We went back in time, from the Roaring Twenties to the Victorian Era. This spring, it’s time to get back to the future, if by the future you mean the days of flappers.
Coming in Spring…
An Uninvited Guest…
In Granny Phanny’s Kitchen!
Here’s a hint. What “thread” ties this story to Murder at the Bijou?
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
All images are either the property of the author or provided by free sources, unless stated otherwise.
Hello, all. Forgive me if you saw this review at Jazz Age Wednesdays last week. Now that Olga Núñez Miret has it on her blog, I had to share. Let’s blouse over to her place — click here*. Since I want everyone to get to know Olga, I have disabled comments here. Olga writes valuable, mindful reviews, and she’s a translator as well. She’s also a talented author. Take a look at her collection of novels!
It’s really a challenge for me to work on my novels, as well as all the technical aspects of producing them, as well as blogging, along with my “real job.” So I can’t project dates — but I want you to know that eventually I’ll be publishing the third of Pip’s adventures, A Ghost in the Kitchen — Three Ingredients 2, and a collection of short stories and vignettes from the “Pip-verse.” And if I’m on this planet long enough, my various draft novels: The Guitar Mancer, The Dead of Winter, Tatterdemallian — the Electric Zucchini, Copper the Alchemist and the Woman in Trousers, The Skull of the Alchemist. As well as Atonement in Bloom which is currently in the editing process, and hopefully a third book in the Atonement series… and the short stories and vignettes. That should keep me busy for about a hundred years.
Meanwhile, here are the links to my 1920s books about Pip and her friends. Thanks for stopping here. Be sure to click over to Olga’s place. You’re the cat’s pajamas!
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
All images are either the property of the author or provided by free sources, unless stated otherwise.
Hi ya’ll. Yes, you are at Jazz Age Wednesdays. Pull up a chair and get comfortable!
Art by Rob Goldstein
I’m working on the story for Chapter 3 of Hullaba Lulu. Rob has already created a collection of wonderful images, and sent “three things” to drive the story. However, I’ve been dealing with “stuff” again for the past week (and weekend), and it kept me from writing. So rather than give you a lower “quality” (not to mention rushed) episode I’m sharing a couple of things in stead.
Artist Rob Goldstein is collaborating with me for the new series, Hullaba Lulu. Rob shared some of his art for the “Lulu-verse” at his blog. There are new images, and some that you might not see here during the series. Click here, it’s a fun post.
Gramps, Valentino, and Lulu — by Rob Goldstein
Next… I’m late sharing this because I didn’t realize she had done it. Dynamic author and translator, Olga Núñez Miret recently reviewed my current novel, “Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients 1.” I’m so excited about her review that I had to share it right away. Here’s Olga’s review as posted at Good Reads.
A fun and delicious book for readers with a sense of adventure who admire creativity I am a big fan of Teagan Ríordáin Geneviene, as an author, a blogger, and I was lucky to discover her blog a few years back, and although I missed some of her early serials at the time of their initial conception, I have managed to catch up with them over time. I have also read her novel, Atonement, Tennessee and know that apart from an imagination that knows no bounds, and a love of period research and attention to detail. (You can check my review here.) She has a way with words and can create magical characters that readers get to care for and make them live through situations that never fail to surprise us and keep us on tenterhooks.
As she explains in her description, she has been running a number of serials on her blog, pantser style. She asks her readers for things and/or ingredients, and she makes up a story that keeps developing as her imagination, and the things and ingredients, dictate. I am in awe at her creativity and I must recommend her blog (Teagan’s Books), as I know she is working on her next serial (and her process of creation is totally interactive).
Many of her readers (I included) kept telling her we would like to have the option of having her serials in book format, and eventually, she relented. I have reviewed her first serial in book format, Three Things Serial Story: A Little 1920s Story (you can read my review here). Many of the things I said about the previous book can be applied to this one.
Young Lucille Ball
This is another light, fun, and fast book, with the same protagonist, Pip, a young woman, a flapper (as she keeps reminding herself and us, because being modern at the time was not an easy task), who, on this occasion, is sent to stay with her grandmother, Granny Phanny (she is a fabulous character, and although she would hate to be called a flapper, she is an utterly modern woman) in Savannah so she can learn how to cook. That helps introduce the ingredients part of the story, and the culinary theme adds a layer of interest to the story, although I would advise not to read the book when you’re very hungry, because although sometimes the ingredients don’t end up in a dish, they often do, and they all sound delicious.
Pip, who narrates the story in the first person, is recovering from a heartache and meets a cast of wonderful characters, from a family of Chinese restaurateurs, to a vet and his doctor wife, G-men, police officers, mobsters, and there is even a paranormal element in the story. Oh, and let’s not forget a collection of pets that will warm your hearts and make you laugh.
Pip’s language remains as peculiar as usual, and the author seamlessly includes the popular and fashionable expressions of the era in her book. I challenge readers not to end up using some of them, especially some of Pip’s favourites.
I recommended readers of the previous serial to play a game and try and imagine in which direction they would send the story, or how they would use the three things at the beginning of each chapter. You can do the same here, and if you’re fond of cooking, I’m sure you will have fun exploring possible ways of using the ingredients, both to cook and to advance the story. And by the end of the book, you’ll be amazed at how the author has managed to create a cohesive story from such diverse elements.
I recommend this book to readers with a sense of fun and play who enjoy a fast and light mystery (cozy style. No explicit violence, although there is violence, no sex scenes) set in the Jazz Age (oh, don’t forget to follow the author’s blog if you enjoy that historical period as she shares a post on the subject every Wednesday), with charming characters and great food. And even if you don’t have a lot of time to read for long stretches at a time, as the serial was created to be read a chapter per week, it is very easy to follow the story and not get lost. So, there is no excuse!
Applesauce, Olga! Wow, and thank you so very much!
Everyone, thanks for visiting. Rob and I will be back next Wednesday for more of Hullaba Lulu. You’re the cat’s pajamas!
PS: Now for more shameless self-promotion — the links to my 1920s books — the ones about Pip and her friends.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
All images are either the property of the author or provided by free sources, unless stated otherwise.
Welcome to Jazz Age Wednesdays. I’m happy to see you back for Chapter 2 of this new series. It is not in the “Pip-verse” but it still takes place during the Roaring Twenties.
Artist Rob Goldstein is collaborating with me, creating fabulous visuals and sending me “three things” to spontaneously drive this pantser story. Some of the details also come from a song Rob’s grandmother sang to him called “Don’t Bring Lulu.”
Don’t Bring Lulu
I was captivated when Rob wanted me to include a (potentially supernatural) Valentino character. I loved his idea. If you’ve been following me for a good while, then you know I like to make fictionalized versions of historic people. Then, one of the “things” (the Bright Young Things) Rob sent for this episode showed me a wealth of such people I might include. Yes, one of them has already become a mysterious character. You’ll see in a moment.
The mystery elements begin here in Chapter 2, so pay close attention. I won’t tell you what’s a clue and what’s a red herring. I’m just wicked that way. And now…
Hullaba Lulu
Chapter 2
Grand Central Station, Garter Flask, Bright Young Things
Lulu, image by Rob Goldstein
Rose MacDonald sneezed delicately as soon as we stepped out of my grandfather’s speakeasy. The “raid door” opened to the abandoned subway tunnel. It was dusty from decades of disuse.
Still feeling the effects of the hooch, I pondered sadly that the speakeasy was becoming rather like the tunnel. I remembered when the joint was jumpin’ like Grand Central Station. It wasn’t nearly as busy as it once was. Gramps refused to do business with some of the more disreputable rum-runners. Business started to fall off long about that time.
Rose put an elegantly embroidered handkerchief to her turned up nose and sneezed again, a decidedly unladylike noise. The stitching formed a monogram, an R bracketed by two Ms. It also matched her dress. Rose was always coordinated.
By then my nose burned too. I gave a big achoo! that echoed down the tunnel.
Rose, image by Rob Goldstein
I closed the emergency exit of the speakeasy. From the outside it blended into the walls of the subway tunnel. You had to know exactly where it was if you were going to find it.
Also, it was dark when the red and blue lights from the strange train died. I took a torch from an inconspicuous bracket Gramps had bolted to the wall. A flip of the switch and we had enough light to see.
The cacophony, just moments before had made me think that train was about to crash right into the speakeasy. It stopped several feet beyond the door and rested on the tracks where a train ought to be. Except that no train should be in that part of the subway at all. Nothing could get past the caved-in area.
Rose and Pearl watched the man who had come into the speakeasy in a blaze of red and blue lights (along with that train) as if mesmerized. Rose ran her finger down the lapel of his tuxedo jacket in a flirtatious way. He met her eyes with a smoldering gaze, but I had noticed that the expression in his eyes usually looked that way.
“Ya know… you’re even more handsome than Rudolph Valentino,” Rose began. “So, what’s your name? I bet you’re a great dancer. You look like a real sharpshooter, a regular floorflusher. Why don’t we go back inside? There’s a darb Victrola for dance music.”
“Yeah, tell us your name,” Pearl added her voice.
“Valentino,” he stated simply.
“Bushwa!” I exclaimed. “Who are you really?”
“I. Am. Valentino,” he repeated with emphasis. “I take it that you know someone similar. That happens sometimes,” he added in a tone that suggested he had said the same thing a thousand times.
His statement befuddled me. We tried to get more sense out of him, but that was all he’d say about his moniker.
Valentino, by Rob Goldstein
Meanwhile Pearl and Rose clung to his elbows. I admit that I would have done the same thing. However, he didn’t have a third elbow, and I wasn’t going to cling to anybody’s knee.
“What kind of woman is she?” he muttered to my pals in a baffled tone. “She smells like onions and horseradish, and there’s marinara sauce on her cheek,” he added.
The man who called himself Valentino didn’t sound repulsed or offended, simply curious. He looked at me like an ornithologist who had found a new species of bird.
“Oh, she’s not as wild and woolly as she seems,” Rose said with a grin, and winked at me. “Although she is the kind of smarty who breaks up every party. Cheer up honey,” she told me. “Sometimes you get so glum when you’re tipsy.”
Pearl reached out and gave my hand a squeeze, although I thought she might be reassuring herself more than me. Then she introduced herself and Rose. The man was gracious, but in return he formally repeated the single name, Valentino, as if he had no other.
“And that’s Hullaba Lulu,” Pearl introduced me with the hated nickname, causing me to blush. “You should see her Charleston! We’d bring her to any party.”
I started to say something clever, but a hiccup escaped my lips instead. Then I heard the echo of footfalls farther up the tunnel.
“Margosha!” another man called out from the distance.
The new stranger was coming from the direction of the hatch that lead up to the street.
“Is that you Margosha?”
He seemed to squint. The lighting was dim. I thought nothing would be able to pry my friends loose from the Valentino guy. However, when the other man caught up to us, I noticed that Rose and Pearl had moved away into the shadows.
“Hey do you lot know where the door to the speakeasy is?” he asked. “I’m looking for― um, an old friend and I heard that she hangs out there.”
Valentino and Tom
Judging by his face I would have thought he was an uptown swell, but he had longer hair, and the style of his suit made me think he had spent time in India. I thought he must be a cellar smeller, who had somehow learned about my grandfather’s speakeasy. At any rate, he didn’t look like a revenuer, so his presence didn’t worry me. Besides I was still pretty well zozzled.
“Margosha? That means pearl in Russian,” Valentino murmured so softly that I barely heard.
The door to the speakeasy opened. Unnoticed by anyone else, Gramps stepped out, closing the door softly behind him. His eyes went to Rose and Pearl in the nearby shadows. The cellar smeller walked up to Valentino and me.
“You!” Gramps exclaimed, though I wasn’t sure which of the men he meant.
I didn’t understand my grandfather’s reaction. His posture made me think of a snake, coiled and ready to strike. That made me uncomfortable so I started babbling. I tend to do talk when I’m nervous. Unfortunately my chatter changed the subject and I didn’t find out which “You” Gramps meant.
“So, who are you, mister? And who is Margosha?” I turned to the new comer and asked.
“Tom Driberg. He’s the journalist who tells all about the ‘Bright Young Things,’ you know?” Rose explained obligingly. “The swells who throw all the wild parties.”
“The ones I’m never invited to?” I inserted a rhetorical comment.
I watched Rose and Tom Driberg. There was a challenge in her eyes when she looked at him. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. However, I thought I recognized the hungry expression on his face when he looked at her and Pearl.
Pearl, by Rob Goldstein
Everybody said Pearl was a darned nice girl. It was true ― at least if you asked me. Yet at that moment she looked like a doe ready to spring away. Pearl lifted her beaded dress revealing a garter flask. She took a swig and almost forgot to pass the flask around. I didn’t understand why she’d be upset.
“A hair of the dog,” Pearl explained. “I’ve got a headache. I really need to get home,” she added.
With an uneasy glance at Tom, Pearl started walking toward the subway hatch to the street. She’d have a shortcut home that way.
Rose went after pearl to take care of her. When I saw Tom Driberg, the journalist, follow them it didn’t sit well with me. I turned back to Gramps. I was surprised to see him and Valentino staring at each other wordlessly.
I cleared my throat, interrupting the silent tableau.
“I don’t trust that guy,” I announced. “I’m going to make sure my pals are okay.”
Gramps, by Rob Goldstein
“You should not go alone,” Valentino told me, abruptly breaking eye contact with my grandfather. “I will escort you. My automobile is up there. We’ll make sure your friends are safe, then I can drive you back to your grandfather.”
Gramps looked none too pleased. However, after a moment he nodded and went back inside his empty speakeasy.
We hurried after the others. It was so dark I had already lost sight of them. When we reached what I call the raid exit, Valentino went up the ladder first to push aside the heavy manhole cover. However, it was already open. We climbed up to the street. I looked around for my friends. In the distance I saw the two gals climbing the stairs to Pearl’s front door.
A sulfuric smell accompanied the strike of a match. I turned to see Tom Driberg leaning nonchalantly against a Rolls-Royce. Cigarette smoke curled above his head as he jotted something on a small notepad. He looked at Valentino the same way he had looked at Rose and Pearl.
Without a word, Tom walked into the night.
***
The End
Valentino, Lulu, and Tom, by Rob Goldstein
***
If you want to know more about the real Tom Driberg click here. He’s an interesting figure and I wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. That’s what causes fictional him to be a fun addition to this cast.
I hope you’ll click over and check out Rob’s blog. He’s not just a brilliant artist, he’s also an advocate for several important causes.
Thanks for visiting. You’re the cat’s pajamas!
PS: Now for the shameless self-promotion — the links to my other 1920s books — the ones about Pip and her friends.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
All images are either the property of the author or provided by free sources, unless stated otherwise.
Welcome back to Jazz Age Wednesdays. As much as I love Pip and her friends, I was in the mood for a change of pace. Today is the premier of a new mini-series. It is not in the “Pip-verse” but it still takes place during the Roaring Twenties. I hope my “voice” is different enough to distinguish this story from the ones featuring Pip.
A while back Rob Goldstein offered to do some 1920s images for me, when one of my tales reminded him of stories his grandmother told him. He mentioned a song his grandmother sang to him called “Don’t Bring Lulu.” Right away I wanted to do a story related to it.
Don’t Bring Lulu
For several weeks, Rob and I have had a great time playing with ideas for this story. He quickly sent me several images for potential “Lulus,” and he created additional and wonderful artwork as well. Since the Lulu in the song had red hair, I chose that for Lulu — but I wanted to use the other two images as well. So I took two names from the song to be friends of my Lulu.
One last note, my draining “stuff” continues, and I wasn’t able to plan a story. So this is another “three things” pantser tale. The things driving this work will come from Rob and from our brainstorming notes.
Sorry about all my blah-de-blah… Finally, I present to you Chapter 1 of the story. The things driving this episode are Rose, Pearl, and Trumpet.
Hullaba Lulu
Chapter 1
Rose, Pearl, Trumpet
“Pearl” by Rob Goldstein
The vibrant notes of the jazz band echoed in my mind as I faded in and out of consciousness. I wasn’t sure whether my eyes blurred or cigarette smoke still hung in the air, but the place had cleared out.
The last thing I remembered was jumping up onto the stage and doing the Charleston with Rose and Pearl. They were my best pals.
Everyone said I played too hard. What did I care? Those old blue nose busybodies needed to mind their own beeswax.
Even Gramps cautioned me about burning the candle at both ends, going to the speakeasy every night. Bushwa! Now that’s a nice how do you do. It was his speakeasy!
Maybe they’re right, I thought woozily. The three of us closed the place — again.
My grandfather’s speakeasy was quiet and empty except for Rose, Pearl, and me. I noticed that Gramps had draped a blanket across each of us. He wasn’t so hard boiled when it came to us girls. Although you can bet nobody wanted to mess with him.
Garlic from the remains of a brick oven pizza wafted to my nose. My hand plopped down on the table when I tried to pick up the last half-eaten piece. I tried again and managed to get the morsel. Although I was pretty sure there was tomato sauce on my face from trying to actually get it to my mouth.
Tony is the bee’s knees, I thought with a loud belch. Makes the best pizza in town and doesn’t charge me for it half the time. ‘Course, I slip him some giggle water now and then…
Across the table from me, Rose snored softly. Her black hair fell across her face. I wondered if her little turned up nose had anything to do with the snoring. She acted like such a goody two shoes that no one ever suspected her of anything, but she was a swell gal.
In the chair next to me, fair haired Pearl twitched in her slumber. Everyone said she was a darn nice girl. I couldn’t argue with that. Pearl and Rose were invited to every party. True blue friends, they always brought me along, even though for some reason I wasn’t usually on the invitation list.
“Lulu” by Rob Goldstein
Me? They called me Hullaba Lulu. Don’t ask me why. I wasn’t any more audacious than any other flapper. I couldn’t help it if I had the reddest hair. So what if I liked to dance and drink and had a good healthy appetite? Although I admit I was clumsy. Gramps had banned me from his glass blowing shop. I wasn’t allowed to touch the dishes in the speakeasy either, because I had dropped and broken so many of them.
It’s an absurd nickname, I thought as I burped again.
Those thoughts swam randomly through my muddled mind just before my head dropped back down to the table. My face landed on my beaded handbag. It didn’t make the best pillow, but at that moment, I didn’t notice.
A noise startled me awake. I lifted my head, the fancy clutch stuck to my cheek. It fell after a second, leaving that side of my face covered with little round marks from the beads. I wiped a bit of drool from my chin and looked around. I could have sworn I heard a trumpet, but the band was long gone. I strained my ears but didn’t hear anything. That was to be expected. Sound didn’t usually get into or out of the speakeasy.
My grandfather’s speakeasy was the best kept secret of the Prohibition Era. It was underground, so there was no noise to give it away. I should back up and explain that.
He built his house around a small structure that was one of the original subway entrances. No one wanted to construct anything too close to Gramps because of the fire hazard of his glass blowing “profession.” Of course, his real money came from the speakeasy.
Manhattan Subway Station circa 1918
The old subway entrance was converted to his workshop. A hidden door at the back of his shop lead to the speakeasy downstairs, underground. It was in a disused section of the subway. There had been a cave-in many years before. The subway authority never cleared that section, finding it cheaper to build a new one instead. In case of a raid, the speakeasy had a secret emergency door, which opened to the abandoned tunnel. There was a ladder and a hatch that came out on the street a quarter mile away.
So, I couldn’t possibly have heard the sultry notes of a trumpet. Yet I heard it again ― just as the room started to shake! At the loud rumble of a train I stood abruptly, causing my head to spin. I grabbed the table to steady myself.
“There can’t be a train! That’s impossible,” I exclaimed.
Rose snorted and woke, looking around shocked and bleary eyed. Pearl gave a stifled scream as she roused.
I turned toward the back of the club, looking at the emergency exit. Red and blue lights blazed from the edges of the door. I heard the screech of the subway train stopping. The door burst open.
Portal image by Rob Goldstein
Spots danced before my eyes. All I could make out was a pair of pointy toed patent leather shoes. When my vision cleared I beheld a man as stunning as the Sheik of Araby.
Pearl gave a fearful little shriek.
Rose made a dramatic gasp that would have pleased Cecil B. DeMille.
“He looks just like Valentino!” Rose and Pearl exclaimed in chorus.
I hiccupped.
Rudolph Valentino in The Sheik
The End
***
I hope you’ll click over and check out Rob’s blog. He’s not just a brilliant artist, he’s also an advocate for several important causes. Thanks for visiting. You’re the bee’s knees!
PS: Of course, I have to show you the links to my books about Pip and her friends.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
All images are either the property of the author or provided by free sources, unless stated otherwise.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
All images are either the property of the author or provided by free sources, unless stated otherwise.
Hi there, Sheiks and Shebas. I’m happy to see you back at Jazz Age Wednesdays. Here we are in the month of March. For many of us, March came in like the proverbial lion. I hope it takes on a much more lamb-like countenance for the remaining three weeks.
Good riddance year of the Fire Rooster!
Welcome year of the Earth Dog!
Speaking of critters… I haven’t done a post for Chinese New Year, although I did last year. I’m going to re-share the story I wrote for last year. I hope you don’t mind. If you are curious about the original post, click here*. Anyhow, I used my “three things” exercise to write the story. Those things were Fire, Rooster, and Calendar. Without further ado, here’s Pip.
Pip’s a Chicken
“Bock, bock-bock. Bock! Baaawk!”
Of all the nerve! My mouth dropped open. I was speechless. Granny Phanny bocked at me like a chicken. She bocked. She put her fists under her armpits and flapped her boney elbows — and she bocked at me!
Then, to make matters worse, she laughed.
Why that banty old woman. Of all the self-important, cockalorem!
“Oh Pip, if you could see the look on your face,” she said, still chuckling. “It’s not like you to chicken out. Now tie on your apron and we’ll look at this recipe together.”
Granny hung an apron around my neck, and then put her hands on my shoulders to forcibly turn me around. She tied a bow in back that I knew without looking was perfectly symmetrical.
“But Granny, I nearly set the kitchen on fire last time,” I complained, sincerely afraid of what damage I might cause.
“Hush that nonsense right now, Sweetpea. We’ll not be having any fires. Just because your fried chicken turned out as tough as an old rooster doesn’t mean you can quit.”
“An old rooster?” I exclaimed, mortified.
I looked at the recipe card. “Chicken Fricassee…” I read aloud. “Dredge chicken pieces in the flour mixture; coat well. Oh Granny, this sounds pos-i-lutely like a repeat of the fried chicken disaster. Granny?”
Phanny Irene Peabody was gone. Her purse was missing from the corner table. I called out again and she hollered from the living room.
My eyes fell on the calendar that hung on the wall. Wong’s Chinese Restaurant made one annually for Chinese New Year. Granny was going to an early dinner with friends. No wonder she wasn’t worried about me ruining dinner again.
“Granny!” I yelled, really miffed.
“I’ll be back this evening, Pip. Just keep the stove set to low while you fry that chicken, and follow the instructions for the fricassee,” she called from the living room to the sound of the front door creaking open.
I blew a raspberry as the front door closed with a thud. My hand plopped down on the plump poultry with a smacking sound.
“Old rooster, huh? I’ll show her,” I muttered and went back to the recipe card.
The End
***
Yesterday I posted a request for your votes and feedback. I want your input as I decide on what kind of blog serial to do next. It will be a “three things” style serial, with you sending three random things to drive the story. So I want you, the reader to be evolved every step of the way. If you missed that post you can vote and leave your thoughts here*. Please do.
Thanks for visiting. You’re the bee’s knees!
PS: Of course, I have to show you the links to the books about Pip and her friends.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
All images are either the property of the author or provided by free sources, unless stated otherwise.
