I Heart You

When did Valentine’s Day get to be such a thing? You know, a THING, with capital letters.

When I went to the grocery store yesterday afternoon, I noticed that Fry’s actually had a circus tent set up in their parking lot (making many, many really valuable parking spots unavailable, which made me feel downright unValentiney) featuring nothing but items for people to give their significant others to show them just how much they are cherished. Primarily flowers.

To my surprise, the tent was full of mostly men desperately searching for flowers that would satisfy their loved one and not break the bank. I’m not sure those needs were mutually inclusive.

Valentine’s Day existed, of course, when I was small. I clearly remember bringing little Valentine’s cards to give to my friends and classmates. Our room mothers brought in Valentine treats, probably homemade sugar cookies or cupcakes because these were the days before anyone worried about too much sugar consumption and gluten or soy allergies. The little cards were handed out right before school let out, so we brought our cards home and perused them on our dining room table, challenging one another to see who got the most Valentines.

Though, being a cradle Catholic, I was well aware that Valentine’s Day was named after St. Valentine, I didn’t recall much about him. I went to that Mecca of All Things True, Wikipedia. I learned little, because frankly little is known about the man. There are stories that had him marrying people while in prison. There is one legend that says he cured the daughter of one of the jailers, and then sent her a goodbye note shortly before he was executed in which he signed it Your Valentine. Awwww. The only thing really known about him is that he was martyred, and for the life of me, I couldn’t find out how. It says a lot about me that I was hoping he was stabbed in the heart.

Many years ago, about a year after I graduated from college, I went to work in the regional office of Miller Brewing Company. While there, I worked with a young woman, perhaps in her 30s, who had been married to the same man for five or six years. Every year, when Valentine’s Day came around, she would get a beautiful bouquet of red roses from her husband. I was envious because, well, red roses. One year, as she was walking past my desk with her flowers, I noted how beautiful they were, and added that her husband must be a terribly romantic man. To my surprise, she laughed heartily and explained to me that annually since they married, about a week before Valentine’s Day, she would call the florist and order flowers for herself and have them sign her husband’s name on the card.

“That way I get flowers for Valentine’s Day and don’t have to get mad at him,” she concluded.

There seems, of course, something flawed in that logic, but it worked for them so who am I to argue?

Since we’ve been spending winters in AZ, I have annually sent some sort of treat to our grandkids for Valentine’s Day. One year I got the notion to have fancy cookies delivered to them as a Valentine treat. That was a costly endeavor, as fancy cookies cost a lot, and it was abandoned thereafter. One year I baked a variety of cookies and sent each family a box. While I can’t confirm it, my belief is that they were mostly cookie crumbs by time they arrived. This year I filled Mason jars with candy and decorated the tops festively…….

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I wish you all a happy St. Valentine’s Day, and I hope you get to spend it with someone you love. Plus, I hope you’re not martyred via being stabbed in the heart, though admittedly, nothing says love like a good execution.

Childhood Treats

When I was growing up, I was in somewhat of the minority among my friends as my mother had a job outside the home. It’s true that she wasn’t someone’s secretary or didn’t sell shoes at Monkey Ward’s (though that was the job she DID have when she met my father). But once my dad bought the bakery from my grandfather (and to be honest, I’m not entirely sure how old I was when that transpired), she helped my dad run the business. Dad ran the back end (which included the baking) and handled the finances; she ran the front end and handled the staff. At least most of them.

Bill’s mom was a full-time homemaker, and so Bill talks about her fixing lunch every day for himself and his siblings. I don’t think she fixed anything fancy – maybe a turkey sandwich or a sandwich made from what he proclaims was the BEST egg salad ever known to man. And he always adds that she peeled the skin from her tomatoes and cut the celery really fine. For years, I thought that Wilma was trying to be fancy like Martha Stewart who probably not only peels her tomatoes, but likely turns them into rosettes. Eventually it occurred to me that she suffered from the same stomach ailments as I, and probably peeled her tomatoes for the same reason I peel mine – to avoid the fiber.

Anyway, as I try to recall my youthful years (not an easy task because I can’t even recall what’s in the Tupperware bowl that I put in my refrigerator last night), I’m certain that there was a time when Mom was home with us kids most of the time. But nearly all of my memories are of the times when we were old enough to stay alone and make our own lunches.

As I pondered this reality, I began wondering just what it was that we made for our lunches. My siblings might correct me, but I recall a lot of bologna or salami sandwiches on Dad’s yummy white bread, and opening many cans of Campbell’s soup or Chef Boyardee’s spaghetti or ravioli. Spaghettios had not yet been invented, but let me tell you, once those made an appearance, they were my very favorite lunch. That lasted until — well, frankly, I still secretly love spaghettios. Hold the little weinies and the meatballs. And don’t even try to give me the ABCs. I like the tiny little circular pieces of pasta.

As for Campbell’s soup, my very favorite was Bean and Bacon, but running a close second was Chicken with Stars. There was just something about those teeny tiny little stars that brought Chicken with Stars soup a notch up from regular Chicken Noodle soup.

A year or so ago, I ran across an Italian deli that sold little circular pasta called annelletti. Well, I immediately purchased the pasta, thinking that I would certainly be able to find a recipe to make spaghettios from scratch. I did, indeed, find such a recipe, and then scarcely gave it another thought. Every once in a while I would come across the pasta in my pantry and think, “I should make spaghettios,” but didn’t. The pasta moved from AZ to Colorado, and then moved back to AZ, still unopened.

In the meantime, I was recently at Superstition Ranch Market, a store at which I shop solely because they have the Stewart’s Diet Orange Cream sodas that I love. Remember this post? In addition to Stewart’s sodas, they also have a fairly acceptable selection of Italian products, including pastas. What do you think I found? Pasta shaped like little stars, called stelline.

Which made me think, “I can make homemade Chicken with Stars soup!” And which then inspired me to take out the the well-travelled annelletti and make homemade Spaghettios as well.

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I made the Chicken with Stars first, and later that week I made the Spaghettios.

The result?

The soup was a home run. The recipe, as you can see, is basically a regular recipe for chicken noodle soup, but uses the stelline in place of noodles. As for the Spaghettios, I was sorely disappointed, and here’s the reason why: Chef Boyardee’s Spaghettios are sweeter, which is why kids (and I) like them. I tried adding more sugar, but it just didn’t taste the same. If I’m going to have Spaghettios that don’t taste like the Chef’s, I would just as soon not have my base be tomato sauce, but instead, make a good red sauce of my own.

Here are the recipes….

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Chicken with Stars Soup

Ingredients
1 T. olive oil
1-1/2 c. diced onion
1 c. diced carrots
1 c. diced celery
1 clove garlic, minced
8 c. chicken stock
2 c. chopped cooked chicken
2 bay leaves
½ t. dried rosemary
½ salt
½ t. dried thyme
½ t. black pepper
1 c. dried stelline (or other small pasta)
Process
Heat oil in large Dutch oven over medium heat. Add onion and cook for five minutes, stirring occasionally, until translucent. Add carrots, celery, and garlic, and saute for 2 minutes more, stirring occasionally. Add chicken stock, chicken, bay leaves, rosemary, salt, thyme, and pepper, and stir to combine.

Bring mixture to a simmer, the reduce heat to medium and stir in the pasta. Cook until pasta is al dente, stirring occasionally. Season with additional salt if necessary.

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Homemade Spaghettios

Ingredients
15 oz. can tomato sauce
2 T. milk
½ t. onion powder
½ t. garlic powder
¾ t. salt
2 T. sugar
1 c. uncooked star-shaped pasta, or other small pasta

Process
In a small saucepan, mix ingredients (except for pasta) and bring to a boil over medium high heat. Reduce to a simmer and cook on low until the butter melts completely. Meanwhile, cook pasta per instructions until al dente (or to your liking, remembering that the pasta will soften up more as it absorbs the liquid). Drain pasta and combine with sauce.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Saturday Smile: ‘Tis the Season

Bill has been hard at work preparing our 2016 taxes. If I were in charge of income taxes, I would be high-tailing it to H&R Block so quickly you would just see a blur, but I think Bill sort of enjoys it. He does love himself a challenge. He spends entire days staring at Turbo Tax, and emerges with a cheerful smile, saying, “Little by little, I’m getting closer to being done.” His secret wish is to not only get a refund, but to get a refund large enough to buy an island in the Pacific.

As for me, this says it all……

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Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: Vinegar Girl

41l0bsfq7yl-_sy344_bo1204203200_Bestselling author Anne Tyler is known for her quirky characters and her clever story lines, but in her most recent novel, Vinegar Girl, Tyler has some help from someone fairly reknown himself – William Shakespeare.

Vinegar Girl is part of the Hogart Shakespeare project sponsored by Hogart Press. The Shakespeare project provides readers with a variety of Shakespeare works retold as contemporary stories by a variety of well-known authors. Vinegar Girl is a retelling of The Taming of the Shrew.

I would love to tell you all the ways in which Vinegar Girl is better or worse than the original Shakespeare play; however, I’m somewhat embarrassed to tell you that I have never read it or seen it performed. Okay. I got that off of my chest.

Following her mother’s death, Kate Battista took over the care for her discombobulated scientist father and her pretty and conceited younger sister Bunny. She gave up her dreams of college and instead, cooks and cleans their home, tries to steer Bunny towards good decisions, and works as a preschool teacher.

Dr. Battista learns that his Russian research assistant is about to be deported, meaning they will have to give up on the research project they have been working on for many years unless they can find a way to keep him in the United States. Dr. Battista comes up with the idea of his daughter Kate – who seems unmarriageable anyway – marrying Pyotr to keep him in the US.

The storyline plays out in a way that is humorous and frustrating, delightful and infuriating, poignant and playful. The plot allows Tyler to write in her usual clever style, and while the Shakespeare play apparently ends with the main character explaining to her sister that she made her decision because men are sovereign, Tyler’s ending is absolutely perfect. Flawless. Charming.

I admit that though Tyler has always been one of my favorite authors, I haven’t liked her more recent novels quite as much as her earlier works. But Vinegar Girl left me feeling the way I always have felt – satisfied and wishing that I could spend time with the characters in real life.

Here is a link to the book.

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Thursday Thoughts

Brown Thumb
So a while back, I mentioned – bragged, actually – that I had purchased some herb plants and since this is AZ and the weather is so mild, I was going to plant them and feast on fresh herbs from my own herb garden while my friends in colder weather were eating herbs from (gack) the grocery store. Well. While the thyme and the parsley have fared quite well, and though the lettuce is thriving to such an extent that I used it for my burger bar last Sunday, the basil has taken a turn for the worse, and cannot be saved at this point. I am therefore waiting until I know the nighttime temperatures won’t get into the 40s, and then I will purchase a new plant and put it in the warm ground……

Good plant - left; current plant - right

Plant when new – left; What I’ve done to it – right

 

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Toesies
I finally went Tuesday for a pedicure. I hadn’t had one done since November, and my feet were sorely in need of some tender loving care. I warned the nail technician before I even took off my shoes. She seemed to take it all in stride, not even saying one Vietnamese word to the technician sitting next to her. As usual, two things occurred: 1) It felt really good. I mean reeeeally good; and 2) I said a silent prayer of thanksgiving that I never needed to do pedicures as I simply cannot stand to touch feet. Not even my own, really. It would have been a bad career choice.

Point and Shoot
I continue to learn more and more about my telephone. Last night, as I lay in bed thinking about everything I didn’t know about my phone, it occurred to me that I haven’t seen hide nor hair of a GPS. My old Galaxy 4S had a reasonably good GPS that you could turn on or off. But I hadn’t seen anything vaguely looking like a GPS turn-on button on my iPhone. So I mentioned that to Bill yesterday morning as we took a walk in our neighborhood park. When we got to the car, he poked around a bit, in that Bill-like way, and eventually said that the GPS must be installed because the map program knew where we were. So there’s that. I also am trying to figure out my camera. I know how to point and shoot, but I’m pretty sure it can do trickier things than that, but I’m not quite sure what they are. Baby steps. The first thing I need to do is figure out how to make calls and send texts.

Better Than the Cigars
It has been established that Bill is a big fan of the sandwich, and I am not particularly a fan at all. But when Maggie invited us over for dinner to compensate for babysitting duties I will have tonight (she doesn’t need to do that), and told me she was making us Cuban sandwiches, I thought, “Hmmm. That sounds muy bien.” And man, were they ever! She made the shredded pork in her crock pot using a recipe supplied by Jeff Mauro from Food Network, and lined a hoagie bun with the meat, some Swiss cheese, some ham, pickles, and lots of mustard. She told me that you can buy day-old bread from Jimmy John’s for 50 cents, and that’s what she used for the sandwiches. We wolfed ours down, making yummy noises, and each took a sandwich home for lunch today. Scooooooooooooooore!…..

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Ciao!

Hello? Is Anybody There?

We live in a society exquisitely dependent on science and technology, in which hardly anyone knows anything about science and technology.  – Carl Sagan

Well, it’s happened. I’ve drunk the Kool-Aid. Day before yesterday, I bought an iPhone 7.

searchI held out for as long as I could, but the time came when I felt I simply had to buy a new phone. My existing phone was on its last legs. Its coughing kept me up at night. But I was reluctant to buy an iPhone for several reasons: A) The Android phones are less expensive than iPhones and I’m a cheapskate; B) I have had a version of an Android phone for as long as I’ve had a cell phone so I’m used to how they work in general and I’m scared of learning new technology; and C) being the daughter of Margaret and Reinie, I am stubborn, and not in a good way. I’m stubborn in the way that keeps me from reading the Harry Potter books because everyone else is reading them, or from buying a gas range because everyone on Food Network says you simply can’t be a decent cook without a Viking gas range and REALLY GOOD OLIVE OIL. So, I’m the kind of stubborn that keeps me from buying an iPhone because it’s what EVERYONE ELSE has.

But I’m sad to keep coming home to six or seven missed FaceTime calls from Kaiya and/or Mylee who can’t understand why Nana doesn’t answer their FaceTime calls despite the fact that I have explained that I can only answer FaceTime when I’m next to my iPad. So now I can answer FaceTime calls when I’m standing in line at CVS Pharmacy, which will annoy Stan and Irma from Murdock Lakes, Minnesota, who are standing behind me in line. They will be annoyed that is, until I show them Mylee’s cute face. “Oh, ya, talk all ya want to that cutie pie,” they will say to me. Right.

img_0013I bought the white phone with the rose gold back, and a pink protective shell. Go big, or go home. It pales in comparison to my pink Kitchen Aid mixer, but it is pink nonetheless. I could have chosen silver or gold instead of what they call rose gold, but I went for the gusto. I found myself justifying my choice of the pink protective shell to Bill, despite the fact that he didn’t say one single solitary word about my selection (and, in fact, encouraged me to buy the rose gold version of the phone). But while standing in line awaiting my iced coffee at Starbucks to kill time while the smart people at T-Mobile transferred my information from old phone to new phone, I sternly told myself, “Kris, you chose pink all around because you are a fan of pink and there’s no reason to apologize for that. Neither Barbie nor my great niece Lilly apologizes for their fondness of the color.” So my apologist tour was short-lived.

But then I got home and found myself staring at the phone with total and complete terror. “Think of it as a little miniature iPad,” Jen told me when she learned of my purchase. It’s good advice, except here’s the thing: my mind is very compartmentalized, and one of its compartments was focused on how you work a little piece of technology that is six inches high and three inches wide, and that resulted in my poking nonexistent buttons on my iPhone which HAD existed on my Galaxy 4S and which I’d been poking for five years or so.

Little by little, I am learning more about the phone. What I have learned thus far is that there are things that I will miss on my Galaxy 4S and things that I will love on my iPhone. When I was at the Apple store a week or so ago waiting to meet my sister Bec (who ALSO recently purchased an iPhone and an updated iPad; her old iPad was run by little hamsters on a treadmill), I noticed a class that consisted of new Apple technology users about my age being taught by 17-year-old Apple employees  with pimply faces who kept pushing their glasses up their noses. A class like that might await me. Those youngsters seemed nice, if a bit wet behind their ears.

In the meantime, if I don’t respond to your texts or voice messages, give me time. I will figure it out.

Hmmm. Voice messages. Our kids don’t even know what those are. Steve Jobs is rolling in his grave.

Potato, Potahto

In the universe of unfairness, hovering right there near the top of the list is the fact that potato salad isn’t low in calories.

That injustice is right up there with the fact that I am only 5 feet, 2 inches, thereby being six inches too short for my weight; that Chip and Joanna Gaines aren’t going to do a total remodel of my house including, but not limited to, knocking down walls and installing a kitchen island and shiplap; that I don’t own a private jet that would take me on weekend excursions to Paris or Hawaii or to visit my grandchildren; or that I have 128 gigabytes of memory on my iPad Air, and not only will I never use that many gigabytes of memory, I don’t even know what a gigabyte is.

But potato salad. That’s the one that really hurts.

I mentioned yesterday that Bec made her delicious potato salad for Sunday’s Super Bowl party. It’s true that I had a spoonful of the potato salad with my burger. But anyone who has entertained a group of people – particularly if you’ve entertained a group of people after drinking two Bloody Mary’s – knows that you don’t really taste what you’re eating when you’re trying to figure out at the same time if there are enough brownies to feed everyone, and deciding to rely on the Jesus-And-The-Loaves-And-Fishes miracle.  That worked, by the way. The 9×9 pan of brownies not only fed everyone who wanted one, but there were 12 baskets to spare. Well, actually, three small brownies. Bec, by the way, also made the brownies. I really didn’t do anything except call it my party.

Yesterday at lunchtime, I scooped me up a spoonful of the potato salad that I had dutifully packaged up for Bec to take home but forgot to send with her (I’m blaming the Bloody Marys, though by the time she left, all that was left of the Bloodys was a bit of tomato juice in the corner of my mouth and the smell of the celery and bacon on my breath). My first bite confirmed what I already suspected: the potato salad was sublime. Because as good as potato salad is the first day, the second day is even better. So one scoop soon became two, and with it came the sad realization that I wasn’t going to lose weight by eating the entire remaining potato salad, even inasmuch as I would certainly have been ABLE to eat the whole bowl. You’ve heard of the grapefruit diet and the leek soup diet and the vinegar diet. You’ve never heard of the potato salad diet. BECAUSE IT DOESN’T EXIST, even in the minds of the most creative weight loss diet book authors.

Many years ago, I came across a recipe in a Bon Appetit magazine. I know. Like I actually ever read Bon Appetit. I must have been in the fancy waiting room of the place where I get my mammogram.  But, whatever. The recipe was for Roseanne Cash’s Potato Salad. Normally, I don’t think a potato salad recipe would catch my attention, as I think on the rare occasions that I ever made potato salad, I would have used my mother’s recipe. Mostly I think I let someone else bring the potato salad. But this one caught my eye because it contained diced-up dill pickles. Though this might not be an exceptionally rare ingredient for potato salad, in my world, it was. Because Mom’s potato salad had no pickles, dill or otherwise.

So I tore out the recipe, creating a big hole in the page where the next reader was about to learn the secret ingredient in Emeril Lagasse’s Banana Cream Pie.

Sometime (literally, several years) later, Bec was visiting us in Denver and had occasion to make potato salad. “I have a really good recipe,” she said. “Oh, I have a better recipe than yours,” I challenged her. “Nope, I’m sure mine is better,” she stated firmly, probably making a mental note to bring up my obstinance during the airing of grievances at our next Festivus celebration.

“Mine is from Roseanne Cash!” I said with great jubilation.

“Seriously?” she said. “So is mine.”

Further proof, don’t you know, that great minds think alike.

And just so that I don’t leave you all hanging, here is the recipe for potato salad….

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Bec, Kris, and Roseanne Cash’s Potato Salad

Ingredients
3 lbs. red-skinned potatoes, unpeeled and cut into 1-in pieces
8 dill pickle spears, coarsely chopped
3 celery stalks, chopped
1 medium red onion, chopped
5 hardboiled eggs, peeled and chopped
¼ c. mayo
2 T. Dijon mustard
Salt and pepper to taste

Process
Cook potatoes in large pot of boiling salted water until tender, about 20 minutes. Drain well and cool. Transfer potatoes to large bowl. Stir in dill pickles, celery, onion, eggs, mayo, and mustard. Season with salt and pepper.

Can (and frankly, SHOULD) be made a day ahead. Cover and refrigerate. Let stand at room temperature one hour before serving.

Farewell Football

To paraphrase Shakespeare, Goodnight sweet football. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

And those flights of angels are the New England Patriots.

Last year on Super Bowl Sunday, Broncos Nation was agog with excitement because its beloved team was playing in Super Bowl 50, and they subsequently beat the Carolina Panthers in a great game. Well, a great game if you’re a Broncos fan.

But yesterday, John Elway was doing the same thing as I, eating queso in front of the television and trying to figure out why companies would pay so much money for such ridiculous commercials. Seriously, Spam? Von Miller was out feeding his chickens and gathering their eggs and trying to convince his hens that roosters were, in fact, “dope,” as he had proudly stated last year shortly before he was named MVP of the Super Bowl. The Bronco’s new head coach – young Mr. Vance Joseph – was reading the text messages he was getting from Elway stating things along the line of Hey V, I’m making hotel reservations for next February in Minneapolis; hope you’re figuring out how to make sure they don’t go to waste. And Coach Joseph was telling his wife, “Honey, let’s wait a year or so before we put in a pool.”

Well, Broncos or not, we celebrated the Super Bowl in joyous fashion in the same way that our family celebrates most things: with lots of food and libations. I chose to root for the Falcons, though I have only been in Atlanta a total of one time in my life, and that was for a period of four hours or so, just long enough to visit the Coca Cola Museum and then head off to visit Bill’s brother in Birmingham, Alabama.

My choice of being an Atlanta-Fan-For-A-Day was not really so much FOR Atlanta, but more of an ABP (anybody but the Patriots). I feel a touch guilty for saying that, because I’m sure to the extent that our Vermont family are football fans at all, they are Patriots fans. And there is, after all, this adorable shot of our grandson Micah…..

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But the sad truth is though I understand why Micah and Joseph are fans, I’m not. Still, at the end of the day, the better team won. Enough said.

But back to what really counts, which is the food.  When it seemed our Super Bowl party was going to consist of only Bill, Bec, and me, Bec was going to bring pre-made hamburgers from Whole Foods to munch during the game. To my delight, the party expanded to include my brother and two of his three daughters and their loved ones. So I made my own burgers, Bec made her delicious potato salad, Dave made jalapeno poppers, and we all drank beer and Bloodys.

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Bec made us Bloody Marys that were yummy.

poppers

Thanks to Dave for the poppers.

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And for cooking the burgers.

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Bill and Blake enjoying game festivities. Blake, like Joseph and Micah, is a Patriots fan, but also like our grandsons, we love him anyway.

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Jenna and Lexi are taking a break from fun to eat their burgers.

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Jenna and Lexi love their Aunt Jessie.

Farewell Sweet Football, until we meet again in August.

This post linked to Grand Social.

Friday Book Whimsy: The Tea Rose

51gej6fmykl-_sy344_bo1204203200_I like tea. I like roses. I like London. I like epic novels. I like the Victorian Age. The Tea Rose, first in a trilogy by Jennifer Donnelly, was right up my alley.

And, it was, indeed, a meaty look at the life of the Finnegan family, a hardworking Irish immigrant family living in the very poor Whitechapel area of east London during the days when factory owners held all of the power and a serial killer named Jack the Ripper was terrorizing the people of the area.

Young Fiona Finnegan works in a tea factory, and knows so much about tea that she can identify the type of tea simply by smelling and feeling the leaf. Since she was a small girl, she has known that she would marry the man she loves, Joe Bristow, whose family sells produce from carts in the East End. Fiona’s father works in the tea factory for extremely long hours and is paid a pittance while the owner brings home the big bucks. Her mother stays at home and keeps a house for Fiona, her two brothers and a baby sister. Mr. Finnegan, in an effort to earn a living wage for the tea workers, becomes involved in the creation of a union. He is killed one night by the owner for his efforts. That same night, Fiona’s family crumbles in a variety of ways, and eventually she and her young brother Seamus barely escape with their lives on a ship to New York City. There, she hopes to find her Uncle Michael who is the proprietor of a grocery store in the Big Apple.

In the way of most huge, epic novels, Fiona’s story is complicated and complex and interesting and scary and romantic. The novel is in the neighborhood of 600 pages long, so it’s impossible to tell you everything that happens, nor would it be fair to take the fun out of it. I will admit that if the author had allowed me to edit her novel, it would have been considerably shorter. I found the author to be such a great storyteller that I often couldn’t put the book down in my desire to see what happens next. Still, she went into a lot of detail when it came to the stories of what happens to Fiona and her friends and family. Many, many words. A lot of story lines. And many more coincidences than are even vaguely realistic. Just how often can Fiona and Joe pass within a block of one another or just miss one another by seconds?

Still, I really enjoyed the book, and loved the characters I was supposed to love and hated the characters I was supposed to hate. The romantic element was just as unrealistic as most romance novels, and yet I couldn’t help rooting for Fiona and Joe to find their way back to one another. I liked the descriptions of both London and New York City, and enjoyed seeing Fiona make her way from a poor tea seller to one of the richest women in the world. And heck, they even solve the mystery of who was Jack the Ripper!

The second in the trilogy is The Winter Rose, and I will be interested in seeing what happens next.

Here is a link to the book.

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