THE QUEEN OF HEAL

My name is Bess. Some people in Harts Corner and around these parts, call me a scary woman. Others call me a Voodoo Queen. Others say I do evil things. But many can attest to the fact that my salves, brewed teas, and potions have cured many of their ailments. Mary Margaret Butler calls me a conjurin' woman. I'm not so sure I understand the true meanin' of that word and if'n I did, I most probably wouldn't like it. I just call myself a healer and let it go at that.

My immediate family came from islands off the coast of Georgia. They been around for almost two hundred years there. Before that some kin says they came from a Caribbean country, and I do believe the original of my folks is, like most people of color, Africa. I never paid much mind to where I came from. The God put me on this earth and here I be. And The Lady has a lot to do with the fact that I's still here.

She gives me the power to keep people healthy. I worship her--leavin' out bowls of her favorite herbs, berries, twigs. I lights candles all around the room I've set aside for her. And she is there when I need to study on a hard case, come up with somethin' powerfully healin' or soothin' for some one in real need of a cure. Now, those Baptists and other church preachers (and some members) around will be mighty quick to tell you that I am spreadin' evil with my thoughts and beliefs. Where do they get their information? Do God come down and tell them that Bess LeClaire is an evil woman? Do he tell them not to come out here to get help? Is it at his direction that they smile at me when I do go into town, and cross themselves when my back is turned? Hmm, some pious people those are.

Traditional medicine don't help everyone. And my medicine don't either. Part of the reason it kept the pain away from Lutie Mae Lucas was because she believed I could somehow help her. Long before she got the cancer, she had come to me for such things as the mid-life miseries, colds, fevers, and a cough that lingered. I made her a tea of three barks for the cough near the end of her life and when it didn't help, I convinced her she needed to see a lung specialist. I don't fool around with life-threaten' diseases.

Now Mary Margaret is not a believer. She is a fearer--a feared of the hoodoo stuff, as she calls it. She sees Dr. Barnes when she lets things go too far--if she'd let me mix her up a little tea, she could save her money--and she don't even want Bethy Rose to know about my remedies. I respect her wishes and Bethy Rose and I just remain friends. She's a precious child that deserves all the happiness she can grab hold of.

I don't do too much cookin' anymore but, unknown probably to Mary Margaret, there are a couple of the tried and true favorite dishes served at the Blue Moon that I gave Lutie Mae. You know, in the old days--and sometimes even today--farmers raise a hog just for butcherin' in the fall to put meat in their freezers. Folks used to bring me bacon, a ham, and pork chops in payment for herbs. I used this recipe for pork chops.

Fried Pork Chops With Cream Gravy 

1 cup all-purpose flour                            1 tsp. mixed spices (Cajun used today)
1/4 tsps. garlic powder                            1/4 tsp. pepper
8 (4-ozs) boneless center-cut                  1 cup buttermilk (nonfat for health)
   pork chops                                            Vegetable cooking spray

For Gravy

1 cup milk (fat-free for health)                1/4 tsp. salt
Garnish: coarse ground pepper

Reserve: 2 tbsps. flour, and set aside. Place remaining four in shallow dish.
Combine: Seasoning, garlic powder, and pepper. Rub pork chops evenly on
     both sides with seasoning mixture.
Dip:  Pork chops in buttermilk; dredge in flour. Lightly coat both sides of
     pork with cooking spray.
Cook: Pork chops, in batches, in hot oil in a large heavy skillet over medium-
     light heat 5 minutes on each side until golden brown. Drain on paper towels.
For Gravey Add:  Reserved 2 tbsps. flour to pan drippings in skillet; stir in milk and salt, and
     cook, stirring constantly, until tickened and bubbly. Serve immediately with
     pork. Garnish, if desired.

MOTHERLY FIGURE

Miz Barbara, how did I let you talk me into putting my two cents worth in here? Whatever will I share with the folks here in Harts Corner that they don't know already? Oh, right, if they haven't decided to read the book yet, maybe something we all share here will tweak their interest.

Well, all the townspeople know I'm married to Leonard Skaggs. He's always been a fiddle player, even when a teenager, and even back then he had a small musical group. Don't know if he even called it a band then but they did get some paying jobs for house parties and weddings. When he retired, he began to take on more gigs, some in county honky tonks. I was a little unsettled about that as Baptists, even in these more modern days of the 1960's, frown on not only dancing but going to those kind of places. Drinking is a huge No-No for us and the pastors remind us that "birds of a feather flock together."  Even though Leonard is not a drinking man, he was looked down on. Which meant that he stopped going to church.

That fact doesn't make him a bad man, only one who doesn't take religion as serious as some of us. I had a hard time of it for a bit but then the ladies of the church gave me a pass. I heard more "You poor thing" than I ever want to hear again. Next to me and his grandchildren, Leonard loves his music and I feel that God understands his feelings. After all, all talents are God given aren't they?

We raised two children to adulthood without many problems and now they have showered us with a great daughter- and son-in-law and three grandchildren. I babysit them from time to time and that's where Bethy Rose comes into the picture. Those grandkids can run me ragged when they're here all weekend or even longer in the summer. Bethy Rose has this great imagination and she can come up with more things to entertain all of them. That keeps them all happy and me sane. So I have always had Bethy Rose as part of my extended family, right along with MM and now Miguel.

I worry about MM when she gets involved in this crime solving stuff. She's a wonderful cook and baker, runs the Blue Moon even better than her aunt, and she has made the right kind of life for an orphan child. But she scares me when she gets some puzzle in her head that involves what she declares is an "injustice." She has a good heart and takes in all kinds of strays too--just wait until you read about Jewel Tate and Weird Harold Coburn--but it was others that she befriended...well, at least had more than a handshaking acquaintance with...those were the ones that worried me. And she's never going to stop extending that helping hand out to anyone she thinks needs it either.

Life is pretty easy for me now. I still love to cook and bake and Leonard loves to eat. My family life is pretty secure. My favorite hobby is quilting. If you go down to Laurel's Home Decor, two doors down from the Blue Moon, you can see some of my work. Laurel Baxter, she's been in town for about a year now, has been employed by some people to decorate their homes, a room here and there. She's set up a lovely shop so I'm sure her work is quite good. Anyway, she has sold some of my quilts as part of her redecorating--and has others for sale to the public around the shop.

I don't know what else to tell you about Harts Corner or myself. I've lived here all of my married life. It's had good days and bad. Now, with the freeway causing traffic to pass us by for the most part, we aren't as prosperous as we were when travelers passed through--and when the logging mills were running full steam. But we get by. We're neighborly and try to follow the rules of life--and God is an important part of our lives--well, to most of us. We have a good town here--and I hope you'll read the book when it comes out to find out just how special we are.

Come to think of it, special might not be the right word. Read it and decide how you want to describe our little town.

I'M A LUCKY GIRL

I’m Bethy Rose Wheeler Butler (hopefully, one day Kinkaid). I’m so excited to be allowed to write in this blog. I can’t wait to make copies and show all of my friends. You bet I have a lot of friends. It makes me sad when I remember that MM grew up in Harts Corner without a close friend. You gotta have girlfriends or life ain’t (sorry, isn’t) worth living.

Some people say there’s not much to do in Harts Corner. I sure have always been able to find lots to do around here. Even before Daddy died and I came to live with MM, I had things to do. He was on the road a lot and kinda forgot to do certain parentin’ things, so I found ways to earn a little money. Tillie paid me to weed her flowers. SaveMart took all the cola bottles and cans I could pick up, and I bought milk, cereal, and stuff to tide me over until Daddy came home. And I usually had enough to buy a root beer float at the Blue Moon a couple of times a week.

I always loved to read. The little library set up in the corner of Dixie Lee’s Curl & Pearl shop had all kinds of books for me to read. Dixie is known to take some of her tips to purchase new books to go along with the donated ones on the shelves. I guess she did all right with the hair dos for ladies in town and the pearly polish she painted on their nails, because she always had new books for me to check out.

When I came to live with MM, she took me fishin’ on White Rock Creek, made sure I had a uniform so I could join the softball team, attended my school plays, and took me to Crockett to buy new school clothes twice a year. We went to the movies once a week when the show was kid appropriate. And she even allowed me to learn to cook when I told her I wanted to. So to those folks who tell you there’s nothing to do in Harts Corner, I say they just don’t have any imagination at all.

There’s one thing though that I wish MM would do. She needs to marry Miguel and make us a real family. He’s asked her but for whatever reason (I think she’s just being her own stubborn self as Aunt Lutie says), she won’t say yes. He’s the handsomest, bestest, kindest man, and he loves me like his real own daughter. I don’t want him to give up on us.

Did you all hear the story about the time MM helped me make cookies for Valentine’s Day? No? Well, you’ll just have to read the book; it tells the whole story. And it’s a doozy as Harold would say. Just to give you a taste (ha ha, funny, huh?)—here’s the recipe for my cookies.

Bethy Rose’s Valentine Cookies

1-1/4 c. soft butter                  1 tsp. salt

2 c. sugar                                 4tsp. baking powder
2 eggs                                      1 tsp. ground nutmeg
5 c. flour                                  ½ milk

Cream butter and sugar together. Add eggs and beat until fluffy.

Stir together dry ingredients; add alternately with milk to creamed mixture. If dough is sticky, add flour to handle.

Roll ¼” thick on well-floured pastry cloth; cut with heart-shaped cutter. Bake on ungreased baking sheet in 350 degree oven for 8 minutes. Cool on racks. Makes about 100 cookies, depending on size of cutter.

 Cookie Frosting

½ c. butter                   5 egg whites, unbeaten

½ tsp. salt                    ½ c. light cream
12 c. confectioners’     2 tsp. vanilla
   sugar, sifted             Red food coloring

 Cream butter; add salt. Gradually add about 1 c. sugar, blending after each addition.

Add remaining sugar alternately with egg whites first, then cream, until of right consistency to spread. Beat smooth after each addition. Add vanilla and red food coloring to desired color. Frost each cookie; decorate with colored sugars or candies.

 Enjoy my cookies.

CREATED EQUAL

Good evening from Miz Barbara,

I’m a Southern gal through and through. Growing up in the 1950’s South I saw some puzzling things. For example, until I was eighteen, I never knew there were separate water fountains in public places. Years before that Mama sewed clothing for people to help supplement Daddy’s income. She was a beautiful seamstress and one of the things she did so well was formals for the local girls. The girls brought her a picture from a magazine, she took their measurements, cut out a pattern from newspaper and created a dream of a dress.

What puzzled me was the reaction of the townsfolk when a Colored woman asked if Mama would make a prom dress for her daughter. I’ve confused you—the dress wasn’t the puzzle. The boycott of Mama’s dressmaking skills was the puzzle. Why did people act like that? What difference could it possibly make who she sewed for?

Bless Mama’s kind heart. She taught all of her children that God created all of us and forbid us to mistreat or disrespect any living thing. In this case, she stood her ground and that girl had the most beautiful dress. I can’t remember any of the other many dresses Mama made, but I will never forget the beauty of that yellow dress—or the smile on the wearer’s face.

Remember what Mama said? We’re all created equal. That goes for the people who live in Harts Corner, and for those who write in this blog. So we’re making some changes—we’re inviting other voices in. Now, just a darned minute, you two! Don’t get your panties tied up in a wad. Stop and think of this: You are going to run out of words (and spit), those special memories to share, and maybe even recipes. We want to keep this blog interesting and we need some more blood to do that.

So, all things being created equal, we’re gonna share this with some of our friends and family. Well, like who? Cora and Leonard Skaggs might have a lot to say—she is always volunteering to help people in town, and he and his little band play some fun gigs. Pastor Micah might want to give us a little spiritual uplifting now and again. Some of the church women have great recipes and know a lot of the history of this town. Bethy Rose even said she’d like to talk about her life, maybe even some of the kids in school. And MM might persuade Miguel to give us some safety tips and ways to keep crime out of our neighborhood.

You folks look out for some new writers on this blog.  

Goodness and Trouble

My Mary Margaret can sure cook up a storm when the chips are down. Did you read what she did for the Skagg’s wedding anniversary? With Miguel’s suggestions and much needed help, she baked and decorated that wedding/anniversary cake that wowed everyone.

She has this pattern she always using to decorate wedding cakes; roses and bells tied together with confectionary ribbons. It is every bride’s dream to have a cake that looks like the ones Mary Margaret creates. When people walked into the Fellowship Hall after church today, there were gasps of wonder, then lots of oohs and aahs. Cora cried and Leonard felt he had to kiss her to get her over all the emotion. Which it did when she began to turn red and giggle at his unusual public show of affection.

I do take some of the credit for her cooking expertise as I taught her the basics—which she took to like a duck to White Rock Creek. From then on it was curiosity, research, and a God-given gift to create wonderful dishes. She’s a jewel, that girl is.

I really don’t how she handles all that is going on in her life. She works hard at the Blue Moon but manages to keep a lovely home, nurtures Bethy Rose, keeps Miguel happy (at least his grin seems to say so), and opens the door to her employees, her daughter’s teammates, and the people who work with Miguel at the Sheriff’s Department. I guess I could have done it when I was younger but I do worry about my Mary Margaret just plain burning herself out.

There’s also the fact that she can’t keep her nose clean. It seems to sniff out trouble like a Blue Tick hound dog. That gal will then dig and dig until she finds out too much for her own good and winds up in the shadows of danger. Even Miguel, who has such a sensible head on his shoulders, has no control over Mary Margaret Butler’s determination to draw a permanent line between right and wrong.

She gets mad at me when I remind her that Bess and I only have her best interest at heart when we attempt to slow her down with some secrets of our own. Mary Margaret confesses she is a little bit afraid of the power many believe Bess has and steers as clear of her as she can in a town as small as Harts Corner. Good thing Bess stays to herself most of the time. But when Bess fell and spent a week in bed when she returned from the hospital, Mary Margaret drove out there every afternoon to set out her pills for the next day and deliver a hot supper. She made all of the conjuring woman’s favorite foods, including this salad that can be served as such, or as dessert.

Strawberry Salad

1 (6-oz) pkg. strawberry Jell-O               1 c. chopped walnuts

1 c. crushed pineapple, undrained           1-2/3 boiling water
1 (20-oz) pkg. frozen strawberries          1 (8-oz) sour cream

 Dissolve Jell-O in boiling water. Add frozen berries; stir until berries melt. Add pineapple and nuts. Pour half of mixture into 9X9” pan; refrigerate till firm. Spread sour cream over Jell-O and pour remaining Jell-O over top. Refrigerate until set.   Serves 8 to 10.

WEDDING ANNIVERSARY

I am in such a flitter tonight. I have to work in our kitchen while Miguel and Bethy Rose enjoy a new DVD just down the hall. Yes, I know it's Saturday night and I have a rule about not working after lunch until Monday morning. I realize I need the break and Bethy Rose needs to know that there are some priorities that do include her. But this is something special.

It is not about the money. How dare you think I would take money to cater this special celebration after church tomorrow? Do you think I'd go over to the Fellowship Hall and spend three hours decorating and setting up the food table instead of going swimming with Bethy Rose if this was only about money?  Don't you folks know me better than that?

It's Cora and Leonard Skagg's fortieth anniversary and Pastor Micah suggested the women of the church might like to plan "a little something for them." The church would make the punch and coffee, provide all the serving sets needed, and maybe we could "put out a list for donations of desserts." I quickly said I'd provide the desserts and would be happy to decorate, set up, and coordinate the ladies who would pour drinks and dish up the food. I had no trouble finding volunteers, of course, but it was with the timing that it all began to fall apart. Pastor Micah asked me yesterday to do this.

This whole darned week went berserk! I suddenly had three other catering jobs. Jewel had a twenty-four hour bug and missed a day; Harold might as well have taken to bed with her. I swear, those two better hurry up and get married and get tired of each other, or I'm going to be forced to look for new employees. Of course, I don't mean that--but sometimes I wish I wasn't the boss and could just let them know what it is like keeping a cafe running somewhat well. What it all meant I have been running ragged every night and day all week. I've missed Bethy Rose's softball game, and had to skip a romantic dinner with Miguel--away from Harts Corner. I am not in the best of moods.

And here I am trying to concoct desserts at nine at night--and I'm dead on my feet.So help me if there was a bakery within twenty miles of here, I'd drive over there and buy them out.

As it is, I have three pecan pies pulled out of the cafe freezer, and one chocolate sheet cake I have now iced with German chocolate frosting. Bethy Rose helped me bake her favorite sugar cookies. So far, a nice assortment of sweets. But I need to do something that really says "wedding" and to me that means a tiered cake. How in the world can I do something like that at the midnight hour so to speak?

Strong arms embraced me from behind. "Bethy Rose is brushing her teeth, getting ready for bed. When you go up to kiss her goodnight, I'll go to the cafe and get the tiered pans. You can have the ingredients all mixed up by the time I find them and get back. The cakes will come out in thirty minutes. You will cool them overnight, get up a little early, pack them up, set up the cake in the Fellowship Hall and decorate the most beautiful wedding cake you've ever presented."

I leaned back and looked at this man who had entered my life when I thought I needed no one in it. Miguel never ceased to amaze me. And he was absolutely right--I can do this. I let the stress of the entire week tell me it was impossible. Miguel's reassured me that I am the one in charge here and, tired or not, I can do this for my very favorite couple in the world.

I kissed him quickly. "You are a genius, Sheriff Kinkaid. Do you wanta make a date for the entire weekend next week--go to Galveston and walk the beach? Hide out in a hotel room? Eat someone else's cooking? I promise I won't cancel this time."

"That's a promise I will definitely make you keep. I'll be back ASAP."

How could I have been so lucky to find him?

Ouch! Darn it, Aunt Lutie, I'm too old to be swatted on the behind. Okay, okay, you and Bess conjured him up. You always get your way, don't you? I;'m too tired and busy to fight with you tonight. Goodnight, Aunt Lutie."
  

REMIND ME WHAT I'M DOING HERE

Miz Barbara isn't her perky self tonight. She's had a busy, busy day (working on the next Aunt Lutie Book and mopping floors), and a sad night. If you didn't know, she/I do much more than keep track of Harts Corner and all the characters living there. I shepherd elderly students in creative writing classes and a special memoir class. One of them was held tonight--and I am a little down about it.

Eight years ago I was asked to sign a contract to teach this memoir class in an assisted living retirement community in a nearby town. I began with six students. It quickly grew to fifteen or more members and went on for the next six years at that rate. Then my initial students began to become ill, move closer to children, or leave this earth for the happy hunting grounds. I have been down to six to ten students for these last several years--which is a concern to me.

What do you do when you are down? One of the things I do is put on some nice, colorful clothes, add a smile and go forward. Tonight I dressed in white slacks, a pink shell, and a soft, sheer blouse in pale pinks, lilacs, and blues. I signed in with a big smile and the receptionist told me how summery I looked. My class members said they felt lighter just looking at me. But...

Tonight I had three students. They are also concerned about the diminishing numbers. The activities director says we will hang in there and see if it doesn't improve. In the past, I made up flyers and had them delivered to all the residents; I had a few visitors but only one who stayed on. I've made excuses for the time--nights from seven to eight--as many elderly want to be in front of their TV at that time, or in bed. My students have spread the word...we have all done what we could to promote this.

And that's what writers must do for themselves. Treat your writing like the important thing in your life it is. Dress each day as if you are going off to work--either neat casual or dressier--not your pajamas. Promote your craft, your books, your classes. If that fails or if you receive a rejection, don't let it erase the love of writing. Put on that smile and enjoy what you are doing--in spite of few members in a class, or less acceptances of your writing for publication--because writing is what you want to do with all your heart.

Whatever happens to my class, I have learned so much from the wonderful people who have attended. Just as I hope you will learn all about the people in Harts Corner--and come to care for what happens to them. Or want them to get their due justice.

That's what I'm doing here.

Me and Bess

I am real disappointed in all of your folks. If you are out there reading this blog about us, you are certainly keepin' your opinion to yourself. Come on, it isn't that bad, is it? We all work hard to make time in our lives to keep you enlightened about what goes on in this town, and with the people who live here. We'd like to hear from you; good, bad, or indifferent opinions welcome. And do you mean to tell me you haven't tried, or even printed off, any of these recipes?

 Oh, I see, young women don't cook anymore, huh? No wonder you have to buy them boobs and have those skinny arses. No meat with your potatoes will give you migraines, did you know that? And you're lack of being able to string enough words together to leave a comment won't stop us from keepin' on givin' you news and good eatin' hints.

For me, I dropped in on my best friend on this earth, Bess LeClaire, today. She lives in this lovely old cypress house way back in the trees near the Big Thicket. I don't know how long she's lived out there but I know she's been stirrin' up those powders and potions for people it seems like forever. They call her a conjurin' woman; that has tones of doing somethin' underhanded, shady. But Bess didn't take much money for what she offered, bartered for goods mostly, and people were helped. Or they wouldn't have continued to seek her advice, would they?

When I was goin' through that womanly time in my early fifties, I went out to Aunt Lutie for some help. Those hot flashes could have lit up the night skies. I had a cafe to run and a young girl to raise. I couldn't be puttin' quilts up over the windows and sleepin' in on those mornings after a sweaty no-sleep night. She ground up roots and berries and made me a cup of tea. Before I left her little front porch, I felt better, and those cups of tea carried me through those couple of years of female unsettles pretty easily.

Same thing about my final illness; Bess took care of me until the end. She saw that I had a potion to ease the pain, keep me goin' longer that Dr. Barnes diagnosed, and made my life so much better. I guess if anyone really knew what was in those powders, she might be subject to an investigation. But no one would ever blow the whistle on her. That old Gullah woman can pretend innosence like no one you've ever seen.

Today, she decided we needed to talk about MM--and Miguel. She wanted to know if I thought they would ever tie the knot--if we didn't interfere. I remember before the reaction when Mary Margaret found out we had put a love potion/powder in her coffee. That gal went home and threw out the best tasting coffee ever and read me the riot act about interferring in her love life, or lack thereof. So I really hesitate to push this along in any way.

That Bess can be a strong voice for what she feels is the best for people, let me tell you. She insists these two are meant to be together forever, but she thinks they are wasting precious time. Don't we all? Even Bethy Rose wants her to hurry up and give her a sibling or two. I argued in the couple's favor, I really did, but Bess can be stubborn. Of course, I don't know any other people like that in this story, do you?  Anyway, she's given me an ultimatum--Mary Margaret has three months--until the week after Christmas--to accept a proposal and set a wedding date, or Bess LeClaire, conjuring woman extraordinaire, will make it happen.

Lordy, how am I going to get this across to Mary Margaret without her getting on the badside of Bess?

SMALL TOWN LIP

Good evening, folks. It's a mighty nice evening here in Harts Corner. Although we were busier that all get out at the Blue Moon today, Jewel, Harold and I made quick work of the clean-up, money tallying, and doing a few things necessary in order to get breakfast started the next morning. Then I rushed home (we don't live above the Blue Moon anymore, but that's for another story) to help Bethy Rose with her homework, make sure I hadn't forgotten some sport or social event I was supposed to chauffer her to, and then we went into the kitchen to prepare supper before Miguel showed up.

Bethy Rose doesn't have to work in the Blue Moon the way I did. I never resented the fact it was necessary that I be the second half of a two-woman team but I didn't want my foster child to do that. I make sure she can play softball on a school team, have sleepovers with friends, and be the funny child she is. Although I didn't push her, Bethy Rose has always wanted to cook with me--maybe it all started with those sugar cookies you'll read about in my story. Anyway, she still wants to join me in the kitchen most every night.

We cook and talk about the day's happenings. I listen a lot to what happened in this class or that. It blows my mind that she doesn't just have the same teacher all day long like I did. In the third grade the administrators feel students should begin to learn what changing classes, lockers, and adjusting to different teachers is like. I don't agree that kids should be shoved toward that higher education mode so soon. I mean, shouldn't they be allowed to just be kids? But I don't say anything as I don't want her to be torn between loyalties to me and the "system."

"Hey, MM, my friend Meagan, says people are talking about you and Miguel not being married and him living here with us."

That loose lip stuff always gives me heartburn. Gee Whiz, don't they get it--times have changed; women and men have been free to live the life of choice for some time. It's not like we, well, at least Miguel--okay, me, too--haven't considered marriage. We've got more going here than just a romp in the hay, folks. I wish people around here could just mind their own business, or at least keep their mouths shut around their kids.

"People should have enough to do with their own lives, Bethy Rose, than to gossip."

She was quiet as she tore up spinach for the salad. As she used the can opener on the mandarin oranges and dumped them in the drainer, her forehead showied lines of concentration. "You might not care if people talk but I don't like it. They make it sound like you and Miguel are bad people."

I put the casserole in the oven and leaned against the counter, carefully choosing my words. "You know better than that. I work hard at the Blue Moon, my cafe. I am respected as a businesswoman in Harts Corner. Miguel is respected because he's very good at his job as Sheriff of this county." I stepped over to the bar that separated the kitchen from the dining area, and pulled her into my arms. "Bethy Rose, I don't want you to worry about us--or this arrangement. We're not going anywhere--and one day I'm sure Miguel and I will have that wedding Aunt Lutie and everyone in this entire town want to see happen. But, for now, we are good like we are, aren't we?"

"I'm okay with this though you do know I want to be a part of a real family." She stuck her tongue out at me with a silly grin. "Besides, I told Meagan she could tell those gossipy old biddies to go suck an egg!"

Aunt Lutie who once said that the acorns don't fall far from the tree. How true that is. I'm going to have to find out a way to steer this child down a more ladylike path.

In the meantime, we had dinner ready when Miguel arrived. It was one of our favorite casseroles, one I use for catering Tex-Mex luncheons. I had to work a little to cut this down for a family-size dish...a large family, or a container of left-overs.

Green Chiles Rice Casserole 

1 cup chopped onions                                  1 tsp. salt
4 tbsps. olive oil                                           1 tsp. pepper (or to taste)
4 cups cooked rice (1 cup raw)                    3 (4-1/2 0z) cans chpd. green chilies
2 cups sour cream                                        2 cups grated sharp Cheddar cheese
1 cup small curd cottage cheese                 

Cook onions in margarine until soft. Mix with cooked rice, sour cream, cottage cheese, salt and pepper. Grease a 13X9X2-inch baking dish and put in layers of 1/2 of the rice mixture, 1/2 of the green chilies and 1/2 of the cheese. Repeat. Bake in preheated 375 degree oven about 25 minutes, uncovered.  Serves 6-8.

Ya'll can make this a day ahead, either bake it and reheat, or refrigerate until time to bake. Enjoy!

Plum Tuckered Out

Miz Barbara is plum tuckered out tonight. Today is not Monday but it was wash day anyway. That should be an easy task now days, don't you think? But for some reason, just the thought that I'm chained to the house, or at least nearby, puts me in a catch-up-on-chores mood. Between moving clothes from washer to dryer and then folding, I do a lot of busy work. You know, come to think of it, I don't remember ever reading where MM did a load of laundry. Hmm.

In between those loads I watered the thirsty potted plants on patio, porch, and in the yard. It's not so warm yet but for five days or so we've had a hot wind blowing from about ten in the morning to sundown. That breeze sucks up all the moisture not only in the pots, but ground plants and bird bath, too. And, of course, while I was outside, I could see other things that needed to be done. It was trash day and the cans were sitting at the curb. What better time to whip the boungainvillea growing over the arch in front of our home into shape. Now, I do know for sure that I never saw a blossom or green frond in MM's apartment; and there was nothing growing in the Blue Moon either. Though she loved to be outdoors when able, that gal did not have a green thumb was my guess.

After a quick lunch (tuna salad on pita bread) and a large glass of cold water with lemon, it was time to sit myself down in the office chair and do a little reading/reviewing for Gina the Great. That's really not work--it's a matter of fitting it into my schedule. It's fun to read what others are writing and attempting to have published. But I have to admit that MM's life in Harts Corner is much more fun than these other lives out there.  My personal opinion, of course.

A friend sent me a Texas joke tonight. I read and grin and take those old "bigger and better" jokes with a big grain of salt. I have to admit I miss Texas though. I haven't lived there for more years than I want to think about and, now that Mama and Daddy are gone, I don't travel back on that trail of memories physically--only the memory is always there of what a wonderful childhood I had growing up in that small Texas town. From the very beginning, when Bethy Rose Wheeler presented herself to me, I knew I had to place her in Harts Corner. I know for a long time MM planned on leaving but when I involved her with the plight of this child, I could feel some of that desire waning. I'm sure her presence had the most to do with MM's decision to stay or go.

Do you folks know anything about Texas--well, except for the fact that two of our presidents came from there? Or that they eat, breath, and live football? There's much more to my state. For example, did you know Texas has had six capital cities?
      Washington-on-the-Brazos (Great Historical Park here)
      Harrisburg (That's Houston today)
      Galveston (Lovely Island City)
      Velasco (My daddy was born here; city on a bay on the Gulf (of Mexico)
      West Columbia (Town in Brazoria County on the Brazos River)
      Austin (my ancestors came to Texas with Stephen F. Austin when it was part of Mexico)
          Current capital of my fair state.

Did you sports jocks know that the first domed stadium in the U.S. was built in Houston?

I love the fact that the county where I lived for my formative years, Brazoria, has more species
of birds than any other area in North America.

Which would not mean a thimble full of spit to MM. She'd be more likely to find a body than a bird, even in that county. That gal worries me.

But tomorrow she's going to give us a family-sized version of one of her catering dishes--Green Chiles Rice Casserole. It's one of the best Tex-Mex dishes you'll ever eat, I guarantee you.

WHO NEEDS FRIENDS?

"Mary Margaret Butler don't have no friends!" 

I still remember the taunts during her childhood. Not that it was by choice that she had no friends. I've seen and heard her make attempts to get to know her classmates a few times but she was snubbed. Children can be cruel, especially when they overhear the remarks of their parents. Folks knew her daddy had dumped her on my doorstep, and that my sister had turned her face to the wall and slowly drank herself into oblivion. They gossiped about the situation until their children caught on to the sad life of the kid nobody wanted.

It made me mad as a wet hen but I knew if I got into it with those dumb mothers, it would only make matters worse. So I stepped in and filled our free hours with fun. At first, I thought I wasn't going to be able to keep up. Though I loved my niece, I had no idea of what stamina it would take to raise a child. I mean after all, when they came to live with me above the Blue Moon, I was already closing in on forty. I had never been this close to kids since I was one. But I learned how to play softball on the school's diamond on Sunday afternoon's when we could have it to ourselves. I made a fisherman out of her like my daddy had done me; she took to it right away, put that wiggly worm on a hook, and flipped those little sun perch onto the bank as pretty as you please. We went to movies on Saturday night when there was something decent for us both. Picnics out in the woods. Dancin' to the old juke box in the Blue Moon. Singin' in the same pew at church on Sunday mornings. I helped with homework until she became smarter at it than me. And she was always with me during the week at the Blue Moon.

I don't think I ever insisted she work in the cafe with me but maybe I did imply that it was expected. After all, I had to work like a crazy person in order to keep a roof over our heads, to put food on our table, to clothe two people, and just make ends barely meet. It was a game at first; Mary
Margaret loved to learn how to bake oatmeal cookies, roll out a pie crust, and throw ingredients into the soup pot after she chopped them. She had a real knack for being a cook.

As a teenager, of course she gripped about washing dishes and waiting tables from time to time. By the time she reached that age, the customers had multiplied but I still didn't make enough money to hire a waitress. Or a dishwasher. So we both did whatever it took to keep the Blue Moon runnin' smooth like. I wished I could offer her more but she got the best of everything I could provide. And she often talked about savin' money to leave this hick town.

I thought for sure she would make friends in high school and that would help her be more settled, satisfied even. She was a smart gal, made the honor roll all the time. Mary Margaret was not a raving beauty, but with that red hair and those wide green eyes, she certainly wasn't hard on the eyes. I expected her to have girlfriends to giggle over a soda with, or to hang around with on the weekends. But she never brought anyone around. Boys? A few of her classmates would walk with her to the Blue Moon and come in for a soda; she'd make it and serve it and then get to work. Those boys weren't mean to her, didn't tease her in a bad way, seemed to like her well enough. But she never got asked out, at least she never told me if she did, not until that Tad guy came along when she was a sophmore and he was a senior.

If I had not been a God-fearin', law abidin' woman, I would have dug daddy's shotgun out of the attic, loaded it with buckshot, and gone huntin' for that jerk. He broke my gal's heart, told fasle tales about her, and left her with a deep distrust of men in general. Sometimes I wonder if she still harbors a little of that fear of being hurt, and is holdin' back from a lifelong commitment with Miguel because of it.

Livy Palmer went through school with Mary Margaret and came in once or twice for a soda. I thought she would make a nice girlfriend but I was set straight on that idea soon enough. She showed her true colors one Sunday after church when she asked my darlin' if she had a date for the prom. When Mary Margaret admitted that she didn't, that snippy Livy let her eyes run up and down the dress my niece wore, then laughed--one of those snide, ugly laughs meant to be a real put down. Her comment brought a tongue lashing from me--in fact, I will not print it on these page because I am ashamed that I hadn't at least stepped off the church property before I cussed.

"No wonder no one asked you, Mary Margaret. Just look at you. You're still the little orphan kid of Harts Corner. Maybe some of us should take up a collection."

Mary Margaret grabbed my arm and yanked me away from Livy Palmer's face. She marched me home and read me the riot act about tryin' to fight her battles for her. She warned me she would leave me, the Blue Moon, and Harts Corner if I ever did it again.

I didn't do it again.

And now that I'm gone, I can't belive that Livy Palmer Vandergriff has inserted herself into Mary Margaret's life again. I do have to give both of the credit though. When Livy lipped off to her, Mary Margaret put her soundly in her place and there was no comeback. And when Mary Margaret needed her in a dire situation, Livy pulled her swanky Caddy in the line of fire to save my niece's arse.

But with someone like that snotty woman hangin' around her, does Mary Margaret have any chance at a real friendship with someone who will appreciate her for what she is? I do not have a clue what is going on with these two. 

I think I hear my friend, Bess, so I'd best see what she's gettin' into a fuss about. Have a good night, folks.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY, MIGUEL

I don't remember my own Daddy as he left when I was pretty young. I have a vague memory of his smile and the last kiss he gave me before he walked out the door. Mama had no one else in her life before she died, and Aunt Lutie became mother and father to me. I knew what father's should be like, the things they should do, like play baseball with their sons (or daughters), attend their band concerts even if their child stinks, and always be there to make things right when a child feels the whole world has turned on them.

Bethy Rose Wheeler's father was not a good influence. His wife died when his daughter was six, the same age I'd been when I lost Mama. But he wasn't the one she could lean on; he leaned on her. Or maybe I should say he made sure she was doing for him, at his beck and call. That poor child rushed home from school to keep a house clean, cook a meal, iron clothes--whatever a housekeeper/cook should have been doing for a man. He forgot to buy groceries when he was going to be gone for a long time, so Bethy Rose found a job weeding for Tillie Treadwell, and sold cola bottles she found on her way to and from school. It was a down right shame when Harts Corner, and Bethy Rose, found out just what all Dan Wheeler was selling on the road. She shouldn't have had a father.

But her life changed when she came to live with me as my foster child. Miguel Kinkaid rescued her from her father and that life. He sat down with her and explained just what was going to happen and, when he realized I was determined to keep the child in Harts Corner, he stood beside me. He has been her father figure for over a year now and just the other day I swear I heard her call Miguel "Dad." If so, he will be so jazzed.

Sean Kinkaid is Miguel's father. If you could see this retired cop with his children, you'd know what kind of fathers, and mothers, they will be, or are. He is a no-nonesense sort of guy but I've seen him pull a grandson up on his lap and hug the tears away more than once. I've also seen him embrace his sons, tell them he's proud of them, and he respects all of the women in his life--he's even included me in that circle. He's a faithful man to wife and church and country--probably in that order. But he can also pull the funniest jokes on his loved ones, sing a baudy Irish song, and chase his beloved Mercedes around the kitchen. And I absolutely believe he would lay down his life for those people he loves.

I know what kind of father Miguel will be to our children, too. Okay, I will say yes--when I'm ready and yes, I do want to have children of my own. And, Bethy Rose, I do understand that I am not getting any younger--and you want to be a big sister. I promise you all it will happen. But not today. Tonight I'm serving Miguel his favorite pot roast dinneer and will top it off with his very favorite dessert. Want to come join us for a slice of cake?

Southern Carrot Cake

2 cups flour                                            1 tsp. salt
2 cups sugar                                           4 eggs
2 tsp. baking powder                              1-1/2 cups veg. oil
2 tsp. baking soda                                   3 cups grated carrots
2/3 tsp. cinnamon                                    1/2 cup chopped nuts (pecans for me)

Mix together all dry ingredients in large mixing bowl. In smaller bowl, beat eggs and add oil. Combine dry ingredients with egg mixture. Add carrots and nuts. Pour into 3 greased and floured 9" cake pans. Bake at 300 degrees for 45 minutes  (or 350 degrees for 25-30 minutes if you're in a big hurry).

Frosting 

1 8-oz pkg. cream cheese                        1/2 stick butter, softened
1 box powdered sugar                             Finely chopped pecans (optional)

Cream together cream cheese and butter. Add sugar and beat well. Frost lightly between layers, then ice sides and top. Sprinkle nuts over top if desired.

I'm hiding the leftovers from the rest of you, gals. That goes for you, too, Aunt Lutie--but I have no way of knowing if I can keep you out of anything!

Miz Barbara Begins a Novel

So, get off my case, okay? I'm going to get serious here. That's more than I can say for the rest of you. You do your thing--and I'll take care of my corner of the world. You gals don't know what "get" a life means, do you?

That's what I have--too many sidebars to my life. When I am able to blog--when it is MY turn only--I will do so. If I can't show up, zip up your lip and get the knot out of your panties. I will always be back.

Beginning a Novel

Where do you begin to write a novel? At your desk with pen and pencil? On a computer? For me, it all begins in my head. I mull over an idea for a long time before I put a word on paper or screen. In Aunt Lutie, I had the idea for the character before I began to form a plot. The other characters introduced themselves to me pretty much as I began to write the scenes. It works that way for me.

So how do you begin? Most novelists either look at their own background and the events in their lives for an idea. Some use a terrifying experience or death or it may be a true event, known by most people because of the notoriety of the case, that hands you the basis for your novel. Writers are inspired by everything they read, hear, and experience.

My novel, "Aunt Lutie's Blue Moon Cafe," was a concept begun with the desire to write a book set in a small East Texas town much like the one I was born in. I sketched out what the town would look like, names of businesses--and then the names began to come to mind. I have pages of notes about the area, the actual towns I remember and used to create the fictious Harts Corner. A friend even found pictures of my hometown on the Internet and sent them to me. It was still all there--and the memories flooded back.

Mary Margaret Butler came full blown before the story. She is me in so many ways...though I don't have the red-hair of Daddy, my cousins, or MM. She's got a sassy mouth which I've always had, and she has guts--I gave her more than I'll probably ever have. She also has a big heart and loves her home town, the people in it, and a certain deputy new to town. But at the beginning, she wants to get out of that hick town and have new adventures. I wanted to either get her out of there or find reasons for her to never leave.

I found pieces of scratch paper in one of the folders I had for the book. On them were names of the secondary characters I created. And, somehow--I really can't explain how--their descriptions, good points and warts, fell off the tip of my fingers and onto the screen. Another sheath of yellow pad pages had scenes and a vague outline. It was time to begin.

Somewhere I read that writing a novel is talking to yourself and everyojne who will read it. Along the way there's doubt and worry that you can't pull this off. But I did, and you can. If you want to write, do it. You will reach the point, as I did, that you can't do anything else but write that novel. And you will learn what all novelists know:

                         I am the only one who could tell this story.
*** 
Miz Barbara wishes ou a happy Sunday.

EAVESDROPPING

Now, you gals stop nipping at each other, you hear. We ladies must learn how to get along and cover each other's backs (and other necessary parts). Don't you all remember what happened to our town when we women were put in our places and stayed there?--well, at least most of us did.

I'm leaving Mary Margaret alone for a few days. She and Miguel are doing just fine, other than the fact that they aren't moving any closer to setting a date for a wedding. She reminds me that she hasn't even been offered a ring yet. Well, la dee dah. I wonder why? If you weren't given much encouragement at all, would you go out and hoke your soul for a diamond? I know I should just shut up, huh? But I'm concerned that my darlin' girl is goin' let happiness pass her by. I want her to have it all--her business, a nice husband, and babies. Ah, little feet runnin' around would be so nice. And I could spoil him--do I know something? Well, of course, I know what Mary Margaret's first child will be; I just haven't been given a clue to who the father is yet.

Things are pretty quiet around Harts Corner, too. You'd never know if anything out of the ordinary was going on behind closed doors, but then we didn't know folks were out of control before either. One thing about being a ghost--okay, I've admitted that I'm a spirit, a ghost if you must call me that. Repeat after me--Lutie Mae Lucas is a ghost. Now, wasn't that easy?

Back to the fun part of being such a creature. I can watch people doing all sorts of things--No, I do not peek in bedroom windows. Gosh darn it, you people have no morale fibers left at all these days. But I can keep tabs on anyone I want to. I also can eavesdrop and they never have a clue. Sitting above the front windows in the Blue Moon gives me an earful, let me tell you. At a counter in First National Bank one day, I hovered around two strangers and found they were casing the place for a heist. Miguel can't hear me so Mary Margaret insisted he go to the Bank right at closing time. Bingo!

On Sunday last I sat near Sarah Cochran, President of the Woman's Love Circle Bible Study, and a deacon's wife, Amanda Chandler, before the morning service started. Now you would think they both shared Christian love for their fellow parishners, wouldn't you? They were sweetly pious when you met them outside the church, and were always asking Mary Margaret to make time to attend their Bible Study. Kind, decent, caring? Hmm.

"Sarah, did you ever think we'd have a lawman in this town who'd take up with a cafe owner? I mean, Billy Ray Cobb, was an upstanding widower and proported himself with honor. Our sheriff's cruiser is parked outside the Blue Moon until all hours of the night."

Maybe they're talkin' over the events of their day.

Amanda whispered in her ear, "And we both know what that means, don't we?"

What does it mean, you two old biddies?

"They're both a disgrace to this town. I don't know why Pastor Micah doesn't have a talk with them both."

And just what would he say to them? Would Micah be making judgments on his congregation? Isn't that God's place?

Sarah was watching Caroline Dobson coming down the aisle with a huge bouquet of assorted spring flowers to place in front of the altar when she answered, "Someone should call the Juvenile Court and have them do a home check. I'm sure they'd remove Bethy Rose from that den of iniquity immediately."

That was the proverbial straw that broke that camel's back. Bethy Rose Wheeler, beloved foster child, was the heart of that home above the Blue Moon. And no one was going to change that. As Caroline walked by the pew where the two women sat, I stuck out my foot, and dodged. Flowers and water drenched the hypocrites (I know a thing or two about their home life that would make good gossip fodder if I was that kind of a Christian woman myself) with holy water and blessed lilies of the valley, yellow daisies, gladiolas, and blue-dyed carnatiions.

Served 'em right. Don't mess with Lutie Mae Lucas, or any of the people she loves, you hear.

BELLS AND SHELLS

Well, Miz Barbara, at least I showed up on time tonight. You were AOL yesterday, not a peep out of you. If you remember, we had a deal when you and that Regina cooked up this blog idea; we would join you and write about ourselves, our town, or whatever we felt like bitchin' about. And you, backslider already, were to offer news about the book, your book-related appearance when they begin, and some help for newbie writers out there.

You are on our list, Missy. I don't care that you had an HOA Board Meeting, taught one of your creative writing classes, went to the dentist, planned a carpet committee meeting for next week, and may be planning a trip to Timbuctoo or however you spell that darned place. You are on our list, Missy! You'd better show up when it 's your turn again. Did I hear you ask if you couldn't just slip in between me and Aunt Lutie. No! A turn is a turn, and that's it.

So, did you folks hear about our conjuring lady, Bess? She only gives healing salves and love potions as far as I know--none of that zombie stuff goes on around here. And lots of people in the county believe she can help the ailing and the heartbroken. Aunt Lutie swore by her--even tried to push Miguel and I together with a little powder she had Bess concoct. I went out to her house once, wanted to know what Aunt Lutie talked about. It was more spooky than I can tell you--and I won't. You have to read the book to find out all about our Bess.

Bess came into the Blue Moon today. She's always dressed in long dresses in blues, greens, and purples, and she wears a turban, just like she did the first time I saw her as a child. But it's those shells jangling like bells on her ankles that still, to this day, gives me the chilly-willies at the sound.
She'd been over to Save-Mart I could see by the plastic bag she carried. It looked like she'd picked up a jar of that snuff she pokes into the corner of her jaw--nasty habit I say, but I would never tell her my feelings. She always picks up a copy of a gossip rag too--says without a TV, she has to keep up on the low-life of the world.

Usually when she drops by the cafe, I serve her a large glass of sweet tea--on the house--and she never ordered anything else. But today was different. She asked if I had any Texas Cavier made up.

Folks do enjoy this dish but I usually only serve it on holidays, or on a day when we have a picnic-type lunch. So I had to tell her I didn't have any. She grumbled a bit, then gave me what I swear was an evil eye of some sort. I checked the pantry and cooler right quick, and hurried out to ask Bess if she had time to wait for me to mix up a batch.

Bess gave me the biggest smile, even kissed me on the cheek which made me want to check my face in the mirror, afraid I'd find some pox of some kind, when I handed her a large container. I added a bit of cream cheese to her sack and reminded her to refrigerate it as soon as she got home. She even insisted on paying for it, in spite of my protests. Truthfully, I would have rather she took it as a gift. Then I'd know I didn't have to worry about any spells she might put on me.

Serve this as a part of your salad bar, or as an appetizer with an assortment of crackers.

East Texas Lumberjacks Caviar

1 (15-oz) black-eyed peas               1/4 tsp. salt
1 (10-oz can diced tomatoes           1/4 tsp. ground cumin
  and green chilies, drained             1 (8-oz) pkg. cream cheese, softened
1 garlic clove, minced                     3 green onions, chopped
1 small onion, finely chopped         1 tomato, chopped
2 tbsp. vegetable oil                        2 tbsps. fresh lime juice
Chopped cilantro to taste

Combine beans, tomatoes and green chilies, garlic, onions, oil, lime juice, salt and cumin in large bowl. Cover and refrigerate 2 hours. Spread softened cream cheese onto a serving platter. Spoon bean mixture evenly over cream cheese. Spread chopped green onions, tomatoes and cilantro over top.

MM has to sign off now. I need to go outside and check the sidewalk in front of the cafe. I'll feel better if I don't see any hex signs.

SHE WON'T LISTEN TO ME

Mary Margaret doesn't want to listen to me. She sometimes pretends she doesn't hear me when I'm just set on givin' her great advice. Well, at least I think it is. I don't know whether she really doesn't hear me, or if she has decided, since I've been physically removed from her life, she no longer has to listen. That gal may have just got too big for her britches.

All I really want is for Mary Margaret to have happiness--more than I had. I could have married long ago and I let a silly disagreement get in between me and the man I loved. And then it was too late for both of us. He was gone and I never quite got over it. Though I never let anyone in Harts Corner know about that part of my life. And I certainly can't tell my niece that I made a mistake, one it looks like she just might repeat, in not jumping on that man's bones and letting him drag me off to a Justice of the Peace. That gal better look at this romance closely.

I've got this lacy dress I want to wear to a wedding. And a leghorn hat--that's an old-fashioned name for a snazzy straw hat with ribbon streaming down the back of it. I keep askin' her what color I should make that ribbon so it will match her bride's maids outsfits. She just snorts--I hate that sound-- it is not ladylike at all. And ignores my questions.

She's grown up into a lovely young lady. That red hair and those green eyes show the Irish from her daddy's side, but that slender figure with long legs reminds me of myself at her age. And, whether I like to admit it or not, she's almost as stubborn as I am. That's the reason our horns lock about this issue of romance and marriage.

Do you hear me, Mary Margaret? You're gonna lose this man, a man that seems to have the hots for you! And he's not only handsome, he's got a good job and..What did you say? Well, of course, being a deputy isn't the same as being the sheriff but that's Billy Ray Cobb's job at the present, so what can I say. Huh? You don't want to find your way out of this hick town via a man. Now, what does that mean, young lady? There's nothing wrong with Harts Corner, Texas, as I have been trying to tell you all of your life. And even though I agree that a woman has to go where her man goes, I am here to tell you that Deputy Miguel Kinkaid is not going anywhere. How do I know? Well, Bess--you know Bess, the conjuring woman? She has made it impossible for him--or you--to leave this town.

Mary Margaret! You get yourself back here and listen to me. This is your dear Aunt Lutie trying to take care of you. Don't you leave without hearing all the news. You hear me!

HOME IS WHERE YOUR STORY BEGINS

When I was six years old Mama and I moved in with Aunt Lutie. She was Mama's only sister and when Daddy decided he didn't want to hang around anymore, she was the only one who would take us in. She was probably the only one Mama approached. Or, as far as I know, it might have been Aunt Lutie who put her foot down, told her sister that she needed to think of her child for a change and not that louse she married who dumped her. At any rate, we came here to Harts Corner and within a short time, Mama had...well, let's be truthful here...my beautiful mother enjoyed Mr. Jim Beam until the week before she died when she could no longer lift a glass.

So it was Aunt Lutie and I working to keep the Blue Moon running. I started washing dishes and cleaning tables when the doors were closed at night. Eventually, I had my aunt, the best cook in the county I thought, teach me how to make pancakes, then biscuits, then chicken-fried steak. I read cookbooks like they were best sellers and wanted to experiment with new dishes. But Aunt Lutie felt she knew her diners and didn't want to change the foods they came back for over and over. Maybe she was right. It wasn't the time to reinvent this part of the world yet.

Growing up in Harts Corner was great for a tom boy like me. I could roam the streets when not helping Aunt Lutie, climb trees in the Judge's backyard, and take my latest favorite book to my bedroom where I got lost in the wonder of others worlds. On Sunday, the only day the Blue Moon was closed, Aunt Lutie and I would take a picnic lunch and head for White Rock Creek, or go fishing, or do crafts together.

I liked school, devoured everything I could read and learn, and managed to stay away from bullies and best friends. Though teased a lot, I didn't need anyone but Aunt Lutie to have a complete life. If any of you grew up in such a town, you know what I mean when I say no matter where you might roam, such towns are where a piece of your heart will always remain. But I hadn't planned on my physical body being in this town forever. But that's another story--it's all in the book and I won't go into it, but you'll understand my feelings--I'm sure you will.

There's some characters here, let me tell you. Do you remember the country singer Kitty Wells? She was so popular and had the most crying voice I'd ever heard in a lady. She wore fringed jackets and her hair down long; in later years, the hair went up tall on her head in some of the pictures I saw on albums. Well, our Tillie Treadwell was no Kitty Wells when it came to voice but she wasn't so bad either. She had this little band that played local honky tonks, even was a guest on the Louisiana Hayride once. They say that show got her an invition to play somewhere in Europe--France or Italy--can't remember which. Word was she made a lot of money. But Aunt Lutie always said her money came from something closer to home, back in the piney woods. I later heard the payoff was from her Daddy's still. Anyway, she was gone a lot and when she appeared with those drop-dead tight clothes and that big hair, the men in town drooled--until their wives jerked them away.

There's Sam who owns the gas station, the towing company, and the ambulance service. I mean, why not? They're all run out of the same building right across the parking lot from the Blue Moon. I hate to mention Preston Connors--he's such a grouch, gloomy gus, always sticking his nose into the kitchen before we're open. He thinks he has some kind of special privileges or something. Maybe Aunt Lutie let him get away with it, but I finally had to shoo him out--he gives me the willies when he sneaks up on me. Just because he's a businessman in town--the hardware store belongs to him--he thinks he can be the biggest snot in town and get away with it. He usually does, too.

I could go on and on but I'll save some of those characters to introduce you to another time. I just want you to know that it took all of these folks, and then some, to make sure that an orphan girl felt cared for, special, like she was a part on one big town family.

Only small towns can give you that security.

MM signing off. Ya'll take care until we see each other again right here--in Aunt Lutie's Blue Moon Cafe. Hey, on Thursday, I'm making Texas Caviar. Come on in and try some.

TIES THAT BIND

Miz Barbara greets you today from the shores of the Gulf (of Mexico that is, in case you're not from the South). I'm only here in my mind, of course, as I'm writing clear across the country from these warm waters and white sands I've been involved with since I was age two. I came here with Daddy and Mama but the only pictures I have show me with Daddy--picking up logs and shells washed in by the sea. MM has never seen these beaches and she's longed for some such adventure all her dreaming years. But when Aunt Lutie up and died and left her the only eating place in Harts Corner (and the price of an off-the-freeway cafe not worth two bits), she had no way to leave town.

Harts Corner, of course, is a made up town--one I created from bits and pieces of the town I was born in and others in the county. I drew on my kin--aunts, uncles, cousins--for the story people I molded. I can't say as how there are any real loonies on the family tree but there were certainly some "odd" folks.

Like Uncle Gat who had a raspy voice and always swore to us kids that swallowing the lid to the syrup pitcher caused the sound. There was Jimmy Jack who was a guard over at the State Pen in Huntsville; he gave we young cousins a tour of the room that held the electric chair, and grinned at us as he made a show of polishing the wooded back and seat of "Ol Sparky."

Aunt Corinne was a beautician who kept her nose in a "movie magazine" on more than one occasion to the detriment of her customers. Those old-fashioned wire curlers will singe the hair right off your head--usually in little patches until you look like a mangy dog. Way back in the early 1800's, one of our kin married a Muskogee/Creek Indian in Alabama and almost got himself killed in a massacre by some of her kin--I'm kind of proud of that lineage. Then there's the documented fact that we have the infamous Jessie James on our family tree--now my sister doesn't want anyone to know that fact so ya'll keep that little secret, won't you?

So I guess we, and Harts Corner, have those characters in the midst of our lives. If they didn't, we'd sure have fewer tales to tell, that's for sure.

And about this sharing. You readers can certainly tell me about your family, or some homefolks who could make themselves right at home in Harts Corner. I'd love to hear all about them. They might even end up in my next novel...names changed, of course. Let me hear from you.

FIXIN' THINGS

There are some things in life that simply defy fixin'. I, Lutie Mae Butler, can attest to that. Honey, I heard that question--how could I be here on this blog when you know for certain I died from smokin' practically all my life, and had a nice send off to the only cemetery in Harts Corner?

I couldn't fix that little problem of passing away, but do you actually truly believe everyone troops right on to the Pearly Gates (or that other unmentionable place)? Or can you be open-minded enough to think it might be possible for a spirit to hang around, especially a loving aunt who is overwhelmed with a desire to protect the woman-child she called her own?

I wasn't afraid of dying. What I feared was the ones I would leave behind, mainly MM, needing me for guidance, maybe to give her a little push when she holds back more than is good for her. I am here to tell you my spirit is present, overlooking my favorite people and loving it. It does drive Mary Margaret crazy, I admit. She says I'm smothering her, showing up at inappropriate times, and preaching on the need for a wedding much too strongly. She's promised not to listen and so far has kept her word, drat her.

Sometimes, like today, I'm sitting on the top of the kitchen cabinets silently observing what's happening in my...eh, MM's Blue Moon. She's bustling around beginning lunch prep while Jewel--that's Jewel Tate, a lady no one at first believed would ever be an employer because she was a slave to Chester Tate for too many years--rolls out dough for her tasty biscuits. I think she calls them Angel Biscuits and, hard as it is for me to admit this, they are the best biscuits ever served in the Blue Moon.

Wanna try one?

Jewel Tate's Angel Biscuits

5 c. flour                              2 yeast cakes, dissolved in 2 tbsp. warm water
2 c. buttermilk                     1/2 c. shortening
1/2 c. sugar                          2 tsp. salt
2 tsp. baking soda

Mix all ingredients well and store in refrigerator. Use as needed.

Form into balls and pat into desired thickness onto floured board. Cut with biscuit cutter.

Bake on lightly buttered sheet for 10-12 minutes at 425 degrees.
***
From what I've seen, the customer's consumption means this recipe doesn't usually make it to the refrigerator. Just add some of that fresh blackberry jam or peach jelly you fixed in the spring and you have an excellent addition to breakfast, or the perfect treat with a pot of tea.

I've got to disappear. Even spirits need a little nap now and then. In my case, it takes a long rest so I can be ready to keep an eye on Mary Margaret. That gal can get into more trouble.... You'll find that out if you read "Aunt Lutie's Blue Moon Cafe."

LIKE AUNT LUTIE USED TO MAKE

Good Afternoon, Blog World Readers,

Miz Barbara, (we are taught as children to address our elders respectfully) the author of our story, called me up last night to inform me I was going to be one of the featured stars on this here blog. Then she says I've got to tell you a bit about myself and how I came to own the Blue Moon Cafe. Plus, offer you a recipe. She must think I can hang a pad above the cookstove, clinch a pen between my teeth, and become a reporter in between stacks of breakfast pancakes scooped off the grill and ladles of soup served up for lunch. She should work in this kitchen just one day and see if that straight hair of hers doesn't wilt (or curl up in kinks) from the heat.

Because I want others to know about our little town, our lives, and the topsy-turvey mess we recently went through, her wish is my command. Up to a point. I refuse to pick on the people who were doing the most to redirect our values--poor things. She can do all the name calling, detecting, and prosecuting in her book, but I'll be silent--well, most of the time I'll try--about my neighbors.

I guess I'd better introduce myself. Should have done that up front in order to grab the readers attention from all I hear Miz Barbara say in those writing classes she teaches. I'm Mary Margaret Butler, called MM by the townspeople and my nearest and dearest (of which at the moment there are only two). I've lived above the Blue Moon since the age of six when Daddy took off never to be seen again and Mama--well, let's just say, she pined herself into an early grave and let it go at that. Aunt Lutie, never married and even without kids, turned out to be a great substitute mother. You'll hear about that in the book. But I still had no hankering to live forever in this hick town.

God has a way of letting you know that He is in charge of your fate. Yep, I'm still here at twenty-six. Aunt Lutie's gone and I own the Blue Moon now. There's a man in my life--one I met in a dumpster. Curious now, huh? I won't say more except he's tall, dark and handsome, and when I do something he doesn't particularily want me to do (which is quite often), he mumbles under his breath in Spanish.

If you read our story, you'll meet all the wonderful people--and a few who are a few bricks short of a full chimney. Most everyone here is pretty set in their ways so I had to be a little careful about changing too much about the cafe. The menu revolved gradually and there was a howl when I shortened the hours and closed on Sunday and Monday. But I needed some time for myself and I love to read cookbooks and experiment with new dishes. Still, to satisfy the locals, I've kept a few of the old favorites, like Aunt Lutie's best cobbler.

CRUNCHY PEACH COBBLER

Pastry for double crust                             1/4 c. sugar
5 cups sliced fresh peaches, peeled          1/8 tsp. salt
1 cup sugar   (and  1/2 c. water)               1/2 tsp. almond flavoring
3 tbsp. flour                                              Butter

Roll half the dough very thin and line a 2-inch deep baking dish. Roll and cut the other half into strips. Bake half of these strips in a 375-degree oven until brown. (Then raise temp. to 400 degrees)

Put fruit, 1 cup sugar and 1/2 c. water in a saucepan and cook until fruit is soft. Mix flour, 1/4 c. sugar, and 1/8 tsp. salt; add fruit. Cook, stirring, until slightly thick. Stir in flavoring and cooked pastry strips. Spoon in the crust-lined dish, dot with butter, and cover with uncooked strips.

Bake at 400 degrees until brown.
***
It's time to close up the cafe. I stopped serving supper so we put up the closed sign at 2 P.M. sharp. What if people are hungry at night? They can just fix themselves a fried baloney sandwich and watch the Houston news on television.  MM wishes you a good night.

Recipe for Aunt Lutie's Blog

Hello to all of you who love the South (or maybe would like to know why the rest of us do), who enjoy a good read (set in the South), are a recipe collector (Aunt Lutie and MM make the best Southern food you have ever wrapped your tongue around), and you'll get to learn some things about writing and publishing--especially this book, as we go along.

Barbara Deming (that's me, ya'll) has been writing her stories ever since she climbed up into a mulberry tree (well, she also made it up into Daddy's chinaberry trees, too) with her Red Chief tablet and pencil. Actually, those trees were the best place to hide from Mama. As the eldest of five children, Mama had all sorts of chores for me to do and I plum got tired of them--especially the babysitting ones--so I hid away as often as possible. My love for writing blossomed out of my love for reading and neither of these has disappeared.

So you can say I've been writing since the age of ten--and I refuse to tell you how many years ago that was. Although in some of my writing here you will probably be able to figure the numbers out in no time at all. I've published four other books and they all seem to have that southern voice running through them. The proudest I've ever been was to have a reviewer call me "a Southern writer" for the first time. That's what all that scrippling for years was for in the first place.

Come join me here whenever you have a spell. I'll try to add little tidbits as often as possible, some good recipes from Aunt Lutie's cafe kitchen, and a tale or two about the South that might perk up your ears, or rile up your dander. Whichever, I thank you for reading. And the best way to let me know what you like, or don't, is to send me those comments.

I want you to meet Mary Margaret Butler, better known as MM, and the people who come in and out of her Aunt Lutie's cafe in Harts Corner, Texas. I'll share little things about her on these pages in the hopes, of course, that you will want to read more and purchase "Aunt Lutie's Blue Moon Cafe" when it is released in July or August. I'll keep you posted on the release date you can be sure.

If any of you are writers and have a good book you want the world to read, I recommend you contact Regina Williams, Editor/Publisher, at www.mockingbirdlanepress.com. She is the most outstanding editor--let me tell you, your book will not be one of those pieces of junk you sometimes read from those big-named book pushers who take your money and give you a s.... job of editing. Regina sticks your hands to the fire and makes you work right along with her to create the best darned book you will be proud of to call your own. And wait until you see the cover of my book! Jamie Cook Johnson is the producer and it is perfectly matched to the story.

I could just go on and on but I do need to get this off to all of you--and pick out the first recipe I'll send your way tomorrow. In the meantime, I will give you the recipe for this blog--and my book:
    1 cup of Southern craziness
    1/2  cup humidity
    1/2 cup heat
    3 tbs dirt road

I'll be talkin' to ya'll soon.