An old fashioned breakfast

Cinnamon rolls. Hot, yeasty, and straight from the oven. Does breakfast get any better than that?

It does if the recipe is from pioneer times. Or at least if we can imagine it is. I don't know how far back this recipe dates but I know they used a lot of sourdough in the 1800's and this cinnamon roll recipe calls for sourdough. So...if it doesn't date that far back please leave me with my illusions.

However far back it dates it is my understanding that this recipe is from the Appalachian area so it has its own history.

And whatever time period or geographic location it's from, it was a hit at my house this morning. My two year old grandson started out wanting to know 'what is this' and ended by saying 'I love this.' Everyone else just wanted seconds...and thirds... and...

Well, you get the idea.

So from my house to yours, here's a wonderful cinnamon roll recipe that's well worth the time it takes to make them. 

4 tsp salt

5 tbsp. sugar

2 cup milk

 1 cup sourdough starter (if you don't have a sourdough starter you can substitute 1 pkg yeast)

10 tbsp melted shortening

 4eggs, slightly beaten

6 cups sifted flour

Cinnamon filling (I had plenty of filling left over...and I used it liberally... so you may want to use only a cup of brown sugar)

1 1/2  cup packed light brown sugar
6 tablespoons quality ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt

Mix the yeast and milk and sugar and salt together and let rise for 30 minutes. (I skipped the rise time here because at this point my mixture was very liquidy and there wasn't any hope of it rising. I did let it sit for a few minutes just to make sure everything was mixed well. My sourdough starter was very watery...my daughter was the last one to feed it and she believes it might be extremely thirsty...so the consistency of your dough will vary with the liquid content of your sourdough). Add the remaining ingredients and mix, let rise in a warm place for 30 minutes. Mix up the filling, roll out the dough into a large rectangle, apply butter and add filling. Roll into a loaf, slice into cinnamon rolls and arrange on a buttered pan. Allow to rise again in a warm place for 30 minutes or until double. Bake at 400 for 10-20 minutes. (My first pan of cinnamon rolls didn't rise like it should have because I didn't put it in a warm enough spot. I went ahead and baked though to satisfy little bellies. The next batch rose nicely.)

Frosting

2 cups powdered sugar, sifted

1 tsp vanilla

Milk-enough to bring sugar to frosting consistency

Spoon over rolls when they come out of the oven. 

Enjoy!

Flowing Words

What makes the words flow? What is it that makes one person a writer and another say I can’t string two sentences together.

Writing is a gift…I know that.

And yet.

Where do the words come from?

Growing up I was always the little girl that sat and day dreamed. At home. At school. In the car. It didn’t matter where I was or what I was doing…I lived in a dream world. Sometimes I did it as an escape, to get myself away from where I was and what was happening. Sometimes I did it because I was bored. And other times…I just did it because the imaginings were there.

In school I enjoyed the assignments that required writing the most. It didn’t matter the subject I’d take an essay or a report over multiple choice any day.

The words just came even back then.

I think I was about 15 the first time I ever attempted to write a book. I say attempted because it was doomed to failure from the start. A spiral notebook, a pencil, and the determination to write another book just like ‘that one’ because I wasn’t ready for that one to end… That was not a set up for success. But it was a beginning. I completely wrote my first manuscript at age 19 or 20. I made it all the way to the end with that one.

But that time I had a computer.

My husband tells me… ‘you sure can write’. And it doesn’t seem to matter if I’m writing a blog post, a book, or just a letter. His opinion is that I can write.

Sometimes I think he wishes I’d write just a little less.

And he hasn’t seen me get lost in writing for 12 to 15 hours at a time. I do most of my writing when he isn’t home so that I can focus on him when he is.

Still…I have no idea where the words come from.

Or why some days I can turn out five blog posts and other days I can’t think of any. I don’t know why sometimes I have more story ideas than I’ll ever be able to popping into my head write (my document section in my computer proves this) and other days there simply isn’t an idea to be found.

I am simply one of those people that can take a word and make a story. Even when there are no ideas, when I think my imagination has been wiped clean, even then I can take a simple word and turn out a story, a letter, a blog post…something.

So, dear readers, here’s a challenge for you. Take one word and turn it into something. If you’re inclined to play this writing game with me…

What can you do with the word corset?

Post your stories in the comment section for a chance to have your story posted on my blog along with your bio and the option of writing a blog post to appear on my blog. My daughters will randomly pick a winner on Feb. 14.

Happy writing.

 

Capturing the Emotions

You see them everywhere. Couples. Husbands and wives. Men and women. Some make you happy just looking at them, seeing their joy in each other. Some make you shake your head and wonder how they manage to stay together. Some are like carbon copies of each other- they dress alike, act alike, talk alike. Some you’d never know they even know each other.

I never had the privilege of knowing a couple that took true joy in each other. My grandparents fought like cats and dogs and kept all sorts of secrets from each other. My aunt and uncle fought like Tasmanian devils with machetes. My adopted grandparents seemed to have marriage down to a comfort level-they lived together, got along well, but I can’t remember them ever showing a speck of emotion for the other. My mom and stepdad spent time together and argued often. My mom kept secrets and talked bad about her husband when he wasn’t around.  These were the prominent marriages in my life as I grew up. It was what I saw, what I learned.

But they aren’t the couples I’ve always enjoyed seeing together. It’s the elderly couples holding hands as they walk into the grocery store, the men who look at their wives across a room and their expressions change, the women who seem to gravitate toward their husbands- looking happier when they’re with them than when they’re apart… Those are the couples I enjoy seeing together. They’re the ones that give hope to everyone around them. They’re what we strive to capture when we write romance.

There’s a couple at my church that you can tell get pure joy from one another. He lights up when she walks in the room, she becomes…more…when he’s around. He looks at her with pure indulgence on his face, she leans close everytime he gets near. And when they’re surrounded by people…they’re in a world all their own.

And they’re a joy to watch because they bring romance to life.

I’ve tried time and time again to capture all of that in a manuscript. My hero’s give in to my heroines, they hold their hands, stroke their cheeks. Their eyes soften when they look at each other. She gets warm and tingly when he touches her in the lightest caress.

Those deep relationships are something I find most difficult to capture with words. I struggle to put onto ‘paper’ (okay its digital paper on the computer but still…) the emotions I see in those very few couples that seem to get it right leave me longing to capture it in the relationships I write about.

I have one hero that refers to a picture of the heroine as looking at the camera with love then he goes on to think that she only ever looks that way when he’s behind the camera. In another manuscript the world disappears everytime the hero and heroine look at each other. For her…she gets sucked in and nothing exists but the man in front of her.

But no matter how hard I try I’m always left feeling like I can’t capture those feelings. I can’t grasp and transfer to my manuscripts the deep affection and…what? Completeness? Oblivion? Love?... that I see in those very few couples.

How do you portray the emotions between your couples?

What do you want for Christmas?

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

1 Corinthians 13:7

 

It’s that time of year again when the world starts thinking about Christmas. The neighbors across the street have their yard all decked out in lights and decorations. Stores are playing Christmas music and jamming the aisles full of stuff that we can’t live without. Or so the Christmas shoppers seem to think.

Children are making lists. Every other conversation out of their mouths starts with ‘I want…’ They have about a million things they just can’t live without that two days after Christmas they won’t care anything about.

Okay, that’s a bit extreme. I know there are exceptions. My daughter says she wants nothing for Christmas. My husband says the same thing. And my son is only asking for one relatively inexpensive item.

But those are exceptions. Most people…even adults…have lists of things they want. The majority of us can think of all sorts of stuff we’d like to have. Some of it we might even need.

As a historical author I’ve written several manuscripts that have Christmas scenes in them. When I see all the decorations, the lights, the lists and everything else that goes with Christmas as we know it I can’t help thinking of the way it used to be.

Today when we think of Christmas in the past we tend to see it as a simpler version of what we do today. In my Christmas scenes my characters have family meals, they exchange gifts. They just do it on a much smaller scale and often with handmade gifts. But was it really that way?

For some I’m sure it was. But it was different too. Christmas was more about the reason for the holiday and less about the holiday itself. Or so I want to believe. It was more about loved ones and less about what those loved ones were giving you.

One of my favorite episodes of my favorite TV show is all about the family sneaking around trying to make or get presents for each member of the family without anyone knowing what they’re giving. In doing so they make sacrifices to acquire the gifts they want to give. They work long hours, stretch what little money they have to buy the most they can, give up something they love to pay for something someone else will love.

It’s love.

It’s also simple and heartfelt.

And it’s a far cry from the trip I made into town yesterday where I walked the aisles in the stores, picking items I thought the recipient would like, then paid for it with barely a twinge at the cost.

Now I wasn’t doing big shopping. I don’t celebrate Christmas that way. I try to keep gifts to a minimum and the price low. I buy what I think they’ll truly like and that’s it. If I can make a gift instead of buying one that’s even better. I wasn’t always that way. I used to buy stuff just to see how many gifts I could pack under the tree before Christmas.

Now I make them count.

I keep it simple.

I’d give a lot to have a Christmas the way they did in the 1800’s. To celebrate love instead of stuff. To give because of love not because it’s expected.

My husband recently asked me what I want for Christmas. I stood there thinking, drawing a blank, knowing he expected and answer but unable to give him one. Because I don’t want anything. Except maybe…time.

Time together.

Time to care.

Time to just be.

And…a simpler time.

This moment is what we have. Every today is all we’re promised. For Christmas I want time with my family, time to appreciate the blessings the Lord has given me. Time to dream of what Christmas was like when materialism didn’t matter.

And maybe a few stories of what this time of year was like in days gone by.

It's in the...twang

Writing a manuscript is something like making a new friend. You have to learn all your characters quirks, their likes and dislikes, their speech patterns.

Did I mention…

Their.

Speech.

Patterns.

I’m from Texas. So I speak…Texan. Complete with the slang and abbreviated words. Not to mention I drop the g on all words ending in ing. It’s just…Texas. It’s how we talk.

I’ve read books set in Texas that were obviously written by authors that weren’t from Texas. The characters had this aggravating habit of saying things like ‘did you’, ‘do you want to’, ‘I am’, ‘we are’, and the like. That was the only clue I needed to know the author wasn’t from Texas. Because here in Texas we don’t say things like ‘we are. We say ‘we’re’. And for ‘do you want to’…we make it easy. It’s just ‘don’tcha want to’.

See easy.

Less words. Why say all those words when we can shorten it? Now this isn’t somethin’ we think about down here in Texas. It’s just the way we talk. I’d have thought everyone understood us but…I was wrong.

I had to experience this first hand to realize that what sounds natural to me, what flows naturally in my speech isn’t always understandable to others. The first time I talked to my husband he told me I sounded…like Texas. I understood what he meant.

Sort of.

It wasn’t until I spent weeks in another state that I fully understood the difference. I knew I had an accent. The concept isn’t foreign to me. And I’m rather…fond…of my accent. I like the way I talk. Even if my daughter is right when she tells me that if we were to write in our manuscripts the way people in Texas really talk we’d all sound like a bunch of outlaws.

Here’s an example: ‘I cain’t git this ta work. I’m fixin’ ta run to the store an’ git another one. ‘Cause This’ns broke.’

Yes, we really talk like that in Texas.

But it wasn’t until recently that I began picking up on just how different our speech patterns are. In one of my manuscripts…the only one not set in Texas…my heroine gets mad and starts talking. Her new husband is shocked. His thoughts… Now he’d managed to marry a woman that wore Texas like most women wore dresses. She’d hidden it well, right up until her temper had kicked in, then she’d opened her mouth and let it spew out.

I wrote that long before I fully understood the differences in our speech patterns. It was just…normal to me then. Now I can see the differences. I hear the differences on a regular basis. When my Louisiana husband says ‘what are you saying?’ or when he says something and I catch the difference in how he says it and how I do.

Not long ago we were talking about meat from wild game. Nothing special in that conversation. I said ‘it’s wild caught’. He asked me over and over what I was talking about. Wild caught…like caught in the wild. About the fifth…or tenth…time he caught on. He said ‘wild caught’. That was what I said. Then he informed me I was saying ‘wild cot’. Now I was saying ‘wild caught’ and I knew what I meant. But…

Apparently when I said it…

Texas came out.

When I tried to say wild caught as wild c-a-u-g-h-t I can’t say it. Literally. My mouth is incapable of pronouncing it as caught. It’s either cot or mumbo jumbo.

Here are a few other examples of differences I’ve noticed. In Texas we have acorns. In Louisiana they’re acerns. The o is pronounced er. In Texas we have Wednesday. In Lousianna…it’s Wednesdee.

These may sound like little differences and they are but multiplied by a few thousand words they add up to very huge differences.

I was told by a judge in a contest that western romances set in Texas are cliché. Maybe they are but since I’m from Texas I write what I know. That way I don’t have to worry about getting the speech patterns wrong.

Now all I have to do is worry about how much my Louisiana husband is gonna effect my Texas accent.

Yes, It's Research. Really.

Writers...research.

It's what we do. To tell about a time or place we've never been takes researching until we are as well acquainted with that subject as we are our own time. We must be able to see that place in our minds to write it in terms so that our readers can see it too.

That research can show up in any form, at any place. Yes, I'm really doing research when I insist on tasting every flavor of taffy when it says it was made the same way they made it in the 1800's. It's research when I need to hold that hand stitched lace because I can't describe what it feels like when my heroine's mother makes all the lace on a wedding dress if I don't know what it feels like. And it's research when I need to go to every frontier festival, living history museum, and stagecoach festival that comes within driving distance.

Oh...

And all those Christian fiction books on my bookshelf...

They're research too.

Really.

I Was That Little Girl

There it was.

In black and white.

Mocking. Taunting. Reminding me of the simple ways people used to live.

I held in my hands a children's book filled with stories of a grandmother sharing stories from her childhood. Bonnets, hoops for wearing under skirts, aprons, pumps... They were all there. Written out in simple terms that would appeal to children in the five to twelve age range. And they were holding me captive.

This isn't the first time I've experienced this. Every time I hold that book in my hands the same thing happens. I am drawn to those simple stories, to the closeness shared between the grandmother and her granddaughter. As I read the stories I am reminded of many an hour spent in my own grandmother's company, hearing stories, learning at her knee, being loved.

Only my grandmother told stories of the depression not the pioneer era. She told of riding in a car while her newborn cousin lay on a pillow beside her because it was believed in those days that to bend a newborn at the waist would cause them harm. She told of the first Christmas she ever got a present, how her mother made donuts using her wedding ring to cut the circle out of the middle, getting her fingers smashed in the sewing machine...

And while she told me those stories she taught me how to sew, how to cut patterns, how to cook.

So when I hold that children's book in my hands and read the stories it contains, I enjoy the simple days, the simple life, the closeness of the family it portrays and I picture that little girl sitting on her grandmothers knee, standing at the table leaning over a woman that never grew weary of explaining and answering questions. Because once...I was that little girl.