Eat Your Veggies!

Ranting. But in a positive way.

For the last four or five years, I’ve belonged to a CSA near my work. CSA, for you neophytes, stands for “Community Supported Agriculture.”  Here’s how it works. Early in the spring, you join a CSA. The main thing this requires is money, although some CSAs do have a work requirement. Then, throughout the growing season, you receive fresh, locally grown produce each week which you generally pick up at the farm. Some CSAs have other pickup points as well.

This type of program works well for locavores (people who strive to eat only locally grown foods), vegetarians, and foodie types because you don’t select your weekly produce. It’s selected for you based on what is in season. There are many advantages–you know where your food came from and you’re supporting local agriculture, to name just two. But, if you’re someone who is more inclined to buy what you want to cook rather than cook what’s fresh in season, then this probably isn’t for you.

A friend and I split a share and it worked well. For one thing, the cost of belonging can be a little hard to come up with all at once and for another, no one in my family likes beets. (Alas, it turned out she didn’t either). Also, we go away during the summer and so does she so we trade off those weeks with one person taking the whole box when the other is out of town.

Not normally an adventurous cook, I’ve enjoyed experimenting with Swiss Chard and Leeks and other things I’d never eaten before. And I really like the idea of helping keep local farms afloat. You see, by guaranteeing a market for their product and supplying some of the money for seed, their income is more stable which enables them to concentrate on growing good food.

I first saw encountered the concept in England at Ryton Organic Gardens, an attraction in my husband’s home village of Ryton-on-Dunsmore, near Coventry, England. ( http://www.gardenorganic.org.uk/gardens/ryton.php).  After touring the place, I remember trying very hard to convince my mother-in-law that she should purchase her fruit and veg this way.  She remained unconvinced.

At various times after that, I’d read articles about the idea and search online for one near me, always unsuccesfully. But, when we moved out to Medina County, I learned that a local farm near my work was starting up a similar program. I jumped at the chance and convinced a colleague to leap with me. (http://www.beriswillfarms.com/)

Make no mistake. I was happy with Beriswell’s but their market lies on the other side of my workplace, rather than between my home and work, making it an additional little drive every week.  So, this year, I’m joining a new one that’s nearer to home. (http://www.whitehousegardenscsa.blogspot.com/)

I’m already looking forward to some home grown spinach and spring onions!

If you’re interested in pursuing a CSA or even just discovering where you can buy fresh produce near your home, visit http://www.localharvest.org/.

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Waylaid By the Tudors and a Cheap Bottle of Cabernet

Henry VIII, the bloodthirsty bastard

Ranting

I’ll admit, it wasn’t quite an ambush last weekend when the Tudors sidetracked my good intentions and I can’t honestly claim I was entirely innocent.  Knowing full well I should be working on my revisions, it was me who made the suggestion that my husband and I “watch an episode of ‘The Tudors.'”

Ha! As if we’ve ever watched just one episode of anything!  Of course, the bloodthirsty lot took full advantage of my momentary lapse of judgment, turning one episode’s viewing into three. Coupled with the Cabernet we’d opened at dinner, it made for a totally wasted evening.  I use that term advisedly. For the only time since I’ve known him–more than twenty years, but who’s counting?–my husband chose not to share.  It’s usually he who feels duty-bound to kill the bottle. But that night, it was me.   Normally not easily suggestible,  I felt compelled to join the actors sip for sip, as they drank from their golden goblets of whatever.

Perhaps it was the sight of the lovely Henry Cavill playing Charles Brandon. Having found true love in Season Two, he proceeds to destroy it in Season Three.

Sigh.

Yes, ladies, I hate to disappoint you but in Season Three, he disappoints us all by choosing devotion to Henry over love for his wife.

Of course, the King retains the option of chopping off Brandon’s head, a power which Brandon’s wife can scarcely hope to rival.

Sigh. Sip.

I’m so glad it isn’t a true story.

Oh, right. For the most part, it is.  Sigh. Where’s that bottle of Cabernet?

P.S. I just realized I’ve written eight posts for this blog and two are about alcohol. This is in no way reflects its status in my real life.  I don’t have  the stamina to party that hearty. <grin>

And I know Henry wasn’t a bastard, at least not literally. He just acted like one.

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The Title Is Everything

Writing

Titles are important and not just to the matchmaking mamas of Regency romances. They serve an important function for both readers and writers. A good title should give readers a taste of what to expect and leave them wanting more. A bad title, on the other hand, just leaves them wanting.

Like the name of a person, a title conjures up a vision. Imagine Tiffany Kaye rechristened as Prudence Gross; Nick Michaels as Harvey Ballard; or Deveraux St. James as Jerry Schmitt. They become different people.

Tiffany is a wayward party girl. Poor Prudence is a chemist married to her lab. Nick is dashing man-about-town while Harvey sounds like an accountant or perhaps a pro bowler. Jerry chugs beer from a can and smashes the empty against his forehead at parties. Deveraux is a trifle effeminate and daintily sips a Pink Lady.

So, while Madeline Hunter’s Provocative in Pearls works fine, Passionate in Polyester doesn’t.  Provocative calls up images of bejeweled beauties, Polyester recalls a fashion disaster called the leisure suit.

Still, bad titles can be entertaining in their own right and there are websites and blogs devoted to the topic. To give the example of just one, Bookfail.com features such classics as The Mullet: Hairstyle of the Gods and The Big Coloring Book of Cocks. (http://www.bookfail.com/) The latter, sadly, does not refer to residents of a chicken coop. It’s enough to make me put down my crayon.

If a title is bad enough, it may even receive the questionable honor of winning the Diagram Prize, given for the oddest title of the year. Awarded at TheBookseller.com each March, you can vote for it now (http://tinyurl.com/ydk9pgh). If you choose to do so, you’ll note that none of the year’s shortlisted titles are from the romance genre.

To rectify that shortcoming, I offer the following titles for consideration. Should you decide to write the book behind the title, it will most certainly not win a RITA but it may put you in the running for a Diagram.

You won’t even have to give me credit for the title.
No, really. Please don’t.

Books You’ll Never See at Borders

The Hirsute Heiress – Amanda’s doting father, a rich shipping magnate, has taught her everything he knows but as her unibrow and mustache demonstrate, she’s missed a mother’s loving guidance.

The Reluctant Alien – His new bride isn’t just from the wrong side of the tracks. She’s from the wrong side of the universe.

Bowling For Brides – Norris Parker rose from the gutters and alleys of Jersey to become kingpin of reality television but his wife rolls a curve ball when she sleeps with one of the contestants.

Demons in Diapers – At The Nightcare Center, vampires and werewolves alike entrust their young into Abby’s loving hands until an outbreak of demonic possession turns her young charges into baby fiends.

Never Too Trampy – From her too-high heels to her too-blond hair, Cherie Blue is proud to push the limits of good taste but an surprise encounter with the wild side of a button-downed banker makes her antics look tame.

Sex and the Sanitation Worker – Marty, a struggling single mom, knows her early-morning flirtation with her good-looking garbage man can go nowhere. Still, she can’t help wondering about the man beneath those gray coveralls.

Billionaire Booty Call – On that fateful night, Jason sought satisfaction while Marie craved only comfort. Can they possibly find love?

Booty Call Bride: Book Two in the Booty Call Trilogy – An unexpected visit from Max Dunworthy’s grandmother transforms exotic dancer Jacie Mae from a one-night stand into his wife-to-be.

Booty Call Baby: Book Three in the Booty Call Trilogy – With one late-night call from her ex-boyfriend, Sophie was back in his bed. Now she’s having their booty call baby.

If you haven’t had enough bad titles, check out the following websites.

http://awfullibrarybooks.wordpress.com/ — The “Awful Library Books” blog. Full of bad titles and dated cover art.

http://facstaff.unca.edu/pbahls/TitleGenerator.html — One of several romance title generators. It gave me The Italian Sultan’s Insatiable Virgin. Hmmm…

http://www.ugoi.net/nonsense/gothic.html — Specializes in Gothic titles like Silver Misfortune.

http://tinyurl.com/ydjro96 — Gives not one but eight titles each time you click. The Stallion of the Frozen History came up for me.

http://tinyurl.com/y9asl4q — From the Smart Bitches blog, titles with attitude. Nymphomaniac Master, anyone?

www.romancenovelyourself.com — Like it says, you upload a photo and presto, you’re on a romance novel cover. (See earlier postings for examples).

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Oh, deer!

Ranting

This isn’t really a rant, more of  a rave really.  But I don’t care what others say. I like having deer in our back yard. They’ve been hiding for several weeks so it was a relief to see these three this morning.

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A Great Reader/Writer Conference

Writing

As you can see from my profile photo, I had a great time at the Lori Foster conference last year.

Unfortunately, this year I can’t go. I’ll be in Hawaii  for a last family vacation hurrah before my daughter is completely grown up and flies the coop.

I really hate to miss it. Not only is it reasonably priced, it’s a lot of fun and raises loads of dosh (that’s British for lots of cash) for some terrific causes.

If you’re a published author, it’s a great way to connect with readers.

If you’re an unpublished author, you can meet editors and agents  face-to-face.

If you’re a reader,  you can enjoy hobnobbing with the authors of your favorite books.

Find out more by visiting http://www.lorifoster.com/community/readergettogether.php

It’s so much fun, I might just skip Hawaii.

Nah.

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I love debate tournaments. No, really.

Ranting

The Debate Tournament That Went On Forever

It began innocently enough. Oh, sure we had to be at the school in time for the bus’s departure at 6:15 am but that just meant we’d get home earlier, right?

Right?

Wrong. More than twelve hours later, half the school’s competitors are waiting on the bus with a teacher, the judge and myself.

We wait. And wait. And wait some more. Evidently some students decided, all on their own, that they should attend what’s known as a “break round.” Since I’m new to this and not up on the jargon, I have no idea what this means. All I know is their caprice is keeping me from a delicious meal at my favorite Indian restaurant with my husband who has been thousands of miles away for the week.

Have I mentioned that my daughter, the debater, is sick and therefore not even competing in this tournament? No? Well, vomiting first thing this morning didn’t bode well for a forty-five minute bus ride followed by four rounds of competition interspersed with junk food. She wisely chose to stay home. Alas, that was not an option for me. Competitors are easy to replace in the schedule. Judges are not.

That left me to fulfill my parental duty on my own. Which was fine. Really. I didn’t mind. Earlier that week I had convinced her coach to give me some training and I was eager to test my new, albeit limited, knowledge.

Receiving a bye in the first round allowed me to enjoy a donut and coffee in the judge’s room before easing into the day. When my name was announced for the second round, I headed out to evaluate my first victims’—whoops—competitors’ skills. Luckily, that round’s winner was obvious, even to my less-than-expert adjudication qualifications.

The next round was tougher from the start. The first debater rattled off his constructive speech faster than the speed of sound. Well, not literally because I could hear his words; I just couldn’t understand them. It was like trying to understand the Spanish of Mexico based on six months of “Mi nombre es Kym.”

Perhaps the sight of my eyes glazing over clued him in. He slowed his pace for the rest of the round and won handily.

Back in the judge’s lounge, I decided the experience is a lot like air travel. Periods of intense focus mixed with extended episodes of boredom. A book is handy. Alas, I finished mine after the last round.

A magazine is useful too. Too bad I read so quickly that mine was now recycling fodder. Thank God for my little computer.

Now, a half-hour later, the bus is heading home. Thankfully the girls who hoped to hi-jack it to a Burger King were over-ridden by the bus driver’s adherence to “the sheet.”

“If it’s not on ‘the sheet,’ she said, “We don’t stop.” Sometimes I really like people who play by the rules. Tonight I’m particularly grateful to be headed home and closer to my chicken korma and papadums.

Next time, I’m bringing two books. No, make that three. I’ve heard these tournaments can go until ten-thirty.

Maybe I should pack my slippers and a blanket.

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I promise this one will be the last!

http://www.romancenovelyourself.com

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Romance Novel Yourself

Upload a photo and give it a try.

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Cool Image Generator

A Cool Image Generator

I love image generators!

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Hello world!

Writing

Ready or Not is ready! Or not. I guess it depends on how you look at it. The first draft is done (ready) to be revised but nowhere near ready to be submitted (not ready).  Feeling so strangely un-elated that I didn’t even break open the bottle of Prosecco I bought for the occasion. (Okay, so I bought two and already drank one in anticipation of finishing, but hey, who’s counting?)

That would be the two bottles of Prosecco that I bought along with thirteen (thirteen!) bottles of flavored Kahlua.  But, they’re not all for me! Honest!  It was just a really good sale (which someone pointed out to me today was probably a mistake since the price was well below state minimum) and I’m a frugal kind of woman. When I tried to share news of my discovery with the cashier, she looked at my fifteen bottles of alcohol and said, “I don’t drink.”

What could I say?

I’ll be giving Kahlua as gifts for the rest of my life.


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