Thursday, November 26, 2020



Roast turkey is an American tradition, but in my family it goes a bit beyond that.  It has to be roasted in a special turkey pan, one that has been around longer than me (and that’s a long time.)  It’s a behemoth 11x16x9 inches in size and will hold a 28-pound stuffed bird comfortably.  We use it twice a year, and storage of it the other 363 days is a challenge. But we wouldn’t have it any other way.

 This is not your average oval-shaped granite roaster.  Our “special” pan is made of aluminum, and despite popular conjecture, we cook our turkey with the lid on.  I guess it is more of a steamed/stewed turkey as it bubbles in its own juices for six to ten hours.  About the last 45 minutes of cooking we remove the lid and continue roasting until the skin is brown and crispy.  It makes the moistest, tastiest, most melt-in-your-mouth turkey ever. And the best gravy ever.  I could drink that gravy out of a coffee mug and be in heaven. My mouth is watering just thinking about it! 

Friday, October 9, 2020



         My age might be showing here, but as kids we used to sing the popular Patti Page song as we rode our bikes (un-helmeted) along the sidewalks of our small town. Feel free to sing along with me (and Patti Page herself) now by clicking here…

Ah, memories of childhood.

Listening to this reminded me of the time my sister peddled puppies on the sidewalks of the aforementioned small town. Our neighbors bred Great Danes. She would walk them through the quaint commercial district, two at a time. People would literally race back into stores when they saw her coming. Yes, they can be quite intimidating. They can grow, on average, 36” at the shoulders, and weigh up to 170 pounds. Now that’s a lot of dog!

Tuesday, September 1, 2020

A FUNNY THING HAPPENED When I Asked My Dad to Walk My Dogs...

     For those of you new to my blog, I'd like to share a little bit about myself, I write light-hearted mysteries that usually have a coastal setting and sometimes include animals. I figure it’s best to keep with that tradition while blogging here, so my first post is the true tale of the one (and only) time I let my dad walk my dogs. 
     My military husband had deployed for six months. I was left home with a toddler and two BIG dogs (combined weight 175 pounds! They weren’t supposed to be that big, but that’s another story for another day.) My dad, a 60-something apple-shaped man who never met a piece of pie he didn’t devour, traveled 400 miles to help me out for a few weeks. His “help” consisted of letting me cook for him and clean up after him while he sat and watched Golden Girls reruns. But, to his credit, having another adult to talk to during the day saved my sanity. One afternoon the toddler was being a toddler (cutting teeth, if memory serves), so given the choice of staying home with the cranky child or taking the dogs for a walk to burn off some canine energy, Dad chose the dogs. Off he went, leashed up to the usually well-behaved beasts for an anticipated 15-minute trot around the block. 

Tuesday, December 10, 2019


As any faithful followers of this blog know, we adopted two mutts last year. Having had many fur-babies over the many, many years of marriage, we went in with eyes wide open with regards to expected costs. We knew that a vet visit will set you back a pretty penny; heartworm pills and flea and tick treatment were pricey, but not optional; and food and poop bags are included in the cost of being loved. But this time around there were some hidden costs that snuck up on us. And they are adding up quickly.    

Thursday, December 5, 2019


I guess I am a slow learner. Some people claim to have learned everything they know in kindergarten. Here I am, 50+ years old, still learning important stuff…especially when it comes to writing. What’s even more distressing, I’m learning from my dogs. I know you don’t believe me. I can hardly believe it myself. But consider the following lessons and see if you don’t agree.
There is nothing more important than chewing a rawhide bone. When Tiller is given a Himalayan Dog Chew, he flops down wherever he happens to be and begins chewing. The neighbors’ dogs may set up the midnight bark, timer may go off signaling time for dinner, the roof may blow off the house in a hurricane, but nothing will stop him from chewing on that yak-milk bone until the last tasty morsel has been gnawed to a mushy tidbit too small for a mouse.