Here is a recipe I made up years ago when I was harvesting a rich crop of green beans.
Ingredients:
2 Tb margarine or butter
2 Tb flour
1 tsp salt
1 Tb onion flakes (or 1/2 chopped onions)
dash of pepper
1/2 c. plain, unflavored yogurt
2/3 c. cottage cheese
3 cups fresh green beans (or frozen), steamed tender and drained
1/2 to 3/4 c. shredded mild cheddar cheese
1/2 to 3/4 c. bread crumbs
2 slices of bacon
Make white sauce of butter, flour, salt and pepper. Then add onion, yogurt and cottage cheese. Mix well. Heat just to bubbling.
Mix in green beans and 1/2 bread crumbs.
Pour into greased casserole dish.
Top with the rest of bread crumbs, cheddar cheese and bacon strips.
Bake at 350 F. for 30 minutes. Serves 2-3 adults.
This is a mild recipe but choosing a different cheese, such as a jalapeno mix and adding such spices as garlic powder could change the flavor.
I suggest you try it and then experiment.
People rave when I serve this.
To quote Julia Child, "Bon Appetit!"
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Author Irene Hannon & an English Recipe that can be patriotic!
It's my pleasure today to share a yummy recipe from another Love Inspired Author Irene Hannon, a bestselling, award-winning author, who writes romance and romantic suspense. Here's Irene:
"This is one of my favorite summertime recipes. It’s easy to make, cool and refreshing, and relatively healthy (for a dessert!). It was shared with me by a dear friend, and has become a staple at hot-weather family gatherings. If you want to go for a patriotic touch, substitute blueberries for the kiwi!
ENGLISH TRIFLE
1 angel food cake
1 (3 ½ -ounce) package vanilla instant pudding mix
2 cups skim milk
2 cups whipped topping
1 pound of strawberries, sliced
1 kiwi, halved longwise and sliced
Prepare pudding using skim milk. Fold in whipped topping.
Place 1/3 cake in 3-quart glass bowl. Top with 1/3 pudding mixture and 1/3 strawberries. Repeat twice. Add kiwi to top layer. Refrigerate at least 4 hours before serving.
Yield: 8-10 servings--Irene"
That sounds excellent! Thanks, Irene.
If you want to learn more about Irene, drop by her website.
THE BEST GIFT/GIFT FROM THE HEART—September 2009 (2-in1 “Love Inspired Classics” reissue)
Irene also has a page on her website titled, "What's Cooking?" and features a delicious sounding chicken salad recipe.
I didn't realize that Irene and I both have a Love Inspired Classic out in September. Mine is FINALLY HOME/FINALLY FOUND. I find myself in good company!
Well, that gives you not one but two great summer recipes!
Happy summer cooking...and eating. GRIN
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Author Renee Ryan & a Norwegian Recipe
Today, Author Renee Ryan shares a recipe she can't make but it's one of her husband's favorites--Oh, dear, sounds like me and making cakes not from a box. Here's Renee:
"One of my biggest pleasures writing a new book is the research phase. I’m sure that’s why I love writing historical romance. I learn so many new things. For example: In the process of researching my current release, HANNAH’S BEAU, I found out a lot about the American theater in the late 1800s. For my February 2010 release, HEARTLAND WEDDING, I made my heroine a Norwegian-immigrant-turned-cook at a boarding house in 1860 Kansas. That meant I had the pleasure of researching some of my favorite Norwegian dishes.
No, I’m not Norwegian. But my darling husband is, all the way down to his blond hair, blue eyes and Nordic good looks. Every time he mentions a new adventure that involves a cross-country trek I find myself thinking about his Viking ancestors. I must point out that my husband grew up in a good Christian home under the guidance of loving, godly parents who taught him good values and a strong work ethic. No pillaging and plundering allowed. Since I knew how much my husband enjoyed hearty dishes from the old country, I took it upon myself to make a few of the easier recipes in my own kitchen. An added benefit to this culinary undertaking was a newfound appreciation for my mother-in-law, Dee.
Because of distance, Dee was unable to guide me personally through the cooking process. However, she was gracious enough to send her most treasured recipes to me. I was determined to do each and every one of them justice. Unfortunately, I managed to fail more often than not. I will never master Kumla, one of my husband’s favorites, and a very difficult dish to make. I bow to Dee’s expertise on that one.
Kumla is essentially a dumpling-type recipe that uses potatoes rather than flour. Warning: the Kumla making process is messy. The dumplings have been known to drop a large Norwegian male into a half-day slumber. It is an amazing dish.
Although I can’t make Kumla very well, I continue to attempt some of the easier Norwegian recipes. For more information about my upcoming releases, or for a Norwegian recipe or two, please contact me at my website.
BEST KUMLA RECIPE
Cover with water about 1/2 the depth of ham.
Boil from 2 - 3 hrs., or until tender and done.
Cook the ham in a large kettle with a lid.
When the ham is done, take out of the broth to be served later with the potato
dumplings.How you make the
Dumplings:Start preparing the
dumplings about an hour before the ham is done.5 cups grated and peeled raw potatoes
About 6 cups unsifted flour
9 tsp. baking powder, should be level
Taste the broth to see if it is salty- if not salty add 1 tsp. or a little more salt.
Mix flour, baking powder and salt together. Add to the grated raw potatoes.
Stir together, should be like biscuit dough.
Take some of the dough, about the size of a tennis ball, roll in flour to absorb some of the
stickiness, shape into round
dumplings with your hands- drop into boiling ham broth.Boil very gently for 1 hour, turning
dumplings for more even cooking.Do not put too many in kettle, allow some room to raise.
Use the cover when boiling
dumplings.Serve with ham broth poured over the
dumplings on plate along with the ham.Use butter also or whatever you wish!"--Renee
Renee, it sounds delicious! But I don't know if I'd make it in summer. No doubt Norwegian summers are a bit cooler. --Lyn
Monday, July 6, 2009
Author Ruth Axtell Morren & Her Colombian Mother's Apple Pie
These days, as I weather the storms of having three teenagers, I think more and more of my mother when my older brother and I were teenagers. I find myself thinking, “Now, I understood what she must have gone through.”
My mother is Colombian and I grew up on all kinds of Spanish proverbs. Now, that I am around her age when we were teenagers, I also find myself repeating those sayings in so many situations. Here are a few, which lose something in the translation, but at least you'll get the gist:
* He was left without the goat or the rope
* There is no bad from which some good doesn't come forth
* Don't look for the three legs on the cat (meaning, don't look for trouble)
* For a good time, there's always a good fright (this one rhymes in Spanish)
Anyway, you get the idea.
My mother is not doing too well these days. She suffered a stroke a few years ago and slowly is declining. But she was a strong woman, who had to do a lot on her own in a strange country, to give us a good start in life. I know I'll have to say a temporary goodbye to her soon, but I know when we next see each other, it'll be better, when we're not weighed down by these mortal bodies.
My mother was a very good cook. She never read recipes much. Instead, she watched someone make a dish, and the next time, she was able to make it herself. This is the way she learned how to cook traditional New England dishes when she first came to the U.S.
She made the best apple pie—as well as pumpkin, blueberry and strawberry rhubarb. She didn't have as much opportunity to cook her own native dishes, but her most famous dish which we did enjoy often was Arroz con Pollo (chicken and rice), which was like paella but without the seafood.
Here's her apple pie recipe, which she learned from a little old lady in Maine:
Apple Pie
6-8 sour apples
½ to ¾ c. sugar
¼ teas. cinnamon
1/8 teas. salt
½ tbsp. butter
2 teas. lemon juice
2 tbsp. corn starch
Plain Pastry
1 ½ cups flour
½ c. lard or other shortening (incl. Butter)
½ teas. Salt
ice water (about 3/8 cup)
Add salt to flour and work in lard with fingertips or pastry knife until shortening is evenly mixed in bits the size of peas. Moisten with ice water. Chill.
Toss onto board or cloth dredged sparingly with flour, pat and roll out to about 1/8 inch thickness.
Line pie plate with pastry. Pare, core, and cut apples into slices. Sprinke lemon juice over them. Combine sugar, cinnamon, salt and corn starch. Sprinkle a tablespoon on bottom of pan. Line with apples, then sprinkle more of the sugar mixture over these. Continue layering apples and sugar mixture till pie plate is heaping. Dot with butter. Cover with pastry and crimp edges. Cut a whole in center top of pastry and/or make slashes around it with a knife.
Cover pie edges loosely with foil and place in preheated 425o oven for 10 min. Lower heat to 350o and bake 45 minutes more or until juices are bubbling and apples are tender if pricked with fork.
For more about Ruth's books:
www.RuthAxtellMorren.com
http://ruthaxtellmorren.blogspot.com
The Making of a Gentleman, Steeple Hill mass market.,Aug.'08
A Man Most Worthy, Love Inspired Historical, Oct.'08
Thanks, Ruth. But I'd like your mother's Arroz con Pollo recipe too! Anybody else?--Lyn
My mother is Colombian and I grew up on all kinds of Spanish proverbs. Now, that I am around her age when we were teenagers, I also find myself repeating those sayings in so many situations. Here are a few, which lose something in the translation, but at least you'll get the gist:
* He was left without the goat or the rope
* There is no bad from which some good doesn't come forth
* Don't look for the three legs on the cat (meaning, don't look for trouble)
* For a good time, there's always a good fright (this one rhymes in Spanish)
Anyway, you get the idea.
My mother is not doing too well these days. She suffered a stroke a few years ago and slowly is declining. But she was a strong woman, who had to do a lot on her own in a strange country, to give us a good start in life. I know I'll have to say a temporary goodbye to her soon, but I know when we next see each other, it'll be better, when we're not weighed down by these mortal bodies.
My mother was a very good cook. She never read recipes much. Instead, she watched someone make a dish, and the next time, she was able to make it herself. This is the way she learned how to cook traditional New England dishes when she first came to the U.S.
She made the best apple pie—as well as pumpkin, blueberry and strawberry rhubarb. She didn't have as much opportunity to cook her own native dishes, but her most famous dish which we did enjoy often was Arroz con Pollo (chicken and rice), which was like paella but without the seafood.
Here's her apple pie recipe, which she learned from a little old lady in Maine:
Apple Pie
6-8 sour apples
½ to ¾ c. sugar
¼ teas. cinnamon
1/8 teas. salt
½ tbsp. butter
2 teas. lemon juice
2 tbsp. corn starch
Plain Pastry
1 ½ cups flour
½ c. lard or other shortening (incl. Butter)
½ teas. Salt
ice water (about 3/8 cup)
Add salt to flour and work in lard with fingertips or pastry knife until shortening is evenly mixed in bits the size of peas. Moisten with ice water. Chill.
Toss onto board or cloth dredged sparingly with flour, pat and roll out to about 1/8 inch thickness.
Line pie plate with pastry. Pare, core, and cut apples into slices. Sprinke lemon juice over them. Combine sugar, cinnamon, salt and corn starch. Sprinkle a tablespoon on bottom of pan. Line with apples, then sprinkle more of the sugar mixture over these. Continue layering apples and sugar mixture till pie plate is heaping. Dot with butter. Cover with pastry and crimp edges. Cut a whole in center top of pastry and/or make slashes around it with a knife.
Cover pie edges loosely with foil and place in preheated 425o oven for 10 min. Lower heat to 350o and bake 45 minutes more or until juices are bubbling and apples are tender if pricked with fork.
For more about Ruth's books:
www.RuthAxtellMorren.com
http://ruthaxtellmorren.
The Making of a Gentleman, Steeple Hill mass market.,Aug.'08
A Man Most Worthy, Love Inspired Historical, Oct.'08
Thanks, Ruth. But I'd like your mother's Arroz con Pollo recipe too! Anybody else?--Lyn
Friday, July 3, 2009
Reader Caroline G & Her Recipe for THE PERFECT PICNIC SANDWICH
Readers are starting to send me their summer recipes for our Yummy July! Here's one that I'm going to try soon. Here's Caroline:
"I was told this is called THE PERFECT PICNIC SANDWICH, and it is!
Easy to make the night before (better tasting).
Simply hollow out a loaf of your favorite bread — we used round crusty loaf — and fill it with a truly delicious filling.
The loaf can be transported to the picnic site in a cooler, then cut in wedges and served from a napkin lined basket.
We also tried it with roast pork and it was just as delicious but required a bit more mayo.
Servings:6-8
Ingredients:
1 load bread (crusty round works well, but a baguette does too)
1/2 cup (125 mL) mayonnaise or miracle whip (approx)
3 cups (750 mL) cubed cooked chicken
1 cup (250 mL) green grapes, halved
1/2 cup (125 mL) chopped celery
1/2 cup (125 mL) toasted sliced almonds
1/4 cup (50 mL) sliced green onions
Salt and pepper to taste
romaine_lettuce
1 sweet red pepper, slivered
Preparation:
Cut top off loaf. Hollow out bread, leaving 1/2-inch (1 cm) shell.
Mix together 1/3 cup (75 mL) of the mayonnaise, chicken, grapes, celery, almonds, onions, and salt and pepper to taste.
Brush the shell generously with remaining mayonnaise and line with lettuce.
Spoon about two-thirds of the chicken mixture into romaine-lined shell.
Layer slivered red pepper over salad; spoon remaining chicken mixture on top.
Replace bread top.
Wrap sandwich tightly in plastic and refrigerate until picnic time. Then eat!"
Thanks, Caroline. I luv it!--Lyn
"I was told this is called THE PERFECT PICNIC SANDWICH, and it is!
Easy to make the night before (better tasting).
Simply hollow out a loaf of your favorite bread — we used round crusty loaf — and fill it with a truly delicious filling.
The loaf can be transported to the picnic site in a cooler, then cut in wedges and served from a napkin lined basket.
We also tried it with roast pork and it was just as delicious but required a bit more mayo.
Servings:6-8
Ingredients:
1 load bread (crusty round works well, but a baguette does too)
1/2 cup (125 mL) mayonnaise or miracle whip (approx)
3 cups (750 mL) cubed cooked chicken
1 cup (250 mL) green grapes, halved
1/2 cup (125 mL) chopped celery
1/2 cup (125 mL) toasted sliced almonds
1/4 cup (50 mL) sliced green onions
Salt and pepper to taste
romaine_lettuce
1 sweet red pepper, slivered
Preparation:
Cut top off loaf. Hollow out bread, leaving 1/2-inch (1 cm) shell.
Mix together 1/3 cup (75 mL) of the mayonnaise, chicken, grapes, celery, almonds, onions, and salt and pepper to taste.
Brush the shell generously with remaining mayonnaise and line with lettuce.
Spoon about two-thirds of the chicken mixture into romaine-lined shell.
Layer slivered red pepper over salad; spoon remaining chicken mixture on top.
Replace bread top.
Wrap sandwich tightly in plastic and refrigerate until picnic time. Then eat!"
Thanks, Caroline. I luv it!--Lyn
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Author Lisa Harris Writes about Revenge
Writing from the Heart of Africa
"We’ve all heard of the Mary/Martha syndrome. Martha was the woman in the Bible who ran around, taking care of all the household preparations when Jesus and his disciples came to stay. Mary, on the other hand, left the preparations to her sister to sit at Jesus’ feet.
I often feel a mixture between these two women. In wanting to serve others, I’m quick to jump in, but like Martha, too often get caught up in the details like she did, and forget to take time to stop be still. To learn and glean from those around me. To find peace and strength in God’s word.
When I think about being a strong woman of God, I long to find the combination of both women. Martha opened up her home to Jesus and his disciples, and had the heart of a servant. But Mary was the one who, despite all that had to be done, remembered what was most important.
“Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”
In our rush, rush world, I find these words a breath of fresh air. God knows the responsibilities we as women have. But He also wants us to sit down, be quiet, and like Mary, draw from His strength.
Love Finds You in Revenge, Ohio
In my latest historical, Catherine Morgan wants to find her strength from God, but also has habit of allowing worry to take over. Catherine is bound by a promise to care for her three sisters until they marry, and will do anything to keep them safe—which isn’t easy. Especially when her old beau, Sheriff Corbin Hunter stands in her way. He has evidence that her sister’s fiancé is really an infamous bank robber—and the man who murdered his father. Because of this, Catherine finds herself torn between saving her sister’s heart and losing hers to the man who jilted her seven years ago.
Through Catherine’s journey in this story, she learns the important lesson of forgiveness, trust, and how to find joy, and in turn, to become a strong woman of God.
What helps you, in your busy day, to connect with God and find your source of strength?
And here's my Family Recipe
When I think of summer, I think of my grandmother’s angel food cake topped with strawberries and whipped cream. Definitely one of my summer favorites along with the memories of time spent in the kitchen with her.
Angel Food Cake
12 egg whites
1 ½ tsp Cream of tartar
1 cup sugar
1 cup flour
1 ½ tsp Vanilla
½ tsp Almond extract
½ tsp salt
In a large bowl, beat egg whites with cream of tartar on high until foamy. Gradually add ¾ cup of the sugar, beating until sugar is dissolved and stiff peaks form. Add vanilla and almond extracts.
Sift together flour, remaining sugar and salt. Gently fold flour mixture, ½ cup at a time, into egg mixture just until flour mixture disappears. Pour into an ungreased tube pan. Gently cut through batter with a knife to remove air bubbles.
Bake at 350 degrees for 40-45 minutes or until the cake springs back when lightly touched. Invert cake pan and cool completely.
Serve with whipped cream and fruit or simply enjoy plain!"--Lisa
To learn more about Lisa and her books drop by
http://myblogintheheartofafrica.blogspot.com
OR www.lisaharriswrites.com
OR www.summersidepress.com
Thanks so much, Lisa. Your recipe looks easy, but I'm death to cakes. I'm a pie maker GRIN--Lyn
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Author Cheryl St. John Kicks Off--Yummy July Recipes
July is the heart of summer and the time when families get together for picnics and cookouts. All of July, I'll be posting time-tested summer recipes from authors and readers. If you have a favorite summer recipe, drop by my website and click Contact and email me your recipe and how you got it. At the end of the month, I'll have a free downloadable collection of Yummy July Recipes!
A longtime writing friend Cheryl St. John has sent me this amazing and E-Z recipe.
"Cheryl's Easy Strawberry Shortcake
1 to 1 1/2 pints strawberries , cleaned and sliced angel food cake mix large package sugar-free strawberry Jell-o Cool Whip 9 x 13 baking pan, sprayed I buy the angel food cake mix that only takes water. I think it's Pillsbury. Other mixes require egg whites, but that one is so simple, that's why I like it. Bake it according to the directions, but bake it in a 9 x 13 pan sprayed with cooking spray.
While your cake is baking, clean and slice the strawberries. (I've also used frozen with excellent results.) While the cake is cooling, prepare the strawberry gelatin. I use crushed ice (cause it's on the door of my fridge and easy) added to the cold water to speed setting up. It will still be liquid. Add the strawberries and stir.
Use a large meat fork or a knife to poke holes all over the cake. Use the utensil to pull the sides away from the pan. Stab the cake well. The pour the strawberry and Jell-o mixture around the sides first. then over the top. You may have to use a big spoon to distribute the liquid and fruit evenly.
Cover cake and immediately refrigerate. It takes only a couple of hours to set up if you need it right away. I've made it at the last minute or the night before with perfect results.
Slice and serve with Cool Whip."
Thanks, Cheryl, I can't wait to try this one!--Lyn
Also note that Cheryl St. John has a new title out. If you look to the right column, you'll notice that you can subscribe to the new Love Inspired Historical romance book club. You'll get two free books and never miss another Love Inspired Historical romance!
THE PREACHER'S WIFE
Steeple Hill Love Inspired Historical June 2009
There was nothing remotely romantic about widowed father Samuel Hart's marriage proposal. Yet Josie Randolph said yes. The Lord had finally blessed the lonely widow with the family she'd always dreamed of. And she was deeply in love with the handsome preacher, whose high ideals inspired everyone. Surely during their long journey across the western plains to his new post her husband would grow to love her. Each mile brought them closer to home, yet drove them further apart. Samuel didn't seem ready to open his heart again. But Josie was determined to be not just the preacher's wife, but Samuel's wife.
An excerpt from The Preacher’s Wife, Cheryl St.John
READ CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Durham, Nebraska, June 1869
Only her husband's physical body lay beneath the lush grass in the fenced-in cemetery behind the tiny white church. His spirit had gone on to be with the Lord, but her mother-in-law insisted that Sunday afternoons were for paying respects to the dead. Josephine Randolph knelt and pulled a fledgling weed from beside the flat piece of granite engraved with her husband's name.
Margaretta slipped a lace-edged hankie from the hidden pocket of her emerald-green dress and dabbed her eyes. "He was too young," she said for the thousandth time. "Too young to lose his life."
Josie nodded. It had been three years, and while she had mourned her husband's death and missed his company, there were no tears left. She had loved him. She had been a good wife. But in his affections she had always taken second place to her mother-in-law. She hastened to remind herself that losing a son or daughter was devastating. Margaretta had lost her only child. Of course the woman was still suffering.
"It would be easier if I could take comfort in the fact that he'd left behind a living legacy."
Knowing and dreading what was coming next, Josie got up and brushed her palms together.
Margaretta sniffed into her hankie. "Your inability to give me a grandchild is almost more than I can bear."
Josie turned her gaze to the countryside, spotted an orange and black butterfly and watched it flutter on the breeze as she steeled herself.
"A child would have been a part of him I could hold on to. If only right now I could be caring for a little boy or girl with Bram's features. I would have so loved to watch him grow. His child would have been such a comfort to me."
Josie wanted to cry, too. She wanted to rail at the woman who made her feel every inch as insignificant as her son had. Didn't Margaretta think a child would have been a comfort to her, as well? Didn't she know that Josie's loneliness was eating her up on the inside? Didn't she think Josie wanted more out of life than… than… this?
Momentarily, she closed her eyes against the painfully blue summer sky. She'd never wanted anything more than a family of her own. She'd spent her entire childhood waiting for her circuit-judge father to return home. The times he had, he'd spared her only meager attention before leaving again.
Because Bram Randolph had been a local newspaperman, she'd known he wouldn't be a traveler. She'd married him with the hope of a secure future. Time had proven Bram more concerned with the whims of Margaretta than the needs of his young wife, however. And that was the simple fact.
"You are coming to the house for dinner, aren't you?"
And be exposed to yet another opportunity for Margaretta to pursue her weekly harangue about Josie's barrenness? Josie opened her eyes. "I'm fixing a stew for Reverend Martin," she replied matter-of-factly. "I'll stay and keep him company."
"He seems to be recovering well." Margaretta smoothed the fingers of her beaded gloves. "Whatever you're doing must be working."
Josie managed a smile. "God's doing His part, too."
Margaretta gathered the hem of her voluminous skirt and walked across the thick spring grass toward the street.
Josie glanced down and read the headstone again. "Beloved son and husband." Not father. Sometimes she felt so incomplete, so alone. She hadn't given her husband children, and for that glaring inadequacy, Margaretta would never forgive her.
"Have a good afternoon!" she called after the woman.
Margaretta delivered a tepid wave and continued marching toward her home a few blocks away. Josie experienced the same relief she always did when her obligatory mourning session and weekly dressing-down was over. At least she'd had a good reason to forgo lengthening the torment by joining the woman for a meal. Margaretta's house had a cold, depressing atmosphere that matched the woman's attitude.
Josie glanced at the bright blue sky with a longing that was rising up so swift and strong that the ache took her breath away. She'd prayed for contentment, but she needed more than this. When she didn't keep busy enough, she daydreamed of impossible things.…
Taking a deep breath, Josie made her way with renewed purpose to the shaded two-story house beside the church. She climbed the back porch steps and let herself in. She'd started a stew earlier, and now checked the savory broth, adding water and salt.
"It's Josie!" she called, removing her bonnet and sweeping along the hallway toward the front of the house.
"Who else would be banging pans in my kitchen?" came the good-natured reply.
She found Reverend Martin in his study, seated where she'd left him, on an overstuffed chair with a plaid wool blanket tucked around his legs. He closed his Bible and removed his spectacles, setting both aside. Last March he'd fallen from the roof of the church while replacing shingles, and had broken several bones, including his collarbone and ribs. A particularly severe break in his leg had become infected, and he'd been bedridden with a fever for weeks. Eventually he'd recovered, and was only now able to move from his bed to the study. The town doctor said it would likely be several more weeks before he'd be strong enough to resume his duties.
She'd always considered him a mentor, but these past weeks had made them friends, as well. "The fire's died down," she said. "I'll get a few logs."
"I can't seem to get warm." He was paler and thinner than before the accident, and the change in such a vital, life-loving man was heartbreaking. The man was probably only in his late thirties, but these past weeks had taken a toll. Josie had dedicated herself to seeing him recover to his former self.
"The stew will warm you from the inside out," she assured him. She took two split logs from the box beside the fireplace and knelt to add them to the fire, then used the poker to adjust the wood until the flames caught and licked up around the sides. The bark snapped in the blaze. Warmth spread from the hearth to where the reverend was sitting.
"That's nice," he said with a grateful smile. "I barely have time to realize a need before you've seen to it."
"It's a privilege to help."
"And a help you are. I don't know what I would do without you."
"God would send someone. But I was available."
He chuckled. "You're a woman of great faith, Josie, but you count yourself a little short."
She seated herself on a nearby ottoman.
"A lot of people are available," he told her. "Few are willing."
She never doubted that God was taking care of the reverend. It was when she thought of her own needs that her confidence got a little shaky. "How about a game of checkers before dinner?" she asked.
He gave her a mock frown and flicked his hand as though shooing away a fly. "Do you think I enjoy your kings chasing my last disk around the board, delaying the inevitable?"
She laughed. "Oh, come now. You win sometimes."
"Only if you feel particularly sorry for me and deliberately pass up chances to jump. We need a new game, one I have a hope of winning."
"Based on chance, rather than skill, Reverend?"
"Didn't I see you and James setting up the board the other evening?"
James, a fatherless lad of about fourteen, came by a few times a week to split wood and perform a few other chores. Josie had quickly sensed that, because his mother worked evenings at the café, James was lonely. She'd offered to teach him the game. "You did. He's fast becoming an apt opponent."
The reverend's enormous calico leaped from its spot on the divan to run through the doorway into the nearest bedroom.
"Must be a caller," the reverend said.
Most everyone knocked at the back door and then walked in, but a rap sounded at the front. Josie and the reverend exchanged a puzzled glance before she got up.
A broad-shouldered man in a brown hat and buckskin jacket stood in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the leaves of the twin maple trees. She had a sudden, swift impression of troubled intensity as his gaze bored into hers.
"Good afternoon, sir," Josie greeted him.
He removed his hat, revealing thick chestnut hair in need of a cut. "Ma'am," he said in greeting. "I'm Samuel Hart. The preacher sent by the First Christian Alliance."
Behind him, three girls of varying ages waited in the street near a dusty team attached to a canvas-covered wagon.
His name registered immediately. "Of course! Come in."
He turned and summoned the girls, the fringe of his jacket swaying as he gestured. The girls she assumed were his daughters were wearing clean but wrinkled clothing, and their hair was neatly tucked beneath stiff-brimmed bonnets.
He handed her his hat, still warm from his head, and she laid it on the hall table before ushering the little troupe into the study. "The interim preacher is here," she said.
Samuel strode forward and shook the elder man's hand. His size and his sun-darkened face and hands made the reverend seem even sicklier in comparison. "Pleased to meet you, sir. These are my daughters. Elisabeth."
Elisabeth was the tallest and oldest, with blue eyes and a full face. Her weary smile was hesitant.
"Abigail." The middle daughter had hair a paler blond than the other two, blue eyes, a narrow face and a prominent chin.
"And Anna." The youngest of the trio possessed wide hazel eyes and a charming smattering of freckles.
A look of confusion wrinkled Reverend Martin's brow. "Josie, didn't the letters say that Samuel was traveling with his wife and family?"
Josie had recalled the same thing. Before she could answer, Samuel Hart said, "My wife died on the way."
The snapping fire was the only sound for a moment.
Anna slipped her hand into Abigail's and the three girls huddled closer, their expressions somber, the pain of their loss evident.
"I'm deeply sorry," Reverend Martin said.
Samuel nodded curtly, the subject apparently closed.
"This is Josephine Randolph." The reverend indicated Josie with a nod. "God sent her to me. She cooks, takes care of the house, does my laundry—she even handled my bills and mail while I was laid up."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma'am."
It was inappropriate that she should notice his well-defined cheekbones or his recently shaved, firm, square chin, but she had. Even his deep, rich voice arrested her attention. But his eyes…she'd never seen so much suffering in a person's eyes, and the sight carved a confusing ache inside her chest.
Samuel turned his gaze to look pointedly at his daughters.
One at a time, they said, "Pleased to meet you."
Glad for the distraction, she said, "You've arrived just in time for dinner. I trust you're hungry. Would you like to help me make biscuits?"
" I would," Abigail said with a bright smile.
Watching his daughters' hesitation and discomfort pained Sam. He hoped the pretty young woman's friendly welcome made this day a trifle easier than the rest. The past weeks had been grueling, both physically and emotionally. "All of you will help Mrs. Randolph," he called after them.
Over her shoulder, Anna cast him a wide-eyed glance, her expression so much like his late wife's that it made his breath hitch in his chest.
Reverend Martin indicated the settee. "Have a seat."
A longtime writing friend Cheryl St. John has sent me this amazing and E-Z recipe.
"Cheryl's Easy Strawberry Shortcake
1 to 1 1/2 pints strawberries , cleaned and sliced angel food cake mix large package sugar-free strawberry Jell-o Cool Whip 9 x 13 baking pan, sprayed I buy the angel food cake mix that only takes water. I think it's Pillsbury. Other mixes require egg whites, but that one is so simple, that's why I like it. Bake it according to the directions, but bake it in a 9 x 13 pan sprayed with cooking spray.
While your cake is baking, clean and slice the strawberries. (I've also used frozen with excellent results.) While the cake is cooling, prepare the strawberry gelatin. I use crushed ice (cause it's on the door of my fridge and easy) added to the cold water to speed setting up. It will still be liquid. Add the strawberries and stir.
Use a large meat fork or a knife to poke holes all over the cake. Use the utensil to pull the sides away from the pan. Stab the cake well. The pour the strawberry and Jell-o mixture around the sides first. then over the top. You may have to use a big spoon to distribute the liquid and fruit evenly.
Cover cake and immediately refrigerate. It takes only a couple of hours to set up if you need it right away. I've made it at the last minute or the night before with perfect results.
Slice and serve with Cool Whip."
Thanks, Cheryl, I can't wait to try this one!--Lyn
Also note that Cheryl St. John has a new title out. If you look to the right column, you'll notice that you can subscribe to the new Love Inspired Historical romance book club. You'll get two free books and never miss another Love Inspired Historical romance!
THE PREACHER'S WIFE
Steeple Hill Love Inspired Historical June 2009
There was nothing remotely romantic about widowed father Samuel Hart's marriage proposal. Yet Josie Randolph said yes. The Lord had finally blessed the lonely widow with the family she'd always dreamed of. And she was deeply in love with the handsome preacher, whose high ideals inspired everyone. Surely during their long journey across the western plains to his new post her husband would grow to love her. Each mile brought them closer to home, yet drove them further apart. Samuel didn't seem ready to open his heart again. But Josie was determined to be not just the preacher's wife, but Samuel's wife.
An excerpt from The Preacher’s Wife, Cheryl St.John
READ CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Durham, Nebraska, June 1869
Only her husband's physical body lay beneath the lush grass in the fenced-in cemetery behind the tiny white church. His spirit had gone on to be with the Lord, but her mother-in-law insisted that Sunday afternoons were for paying respects to the dead. Josephine Randolph knelt and pulled a fledgling weed from beside the flat piece of granite engraved with her husband's name.
Margaretta slipped a lace-edged hankie from the hidden pocket of her emerald-green dress and dabbed her eyes. "He was too young," she said for the thousandth time. "Too young to lose his life."
Josie nodded. It had been three years, and while she had mourned her husband's death and missed his company, there were no tears left. She had loved him. She had been a good wife. But in his affections she had always taken second place to her mother-in-law. She hastened to remind herself that losing a son or daughter was devastating. Margaretta had lost her only child. Of course the woman was still suffering.
"It would be easier if I could take comfort in the fact that he'd left behind a living legacy."
Knowing and dreading what was coming next, Josie got up and brushed her palms together.
Margaretta sniffed into her hankie. "Your inability to give me a grandchild is almost more than I can bear."
Josie turned her gaze to the countryside, spotted an orange and black butterfly and watched it flutter on the breeze as she steeled herself.
"A child would have been a part of him I could hold on to. If only right now I could be caring for a little boy or girl with Bram's features. I would have so loved to watch him grow. His child would have been such a comfort to me."
Josie wanted to cry, too. She wanted to rail at the woman who made her feel every inch as insignificant as her son had. Didn't Margaretta think a child would have been a comfort to her, as well? Didn't she know that Josie's loneliness was eating her up on the inside? Didn't she think Josie wanted more out of life than… than… this?
Momentarily, she closed her eyes against the painfully blue summer sky. She'd never wanted anything more than a family of her own. She'd spent her entire childhood waiting for her circuit-judge father to return home. The times he had, he'd spared her only meager attention before leaving again.
Because Bram Randolph had been a local newspaperman, she'd known he wouldn't be a traveler. She'd married him with the hope of a secure future. Time had proven Bram more concerned with the whims of Margaretta than the needs of his young wife, however. And that was the simple fact.
"You are coming to the house for dinner, aren't you?"
And be exposed to yet another opportunity for Margaretta to pursue her weekly harangue about Josie's barrenness? Josie opened her eyes. "I'm fixing a stew for Reverend Martin," she replied matter-of-factly. "I'll stay and keep him company."
"He seems to be recovering well." Margaretta smoothed the fingers of her beaded gloves. "Whatever you're doing must be working."
Josie managed a smile. "God's doing His part, too."
Margaretta gathered the hem of her voluminous skirt and walked across the thick spring grass toward the street.
Josie glanced down and read the headstone again. "Beloved son and husband." Not father. Sometimes she felt so incomplete, so alone. She hadn't given her husband children, and for that glaring inadequacy, Margaretta would never forgive her.
"Have a good afternoon!" she called after the woman.
Margaretta delivered a tepid wave and continued marching toward her home a few blocks away. Josie experienced the same relief she always did when her obligatory mourning session and weekly dressing-down was over. At least she'd had a good reason to forgo lengthening the torment by joining the woman for a meal. Margaretta's house had a cold, depressing atmosphere that matched the woman's attitude.
Josie glanced at the bright blue sky with a longing that was rising up so swift and strong that the ache took her breath away. She'd prayed for contentment, but she needed more than this. When she didn't keep busy enough, she daydreamed of impossible things.…
Taking a deep breath, Josie made her way with renewed purpose to the shaded two-story house beside the church. She climbed the back porch steps and let herself in. She'd started a stew earlier, and now checked the savory broth, adding water and salt.
"It's Josie!" she called, removing her bonnet and sweeping along the hallway toward the front of the house.
"Who else would be banging pans in my kitchen?" came the good-natured reply.
She found Reverend Martin in his study, seated where she'd left him, on an overstuffed chair with a plaid wool blanket tucked around his legs. He closed his Bible and removed his spectacles, setting both aside. Last March he'd fallen from the roof of the church while replacing shingles, and had broken several bones, including his collarbone and ribs. A particularly severe break in his leg had become infected, and he'd been bedridden with a fever for weeks. Eventually he'd recovered, and was only now able to move from his bed to the study. The town doctor said it would likely be several more weeks before he'd be strong enough to resume his duties.
She'd always considered him a mentor, but these past weeks had made them friends, as well. "The fire's died down," she said. "I'll get a few logs."
"I can't seem to get warm." He was paler and thinner than before the accident, and the change in such a vital, life-loving man was heartbreaking. The man was probably only in his late thirties, but these past weeks had taken a toll. Josie had dedicated herself to seeing him recover to his former self.
"The stew will warm you from the inside out," she assured him. She took two split logs from the box beside the fireplace and knelt to add them to the fire, then used the poker to adjust the wood until the flames caught and licked up around the sides. The bark snapped in the blaze. Warmth spread from the hearth to where the reverend was sitting.
"That's nice," he said with a grateful smile. "I barely have time to realize a need before you've seen to it."
"It's a privilege to help."
"And a help you are. I don't know what I would do without you."
"God would send someone. But I was available."
He chuckled. "You're a woman of great faith, Josie, but you count yourself a little short."
She seated herself on a nearby ottoman.
"A lot of people are available," he told her. "Few are willing."
She never doubted that God was taking care of the reverend. It was when she thought of her own needs that her confidence got a little shaky. "How about a game of checkers before dinner?" she asked.
He gave her a mock frown and flicked his hand as though shooing away a fly. "Do you think I enjoy your kings chasing my last disk around the board, delaying the inevitable?"
She laughed. "Oh, come now. You win sometimes."
"Only if you feel particularly sorry for me and deliberately pass up chances to jump. We need a new game, one I have a hope of winning."
"Based on chance, rather than skill, Reverend?"
"Didn't I see you and James setting up the board the other evening?"
James, a fatherless lad of about fourteen, came by a few times a week to split wood and perform a few other chores. Josie had quickly sensed that, because his mother worked evenings at the café, James was lonely. She'd offered to teach him the game. "You did. He's fast becoming an apt opponent."
The reverend's enormous calico leaped from its spot on the divan to run through the doorway into the nearest bedroom.
"Must be a caller," the reverend said.
Most everyone knocked at the back door and then walked in, but a rap sounded at the front. Josie and the reverend exchanged a puzzled glance before she got up.
A broad-shouldered man in a brown hat and buckskin jacket stood in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the leaves of the twin maple trees. She had a sudden, swift impression of troubled intensity as his gaze bored into hers.
"Good afternoon, sir," Josie greeted him.
He removed his hat, revealing thick chestnut hair in need of a cut. "Ma'am," he said in greeting. "I'm Samuel Hart. The preacher sent by the First Christian Alliance."
Behind him, three girls of varying ages waited in the street near a dusty team attached to a canvas-covered wagon.
His name registered immediately. "Of course! Come in."
He turned and summoned the girls, the fringe of his jacket swaying as he gestured. The girls she assumed were his daughters were wearing clean but wrinkled clothing, and their hair was neatly tucked beneath stiff-brimmed bonnets.
He handed her his hat, still warm from his head, and she laid it on the hall table before ushering the little troupe into the study. "The interim preacher is here," she said.
Samuel strode forward and shook the elder man's hand. His size and his sun-darkened face and hands made the reverend seem even sicklier in comparison. "Pleased to meet you, sir. These are my daughters. Elisabeth."
Elisabeth was the tallest and oldest, with blue eyes and a full face. Her weary smile was hesitant.
"Abigail." The middle daughter had hair a paler blond than the other two, blue eyes, a narrow face and a prominent chin.
"And Anna." The youngest of the trio possessed wide hazel eyes and a charming smattering of freckles.
A look of confusion wrinkled Reverend Martin's brow. "Josie, didn't the letters say that Samuel was traveling with his wife and family?"
Josie had recalled the same thing. Before she could answer, Samuel Hart said, "My wife died on the way."
The snapping fire was the only sound for a moment.
Anna slipped her hand into Abigail's and the three girls huddled closer, their expressions somber, the pain of their loss evident.
"I'm deeply sorry," Reverend Martin said.
Samuel nodded curtly, the subject apparently closed.
"This is Josephine Randolph." The reverend indicated Josie with a nod. "God sent her to me. She cooks, takes care of the house, does my laundry—she even handled my bills and mail while I was laid up."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma'am."
It was inappropriate that she should notice his well-defined cheekbones or his recently shaved, firm, square chin, but she had. Even his deep, rich voice arrested her attention. But his eyes…she'd never seen so much suffering in a person's eyes, and the sight carved a confusing ache inside her chest.
Samuel turned his gaze to look pointedly at his daughters.
One at a time, they said, "Pleased to meet you."
Glad for the distraction, she said, "You've arrived just in time for dinner. I trust you're hungry. Would you like to help me make biscuits?"
" I would," Abigail said with a bright smile.
Watching his daughters' hesitation and discomfort pained Sam. He hoped the pretty young woman's friendly welcome made this day a trifle easier than the rest. The past weeks had been grueling, both physically and emotionally. "All of you will help Mrs. Randolph," he called after them.
Over her shoulder, Anna cast him a wide-eyed glance, her expression so much like his late wife's that it made his breath hitch in his chest.
Reverend Martin indicated the settee. "Have a seat."
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