This last week, I submitted my novella for the Bluestocking Belles’ Christmas anthology. It’s called Gingerbread Bride, and the anthology is Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem.
To celebrate, I’m making Work-in-Progress Wednesday about food. Post seven to eight lines from your work-in-progress with some connection to food (or drink, if your characters don’t eat on stage).
Don’t forget to share on Twitter, Facebook, and your other social media. If you tag me, I’ll like!
Mary smiled with satisfaction as she placed the last of the little gingerbread ladies into the box. In the four weeks she had been at Aunt Dorothy’s, she had learned a number of recipes, and helped with all kinds of baking, but the gingerbread biscuits, which she had learned from the cook on the Olympus, became her specialty…
Aunt Dorothy had round and star cutters, and cutters in the shape of various animals. When the alderman’s daughter asked for gingerbread ladies and gentlemen for her wedding breakfast, Mary had been delighted with the notion, and the cutters the tinker made to her pencil drawings worked very well.
The icing gave them clothes and features; a whole box of little gingerbread grooms, and a box of little gingerbread brides.
And please, do consider joining us for our cover reveal party next week. The @BellesInBlue have great parties!
Food soothes many an awkward moment, No? Here’s a piece from Dangerous Secrets:
“Of course I believe you,” she said too quickly. His eyes gave nothing away; she hoped hers did the same.
The pause became awkward. Jamie chewed his lower lip as if sunk in thought.
“Tea was put back,” she said to break the silence. Nora had agreed to keep an Italian household, but the cook soon learned that Nora held teatime sacred. “I’ll tell the cook you’re here.”
“Excellent,” he said. The ghost of a smile lurked in his sad eyes. “Are there lemon cakes?”
“I ordered them especially for you.” If she couldn’t speak with him, she could at least keep him well fed.
“Cook’s lemon cakes make my day perfect,” he sighed, giving her his arm. “Lemon cake and my lovely wife,” he added with a wink. “Shall we go indulge?”
You say so much in a few words. ‘The ghost of a smile lurked in his sad eyes.’
Hi, Jude! This passage is from my historical mystery, “Mortal Joys,” set in Victorian London. My heroine, Lucy Turner, is attending a wake:
In the dining room, I bypassed the funeral baked meats to reach for a few of the remaining slices of Turner gingerbread. Dense, treacly sweet, and spiced with ginger and cinnamon, the recipe for the delicious treat is a closely-guarded family secret. Mama was gifted with her copy on her wedding-day, and she promised to pass it along to me when I married. Whenever that might be. I bit my lip and forced myself not to look around for Mr. Gilbert.
Saralee Etter
You’ve intrigued me, Saralee. Whose wake? And clearly Lucy is not comfortable with being seen to be looking for Mr Gilbert, but she thinks of him when she things of marriage. Nice!
It’s the wake for the murder victim, Lucy’s cousin — and handsome Mr. Gilbert is the obvious suspect! LOL
This is my WIP where rabbit is on the menu:
Mr. Drummond groaned: “Rabbits; I have a profound distaste for the dreadful creatures!” he groused.
Miss Geneva Hawthorne was taken aback by such a forceful statement: “I cannot imagine why, Mr. Drummond. They are the most harmless creatures I could imagine,” she told him.
“Harmless! I should think not!” he cried. “A despicable rabbit was the cause of my injury,” he muttered.
Richard sighed: “You should have warned the dear girl,” he whispered to his partner, who immediately shushed him.
“How so?” the young lady inquired.
“My horse stepped into a rabbit hole and threw me off! Cursed rabbits!” he snarled.
“Did you not see the rabbit hole as you approached?” she innocently inquired. Richard snickered at the question; even a rider with little experience knew well enough to watch for such hazards. He received a soft elbow to the ribs for his outburst. He gazed at his partner who issued a glaring reproof.
Oh dear. Poor Geneva. Foot in mouth!
This is from the story I’m currently revising, The Rake’s Irish Lady. It’s the sequel to To Kiss a Rake.
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As a marriage proposal, Colin couldn’t have done much worse. Judging by Bridget’s expression, she didn’t like the idea at all—or perhaps she didn’t realize the proposal for what it was.
And now, with Mrs. Butterworth expounding on the relative delights of ginger cake and apricot tart, he couldn’t possibly explain himself. “We don’t want any.” He barely stopped himself from growling. “Thank you.”
Bridget gave him an arctic stare. “You may not want any, but I’m still hungry. I’ll have the apricot tart with cream, please, and coffee as well.”
Now I want to hear the proposal, Barbara! Muffed proposals are a delight to write, aren’t they? (And apricot tart with cream was a good choice.)
Caroline Warfield’s launch party has screwed up proposals as a theme… I truly cannot wait… 🙂
Yes, it is going to be great! Rede’s first attempt was a doozy.
“Your Grace, ladies shall we sit and start passing the meal around,” Amelia pronounced.
Jessica started to take one of the chairs the furthest from the head when she was directed to sit on the duchess’ right hand. With a head bob she did as requested.
“Ladies, as we are alone and to facilitate our discussion might I recommend rank be put aside for the duration and we use our Christian names,” the duchess suggested.
It seems the ladies are about to plot!
Food and plotting go together well. 😉
Sorry, I forgot to mention this is from My Lady Valentine, Book 4 in the Rogues and Rakehells Mystery series.
Thanks for making me hungry… 😉
From Shipmate, a prequel to Royal Regard
Chapter One – Bath, England – 1805
The coffee was somehow both weak and thick, enough reason to abandon the small pub, but excuses cropped up all around. Tables so close, his elbow met the shoulder of the man to his right when he poured his coffee. None-too-clean pewter plates and forks. The stomach-turning smell of sour ale and penny-a-pint gin. Noisy working-class men losing money with little grace. Bland, grey food, cheese hard and trimmed of mold, shepherd’s pie naught but layered pap. Myron Clewes had eaten thousands of such meals in thousands of similar establishments. He just hadn’t expected he ever would again.
You build atmosphere so well! I can smell the place, and feel the grime on my fingertips.
So true, Jude. I don’t want to eat there!!