Marly said. Probably because anyone looking at it would wonder what this young woman is doing with this old man.
Anyway, unwilling to let it go completely, I pushed Dianna’s photo to the back cover because I wanted it to be seen and seen in color.
What book on the market does yours compare to? How is your book different?
Everyone is unique. No one could have written this book but me and no one else has existed nor ever will exist who is like Dianna. So her story and how I have written it is like no other book anyone has ever read. Of course, this does not make it a good book but simply a unique one. I have read quite a few memoirs, many involving illness, care giving – and some of them were really good. What I think makes this book special is what made Dianna special, what made our relationship special – so much laughter, optimism, ways of constantly making lemonade when we needed it, and, finally, the deeply spiritual orientation to the book’s message – good or bad, there is nothing fluffy about where Dianna goes in her life nor in the way I have chosen to examine her life …. and the very meaning of life itself.
What would you say is your most interesting writing quirk?
I like to write in sentence fragments and the entire book is a sort of a mosaic – there are chapters that are conventionally chronological because they had to be but other parts of the book are like bursts of light shining on an amazing woman so the reader can enjoy her in the way I – and all who knew her – enjoyed and were inspired by her. I am so happy with how the entire tapestry came together into a whole. I think Dianna is too.
Of course I could go into grammar and punctuation, which I thought I knew. And my love of ellipses and my aversion to the word “that” and my unconscious tendency to start sentences with “So.”
So, my early readers and editor ripped me to pieces on those “quirks.”
Open your book to a random page and tell us what’s happening.
In my reality, nothing in life is random — or accidental. When I was about to write this response, I happened to look out the window and saw three – three – hummingbirds dancing around a honeysuckle – have never seen this before – like Dianna saying “talk about the hummingbird chapter.”
While I was writing the book, it occurred to me to use a hummingbird as one metaphor for how Dianna lived her life – flitting from person to person, embracing their love whole heartedly while impregnating each one with a simple grace, unflagging humor and ineffable love in return, all in one magical spontaneous exchange.
The look of triumph on her face, her excitement and joy, when the first hummingbird showed up in our yard was unforgettable. She had worked so hard for several years, planting for them, and finally there it was, this little Ruby Throated blur. In that moment I saw, once again, her determination, patience, faith, appreciation and gratitude all in one tiny vignette during one day of our lives.
Do you plan any subsequent books?
An already almost fully formed book is in my mind now. Better writers than I have said don’t talk about a book idea or the energy for writing it will bleed away, leaving it stillborn.
Tell us what you’re reading at the moment and what you think of it.
The Five Secrets You Must Discover Before You Die by John Izzo and The Five Regrets of the Dying by Bronnie Ware because I am old enough now where I should pay attention to these things — probably before tomorrow — and A Broken Sausage Grinder by Hank Thomas, a friend of mine and The Almost Archer Sisters by Lisa Gabriele, a relative and friend of mine. I often read several books at a time, switching back and forth depending on my mood. All are interesting in different ways and for different reasons.
There is so very much talent in the world isn’t there?
ABOUT THE BOOK
Dianna is a young woman in her late 20’s when she meets John, a man in his late 40’s. They fall in love and marry. A central feature of their life plan is to have one child to fulfill her fervent lifelong dream of being a mother.
Not to be.
Not long into their marriage, Dianna discovers she has an aggressive form of breast cancer.
Hand in hand, they begin a 17 year spiritual journey into the nature of love and healing. Along the way, she discovers and fulfills her life purpose and, in the process, takes John by the hand, gently helping him to reveal, then fulfill, his own.
In the beginning, John, being much older, thought he would be her teacher but gradually discovers in the most important dimensions of life quite the opposite is true. With Dianna’s guidance, he ultimately discovers we are all teachers, we are all students and we are all one.
Theirs is a story of courage, determination and a lightness of being, as they descend into the deepest valleys of crushing disappointment, pain and suffering only to rise again to ever higher peaks of appreciation, gratitude and love. Throughout it all, their journey is laced with light and laughter.
Even today, after her passing, they continue their relationship, piercing the Illusion that veils this reality, exploring its limits while continuing a spiritual journey without end.
THANKS TO AUTHOR, JOHN CATENACCI, I HAVE ONE (1)
PDF VERSION TO GIVE AWAY. OPEN TO ALL.
CLICK HERE TO BRING YOU TO
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DECEMBER 5th to DECEMBER 19th, 2012
DIANA’S WAY
by JOHN CATENACCI
SYNOPSIS:
Dianna is a young woman in her late 20’s when she meets John, a man in his late 40’s. They fall in love and marry. A central feature of their life plan is to have one child to fulfill her fervent lifelong dream of being a mother.
Not to be.
Not long into their marriage, Dianna discovers she has an aggressive form of breast cancer.
Hand in hand, they begin a 17 year spiritual journey into the nature of love and healing. Along the way, she discovers and fulfills her life purpose and, in the process, takes John by the hand, gently helping him to reveal, then fulfill, his own.
In the beginning, John, being much older, thought he would be her teacher but gradually discovers in the most important dimensions of life quite the opposite is true. With Dianna’s guidance, he ultimately discovers we are all teachers, we are all students and we are all one.
Theirs is a story of courage, determination and a lightness of being, as they descend into the deepest valleys of crushing disappointment, pain and suffering only to rise again to ever higher peaks of appreciation, gratitude and love. Throughout it all, their journey is laced with light and laughter.
Even today, after her passing, they continue their relationship, piercing the Illusion that veils this reality, exploring its limits while continuing a spiritual journey without end.
Not to be.
Not long into their marriage, Dianna discovers she has an aggressive form of breast cancer.
Hand in hand, they begin a 17 year spiritual journey into the nature of love and healing. Along the way, she discovers and fulfills her life purpose and, in the process, takes John by the hand, gently helping him to reveal, then fulfill, his own.
In the beginning, John, being much older, thought he would be her teacher but gradually discovers in the most important dimensions of life quite the opposite is true. With Dianna’s guidance, he ultimately discovers we are all teachers, we are all students and we are all one.
Theirs is a story of courage, determination and a lightness of being, as they descend into the deepest valleys of crushing disappointment, pain and suffering only to rise again to ever higher peaks of appreciation, gratitude and love. Throughout it all, their journey is laced with light and laughter.
Even today, after her passing, they continue their relationship, piercing the Illusion that veils this reality, exploring its limits while continuing a spiritual journey without end.
THANKS TO AUTHOR, JOHN CATENACCI,
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