Friday, December 31, 2010

Buckwheat Pancakes

This is an old Southern recipe from Charleston Receipts, published in 1950.  I have fond memories of my late uncle, R. W. Moffett, making buckwheat pancakes on Sunday mornings at the old family homeplace in Augusta County, Virginia.  I didn't actually like them back then, but wish I could try his pancakes now.  I don't know if this is the exact recipe, but likely close enough.


Buckwheat Pancakes:

2 cups lukewarm water
2 cups buckwheat flour
1 tablespoon melted butter
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon sugar
1 yeast cake (try substituting a packet of dry yeast)
1 tablespoon molasses
1/4 teaspoon soda
1 egg

To 1 and 1/2 cups of lukewarm water, add enough sifted buckwheat flour to make mixture stiff enough to stir easily.  To this, add melted butter, salt and sugar, and yeast (first dissolve in 1/4 cup lukewarm water).   When this has been added, the batter should be a little softer than muffin batter (it must pour from the spoon easily).   If too thick, add a little more lukewarm water; if too thin, add a little more buckwheat flour.   Set aside in warm place to rise overnight.  In the morning, add molasses, soda, and egg.  Beat thoroughly.   Pour by tablespoonful onto hot griddle, turning once.
Serves 6-8.
Submitted by Mrs. Alston Ramsey (Hazel Hunter)


Tuesday, December 28, 2010

My Ancestral Ties To The Salem Witch Trials

In 1760 a plot of land was laid out like this: “Beginning at a beech tree marked, it being the northeast corner, boundary of Samuel Gustin’s land; thence north 11 rods to a beech…” and thus it goes around the perimeter of the property from beech to spruce to the hemlock with stones by it.  Quaint.  And so it was while perusing old Mack family annals (Highland Scots who settled in New England) that we came upon something quite interesting but not nearly as charming–a direct link to the infamous Salem Witch Trials.


According to these records, the first Mack arrival in the New World, John, (born in 1653) emigrated from Inverness and married Sarah Bagley in Boston in 1681. She was the daughter of Orlando (note the name) and Sarah Bagley.  Orlando Bagley was a man of considerable influence in the district, a constable, who apprehended his friend and neighbor, Susannah Martin, for a witch.  Good heavens, we have an ancestor at least partly responsible for the death of this unfortunate woman.


Back to the Macks; an early genealogist says the name wasn’t an abbreviation of some other such as MacDonald or McKenzie, but that they were a family of sufficient importance to have a Coat of Arms in Scotland with a Latin motto indicating they were hard workers and hopeful, of good estates and families, of liberal education, and of large experience, and they were strict Puritans. Seems it was a good enough family name to warrant admission into the upstanding Bagleys who were among the earliest Puritan settlers of Amesbury, Massachusetts.


I discovered more about Orlando Bagley and his ill-fated neighbor, Susanna Martin, at these sites:

http://famhist2.blogspot.com/2009/03/murder-in-salem.html


Panic spread far and wide with neighbor after neighbor falling under the malignant shadow until “From June through September of 1692, nineteen men and women, all having been convicted of witchcraft, were carted to Gallows Hill, a barren slope near Salem Village, for hanging. Another man of over eighty years was pressed to death under heavy stones for refusing to submit to a trial on witchcraft charges. Hundreds of others faced accusations of witchcraft; dozens languished in jail for months (*some of them dying there) without trials until the hysteria that swept through Puritan Massachusetts subsided.”

The above quote is from:
http://www.law.umkc.edu/faculty/projects/ftrials/salem/salem.htm


Women in that rigidly defined community had no voice or authority, but these girls wielded an almighty power over everyone by simply pointing their fingers.  The power must have gone to their heads, along with the dizzying attention they gloried in. However, I wonder, had they no conscience? So many innocent people suffered and died as a result of this craze.  For a people obsessed with the fate of their immortal souls, would this not weigh heavily upon them?  Only one girl ever offered an apology.


Oddly, the individual who bore any real resemblance to a witch, the young slave woman, Tituba, who lit the initial powder keg with strange Voodoo practices from her South American background, was never hung.  She confessed (possibly after a beating) and then joined with the girls in naming suspected witches. Maybe it was payback for her slavery.  I don’t know, but she’s also responsible for taking a lot of people down
.
I’ve also read about and seen a documentary suggesting there may have been an outbreak in Salem at that time of ergot poisoning (a mold similar to LSD) on the rye used for bread making.  Symptoms of such poisoning include hallucinations and physical pain which may account for some of the girls symptoms, but why only them?  Wouldn’t more people have been afflicted? Maybe more were and that’s why they tossed all reason to the wind.


As for allowing ‘spectral’ evidence as testimony, this was previously unheard of at witch trials and Salem is unique in that regard.  There were other time honored methods for ferreting out a witch.  For example, the water test–if you sank you were innocent; if you floated, guilty, of course, and then you were put to death.  Or, strip the supposed witch, shave her entire body, then carefully examine every inch of her for a ‘devil’s’ mark.  I’ll bet a lot of men preferred this method. Woe unto you, if you had any funny shaped moles or birthmarks.


Spectral evidence based on gyrating girls shrieking that you came to them in a way that only they could see and caused excruciating torment while enticing them to make a pact with Satan was a no win scenario for the accused. Any and all denials were met with increased screams and accusations. Only if you confessed your sin,did they fall silent. Then you were free to go; God alone being your judge, which makes no sense to me.  Crucify the innocent, or gain confessions from the so-called damned, thus freeing them.  But those truly concerned for the state of their souls refused to make such a blasphemous admission, preferring death.



To understand the mindset of these Salem Puritans is almost impossible, but I’ll try.  It seems they were terrified of the dark forest.  Though only six miles from the coast, Salem was on the edge of the wilderness.  The dreaded Indians dwelt in the woods, and the settlers feared Satan also brooded over the forest.  Disease and misfortune were attributed to evil entities.  Deeply insecure and preoccupied with horror of the dark forces, they sought its manifestation in everything and everyone.  And you tend to find what you look for.  Particularly when fear of the demonic is mixed in with an extremely judgmental community, resentment toward your neighbor, a means to get even, and young actresses happy to oblige you with a stellar performance.
There’s a vast deal more to be said on the subject and I may continue this post another time.  Meanwhile, if you know anything of my distant ancestor Orlando Bagley (sounds straight out of the Shire) and his part in the trial and execution of Susanna Martin, I’d be glad to know more.  And to her descendants, in behalf of our family, I offer my deepest apology.


*Two more interesting sites about the Salem Witch Trials:
http://www.salemfocus.com/index.htm

http://www.bloodlinesofsalem.org/HISTORY.HTM


Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Red Bird's Song A Night Owl Top Pick

Review Date:
Dec 19, 2010
ISBN:
1-60154-812-5
Publisher:
Wild Rose Press

Author: Beth Trissel
Genre: Historical Romance, Western
Reviewed by: Laurie-J
Charity, along with a few others, is taken captive during an attack by Shawnee warriors on the Shenandoah River Valley settlements in Virginia during the Fall of 1764. Wicomechee hates the English settlers who have invaded his people’s hunting grounds. He is steadfast in his determination to fight against their ever-increasing numbers and hinder their progress ever westward. But when he spots the fiery-haired, spirited young woman meandering among the colorful autumn leaves he knows that she is the treasure he has been promised.
This is a beautifully written story filled with adventure and suspense. I became fully invested in the lives of the characters as the story unfolds at a fast pace. The author kept my attention engaged, and my mind spiraling trying to predict the next direction the story would take as the myriad of secrets were revealed. There were times when I, too, felt like shaking some sense into the impetuous young Charity but then she would quietly give her explanation, defending her actions, and my heart would just melt away to goo - her reasons were always so honest, sincerely innocent, and utterly believable.
The author weaves a story of deep complexity. The descriptions of life among the nomadic tribe are simply without parallel. It is difficult to explain how deeply touching I find it to be. In the Afterward, Ms. Trissel confides that her ancestors settled in the Shenandoah Valley and that the family records document that some relatives were killed in Indian raids and others were taken hostage and later adopted into the tribe. It seems clear that this story is exceptionally well-documented historically. I found it to be entertaining, thought-provoking, and educational. This book touched my soul even as it provided a thrilling fictional escape into a period of history I have always found fascinating.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

God Bless Us Everyone~

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“I have always thought of Christmas as a good time; a kind, forgiving, generous, pleasant time; a time when men and women seem to open their hearts freely, and so I say, God bless Christmas!”

Love came down at Christmas; love all lovely, love divine; love was born at Christmas, stars and angels gave the sign.” – Christina G. Rossetti

“Let’s dance and sing and make good cheer, For Christmas comes but once a year.”-Sir George Alexander Macfarren
 
“I heard the bells on Christmas Day; their old familiar carols play, and wild and sweet the word repeat of peace on earth, good-will to men!”- Henry Longfellow    
“Christmas is the day that holds all time together.” – Alexander Smith

“Christmas is the keeping-place for memories of our innocence.” – Joan Mills

'“Christmas is a time when you get homesick – even when you’re home.”- Carol Nelso
 
Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.  ~Norman Vincent Peale
 
He who has not Christmas in his heart will never find it under a tree.  ~Roy L. Smith
  Christmas, children, is not a date.  It is a state of mind.  ~Mary Ellen Chase

Christmas is the gentlest, loveliest festival of the revolving year – and yet, for all that, when it speaks, its voice has strong authority.  ~W.J. Cameron
 
The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree:  the presence of a happy family all wrapped up in each other.  ~Burton Hillis

Our hearts grow tender with childhood memories and love of kindred, and we are better throughout the year for having, in spirit, become a child again at Christmas-time.  ~Laura Ingalls Wilder

There has been only one Christmas – the rest are anniversaries.  ~W.J. Cameron
 
"The earth has grown old with its burden of care But at Christmas it always is young, The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair And its soul full of music breaks the air, When the song of angels is sung."
~ Phillips Brooks (1835-93), American Episcopal bishop, wrote 'O Little Town of Bethlehem'.

Merry Christmas~God bless us everyone!

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

The Virginia House-Wife Cookbook, circa 1825, and Old English Plum Pudding


I came across this antiquated volume tucked back in among my collection of cookbooks.  I vaguely recall someone, maybe my husband, thinking I would appreciate its quaint take on cookery and the role of women in that far-flown age.  I did, but then The Virginia House-wife got lost behind the other larger books and forgotten.  Yes, it’s definitely from another age.

To quote from the author, Mrs. Mary Randolph, also known as The Methodical Cook, as she calls herself, “The grand areanum of management lies in three simple rules: “Let everything be done at a proper time, keep everything in its proper place, and put everything to its proper use.”


“If the mistress of the family will every morning examine minutely the different departments of her household, she must detect errors in their infant state…early rising is essential to the good government of a family.  A late breakfast deranges the whole business of the day…when the family breakfasts by detachments, the table remains a tedious time;  the servants are kept from their morning’s meal…No work can be done until the breakfast is finished. The Virginia ladies who are proverbially good managers employ themselves while the servants are eating…arranging the cruets, the mustard, salt-sellers, pickle vases,  and all that apparatus for the dinner table. “


“The husband who can ask a friend to partake of his dinner in full  confidence of finding his wife unruffled by the petty vexations attendant on the neglect of household duties, who can usher his guest into the dining room assured of seeing that methodical nicety which is the essence of true elegance,  will feel pride and exultation in the possession of a companion who gives to his home charms that gratify every wish of his soul…”

And so on regarding the attainment of perfection for married women. And you thought this was just a cookbook.  No, it’s also a moral treatise on the expectations heaped on new housewives.  But I detected one vital element that helps make this ideal state attainable, SERVANTS!

Amazon, that has everything, also has The Virginia House-wife and says it was originally published in 1825, so we have a later reprint from 1897. Of the book, it states, “The Virginia House-Wife was the most influential cookbook in nineteenth-century America. Considered the ultimate how-to cookbook, it rivals some of the currently popular cookbooks with its commonsense knowledge and advice which remains practical to this day.”
Well, maybe not ALL of its advice remains practical, but it’s chocked full of recipes and quite interesting to read over.

A Recipe for Old English Plum Pudding from The Virginia House-Wife Cookbook:


Beat eight eggs very light, add to them a pound of flour sifted, and a pound of powdered sugar; when it looks quite light, put in a pound of suet finely shredded, a pint of milk, a nutmeg grated, and a gill of brandy; mix with a pound of dried currants, and a pound of raisins stoned and floured--tie in a thick cloth and boil it steadily for eight hours. 

A variation of that theme is called just Plum Pudding:
Take a pound of best flour, sift it, and make it up before sunrise, with six eggs beaten light; a large spoonful of good yeast, and as much milk as will make it the consistency of bread (dough); let it rise well, knead into it a half pound of butter, put in a grated nutmeg, with one and a half pounds of raisins stoned and cut up; mix well together, wet the cloth, flour it, and tie it loosely, that the pudding may have room to rise. *Raisins for pudding  or cakes should be rubbed in a little flour  to prevent their settling to the bottom--see that it does not stick to them in lumps.   *Cloths for boiling puddings should be made of German sheeting; an article less thick will admit water and injure the pudding.

She doesn't say anything more than this.  I'm assuming this pudding is also to be boiled for the above mentioned eight hours.  I never made either but thought they looked fascinating.  In doing more investigation on English plum pudding, I came across a wonderful account and old recipe with more details.  He says to cover the pot in which you're boiling the pudding and check to be sure it doesn't boil dry: http://www.homemade-dessert-recipes.com/plum-pudding-recipe.html



Friday, December 10, 2010

Native American Historical Romance Novel Through The Fire~


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THROUGH THE FIRE

2009 Publisher’s Weekly BHB Reader’s Choice Best Books


The French and Indian War, a Shawnee warrior, an English lady, blood vengeance, deadly pursuit, primal, powerful, passionate…

At the height of the French and Indian War, a young English widow ventures into the colonial frontier in search of a fresh start. She never expects to find it in the arms of the half-Shawnee, half-French warrior who makes her his prisoner in the raging battle to possess a continent––or to be aided by a mysterious white wolf and a holy man.




Excerpt:
For a moment, he simply looked at her. What lay behind those penetrating eyes?

Shoka held out the cup. “Drink this.”

Did he mean to help her? Rebecca had heard hideous stories of warriors’ brutality, but also occasionally of their mercy. She tried to sit, moaning at the effect this movement had on her aching body. She sank back down.

He slid a corded arm beneath her shoulders and gently raised her head. Encouraged by his unexpected aid, she sipped, grimacing at the bitterness. The vile taste permeated her mouth. Weren’t deadly herbs acrid?

Dear Lord. Had he tricked her into downing a fatal brew? She eyed him accusingly. “’Tis poison.”

He arched one black brow. “No. It’s good medicine. Will make your pain less.”

Unconvinced, she clamped her mouth together.

“I will drink. See?” he said, and took a swallow.

 She parted her lips just wide enough to argue. “It may take more than a mouthful to kill.”
He regarded her through narrowing eyes. “You dare much.”

Though she knew he felt her tremble, she met his piercing gaze. If he were testing her, she wouldn’t waver.

His sharp expression softened. “Yet you have courage.”~



“Through the Fire is full of interesting characters, beautifully described scenery, and vivid action sequences. It is a must read for any fan of historical romance.” ~Poinsettia, Long and Short Reviews

Hear the primal howl of a wolf, the liquid spill of a mountain stream. Welcome to the colonial frontier where the men fire muskets and wield tomahawks and the women are wildcats when threatened.

The year is 1758, the height of the French and Indian War. Passions run deep in the raging battle to possess a continent, its wealth and furs.  Both the French and English count powerful Indian tribes as their allies.  The Iroquois League, Shawnee, and others bring age-old rivalries to the conflict—above all the ardent desire to hold onto what is theirs.  Who will live, and who will fall?



      
Reviewer: Sheila, Two Lips

Ms. Trissel has captured the time period wonderfully. As Rebecca and Kate travel in the wilderness, though beautiful, many dangers lurk for the unsuspecting sisters. Away from the gentility they grew up around, the people they meet as they travel to their uncle in the wilderness are rougher and more focused on survival regardless of which side they belong. I love historical novels because they take me to times and places that I cannot visit and Through the Fire is no different.

As I read I am transported back to the mid-1700’s on the American frontier as Britain and France maneuver to control the American continent. I can see how each side feels they are right and the other side the aggressor. I watch how the natives take sides based on promises made but not kept. I felt I was there through Ms. Trissel’s descriptions and settings.

…This is an excellent story where there is so much happening with Rebecca in the center of it all. I’m glad I read it and look forward to reading more of Beth Trissel.

*Available in print and digital download from The Wild Rose Press, Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other booksellers.






Wednesday, December 8, 2010

An American Rose Christmas Romance Anthology


An American Rose Christmas, a charming collection of historical romance stories by six Wild Rose Press authors, is 30% off at The Wild Rose Press. Also available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other online booksellers.   My story in this anthology is A Warrior for Christmas.  I loved writing A Warrior for Christmas and hope you will enjoy my contribution to this delightful holiday collection. 

Blurbs:
Tory captain Dr. Nicholas Clayton discovers stolen military secrets on a severely injured female spy. When her wounds heal, Holly Masters must decide if she can kill the man who saved her life.~

While pretending to be a male soldier, farm girl Sara Brewster falls for a handsome Union army surgeon. When her secret is revealed, will a lavish Christmas Eve ball work in her favor–or will her heart be broken?~

Southern belle Marybeth Dawson discovers Santa Claus can’t cross the Mason Dixon line–but handsome Union soldier, Trevor Sutton can.~

When a strong willed upper class New York girl falls for a dashing, compassionate stable boy, it will take a Christmas miracle to bring them together. Thankfully, true love is on their side.~

All reformed prostitute Eva Baird wants for Christmas is to have her daughter back in her arms. But gun-toting outlaws, spiteful in-laws, and a sweet-talking stranger with arresting gray eyes threaten to turn her dream into a lump of coal.~

 A Warrior for Christmas~
 
Reclaimed by his wealthy uncle, former Shawnee captive Corwin Whitfield finds life with his adopted people at an end and reluctantly enters the social world of 1764. His one aim is to run back to the colonial frontier at his first opportunity––until he meets Uncle Randolph’s ward, Dimity Scott.~


Excerpt:
December 1764, An estate outside Philadelphia

Blinking against wind-driven sleet, Corwin Whitfield followed the stout man through the front door of the massive stone house, far larger than he’d imagined. A dozen cabins or Indian lodges put together could fit inside and still leave ample room. With winter lashing at their heels, Uncle Randolph had pressed both man and beast hard to reach Whitfield Place before nightfall.

Icy pellets hit the door as his uncle shut the solid wooden barrier. Better than a skin flap, Corwin supposed. He was well accustomed to the wet and cold, but a fire would feel good. His gloved fingers were numb from riding over snowy roads all day, not to mention all the previous days. Puddles spread at his boots on the flagstone floor in the entryway.

“Welcome home, Mister Whitfield.”

By the light of the small glass lamp on the stand inside the door, he saw a woman in an apron, severe skirts and gray shawl. The cap engulfed her pinched face. Inclining her head and curtsying, she said, “How was your journey, sir?”

“Wretched, Mistress Stokes.” Uncle Randolph waved a gloved hand at Corwin. “My nephew.” He swiped a paw at her. “My housekeeper,” he added by way of introduction. “Fifth cousin of my late wife’s, or some such connection.”

“Indeed.” Mistress Stokes curtsied to Corwin. “Welcome to Whitfield Place.”

He considered the etiquette drilled into him by his uncle and offered a brief nod. A bow didn’t seem required.
Uncle Randolph scowled. “Foul weather.”

She seemed unperturbed by his gruff manner. “Yes sir.”

“Bound to worsen. See to it the fires are built up.” Unbuttoning his brown caped coat, Uncle Randolph flung it onto the high-backed bench along one wall. He peeled off his gloves, tossing them and his tricorn onto the sodden heap.

Corwin did the same with his newly acquired garments. He couldn’t fault his uncle’s generosity, but the man had the temperament of an old he-bear.
Uncle Randolph ran thickened fingers over gray hair pulled back at his neck and tied with a black ribbon. “Where’s Miss Dimity keeping herself? Is she well?”

Corwin detected a trace of anxiety in his tone.
The dour woman gave a nod. “Quite well, sir. She’s in the drawing room just after having her tea.”

“Good,” his uncle grunted. “Tell cook we’ll have our supper in there. Stew, pastries, and ale will serve. Don’t neglect the Madeira.”

Another curtsy and the housekeeper turned away to pad down a hall partly lit by sconces wrought of iron. His uncle frowned after her. “She’s a good body and keeps this place tidy but tends to be lax on the fires. We mustn’t risk Dimity taking ill. Delicate girl. Cold as a tomb in here.”

Corwin found Whitfield Place equally as welcoming as a grave. The chill was pervasive. A furlined wican would be warmer. He followed his uncle across the frigid entryway and through a wide double door. His relation paused just inside the spacious room and Corwin halted beside him.

“There she is,” Uncle Randolph said with the hint of a smile in his normally reluctant features.  “My ward, Miss Dimity Scott. The little Quaker as I call her.”

Corwin thought it highly doubtful this staunch Anglican had taken in an actual Quaker. Looking past assorted tables, gilt-covered chairs and a gold couch, he spotted the feminine figure seated before the glowing hearth. A padded armchair the color of ripe berries hid much of her slender form. His first impression was of fair curls, like corn silk, piled on her head beneath a circle of lace; his second, that the young woman bent over her embroidery seemed oblivious of all else. One this unaware would never survive in the frontier.
He’d been taught to move with the silence of a winged owl while observing all around him. “Why does she not look up at our coming?”

“Ah, well, that’s a matter I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.” The hesitancy in his uncle’s tone was unlike this man who knew his own mind and was swift to instruct others. He squinted at Corwin with his good eye; the other perpetually squinted from an injury he’d received in a duel. “I trust you’ll not hold it against the poor girl as a sign of weakness, my boy. Warriors sometimes do and you’ve kept company with those savages far too long.”

It wasn’t like his uncle to ramble, and Corwin shifted impatiently upon hearing his adopted people disparaged again. “What are you saying, Uncle?”

He rubbed his fingers over a chin grizzled with whiskers. “Dimity cannot hear us.”

“At all?”

“Not a sound, unfortunately. Though she is able to detect the vibrations of music. Odd, that.”

Like the beating of Indian drums. “Has she always been without hearing?”
****