What We Talk About When we Talk About Weather (and Gingerbread) a guest blog by Priscilla Paton

 JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Today's guest, Priscilla Paton, writes tough-minded novels about a pair of mismatched Twin Cities detectives. She writes about addiction, and alienation, and identity, but, like all of us who live in northern lands, she knows it's all about the weather. Where it's coming from, what it's going to do when it gets here, and how we're going to make it through.

 Fortunately, it's not all snow tires and shovels. There's also gingerbread. And this winter, at least, book events you can enjoy without having to bundle up and drive through the cold - like the launch for Priscilla's second book, Should Grace Fail, on Tuesday, December 8, at 8pm Eastern. You can register here - and be sure to leave a comment today, because one lucky person will be winning a copy of a Twin Cities Mystery!

 

Wherever you are, there’s weather, whether you like it or not. I had to get that sentence out—forgive me. Being in a Minnesota winter does something to a person. Think Fargo.

I write the Twin Cities Mystery series, and like the movie Fargo (minus the woodchipper), the books twist conventions of the genre and Midwest behavior. The weather is inevitably central not only to the setting but to character and plot.

In Minnesota, weather creates limitless opportunities for the humble-brag: “Yeah, I’m a bit stiff. Just shoveled three feet of snow off the roof.”  Moderate people turn competitive and rush to be the first to post the October blizzard on social media. Weather aids and abets passive-aggressive exchanges: “Saying inside, bummer”; “Well I have to go outside, double-bummer.” The repressed go crazy. Meaning, they ice-fish. On a frozen lake, on ice, over water, for something slimy and inhuman, like an eelpout, aka, a lingcod, mud shark, and “lawyer.” These ice fishers drive out a two-ton pickup. They unhitch a small house. They say the houses have heaters, booze, poker games, and TVs. Sure. Doesn’t change that it’s twenty below outside and your nose hairs are icicles. Then they leave the house on the lake, on ice, over water, until the state makes them haul it off, or the house falls through the ice and into spring muck. That’s somebody’s idea of fun.

All right, other places have Polar Vortexes. Wisconsin next door. Maine where I grew up, and as a shrimpy kid had my eyeglasses broken playing king-of-the-hill on monster snowbanks. I’ve been on New Hampshire’s Mount Washington, home to 200 mph winds, where I’ve felt to the bones weather weaponizing itself. At the peak, it turns in no time from sunny with a view to freezing fog with the warning that death happens. On the other hand, in the warmth of the tropics, hurricanes happen. Weather everywhere can be sublime and deadly.

 

Back to the Midwest famed for extremes of cold and hot, tornadoes and thunder snow, the weather can be contorted in fiction to do almost anything. To adapt a Norwegian saying, weather, like a potato, is useful for anything. For a mystery writer, weather can be a deus ex machina, the unexpected event that gets you out of a plot hole. Noir master Raymond Chandler said of crime writing, “when in doubt, have two guys come through the door with guns.” In Minnesota, you could have two trees, felled by the natural catastrophe of your choice, come crashing through the roof to trap the bad guys with guns. Then the good people (good people receive weather updates) can triumph.  A vehicular pursuit can be impeded by flash flooding. With ice, no one’s going anywhere—unless it’s a hockey mystery (a figure skating mystery if you’re a wuss). In June, you could have a murderer hide in the woods, only to die of hypothermia on an unseasonably cold night. Seasonable—what an unreliable concept!

Definition of Paradise: that one day in late May when you trip along outdoors without a puffy coat and rescue kit. The best part—the mosquitoes have not hatched. Yet.

The cold always cycles back. Now Minnesota and Maine are unlikely settings for an Agatha Christie murder with the social classes unnaturally mixed in the posh drawing room while Poirot reveals the murderer. But a group could be snowbound in a church, a supper club, not to mention an effing ice-house.

 Being snowbound is a good thrill for a day. More, and the real threats increase. At the least, those who remain safe yearn for warm comfort. During the worst Nor’easter of my childhood, our family dairy farm had to dump milk, had to drain the cooler and lose that paycheck, because for nearly a week the milk trucks could not get through. We made puddings, but we didn’t have chickens and eggs ran out. Then my mother pulled out a depression-era recipe, an eggless, butter-free gingerbread whose character depended on molasses. (Farms stocked bulk molasses to pour over mediocre hay for the cows.) Hoarded cream, whipped to softly drape over a serving, tempered the strong dark taste.  The gingerbread was a homey treat to have while sitting by the woodstove. It also makes a spicy accompaniment to the murder mystery of your choice. Please enjoy my family’s recipe with your holiday reading.

 

Snowbound Gingerbread

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease an 8 or 9” square pan. Ingredients:

½ C melted shortening                       2 C flour

½ C granulated sugar                          ½ tsp salt

½ C molasses                                      1 tsp baking soda

1  C hot water                                     1 tsp each cinnamon and ground ginger

 

Combine shortening, sugar, and molasses in mixing bowl. In separate bowl, blend dry ingredients. Add dry ingredients, alternating with hot water, to molasses mix. Pour into greased pan.

Bake 8” pan for 35-45 minutes

Bake 9” pan for 30-40 minutes

Cake is done when sides pull away and a skewer comes out clean.

Serve warm with whipped cream. The cake also be dusted with powdered sugar or frosted with lemon icing.

 

Should Grace Fail - Staying alive depends on knowing whom to trust and when to run.

When a man who saves lives has his own brutally taken, Greater Metro Detectives Erik Jansson and Deb Metzger have their strengths pushed to the limit. The murdered man rescued trafficked teen addicts from a vindictive crime boss, but he was also an alcoholic who left the police force under suspicion. Is his murderer a drug dealer, a pimp, a corrupt police colleague, all of the above? Or could the killer be a victim who lashed out at her savior?

You can find out more about Priscilla Paton at her website. You can discuss books with her on Goodreads, friend her on Facebook, and follow her on Twitter as @priscilla_paton.

How cold is it?

HALLIE EPHRON: It's SOOO cold.

HOW COLD IS IT?

Here in Boston it was -6 overnight.  Apparently the coldest since an infamous Valentine's Day in 2016 (it was -9) which was the coldest ever since another Valentine's Day low, minus 3 degrees set in 1934. 

It's so cold that "sweatpants" seems like a wishful misnomer, and 
... the birds in the yard are puffed up like Nerf balls, and
... rhododendron leaves are curled up, tight as pencils.

My husband and I are arguing over whether to keep the upstairs bedrooms (where each room has its own radiator) open or shut. I say SHUT because HEAT RISES. He (the physicist) says OPEN because it's warmer in the upstairs bedrooms than it is downstairs... which I say only proves my point.

Here are some photos from my neck of the woods....

Bunny tracks... 

Rhododendren

Our bedroom window

Rooftop snow making a possibly political statement... remind you of anyone's hair?

So, wherever you are, HOW COLD IS IT?? 

HANK: Oh, here's where we are:

the shadows on the roof of the garage

And here is the view from the Attorney General's office where I was doing an interview. The Charles River is frozen. It's frozen in waves. The WAVES are frozen. And there you have our world.

SO as Hallie says:  HOW COLD IS IT?

Snow What?

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:  It's snowing in Boston. Yeah, I know, it's December, whaddaya expect? But (because we're home) it's so pretty, and no scary, and not blustery. Just a gentle sweet little dusting of decoration from Mother Nature.

Here's the cast iron colt we have in our side yard. He's life size, and my constant joy.

Hank's side yard

Is it snowing where you are? Or what's it like outside your window right now? 


LUCY BURDETTE:  Oh I'm envious of that first snow, does that sound silly? But I hated worrying about driving in winter--don't miss that at all.

The front is passing through Key West now--rain, wind, and a 20 degree drop in temperature. All the tourists on Duval St. were wearing their plastic garbage bag cover-ups!

outside Hallie's study

HALLIE EPHRON: Here's the view out my window - powdered-sugar snow. And it's coming down in big fat flakes like in a snow globe. 

First snow. Love it. Hasn't gotten old...yet. As long as I don't have to drive, and I'm not going ANYWHERE until it stops. I heard this storm brought snow to Texas(!)

JENN MCKINLAY: No snow in central AZ. I've only seen it snow twice here in the twenty plus years I've been here and then it never sticks. Snow is always magical to me! But since I can't have snow I settle for amazing sunsets and holiday lights - which I put up today! 

The view from Jenn's front porch!

HANK:  Wow. Amazing, Jenn. And look at this!  
By 8:30, the snow had not stopped! This is our back yard.

And the bird bath is about two inches deep..so that means...how many inches?

Hank's back yard--bird bath at 8:30

SO pretty, right?

Reds, what's the weather where you are?

((And the winner of Jessica Strawsers's ALMOST MISSED YOU is Mary C!  (Lucky you!) Email me at  h ryan at whdh dot com to  claim your prize!

Hurray for the Liv Constantine winners! Your books are on the way asap.)

My Favorite Soup

RHYS: The temperature here dropped into the thirties last night, making me think about soup recipes.  One of the few things I like about cold weather is sitting by a fire with a bowl of homemade soup. And this one will surprise you. I grew up hating parsnips. My family would put them around the Sunday roast. Yuck.

But I was staying with a friend when she served this delicious soup. What is it? I asked.

When she said parsnip I nearly fell through the floor.

I make it every winter and it is beyond yummy. So I'm happy to share my friend's recipe with you now.

CURRIED PARSNIP SOUP, AS COOKED BY MY FRIEND PENNY FOUNTAIN.

2 oz butter

1TS oil

1 lb parsnips, cubed

1 clove garlic crushed

1 onion

1 oz flour

1 rounded ts curry powder (I actually add more)

2 pints good stock

salt and pepper

(I actually add a potato to this recipe as it makes for a thicker soup)

to garnish cream or sour cream and chives.

heat butter and oil, add parsnips, garlic and onion. Fry .

Stir in flour, curry powder.

Add stock and seasonings. Bring to boil

Cover and simmer until tender.

Puree. Swirl in cream and sprinkle chives on top.

It's also good if you sprinkle shredded parmesan cheese on top.

If you serve this nobody will ever guess that it's parsnips. It tastes so rich.

Enjoy

Rhys

Brenda Buchanan: Maine, winter, and COVER STORY

SUSAN ELIA MACNEAL: Delighted to introduce novelist Brenda Buchanan, author of the Joe Gale Mystery series, talking about the approaching winter. (Cue the scary music!) She's from Maine, so she (like our Red Julia) certainly knows cold, snow, and ice. So, enjoy fall, maybe some apple cider, and the last of the warmth and colorful leaves and read her post on her newest Joe Gale mystery, COVER STORY....


BRENDA BUCHANAN: Have you noticed the signs?

That little eddy of cool air that lurks near the floor early in the morning? The chilly breeze that pushes through the screens at twilight? The swamp maples showing red?

Ready or not, here comes winter.   

It seems quick, no? Wasn’t it just a few weeks ago we dared to put the shovels away? After the record-setting (and not in a good way) winter of 2015, this year’s autumnal equinox is the equivalent of the ominous music that presages a scary scene in a movie. 

There’s a saying about Maine having only two seasons—winter and three months of poor sledding. Often, it’s only a slight exaggeration.

This year, after a hellacious winter, spring was an eyeblink, but summer was long and luxurious. We even had a post-Labor Day heat wave, allowing us to swim in the bracing North Atlantic well into September. Then poof! The warmth went away, and now it’s fleece season, soon to be replaced by heavy-duty fleece season, and, ultimately, wool and goose down season.

Most years, autumn is quite popular here at the very crown of rugged New England. We boast about the beauty of our foliage on our way to pick apples in our all-wheel drive vehicles, chuckling at the notion that winter is on the doorstep.

This year, nobody’s laughing. It doesn’t matter a whit that those in the know say we can look forward to an El Nino (mild) winter. Those who dread paralyzing snowfalls, brutal cold and tundra-like parking lots are freaking out.

I know we are not alone. The whole eastern seaboard was gobsmacked last winter. Boston’s statistics: Total snowfall, 110.6 inches, 94.4 of them during a 30-day period from late January to late February. Along with the incessant storms came bitter temperatures. Across southern New England, pipes broke, roofs collapsed and snow blower-owning neighbors became the most popular folks on the block.

During that same period, parts of Washington County, Maine got 122 inches of snow. I’m guessing there were fewer broken pipes and caved-in roofs, but that’s only because people who live in Downeast Maine bank their foundations with bales of hay (it’s cheap, effective insulation) and are old hands with the roof rake.

This is not Maine one-upwomanship. I’m simply setting the scene to talk about my just-released book Cover Story—the second in the Joe Gale Mystery Series.

The story takes place in January in Machias—the shire town of coastal Washington County and a mere 50 miles from the Canadian border. Joe Gale, a reporter at the imagined Portland Daily Chronicle, has journeyed five hours northeast of Portland to cover the trial of a man accused of killing the younger brother of Maine’s most high-profile politician.

In the local barbershop and the gritty townie bar, the prosecutor’s boast of an open-and-shut case doesn’t fly, especially after the defense lawyer starts picking at the state’s witnesses like a crow on carrion.  When Joe writes about the disconnect he finds himself in the crosshairs of somebody who doesn’t appreciate his diligent reporting. 
Then a nor’easter roars up the coast, and his shadowy nemesis schools him in the dangerous ways of winter in Downeast Maine.

On a warm, muggy night a couple of weeks ago I opened my pre-publication file of Cover Story to begin prepping for a round of post-launch readings. I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. The hair at the nape of my neck was damp with sweat. But the cover itself and the opening lines cooled me right down, better than the ice water at my elbow or the ceiling fan spinning overhead.

The evergreen boughs glittered in the setting sun, but I couldn’t afford to even flick my eyes at their beauty. A cold front had chased the morning’s freezing rain out to sea, and the following wind was brutal, scouring sand off the icy two-lane highway as fast as the road crews could spread it. Five miles south of Machias an oncoming Jeep slewed sideways through a curve, righting itself an instant before we scraped paint. 

Downeast Maine—dazzling and treacherous in equal measure. It would be a fitting slogan for the remote stretch of coastline that winds the hundred miles between Bar Harbor and Canada.

I hope Cover Story will serve as a creative way for readers to heal the lingering pain of last winter, especially those cursing the seven o’clock September darkness and the sudden need for a quilt on the bed.

Here’s my therapeutic advice: read a few chapters, then look out the window. Exult in the reality that the morning glories are still blooming, leaves have yet to fall, and it’ll be months before the  first snowfall.

Probably.

So, Reds and lovely readers, how are you preparing for the season ahead? With dread or delight? What are your season-in-transition rituals? Let us know in the comments!

Brenda Buchanan is a former newspaper reporter with a deep reverence for small town journalism. Her Joe Gale Mystery Series features an old-school reporter with modern media savvy who covers the Maine crime beat.

Brenda holds a journalism degree from Northeastern University and a law degree from the University of Maine. She writes and practices law in Portland, where she lives with her spouse.

Brenda can be found on the web at www.brendabuchananwrites.com and on Twitter at @buchananbrenda

Cover Story is available in digital format wherever fine ebooks are sold.

Here’s a plot summary: Maine newspaper reporter Joe Gale is at his best when covering the crime beat for the Portland Daily Chronicle. In the dead of winter he heads Downeast to cover the murder trial of fisherman Danny Boothby, charged with burying a filleting knife in the chest of politically well-connected social worker Frank O’Rourke.

O’Rourke held a thankless job in a hard place. Many locals found him arrogant, but say he didn’t deserve to die. Others whisper that O’Rourke got himself killed through his own rogue behavior.

After Joe’s hard-nosed reporting provokes someone to run him off an isolated road, he realizes his life depends on figuring out not only who committed the murder, but who’s stalking him—O’Rourke’s prominent brother, friends or enemies of the dead social worker or members of Boothby’s family. As he digs deeper, Joe uncovers enough secrets and lies to fill a cemetery. He'll have to solve this one fast, or his next headline may be his own obituary.

On smudged up recipes

JAN: Recently I took on a herculean task: I sorted through all the zillions of recipes in my file folders, armored them in plastic protectors, and organized them in a loose leaf binder.

I hate organizational tasks, so this was really a tedious sacrifice of time for me, but while I was doing it, I noticed that I’d linger over the icky, butter or gravy smudged recipes the longest.


And what was that about?? Fond feelings for my sloppy cooking?

Or maybe it’s because the spotless recipes signify a good concept that doesn’t apply to me. Messy means tried and true. Messy means real life.

So here are two of my messiest, most loved winter recipes.

Chicken Artichoke Stew:

3 lbs. broiler fryer cut in pieces, or three pounds skinless breasts cut into bite size pieces.

1 med-sized onion chopped

1 tablespoon olive oil

salt and pepper

2 to three cloves of fresh garlic minced or pressed

1 large can (16 ounces) crushed tomatoes.

1 8-ounce can diced tomatoes.

small can of tomato paste

1 tablespoon cinnamon

2 tablespoons honey

1 package frozen articholes thawed and chopped or a large can of articoke hearts quartered.

2 to three carrots peeled and chopped into small slices

1/2 lemon squeezed.

Sautee onions and garlic in a Dutch Oven or Stewpot in olive oi. Add childen and brown on both sides. Add all the rest of the ingredients except the squeezed lemon and artichokes and cook for forty five minutes to an hour on medium or medium low. Add artichokes and cook ten minutes more. Add lemon and take off the heat. Serve over pasta or rice or serve as a stew with a loaf of French bread.

Hot Ham in a crockpot

I'm not a big ham fan. I buy it once or twice a year because I need the ham bone for pea soup and I can never find one. So I buy the smallest but-end fully cooked ham I can find and take three quarters of the meat off of it. Probably a pound or two.

Then I take a crockpot (or you can use a dutch oven) and sprinkle olive oil on the bottom.

I peel and slice four to six potatoes, and slice three carrots. I slice a bulb of fennel (you can use celery instead) and chop half an onion (1/2 cup). For fun, I like to add two jalapeno peppers (optional) I layer this on the bottom of the crockpot, sprinking with salt, peppper and a mixture of 1/4 cup olive oil and 1 tablespoon of butter.

I cut the ham into medium sized hunks and put that on top. I mix two tsp. of brown sugar into ten ounces of low fat chicken broth and add to the concoction. In a crockpot, I cook it on high for four to five hours. In a Dutch Oven, I'd cook it on medium low for an hour or so. Ten minutes before serving, I add a half cup of light sour cream and I serve with sour dough bread. It's amazingly delicious -- even if you don't like ham!

Anyone else have an messy, winter recipes to share ?

On summer's end

Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability. ~Sam Keen

JAN: I biked down to South Beach this morning to get my last glimpse of the ocean before heading home. And now I'm laundering beach towels and packing up coolers with all the windows and doors open so I can get my fill of sea breezes.

And you know what I feel? Relief.

I loved the crystal clear days, the strong sun, the stars at night. But now? Enough of that.

How can I focus on the right name for a character or the clearest definition if all I want to do is get on my bike and ride to the beach? How can I puzzle out a workable plot when someone needs a fourth for doubles on a beautiful day? Clearly to get anything done, I need a chill outside, lots of clouds, and preferably a downpour.

In fact, I do my best writing between January and March just because the weather is so bad. Obviously, I have issues with self-discipline -- I've had to remove Solitaire from every computer I've ever had. I also get bored easily, have little tolerance for routine, and need a change in seasons just so I don't have to eat barbequed food for another eight months.

So it could just be me, but does anyone else look forward to cold weather for its positive effect on productivity?.

ROBERTA: Funny that you're so patient with slogging through tedious or difficult reading, Jan! You saw with Friday's post how much I'll regret the end of the summer produce season. (that's me, eating first!) We had to pull our cucumber plants out, and the zucchini, and the beans are looking peaked. And like Hallie, I hate winter. The thing that bothers me even more than the cold is the light. Or lack of it, I should say. It gets dark here in Connecticut by 4:30 in the worst part of the season. And that makes me feel like hibernating, not writing.

HALLIE: So THAT'S why I haven't gotten but a piddling amount of my new book written for the last three months!

For me, end of summer means college starts and my husband goes back to work. Which is one fewer distraction in the house but no one to hang out with at lunch. The worst thing about summer ending is winter is not far off. I hate hate hate winter. Hate ice, hate snow, hate being cold cold cold.

Ro: Summer started late for me and in the past few years it's ended late. In September I rent a house in Wellfleet. Most of the other renters and tourists have gone home and I get to pretend that I live in a small town with a general store that just happens to have a beach outside. The restaurants start to close and as the days go by there a fewer and fewer people on the road and on the beach. It's wonderful. I finished my first book at the house so it will always be special to me.For me the worst thing about the summer ending is that everything else is going to come so fast...Bouchercon, Crimebake, holidays, then the conferences start...aaayyyy!!

HANK: A box arrived at our porch in mid-July. Usually I'm the one who orders things, but I wasn't expecting a parcel. My husband said--oh, this is a surprise for us. Huh.

Inside was a turquoise blue two-person swimming pool float. Like a floating double chaise, where the two people are facing each other as they float. It's perfect for reading, and even has little spaces that are just the size of a diet coke bottle. Heaven.

All my vacation, 17 wonderful days from mid August til Labor Day, I'd write in the morning, we'd have lunch by the pool, then I'd come back in and write til 4. Then from 4 to 6--floating and reading.

Today, we're putting our float away. (After the football game, Jonathan says.)

Sigh. My white skirt is looking tired. Gin and tonics seem a little too chilly. My bathing suit is hanging on the shower rack, and hasn't budged for a week. We cook inside. Transition is transitioning.

But the dahlias are still blooming like mad. And the air is clear and dry. And I don't have to face a new math teacher or clique of classmates. I like it.

JAN: Oh dear, Hank. Now you're making me miss summer, when I was so determined to do away with it. But I must remind myself that the swimming pool float would be useless to me -- what without the pool. And of course, as you remind me, Patriots are on this afternoon -- and although I don't watch football -- I do make nachos at halftime. A perfect transition!