Yes, I’m still “here” and still planning to keep my blog an active one. I’m just letting myself get distracted by one or two things lately.

The biggest distraction now weighs 22 pounds, is growing in confidence, and smells a bit like a hamster.

We’re working on the “hamster” thing….

Rosie is growing like a weed. She’s still a long and lean pup, but has filled out, grown muscles and hair, and loves her “linebacker” sister. (She sticks to Kenzie’s side like glue whenever she’s in what she feels is a stressful situation, and uses Kenzie’s bulk to hide behind when confronted by anything that scares her — which is usually an adult male human.)

Luckily, Kenzie has accepted this role willingly, and — except for the occasional “go away kid, you’re bothering me” nip — she lets Rosie curl up next to her. She’s even taken to wrassling with the Interloper, and it’s adorable to watch them play, especially if ginormous Max from next door gets in on the action.

Unfortunately, Kennel Cough descended on the household. I’ve had sniffling, sneezing, snorting, goopy-eyed dogs for the past week or so. It’s a self-limiting illness, and they’re almost done with it without requiring antibiotics, praise Jebus! It has wrecked my sleep patterns, as Kenzie’s “reverse sneezes” not only wake me, but scare the bejeesus outta The Hubster, who then panics, thinking I’m having a stroke or something. (None of which he remembers the next morning.) I think we’re through the worst of it and will all be totally healthy by the weekend.

My writing has been going well, although the latest chapter is not quite the “dictation by God” experience that some of the first ones were. I’m having to struggle more to get words on paper, and am easily distracted by my furry companions. Aaaargh!

Lastly, The Boy returned to school — HIGH SCHOOL! — yesterday, and that has been a freek-a-licious experience. Not only is he having all sorts of new experiences, but I’m having to deal with a new school nurse, and school procedures/accomodations for his Type 1 Diabetes. The nurse has been fantastic, but it’s still a distraction I wasn’t quite expecting.

As is tradition, we took First Day of School pictures:

Then ensued the battle royal over whether he’d have to ruin his spectacular coiffeur and wear his helmet.

Which resulted in this HI-larious grumpy-faced First Day of School picture:

Ohhhh, for the days of a happy-go-lucky elementary-aged child who was literally cheering that school was starting up again…

I have stories to tell (like the soap box derby car my guys built, some recipes, more book excerpts, and I’ve got to finish the danged Yellowstone trip!)

I’ll try and get back on the daily update bandwagon…

It’s just where I’ve been spending most of my time lately.

It’s a tiny bit different than last year — mostly in the organization of books.

I know… you’re thinking “WHAT organization of books?!”

But they are organized now, I promise you.

Last week, when The Boy and The Hubster went off to high school orientation (the kind of event that makes me want to run screaming into the night), I stayed home and worked on my side of the office.

It had gotten bad… bad, bad, BAD!

I had so many Minnie Mouse dolls and figurines sitting on top of my books that I couldn’t really access them easily. Which meant I resorted to stacking any books I’d acquired — or pulled down from the shelf — on their sides on the desk’s surface. Which meant that I couldn’t access them either without un-piling them and making a big mess. (And, since Regency readers are also big history buffs, you HAVE to do your research!)

So, I resorted things so that the costume books are on the far right, followed by architecture/design/furniture resources.

Then, I have all my books on London and the English countryside.

Basic history books about the period take up the next section.

I also have a section for *specific* histories — like that of household servants (which is an idea for a new book I want to begin working on.)

Finally, I have books on general writing techniques. The one to the left of the only Minnie tchochke that remains is “Goal, Motivation & Conflict” by Debra Dixon — one of the most recommended books I’ve ever seen. In fact, it’s one I keep recommending to the Golden Pen submissions I’m judging right now.

And yet, the most essential things are those that sit to my left of my laptop — my soda, my glasses, my timer (to force myself to write for 20 solid minutes without going back to edit or futz with sentence structure, etc), my iPod, my gum, and my cell phone.

I couldn’t function without those things.

They’re like a crutch for me.

Oh, and in the mornings — it’s coffee!

The worst of my crutches.

Tina Fey is my hero!

And Hurley? Land sakes, I miss seeing him on TV so much!

Jane Lynch deserved her win — and tons more after the years of joy she’s brought me on-screen.

But… can anyone tell me who the slim, dark-haired girl (not Lea Michele) who leapt into the hallway midway-through and then stayed with the group? I can’t figure out who it was…

On Sunday, Rosie bounded over to our neighbor’s patio and greeted them while they had their morning coffee — I thought Charlotte was going to burst into tears of joy at the sight of such a fearless and loving puppy! Rosie then enjoyed almost an hour of full-on dog wrassling with the ginormous Max-a-million Smell (who weighs in at 115 pounds at this point!)

Play bows and tail wags are the order of the day for her now.

And that makes my heart sing!

Rosie’s even warming to The Hubster and approaching him when he sits very still and offers her some fingers to sniff.

She’s really, really adapting to her environment and feeling more confident each day.

After work today, I got down to her level with the camera and tried to capture her face, now that it doesn’t carry the look of constant worry that she wore before.

She’s alert and interested, but not worried.

She’s looking around, wondering what there is to play with, rather than wondering what might be lurking in the bushes, ready to eat her.

She’s so much more relaxed — no cringing, no hiding, no going “blank” to avoid the scary stuff. She’s playing, she’s exploring, she’s being silly… and just being a puppy!

Praise Jebus!

As for Kenzie, she is starting to accept the idea of the puppy a little more. She does get jealous when Rosie interrupts her Max time, but she actually chases and plays with her too.

Mostly, though… she sniffs…

… and judges…

…and ignores.

*sigh*

But I’m pretty sure that they’ll be the best of pals some day soon.

This is the next piece — the first chapter.

****************************

Chapter One

London, 1816

The narrow skirts of her second-hand dress didn’t allow Anne Barrett to match her uncle’s great ground-eating strides. Forced to take several short steps for each of his, she felt more dwarfed than usual by his massive bulk as they made their way into Mayfair.

And her hair itched. She didn’t like having it piled and pinned on top of her head. But the bonnet was a blessing; it kept her hidden from prying eyes, and—if she concentrated on the ground at her feet—no one need see her face at all.

Except Tip, of course. Every few yards, his furry, dark face lifted up to her questioningly. She’d smile back to comfort him, the lead she’d been forced to hang around his neck slapped idly against his side as he trotted along at her knee.

If only Uncle Ned could be reassured so easily.

He liked cities even less than Anne, and had soothed his anxiety by bending his elbow with the lads at the ale house until the wee hours of the morning, exhibiting his general overindulgence with every stumble and giggle as he’d returned to their rooms. His intemperance was understandable, if ill-timed; he’d been a bundle of nerves over the upcoming meeting.

As had she.

If this opportunity fell through, she wasn’t sure what they’d do to survive the quickly approaching winter. Granny Birdie’s money was almost totally gone, and, if Lady Norland’s letter hadn’t arrived, she would really have begun to panic.

They needed a job.

And Ned had to be the one to interview for the position. No one would hire a young woman. Until the actual work began, her role would be that of shy niece who, beggin’ yer pardon m’lord, couldn’t be left alone in the bustling city. As for Tip—well, revealing the truth about the dog’s role in the operation would get them all sent to the madhouse.

She pulled her cloak tighter and clasped Ned’s arm, guiding him into Hill Street

As he rapped a meaty fist on the door of Number 25, Anne sent a prayer heavenward. Please keep Ned’s tongue from tangling. Please make his lordship listen. And don’t let them send Tip to wait outside in this cold—or me with him!

Within moments, the door swung open to reveal a stony-faced butler to whom Ned mumbled his name, managing to add that Lord Norland was expecting them. The man stepped aside for Ned, but blinked out at Anne, allowing his eyes to trail slowly along the strip of leather from where it rested in her hand down to where it looped around Tip’s neck.

The butler’s face went a few degrees more icy, but finally he nodded and led them all inside, pointedly putting them well down the hall into what had to be the second-best parlor—maybe third-best. And he’d left the door ajar, no doubt to ensure they didn’t make off with any valuables.

While Ned tested the comfort of the settee—whose dainty legs groaned alarmingly under his weight—Anne did her best to corral Tip. Nose pressed to opening at the door, the dog stood avidly listening for whatever might be heard from the rest of the house.

“But you’re afraid of horses, Robin!” exclaimed a male voice suddenly, from somewhere down the hall. The accent was a nobleman’s, but the tone had laughter in it, of the raucous sort left over from a night’s carousing. “What can your dotty grandmother be thinking?”

Anne yanked on Tip’s lead and pressed her back against the wall, trying to stay hidden even as Tip strained harder to keep his ear to the door.

“I’m not afraid of horses….” This second voice sounded annoyed. And perhaps mildly intoxicated, the words slurring a little. “I just dislike them.”

The men’s footsteps were tapping across the marble floor, moving in her direction.

Anne pulled harder at Tip, but the dog held firm, his toes scrabbling at the jamb.

“All right then. You… dislike horses.” The first man clarified, undeterred by the other’s sour mood. “Not to mention you don’t know a damned thing about them.”

“No, I most certainly do not. Still, she wants the horse taken care of, and—for some unknown reason—she insists I be the one to do it.” The voices were definitely drawing closer. “I’m to bring it to Norgate. She’s promised to repair the sorry state of my finances if I do.”

Oh… this was terrible. A few more moments, and she’d be discovered listening to a private conversation between the master of the house and his friend. Blasted dog! Why wouldn’t he budge?!

“Good God! Norgate? Is that heap still standing?” A thump struck the wall, and a peal of laughter rang out. “You and a horse, Robin. At Norgate….”

“At Norgate.”

“And don’t forget the ‘no experience with horses’ part. That’s a crucial bit.” More inebriated laughter, another thump—and then a metallic clang and the smash of glass. “Oh, bother—sorry about the lamp, Robin.”

The man named Robin laughed too, though his laugh was darker than his friend’s. “No worries, David. At least it wasn’t the mirror—I don’t think my foul luck could’ve survived that.” He gave a grunt, and there was shuffling and a series of small clunks—he was apparently hoisting his companion to his feet. Through the crack of the doorway, Anne caught sight of the butler passing, moving quickly to his master’s aid.

“It gets worse, you see,” Robin’s voice continued. “The grand dam’s arranged for me to work with a specialist she’s sent over—some country fellow named Barrett, who’s to instruct me in the finer points of the business. He’s to meet me here at….”

The butler cleared his throat. “A Mr. Ned Barrett is waiting to see you, my lord.”

“Ahh….” The man at least had the grace to sound mildly embarrassed. “He’s punctual, I’ll give him that. Thank you, Caldwell. Have him wait for me in the library, while I see Viscount Lindford on his way.”

Before the butler could take a step in her direction, Anne leapt into action. Grabbing the dog under the ribcage, she staggered across the room, dropping him awkwardly to a spot in front of Ned just as the door to the room swung fully open.

Robert Norland bade his friend goodbye, and made a quick detour to his bedchamber for his man to restore his appearance. He didn’t care to look like he’d been drinking half the night—even if he had. A change of clothes and a close shave did the trick, and he opened the door to the library feeling more in charity with the world.

Ned Barrett was exactly what he’d expected to see in a horseman—enormous, barrel-chested, and wind-blown, with a personality that filled every inch of the large room in which they stood. Robin hadn’t expected the bleary eyes, red nose, or the reek of ale and pickles wafting towards him when they shook hands—the man clearly knew his way around a bottle.

But did he know his way around a horse?

That, at this point, was the only question that mattered to Robin. If this Scottish giant could resolve his grandmother problem, he could forgive any vices in which the man indulged.

“I had a look o’er the braw creature on Monday, your lordship,” the man said, rumbling every ‘r’ in a voice that came from deep within his prodigious chest. “He’s sound—even with th’ bad shoulder. Fine high withers, and well-sprung ribs. He’s goose-rumped, so that’s a sure sign he’s a goer. Maybe a little o’er at th’ knee, but they’re nicely paired—and no cow hocks in th’ back!” Robin assumed from Ned Barrett’s enthusiastic tones that this gibberish translated to something good. “He was leery o’ me checking his heels, but I convinced him t’ let me have a look, and am right glad t’ say that they’re nice ‘n wide, with a fair-sized frog.”

A frog? Apparently a fine thing in a horse. “That’s… that’s good to hear, Mr. Barrett.” Robin ventured to ask about something he might actually understand. “And his color?”

“Ooo’ee, he’s a lovely dun with a long eel stripe, a white blaze, and a small snip down th’ left nostril.”

Frog and eel? He did hope they were still talking about a horse. “Yes, that’s… splendid.”

Ned pulled his lower lip. “The damage to th’ shoulder was turrrible, but it’s a fair bit along in mending now. O’ course, he’s out o’ shape and will need loads o’ conditioning. That is, if we can get him t’ hold a rider—of which I’m in no small bit o’ doot.”

“Doubt?”

“Oh, aye, m’lord. But, with Nan and Tip working on him, he has every chance of o’ercomin’ what that ham-fisted lout did t’ him.”

“Nan and Tip?” Robin hated responding to every statement with a question. “Are they the grooms you hired?”

“Ach, not grooms!” Ned’s midsection bounced sharply with laughter. “I’m speakin’ o’ th’ dog and th’ lass.” He hooked an immense thumb at the two creatures standing mutely behind him—a small girl and her pet, who Robin had thus far failed to notice, thanks to the larger-than-life physiognomy of Mr. Barrett. “Nan’s me wee orphaned niece. She’s a small thing, but has a way with th’ beasties. And this is Tip. He’s auld and stiff, but kens more ’n you or me.”

“Miss Barrett, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Robin stepped around the large man to catch a glimpse of the girl, whose bonnet covered her face so completely, he only knew she’d heard him when she dipped a quick curtsy. He smiled down at the dog. “And Tip. How must I greet him?”

The creature examined Robin frankly, its canine eyes flicking over his features and every piece of his clothing. Then its face softened, the white stripe running down its nose a stark contrast to the pink tongue that quivered in its open mouth. Suddenly, it lurched forward, yanking the girl forward by the leash looped around her wrist. Off balance, she fell against Robin with the dog trapped between them, its tail whipping each of them in turn. He reached out a hand to steady her, and she lifted her head in surprise.

Robin looked into her upturned face, experiencing a rapid succession of wayward thoughts: brown eyes, warm, liquid. Curves not belonging to a child. Pale, pale skin with a smattering of freckles across her nose. Surprisingly pretty. Desirable.

She stared back at him for the barest of seconds before the bonnet snapped down, shuttering his view of her loveliness so that only her mouth was visible. She backed out of his grip, and, stepping towards her uncle, she grimaced at the leather lead stretched taught between her and the dog. She made an impatient gesture with her hand, commanding the creature to return to her, but it sat down where it was, against Robin’s pant leg.

He was dazed, dazzled.

What had just happened? Something had definitely happened. One, he’d discovered she wasn’t a child. Two, she was beautiful. And three… there must be a three somewhere in the muddle of his brain, but damn him if he could think of it, not when the rich memory of her body pressed against his chest was doing strange things to his breathing.

Ned Barrett seemed unaffected by the undercurrents hanging heavy in the room. “Tip’ll shake yer hand, yer lordship, but there’s no need. He’s accepted you.”

“Accepted…?” Robin blinked a few times. “Yes, well. That’s good then. I—I think the feeling is mutual.” He turned to the man, clearing his throat. “Shall we discuss how the horse is to be stabled in London, and where you’ll exercise him?”

“Ach… no! That horse canna be trained here. He needs fresh air, and a great tract o’ land to roam if we’re to get his legs back under him. Lady Norland sent word her stables have room, and they sound grand to me.”

“Her stables at Norgate?” Instantly, Robin’s good mood sunk to his boots—any hope that he’d be able to escape that fate died within him. “That really is the only option, is it?”

Ned turned to his niece and shrugged, apparently looking to her for help.

“Yes, my lord.” Her voice was low, throaty and soft, with no trace of her uncle’s thick burr. “Bucephalus must recover in the country. There would be no chance for him in London.”

Robin had a sudden desire to hear more from her, but she’d spoken from behind the barrier of her bonnet, and did not seem inclined to speak further.

“Well, I can arrange transport for him in a day or so.” He turned his attentions back to Mr. Barrett. “And how would your family like to make the journey? I can hire a coach.…”

“A coach is fine, my lord. But beggin’ yer lordship’s pardon, we’d want to make a slow go of it, and have th’ horse walk alongside us—exercise him, let him get used to us afore we set to th’ trainin’.”

“That is, if you don’t mind, my lord.” Miss Barrett gave another ineffective tug on the dog’s lead, but it smiled up at Robin instead, unmoving and unrepentant.

“No, I don’t mind.” Robin made a very hasty decision he hoped he wouldn’t soon regret. “In fact, I’ll travel with you. I need to speak with Lady Norland in person, and it would be good to see… Bucephalus, you say?” He watched the bonnet, noting her quick nod. “I will see Bucephalus settled in comfort at Norgate.” Assuming the place hasn’t crashed down around the old lady. “I’ll send word to my grandmother today. I’m sure she’ll want time to prepare for the horse, and to establish an appropriate residence for your family, of course.”

“Th’at’d be grand, yer lordship.”

Well… Robin didn’t think so, but he had no choice in the matter, it seemed.

Anne walked away from Hill Street with such anger-fueled speed, even Ned’s long legs couldn’t keep up. After a block or so, he suggested he nip over to the ale house to tell the lads his good news.

She watched him go, the leather strip in her hand clenched beneath her fingers.

“And what was that performance about, Tip?” Anne knelt down to retie a perfectly-tied bootlace so that her nose was just inches from his furry face. “Why did you behave so poorly?”

An image of Lord Norland from Tip’s vantage point flitted into her mind. Followed quickly by visions of his long fingers, his blue eyes, his dark hair, his mouth, the back of his powerful thighs….

“Enough!” Anne shook her head hard. “No more of this nonsense, Tip. For the hundredth time, what you fail to understand is that I am not someone who could have a… a…,” her voice dropped to a harsh whisper, “a relationship of that kind.”

More pictures flooded into her thoughts; images of housemaids and grooms, of lords and ladies, of people they had known over the years—of all different stations—in various intimate situations. Situations they wouldn’t want to be made public, but which they hadn’t taken pains to keep hidden from a friendly dog on their estate.

Anne nudged Tip’s ribs with her arm until the visions stopped. “I realize you don’t understand how my kind handles such things, Tip, but you must trust me in this—I cannot be as free as you about… about… well, about this!” She splayed her hands in front of her in a gesture of denial, and let her sentence hang in the air between them. “You must believe that I am quite happy enough as I am. Without a… a mate.” The dog stared steadily up at her, his eyes locked with hers as she stood. “And, no, that is not a lie!”

Looking up the street, Anne noted with some dismay that a dark-haired man was staring at her with a startled, wary expression on his face. He must think her a candidate for Bedlam, holding a conversation with an animal.

If only the man knew just how crazy, how driven to lunacy she was by a dog who’d made his thoughts known to her for the past dozen years or so—especially one who was an inveterate matchmaker, bound and determined to compromise her moral code.

Anne gave the lead a tug, and marched them on, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of normalcy. When she reached the staring man, she flashed him a quick smile and shrugged.

He continued to gape—dumfounded—as she passed. She felt his eyes watching her until she turned the corner and moved out of sight.

*******************

Rosie is a Flat-Coated Retriever… no doubt about it now!

Just look at these pictures and compare them to Rosie:

And she looks just like my “FCR” Nyxie from a decade or two ago – same ears, same body proportions, same almond-shaped eyes, same long face.

And Flatties are total goof-balls — they take a long time to lose their puppy-ness, and are often described as the clowns of the dog world. Very silly, very loving, very playful.

They’re also stinkin’ be-YEW-tiful dogs, with shiny black coats, expressive eyes, and attractive fans and tails. I describe them as being like black Golden Retrievers, but slightly bigger.

I love the puppy faces, but the adults are even more attractive!

As for Rosie’s temperament, I can see the goofy-doofness coming out in her when she relaxes. When she feels confident in her environment and the people/dogs she’s with, she’s a full-out happy girl, tail a-waggin’ and personality shining. When she’s around someone she’s not quite sure of (which, unfortunately, includes The Hubster still), she’s a little more remote, but willing to approach them if they stay calm and don’t reach for her quickly.

Baby steps… it’ll take baby steps to get her to act like a fully “normal” dog, but she’s done extremely well.

Compared to what she was just ten days ago, she’s already come a million miles!

But what I may not have expressed properly is just how much my sister means to me. Except for a few hiccups when we were teenagers, she and I have always been exceedingly close. She’s been my sounding board, my support, my mentor, my girlfriend, the person to whom I most want to tell a story. She’s been the one I can cry with, the one I always look to when thoughts of our late mother get me all verklempt. She’s the person I bounce ideas off of, and the childhood friend who always came up with the wackiest plot lines for our Barbies.

No… seriously! I would never have thought of using Barbies to play “superheroes.”

My sister is a delight — and it’s her birthday today!

She’s also a wife:

and a GREAT mom!

And one of the best danged writers I’ve ever read.

This year is gonna be one of the best for her — and I’m so happy I get to be along for the ride.

Happy birthday, LeeCee. May you enjoy many, many more.

Love you!

PS – thanks to Facebook for letting me shamelessly rip off all those pictures from LeeCee’s wall.

Ever since grad school, when I’d be up until ridiculous hours of the night painting costume renderings, I’ve been hooked on the sweeping emotions great soundtracks can evoke, the wonderfully rich way music can set my right-brained self free to be creative.

With all the writing I’ve been doing to get my manuscript done in time for the Golden Heart submission date in early December, I’ve been running my iPod on overtime.

Here’s what I’ve been listening to:

Lush, gorgeous, European, playful… oh, I adore this movie and this music! You just can’t beat Ennio Morricone…

Omigod — so beautiful. The playful Irish music, the 18th Century influences, the pounding “running” music. It makes my heart swell with thoughts of “I *will* find you!”

Look, trust me on this one — anything with Yo-Yo Ma is gonna be deeelicious! On top of that, the music is so “otherworldly” and thick with emotion, as fraught as the movie with unrequited love. Auuugh…my heart… it aches!

This has such an out-of-doors quality to it — with the first few notes, I start smelling vast valleys of hay and wheat, I see buffalo, I hear other languages. Yum!

If you can get through the St. Crispin’s day speech without bawling like a baby — and wanting to grab a sword and join in the fray — you’ve got more self-control than I do. And, if you can watch the movie without falling a little in love with Kenneth Branagh, you’re a much better person than me.

I actually can’t listen to this late at night — it gives me the creeps and I wind up convinced that Orcs are hiding in my closet. But it’s great if you’re writing a fight scene or working on something “military.”

Okay, I’ll admit that this isn’t my favorite P&P adaptation ever — I have a problem with Lizzie here. But I adore Matthew Macfadyen and have practically worn out my DVR replaying moments of this movie. And the soundtrack, although brief, is just as addictive. I play and replay and replay it…

Ennio Morricone is amazing. He and Danny Elfman are my soundtrack heros — I could seriously sit and listen to them for hours and hours. (Have you heard Elfman’s Batman soundtrack?! Awesome!)

Gutwrenching movie, gorgeous music. So unusual, so rich, so “female.” I love it.

I think this may have been the first soundtrack I ever purchased — it made me love Puccini, and Italy, and men frolicking in ponds, and Maggie Smith. Oh, it’s perfection.

However, just looking at these soundtrack covers revealed something to me.

I think I may be just a little influenced by the male leads in these movies.

Just a *little* bit.

How about you? Do you listen to any soundtracks? Any you want to recommend? I’ve got a whole bunch of iTunes credits burning a virtual hole in my virtual wallet — give me a reason to spend some!

He’s been using Picasa (from Google) to share them with family and friends on-line, and — with the face recognition software — has been making sure everyone is tagged appropriately.

But… the really fun thing is that Picasa includes an app that creates little movies using the tagged faces.

For your enjoyment — I share this one he made of me.

In all my double-chinned, must-get-my-roots-touched up, grumpy-faced glory!

Enjoy!

Peg Bracken’s “I Hate to Cook Book” is now 50 years old…

…and to celebrate, the publishers have issued a 50th anniversary edition!

I’ve mentioned it before, but this was THE cookbook for my mother — the non-cook.

A lot of the recipes involve canned soup, wine (both for the meal and for the cook), and a big helping of snark. Seriously, I *read* this cookbook like a book when I found it among my mother’s thing after my father moved from our childhood home.

Here’s an excerpt from the forward:

Some women, it is said, like to cook.

This book is not for them.

This book is for those of us who hate to, who have learned, through hard experience, that some activities become no less painful through repetition: childbearing, paying taxes, cooking. This book is for those of us who want to fold our big dishwater hands around a dry martini instead of a wet flounder, come the end of a long day.

Last night, I had a hankering for her “Sunday Chicken” and was able to whip it together (sans a can of cream of mushroom soup, as it’s hard to find gluten-free) in less than 20 minutes — with only 5 minutes of that being actual prep time. It’s a sort of Cashmere chicken, with cream and apples, onions and curry powder. Yummy scrummy!

One of my stops today will be at a bookstore to try and find the 50th anniversary edition — my mother’s copies are so battered and torn that I’m afraid to work directly from them.

Blessings on the publishers for giving me a new book to use going forward!