Living the Dream

Well, here we are. It’s Friday again, but this Friday is different because it’s also the release date for the ABB”s newest book box, Cute but Crazy 3

In honor of that occasion, the letter T is offering The Tipsy Pig as its cocktail of the day.

Never heard of a Tipsy Pig? I hadn’t either until I needed something unusual for a new book. The Tipsy Pig is sure to be a crowd pleaser because it’s made with bacon! Yup, you heard that right. Alcohol and bacon. What could possibly be better than that?

Make It Your Own

Ingredients

Ice
3 ounces of bourbon
1 ounce of bacon brown sugar simple syrup (recipe below)
1 ounce of sweet vermouth
5 drops of bitters
Candied bacon
Maraschino cherries for garnish

Mix It

Making the bacon brown sugar simple syrup:

In a small saucepan, over medium heat, cook 1 cup of chopped bacon with 1 cup of brown sugar and 1 cup of water until lightly boiling. Strain the candied bacon and leave the syrup to cool.

Making the drink:

Add the bourbon, bacon brown sugar simple syrup, vermouth and bitters into an ice-filled shaker.

Shake until well mixed.

Pour over ice

Garnish with maraschino cherries and a piece of candied bacon.

While you’re enjoying your new favorite cocktail, take a minute to read a bit from The Tipsy Pig, my contribution to the Cute But Crazy 3 box set.

A former socialite, a recluse, and a tipsy pig—the perfect recipe for disaster or romance?Dreading publicity over her recent divorce, her ex-husband’s arrest, and her upcoming 40th birthday, Sahara Larson, the former CEO of Larson Enterprises, escapes from Toronto to hide away at a friend’s rustic cabin near Algonquin Park. The future looks bleak, but among her neighbors is Hiram Colson, a reclusive bestselling author who rescues discarded pets. Will he be able to rescue her, too? Can a potbellied pig with a penchant for homemade dandelion wine unite two lonely people?

Chapter One

Childless, divorced, unemployed, and almost forty. A fate worse than death, and yet there wasn’t one damn thing I could do about it. I couldn’t decide which of the dreaded Four Horsemen of my Apocalypse was the worst, although at this moment, the unemployed option stung the most. Not that I really needed to work. I’d lost a fortune, but I wasn’t penniless. It was just that I’d worked at one job or another my entire adult life, dedicating myself to the family business, and now I would have nothing to do. It sucked.

Before I’d reluctantly assumed the position of CEO for Larson Pork Enterprises, I’d worked my way up from graphic design to head of the marketing department, constantly searching for ways to keep up with the competition in this dog eat dog—or rather pig eat pig—world, forced to work long hours to try and hang on to our market share, especially once COVID 19 hit, creating havoc in the meat processing plants which led to shortages. Finding ways to stay competitive without raising prices or cutting employees had been a delicate balancing act, but then the virus had hit too close to home, and everything had changed.

Sadly, after only nine months in the big chair, I was forced to sell the pork processing company that had been in my family since 1890 when Toronto had been known as Hogtown. No more bringing home the bacon. Not exactly a banner line for the resumé or a plus at a job interview. I could picture the scene now.

So, Ms. Martin, I see you’re applying for the position of CEO. I can see you have experience in the field, but tell me, why did you leave your last job?

I sold the company to an international competitor after I fired myself on the grounds that I’m an idiot who didn’t have enough commonsense to realize my ex-husband was robbing me and my company blind.

I see, and would you consider that a strength or a weakness?

I groaned. It would probably be even worse than that.

I sat behind my great-great-grandfather’s ebony desk one last time, staring down at the Moroccan leather blotter. I ran my fingers over the S M L I’d carved into the material a lifetime ago, and sighed. I wasn’t ready for this, not now, not ever. I reached for the cooling cup of coffee I’d picked up from the Java Shack on my way to the office.

According to my best friend Miranda who’d dropped by before going to court this morning, I was giving an Oscar-winning performance as a corpse, even though I’d narrowly escaped being one. It was all a matter of perspective. As she put it, with a little effort I could probably land a walk-on in the filming of the next zombie apocalypse movie. She was exaggerating, but sadly there was too much truth there to ignore.

I’d always been slender, but following weeks in the hospital, the black pantsuit and shell I wore under it hung from my emaciated frame, the only color other than the waxy pallor of my skin coming from my grandmother’s pearls, a fitting costume for a corporate funeral. Saying goodbye to the company and the only jobs I’d ever known was so much harder than I’d expected.

“What the hell are you going to do now, Sahara?”

My voice echoed in the office devoid of family paintings, books, and the soft-surfaced furnishings I’d opted to keep, bouncing off the Lavish Lavinia Larson pig statuette.

A single tear trickled down under the frame of my dark, tortoise-shell glasses. I swiped at it. I would not cry—not now, not ever again. As Dad had always said, tears were for sissies, and while I might be a lot of things—naïve, anxious, and disheartened, despite being a girl, I wasn’t a wimp. I was a survivor.

When I’d turned twenty-one and had graduated from university with a degree in Fine Arts, Dad had given me a job in the marketing department. It had been a far cry from my imagined future restoring masterpieces and creating some of my own, but since I’d spent most of my life trying to make up for the fact that I’d been born without a dick, if that was what Dad wanted, then that was what he would get.

I reached for the statuette on the desk, my biggest success. Lavish Lavinia Larson, the company mascot, was a cartoon pig, loosely based on Miss Piggy, the Muppet character I’d loved. In her silver sequined gown and tiara, holding a lorgnette up to her eyes, she ruled over the porcine realm selecting only the best of her subjects for Larson Bacon. While my father had had his doubts, claiming people would be appalled by the idea which in some ways smacked of cannibalism, I’d pointed out that it was really no different from Charlie the tuna, Chiquita banana, the life-sized M & M candies, or Mr. Peanut—all products selling themselves.

Eventually, he’d backed down, and after a consumer study that showed the pig immensely popular with children and female shoppers, Lavish Lavinia became the star of all Larson bacon ads and commercials. Within a year, the Lavish Lavinia slogan, a cut above the rest, and her cute piggy face had graced Larson bacon products.

As another means of drawing in more consumers, I’d added unusual bacon recipes under our package labels, along with mini pig stickers that could be saved and redeemed for a Lavish Lavinia plush toy. Shoppers loved the idea, and the sale of Lavish Lavinia products increased until our bacon was our most popular commodity. Larson’s might be a far cry from the industry giants, but we had a firm grip on our markets.

Within five years, in addition to selling trademark items like lunch bags and t-shirts, we’d put out two Lavish Lavinia Cookbooks, with recipes for everything from Bacon Stuffed Artichokes, Bacon Brownies, and Bacon and Cheese Baked Ziti in Zucchini Boats to cocktails. After all, love made the world go round, and everybody loved bacon.

Shortly before my father’s untimely death, we’d expanded our product line, adding bacon-flavored simple syrup, candied bacon, bacon-flavored potato chips, and pre-cooked woven bacon taco shells to our list of products. We’d partnered with a micro-brewery and had given our blessing to bacon flavored beer, with Lavish Lavinia on the label, and most recently, after we’d joined forces with McPhee’s Distillery, she’d been featured on their newest product, premixed Tipsy Pig cocktails, a favorite of mine, the perfect drink anywhere, anytime. What I wouldn’t give for one of those now—I would even settle for just the three ounces of bourbon in it.

Stiffening my spine, I placed the statuette back on the desk, stood, and paced the floor, the heels of my Jimmy Choo’s rat-tat-tatting on the polished oak, sounding like some demented woodpecker, as I waited for Saul Levett, the company lawyer.

While selling Larson Enterprises had been the only thing to do, doing so had left a hole in my heart—as if the damn thing didn’t already resemble Swiss cheese.

I glanced at my watch. Where was Saul? He’d been gone almost two hours. The meeting shouldn’t have taken this long.

Nature abhorred a vacuum, and the longer I waited to hear my fate, the more worries and memories combined to fill the void.

How I wished for a do-over, a mulligan, a chance to go back in time to change something, make a different decision, run away from what would turn out to be the biggest mistake of my life—even if I hadn’t been the one to orchestrate it—but karma never gave anyone a second chance. I’d lost it all. Whatever I had left was all I would ever have, and while the Coronavirus had been the last straw, stealing my father from me, it had been my ex-husband who’d taken everything else.

I wrung my dry, chapped hands, desperately searching for answers. It wasn’t as if I wasn’t used to disappointment, but this time, there didn’t seem to be any light at the end of the tunnel.

Glancing at the mirrored wall behind the empty display shelves, I examined my reflection. I’d never deluded myself with the idea that I was a great beauty. I resembled my father, but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. While he might’ve been considered handsome in a Nordic sort of way, I was as plain as they came, with a wan complexion that could burn in the shade, a nose that might be slightly too big for my face, thin, colorless lips that had long ago forgotten how to smile, and myopic, watery blue eyes that necessitated the constant wearing of glasses. I’d tried contact lenses, but putting them in and taking them out was far more trouble than they were worth. I’d considered laser surgery, but the severity of the myopia meant I would still have to wear glasses, so why bother?

Blonde hair, pulled back into a chignon, exposed the inch of dark roots that would probably grow even longer before I could do anything about them. With this area of the province still in partial lockdown, it was almost impossible to get an appointment with a hairdresser, and the last time I’d tried to do my own, my hair had come out a most unattractive shade of mauve. Thankfully, we’d been in total lockdown, and I’d been working from home. Eventually it had washed out.

The pale face staring back at me had dark circles under overbright eyes, visible behind thick frames, and bloodless lips. I suppose I could’ve made an effort, put on some of the makeup I’d started to wear when I’d been introduced to Randy, a little blusher for color, lipstick, maybe even eyeshadow to draw the observer’s eyes away from what was really there, but to what end? There was no one left to impress.

I reached for the Financial Observer lying on my desk and glared at the headline on the front page of the rag that passed itself off as a newspaper. Larson CEO Sells to Sapphire, Cuts Randy Loose. Not quite the truth, but what had I expected? Sensationalized headlines sold more papers than facts ever did. I dropped the broadsheet into the recycling bin and resumed my pacing.

You can get Cute But Crazy 3, featuring The Tipsy Pig from any Amazon retailer for only 99 cents USD, or free to read in Kindle Unlimited.

Come back tomorrow for the last of this week’s cocktails brought to you by the letter U.

Don’t forget to check out other challengers here. https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1mvSm8FsuFVkOQulQ0EgzslGiNd8CZWWrqaRhCG8Sv4o/edit#gid=1500973813

Good morning. Welcome back. It’s hard believe that most of the month of April is over already. Wish I could say the same about the Pandemic. Have you ever been to New Orleans? A few years ago, I’d planned to go there, but a nasty little storm named Katrina changed my plans. I had a friend who lived in the area. His home was all but destroyed, but he bounced back. Sadly, he’s gone now, but I remember him telling me that if I did decide to visit the city, I should carry chalk to make it easier for the police to outline my body when they found it. He had a wry sense of humor.

Here’s a little history I’ll bet you didn’t know. In 2008, the Louisiana House of Representatives made a historic decision. In a 62-33 vote, legislators proclaimed the Sazerac — the famed mix of rye whiskey, bitters and absinthe that originated in the bayou — New Orleans’ official cocktail.

The drink’s origins date back to the 1830s, when a Creole apothecary named Antoine Peychaud concocted a potent recipe at his pharmacy in the French Quarter. Peychaud combined his family’s secret recipe for bitters with cognac and began serving the drink to friends.

Although the Sazerac can be found across New Orleans’ drinking establishments, Peychaud’s bitters remain the key to creating this iconic cocktail.

NPR’s Robert Siegel prepares a Sazerac under the strict guidance of Lu Brow, bar chef at the Swizzle Stick Bar in downtown New Orleans. Brow calls the Sazerac a “wonderful, complex” cocktail and adds, “If ever there was a city that deserved an official drink, it was New Orleans.” (NPR)

And so today, the letter S brings you the official drink of New Orleans, the Sazerac! Now, just because I haven’t been to New Orleans doesn’t mean I haven’t researched it. In fact, New Orleans is the setting for my paranormal series, The Punishers. It was always my dad’s dream to help me write a book. He had his heart set on something involving vampires and shapeshifters, but he loved my police procedural suspense novels. Hence, the Punishers, a group of preternatural crime fighters who keep both the underworld and the overworld of New Orleans safe.

Make it Your Own

Ingredients

Absinthe, to rinse
2 ounces cognac (Can use Rye whiskey if you prefer)
1/2 ounce simple syrup
3 dashes Peychaud’s bitters

Mix it

Pour the absinthe into a rocks glass and swirl to coat the inside. Discard any excess. Fill the glass with ice to chill.

Combine the cognac, simple syrup and bitters in a cocktail shaker with ice. Cover and shake vigorously.

Discard the ice from the glass and strain the shaker mixture into the glass.

Rub the rim of the glass with the lemon twist, add to the drink and serve immediately.

When I get to New Orleans, you can be sure I’ll have a Sazerac!

Now, here’s a look at The Punishers, Book One, The Tigress

Paranormal Detective Ellie Taggart, a rakshasa capable of assuming the shape of a tigress, has always worked alone, searching for those responsible for her mother’s murder. When an investigation results in the death of a close friend and vampire, she’s forced to partner with handsome and mysterious peredhil, Steve Cassidy.
Like her, the half-human, half-elf uses his special talents to fight evil wherever it exists. Rogue vampires, shapeshifters, zombies, practitioners of black magic, poltergeists, ghosts—none of them can beat him. That is until someone or something no longer plays by the rules. There’s a new villain in New Orleans, one who threatens both the humans and non-humans who make the city home.
Is the enemy Draug, the wizard who murdered Ellie’s mother centuries ago? Is it someone from Steve’s shrouded past intent on revenge? Or are they facing a new enemy with an agenda all his or her own? As the tigress and her partner search for answers, trying to prevent the bodies from piling up, they have to manage conflicting emotions and desires that threaten to overwhelm them. Can two such different creatures of the light join forces to defeat the darkness, or will the powers of evil triumph?

Welcome back. We’re one month into spring in the Northern Hemisphere. I hope Mother nature is treating you well.

Today’s cocktail is brought to you by the letter R. There are many great drinks that start with the letter R, but I’ve chosen a simple one. The Rob Roy is similar to the Manhattan but is made with scotch.

According to the Waldorf Astoria Hotel’s history, the drink was inspired by an 1890’s operetta loosely based on the life of the Scottish folk hero, Rob Roy MacGregor while the show was running. I am a big fan of historical movies like Ben Hur, Hawaii, Braveheart Cleopatra and The Last of the Mohicans. One of my favorites is Rob Roy, starring Liam Neeson.

Who doesn’t appreciate the beauty of the highlands?

Make It Your Own

Ingredients

2 ounces scotch
3/4 ounce sweet vermouth
3 dashes Angostura bitters
Garnish: brandied cherry

Mix It

Add the scotch, sweet vermouth and bitters into a mixing glass with ice and stir until well-chilled.Strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

Garnish with 2 speared brandied cherries.

Enjoy!

Come back tomorrow for fun with the letter S.

Don’t forget to check out other challengers here. https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1mvSm8FsuFVkOQulQ0EgzslGiNd8CZWWrqaRhCG8Sv4o/edit#gid=1500973813

Hello again. We really do need to keep meeting like this, so I hope you’ll continue to follow the blog long after April is over.

When I decided on the theme for this year, I was afraid I might have trouble with some of the more different letter, like Q, but believe it or not, Q was an easy one, and it’s given me some fantastic story ideas.

As a Canadian, I’ve always enjoyed our rye whisky whether on the rocks or with mix. I have a bottle of maple rye that’s to die for.

Unfortunately, like a few of the previous cocktails, this isn’t one I can try myself since I’m allergic to nuts and chocolate, but it does sound yummy.

Make It Yours

Ingredients

½ ounce Canadian whisky
½ ounce Irish cream liqueur
1½ ounces coffee flavored liqueur
2 ounces chocolate milk
Ice

Mix It

In a cocktail shaker filled with ice, combine all ingredients.
Shake until chilled.
Pour into an old fashioned glass and add an ice cube.

Enjoy!

Come back tomorrow for a peek at what you’ll get from the letter R.

Don’t forget to check out other challengers here. https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1mvSm8FsuFVkOQulQ0EgzslGiNd8CZWWrqaRhCG8Sv4o/edit#gid=1500973813

Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales, the weekly blog where a select group of writers share a scene from their work in progress with you. This week, our word prompt is HURRY. I’m continuing with The White Dahlia. The story is moving right along at a much quicker pace. Enjoy.

The sooner she got home, the better.

“Beth! … Beth Reynolds! … Detective Sergeant Reynolds, I know you can hear me! What’s your hurry?”

For the second time in as many days, Beth turned her head at the sound of Jack Ogden’s despised voice. He was running toward her. In this heat, he was sweating like a chunky kid chasing an ice cream truck.

“Who’s that?” Al asked.

“That is the infamous Jack Ogden, the pariah who wrote the story about the body yesterday. He looks like crap. No doubt burning the candle at both ends, with too many women, fast food, and booze,” she answered, unable to quash her bitterness.

And if he got close enough, he might smell her latest cologne, knowing damn well she’d discovered another body. But that’s all he would get out of her. The uniformed officer stepped in front of him, blocking his access to her.

“That’s far enough, sir.”

Jack poked his head around the man.

“Beth. Either you speak to me, or I’ll shout out my questions for everyone to hear.”

She turned toward the journalist, knowing that if she didn’t, he would make good on his threat.

“What do you want, Jack? I was about to have dinner but seeing you just turned my stomach.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure it wasn’t something in there that did that for you? Why are you here? Is it because of the explosion? You aren’t with the bomb squad anymore, so there has to be more to it.”

“No comment,” she ground out through clenched teeth.

“The Commissioner said a van exploded. Would it by any chance be the van the police have been looking for, the dark van seen in the alley on Thursday night?”

How the hell did he know that? They’d kept the search under the radar, and yet slimy here knew all about it. Who’d he speak to?

Jack narrowed his eyes. Her hesitation was all the answer he needed.

“So it is the same van.”

“No comment,” she spit the words at him, barely able to control her fury.

Jack turned from her to Al.

“Detective Foster. The woman who died Thursday night was one of your missing persons, and here you are again this evening. Why is that? Does this have something to do with her? Care to add anything?”

That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales

Welcome to the third week of April. Wow! How time flies! Once again this week, I’m waxing nostalgic with the places i want to visit, so I’m taking you back to Hawaii.

Whenever people think of the island state, they see lush foliage, sandy beaches, incredible turquoise blue water, surfers on waves at Waikiki, volcanoes, coconut, pineapple and of course Pearl Harbor

Today, the letter P brings you the Pearl Harbor cocktail, named after the naval base on Oahu.It’s been one of the most popular cocktails in the state since the 1980s. With it’s light, delightful fruity taste, it’s the perfect summer drink. The greenness of the drink depends on how much melon liqueur you us. More it’s greener, more pineapple juice, it’s not.

Make It Your Own

Ingredients

2 ounces vodka
1 ounce melon liqueur
4 to 5 ounces pineapple juice, to taste
Lemon wedge, garnish
Pineapple wedge, garnish
Maraschino cherry, garnish

Mix It

Pour the vodka and melon liqueur into a short glass filled with ice.

Add pineapple juice.

Stir and serve with a pineapple wedge and cherries.

Now sit back and enjoy a little Elvis with your drink.

Don’t forget to check out other challengers here. https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1mvSm8FsuFVkOQulQ0EgzslGiNd8CZWWrqaRhCG8Sv4o/edit#gid=1500973813

Well, it’s Sunday again. Another week has come and gone, and for the most part, all it’s brought is sad news. I watched the royal funeral yesterday, and today, I’ve just finished attending church in my nightgown, sitting on the couch, watching the virtual service on YouTube. We’re under a six week Stay-at-Home order, and still Ontario reports another 4250 new Covid 19 infections. Why is this still happening? And now they say we’ll have snow this week. What more can go wrong?

At this time last year, we were horrified by the Coronavirus and the speed with which it was moving around the globe. So many died in that first wave, many more in that second one, and now, the cases and deaths are piling up again. We thought the vaccines would bring us back to normalcy. We were wrong. In time, when enough people have been vaccinated, we’ll see a new normal, but right now, that goal seems so far distant, it appears unreachable and the virus is outpacing the vaccinations.

What have you missed most? I’ve missed all the things I used to take for granted–like lunch dates with friends, shopping in person for everything from bras to underwear, deciding on the spur of the moment to go out for a drink or a meal, attending sports events and watching my grandkids play, going to award ceremonies and graduations, music concerts and plays, and most of all I miss seeing my sons.

I’m lucky enough to see my mother twice a week. She’s in a long-term care facility spared the horrors so many faced. She’s had both shots of her vaccine, and while she’s spent most of her time in her room, she’s been spared from this horrendous disease. I see my daughter weekly, as she does my groceries so that I can avoid possibly getting infected. She, myself, and my husband have had our first doses of the vaccine. We aren’t 100 percent protected, but if we do get sick, maybe it won’t be deadly.

So, on that dismal note, I’ll go and make lunch and then get back to writing this afternoon. Hope you can find a way to enjoy your day.

Well, we’re arrived at the end of the second full week of blogs and I’m enjoying myself immensely! When I started my series, Cocktails for You, I wondered where I would get my inspiration, but this blog theme has been a godsend.

So what does the letter O have for us today? How about an Oasis? Think of those hot summer days in our future where we’re rushing around like rats in a maze–especially if we’re caught in socially distant line after line. Picture salvation in the distance. Do you see the palm trees? feel the cool ocean breeze? There it is. The Oasis. Doesn’t it look good? Doesn’t it look refreshiong?

Make It Your Own.

Ingredients

1 oz Curacao
2 oz Gin
Soda Water
Ice cubes
Lemon Wedges and mint leaves,

Mix it

Fill a tall glass with ice cubes or crushed ice.

Add Blue Curacao and gin.

Top with soda water. Stir and garnish.

Enjoy!

There it is. Simple, quick and easy. Hope you have a wonderful weekend. I’ll see you back here on Monday!

Stay safe, stay healthy, and have a great Sunday.

Looking for something to read? Check out the ABB site. Lots of books to read, some of them even free! https://authorsbillboard.com/book-bites/

Don’t forget to check out other challengers here. https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1mvSm8FsuFVkOQulQ0EgzslGiNd8CZWWrqaRhCG8Sv4o/edit#gid=1500973813

Here we are back again. How is spring treating you? Ours has been surprisingly and unusually warm. I hope this is a sign of of a nice summer to come, but then again, Mother Nature hasn’t been exactly kind to humanity lately.

Many of the cocktails I’ve shown you so far remind you of places far away, some I’ve visited, others I would love to. Today’s cocktail for the letter N comes from my bucket list. The Negroni is the quintessential Italian cocktail. It’s been called a ‘man’s cocktail’ but i know a few women who would argue with that.

I’ve had one in an Italian restaurant and it’s delicious.

Make it Your Own

Ingredients

1 orange
1 ½ ounces gin
1 ½ ounces sweet vermouth
1 ½ ounces Campari
Sparkling water, for topping

Mix It

Using a vegetable peeler, remove a few rinds from the outside of the orange and reserve.

Take one of the orange rinds and pinch it between two fingers to release some of the essential oils. Rub the inside of a rocks glass with the orange the orange rind to scent the glass.

Fill the rocks glass with ice. Pour the gin, sweet vermouth and Campari over the ice. Using a long cocktail spoon, stir the ingredients until glass feels well chilled. Top with sparkling water.

Enjoy!

Come back tomorrow to see what surprise the letter O has for you. Don’t forget to check out other challengers here. https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1mvSm8FsuFVkOQulQ0EgzslGiNd8CZWWrqaRhCG8Sv4o/edit#gid=1500973813

Welcome back to Cocktails A to Z, my theme for the 2021 challenge blog. Today, we’re going to wax nostalgic as I think back to the days when I could travel.

I love cruises, but I don’t like airplanes and airports. A few years ago, we got the best of both when we simply took a bus to New York City and boarded our cruise ship. The bonus came with an overnight stay in Manhattan. One year, we saw a New York Rangers’ game. Another we visited the Top of the Rock. And of course each time, we spent a few hours in Time Square.

How many people can say they had their picture taken with Batman?

Today’s cocktail brought to you by the letter M is the Manhattan, named after the island of Manhattan itself. If you haven’t been to New York, I highly recommend it. There is so much to see and do. I’ve been five times now, and there are still many wonderful things i want to see. In my fifth Cocktails for You book, Make Mine a Manhattan, my heroine visits the city, searching for inspiration for her newest novel. This book will be available in September.

Make it Your Own

Ingredients

2 1/2 ounces whiskey
1 ounce sweet vermouth
3 dashes Angostura bitters

Mix It.

The Manhattan can be served straight up or on ice. I prefer mine ‘on the rocks’ as they say

Fill a whiskey tumbler with ice.

Add all the ingredients and stir.

Garnish with maraschino cherries

Serve as is or strained into a cocktail glass.

Enjoy!

Here are the book description for Make Mine a Manhattan

What’s an author to do when she’s hopelessly stuck, thanks to writer’s block?

With only eight weeks left to finish her newest novel, bestselling author Sydney Sanders, aka Robin Langford, is stuck. On an impulse, the thirty-five-year old introvert decides to take her agent’s advice and shift gears, but instead of going on a short vacation, she’s going to immerse herself in her story by assuming her heroine’s identity and going to Manhattan to live out the plot. What could possibly go wrong?

As Savanna Long, she boards the train, expecting a quiet ride and time to refresh her muse for the chore ahead, but a lot can happen during the thirty-eight hour trip, especially with her imagination and the drop-dead gorgeous passenger in the next car.

What starts out as a research project takes an unexpected turn when she falls head over heels in love. Suddenly, her reality is better than anything she could ever imagine—and she can imagine a lot—but there’s a glitch. How will her handsome hero feel when he discovers the woman in his bed isn’t the person he thinks she is? Will the fledgling romance fizzle out, or will she have the bestseller she wants and the man she loves?

Here is the opening scene.

“Please, Mom, can’t you just let it go?” I begged, regretting my decision to stop in for a cold drink after my morning run. “You asked and I said no, and I mean it. I’m not interested. Nyet, nada, nein, non.”

The most annoying thing about wearing a mask to protect myself and others from COVID-19 was the inability to see someone’s lower facial expressions, but the eyes never lied. From the storm clouds in my mother’s gray ones, I knew she was angry with me, but I was just as mad at her—well, maybe not at her exactly—but I was frustrated, and this scheme of hers was just one more complication I didn’t need. At the moment, I was hot and sweaty. I just wanted my iced capp and then a shower.

“It’s not as if Mayor Loucks asks you for favors every day,” Mom continued with another volley in an argument I was determined she would never win.

“For the last time, Mom, I refuse to go out with every eligible Tom, Dick, or Harry someone throws in my path,” I stated, my teeth gritted so tightly, they ached. “Besides. We’re still supposed to be staying socially distant. I’m perfectly content in my own bubble. I like my life here as it is, without a lot of fanfare. Shakespeare and I are just fine.”

Mom harrumphed as she finished putting the final touches on my iced cappuccino. The good thing about having a parent who owned a coffee shop was the free drinks, the bad thing was the unsolicited advice.

“I don’t understand why you’re being so obstinate and selfish,” she continued. “The pandemic is winding down, and this is just one little dinner—a barbecue, for heaven’s sake. You’ll be outside. The man is in Flowerfield to look over the old Dog Mountain ski area. If he agrees to invest in it, it’ll be a shot in the arm for the town, and Lord knows, we can use it. Franklin assures me the man has had his Coronavirus vaccine and has a negative test. You can’t get any safer than that these days, and you know it. Besides, Lacey says he’s gorgeous, cultured, and filthy rich. You aren’t getting any younger and quality husband material isn’t easy to find around here. I would think you would be happy to take one for the town.”

“Take one for the town? Just what are you suggesting, Mother? I’m perfectly happy without a prick between my legs or anywhere else,” I hissed through clenched teeth.

“Sydney Robin Langford, you watch your mouth. I didn’t raise you to speak like that and you know it. That is most definitely not what I meant. There are decent folks in here who want to enjoy a quiet cup of coffee without listening to your foul language. The way you’re behaving these days, I swear you’ve become anti-social. Maybe you should see Doctor Edwards. You could’ve started premature menopause.”

I exhaled forcefully. I couldn’t say prick, but my mother, in the same quiet tone a five-year-old uses to whisper, could inform the town that her thirty-three year old daughter was menopausal.

“Mom, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to play nice-nice with some rich carpetbagger who’ll probably walk away from the deal anyway.”

“You’re too busy? I doubt that. You’re the only person I know who actually enjoyed all those months of quarantine. If I hadn’t insisted you come to dinner last night, you would’ve brushed off your sister and your nephew as well as your dad and me. So tell me, Miss Too-Good-to-Do-The-Town-A-Simple-Favor, what is it that you’re working on? And don’t say school work because you started summer vacation last week.”

“I’m … I’m working on a special course—something online,” I stammered, the half-lie slipping out of my mouth.

“You’re always working on something online. The governor says that the kids will be going back to in-classroom learning this fall, so you can quit trying to develop those—what did you call them? Oh yes—innovative and exciting online lessons.” Her eyes narrowed. “I was reading about screen time dependency. Are you addicted to video games? Good Lord, don’t tell me you’rewatching porn or chatting with some stranger who could well be a serial killer.”

“Mother! I don’t know where you get your ideas, but no!”

I shook my head, rolled my eyes, and reached for my cappuccino. And here I thought I was the one with the wild imagination. It was perfectly acceptable to send me on a blind date with a stranger who had money and might invest it in the town, but if I were to meet anyone online, he would be the next Jeffrey Dahmer.

“Forget it. You wouldn’t understand. You never have.” I stepped back. “I have to get home and feed Shakespeare.”

My mother turned and glared at me.

“You treat that cat better than you treat the members of your own family. Fine. I’ll call Franklin and make some excuse, but you’ll regret not helping out when the town needed you. If Stargazer Enterprise does reopen the mountain, having a close personal relationship with the CEO would be quite advantageous.”

Would she never give up? On the defensive now, I harrumphed.

“Since when does a blind date barbecue I have no intention of attending morph into a close personal relationship? Forget it, Mom. I’m not the sacrificial virgin ready to be tossed into the volcano to save the town. Unless you agree not to harp on this again, I’m not coming back for lunch with Callie and Mickey.”

The bell rang announcing the arrival of another customer.

Thank you, Lord.

“Fine,” Mom agreed, but her tone made it clear she wasn’t happy about it. “Maybe he doesn’t need a date per se. There will be plenty of single women there. I’ll see you at one thirty sharp.”

She frowned, her mask moving up her face almost obliterating her eyes.

I sighed, knowing full well that this wouldn’t be the end of it, but if I didn’t make lunch, I wouldn’t survive the lecture that was sure to follow.

“I’ll be here.”

Turning abruptly, I collided with the mountain behind me, splashing my iced capp all over both of us, the ice cubes settling on his loafers.

A collective gasp filled the room, and I was suddenly aware of the dozens of gazes fixed on me. There was Frank, the town mechanic and Sylvia who ran the dry cleaners. Was that Mayor Loucks? Wouldn’t he be happy to discover he’d avoided setting his big buyer up with the Queen of Bad Luck?

“Oh my God,” Mom cried. “What have you done? Don’t you ever watch what you’re doing?”

What I’m doing?

Speechless, I gaped at the huge, wet spot spreading across the man’s tan shirt and khaki pants, scarcely noticing the fact that my white cotton t-shirt was almost as wet. Tilting my head up, I stared at the face hidden behind his mask, mirrored sunglasses, and the brim of his Panama hat. When had I ever seen a man with such broad shoulders? Despite my mask, the aroma of his aftershave tickled my nose, and I sneezed.

Heat filled my cheeks. No doubt the top half of my face was as red as a ripe tomato, and considering I had carrot-colored hair, currently pulled up into a messy bun on the top of my head, it wouldn’t be a good look on me. I peered at the mess I’d made, suddenly aware of the fact that my tightened nipples were poking out of my wet shirt.

Mortification mixed with indignation, and my brain clicked into gear. I set the empty cup on the table beside me and tried to cover my wet chest with my arms.

The stranger just stood there, looking down on me.

Not known for my patience and diplomacy, I lashed out at him in a tone worthy of Katerina in The Taming of the Shrew.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were there. Of course, if you hadn’t been standing right on my ass, we might’ve avoided the collision. Or don’t you know what six feet away means?”

He hissed in a sharp breath but didn’t speak, no doubt because he knew I was right.

Mom raced around the counter with a damp cloth and a pile of napkins.

“Don’t just stand there, do something.”

Gritting my teeth, I grabbed the damp cloth from her and started dabbing at the coffee on my t-shirt.

“Not you, for heaven’s sake,” Mom barked.

So much for motherly love and compassion!

Turning, I began rubbing at the stain on the man shirt and pants, praying it wouldn’t stain. My new t-shirt probably would, and that annoyed me more, causing me to rub harder.

I stopped dead, my heart pounding out a primitive beat, my lungs refusing to function.

While the stranger had to be at least six foot six, I was barely five feet tall. Most of the coffee stain was on his crotch, a fact my addled brain had ignored. My hand was essentially massaging that area of his anatomy, and I could feel something cylindrical growing hard under my hand.

I jumped away as if I’d been tazered. The old, Is that a flashlight in your pocket or are you happy to see me? joke ripped through my mind, and I smothered a giggle.

“Robin, you’re just making it worse,” my mother said, handing the man the pile of napkins. “Perhaps you would like to step into the washroom, sir?”

The man grunted and reached for the napkins. I couldn’t help noticing his hands. Whoever I’d collided with had the hands of a pianist, with long tapered fingers. What would it be like to have hands like that caress my body?

Mother of God! What is wrong with me?

As soon as he moved away, I rushed out the door, jogging the three blocks home faster than I’d ever run them before, grateful that at seven in the morning, the street was all but deserted.

The minute I stepped inside the house, I collapsed into the chair, a sudden fit of giggles taking my breath away. I laughed until my sides ached. In my mind’s eye, I pictured the scene and dissolved into giggles again.

Of course Mom would place the blame for this squarely on me … the wayward daughter who never did anything right.

Shakespeare wandered into the living room and meowed a welcome.

“It served him right,” I began explaining the incident to my companion. “Had he been the requisite six feet away, he would’ve escaped his fate, and I would now be finishing my iced cappuccino.”

Watch my website for more news about this book and all of my other work. https://mhsusannematthews.ca/

Come back tomorrow to see what you’ll get from the letter N. Don’t forget to check out other challengers here. https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1mvSm8FsuFVkOQulQ0EgzslGiNd8CZWWrqaRhCG8Sv4o/edit#gid=1500973813