by J.D. Faver
A few years back, I wrote a cookbook. This idea was born when my son married a gorgeous girl from New York and he moved up there from Texas with all his worldly possessions in his pick up. My daughter-in-law is a lovely young woman and when she called me one day to ask if my son was pulling her leg about chicken fried steak, I wasn't sure how to answer.
"I mean, you don't actually put batter and gravy on a perfectly good steak do you?" she insisted.
This gave me pause for thought. There are so many things we take for granted, and certainly the foods we grow up with are a part of our comfort zone. So I set about chronicling our lives in food.
The oldest recipe in my possession had been an old recipe when I was a little girl. My grandmother had a box of index-size cards and papers folded to fit. One such paper had yellowed with age and was hand written in loopy cursive. My grandmother informed me that this recipe had come over on the boat from Ireland when one of our foremothers (yes, that's my word and I'm sticking with it) immigrated during the potato famine. My grandmother frequently prepared this version of Irish Potato Soup, especially when someone was feeling under the weather. I know from experience that this soup will fix you right up, no matter the ailment.
In our family this is known as "Irish Penicillin."
I wrote down every recipe I could think of that I had ever fed my son. Now he grew to be a great big 6'4" strapping, Texan who ate everything that wasn't nailed down when he was growing up. I swear I never knew what leftovers were until he left home.
Then I expanded my recipe collection as I went along. When my mother was alive, I asked her for some of the recipes she had made and I wrote them down as she dictated. I also contacted my mother's youngest sister and she contributed some of her favorites. My collection ended up being quite a large tome. I printed it out and bound it as a cookbook for both my daughter and daughter-in-law one Christmas. I also made a CD for them in case they wanted to add their own recipes.
Recently, my friends and fellow authors, Tara Manderino and Stephanie Bancroft Berg were chatting with me about our recipe collections. The upshot is that we decided to publish our individual recipe collections.
I am going to put out four seasonal cookbooks from my own perspective here in Texas. Tara, a Pennsylvanian of Italian descent cooks and bakes all the time for her family. Stephanie is of German/French ancestry and lives in Michigan. So we are all working hard to share our love of cooking with the world at large.
Next week, I will be sharing a peek with from the first to be published: A TEXAN IN THE KITCHEN~Autumn Recipes. I sincerely hope you like this because it comes from deep in my heart...
*hugs*
~J.D.
Showing posts with label Texas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Texas. Show all posts
Friday, September 14, 2012
Friday, August 3, 2012
A Little Romance...
by J. D. Faver
Welcome to
August, National Romance Awareness Month.
While I'm pleased
that this very hot month has been dedicated to Romance Awareness, I'm also shaking
my head. Do you know how HOT it is?
Romance equates
to warm embraces, skin contact and so much more that involves heat-producing
activities.
Whoever decided
that August was the month to be aware of romance was obviously not living in
southeast Texas
If a hopeful
Lothario brings chocolate, you better stow it in the fridge because, even as he
walks from his air-conditioned car to your air-conditioned door, the chocolate
will become a little ooky. Same goes for flowers. Better get those long-stemmed
beauties in a vase quick before they faint.
Just went outside
with my dog. We were both ready to come inside in a matter of minutes...maybe
it was seconds. Gah! C'mon September.
Sending you a
cool excerpt from my romantic thriller, ON ICE. Hope you enjoy it.
~J.D.
~*~
It snowed again that night. Rene
stared out the window at the powdery flakes falling to earth. The full moon
cast a silvery glow over the whiteness, contrasting against the dark of the
trees. She shivered, contemplating her aloneness. She thought about Brett’s
home, so snug and secure. What was he doing now? Was he staring out the window,
thinking of her? The lonely howl of a wolf broke the stillness of the night.
She pulled on her jacket and boots
and stepped quietly onto the porch. The crisp, cold night air tingled against
her cheeks. The wolf howled again. Rene crunched out into the snow, taking in
great lungfuls of the chilled air. It only hurt a little now. Throwing her head
back, Rene answered the wolf, howling mournfully. The sound resonated, creating
a hollowness when it died away. The eerie silence was broken when the wolf
howled its reply.
“Mom?” Seth held Sara’s mittened
hand as they watched her from the porch. They wore warm down-filled jackets,
their breath sending cartoon-like balloon shapes from their mouths. “Are you
okay?”
“I’m fine. I was just keeping the
wolf company.”
“The wolf?” he asked.
As if on cue, the wolf’s howl cut
into the icy night.
“The wolf.” Rene held her arms out
to the children. They ran to her, still holding hands. She embraced them, and
then holding their hands, danced them around in circles. As she danced, Rene
howled to the wolf. Sara threw back her head and let out a shrill, wolf-like
howl. Seth and the wolf joined in.
“Let’s go in,” Rene said. “It’s
cold and we have to get up early tomorrow.”
Rene slept well, but dreamed a
strange jumble of dreams. She was dancing in the moonlight. First, she danced
with the children, then with Brett. Then it was Mark. She ran as Mark changed
into the wolf and chased her. She stopped and turned on her pursuer. Rene
became the bear. Rearing up on her haunches, she growled and slashed her
powerful claws at him. Waking suddenly, she lay in the dark listening to her
heart thudding against her ribs. She smiled in the darkness, feeling powerful
and secure.
~*~
ON ICE is
currently available on Amazon:
Friday, July 27, 2012
NATIONAL DAY OF THE COWBOY
by J.D. Faver
Saturday, July 28, 2012 is the official National Day if the Cowboy.
Check out some of the events in celebration of the American Cowboy Heritage.
You might be surprised to find that there are cowboy artists
and cowboy poets and cowboy authors. All inspired by the culture that forged
this great land of ours.
I was born and grew up in Oklahoma . Cowboys were a common sight. Not
the kind that I see around Houston
during the Livestock Show and Rodeo, with big shiny buckles and expensive ostrich
boots, but real, working cowboys. I guess that's why I have to giggle when I
see the covers some of my fellow romance writers have on their "western
romances". I just want to say, Oh, yeah...cowboys always go to the gym to
get pumped up and then wear a leather vest with no shirt...Um hum...Standard
cowboy garb...NOT!!!
First of all, while a real live cowboy might have occasion
to remove his shirt from time to time, they do not have spray-on tans nor do
they shave their body hair. I have heard women make all kinds of swooney
comments about these cover boys, but come on now...really?
When a real cowboy cleans up to go to town, they know what
the women like. Clean is first on the list. A starched western shirt is really
a must for sexy cowboys...Did you ever notice that those snaps pop right open.
<g>
And haircuts? Scroll through the pix of real working
cowboys. They have neat haircuts and do not appear to be anything like the guys
who were modeling as street thugs in jeans the week before they got the call to
be 'cowboys'. Why? Because working on a real live ranch is hot and short hair
is a must. Hence the term, rednecks...sunburns on exposed necks. When they
drive their trucks into town for their regular haircuts (pronounced harcut)
they go to a real barber and not a stylist. Seriously, you want to put product in
his hair? What is product?
BTW...It's not ever a pick-up truck. It's a pick-up or a
truck. Please get this right.
And cowboys do love their horses. Their horse is their
friend and companion and probably understands them better than their
girlfriend.
I have to share with you that a really sweet romance author
from the east coast called me up and asked the question, "What do you say
to a horse to make it go?"
When I stopped laughing, I suggested that she might want to
write something she knew more about. But she persisted, and chose an
image of a cowboy in a leather vest with a smooth, bare chest for her cover.
No, I haven't read it. I don't want to know what she thinks you say to a horse
to make it go.
Finally, a male friend of mine pointed out that when a cowboy
gives his word, it means something. If a cowboy shakes on it, you can take it to
the bank.
I am in the process of producing a sequel to my novel,
BADLANDS, a romantic suspense set in the Texas
panhandle. Yep, there are cowboys, horses, ranches and action. Here is the
Amazon link if you want to take a look at it Book I.
Here is an excerpt from the sequel. For those of you who
asked for it, I am giving you a second helping of BADLANDS :
In this scene, Jenna, the local veterinarian, has had a run-in with E.J. the
reluctant Dallas-bred rancher. She goes to the Friday night dance at the
Eagle's hall and she's looking for a real cowboy, someone who shares her love
of the wide open spaces and ranching as a way of life.
~*~
Jenna paid for her ticket at the
door and made a beeline for the bar. She ordered a longneck and turned to look
over the crowd. She saw a fine mix of all the usual suspects as well as some
people she figured had come from other towns to hear the band. She thought she
would just hang out at the bar and not sit with anyone yet. Keep my options open. She usually came
with friends, but the friends would keep her busy dancing and if there was
someone wonderful out there, he wouldn’t know that she was single…totally unattached…available…
She turned back to the bar and
sucked down a long swallow of beer. Her timing had been right. The band had
taken the stage and they were doing sound checks, so the music should start
soon. She wanted to see who took the floor with their dates and who were the
single men just itching to dance with her.
She had pulled on her starched and
ironed jeans and the boots she saved for special occasions, not stomping
through cattle pens. She wore a knit top that showed off her slim curves and
let her hair hang free. Somebody, somewhere ought to notice that she was a girl
tonight.
“Hey Jenna!”
She turned to see Frank one of the
hands who worked for Camryn Carmichael…Ryan now. She let out a huff of air.
“Hey, yourself.”
He paid for a beer and leaned on
the bar alongside her. “You’re lookin’ mighty hot tonight.”
“Thanks.” She had to grin at his
pronouncement. He was cute; maybe even handsome…a couple of years younger than she,
but cute nonetheless.
And he knew how to dress. Starched
and pressed Wranglers. Same for his shirt and he was wearing the right hat.
Resistol straw for summer. His boots were polished, but looked broken in and
comfortable. His Wranglers were just the right length where they stacked on top
of his boots and didn’t look like he was wearing high waters. Honestly! Some of these so-called cowboys.
All hat. No cattle.
The band started off the night with
a two-step and Frank set his longneck on the bar. “Would you care to dance,
Jenna?” he asked.
“I don’t mind if I do.” She grinned
and put her hand in the one he offered to her. Frank swung her onto the dance
floor and they made a circle, dancing all around the room. She got a chance to
look over the crop of candidates and decided she had the pick of the litter.
And he could dance…wasn’t stepping all over her or jerking her around. Smooth as maple syrup.
The next dance was a fast polka and
Frank picked up the tempo, whirling her around in strong arms. She found
herself grinning, having a great time in spite of herself. Even if Frank wasn’t
the educated husband material she was looking for, he was there and he was
attentive. That’ll do.
He walked her back to the bar when
the song was over and retrieved his beer. He touched the brim of his hat and
walked away.
Jenna felt a little miffed. She hadn’t
figured that he would just leave. She saw him make a beeline to the table where
Milita Rios was sitting with some friends. He pulled up a chair across from her
and they appeared to be in rapt conversation. Well, damn!
She turned back to her beer and jostled
the tall man standing beside her. He spilled his shot of whatever he was
drinking. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said and reached for a stack of napkins. She
turned to the man and began mopping at his sleeve.
“Thanks a lot, Jenna. That’s a nice
thing to do for a jackass.”
She gazed up into the smirking face
of the biggest jackass in her entire frame of reference. E.J. Kincaid. Her
napkin-wielding hand froze in mid-air. “Sorry,” she muttered and wadded the wet
napkins into a ball. She lobbed it over the bar and into a trash can on the
opposite wall.
“Three points.” E.J. toasted her
with what was left of his drink and tossed it down. “You must have been a star
of the girl’s basketball team.”
She huffed out a disgruntled sound.
“As a matter of fact, I was.” She looked him over. Too freakin’ perfect. “I don’t suppose you dirtied your lily-white
hands to play sports, did you?”
He chortled and signaled the
bartender for another drink. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Did you go out
for theater arts or floral design?”
“Soccer, rugby, la crosse , field hockey, tennis, equestrian
and, yes…I did play basketball.”
“Well, consider me impressed.” She
didn’t tell him what she thought of all those fancy, private school so-called
sports. Soccer? Hadn’t he heard of
good old American football? “Let me pay for your drink, since I spilled it all
over you.”
“That would be nice, but I can’t
let you do that,” he said. “We jackasses always pay our own way.”
She sucked in a
breath and took another sip of her beer. He wasn’t going to let that one go
anytime soon.
The bartender
poured a shot of Patron in the empty glass and E.J. motioned for him to leave
the bottle.
“I must say, Jenna.
You look amazingly attractive tonight.”
She arched an
eyebrow. “Amazingly?”
“I should say, I
have never seen you look as pretty as you do this evening.” He lifted the glass
and let the tequila roll down his throat.
“You’re not feeling
any pain, are you?”
He snorted. “You
think I’d have to be drunk to compliment you?”
“Well, it sure
doesn’t hurt.”
“Nooo,” he drawled
out. “I always thought you were pretty. Just didn’t think you knew how to be a
woman.”
“Wha-a-a?” She drew
herself to her full height and stared up at him with her mouth open. “I’ll have
you know I’m more woman than you could ever handle.”
“You’re probably
right,” he grunted and finished off his drink. “Come on. Let’s dance. Then you
can say you’ve danced with a jackass.”
He grabbed her hand
and led her to the middle of the dance floor. Just as he twirled her into his
arms the band finished the fast song they had been playing and changed to a
slow one.
She found herself
staring up into impossibly blue eyes and pressed against a chest as hard as
concrete. She knew for a fact that this guy didn’t work at much of anything. Maybe he got those pecs by lifting his
hairdryer.
He pulled her
closer and began moving to the music. He was easy to follow and led her around
the dance floor without running into anyone. That was a plus. And when the next
song started up, he slid right into a two-step without any hesitation.
Okay, he can dance…and he’s got a great
body, I’ll give him that. And he’s gorgeous to look at, but he’s still an
arrogant jackass.
When the song was
over he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and escorted her back to the
bar. “Do you want to sit down?” he asked.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
She wondered what the regulars were thinking of her dancing with Eldon
Kincaid’s fancy-pants son, but when she looked around, no one was paying any
particular attention.
“Bartender, another
glass.” E.J. motioned to the bartender who brought him a second shot glass. He
picked up the bottle and both glasses and directed her to a table on the far
side of the dance floor.
She nodded and led
the way, conscious of every head that turned her way. Well, now they’re checking us out. Great!
E.J. set the bottle
down and pulled out a chair for her and then seated himself. At least his manners are impeccable. Maybe
if he just doesn’t talk.
He filled both
glasses and offered her one.
Oh, what the heck! She picked up the
glass and clinked it against his before throwing the fiery liquid down her
throat. She sucked in a breath of air and it seemed that her entire gullet and
esophagus were enflamed.
After the next
round of dancing, E.J. refilled her glass and it didn’t seem quite so scorching
this time.
She was surprised
that he could actually carry on an intelligent conversation. At least he could
make her laugh. Well, she was on her home turf. All her friends were here,
although they seemed to be keeping their distance. Probably intimidated by the
big, rich E.J. Kincaid. But she wasn’t afraid of him. What could happen?
~*~
And if you're interested in kids and reading, check out this
event in which Barnes & Noble supports Read em Cowboy:
And if you like sexy country music, check out this Kenny Chesney video: http://kilt.cbslocal.com/music-videos/Kenny+Chesney/Come+Over/USBVA1200012/
Have a great weekend...and get your cowboy on. :-)
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