With tomatoes coming out our ears this time of year, now's the time to can lots of salsa to enjoy time and again throughout the winter. If you have a cheap smoker, you can make your own chipotle chili peppers, which are smoked jalapeno peppers.
1. Prepare green or red jalapeno peppers as follows: Remembering to wear latex gloves and not rub your eyes or face during this preparation, take 70 or 80 jalapeno peppers and remove the stems, cutting a vertical slit in one side and sliding a finger inside each to remove the white membranes and seeds. Don't separate the two halves, or they could fall through your smoker's grates.
2. Stack jalapenos in a smoking machine (Little Chief or any smoker) and smoke, using wet hickory or mesquite wood chips. Smoke the peppers for about 12 hours, replace spent chips with fresh wet ones every hour and a half. Chipotle peppers are done when they turn from bright green to olive green and are slightly wrinkled. Seventy to eighty chilis will fill about 3/4's of a storage gallon bag of chipotles.
Making the salsa:
1. Using a tupperware dishpan or other big dish, fill with about 30 to 40 pounds of roma or regular tomatoes. Remove the skin by throwing the tomatoes into boiling water for about 30 seconds or as long as it takes for the skin to peel off easily. Remove the skin and discard the seeds by prying them out with your fingers. After the tomatoes are skinned and de-seeded, put the tomatoes through a processor on "chop," or chop them by hand.
2. Put the chipotles through the processor.
3. Put the chopped chipotles and tomatoes in a huge stewpot and simmer.
4. In large saucepan, heat about a quarter cup of canola or olive oil. Chop and add 4-5 large onions, 4-5 green peppers (not hot ones), a whole head of garlic or more if you really like garlic, a large bunch of fresh cilantro (use less if using dried), lots of fresh or dried basil, and fresh or dried oregano. Simmer spices and onion mixture until limp. Add this mix to the tomato and chipotle stewpot. Stir.
5. Add more spices to the pot according to your taste: Adobo seasong (2 tsp.), turmeric (1 tsp.), cumin (1 tsp.), ground oregano(1 tsp.), salt (2 tsp.), black pepper (2 tsp). Mix and taste salsa. Adjust the taste by adding more spices.
6. Add approximately a quarter cup of red wine vinegar to the stewpot and allow the mixture to simmer off most of the water for half a day, stirring every half hour.
7. To can the salsa: Sterilize 16 to 18 pint jars in a boiling water bath for ten minutes, along with lids and screw caps. While the salsa is hot, ladle it into the jars, hand-sealing each one. After the jars are all filled, put them back into the boiling water bath and boil for ten minutes.
This is my own recipe, and adjustments for taste will be required, as well as adjustments to the volumes of the peppers and tomatoes. Use your own judgment. And you may need fewer or more canning jars, as well. All is approximate. But you will have fun doing it and a good product for fall and winter snacking.
Saturday, August 24, 2013
Friday, April 12, 2013
The Hardest Decision
One of the hardest things we animal lovers do is have to make the decision to put a dear pet to sleep.
My dear pig-friend, Ivy Mae, has been diagnosed with a tumor in her sinuses. My pig doctor, Dr. Arlen Wilbers, who is the top pot-bellied pig vet in the area and who, I might add, is the most compassionate veterinarian I have ever met, advised me a few months ago when I had called him out to look at Ivy, that we would know it was time to euthanize her when she stopped eating.
The tumor growing in Ivy's sinuses has forced her to breathe from her mouth for the last month or so, but I certainly didn't expect to see fresh blood oozing from one nostril yesterday. I cringed when I saw it, and as she walked, the blood dribbled between her front feet onto the barn floor. And last evening she refused her food.
This morning she refused her breakfast, too. So, I called Dr. Arlen, discussed the possibility that it was "time," and set the appointment to put her to sleep for this afternoon. Then I emailed my best friend, called my mother, explaining to both about Ivy. And then I called the excavator to bury her.
After I hung up, I went out to the barn to be with Ivy Mae for one of the last times in her life of fourteen years. I carted with me a box of butterscotch Krimpets--her last meal, if she would take it--and the second she heard me tearing the cellophane wrapper, she looked up. Because she had not eaten her breakfast, I didn't have great hopes she would eat the cake. But she surprised me. The blood had stopped running from her nose, and she opened her mouth, a happy smile across her face. I gave her the Krimpet. She swallowed it in seconds and then begged for more. She still had an appetite--at least for junk food.
Then and there I decided to give her at least the weekend to live--to be ecstatic eating butterscotch Krimpets. She is not suffering; otherwise, I'd have allowed Dr. Arlen to still come out. Instead, I cancelled the euthanasia and the burial: Ivy has a few more days to live while I lace her Krimpets with higher doses of steroid in the hope it will reduce the tumor's growth. While I know that the tumor will prevail in the end, I want to extend Ivy Mae's precious life as long as I can. She is not suffering; therefore, I will hold out.
Every day of a life lived is a day that should be cherished.
My dear pig-friend, Ivy Mae, has been diagnosed with a tumor in her sinuses. My pig doctor, Dr. Arlen Wilbers, who is the top pot-bellied pig vet in the area and who, I might add, is the most compassionate veterinarian I have ever met, advised me a few months ago when I had called him out to look at Ivy, that we would know it was time to euthanize her when she stopped eating.
The tumor growing in Ivy's sinuses has forced her to breathe from her mouth for the last month or so, but I certainly didn't expect to see fresh blood oozing from one nostril yesterday. I cringed when I saw it, and as she walked, the blood dribbled between her front feet onto the barn floor. And last evening she refused her food.
This morning she refused her breakfast, too. So, I called Dr. Arlen, discussed the possibility that it was "time," and set the appointment to put her to sleep for this afternoon. Then I emailed my best friend, called my mother, explaining to both about Ivy. And then I called the excavator to bury her.
After I hung up, I went out to the barn to be with Ivy Mae for one of the last times in her life of fourteen years. I carted with me a box of butterscotch Krimpets--her last meal, if she would take it--and the second she heard me tearing the cellophane wrapper, she looked up. Because she had not eaten her breakfast, I didn't have great hopes she would eat the cake. But she surprised me. The blood had stopped running from her nose, and she opened her mouth, a happy smile across her face. I gave her the Krimpet. She swallowed it in seconds and then begged for more. She still had an appetite--at least for junk food.
Then and there I decided to give her at least the weekend to live--to be ecstatic eating butterscotch Krimpets. She is not suffering; otherwise, I'd have allowed Dr. Arlen to still come out. Instead, I cancelled the euthanasia and the burial: Ivy has a few more days to live while I lace her Krimpets with higher doses of steroid in the hope it will reduce the tumor's growth. While I know that the tumor will prevail in the end, I want to extend Ivy Mae's precious life as long as I can. She is not suffering; therefore, I will hold out.
Every day of a life lived is a day that should be cherished.
Friday, December 7, 2012
My Friend Evie
Hurricane Sandy did a number on my house: the largest tree in my woods fell on it costing my insurance approximately $200,000 in damages. I want to thank and recommend Erie Insurance for being so concerned about me and my place; they couldn't have been better to deal with nor more accommodating.
I also want to thank Stellar Construction and, in particular, Tony Stellar, for his and his crew's timely response, as well as Brian, the general contractor lining up all the sub-contractors and workers in a timely manner, from taking the tulip polar tree off the house and getting the second story re-framed, roofed, shingled, dry walled, and spackled. Dave is upstairs right now putting on the second coat of spackle on the ceilings over three bedrooms, the bath, and the staircase. Yep, the tree caved in my whole upper story.
As if the hurricane hadn't caused enough misery, my favorite cat, Evelyn--Evie--suddenly went missing. Evie is my feline house companion and has kept me company on many a lonely night. She also watches "Family Guy," "Wipeout," and "Impractical Jokers," an absolutely hysterical show on Tru TV, with me in bed nearly every night.
Two days ago I had last seen Evie looking at me, her eyes wide, from the living room. Evie is a shy girl, and silly and not-so-silly things scare her. She is like a lot of us humans: when we get upset, we often don't use our heads. Seeing all these strangers in her house and hearing them hammering, yelling, and spraying insulation into the second story must've sent her off her little feline rocker. Late that evening when I noticed her absence, I called through the house: no Evie. Perhaps, I thought, she had run outside as the men were carrying in the dry wall. I had had to close the doors several times after them, so the distinct possibility existed that she could have escaped to the outside. I called outside, but she didn't come. I still thought that she was hiding somewhere in the house, but if she was outside, I hoped she would find a half-decently warm place--perhaps the barn--to spend the night and come back in the morning.
The next day I checked all the rooms and closets in the house: she was nowhere inside. So, I began my search outdoors. I trekked through the woods, the nearby fields, down to the barn across the street, and down to the neighboring woods: no Evie. During my search, I imagined all kinds of horrific things happening to my favorite cat: coyotes got her, she struggled in a trap, she ran and became lost in the hundreds of acres of fields surrounding my woods. The horrific images crawled through my head like a nasty ticker tape. By the end of the day, I was exhausted, having checked everywhere imaginable, including the basement for the fourth time. One thing I knew for sure: she wasn't in the house, and she wasn't in my woods.
My little friend Evie was gone.
Last night the space on the bed comforter where Evie belonged was eerily empty. Tears dribbled down my face as I imagined life without my black long-haired buddy. This morning I dressed and went downstairs, opening the front door to the deck where, when Evie tired of playing outdoors, she always stood ready to come inside. No Evie. I called, and a few other barn cats ran to the door, but Evie wasn't among them.
Later this morning while Dave the spackler was spreading his stuff on the dry wall, he overheard my telling my agent and publisher about losing my best friend: my cat was missing and feared dead. When I got off the phone, he mentioned that yesterday the dry wallers said they saw a cat run into the access hole leading to the crawl space above the dining and living room. They had meant to tell me but forgot. I ran upstairs, pried open the hole, and Dave shown his light around the sea of white insulation which they had re-sprayed yesterday.
There, in a far corner, two black ears peeked out of the insulation. They belonged to Evie!
Dave tried to hold me back from going right in there and trampling down the insulation to get to her. He recommended I let the access door open in the hope that she would eventually come out. But I knew she was scared, and while I had her in sight, I wanted to get her before she disappeared again. But this time I listened to the advice--sort of. I leaned into the attic space covered with the ocean of insulation and called softly to my feline friend. After several minutes of coaxing and rattling a cat food can, she began to walk along the back edge of the attic space. In another moment I had her in my arms. I guess she wondered why I was hugging her so tightly.
Then I brought her downstairs, fed and watered her, and she walked calmly away, cottony insulation clinging to her shiny black fur.
I was so happy I didn't know what to do with myself. For sure I thought she was dead, hung up in an awful animal trap or eaten by a pack of coyotes. I had had my most precious Christmas gift delivered early, for sure. And, then, as I got used to the idea of having my Evie back home safely with me, I thought about the horrible death she would have suffered had Dave the spackler not told me about the dry wallers' conversation yesterday. She would have starved to death up there: cold, without water or food, locked and withering away in that crawl space--one long day after long day and one long night after long night.
Thank goodness Dave overheard my conversation with my agent and publisher. Thank goodness Dave cared enough to tell me about my cat.
Thank goodness a Christmas angel was watching over Evie.
And me.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
I also want to thank Stellar Construction and, in particular, Tony Stellar, for his and his crew's timely response, as well as Brian, the general contractor lining up all the sub-contractors and workers in a timely manner, from taking the tulip polar tree off the house and getting the second story re-framed, roofed, shingled, dry walled, and spackled. Dave is upstairs right now putting on the second coat of spackle on the ceilings over three bedrooms, the bath, and the staircase. Yep, the tree caved in my whole upper story.
As if the hurricane hadn't caused enough misery, my favorite cat, Evelyn--Evie--suddenly went missing. Evie is my feline house companion and has kept me company on many a lonely night. She also watches "Family Guy," "Wipeout," and "Impractical Jokers," an absolutely hysterical show on Tru TV, with me in bed nearly every night.
Two days ago I had last seen Evie looking at me, her eyes wide, from the living room. Evie is a shy girl, and silly and not-so-silly things scare her. She is like a lot of us humans: when we get upset, we often don't use our heads. Seeing all these strangers in her house and hearing them hammering, yelling, and spraying insulation into the second story must've sent her off her little feline rocker. Late that evening when I noticed her absence, I called through the house: no Evie. Perhaps, I thought, she had run outside as the men were carrying in the dry wall. I had had to close the doors several times after them, so the distinct possibility existed that she could have escaped to the outside. I called outside, but she didn't come. I still thought that she was hiding somewhere in the house, but if she was outside, I hoped she would find a half-decently warm place--perhaps the barn--to spend the night and come back in the morning.
The next day I checked all the rooms and closets in the house: she was nowhere inside. So, I began my search outdoors. I trekked through the woods, the nearby fields, down to the barn across the street, and down to the neighboring woods: no Evie. During my search, I imagined all kinds of horrific things happening to my favorite cat: coyotes got her, she struggled in a trap, she ran and became lost in the hundreds of acres of fields surrounding my woods. The horrific images crawled through my head like a nasty ticker tape. By the end of the day, I was exhausted, having checked everywhere imaginable, including the basement for the fourth time. One thing I knew for sure: she wasn't in the house, and she wasn't in my woods.
My little friend Evie was gone.
Last night the space on the bed comforter where Evie belonged was eerily empty. Tears dribbled down my face as I imagined life without my black long-haired buddy. This morning I dressed and went downstairs, opening the front door to the deck where, when Evie tired of playing outdoors, she always stood ready to come inside. No Evie. I called, and a few other barn cats ran to the door, but Evie wasn't among them.
Later this morning while Dave the spackler was spreading his stuff on the dry wall, he overheard my telling my agent and publisher about losing my best friend: my cat was missing and feared dead. When I got off the phone, he mentioned that yesterday the dry wallers said they saw a cat run into the access hole leading to the crawl space above the dining and living room. They had meant to tell me but forgot. I ran upstairs, pried open the hole, and Dave shown his light around the sea of white insulation which they had re-sprayed yesterday.
There, in a far corner, two black ears peeked out of the insulation. They belonged to Evie!
Dave tried to hold me back from going right in there and trampling down the insulation to get to her. He recommended I let the access door open in the hope that she would eventually come out. But I knew she was scared, and while I had her in sight, I wanted to get her before she disappeared again. But this time I listened to the advice--sort of. I leaned into the attic space covered with the ocean of insulation and called softly to my feline friend. After several minutes of coaxing and rattling a cat food can, she began to walk along the back edge of the attic space. In another moment I had her in my arms. I guess she wondered why I was hugging her so tightly.
Then I brought her downstairs, fed and watered her, and she walked calmly away, cottony insulation clinging to her shiny black fur.
I was so happy I didn't know what to do with myself. For sure I thought she was dead, hung up in an awful animal trap or eaten by a pack of coyotes. I had had my most precious Christmas gift delivered early, for sure. And, then, as I got used to the idea of having my Evie back home safely with me, I thought about the horrible death she would have suffered had Dave the spackler not told me about the dry wallers' conversation yesterday. She would have starved to death up there: cold, without water or food, locked and withering away in that crawl space--one long day after long day and one long night after long night.
Thank goodness Dave overheard my conversation with my agent and publisher. Thank goodness Dave cared enough to tell me about my cat.
Thank goodness a Christmas angel was watching over Evie.
And me.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Beware the Brown Recluse
I have always loved all animals,
from the most innocent kitten to even having a deep admiration for the Great
White Shark. And though I’ll never ever see
a Tibetan snow leopard in my lifetime, I can appreciate its mystique, its ability
to elude capture by the most avid, paparazzi wildlife experts. Ever witness via TV, newspapers, or personal
experience to the atrocities man and womankind have perpetrated against others
of the Earth’s creatures, those not of homosapien origin, I reserve respect,
tolerance, and, yes, love for these animals who prevail despite human
annoyance. Though admitting to killing a
few mosquitoes and flies in my lifetime, I cannot exterminate a stinkbug, the
alien-spaceship-looking insect that commits, with a Br-r-r-r-r-r, Br-r-r-r-r-r, Br-r-r-r-r-r, its kamikaze flight into
my wall at night. Indeed, I have held
nothing against snakes, beetles, or spiders--until now. I may need therapy: I am in deathly fear of a
particular spider—one I have never met or ever care to—a brown recluse spider.
Never
in a hundred years would I have ever thought I’d be intimindated by a member of
the Arachnid family, having always laughed and mocked girlfriends and guy
friends who cringed at sight of an innocuous bug. What fun I had making them
feel silly that a human of 150-some pounds could fear an insect weighing a
million times less than they did. And to
prove my fearlessness, I would pick up the daddy-long-legger in the palm of my
hand, as my friend scream-ran into the next room, and place him outside in a safe
place so that my cats wouldn’t find him.
I was protective of spiders whose ilk was bearing the burden of being a
pox on nature.
In
the last week, however, I must break out of my web of affection for all things
eight-legged. I do now fear for my life
a creature I have never seen or been bitten by.
It haunts my dreams, interrupts my farm work with possible visions of
its clandestine workings in a barn corner, grinds my calm to a screeching halt
whenever I walk into a common spider web while walking my woods. This Arachnid, my experience with which has
only been through an acquaintance, now holds my bravery towards all things
insectile, hostage. Visions of a recluse
spider crawling stealthily from under my boxspring at night, its hairy jaws
flapping and salivating, honing in on what surely to him must look like a tasty
morsel--my rump—interrupt my sleep. I
lie awake like Poe’s paranoid narrator in “The Tell-Tale Heart,” listening,
fearing the inevitable, ready to tear up the floorboards to finally expose, not
my guilt, but a murderously-poisonous monster.
My
fear has no real base, I readily admit, but my life has been impacted by a bite
to a worker who was scheduled to take down a dead, sixty-foot tree that would
surely come down on my house in the next thunderstorm or blizzard. The man dropped his “bucket truck” on my
property two weekends ago in anticipation of beginning the tree removal the
following Monday. But that Monday Joe
never showed, his truck, with a boom and a wood-chipper attached, loomed large and
ominous in my front yard.
By
Wednesday afternoon I phoned him to see what was the matter. He told me the news in a dead-serious voice:
he had been bitten by a brown recluse spider one night while he slept on his
pillows.
“A
spider?!” I marveled, ready to laugh.
“You’re not taking down my tree because a spider bit you!”
Joe
said, “I’m afraid so. Listen, I am in
agony—can hardly even walk! A week ago I
was bit. I didn’t think much of it—sort
of like a glorified mosquito bite. I’ve
been putting over-the-counter stuff on it for all this time, but it’s been
getting worse and worse. I ended up in the emergency room last
night! Right now I have a red, swollen
welt on my shoulder, and it hurts like hell.
I have a fever, am a bit nauseous.
I’m sorry, but I just can’t come out there to cut down your tree. I’m on antibiotics and some other shot a
doctor gave me. And I’m telling everyone
I meet to google “brown recluse spider” because these bastards are out in
force, only coming out at night when you’re sleeping. Did you know their bite can kill you,
especially if you’re old or are a kid and if you have a weakened immune system.
I’m a strapping guy, so it should go
away with all these meds I’m taking, but others need to look out. This is one
nasty spider; it’s a predator,
and it takes no survivors.”
Joe’s
voice shaked as he clarified the recluse’s portrait: fiddle shape behind the
head, long, choppy jaws—“All the better for eating you, Honey”—long front legs
spread out to the size of a silver dollar.
He continued, “They come inside during the fall and take up in cluttered
corners of the house. Their web is not
nice and symmetrical, like some spiders’, but it looks more like a cobweb. Even their web is nasty-looking!”
I
cringed, worried that one could be taking up residence under my bed. Other than that, I had little clutter around
my place. Still, if a brown recluse
wanted a piece of me, he’d be able to find a suitable hideout, I was sure.
“Seriously,”
Joe said, “I’ve never had so much pain in my life. I’m telling everyone I meet to get insect
killer and spray it all around the house—outside and inside. This spider can kill people, especially if it bites close to the heart. And I’m not the only one who’s been bitten by
a brown recluse lately—seems everyone I meet has been bitten, especially
lately. They’re out in force! I’m advising you to call an exterminator and
have him treat your whole house for brown recluses. Trust me: you don’t want to get bitten by
one. This is the worst pain I’ve felt in
my life!”
I
commiserated with Joe for awhile, wished him luck in healing up his spider
wound, and hung up the phone, glancing into every corner in the office in
search of a cobwebby spider house. I saw
none, but it didn’t make me feel any safer.
The bedroom would need a careful inspection, too.
For
another week Joe’s tree-cutting truck sat, a continual specter, before my
house. Every morning I expected to see
Joe drive up in his car, wave, and get out his chainsaw, but he never
came. So, after the week had passed, I
called him again—to make sure he was still alive.
A
weak voice answered, “Hell-o-o-o.”
“Joe,
is that you?” I said.
“Yes,
it’s me.”
“You
sound awful.”
“I
am worse. I went to the emergency room
again last night, and they switched the antibiotics. You should see the spider bite. It’s raised up about a half inch, it’s black,
like it’s dead tissue underneath, and there’s a huge red ring around it,
too. I feel just awful—am really sorry
that I haven’t been able to get to your tree.
But I just can’t. I can’t move my
shoulder, let alone climb a tree and use a chainsaw. This bite really has me worried. If I’d have been old, I’d be dead from it by
now. Did you get your house sprayed for
spiders yet?”
“No,
I didn’t. Can’t afford it right now,” I
said.
“Well,
you need to. If you get bit, you’ll know
what excruciating pain is like. Those
bastard spiders are pure evil. I’ve been
battling this thing now for three weeks, and it’s not getting any better. I’m really scared!”
“Joe,
don’t worry about the tree. Get to it
after you get over this bite. I googled
the brown recluse, but it’s hard to tell it apart from others. And my woods is just loaded with all kinds of
spiders. I’m sure I’ve got recluses,
too.”
“Well,
I caught two of them in my bedroom,” Joe yelped. “I killed the bastards, too. I’ll bring one along when I get to your place. Then you can watch out for them.”
“Yeah,
that would be helpful,” I sighed
uneasily.
Another
week has passed; Joe’s truck sits stolid, unmoving, in front of my woods. I should call Joe to see how he’s getting
along, but I can’t stand any more cautionary tales of the brown recluse. I’ve already developed a morbid fear of the
animal—a characteristic I would never have thought I’d own--and I haven’t even
seen one or been threatened by any. On
any day I deal with animals twice and ten times my own weight: my pot-bellied pigs and
the horses. I have no fear of them or
sharks in the ocean or other insects, reptiles, and such. But I must admit that every night finds me,
like Poe’s tell-tale victim, with one eye open, on guard, looking, watching,
one eagle-eye gaping in anticipation of a hungry, hairy hellion on eight legs.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Hummingbird
David Stearman
I’ve always loved
hummingbirds. There’s something mystical about them. Maybe it has to do with
their diminutiveness, or their seemingly spiritual manner of movement, I don’t
know, but I’ve always found them captivating. I feed them. I photograph them. I
study them. As a result of all this, my new novel Hummingbird has just been
released. The back-cover blurb goes like this:
“She feels like a misfit. Who is she? Where does she
belong? Is she Lexa, Alexandra, or someone else?
Forced to commit a crime, she flees south of the Border–and a vindictive bounty hunter follows her.
Will she escape? Find redemption? Learn who she really is and where she belongs?
The answer lies hidden in a tiny seaside village where wandering hummingbirds rest their wings.”
Forced to commit a crime, she flees south of the Border–and a vindictive bounty hunter follows her.
Will she escape? Find redemption? Learn who she really is and where she belongs?
The answer lies hidden in a tiny seaside village where wandering hummingbirds rest their wings.”
Here’s the video
trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTmiXISuKnE
Now you might ask, what
does a book about a criminal-on-the-run doing on Gay’s blog? Here’s the answer:
my protagonist Lexa’s life, and the little coastal town in which she lives, changes
dramatically through her interaction with hummingbirds (not to mention the
eighteen-foot shark she adopts and names “M.C. Hammerhead.”) In fact, Lexa’s
life becomes entwined with them to the degree that the villagers begin calling
her ColibrÃ, which is Spanish for
you-know-what bird.
So
if you like Hummingbirds, feel free to check this story out. It’s a sometimes
sweet, sometimes scary, always uplifting read I think you’ll enjoy. You can
find it on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and iBooks etc. Here’s the Amazon link: http://www.amazon.com/Hummingbird-ebook/dp/B008QMSBW8
David Stearman
Twitter: https://twitter.com/DavidStearman
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/davidstearman/Facebook:
Ministry Website:
http://www.davidstearmanministries.org/
Monday, August 27, 2012
Guest blogger: Pola Muzyka
Hi there, fiction suspense lovers. My name is Pola Muzyka and I've been writing
on-the-edge novels for quite some time now. Two of these novels are set to
release this year in four volumes. Find them at Amazon Kindle, Barnes &
Noble and ebook stores throughout the world.
The release began with Abducted to Kill, Volume I, The Terror Regime. Purchase at Amazon: http://amzn.to/OAh1My or Barnes & Noble http://bit.ly/NY7HDq or other fine ebooks stores.
See what AssistNews press has to say about me and my work: http://www.assistnews.net/Stories/2012/s12080129.htm
Be on the lookout for three more books planned to release before fall falls. They are: Abducted to Kill, Volume II, Sleeper Cells; The Freedom Inside, Volume I, Delicate Cargo, and The Freedom Inside, Volume II, Sober Vigilance.
--------------------------
Today, I write about strongholds, but my life wasn't always this intense--it was worst. As an actress, model, and producer I was on the edge most of the time, so naturally my writing follows suit--it keeps you moving forward. My books, Stronghold Smasher Suspense, where faith and hope shine a light on evil, unravel some of the basic laws of spiritual defence. Hope you'll delve into them and discover how others overcome evil and how you, too, can be prepared for the unnatural disasters of this world while you learn about the world that lies beyond.
Okay, now onto the good stuff: I'm going to share something with you that may surprise you--I was raised on a sheep farm. My mother loves animals and if she didn't marry Dad, she probably would have become a vet. She would take out grubs from rabbits chewing at our lettuce, nurse lambs rejected by their mother in the back of our coal stove, bandage wounded birds and keep them safe until they could fly again, take splinters out of the paws of dogs, cats, and sometimes us when we were small. She would walk down our country road with three or four sheep, cat, dog, and chickens following. Course we tagged along as well--there were four of us, and we were dubbed, the Muzyka animal parade. Mom lives alone now, but not without an animal or two tugging at her pant leg. She keeps fish in a bowl and large pond on the property, feeds the birds more than they need, and even has a horse or two trotting through the grounds every now and then.
Life on the farm may have ended for me but life living with animals never ended. Even today, as I write, a little squirrel or chipmonk comes up to my window and peeks in as if to say, "come and play today". Hmmm. He's not speaking to me, but to my cat. If he only knew. Tuxedo would love to play, too, but not as he expects.
Hope you animal lovers can find the time to get a copy of my books and the books of my friend, Gay, who is posting this blog. Thanks for reading my work. God bless all y'all--that's Georgian for all of you. Until next time, by from Pola, Tuxedo, squirrelly and chipmunk.--Pola Muzyka
--
Pola Muzyka
Visit Writer's Notes by PolaOr visit POLA'S BLOG, Stronghold SmashersAbducted to KIill� The Freedom Inside
Stronghold Smasher Suspense--where faith and hope shine a light on evil.
The release began with Abducted to Kill, Volume I, The Terror Regime. Purchase at Amazon: http://amzn.to/OAh1My or Barnes & Noble http://bit.ly/NY7HDq or other fine ebooks stores.
See what AssistNews press has to say about me and my work: http://www.assistnews.net/Stories/2012/s12080129.htm
Be on the lookout for three more books planned to release before fall falls. They are: Abducted to Kill, Volume II, Sleeper Cells; The Freedom Inside, Volume I, Delicate Cargo, and The Freedom Inside, Volume II, Sober Vigilance.
--------------------------
Today, I write about strongholds, but my life wasn't always this intense--it was worst. As an actress, model, and producer I was on the edge most of the time, so naturally my writing follows suit--it keeps you moving forward. My books, Stronghold Smasher Suspense, where faith and hope shine a light on evil, unravel some of the basic laws of spiritual defence. Hope you'll delve into them and discover how others overcome evil and how you, too, can be prepared for the unnatural disasters of this world while you learn about the world that lies beyond.
Okay, now onto the good stuff: I'm going to share something with you that may surprise you--I was raised on a sheep farm. My mother loves animals and if she didn't marry Dad, she probably would have become a vet. She would take out grubs from rabbits chewing at our lettuce, nurse lambs rejected by their mother in the back of our coal stove, bandage wounded birds and keep them safe until they could fly again, take splinters out of the paws of dogs, cats, and sometimes us when we were small. She would walk down our country road with three or four sheep, cat, dog, and chickens following. Course we tagged along as well--there were four of us, and we were dubbed, the Muzyka animal parade. Mom lives alone now, but not without an animal or two tugging at her pant leg. She keeps fish in a bowl and large pond on the property, feeds the birds more than they need, and even has a horse or two trotting through the grounds every now and then.
Life on the farm may have ended for me but life living with animals never ended. Even today, as I write, a little squirrel or chipmonk comes up to my window and peeks in as if to say, "come and play today". Hmmm. He's not speaking to me, but to my cat. If he only knew. Tuxedo would love to play, too, but not as he expects.
Hope you animal lovers can find the time to get a copy of my books and the books of my friend, Gay, who is posting this blog. Thanks for reading my work. God bless all y'all--that's Georgian for all of you. Until next time, by from Pola, Tuxedo, squirrelly and chipmunk.--Pola Muzyka
--
Pola Muzyka
Visit Writer's Notes by PolaOr visit POLA'S BLOG, Stronghold SmashersAbducted to KIill� The Freedom Inside
Stronghold Smasher Suspense--where faith and hope shine a light on evil.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
My Cat and Corn on the Cob
My
Cat And Corn On The Cob
I love corn on the cob. I especially love it
when my brother-in-law buys it, my mother-in-law shucks and silks it, and all
that is left for me is a quick 4 minute boil. Yes, only 4 minutes is
needed to bring this wonderful creation of God to its perfect point of consumption.
In my opinion, corn on the cob is the perfect addition to most any meal.
Show up at my house around dinner time, and you run a fairly good chance of
having this tasty treat.
While eating on the sofa one evening, our cat,
Carson, found the smell of corn on the cob to be quite interesting. He
came up to my plate, sniffed, and decided to stick around for a few
minutes. This is unusual for a cat. Most cats are not interested in
any item for an extended period of time, so his interest in my corn intrigued
me. When I looked away for a moment, he actually tried to retrieve the
corn from my plate! I was shocked. He has never shown interest in
table food. Being the loving mother I am (just ask me – I’ll tell you!),
I gave him the cob. Oh my goodness did he have fun. He took it to
the front door rug, flipped it in the air, rolled it on the rug, chewed its
wonderful remains, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. He was so happy with
a corn cob! Who would have guessed?
I think we
can learn from Carson and his corn cob fun. He didn’t require a store
bought cat toy. He didn’t even require a fresh ear of corn. He was
quite content with the cob only. I hope I am good at enjoying life as
much as Carson is at enjoying corn cobs. Life is full of wonderful
opportunities to stop, smile, laugh, and show enthusiasm. Think about
that this week. Find the good. Find the happy. Find the
unexpected. Toss something in the air and laugh. It feels SO GOOD!
Come back next week and Listen To My Brain Rattle.
Carol
Howell is from Rock Hill, South Carolina.
Her book, If My Body Is A Temple,
Why Am I Eating Doughnuts?, is available on Amazon Kindle and Barnes and Noble
Nook. www.carolhowellbooks.com
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