I’ll get to the cookies, but they weren’t the best part of the day.  The best part was seeing changed lives. As the women spoke, I thought of the Old West, brothels and how few choices women had then and sometimes even now. Today we have many more options, but once a person goes down a rabbit hole of abuse, drugs and the allure of quick money, it’s as hard to get out as it was for a woman in the Old West who found herself alone and in need for whatever reason.

The subject’s been on my mind a lot lately.  My current project has an 1894 story line about a crusading young woman from Indiana who goes to Cheyenne, Wyoming to teach school. Her story isn’t pretty. The handsome outlaw she meets is alluring but not hero material. Not at all. She goes down that rabbit hole of abuse and is afraid to go home. She’s about as low as a woman can go when her father comes to her rescue. Things turn around for her, just as they are turning for the women at the Refuge. It was pure joy to share the holiday with a mom recently reunited with her son and another woman thriving in a new career. It was sweet indeed . . .

Which leads me to the cookies! There must have been 50 different kinds, everything from decorated sugar cookies to ooey-gooey concoctions of pecans, caramel, peanut butter, coconut and every other ingredient in the baking aisle at the grocery store. The cutest were the reindeer cookies. I brought Christmas Tree Spritz. They’re super easy. I had planned to bring something else, but I’ve been in the hurt locker with a tooth problem. If it weren’t for the tooth (which included a trip to the ER for pain meds and an antibiotic shot), I would have made “Nana Bylin’s Almond Crescents.”  Just for fun here are the recipes for both.

Super Quick Spritz Cookies

• 1 lb. butter or margarine
• 1 cup sugar
• 2 eggs beaten
• 2-1/2 tsp vanilla extract
• 4-1/2 cups flour

Cream butter and sugar.  Add beaten eggs and vanilla and mix well. Add flour.  Use a small cookie press on ungreased cookie sheets.  Bake at 325 degrees for about 15 minutes or until bottoms are just slightly brown. Makes about 10 dozen little cookies

Nana Bylin’s Almond Crescents

• 1 lb. butter or margarine
• 1 cup sugar
• 1/2 lb. raw almonds, ground fine in a food processor or blender
• 4 cups flour
• 2 tsp vanilla

Cream butter and sugar. Add almonds and vanilla. Mix well. Add flour. Shape into small crescents, about 2 inches long. Bake at 300 degrees for 25 to 30 minutes. Roll in powdered sugar. Makes about 8 dozen cookies.

Merry Christmas to all! I hope your holidays are filled with bright lights, beautiful music, reindeer on your roof, cookies, love and good cheer.

Sometimes I think those traditions are part of what’s missing these days, too. Our lives get so busy that it’s a challenge to take the time to put in extra effort-  it’s easier to go into a store and buy it. But there really is nothing like a down home holiday and I think readers like them too – it provides a connection that they might not experience, or it may bring back fond memories too.

So what makes a down home Christmas?

Do you all know the scene in Christmas Vacation where they go out looking for the Griswold Family Christmas Tree? It’s a little extreme, but there’s nothing like going out in the back 40, finding the perfect – or not so perfect – tree and cutting it down for Christmas. Then freezing your feet off when you haul it back on a toboggan, and then put it in a Christmas tree stand and turn it to hide the “bad” side.

For our family, it’s also Christmas carols and movies. We have our favourites and make a point of watching them curled up on the sofa, or playing the carols as we work around the house. When I was a girl, I adored The Sound of Music. And I lived for Christmas specials on television. DVDs have kind of made that a little more “unspecial” because you can watch it when you want, however many times you want.

How about a candlelight Christmas Eve service at church?

When I was a girl we also used to gather at my brother’s house after church on Christmas Eve and have a potluck. My fond memory of that time is my sister in law’s chocolate bundt cake with peanut butter frosting. MMMM!

And speaking of food – how many traditions revolve around food? I’m guessing more than any other. There’s the Christmas dinner, of course, complete with turkey and stuffing and potatoes and vegetables and any number of desserts. My mom used to make a steamed pudding with sauce, and she always had pie for anyone who wasn’t into pudding. But beyond the meal there’s so much more to enjoy. For me, it’s the making of it that is as special as the eating. I have carried a lot of traditions forward to my girls. Some we’ve changed to suit our tastes – making shortbread is a big one, and fancy iced cookies, and my daughter makes a gumdrop cake each year and her younger sister is the master of Chocolate Peanut Butter Clusters. I remember being in the kitchen and making mocha cakes with my mom – what a mess! My mom did so much Christmas baking she could feed an army – and often did. We had a lot of drop in company in December, or she’d go to a church or community function with a big tray of goodies. Peanut Butter Balls, Scotch Cakes, Mocha Cakes, Doughnut Holes, Squares of every variety….

And there was always time to put on a kettle.

When the baking was done and the mess cleaned up, it was pretty normal to find my mom sitting with her latest knitting project in her hands, too. That’s how you’ll find me a good portion of the winter – especially Sunday afternoons, curled up with my girls and a movie.

It’s those sorts of things that make me really happy to be writing a holiday story right now. Not just drawing on the experiences but the warm, happy feelings that the memories bring. I can’t wait to bring this story to readers next November!

The first freeze of the season hit us this morning in Abilene, Texas. The cold snap reminds me that winter is fast approaching. Those blue northerner winds that cut through you like ice shards, sweaters, fuzzy socks, and lots of snuggle time with loved ones. Like any season, there are things to look forward to with excitement and things we tend to dread. One thing that I enjoy about the cooler temperatures, however, is the excuse to drink hot beverages. I’m not a coffee drinker, but I love hot tea sweetened with honey or even better . . . hot chocolate.

Hot chocolate makes me think of the ski lodge at Tahoe where my family used to go for our annual ski trip at Christmas. It makes me think of my mom and me huddled on the couch watching movies. It makes me think of my daughter who inherited my sweet tooth. But it also makes me think of my first heroine, Hannah Richards, in A Tailor-Made Bride. She couldn’t start her morning without a cup of hot cocoa.

Hannah mastered her sewing skills while working under the tutelage of an established dressmaker in San Antonio, but before coming to Texas, she lived with her mother and younger sister in Dorchester, Massachusetts. To support her girls after her husband died, Mrs. Richards took a job in the Baker Chocolate Mill where she was rewarded for her diligent work with discounts on their products. So instead of coffee or tea, the Richards women drank cocoa.

Not knowing how available breakfast cocoa would be in Coventry, Hannah made sure to pack one of the large five pound canisters in her trunks. And upon arrival, her first order of business, beyond finding her shop and unloading her belongings, was to arrange for a daily delivery of milk. One couldn’t drink breakfast cocoa without milk.

To prepare her morning cocoa, Hannah would first need to boil 2 cups of water in a kettle. While the water heated, she would take a small pan and mix 1 ½ tablespoons of her Baker’s Breakfast Cocoa, 2 tablespoons of sugar, and a few grains of salt. Once the water boiled, she would add ½ cup to the cocoa mixture and stir until it formed a paste. Then she pours the rest of the boiling water into the pan and lets the mixture boil for one minute. In the meantime, she is also scalding 2 cups of milk in a second pan. When the mixture has boiled for a minute and the milk is ready, she turns the chocolate mixture into the scalded milk and beats it for two minutes with a hand-held egg beater. Not quite as convenient as the instant packets we have today, but something tells me it would taste much better Hannah’s way.

1897

John Jake McCutcheon, the fourth brother, was only mentioned twice in book one.  Now, he’s out of medical school and starting a new practice in Rio Wells, Texas, the town where his extended family reside.  All goes well until Dustin, the oldest Texas cousin, takes a shine to Lily Anthony, the pretty young woman who has traveled in the same Wells Fargo coach with John to Rio Wells.  Sparks fly as the two McCutcheon men, so different yet also alike, square off.

For all you cowboy lovers, here is a short excerpt;

* * *

Chapter one

Texas Badlands, 1886

The stagecoach lurched. John Jake McCutcheon opened his eyes and saw the young woman next to him grasp the leather loop that hung from the coach’s ceiling to keep from being tossed around. She tipped precariously to the right, then left, bumping forcefully into his shoulder. With an apologetic glance she moved away, then dabbed at her brow with a folded handkerchief. She looked at her elderly aunt.

“Tante Harriet? Are you all right?” she asked in a soft German accent. She opened the fan she held and swished it back and forth in front of the tiny woman. “Your face is extremely red.”

“Of course, Lily,” Harriet Schmidt said in a raspy voice laced with exhaustion. The old woman’s hair was swept up atop her head and fastened in a bun, but after the miles and miles traveled on the dusty, sun-baked road, it looked more like a weather blown tumbleweed after a storm. She patted her niece on the knee. “Thank heavens we’re almost there. Just one more day and we’ll be out of this oven.”

John glanced away, not wanting to seem impolite. He’d met both Harriet Schmidt and her niece, Lily Anthony, when they’d boarded the stage together in Concepción. He’d seen them on the train from Boston, too, but they’d kept to themselves, never speaking with anyone else.

John gazed out the window, thinking. He was finally finished with his medical training and heading to West Texas. Anticipation coursed though him.

Rio Wells was a long way from his family ranch in Montana, but he’d get used to it. His plan to return to Y Knot after graduation hadn’t panned out. His hometown already supported two full-time physicians. If he really wanted to make a difference in people’s lives as a doctor and surgeon, he had to strike out in a place where the townsfolk were in need. At least he wouldn’t be a complete stranger in Rio Wells. Uncle Winston and his family were there. And his fiancée, Emmeline Jordan, would be joining him this fall.

John closed his eyes, recalling Emmeline’s elegant profile and dark, alluring eyes. In his mind’s eye, her mouth drew down into a seductive little pout, a manipulation he knew all too well, but one that, all the same, fueled his blood. She was like a beautiful, exotic bird, needing care and affection.

“Oh, just to take this corset off,” Harriett said to no one in particular, then chortled softly at her niece’s shocked expression at her bluntness. “It pinches horribly. I think I’ll throw it away for good.” She paused, thinking. “No…”  Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Actually, I’ll burn it.”

Cyrus and Jeremiah Post and Abigail Smith, the other passengers cramped uncomfortably on the opposite seat, just smiled, now used to the old woman’s antics. Miss Smith, a teacher, had been hired by the same town council that had hired John, and he felt a small kinship with her.

“You know, Doctor McCutcheon,” Harriett Schmidt went on, trying to catch his eye, “my Lily doesn’t need a corset. Her waist is eighteen inches without one.”

“Tante Harriett. Please.”

John chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. He’d tried not to notice something like that, but it had been difficult, if not impossible. The girl had practically been snuggled to his side for several days.

Without warning, the driver called out sharply to the horses and the coach picked up speed. The two guards riding on top of the stage scuffled around and one shouted something unintelligible. John glanced out the window.

A shot rang out. One second later, one of the guards fell from the top of the stage, past the window, landing with a thunk as the stage rolled on. Lily gasped and threw her arms protectively around her aunt. Abigail screamed and then fainted, flopping over onto Cyrus’s shoulder.

The driver bellowed to the horses again and the stagecoach heaved forward as the six-horse team was propelled instantly into an all-out gallop. Three more shots were fired, and the sound of horses’ hooves thundered from behind.

John looked back through the dust to see a number of riders racing toward the stagecoach, eating up the distance between the two. What the hell was he supposed to do now?  He was a doctor. He’d taken the Hippocratic Oath to heal not three weeks before. His job was taking bullets out, not putting them in. But then, he’d also been raised on a rugged Montana ranch, where the unwavering reality was hard. Sometimes staying alive meant killing someone else. Besides, everyone’s lives were on the line, not just his. It would be especially bad for the women aboard. These hills were a common hiding place for Comancheros. They used women in the worst ways and then sold them into prostitution in Mexico. As pretty as she was, Lily Anthony would fetch top price. Hell, they’d sell the skinny teacher and the old woman, too.

Smoke and dust filled the coach. Pop. Pop. Pop. Lily covered her ears. Her elderly aunt coughed as she struggled to hang on. Abigail, now fully awake again, filled the small space with one shrill scream after the other, never even pausing to take a breath. John reached for his satchel under the seat, withdrew a Colt 45, and strapped on his holster. Carrying his guns was a habit he hadn’t been able to break even after his years at school. With hands nimble from experience, he loaded and fired several shots out the window. Two riders fell.

“You have another gun?”

John was surprised to see old Harriet Schmidt eyeing him expectantly. One hand was outstretched while the other grasped the windowsill as the coach careened down the road, jerking violently this way and that. “I’m not letting those filthy dogs take my Lily!”

“Can you shoot?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I couldn’t. My derringer’s not worth diddly.”

John squeezed off three more shots, then pulled another gun from his bag, handing it to Harriet. He pushed the bag toward Lily. “Bullets.”

Cyrus Post fired out the other side of the coach just as a bullet hit Cyrus’s brother in the chest, slamming Jeremiah violently against the back of the seat. Jeremiah gasped several times as he tried to hold back a rush of crimson that spurted through his splayed fingers, soaking his clothes. With just a glance, John could see he wasn’t long for this world. Abigail’s eyes grew round as she took in the blood. With a gasp, she fainted again, blessedly putting an end to her screams.

“Son of a bitch! “ Cyrus cried out. “There’s too many. Prepare to meet your maker.”

“Hush your mouth, you old coot,” Harriet shouted as she hefted the heavy gun and shot out the window. “I have more faith in God than that.”

The coach rounded a corner dangerously fast and then slowed up a bit as it began an uphill climb. One side of the road dropped off, falling some forty feet to a bed of jagged rocks.

Seizing the moment, John holstered his gun and opened the narrow door. He climbed the side of the rocking coach using the window as a step, and grasping the luggage rack, pulled himself up. He flopped onto his stomach, facing the oncoming killers and picked up the fallen guard’s Winchester. He took aim.

* * *

Since the holidays are just around the corner I’d like to share the recipe for my sister’s Beer Bread, which she makes every year at Thanksgiving and Christmas.  It’s not exactly a recipe from the 1800s, but it surely could’ve been—it’s that easy.  Give it a try.  You’ll be hooked, too;

3 cups Self Rising flour

3 Tlbs sugar

a 12 –oz can or bottle of beer (at room temperature)

1 cup chopped walnuts, 1 cup raisins

(OR ½ cup raisins and ½ cup cranberries—I use cherry flavored!)

a good shake of cinnamon.

Mix all ingredients together and put into a sprayed and floured bread pan.

Split the top with a knife.

Cover and set in a warm spot for 30 minutes so the dough can rise.

Cook in a 375-degree oven for 1hour and 15 minutes.

Watch at the end so it doesn’t become too brown.

Remove and while still hot, brush top with butter. ENJOY!!

I’m giving away an E-Book copy of TEXAS TWILIGHT, and also a paper copy of MONTANA DAWN to two different commenters.  Share with us if you’ve ever been in competition with a friend or family member for the same sweetheart?  Don’t be shy….

Available in E-Book online at Amazon and Barnes & Noble

LINK TO AMAZON

LINK TO B&N

It’s just what the name implies: a garden planted near the kitchen in which you grow all the vegetables needed for every-day cooking, as well as a variety of herbs to add sensational flavor to every recipe.

“The bulk of homesteaders’ diets were harvested from their claim or gathered from the wilderness that surrounded them. “Store-bought” items consisted of those few items which could not be grown, shot, picked, or made on the farm… the homesteaders…often lived a prohibitive distance from the nearest store, and “trips to town” were few and far between.

“…Many families planted two gardens a year: one in the spring, which would supply greens, peas, and radishes, and one in the summer, which would provide heartier vegetables such as pumpkins, beans, potatoes, and squash. Settlers brought seeds with them to their new homes, bought them once they arrived on the frontier, or wrote to relatives “back East” asking for a hasty shipment. Creating bountiful gardens required constant vigilance against gophers, deer, bears, crows, and a host of other “invaders.” A successful garden was critical to homesteaders’ ability to feed themselves and their families; a single heavy storm or an unexpected frost could, in fact, destroy half a year’s supplies.
[Christopher W. Czajka, PBS Frontier House Essays, http://www.pbs.org/wnet/frontierhouse/frontierlife/essay6.html]

Here’s an example of the plantings in a recreated 1800s kitchen garden at the NEW HAMPSHIRE FARM MUSEUM:

“…Peas, snap and shell/ Onions, sweet, yellow storage, red, and red storage/ Leeks, early and late types/ Scallions, purple and white/ Cauliflower (some spring, mostly fall)/ Celeriac/ Lettuce/ Mesclun mix (mixed lettuces and other greens)/ Spinach/ Herbs: Basil, Dill, Parsley, Cilantro, (Cumin?)/ Bok Choy/ Cabbage/ Broccoli/ Fava Beans (trial size planting)/ Swiss Chard/ Kale, green curly (Winterbor), red curly (Redbor), Red Russian, Lacinato/ Collards/ Beets/ Carrots/ Hakurei (Salad) Turnips/ Radishes/ Beans, green and dry types/ ParsnipsTomatoes, red types, cherries, heirlooms/ Husk Cherries (Ground Cherries)/ Peppers, sweet and hot types / Eggplants/ Cucumbers, pickling and slicing types/ Summer Squash, yellow, Pattypans, Zucchinis/ Potatoes, early, mid, late types, (fingerlings, reds, whites, blues, golds….)/ Corn, sweet, ornamental, popcorn Brussels Sprouts (fall only)/ Muskmelons/ Watermelons/ Winter Squashes/ Pumpkins, Jack-o-lantern, pie, mini types, and gourds/ Fall Turnips/ Rutabagas (for storage).“ http://www.farmmuseum.org/farm.html

The lady of the house might also plant herbs and flowers in her garden, for cooking and for medicinal use. And just because they looked pretty on the table. I remember my grandmother, who grew up on a North Dakota homestead, telling me which plants in her extensive kitchen garden were to eat and which were there to ward off pests, both insects and deer.

When I was growing up, we had a garden, though it was planted more with an eye toward supplying our favorite fruits and vegetables rather than a balanced diet: strawberries, melons, sweet corn, green beans, tomatoes… Mostly I remember it was hard, hot work.

Do any of you have a “kitchen garden?” Did you grow up with one? What was it like?