Killer Pancakes and a Cozy Mystery

To be perfectly honest, the only thing "killer" about these pancakes is the calorie count. On the other hand, six of them provide enough fuel for a day's hike up North Pack Monadnock Mountain in southern New Hampshire--one and a half miles trailhead to summit, with a net elevation gain of 1000 feet. 

This recipe is based on one found in Maple Syrup Cookbook by Ken Haedrich.

Killer Pancakes (serves 2 generously, 3-4 lightly)

Ingredients

1/2 cup cornmeal

1/2 cup whole wheat flour

1/4 cup rye flour (whole wheat or all-purpose may be substituted)

1 1/2 tsp. baking powder

2 eggs

3/4 cup milk plus a little extra

1 Tbsp molasses or honey

2 Tbsp oil or melted butter, plus some for the skillet

Extras: chopped nuts, seeds (chia, sunflower, sesame), chopped dried fruit, shredded coconut, small fresh fruit (berries, sliced bananas, chopped apples)

Stir together the dry ingredients and make a well in them.

In a different bowl, beat the eggs well, stir in the milk and oil.

Pour the egg mixture and the sweetener into the dry ingredients. Stir just until the batter is smooth; do not beat. Beating makes the pancakes tough. If the batter is thick, stir in a little more milk.

Heat the griddle or skillet (I prefer my electric griddle set at 375 degrees; yours may vary) and add the oil. 

Drop about 2 Tbsp of batter onto the griddle for each pancake; top each with one or two "extras." I like to use one crunchy and one sweet, for example coconut with banana or walnuts with dried cranberries. Cook about 1 minute on each side, just until golden. Serve hot with softened butter and warm syrup.

Excerpt from Framed, coming soon from The Wild Rose Press.

“Were they lovers?” Jenna asked, wide-eyed. “You always hear that about artists and their models.” Then she blushed.

“Oh, no! Jerry never had any interest in Abby as a woman,” Ginny answered.

“But they died,” Jenna prompted, absorbed in the story.

Ginny nodded. “Ten years ago last winter. They went missing during a snowstorm. The police went nuts trying to find them. At first, everyone assumed they had just run off together, but it wasn’t like that. Mike, her husband, really stirred things up, insisting something had happened. He forced the cops to look into it. 

“It took the authorities about three weeks to find them. A hunter came across them in the snow.” She looked rather sick. “The coyotes had been at the bodies, but it looked like he killed her and then himself. Mike moved out west and never came back.”

She sighed and returned to the present. “All of which means this painting may be a gold mine, Jenna. Let us clean it up, verify it is what I think it is. There may even be a signature under all the grease and smoke. Would you feel better if we came up with an agreement about what happens then?”

Sue and Elsie excused themselves and went to the workshop down the stairs from the gallery. “I’d forgotten he killed himself,” Sue said. 

“Don’t you believe it,” Elsie replied. “Jerry wouldn’t hurt a fly. That was no murder/suicide. It was a double murder.”

Endings...Beginnings

Forget January; my new years start in the fall. After the languid days of summer, I’m ready for the renewed energy of autumn. I break out the more substantial clothing, hoard my garden’s bounty, and turn inward. If I regret summer’s freedom, I welcome autumn’s focus.

This year the ends of things are more prominent than usual. My grandson is leaving toddlerhood and becoming a preschooler. The salmon restoration project I’ve worked on for years has shut down. I lost a dear friend and my publisher in July.

Likewise, the beginnings are prominent. Toddlers are great, but preschoolers are real people. The salmon project will raise eels and shad. No one can replace my friend, but I’ve found a new publisher.

When Linda Houle of L&L Dreamspell passed away this summer, the publishing world lost a bright star and many of us lost a warm, caring friend. The company closed and all rights reverted to the authors. Lisa Smith, Linda’s partner, moved quickly to give us all as much opportunity as possible to re-issue our books. One of the things I loved best about being a Dreamspell author was the community Linda and Lisa built, and I feared it was lost forever. But Lisa, despite her own deep grief, kept our Yahoo! group alive so we could support each other. I will miss Linda forever; I hope I will work with Lisa again in the future; and I’m delighted I can still be in touch with a group of authors I’ve come to treasure.

In another generous gesture, Lisa arranged for Dreamspellers to submit their books to The Wild Rose Press for re-release, and TWRP graciously offered to fast-track those that suited their line. My cozy mystery, Framed, has found a new home, and I’m excited to be working with a new team of professionals. Their energy has even reinvigorated my rewrites of the sequel, A Thousand Words.

To cite a truism, every ending is also a beginning. Janus, the two-faced god of doorways and changes, may claim January, but the prime number seven, September, wins my devotion.

Finding the words

Craft shows are amazing. You never know what you'll find, except you're pretty sure to meet some interesting people. Crafters tend to be creative, friendly folks, eager to talk and willing to share their enthusiasm for their work. Over the many years I've been doing craft shows, I've never yet come away without a sense of inspiration.

Occasonally I offer my books at a craft show. Despite the advantages of epubbing, lots of people still like "real" books, and even more like to meet the author in person. And I must confess that shoppers' awe of writers is quite an ego boost.

This weekend my table was near a wood-turner's, happily for me. I'm a great lover of wood, in its living form and in the multitudinous shapes it takes in the skilled hands of a woodworker. This particular turner, a former shop teacher, was equally intrigued with the written word, and we ended up swapping items. He got a copy of Framed; I got a stick.

The stick was about a foot and a half long, of clear, fine-grained maple with a satiny finish. It slid easily into my hand, and my fingers stopped naturally at a knob about a third of the way down. Each end is smooth and rounded. I like the balance of it, the perfect weight, the way it feels like an extension of my arm. Most of all, I like its name.

It's called a "spurtle." An old word, but new to me. By definition, a spurtle is a stick for stirring porridge or soup. The derivation is Scots and goes back at least 400 years. I'm charmed by the idea that there is a name for a stick used to stir food; the equivalent in my kitchen is  simply a "wooden spoon." But mostly I love the way the word feels in my mouth. It has a hiss, a pop, a purr, a growl, and that luscious "tl" at the end. Very satisfying.

Porridge is not often on the menu in my house, so my spurtle will probably hang on the wall, with assorted ribbons according to the season. But I'm so enchanted by it, I might write a Highlander novel, just so I can use its name.


What  unusual words have you found in unexpected places? And where do they take you?