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. 

EVERYTHING I KNOW ABOUT WRITING I LEARNED FROM MY DOGS

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.

TIMES CHANGE...or do they?

People I know know I love books. So people give me books all the time. One time many years ago I was gifted a box of old books. I mean REALLY old books! I was afraid to touch them. Arranged on my bookshelf they looked very "Authentic English Country House Formal Library," a setting Georgette Heyer (and other mystery writer of the early 1900s) used to stage murders.

As I reorganized my office to start the new year, I took inventory of the titles. Lo and behold, this gem popped up.

Beach Treat: Hot Chocolate that will Melt your Heart

February 14, Valentine's Day. 'Tis the day to celebrate LOVE!  AND CHOCOLATE!

And why do love and chocolate go together?  Research has discovered that “Chocolate gets right to the heart of sexual pleasure by increasing the brain’s level of serotonin, the feel-good brain chemical. Serotonin plays a major role in positive mood, emotional health, proper sleep and balanced appetite, contributing to numerous behavioral and physiological functions.”

So if you're in need of a dose of serotonin, along with the best feel-good drink around, try this one for Chocolate Hecho à la Espalola , which translated means “The Spanish made chocolate.”  But what it really means is “drinkable melted chocolate that will make you feel wicked and divine and goooo-ooo—ood!”

Chocolate Hecho à la Espanola

4 -1/2 cups whole milk (divided)

1 pound semisweet chocolate (I used Ghirardelli)
      broken into bits

1 tablespoon cornstarch

¼ cup sugar

½ cup fresh whipped cream

Bring 4 cups milk to a boil over high heat.  Remove pan from heat and add chocolate and sugar.  Stir regularly until chocolate is melted.

Mix cornstarch with remaining ½ cup milk.  Stir into chocolate.  Return to heat and stir until thickened, approximately 10-20 minutes.

Serve hot and topped with a dollop of whipped cream.

Enjoy! 

OUR FAVORITE BEACH THINGS with Jayne

I've invited my fellow To Fetch a Thief authors to share some of their favorite beach things. Today I'm featuring myself!  Here we go . . .

Favorite beach activity: Walking. Nothing better than a barefoot stroll along the shore,  waves sneaking up and tickling your feet and ankles. Birds squawking overhead. Kiddos building castles in the sand. Sunshine on your face and arms. It doesn't get any better than it.

Favorite beach song: Under the Boardwalk. “On a blanket with my baby, that’s where I’ll be!” ’Nuff said.

Favorite beach beverage: Cool, crisp, fruity Sangria!

BEACH TALE: Daylight Savings is NOT for the Dogs

 

From left to right, Scout,
Jayne, Tiller

    Anyone who follows me on Facebook knows we have two new puppies.  Since we got the first one (last May) I have been dreading Daylight Savings time change. Dogs don’t get it! Every morning for the past week my husband and I have discussed what is going to happen on November 4, when the dogs, who eat breakfast at 5 a.m. want to get up at 4 a.m. It is an insane concept that animals (and most people) do not get.

     I had researched the concept (hoping to gain some understanding of the whacky time adjustment) a few years ago and thought this would be a great time to share what I’d learned with my loyal blog readers.

BEACH TALE: A TRUE GHOST STORY

<<note...this story was previously posted on this blog on Halloween, 2011, but it is one of my favorites so I'm dusting it off for a repost today!  For those of you who haven't read it yet, this is a TRUE ghost story from where we used to live, Newport, RI.>>

       

THE TIME…1673

THE PLACE…
A 100 acre farm in Portsmouth, RI (currently the site of The Valley Inn, pictured on the left.)

THE SITUATION…

Thomas Cornell, a farmer aged 46, had a lot of hungry mouths to feed.  He was the father of four sons from his first marriage, two children (with a third on the way) from his second marriage to Sarah, plus his widowed mother Rebecca, age 73.  All nine people lived under one very tiny roof.  And, while Thomas did all the work, Rebecca owned the farm and thus controlled things. 

THE PROBLEM…

There were rumors that not all was well on the Cornell farm.  Reports of elder abuse ran rampant through the small community.  Local legend has it that Rebecca had confided she felt sure she’d be “done away with” by year’s end.