Author Archives: kzmclain

The Greatest of These

Posted in Whimsies by

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. — 1 Corinthians 13:13

BibleReadingsForYourWedding_HeaderFor reasons I have never quite understood, I became sort of the go-to person when it came to doing readings at the various weddings of my friends and family. I’m not a particularly good reader I don’t think. I get nervous and hate the way my voice sounds. Mostly it’s just that I’m the godmother or the aunt or the friend of the family who isn’t walking down the aisle and so I’m available to read.

More often than not, it seems, the reading has been that all-popular (at least at Catholic weddings) section about love from the first letter of St. Paul to the Corinthians. I have read it so often that I can almost say it by heart. That’s a bad thing, of course, because that probably means I’m not really thinking about the words as I recite them, and, more importantly, not heeding them.

The bottom line according to St. Paul is that if I speak beautifully, give a compelling speech, tell the very best jokes, or write a blog every day, but neither love nor am loved, nothing I say means a darn thing. That’s how important love is to our lives. In fact, it’s the most important thing. Because if you love, then faith and hope fall naturally into place.

It’s easy to think about love as we nudge our way towards Valentine’s Day. Proclamations of love abound. For $5.95, you can buy a Hallmark card that will tell your husband or wife just how much you love them. A $60 bouquet of roses absolutely SCREAMS love. Every week on The Bachelor, one or more of the women tell the bachelor-of-the-season how much they LOVE him.

None of the above examples, of course, has very much to do with real love. It’s easy to “love” someone when you are being wined and dined in exotic places. The love sentiment on the Hallmark card was probably written by a computer.

But what about when you’re 10 years into a marriage and you reach a HUGE stumbling block (something that happens within most marriages at some point)? That’s when love is really tested, and the need for faith and hope becomes abundantly clear.

When Court was in high school, he went through a (thankfully) short-lived phase during which he dyed his hair orange, proclaimed Natural Born Killers to be his favorite movie (and wore plaid flannel shirts as a tribute), and moved in full-time with his dad, proclaiming me to be impossible to live with. My heart was broken, as you would imagine. But here’s the thing….love won out in the end. Because the love a parent has for a child and the love the child has for his/her parents never fails.  It’s an example of true love. Because, as St. Paul tells us…..

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.  It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

The good news is that God loves all of us in that way, with that much strength. And when it becomes hard to see the path of love, that is the most important time to turn to God and feel his love and protection.

Feeling Crepe-y

Posted in Main Course, Recipes by

When Court was a little boy, one of his favorite breakfasts was crepes. They weren’t fancy or difficult – maybe not even worthy of being called crepes. I would mix flour and milk and eggs and a bit of oil, pour a couple of tablespoons into a hot pan, roll the pan around until the batter covered the bottom, and let it cook. A little butter and cinnamon sugar, roll them up, hand them to Court to eat. He would literally consume them as quick as I could make them.

I thought about crepes yesterday because Bill and I joined Bec and her son Erik and his kids Mackenzie and Carter at a Food Truck Festival in Scottsdale. We walked around and walked around. There were somewhere in the neighborhood of 60 or 70 different trucks. And out of all those options, Bill chose crepes.

I would never – not in a million years – choose crepes. I don’t hate them. But when I’m surrounded by options like barbecued pulled pork or street tacos or lobster mac and cheese, there is no contest.

But he chose crepes. Of course, he chose crepes smothered in Nutella and bananas, with a dollop of whipped cream and called it lunch. But he chose crepes.

I was reminded of a time this past past summer when I took Addie, Alastair, Dagny, and Maggie Faith to a movie. Afterwards, I offered to take them to lunch. Would you like a burger, I asked. Or maybe some Mexican food? How about some barbecue? As they were pondering, we passed a little kiosk selling homemade crepes.

“Voila!” they all said. “We want crepes.”

(Well, they didn’t actually say voila.)

So crepes it was. Of course, much like their grandfather, their crepes included searchstrawberries and bananas and Nutella and whipped cream. They were hot and sweet and delicious. As we sat at an outdoor table eating our crepes, I looked up at the building towering over us. It happened to be the building in which Court works. I wondered to myself whether or not he ever ate these crepes for lunch.

I later asked him and he admitted he didn’t even realize there was a kiosk that sold crepes that he could see from his window. I think he’s moved on from crepes to huevos rancheros.

When we were in northern France during our big adventure in 2008, we were in a town called Dinan in the Brittany region. Before we would ever move to a new area, I would judiciously study my Rick Steves Guidebook. The Brittany region of France is famous for (among other things) their wonderful crepes. And so, when in Rome (or France)……  I looked back at my blog entry for that day way back in 2008 and discovered that Bill had a crepe that included bacon and mine had scallops, leeks, and cream. Ding, ding, ding. I won!

The recipe I prepared for Court’s breakfast crepes came from my sister Jen. Therefore, the buttery-stained handwritten recipe card calls them Aunt Jennie’s Crepes. Here is her simple recipe…

Aunt Jennie’s Crepes (makes 18)

Ingredients
1 c. flour
1-1/2 c. milk
2 eggs
1-1/2 T. oil
¼ t. salt

Process
Mix ingredients until smooth. Spray a small pan with Pam and preheat. When the pan is hot, drop 3 T. of the batter into it. Roll the pan around until the batter covers the bottom. Cook until light brown. Using a fork, turn the crepe over and finish off.

Remove from pan. Smear with butter and sprinkle liberally with cinnamon sugar. Or smear with Nutella and add bananas or strawberries. Or whatever else strikes your fancy. Call them breakfast or an after-school snack.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Saturday Smile: Super Bowl Smiles

Posted in Whimsies by

As the countdown to Super Bowl 50 continues, I want to take this opportunity to remind you about one of the many differences in the two participating quarterbacks….

Peyton "I'll Smile When I Get the Job Done" Manning

Peyton “I’ll Smile When I Get the Job Done” Manning

and….

Cam "This Game Makes Me Laugh Out Loud Plus I Am Chewing Gum" Newton

Cam “This Game Makes Me Laugh Out Loud Plus I Am Chewing Gum” Newton

Speaking of the Broncos, this past week, Broncos running back CJ Anderson came to visit Mylee’s kindergarten class, the result of her teacher’s willingness to risk getting arrested as a stalker by dropping off on his front porch some letters that the class had written as part of an exercise teaching them to write letters of persuasion. (As an aside, in Kindergarten, I learned my colors, how to nap on a little rug, and how to be away from my mommy. Times have changed.) The letters were persuasive enough to bring the running back to Willow Creek Elementary. Mylee couldn’t wait to get home to tell her daddy, who is a Broncos fan extraordinaire. Did she know who CJ Anderson was, I asked Court. Well, she knew he must be special because her 19-month-old brother Cole wears a jersey with his name and number.

Cole football jersey 12.15

 

Mylee with CJ Anderson

Mylee is the one with the arrow pointing to her head. I inserted the arrow. She doesn’t go around with an arrow hovering over her all the time.

Anyhoo, what a nice move on the part of an apparently nice man.

Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: The Persian Pickle Club

Posted in Book Reviews by

searchI recently reviewed A Quilt for Christmas by Sandra Dallas who is one of my favorite authors. The reason I mention that book in this review is that though A Quilt for Christmas was written later than The Persian Pickle Club, the characters are connected. Specifically, the members of the Persian Pickle Club that is the foundation of the book by the same name are the granddaughters of the characters in A Quilt for Christmas. Because I liked that book so much, I chose to reread The Persian Pickle Club since it had been years since I originally read it.

I am surely glad I did. I needed a pick-me-up, and The Persian Pickle Club was the answer.

Harveyville, Kansas, is facing the same hard times as the rest of the country during the Depression of the 1930s. Crops are drying up, people are losing their jobs, and money is short. But a group of women meets every week to work on a quilt and share stories. Queenie Bean is a lifelong resident of Harveyville, and she looks forward to this weekly gathering just as much as the rest of the women.

The addition of a new member stirs things up, and a series of events lead to the revelation of a secret that has been held in sacred trust for many years.

The characters are lovely and the story is unforgettable. Though times are tough, these Midwest farming women are tough too.  But underneath the thick skins they must have to survive is a gentle nature and kind and loving ways. Queenie Bean, who narrates the book, has a sweet nature and a funny sense of humor, keeping the reader engaged.

I dare you to read this book and not be smiling at the end. And I mean down to the very last sentence.

It’s a wonderful book, as I think all of Sandra Dallas’ books are.

Here is a link to the book.

unnamed

Thursday Thoughts

Posted in Whimsies by

Shakespeare Sonnet 98: From you have I been absent in the spring
It’s funny living in the desert in the winter, even after all this time. Since the weather is somewhere in the high 60s or low 70s during the day now, I think of it as being spring rather than winter. I go to the grocery store and am astounded that asparagus is not on sale or artichokes aren’t a dollar a piece. Oh yeah, I’ll remind myself, it isn’t time for spring vegetables yet. Forgetting about winter? Not a bad problem to have.

Sleeptime
For the most part, I’m a pretty good sleeper, as long as sleeping through the entire night is not part of the definition of being a good sleeper. I generally wake up a couple of times during the night. For the past few months, however, I have had the additional problem of waking up very early. A wake-up time of 5:30 a.m. or later is workable. But it’s been more like 4:30 or 5. That’s early enough that the birds are asking me to turn off the light. So when I went to visit a primary care doctor yesterday, I asked him for a prescription for Ambien. He looked at me suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. Or maybe I imagined the suspicion. Because asking for a prescription for Ambien felt no different to me than asking for a prescription for heroin. He glanced at my chart, and then pulled out his prescription pad and began writing. As he tore it out and handed it to me, he told me doctors no longer prescribe Ambien for people over the age of 65, which is why he checked my chart. Really, I asked him. Why is that? Well, it’s pretty well known that while Ambien can make you sleep soundly, it can also, in fairly rare instances, make you do odd things in the middle of the night. Start cooking a meal, get into your car and go for a drive, decide to mow your grass, that kind of thing. So, according to the doctor, there is a fear that someone 65 or older could get out of bed and fall down and break a hip. I’m not entirely sure why doctors think hips are more likely to be broken at 65 than they are at 62. Anyway, before taking Ambien, I will make sure to inform Bill that if he hears the car starting up during the night, take heed.

Hooked
Stewart sodasAnd speaking of heroin, let me tell you about Bill and my latest addiction (which, I’m pleased to say, isn’t heroin). Stewart’s Diet Root Beer and Stewart’s Diet Orange and Cream soda. Heavens to Betsy, are they ever good. There is a little farmers market not too far from our house, and we learned that they carry these products. So on a fairly regular basis, we make a trip over to the store and buy every single bottle in the refrigerator case. So far they haven’t put their foot down. The orange and cream soda tastes just like my childhood favorite – Dreamsicles. Oh yum.

Happy Birthday
Monday we celebrated Lilly Marie’s second birthday at Maggie and Mark’s house. She actually had several days of celebration – the way any good birthday rolls. But Monday was her actual birthday, and Mark’s parents were there, as were Bec and Bill and I, to help her celebrate. Girlfriend full-out knew it was her birthday, as she was quite animated and excited. She was dressed in a pretty birthday dress and even let her mommy put a bow in her hair. Happy birthday Miss Lilly.

12642917_1532874320339208_6925819213637308862_n 12592337_1533310953628878_2087625085620273908_n

Ciao!

 

Bulk Down

Posted in Main Course, Meat Dishes, Recipes by

So, now that I’m out of the hospital and feeling better, I am taking the next step of getting used to my apparent new diet that consists of very little fiber. My hope is that I have fewer (or no) intestinal obstructions. My fear is that I will blow up like a balloon and eventually POP due to a fiberless existence resulting in, well, you know.

I went to see a gastroenterologist Monday afternoon, and unfortunately, he confirmed the need to limit my fiber if I have any chance of preventing further obstructions. LOW fiber, he emphasized, not NO fiber. Folks on the internet called it a low-residue diet, as they clutch their tummies and eat their yogurt without berries.

The doctor said an absolute no-no to apples or pears with the skin, popcorn, sweet corn, citrus fruit, nuts, and tomatoes with the skin. He listed those just off the top of his head. Further research on low-fiber, er, low-residue diets indicated I am able to eat zucchini (no skin), cucumbers (no skin, no seeds), asparagus with the woody part removed, carrots cooked to an inch of their lives, mushrooms, lettuce, very ripe bananas, soft melons, applesauce, peaches, apricots, most dairy (as long as there are no nuts or berries), most meat, poultry, and fish, and white bread, white pasta, and white rice.

In other words, consider the diet that doctors have BEGGED us to eat for years, and eat the opposite. Perhaps I should just eat Gerber baby food.

The only good news about the whole thing is that I can eat Frosted Flakes without feeling guilty. No fiber. Lots of sugar, but no fiber.  Oh, and martinis have absolutely positively no fiber. I’ll happily forgo the olive.

I’m speaking tongue- in-cheek of course. Not about the diet. That, I’m sorry to say, is reality. Or at least my reality until someone wearing a doctors’ coat tells me something different. The tongue-in-cheek part comes in my complaining about it. Because I have said it all along, and I will say it again, if I can eat or not eat something that will subsequently prevent me from a bimonthly hospital visit with a plastic tube inserted down my nasal cavity, I will do it. And not complain. Much.

But I am dangerously close to become one of those people. You know, the people for whom you have to cook special meals. I’m not complaining about those people because our daughter Heather has celiac disease and if she eats gluten, she gets very sick. So people cooking for her have to be careful that they aren’t accidentally poisoning her. She, by the way, has a very good attitude about her dietary limitation. She told me once that she was asked if she liked gluten-free beer. Her answer was, well, not particularly, but it’s what I can drink if I want to drink a beer, so what’s the use of complaining. I want to – and plan to – adopt such a good attitude.

Because the reality (and the good news) is that I have to eat low fiber and NOT that I have to figure out how to survive a few more months with liver cancer. So wah, wah, wah and keep your perspective straight!

Here is an example of the meal that I cooked last night, thanks to the Pioneer Woman.

WU0707_Scalloped-Potatoes-and-Ham_s4x3.jpg.rend.sni12col.landscape

Scalloped Potatoes and Ham, courtesy Ree Drummond and Food Network

Ingredients
4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) butter, plus extra for greasing dish
1/2 yellow onion, diced
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/2 cups half-and-half
1 1/2 cups milk
Freshly ground black pepper
2 pounds russet potatoes, washed thoroughly
3 cups diced cooked ham
2 cups grated Monterey Jack cheese
Chopped fresh parsley, for sprinkling, optional

Process
Slice the potatoes really thin using a mandolin or a really sharp knife, the thinner the better. Generously butter a 2-quart baking dish, then add half the sliced potatoes and half the diced ham. Sprinkle on half the cheese then pour on half the sauce from the skillet. Repeat with the rest of the ingredients, ending with a layer of cheese and sauce. Sprinkle extra pepper on top.

Cover the dish with foil and bake it for 40 minutes, then remove the foil and bake until the cheese is golden brown and the sauce is bubbling, an additional 20 to 30 minutes. Sprinkle with chopped parsley if desired and serve it up.

Football Hangover

Posted in Whimsies by

If you had told me at the beginning of the football season (or really before or after any game during the entire season, because, you see, it’s me we’re talking about) that the Broncos would be in the Super Bowl, I would have called you C-R-A-Z-Y. No way. I’m pretty sure the only game we played this season that we didn’t have to wait until the final whistle to take a breath was against Green Bay. Meanwhile, the New England Patriots were winning handily, game after game after game.

Until they met the Denver Bronco defense the first time during the regular schedule, which presented them with their first loss of the season. And then again on Sunday afternoon when the Bronco defense sent them back to Boston to shovel snow. I’m no expert on football, but I’m telling you that Tom Brady got up Monday morning feeling out of sorts.

tom-bradyWhile I was in the hospital, my niece Maggie brought me my secret vice – entertainment magazines. I’m not sure why I enjoy them so because I probably don’t know 95 percent of the people they talk about. Still, I secretly read them in only a few places — grocery store lines, doctors’ offices, and the hospital. In one such magazine, there was a small blurb about Tom Brady and his gorgeous wife Gisele from which I learned that 80% of Tom and Gisele’s diet consists of vegetables. The perfectly splendid couple eats no white flour, no white sugar, no nightshade vegetables (??????), and no dairy. Brady proudly states that the ice cream he eats is made from avocados. Seriously. Avocados.

So he couldn’t even drown his sorrows Sunday night by eating a big bowl of Bunny Tracks ice cream drenched in hot fudge. Poor Tom. Instead of waving towels in the end zone, Bronco fans should have been waving signs depicting Big Macs.

I certainly didn’t count on a Bronco trip to the Super Bowl, but if it was to happen, I searchdreamed the opponent would be the Arizona Cardinals. I’m a Bronco supporter through and through, but Cardinals have become a team of which I’m fond. And I’m pretty sure Cardinals Coach Bruce Arian eats white flour, white sugar, and ice cream made from real cream. But alas, it was not to be. Instead, the Bronco’s opponent in a couple of weeks will be the ever-smiling Cam Newton.

Now, from what I can tell, Cam Newton is a like-him-or-hate-him kind of guy. Not being a particular follower of the SEC college football division, I don’t have a preconceived idea of the man. And since the Broncos rarely play the Carolina Panthers, I don’t have a knee-jerk negative reaction to them like I do to the Patriots.

cam-newton-86d1093fb4187b39Having said that, if you held my feet to the fire and insisted I give you a gut reaction to Cam Newton, it would be positive in nature. Sure, he’s full of himself. Sure, he does that dance in the end zone that other quarterbacks would never do. (Can you even IMAGINE Peyton Manning doing a dance in the end zone? A fist pump and a smile that looks more like he’s relieving gas pressure is about as much joy as the almost-always-serious Peyton demonstrates.) But Cam seems to be having such FUN. And, in his own words, if opponents don’t like him dancing in the end zone, they should keep him out of the end zone. I can’t say I’m very fond of the towel he seems to always wear over his head, but he has a million dollar smile, and you can take that to the bank. And you’ve got to give credit to someone who can chew gum and become the NFL Most Valuable Player at the same time.

I may or may not be paying my respects to Cam Newton and his team in a couple of weeks, but let the media blitz begin!

And to the Arizona Cardinals, you guys had a helluva season. I can’t wait ‘til next year.

Will That Be Cash or Charge?

Posted in Whimsies by

Whenever you see words on my blog to the effect of See you in a few days or Nana’s Whimsies will be unavailable for a few days, rest assured that is code for I am once again in the hospital with the same damn problem I had the LAST time I was in the hospital and am quite crabby about it.

I’m so used to it by now that as Bill and I head to the Emergency Room, there is no doubt in my mind that the ER visit will end up as a hospital stay. This time, in fact, I packed my bag before ever leaving for the ER. Charged up my telephone and iPad. Put on clean socks and underwear. Said goodbye to my comfortable bed for a few days.

My siblings, kids, and grandkids were great, but they are getting understandably frustrated – not AT me, but FOR me. Are they ever going to tell you what you need to do to avoid it happening so often was what Court texted me when I told him I had been released. Nana, why does this keep happening to you were Maggie Faith’s words when I talked to her on the telephone. I wish I could answer both questions.

The hard truth is that, because of surgery in 2011, what inevitably transpires now is that on an inhumanely regular basis, part of my bowel gets caught up in the scar tissue, necessitating a trip to the hospital, a visit that unfortunately involves a nasal gastric tube.

Every doctor I’ve asked has told me that there is nothing dietary or otherwise that I can do to prevent this from happening. This time, I held the doctor’s feet to the fire. After she gave the party line that there have been no studies indicating a dietary solution and blah blah blah, I asked her what she would eat if she were me. I didn’t like her answer much.

Low fiber. Minimal fresh fruit and vegetables. Canned only. No beans or whole wheat bread. Frankly, and counter-intuitively, a diet of only brownies and ice cream would be quite acceptable. Bill, of course, thinks that sounds pretty darn good. The truth is, however, that I will do whatever I have to do to keep from going to the hospital and having 28 inches of plastic shoved down my nose and into my stomach three times a year.

I almost thought I dodged the gastric tube bullet this time. I had been originally told that a GN tube was imminent. I immediately and literally began begging them to not insert the tube. What about Ativan, they asked me. What about it, I said since I didn’t even know what it was. It turns out that Ativan is a sedative they prescribe to make nervous people calm. I accepted the Ativan, and from then on if I expressed the slightest nervousness or distress, someone would put Ativan into my IV. And apparently they aren’t concerned about mixing Ativan with Dilaudid, because I was cheerily being given both, with a side of morphine. I kid you not.

In the ER, after the CT scan confirmed the obstruction and after receiving my first dose of Ativan, the ER doctor told me he didn’t think I needed the tube since I hadn’t been sick to my stomach prior to coming in. I nearly kissed him. In hindsight, I think perhaps he wasn’t even a doctor. He might have been the maintenance guy coming by to empty my trash. Because once I was admitted, they could hardly wait to insert a nasal gastric tube. And let me just tell you that there is no amount of Ativan they could give me that would make me not hate that procedure.

But I learned something this time. In fact, I learn a bit more each time I go. A couple more visits and I will be able to insert it myself. What I learned is if the GN tube is imminent, get it done in the ER where they insert them regularly. Because the alternative was having a nurse do it up in my hospital room. And I kid you not that she was every bit as scared as I was. Yes, I’ve done it before said the woman who appeared no older than my eldest granddaughter Addie. And then she scrambled to get another nurse who might have been two years older. They then commenced trying to talk each other through the procedure. But after several attempts, a couple of x-rays to assure them that the tube had actually gone into my stomach and not into my liver, and tears literally running down all three of our faces, the tube was inserted.

And this time the persistent visiting pooch waited a while before he showed up at my bedside. But he did, indeed, show up. My visitor was a sheltie named Buttercup instead of the Boston Terrier named Rosebud who visited me last time I was in the same hospital. Apparently in order to be a hospital-visiting dog, both the name and the dog must be cute. I will admit I would be a bit disgruntled by getting visited by a snarling Rotweiller named Brutus.

imgresAt one point while still in the ER, they told me it would be an hour before they would be able to do the the CT scan. By this time I had been given morphine. It was around 6 in the evening, so I suggested Bill take the opportunity to grab some dinner, which he did. I was laying on the bed under the influence of several narcotics, and a woman pushing a computer on a rolling stand walked into my cubicle. She greeted me cheerily, confirmed who I was, punched some numbers on a calculator, and said, “Your total is _________. Will that be cash or credit?” What? Was I at Macy’s?

I stared at her in stunned silence for a bit. I finally said, “Is this something new this hospital is doing?”

“Oh no,” she assured me. “We always collect up front.”

No, you really don’t always collect up front. Because I’ve been here before and this didn’t happen. So I asked her how she could possibly know what my total should be since I hadn’t had a single test and no diagnosis. Her answer? It’s just an estimate. So I dug out my credit card, she ran it through, and gave me a receipt, which said Sale Approved. Seriously, Sale Approved. At least there wasn’t a spot for a tip.

Apparently, while under the influence of Dilaudid, I began texting people to tell them I was in the hospital. I only learned this when I got a text Saturday morning from a friend asking how I was doing. I wasn’t sure how she even knew I’d been sick. I checked my messages and sure enough, I had sent her a text. I’m not sure who else I texted, but it’s possible Donald Trump is trying to figure out who sent him a text about a hospital stay. I also apparently paid some bills while in a Dilaudid coma, so this week will be spent doing damage control. Kids, don’t use drugs.

Perhaps they could train the therapy dog to bite the payment collector. Now, for the time being, I’m happy to say I’m back in the saddle again.

Saturday Smile: No Fair

Posted in Whimsies by

You might have guessed correctly that the fact that I didn’t post this past week was because I was in the hospital once again. Frankly, there wasn’t a lot to smile about. But there was this….

My niece Maggie is always one of my most faithful visitors when I am forced to be in the hospital. This time was supposed to be no exception. In fact, she and her two kids — Austin, 5, and Lilly, 2, were heading over for a visit. I mentioned this to my nurse, and she said, “Oh, those kids won’t be allowed into the hospital. During flu season, children aren’t allowed to visit.”

So I called Maggie and told her to turn around because the kids wouldn’t be able to come in. She told me later that Austin was very upset, and in fact, started to cry. In between sobs, he asked his mom why he couldn’t come into the hospital. She explained that the doctors didn’t want kids who might have colds or flu to come in and make the patients sick.

“Well, those doctors are CREEPS,” was Austin’s reply. Since I could have used a cheerful kids’ visit, I quite agreed.

Here’s who I DIDN’T see while in the hospital….

Jensen7 (2)

Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: The Lake House

Posted in Book Reviews, Whimsies by

51irgNzUDAL._SX329_BO1,204,203,200_I love Kate Morton and have awaited eagerly the publication of her newest book, The Lake House. I had the publication date penciled onto my calendar so that I could access the book as soon as possible. Sometimes when you are so excited about a particular book, your heart can break because it’s not nearly as good as you’d hoped.

I’m happy to say that wasn’t the case with The Lake House. It was everything I’d hoped for, a wonderful book.

Morton’s books are as delicious as eating cold, sweet watermelon on a hot summer day. They are always intricately told stories that take the reader to places they’d like to visit with people with whom they would like to spend time.

The Lake House actually tells several stories in one book. In fact, it’s hard to give the plot because the story comes from many directions. But I’ll try.

Alice Edevane is a 16-year-old girl, part of a loving family living in Cornwall, England. She intends to be a writer, and in fact keeps a book of her writings. She is smart and romantic and full of life. The story begins on the day that her family is giving a big summer party. Afterwards, it is discovered that her brother, a precocious 11-month-old toddler, is missing, and it appears it can only have been by someone in the family.

Decades later, Sadie Sparrow, a detective in the London police force, is forced to take a leave of absence following her apparent mishandling of a case on which she was working. She decides to visit her grandfather in Cornwall. She learns about this decades-old unsolved missing child case. In an effort to prevent boredom, she begins looking into things.

What follows is an interesting and compelling story involving a myriad of family and friends. Sadie eventually meets Alice Edevane who is now a successful septuagenarian writer living in London, and together, they begin to get answers to questions that have been left unanswered for many years.

I loved the characters in this book, and found the story to be interesting. As an avid mystery reader, I am rarely surprised by endings. I admit this one kept me wondering. The author dropped hints throughout, but the hints led the reader nowhere.

The Lake House is a satisfying read that I highly recommend. I hope Morton doesn’t keep me waiting as long for her next book!

Here is a link to the book.

unnamed