Karen Docter's Blog
October 10, 2025
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s with THE SERPENT HANDLER’S WIFE, A Vega & Middleton Novel #Domestic #Thriller by Sue Hinkin #Recipe ~ Mexican-Norwegian Tacos
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **AUTHOR SPECIAL** with SUE HINKIN!
Welcome to my Friday bonus feature called Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **Author Special**!! Today, instead of one of my recipes, I will introduce you to a new author who will share a favorite recipe. Not only will you and I occasionally learn how to make something new and delicious, but we’ll also get a chance to check out some fantastic authors. Introducing author SUE HINKIN and her favorite recipe for Mexican-Norwegian Tacos!
THE SERPENT HANDLER’S WIFE
A Vega & Middleton Novel
BY SUE HINKIN
Blurb
When photojournalist Lucy Vega’s war correspondent significant other, Michael, suddenly takes a job in Iraq, Lucy is left alone with their young child on her isolated California ranch. His unstable, college drop-out daughter shows up hoping to meet her half-brother who is Lucy’s 4-year-old son, Henry. Despite Michael’s warnings, Lucy hires the girl to help care for their child. Weird things begin happening—Lucy’s beloved horse is bitten by a rattle snake, animal enclosures are vandalized, and young Henry finds a loaded gun he thinks is a toy. Lucy doesn’t know the daughter has fallen under the spell of a sexy, snake-handling religious cult leader who will do anything to get Lucy’s ranch and her child.
THE SERPENT HANDLER’S WIFE
A Vega & Middleton Novel
BY SUE HINKIN
Excerpt
Editor’s Note: Sensitive readers, please take note of the title before proceeding.
Mark 16:18
“They will pick up serpents with their hands, and if they drink the deadly poison, it will not hurt them…”
CHAPTER ONE
It was beginning.
The Man walked stealthily through the pre-dawn darkness. A single yard light cast tepid shadows along the ranch’s outbuildings. The scent of horse flesh and creek willow filled his nostrils, soothing a hint of nervous anticipation as he entered the barn.
The faint rattling sound emanating from the basket he carried, calmed him further.
The first step in this divine plan came upon him in a holy vision. Directed by God, like the Israelites in Israel, he would own this land and inhabit it for His glory.
Approaching the stall, the gravel beneath his boots crunched like soft tissue paper. The Paint horse nickered. The Man stroked the equine neck and spoke reassuring words as he slipped inside the enclosure. The brown and white stallion watched him carefully, stomped once, but showed little sign of concern.
The Man opened the basket in the far corner of the stall and watched the serpent slither from its confines into the straw. The rattle’s ominous susurration accelerated.
The Man whispered to the horse, “As in the Book of Genesis, The serpent shall be in your path and bite your heel so the rider will fall…”
He kissed the animal’s warm cheek, reflecting on serpents in the Garden before leaving the barn. The horse snorted and shook his head. Don’t do this, he seemed to say, but it was prophesied.
Shutting the stall door, The Man further reflected on the next step toward fulfillment of his sacred ambition. It was in the hands of an unsure blonde girl who loved him with an addict’s compulsion. The snakes etched on his body stirred. He had to have her, now.
The Man disappeared into the darkness just as the sky began to lighten in the East.
About Author Sue Hinkin…
Sue Hinkin is the author of the award-winning thriller series, the Vega & Middleton Novels, featuring the investigative team of Los Angeles TV news journalist Bea Jackson and best friend, photographer Lucy Vega. BestThrillers.com called Lucy and Bea one of the top 10 female detectives of 2023. A former Cinematography Fellow at the American Film Institute, Hinkin has worked in higher education and was a TV news photographer like her character, Lucy. Now living in Colorado, she was voted Rocky Mountain Fiction Writer’s Writer of the Year. She is active in that organization as well as Sisters in Crime and the Rocky Mountain Chapter of Mystery Writers of America. She loves her friends and family, growing things, and long walks with her puffy white rescue dog, Harley. Visit Sue at www.suehinkin.com.
~~~
Links to Sue’s website, blog, books, #ad, etc.:
AMAZON
https://www.amazon.com/Snake-Handlers-Wife-Middleton-Novel/dp/1956615547
BARNES AND NOBLE
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-snake-handlers-wife-sue-hinkin/1147737097
GOOGLE BOOKS
https://books.google.com/books/about/The_Snake_Handler_s_Wife.html?id=TDBf0QEACAAJ
LITERARY WANDERLUST PUBLISHER
https://www.literarywanderlust.com/product-page/ebook-the-snake-handler-s-wife
YOUR LOCAL INDIE BOOKSTORE
www.bookshop.org
~~~
I hope you enjoy Sue’s favorite recipe today on Karen’s Killer Fixin’s. Happy Eating!
Karen
P.S. We’re at 759 recipes and counting with this posting. Hope you find some recipes you like. If this is your first visit, please check out past blogs for more Killer Fixin’s. You can even look up past recipes by category in the right-hand column menu. i.e. Desserts, Breads, Beef, Chicken, Soups, Author Specials, etc.
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: If an author’s favorite recipe isn’t their own creation and came from an online site, you will now find the entire recipe through the link to that site as a personal recommendation. Thank you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
MEXICAN-NORWEGIAN TACOS
NOTE FROM SUE: My heroine, Lucy Vega, had a Mexican mother and a Norwegian father, both children of diplomats from those countries. After her parents died when she was just a youngster, she was raised by her uncle of Mexican heritage and a Norwegian grandmother from Oslo. The two women enjoyed spending time dreaming up recipes that combined the cultures. Mex-Norge tacos was one of their favorites.
The Taco Shell: Norwegian Lefsa
The most important part of this recipe is to substitute Mexican tortillas with lefse, a traditional, soft Norwegian flatbread, similar to a tortilla, but made with potatoes, flour, butter, and cream. The recipe for lefsa is below.
Fish Taco Filling
The fish: Some might suggest Norwegian lutefisk (definitely an acquired taste), but I go for Atlantic cold smoked salmon which is readily available at supermarkets (365 Organic, Kroger Private Selection, Trader Joe’s etc).Shredded red cabbage with a squeeze of limeChopped cilantroShredded cheese of your choiceSour cream or Greek yogurtGuacamole or avocado slicesHow to Make Traditional Norwegian Lefse
Lefse is a delicious Norwegian flat bread that gained popularity in the mid-1700s when potatoes became a common food in Scandinavia. When I was an undergrad at St. Olaf College in Minnesota, it was a regular presence in the dining hall. Learn how to make a delicious lefse recipe using real potatoes. For the winter holidays, roll lefse in sugar, cinnamon, and butter to enjoy lip-licking decadence.
Make lefse fresh (recipe follows) or save time and order online from Norske Nook: https://norskenook.com/shop/lefse/norske-nook-lefse/
There are many good lefse-making videos on YouTube, all with the maker’s unique family tips.
Ingredients
2-and-a-half pounds peeled potatoes (approximately 4 medium russet potatoes).1 stick salted butter, chopped or riced, room temperature1/2 cup heavy cream1 teaspoon salt1 cup all-purpose flourInstructions
Simmer peeled potatoes in water for 45 minutes or until tender, then strain.Mix the potatoes and butter.Let sit at room temperature for an hour to cool.Cover and put in fridge overnight.Next day, mix potatoes & butter mixture with the cream, flour, and salt. Combine by hand like you would bread dough. It will be of similar consistency but crumbly.Divide lefse into eight portions and roll each into a ball. Put back in the refrigerator until you are ready to grill them.Preheat lefse grill (if you have one) to 500°, or use a flat pan of your choosing. I don’t have a grill that allows me to calibrate temperature so I use the flat pan I make pancakes on and heat it to the hottest setting. Most of you, not being traditional Norwegians with lefse-making tools, will have to improviseAdd flour to both your rolling surface and rolling pin. Generously flour up to avoid sticking.Take a lefse ball out of the fridge and gently flatten. Then roll it out into a circular shape that looks like a tortilla or pizza.Once the lefse is flat as possible, use a turning stick or other kitchen tool (large spatula etc) to get under the lefse without tearing it.Lift the rolled-out dough and drape it onto the edge of the preheated pan. You should be able to gently lay the lefsa onto the grill or flat pan.Start your timer. When it hits 1 minute and 30 seconds, carefully flip the lefse.Once your timer hits 3 minutes, remove lefse from your grill and put on a large plate to cool for an hour.Add your fillings and enjoy your first Norwegian-Mexican fusion dish!
Happy Reading!
~~~
Special Giveaway: Sue will gift one print copy (U.S. only) of THE SNAKE HANDLER’S WIFE to one lucky reader and one ebook copy to another lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Fixin’s blog. Good luck!
~~~
Thanks, Sue, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
October 8, 2025
Karen’s Killer Book Bench: MAN, F*CK THIS HOUSE (And Other Disasters) #Horror #ShortStories by Brian Asman
KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!
~~~
MAN, F*CK THIS HOUSE
(And Other Disasters)
BY BRIAN ASMAN
BLURB
This all-new expanded edition of the viral sensation Man, F*ck This House includes six brand-new stories by Brian Asman, “a singular voice in horror fiction” (Eric LaRocca).
In the titular “Man, F*ck This House,” Sabrina Haskins and her family have just moved into their dream home. At first glance, the house is perfect. But things aren’t what they seem. Sabrina is hearing odd noises, seeing strange visions. Their neighbors are odd or absent. And Sabrina’s already-fraught relationship with her son is about to be tested in a way no parent could ever imagine. Because while the Haskins family might be the newest owners of this house, they’re far from its only residents…
In “The Hurlyburly,” a troubled teen loses his grip on reality after checking out the wrong internet meme…
In “In the Rushes,” a coastal cycling trip turns terrifying for a feuding mother and daughter…
Malevolent doppelgangers, bizarre murders, ancient evils, Western ghosts, mirror monsters, poisonous playthings, and more populate the pages of this brilliant—and petrifying—collection of stories.
~~~
MAN, F*CK THIS HOUSE
(And Other Disasters)
BY BRIAN ASMAN
Excerpt
SUNDAY
Shortly after lunchtime, a beige Toyota Camry took a long, lugubrious left into James Circle, the back-end sagging from the combined weight of the Haskins family and what worldly possessions weren’t left for the movers.
“This is it, team!” Hal Haskins said brightly. Hal was a man whose personality favored his car’s paint job, prone to dad jokes and bland observations. His hobbies included checkers, Roth IRAs, and assorted flavors of sportsball—his word. Even played a little sportsball, too, when his trick knee allowed it.
“Aren’t you excited, kids?” Sabrina Haskins asked, twisting around in her seat to regard her literal two-and-a-half children—ten-year-old Damien had eaten his own twin in the womb. Or absorbed him, as the OB/GYN corrected, but she couldn’t quite part with the notion she’d given birth to a cannibal. For years she woke up in the middle of the night, soaked in sweat, terrified she was pregnant all over again, her son digging his way out of her uterus with a pickaxe jury-rigged from his dead brother’s bones, gasping for breath as her own blood rushed from the wounds, threatening to drown him—
His older sister, Michaela, barely looked up from her phone long enough to roll her eyes. “Whatever.”
Sabrina was excited, even if the kids couldn’t be bothered. She’d always thought of their previous home town, Columbus, as a stop on the way to bigger and better things, but after dropping out of Ohio State mid-sophomore year to pursue her real passion—getting groped by hot sauce-fingered rednecks at Hooters—she’d gotten stuck there. Then she’d met Hal, who came in one night with his coworkers for a plate of mild wings and exactly two beers. Maybe they hadn’t fallen in love, per se, but he was a good guy with a steady job selling reverse mortgages to widows. Part of her always figured something would change—what specifically she couldn’t say—and then life would be different. More exciting. More interesting.
But it hadn’t.
Four years in Columbus turned into fourteen. Two kids, stretch marks, a series of part-time jobs and aborted stints at community college. Sabrina literally took a basket weaving course. BASKET WEAVING! Which led to her other recurring nightmare, becoming the world’s foremost weaver of baskets, the Martha Stewart of basketry. Flying off to Paris or Dubai at a moment’s notice to weave a basket for some foreign dignitary or oil sheik.
Becoming famous was one thing, but becoming famous for something so gosh-darned boring seemed like its own special kind of H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks.
So when Hal came home from work one day and told her he’d been offered a big promotion, but they’d have to move, she didn’t even ask where. Columbus was a fine town, but she needed a change so badly anywhere would be an improvement. She’d never heard of Jackson Hill, but it was apparently one of America’s most desirable small cities. Whataburger had even opened a franchise there the year before! Maybe it wasn’t San Fran or Seattle or even the less-murdery parts of St. Louis, but she kind of liked that. The whole city seemed like a blank envelope. Anything could be inside. She could reinvent herself, become whatever she wanted.
If only she could figure out what that was.
The Camry came to a halt outside a two-story Craftsman with brand-new slate blue siding and a slightly-overgrown yard. Across the street, in front of a house painted a very off-putting mustard-yellow, a grey-braided lady glanced up from her flowerbeds long enough to wave at the Haskins family with a pair of shears. Sabrina tried to wave back, but the lady had already looked away.
“One, two, three, break!” Hal said, shutting off the car.
Sabrina grabbed her purse off the floor and got out, legs stiff from spending the last six hours in the car, and another twelve the day before that, the trip only broken up by brief stops at gas stations and a night at a Motel 3 (Half the price, twice the fun!) where she’d had to leave the Gideon Bible with a confused front desk clerk because Damien wouldn’t stop ripping out the pages. The fall breeze ruffled her hair pleasantly.
“Just got a text,” Hal said, coming around the car. “The movers are late. Go figure, right?”
Sabrina looked at her husband and winced—powdered sugar from their gas station donut breakfast spackled his face. She slipped a crumpled napkin from her purse and dabbed his left cheek.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Hal craned his neck away. “Geez.”
“Just trying to help.” Sabrina rapped on the car window. “Kids?”
Michaela reached for the handle, frowned, slapped the window.
“Sorry,” Hal said, leaning back in the driver’s side. “Forgot the child locks.” Ever since Damien tried to bail out on the freeway, both Haskins children had had to suffer the indignity of child locks. Now freed, both took their sweet time getting out of the car. Michaela, to her credit, slipped her phone into her jeans and acted like she was part of the moment. Damien, however, stood sullenly in the driveway, staring down at his feet.
Hal dropped into a crouch next to his son. “What’s wrong, champ?”
“I don’t like it.” The words came out cold, monotone, like most everything Damien said.
“What’s not to like, buddy?”
Damien shook his head and said no more.
“Such a freak,” Michaela muttered.
“I heard that, young lady,” Sabrina said, then cringed because she sounded like her mother, a strict and uncompromising woman who choked to death on a California roll when Sabrina was in high school. Whenever Sabrina said anything too overtly motherly, she imagined her throat closing up, her skin turning blue, and her two children laughing their butts off while she clawed impotently at the air.
Hal hefted Damien up on his shoulders. “Come on, let’s check out our new digs. I think you’ll really like it once you get your bearings.” Stooped under the weight of his son, Hal staggered up the flagstones to the front door, Michaela trailing behind.
Sabrina watched her family for a moment, heart swelling—they weren’t perfect, but they were HERS—then hurried to join them.
***
The house was unbelievable.
They—with the exception of Michaela, who rushed upstairs to inspect her unfurnished new room, and Damien, there in body but not in spirit—started with a tour of the house, Hal in the lead. He was the only one who’d seen their new house so far, thanks to the speed of the move and the kids’ school schedules, and the opportunity to play tour guide further buoyed his already chronically-high spirits.
“Welcome to Casa Haskins,” Hal said, bowing deeply. “The, uh, foyer.” Not even Hal could muster up more interesting commentary on such a transitional space. A stairwell headed straight up to the second story. To their left was the living room, a roomy space with hardwood floors. They poked their heads in, noting the curving archway, then headed towards the kitchen—recently updated with granite countertops, a fetching grey/black backsplash, and shiny steel appliances. Even better, the counters seemed to go on for days. Another door led to the empty dining room, which connected through to the living room.
Sabrina couldn’t wait to cook a meal without banging a shin or elbow on some sharp corner.
“Get a load of the porch,” Hal declared, stepping through a door at the rear of the house. “Perfect place to relax on a hot day.”
Sabrina followed him out to a screened-in porch looking out on the backyard—enclosed by a wood fence, nothing but trees beyond.
“Other side’s a state park,” Hal said. “Lot of privacy.” He set Damien down on the back steps. The boy wandered into the yard and sat in the grass, cross-legged. He commenced massacring dandelions, blowing fluff away with a soft pooft of his lips.
Sabrina didn’t want to think about whatever the boy might be wishing for.
The yard wasn’t huge, but that would make it easier to maintain. Damien could probably mow the lawn in a few passes—one of the few household chores he deigned to do—likely because it involved the massacre of living things—under Hal’s careful supervision, of course. They had a shiny metal shed, one of those pre-fab jobs. Maybe she could take up gardening. Get their new neighbor, the old lady with the shears, to give her some pointers, finally turn that black thumb green.
“Should we head up upstairs?” Sabrina asked.
Hal nodded. “Wait’ll you see the master bedroom.” He cupped a hand to the side of his mouth. “Let’s go, buddy!”
Damien didn’t look up.
“He’s fine,” Sabrina said, grabbing Hal by the arm. Together they went back in through the kitchen.
Passing the stairs, Sabrina noted a door she hadn’t seen on the way in. “Where’s that go?”
“Basement?” Hal said, but it sounded more like a question than a statement.
Sabrina shrugged it off, she wanted to get a look at the bedrooms first. Specifically hers. If they’d re-done the master bath like the kitchen—
Hal stomped up the stairs. “They sure don’t make them like this anymore. Solid, solid construction. This thing’ll still be standing when we’re long gone, I’ll tell you that.”
Sabrina froze in her tracks, gooseflesh standing up on her arms. The idea of the house outlasting not only her and Hal, but her children too, seemed perverse. But that wasn’t all. Long gone was totally relative. The house need not survive into some far-flung future, when polar bears were extinct and the Eastern seaboard lay completely underwater, fish swimming in-and-out of the broken windows of submerged IKEAs. If the Haskins family dropped off the face of the earth that very day, the house’d only have to stand a few years longer to make Hal’s Confauxian wisdom come true.
What’s long gone, anyway?
About Author Brian Asman…
Brian Asman is a writer, actor, and director from San Diego. He’s the author of Good Dogs from Blackstone Publishing. His other books include I’m Not Even Supposed to Be Here Today, Neo Arcana, Nunchuck City, Jailbroke, Our Black Hearts Beat as One, and Return of the Living Elves. He’s also published short stories in Pulp Modern, American Cannibal, and Kelp, and comics in Tales of Horrorgasm. Brian holds an MFA from UCR Palm Desert.
~~~
Links to Brian’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:
Barnes & NobleBookshop.org
Find him on social media (@thebrianasman) or his website (www.BrianAsmanBooks.com).
~~~
Special Giveaway: Brian will gift one ARC (U.S. only) of MAN, F*CK THIS HOUSE to one lucky reader who comments on his Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog. Good luck!
~~~
Thanks, Brian, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
October 7, 2025
Congratulations Week 09-29-25 Blog Giveaway Winners!
CONGRATULATIONS WEEK
09-29-25
BLOG GIVEAWAY WINNERS!!
Karen’s Killer Book Bench with Kathleen Donnelly…
**SPECIAL GIVEAWAY: Kathleen will gift one signed paperback (U.S. only) of COLORADO K-9 RESCUE to one lucky reader and one Kindle copy (U.S. only) to a second lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog.
Thanks, Kathleen, for sharing your book with us!
WINNER (Kindle copy): ALICIA HANEY!!
WINNER (paperback copy): SHERRILL DENNISON!!
~~~
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s with Renee Gilmore…
**SPECIAL GIVEAWAY: Renee will gift one print copy (U.S. only) of WAYFINDING to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Fixin’s blog.
Thanks, Renee, for sharing your book with us!
WINNER: BN100!!
~~~
DON’T FORGET TO CHECK OUT THESE BOOKS, TOO!!
~~~
Karen/K.L. Docter’s books stand alone, even in the series. You can read them out of sequence. No cliffhangers. No cheating. Always Happily Ever After endings!
HAPPY READING!
(All giveaway winners are chosen by random.org from reader comments except Rafflecopter events or giveaways, which are determined and announced offsite by the publisher/authors. Thank you!)
October 6, 2025
Karen’s Killer Book Bench #Christmas #Cozy #Mystery: MURDER ON 34TH STREET, Ho-Ho-Homicide Book 1 by R. A. Muth
KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!
~~~
MURDER ON 34TH STREET
Ho-Ho-Homicide Book 1
BY R.A. MUTH
BLURB
‘Tis the season for murder at the North Pole…
Juniper Hollybright is a mediocre toymaker with ADHD, anxiety, and a knack for flying under the radar. When the Head Toymaker is found dead under a pile of toppled gifts, with a broken peppermint stick and his ledger missing, everyone assumes it was a tragic accident. Everyone except Juniper.
Armed with her mystery-novel expertise, her nervous knitting habit, and Figgy the trainee reindeer, Juniper uncovers a trail of embezzlement, fake vendors, and financial fraud that threatens to destroy Christmas itself. But asking questions makes her a target, and someone is willing to kill again to keep their secrets buried under the snow.
With suspects ranging from jealous craftselves to stressed accountants, Juniper must solve the case before the killer strikes again—or before she becomes the next “accident” at Santa’s workshop.
Perfect for fans of cozy mysteries, holiday magic, and adorable animal sidekicks who save the day. Murder on 34th Street delivers fair-play clues, holiday cheer, and a hero who proves that being underestimated is the best disguise for a brilliant detective.
Murder on 34th Street is Book 1 in the Ho-Ho-Homicide Cozy Mysteries series. No graphic violence. Maximum cocoa and holiday vibes.
~~~
MURDER ON 34TH STREET
Ho-Ho-Homicide Book 1
BY R.A. MUTH
Excerpt
Chapter 1
The thing about being an elf in a family of legendary toymakers is that everyone expects you to be legendary too. Spoiler alert: I’m not.
I’m Juniper Hollybright, and my greatest accomplishment this week was not gluing my fingers together while attaching wheels to a wooden train. My second-greatest accomplishment was remembering to eat lunch before three in the afternoon. ADHD and a workshop full of shiny distractions make for an interesting combination, like peppermint sticks and dill pickle spears. Technically possible, but nobody’s asking for it.
“Juniper!” My supervisor’s voice cut through the cheerful chaos of the North Pole Toy Factory’s main floor. “Those trains need to be on the sorting line in five minutes, not next Tuesday!”
“On it!” I called back, fumbling the train I’d literally just finished painting. It clattered to my workbench, leaving a festive streak of red across my apron on its way down. Perfect. Nothing says “professional toymaker” like looking like you lost a fight with a candy cane.
Around me, the factory hummed with its usual Christmas magic. Conveyor belts whisked completed toys toward the wrapping stations, where elves tied ribbons and made bows with the speed and precision of people who’d been doing this for centuries. Some of them had been. The warm glow from the workshop windows painted everything in shades of gold and amber, and the air smelled like cinnamon, fresh pine, and that slightly chemical scent of new paint that never quite leaves the toy factory.
I loved my job here. I was also terrible at it.
The train, which was attempt number four at getting it right, finally made it onto the belt without incident. I allowed myself a small moment of pride before checking my station assignment for the afternoon. Maybe I’d get moved to something less disaster-prone. Doll hair, perhaps. How much trouble could I get into with doll hair?
“Juniper Hollybright?” An unfamiliar voice made me jump, which sent my entire tray of paint pots wobbling. I caught them at the last second. See? I could have functional motor skills when it counted. When I turned, it was to find an elf I didn’t recognize standing near my bench.
She wore the pressed uniform of the Administrative Wing, all business and no paint stains. Behind her stood a young reindeer who was hyper focused on a piece of tinsel on the floor. A very young reindeer. Like, still-fuzzy-antler-nubs young.
“That’s me,” I said, wiping my hands on my already-ruined apron. “Did I miss a memo? Because I’m really good at missing memos. If missing memos was an Olympic sport, I’d have a string of gold medals.”
The reindeer looked up at me with huge brown eyes and made a soft chuffing sound that I chose to interpret as friendly.
“You’re assigned to Elias Gumdrop this afternoon,” the elf said crisply, checking her tablet and ignoring my commentary. “Ledger review in the Head Toymaker’s office. You’re to bring…” She glanced at the reindeer with visible skepticism. “Your assistant.”
“Pardon, but did you say assistant? I don’t have one.”
“You do now. The reindeer.” She said it as if having a reindeer assigned to me was perfectly normal information that I should already know.
The reindeer, apparently my assistant, wagged his tail.
“I don’t have an assistant,” I said slowly. “I barely have a workstation. Last week they moved me next to the furnace because I’m ‘better suited to isolated tasks.'” That had stung, honestly. The term isolated tasks was management-speak for we don’t trust you near anything important.
“You do now. Reindeer Training Program, Tier One. He’s been assigned to you for practical experience.” The woman thrust a folder at me. “His name is Figgy. Try not to lose him.”
She left before I could point out that I lost my lunch bag twice last week, so assigning me to keep track of a whole reindeer was setting the bar a little high. Okay. A lot high.
Figgy looked up at me and tilted his head, ears swiveling forward with interest.
“Hi, Figgy,” I said, crouching down to his eye level. “I’m Juniper, and I’m going to be honest with you. I have no idea what I’m doing most of the time, but I make a mean cup of cocoa. I’ve read every mystery novel in the North Pole public library. We’ll figure it out together. Deal?”
He booped my hand with his nose, which I took as a yes.
About Author R.A. Muth…
As Becky Muth, she gives her readers fun escapes into sweet romance and romantic suspense books. R. A. Muth entertains readers with quirky characters who solve not-too-scary murders in places she’d like to live in real life. Rebecca Muth writes heartwarming children’s books inspired by raising children of her own.
One Author ~ Multiple Pen Names
Becky Muth – Sweet Contemporary Romance & Romantic Suspense
R. A. Muth – Paranormal Cozy Mysteries With Magical Pets
Rebecca Muth – Children’s Books
~~~
Links to R.A.’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:
Murder on 34th Street Preorder Link
https://beckymuth.com/HOHO-01
Ho-Ho-Homicide Playlist on Spotify
https://beckymuth.com/hohomusic
Author website – www.beckymuth.com
Books – www.beckymuth.com/books
Substack (newsletter) – authorbeckymuth.substack.com
Social media content for authors
www.authorsgetsocial.com
Buy me a coffee
buymeacoffee.com/authorbeckymuth
~~~
Thanks, R.A., for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
October 3, 2025
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s with WAYFINDING A #Memoir by Renee Gilmore #Recipe ~ Lemon Cake Pie
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **AUTHOR SPECIAL** with RENEE GILMORE !
Welcome to my Friday bonus feature called Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **Author Special**!! Today, instead of one of my recipes, I will introduce you to a new author who will share a favorite recipe. Not only will you and I occasionally learn how to make something new and delicious, but we’ll also get a chance to check out some fantastic authors. Introducing author RENEE GILMORE and her favorite recipe for LEMON CAKE PIE!
WAYFINDING
A Memoir
BY RENEE GILMORE
Blurb
(October, 2025; Trio House Press)
Throughout her life, Renee Gilmore has been in love with the open road. Her passion for exploration has taken her across all seven continents—but the real journey has been much more personal. In Wayfinding, she confronts the impetus behind her wanderlust: a lifetime shaped by loss, betrayal, and sexual violence. Told through a series of car trips and postcards from the road, this powerful memoir maps a route toward healing, acceptance, and hope, with stops at Waffle House and the Monaco Grand Prix along the way. Narrated with unflinching honesty and flashes of humor, Wayfinding is the story of a fiercely resilient woman determined not only to survive but to remap a new life filled with freedom, connection, and joy.
WAYFINDING
A Memoir
BY RENEE GILMORE
Excerpt
Angels in Plaid Shirts
Thank you, Angels.
Twenty miles outside Sidney, Nebraska, I heard the thump, thump of a tire that was breathing its last, leaving its skin in the right lane of I-80, and its bones on the wheel. It was January, and I was leaving Minnesota in the rearview and heading to Albuquerque. I was a mid-year transfer student to the University of New Mexico, and it was time to go. I was both driving toward my future and away from something else. Away from a lot of things. I had made mistakes and put myself in danger – real danger – more than once. In the previous two-and-a-half years, I had been battered and nearly destroyed by two separate assaults, and I lost the scholarship I needed to stay at the Catholic college I attended in northern Minnesota. I made terrible choices in men, money, and alcohol. I had recently come home from studying abroad in Ireland, and during the last couple of months I was there, I got engaged to a boy, and then we broke up. It was messy, and I felt lost.
When I got back from Ireland, Duluth had gotten too small, too cold, too provincial for me, and I needed a change. There were too many people I knew, and too many places that held very bad memories. I fired off applications to colleges in warm places that I could sort of afford. I was accepted by Arizona State, the University of Texas at Austin, and the University of New Mexico. New Mexico was the cheapest. I prepared for a new start in the desert.
I didn’t know a soul in Albuquerque, and that was okay with me. The inside of my 1976 Plymouth Duster was packed to the rafters with pots and pans, clothes, and my Smith Corona typewriter, hefty in its light blue case. The trunk of the Duster was a treasure trove of shoes, frying pans, and bedding in white garbage bags, anchored by my 50-pound RCA television.
I had been fiddling with the radio, trying to find the sweet spot between Jesus and Dolly Parton, when I heard that sound and felt the pull of the wheel. I had been on the road for hours that day, driving by dormant cornfields with their lonely stubby stalks, waving at truckers, and eating gas station doughnuts. I was trying to make it to my grandmother’s house in Fort Morgan, Colorado, for lemon cake pie, homemade biscuits, and easy games of cards. I confidently flew by every exit for Grand Island, Nebraska, where my family usually stopped, with the hubris that only a 20-year-old can possess.
I pulled over on the shoulder and stopped. This was years before cell phones. If I got out, that flat tire was going to be real. I thought I would just sit for a minute. I hummed along to Led Zeppelin on the radio. Ate a chocolate-covered donut. That minute turned into five and I finally clicked out of my seatbelt and opened the door. Yep, the left rear tire, flatter than flat and missing several layers of rubber. I knew how to change a tire – my father wouldn’t let me out in the world without it. We had practiced and practiced when I got my driver’s license at 16. By practice, I mean my father stood in the driveway, in his baggy jeans, plaid shirt, and cardigan, smoking a cigarette. He pointed out where I missed something, very occasionally telling me, that was pretty good. I knew where to locate the jack, I knew how to loosen lug nuts, and I could heft the spare out of the trunk. I knew what to do.
I opened the trunk and sighed. It had taken two of us, my father and I, to get that huge RCA television into the trunk.
There is no way one of me was going to hoist it out. And the spare tire, which we had checked just two days before, was tucked in its compartment under everything. I looked to the freeway, and there were no cars for several flat miles, in either direction.
More sighing.
I started unloading the trunk on the side of the road.
Comforters. Shoes. A spare winter coat. My red Slimline telephone. I dug and lifted until nothing was left in the cavernous space but that damn RCA. I rocked it one way and then the other. There was just no way I could get it out. I stood with my hands on my hips. I was a 20-year-old girl with no more good ideas.
I turned toward the freeway. I heard the distant rumble of 18 wheels eating the road. Long before I saw it. I had no choice.
I flapped my right hand listlessly. I tried hard to look brave and tough and not cry. Tried not to think about the fact that I could be kidnapped right there by the side of the road, or murdered. My picture and story would end up on 48 Hours, for sure. The mountain of a vehicle started to slow, edging toward the shoulder, and came to a stop with a whoosh of air brakes. The driver, with his straw hat, cowboy boots, brown suspenders, and round belly, stepped down from the truck cab. He was as old as my dad, sun-soaked and strong. “Looks like you have a problem there, little lady.” Without permission, two tears wobbled down my face as he approached me. He hitched up his jeans. “Let’s see what we got.”
He helped me yank that TV out of the trunk like a tooth from a socket. We grabbed the spare tire and the jack and got to work. I jacked up the car, and he unscrewed the lug nuts. One was very stubborn and he swore at it with great creativity and enthusiasm. We pulled that tire off, and as we did, the rest of the rubber shrugged off the rim onto the ground. We put the wheel, its once-shiny surface now pitted and scratched, on my front seat, and loaded everything back into the trunk. He got on his CB and found out good news and bad. The good news was there was a garage 20 miles away, in Sidney, and they could get me a tire. The bad news was that they would get it tomorrow. Or the next day. He told them I was coming.
I thanked him and offered him ten dollars for helping me, but he laughed and told me to spend it on a new tire. I pulled back on the interstate, and drove far slower than the posted speed, with the radio off, straining to hear any signs of distress from the spare tire. There was honking, as I was passed by every car and truck heading in the same direction. I made it to Sidney. I found the garage and pulled a third of my cash out of my red wallet to pay George the mechanic for the new tire. I left my car and most of my possessions in his care. I stayed overnight a few blocks away in a Howard Johnson’s Motor Inn, with the dresser pushed in front of the door. When I walked back to the garage early the next afternoon, the tire had arrived. George clearly felt sorry for me. “Hey, I got a kid your age.” He didn’t charge me to remove the spare and tuck it back into the compartment in the trunk, next to the jack, under the bags of bedding, and the RCA. George said that damn TV weighed 60 pounds.
I made it to Fort Morgan, a day late. I stopped overnight, ate two good meals, and was sent on my way in the morning, with a lemon cake pie and a plastic fork. From Fort Morgan, it was about an eight-hour drive to Albuquerque. I arrived right before the sun was thinking of setting over the mesa, and there was just enough golden hour left to read the street signs. I already had my key, so I hauled everything out of the Duster and up to my apartment until nothing remained but the TV. I stood in the parking lot, in the deep twilight, and assumed the hands-on-hip position, as I stared into the trunk. An angel, in the shape of a plaid-shirted man named Terry Garcia (or that’s the name he gave me, anyway), asked me if I needed some help. Together, slowly, we carried that TV from the parking lot up the stairs to my second-floor studio apartment. The next morning, I wanted to thank him. I described him to the apartment manager. She said that no one named Terry Garcia lived there. I never saw him again.
I was not prone to thinking about God, about angels, about mysterious, mystical protectors. I attended Mass when required by family obligation, I lit candles in church because the ritual was comforting. But my hard-edged cynicism about religion, about those all-powerful beings who supposedly lived in the clouds, who controlled what happened to me in everyday life, had begun to seep in. It all started to make less sense than when I blindly accepted it earlier in my life. All the dogma, the unlikely-to-be-true Biblical myths I absorbed during five years of Catholic school, two years of confirmation classes and then Catholic college. I mean, didn’t God control the hands of the men who wrote the Bible? Whispered in their ears, shared the Truth
, the Good News, His word, to control the people? But I digress.
Maybe a benevolent God, a personal savior did not, could not exist. I was starting to think that maybe this patriarchal God was just not for me. Maybe I just had “daddy issues.” How would this Father God explain sitting on the sidelines while I experienced such horrible, evil things? I was sad and angry and I wanted answers. But at that point, I didn’t have anything better to replace Christianity, Catholicism so I continued to search. I wanted to believe so badly.
Copyright, 2025, Renee Gilmore. Excerpted from Wayfinding: A Memoir with permission from Trio House Press.
About Author Renee Gilmore…
Renee M. Gilmore is the author of Wayfinding: A Memoir (October, 2025; Trio House Press). A multi-genre writer, essayist, and poet, she earned a BA from the University of New Mexico and an MA from Hamline University, and her work has been featured in The Louisville Review, The Museum of Americana, Fatal Flaw, The Raven Review, and Pink Panther, among others. She lives in suburban Minneapolis with her husband Steven and you can visit her online at reneethewriter.com.
~~~
Links to Renee’s website, blog, books, #ad, etc.:
Amazon Kindle: https://amzn.to/42ZLpe9
Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/4nH9Wgk
Trio House Press:
https://triohousepress.myshopify.com/products/pre-order-wayfinding-a-memoir-by-renee-gilmore
Inkwell Booksellers: https://www.inkwellbooksellersco.com/
Bookshop.org:
https://bookshop.org/p/books/wayfinding-a-memoir-renee-gilmore/0a7dc8280e24bca2?ean=9781949487626&next=t&next=t
Website: http://www.reneethewriter.com/
~~~
I hope you enjoy Renee’s favorite recipe today on Karen’s Killer Fixin’s. Happy Eating!Karen
P.S. We’re at 758 recipes and counting with this posting. Hope you find some recipes you like. If this is your first visit, please check out past blogs for more Killer Fixin’s. You can even look up past recipes by category in the right-hand column menu. i.e. Desserts, Breads, Beef, Chicken, Soups, Author Specials, etc.
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: If an author’s favorite recipe isn’t their own creation and came from an online site, you will now find the entire recipe through the link to that site as a personal recommendation. Thank you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
LEMON CAKE PIE
Note from Rene: I have so many good memories connected to my grandmother Merna’s lemon cake pie. It was my father’s absolute favorite. We took plenty of road trips from Minnesota to Colorado to visit my grandparents, and we would always drive away with a pie (or two) and plastic forks. Most times, we only made it as far as the first rest stop—maybe in Sterling or Brush. We’d stake out a worn wooden picnic table, choosing the spot with the least amount of bird poop and obvious splinters, and clean it as best we could. My father would cut the pie into slices with his pocket knife, and we’d grab forks and dig in. The pie is zesty and sweet, with a bottom layer that has a lemon-curd consistency, topped with light chiffon. It’s unique and delicious. My father and grandmother both passed away years ago, but every time I make this pie, I smile and think of them.
1 cup sugar
1 T. butter
2 rounding T. flour
Juice and rind from 1 lemon
Yolk of two eggs
white of 1 egg, beaten
1 cup milk
Put in a pie crust. Bake 10 minutes at 450 degrees. Then 20 minutes at 350 degrees.
Happy Reading!
~~~
Special Giveaway: Renee will gift one print copy (U.S. only) of WAYFINDING to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Fixin’s blog. Good luck!
~~~
Thanks, Renee, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s with WAYFINDING A #Memoir by Rene Gilmore #Recipe ~ Lemon Cake Pie
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **AUTHOR SPECIAL** with RENEE GILMORE !
Welcome to my Friday bonus feature called Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **Author Special**!! Today, instead of one of my recipes, I will introduce you to a new author who will share a favorite recipe. Not only will you and I occasionally learn how to make something new and delicious, but we’ll also get a chance to check out some fantastic authors. Introducing author RENEE GILMORE and her favorite recipe for LEMON CAKE PIE!
WAYFINDING
A Memoir
BY RENEE GILMORE
Blurb
(October, 2025; Trio House Press)
Throughout her life, Renee Gilmore has been in love with the open road. Her passion for exploration has taken her across all seven continents—but the real journey has been much more personal. In Wayfinding, she confronts the impetus behind her wanderlust: a lifetime shaped by loss, betrayal, and sexual violence. Told through a series of car trips and postcards from the road, this powerful memoir maps a route toward healing, acceptance, and hope, with stops at Waffle House and the Monaco Grand Prix along the way. Narrated with unflinching honesty and flashes of humor, Wayfinding is the story of a fiercely resilient woman determined not only to survive but to remap a new life filled with freedom, connection, and joy.
WAYFINDING
A Memoir
BY RENEE GILMORE
Excerpt
Angels in Plaid Shirts
Thank you, Angels.
Twenty miles outside Sidney, Nebraska, I heard the thump, thump of a tire that was breathing its last, leaving its skin in the right lane of I-80, and its bones on the wheel. It was January, and I was leaving Minnesota in the rearview and heading to Albuquerque. I was a mid-year transfer student to the University of New Mexico, and it was time to go. I was both driving toward my future and away from something else. Away from a lot of things. I had made mistakes and put myself in danger – real danger – more than once. In the previous two-and-a-half years, I had been battered and nearly destroyed by two separate assaults, and I lost the scholarship I needed to stay at the Catholic college I attended in northern Minnesota. I made terrible choices in men, money, and alcohol. I had recently come home from studying abroad in Ireland, and during the last couple of months I was there, I got engaged to a boy, and then we broke up. It was messy, and I felt lost.
When I got back from Ireland, Duluth had gotten too small, too cold, too provincial for me, and I needed a change. There were too many people I knew, and too many places that held very bad memories. I fired off applications to colleges in warm places that I could sort of afford. I was accepted by Arizona State, the University of Texas at Austin, and the University of New Mexico. New Mexico was the cheapest. I prepared for a new start in the desert.
I didn’t know a soul in Albuquerque, and that was okay with me. The inside of my 1976 Plymouth Duster was packed to the rafters with pots and pans, clothes, and my Smith Corona typewriter, hefty in its light blue case. The trunk of the Duster was a treasure trove of shoes, frying pans, and bedding in white garbage bags, anchored by my 50-pound RCA television.
I had been fiddling with the radio, trying to find the sweet spot between Jesus and Dolly Parton, when I heard that sound and felt the pull of the wheel. I had been on the road for hours that day, driving by dormant cornfields with their lonely stubby stalks, waving at truckers, and eating gas station doughnuts. I was trying to make it to my grandmother’s house in Fort Morgan, Colorado, for lemon cake pie, homemade biscuits, and easy games of cards. I confidently flew by every exit for Grand Island, Nebraska, where my family usually stopped, with the hubris that only a 20-year-old can possess.
I pulled over on the shoulder and stopped. This was years before cell phones. If I got out, that flat tire was going to be real. I thought I would just sit for a minute. I hummed along to Led Zeppelin on the radio. Ate a chocolate-covered donut. That minute turned into five and I finally clicked out of my seatbelt and opened the door. Yep, the left rear tire, flatter than flat and missing several layers of rubber. I knew how to change a tire – my father wouldn’t let me out in the world without it. We had practiced and practiced when I got my driver’s license at 16. By practice, I mean my father stood in the driveway, in his baggy jeans, plaid shirt, and cardigan, smoking a cigarette. He pointed out where I missed something, very occasionally telling me, that was pretty good. I knew where to locate the jack, I knew how to loosen lug nuts, and I could heft the spare out of the trunk. I knew what to do.
I opened the trunk and sighed. It had taken two of us, my father and I, to get that huge RCA television into the trunk.
There is no way one of me was going to hoist it out. And the spare tire, which we had checked just two days before, was tucked in its compartment under everything. I looked to the freeway, and there were no cars for several flat miles, in either direction.
More sighing.
I started unloading the trunk on the side of the road.
Comforters. Shoes. A spare winter coat. My red Slimline telephone. I dug and lifted until nothing was left in the cavernous space but that damn RCA. I rocked it one way and then the other. There was just no way I could get it out. I stood with my hands on my hips. I was a 20-year-old girl with no more good ideas.
I turned toward the freeway. I heard the distant rumble of 18 wheels eating the road. Long before I saw it. I had no choice.
I flapped my right hand listlessly. I tried hard to look brave and tough and not cry. Tried not to think about the fact that I could be kidnapped right there by the side of the road, or murdered. My picture and story would end up on 48 Hours, for sure. The mountain of a vehicle started to slow, edging toward the shoulder, and came to a stop with a whoosh of air brakes. The driver, with his straw hat, cowboy boots, brown suspenders, and round belly, stepped down from the truck cab. He was as old as my dad, sun-soaked and strong. “Looks like you have a problem there, little lady.” Without permission, two tears wobbled down my face as he approached me. He hitched up his jeans. “Let’s see what we got.”
He helped me yank that TV out of the trunk like a tooth from a socket. We grabbed the spare tire and the jack and got to work. I jacked up the car, and he unscrewed the lug nuts. One was very stubborn and he swore at it with great creativity and enthusiasm. We pulled that tire off, and as we did, the rest of the rubber shrugged off the rim onto the ground. We put the wheel, its once-shiny surface now pitted and scratched, on my front seat, and loaded everything back into the trunk. He got on his CB and found out good news and bad. The good news was there was a garage 20 miles away, in Sidney, and they could get me a tire. The bad news was that they would get it tomorrow. Or the next day. He told them I was coming.
I thanked him and offered him ten dollars for helping me, but he laughed and told me to spend it on a new tire. I pulled back on the interstate, and drove far slower than the posted speed, with the radio off, straining to hear any signs of distress from the spare tire. There was honking, as I was passed by every car and truck heading in the same direction. I made it to Sidney. I found the garage and pulled a third of my cash out of my red wallet to pay George the mechanic for the new tire. I left my car and most of my possessions in his care. I stayed overnight a few blocks away in a Howard Johnson’s Motor Inn, with the dresser pushed in front of the door. When I walked back to the garage early the next afternoon, the tire had arrived. George clearly felt sorry for me. “Hey, I got a kid your age.” He didn’t charge me to remove the spare and tuck it back into the compartment in the trunk, next to the jack, under the bags of bedding, and the RCA. George said that damn TV weighed 60 pounds.
I made it to Fort Morgan, a day late. I stopped overnight, ate two good meals, and was sent on my way in the morning, with a lemon cake pie and a plastic fork. From Fort Morgan, it was about an eight-hour drive to Albuquerque. I arrived right before the sun was thinking of setting over the mesa, and there was just enough golden hour left to read the street signs. I already had my key, so I hauled everything out of the Duster and up to my apartment until nothing remained but the TV. I stood in the parking lot, in the deep twilight, and assumed the hands-on-hip position, as I stared into the trunk. An angel, in the shape of a plaid-shirted man named Terry Garcia (or that’s the name he gave me, anyway), asked me if I needed some help. Together, slowly, we carried that TV from the parking lot up the stairs to my second-floor studio apartment. The next morning, I wanted to thank him. I described him to the apartment manager. She said that no one named Terry Garcia lived there. I never saw him again.
I was not prone to thinking about God, about angels, about mysterious, mystical protectors. I attended Mass when required by family obligation, I lit candles in church because the ritual was comforting. But my hard-edged cynicism about religion, about those all-powerful beings who supposedly lived in the clouds, who controlled what happened to me in everyday life, had begun to seep in. It all started to make less sense than when I blindly accepted it earlier in my life. All the dogma, the unlikely-to-be-true Biblical myths I absorbed during five years of Catholic school, two years of confirmation classes and then Catholic college. I mean, didn’t God control the hands of the men who wrote the Bible? Whispered in their ears, shared the Truth, the Good News, His word, to control the people? But I digress.
Maybe a benevolent God, a personal savior did not, could not exist. I was starting to think that maybe this patriarchal God was just not for me. Maybe I just had “daddy issues.” How would this Father God explain sitting on the sidelines while I experienced such horrible, evil things? I was sad and angry and I wanted answers. But at that point, I didn’t have anything better to replace Christianity, Catholicism so I continued to search. I wanted to believe so badly.
Copyright, 2025, Renee Gilmore. Excerpted from Wayfinding: A Memoir with permission from Trio House Press.
About Author Renee Gilmore…
Renee M. Gilmore is the author of Wayfinding: A Memoir (October, 2025; Trio House Press). A multi-genre writer, essayist, and poet, she earned a BA from the University of New Mexico and an MA from Hamline University, and her work has been featured in The Louisville Review, The Museum of Americana, Fatal Flaw, The Raven Review, and Pink Panther, among others. She lives in suburban Minneapolis with her husband Steven and you can visit her online at reneethewriter.com.
~~~
Links to Renee’s website, blog, books, #ad, etc.:
Amazon Kindle: https://amzn.to/42ZLpe9
Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/4nH9Wgk
Trio House Press:
https://triohousepress.myshopify.com/products/pre-order-wayfinding-a-memoir-by-renee-gilmore
Inkwell Booksellers: https://www.inkwellbooksellersco.com/
Bookshop.org:
https://bookshop.org/p/books/wayfinding-a-memoir-renee-gilmore/0a7dc8280e24bca2?ean=9781949487626&next=t&next=t
Website: http://www.reneethewriter.com/
~~~
I hope you enjoy Renee’s favorite recipe today on Karen’s Killer Fixin’s. Happy Eating!Karen
P.S. We’re at 758 recipes and counting with this posting. Hope you find some recipes you like. If this is your first visit, please check out past blogs for more Killer Fixin’s. You can even look up past recipes by category in the right-hand column menu. i.e. Desserts, Breads, Beef, Chicken, Soups, Author Specials, etc.
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: If an author’s favorite recipe isn’t their own creation and came from an online site, you will now find the entire recipe through the link to that site as a personal recommendation. Thank you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
LEMON CAKE PIE
Note from Rene: I have so many good memories connected to my grandmother Merna’s lemon cake pie. It was my father’s absolute favorite. We took plenty of road trips from Minnesota to Colorado to visit my grandparents, and we would always drive away with a pie (or two) and plastic forks. Most times, we only made it as far as the first rest stop—maybe in Sterling or Brush. We’d stake out a worn wooden picnic table, choosing the spot with the least amount of bird poop and obvious splinters, and clean it as best we could. My father would cut the pie into slices with his pocket knife, and we’d grab forks and dig in. The pie is zesty and sweet, with a bottom layer that has a lemon-curd consistency, topped with light chiffon. It’s unique and delicious. My father and grandmother both passed away years ago, but every time I make this pie, I smile and think of them.
1 cup sugar
1 T. butter
2 rounding T. flour
Juice and rind from 1 lemon
Yolk of two eggs
white of 1 egg, beaten
1 cup milk
Put in a pie crust. Bake 10 minutes at 450 degrees. Then 20 minutes at 350 degrees.
Happy Reading!
~~~
Special Giveaway: Renee will gift one print copy (U.S. only) of WAYFINDING to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Fixin’s blog. Good luck!
~~~
Thanks, Renee, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
October 2, 2025
Congratulations Week 09-15-25 & 09-22-25 Blog Giveaway Winners!
CONGRATULATIONS WEEK
09-15-25 & 09-22-25
BLOG GIVEAWAY WINNERS!!
Karen’s Killer Book Bench with C.A. Phipps…
**SPECIAL GIVEAWAY: C.A. will gift an ebook copy of A WISH TO DIE FOR, Witches and Wishes Book 1, to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog.
Thanks, C.A., for sharing your book with us!
WINNER: JAYLEE CONAWAY!!
~~~
Karen’s Killer Book Bench with Angel Nyx…
**SPECIAL GIVEAWAY: Angel will gift one of her ebooks (winner’s choice) to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog.
Thanks, Angel, for sharing your book with us!
WINNER: K.A. BYLSMA!!
~~~
DON’T FORGET TO CHECK OUT THESE BOOKS, TOO!!
~~~
Karen/K.L. Docter’s books stand alone, even in the series. You can read them out of sequence. No cliffhangers. No cheating. Always Happily Ever After endings!
HAPPY READING!
(All giveaway winners are chosen by random.org from reader comments except Rafflecopter events or giveaways, which are determined and announced offsite by the publisher/authors. Thank you!)
October 1, 2025
Karen’s Killer Book Bench: COLORADO K-9 RESCUE #Romantic #Suspense by Kathleen Donnelly
KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!
~~~
COLORADO K-9 RESCUE
Romantic Suspense
BY KATHLEEN DONNELLY
BLURB
A kidnapper’s twisted game is on.
And a trusty K-9 won’t let him succeed.
Years after being abducted, Mckenna Parker’s worst nightmare has come true—her kidnapper is out on parole. And he’s after her again. Now an FBI victim specialist, she and her crisis canine, Mocha, have been assigned to a case with FBI agent Evan Knox. Together they must find two local girls who disappeared. As passionate as Mckenna is about helping others, Evan is ambitious about his career. Both have sworn off love. But when Mckenna vanishes into the mountain wilderness, it’s Evan—with Mocha’s amazing help—who braves danger at all costs.
~~~
COLORADO K-9 RESCUE
Romantic Suspense
BY KATHLEEN DONNELLY
Excerpt
Chapter One
The porch was secure. Or so she told herself.
Clouds drifted over the full moon, like curtains with a face peeking through. As Mckenna Parker sat on her back porch in her Victorian mountain house, the smell of one of her neighbors enjoying a fire on their patio wafted through the air.
The July night air was still and hot, almost constricting, although it wouldn’t be much longer before temperatures dropped and the first flakes of snow appeared. Give it about six weeks and Mckenna would need a sweatshirt sitting out here—her happy place most of the time. But not tonight.
Next to Mckenna was her black Lab, Mocha, a crisis K-9 for the FBI. The Lab rested on his bed but periodically lifted his head to gaze at Mckenna, asking if she was okay. She let her arm drop and started petting him. Bear-resistant mesh screened in the porch, a dead bolt lock on the door was engaged and the security camera was on. All of it was supposed to make her feel better.
Safe.
But the reality was, even nine years later, the fear could still paralyze her, gripping her in its own way. Like the moon peeking through, Mckenna would try to push away the cloak of fear and peer through it. Often, she could make those around her feel like she had conquered her nightmares, that they no longer scared her, but deep down she knew the truth.
Her family had begged her to go tomorrow. There was a parole hearing for the man who had created this feeling. The man who had changed the course of her life forever and made sure she would never feel secure again. The reason she lied to her neighbors about why she installed the bear-resistant mesh—it would be harder for someone to saw through. Not impossible but harder, and the same reason the door had multiple locks and the camera sat strategically placed to catch anyone trying to break in.
He’d been in prison the last eight years, but it didn’t matter that there were bars and guards and razor-top wire between them. People escaped from prison more than anyone wanted to admit. Mckenna knew. She’d joined her sister, Cassidy, at the Denver FBI Office as a victim specialist, and they were both aware of the reality. The kicker was, Mckenna had never been able to fully liberate herself from her own prison even though she was the one who was supposedly free.
That was why she’d become a victim specialist. Other victims needed support and she felt like she could help. She understood the emotions. In her family’s opinion, unless Mckenna did what they wanted her to do—speak at the parole hearing and ask the board to make her captor serve the full sentence—she wouldn’t feel safe. The thing was, for her, what was the difference between him being free now or in two years? Mckenna shivered and Mocha stood, putting his head in her lap, feeling the change in her. “I should go ask the board to make him serve the full sentence, shouldn’t I?”
Mocha gave a little whine and put his front paws in her lap, climbing up so he could kiss her face.
“Thanks, buddy,” Mckenna said, holding her dog.
* * *
Busy work schedules made it easy to avoid her sister for two weeks until Cassidy caught her in her office. Mckenna stared down her sister. Cassidy drummed her fingers on Mckenna’s desk and didn’t break her gaze. Of course, she never would, because Cassidy was tough as nails and one of Denver’s top FBI agents and K-9 handlers for a reason.
“So, explain to me again why you decided to ditch us all at Toby Hanson’s parole hearing?” Cassidy bent forward, getting closer to Mckenna. “We were all there to support you. Me. Mom. Dad. Everyone. But you didn’t show. Maybe if you’d been there, he’d still be sitting in prison and not out free, where he can commit the same crime again.”
Mckenna leaned back in her chair. She was the younger sister and Cassidy had always been protective. It was worse now. She heard the thumping of a tail and gazed down into Mocha’s brown eyes. Mckenna couldn’t imagine life without him. In fact, in her mind, he was the only guy she needed. He was handsome and never complained about having the same dinner every night. He wasn’t upset that she didn’t attend a parole hearing and he loved her no matter what. There were no guys out there like that. Mocha smacked a paw on Mckenna’s arm, and she answered Cassidy.
“Toby Hanson is a part of my past. I’ve moved on from what happened.”
Even as Mckenna spoke, a shiver went down her spine. Had she moved on? That night changed the direction of her life, creating a before and after for her at only eighteen years old.
“Thank you all for going there, for being there for me,” Mckenna said. “But I need to get on with my life and sitting in a parole hearing wouldn’t have helped with that. Plus, didn’t you say that Toby has a great probation officer? The guy will be so on top of Toby, he won’t even be able to use the bathroom without the PO knowing. Or something like that?”
Cassidy rolled her eyes. “Yes, he was assigned Keith Warren and he’s good.”
“Warren? Didn’t he grow up in our town?”
“Yeah, he left in middle school. I heard his parents moved, but he eventually came back to Colorado.”
“Well, then I have nothing to worry about,” Mckenna said, trying to figure out how to get her sister to leave so she could get back to her work and move on from this event. I should have gone and given a statement at the hearing. Now my nightmare is out, walking around, all because I let fear overcome me.
She was getting ready to tell Cassidy that she needed to buckle down and get some paperwork done when a cry of “Parker!” came from outside her office.
Mckenna and Cassidy glanced at each other.
“Which one of us is being summoned by him?” Cassidy asked just as Mckenna noticed that Mocha had gone AWOL.
“Crap. Me.”
Mckenna leaped out of her chair and darted outside her office. She heard another yell of “Come get your dog.”
Sprinting down the hall, she slid around the corner to find Mocha proudly licking his lips in the office of an agent who’d been recently transferred—Agent Evan Knox.
Agent Knox had been the talk of the office. First, it was because he was ruggedly handsome, with his perfectly disheveled blond hair and eyes the color of the Colorado blue sky. Every female was ogling him. Then, though, the talk had turned to the fact that he was difficult to work with, gruff, and kind of a lone wolf.
He worked long hours and Mckenna could tell he’d even stayed at the office to pull all-nighters at times. He also had recently told her that he didn’t think the victim team was very helpful and only stood in the way of his work. Mckenna had told him that someday, he would eat his words. She’d gone home furious that night; no matter how handsome the guy was, he was a jerk and she hoped she never had to work with him.
Ever.
Mocha seemed to have missed this recent memo analyzing the new agent. He sat on his hindquarters and stared hopefully into Agent Knox’s flushed red face.
“Your dog ate my sandwich.”
Mckenna stifled a laugh and worked on appearing serious. “What? Is this a federal offense? Are you going to arrest him? Do we need a lawyer?”
Agent Knox stared at her. She was making a joke out of this, and he didn’t look like he appreciated it. “You’re not taking this very seriously, are you? You really need to work on your dog’s training.”
With a sigh, Mckenna pulled a ten-dollar bill out of her pocket. “Here. I’m sorry. He snuck out of my office. Does this cover the cost of your late lunch? Dinner? Whatever it is?”
Knox shrugged.
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. I can go get you another sandwich if you’d like.”
“No, I don’t need another sandwich, but you better hope this never happens again. And find someone to help you train him.”
Now Mckenna was annoyed.
“What makes you the expert on dog training?” she fired back.
“My father was a K-9 handler for the local police where I grew up. He taught me everything he knew.”
“And you never had a dog misbehave or have a moment where they stole food? Your dogs were always perfect?”
Knox put his hands on his hips. “Just keep a better eye on your dog.”
“Can’t answer that, can you? I’m sure your dogs messed up. And don’t worry, I will keep a better eye on Mocha. I’ve been a bit…a bit distracted.” Mckenna glanced down at the carpet, thinking about Toby walking free. The only way she knew how to cope was to continue with her life. Her work—helping other victims. If she didn’t know better, she could have sworn that Agent Knox’s face softened a little bit. But it didn’t matter. She could see the edge that kept everyone away from him. God help her if she was assigned a case where she had to work with him.
About Author Kathleen Donnelly…
Award-winning author Kathleen Donnelly is a retired K-9 handler. She continues to enjoy crafting realism into her fictional stories from her dog-handling experience. Her love of the mountains came from growing up in Colorado and exploring the wilderness. Kathleen hosts the podcast, Sit. Stay. Read., a part of the Authors on the Air Global Network. She lives near the Colorado foothills with her husband and four-legged friends. Visit Kathleen’s website, kathleendonnelly.com, where you can sign up for her newsletter and find social media links.
~~~
Links to Kathleen’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:
Buy Links: (All buy links for paperback, eBook and Audio can be found on the website)
Amazon: https://a.co/d/jj2iVnd
Order a Signed Paperback copy from Old Firehouse Books (US only): https://oldfirehousebooks.com/book/9781335471604
Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/colorado-k-9-rescue-kathleen-donnelly/1146695815
Website— kathleendonnelly.com
Newsletter Sign-up:
https://kathleendonnelly.com/#newsletter
Social Media:
Facebook–@AuthorKathleenDonnelly
Twitter–@KatK9writer
Instagram–@authorkathleendonnelly
Goodreads—https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/22280955.Kathleen_Donnelly
~~~
Special Giveaway: Kathleen will gift one signed paperback (U.S. only) of COLORADO K-9 RESCUE to one lucky reader and one Kindle copy (U.S. only) to a second lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog. Good luck!
~~~
Thanks, Kathleen, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
September 29, 2025
Karen’s Killer Book Bench #Amateur #Sleuth #Mystery: BATTERED, Whipped & Sipped Mysteries Book 1 by G.P. Gottlieb
KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!
~~~
BATTERED
Whipped & Sipped Mysteries Book 1
BY G.P. Gottlieb
BLURB
Alene Baron lives in a Chicago lakefront high-rise and owns the nearby Whipped and Sipped Café, which serves decadent but healthful pastries and drinks. After she comes across the dead body of a friend in her neighbor’s apartment, Alene calls the police and dashes home — to make soup for her family. Then she starts listing suspects. Was it her philandering ex-husband, the victim’s ex-spouse, or the victim’s ill-tempered sister, who is one of Alene’s employees at the café? There’s another mystery, closer to Alene’s heart: Is the lead Chicago PD detective going to take her seriously or will he turn out to be as untrustworthy as her ex?
~~~
BATTERED
Whipped & Sipped Mysteries Book 1
BY G.P. Gottlieb
“He said, she said.”
Although I’ve always loved reading, I knew little about writing, and even less about publishing before my first novel launched in 2019.
I was completely unprepared for how much work all of it would be. I didn’t have any social media accounts, didn’t know anyone else who’d published a mystery, and had never met a book publicist. I had a vague idea that the publisher would put my books in bookstores and libraries, and people would flock to buy them, but that, surprisingly, turned out to be a myth.
Long before I won my first contract in a publisher’s contest, I had the good luck of finding a fantastic author, editor, and teacher named S.L. Wisenberg (via a Chicago Tribune editorial she’d written). At the time, I’d been writing long, blabby manuscripts that meandered through the lives of way too many characters and got bogged down in irrelevant details. Sandi guided me through completing a coherent first draft of a mystery novel that had a beginning, middle, and end, with red herrings sprinkled along the way. It was filled with everything a good mystery requires, including a surprise reveal.
We’d usually meet at one of many Chicago cafés on the near north side. I’d hand Wisenberg a chapter, and she’d whip out her pencil case. It was shocking for me to learn how many rookie mistakes I made on every page. I didn’t do quotation marks correctly, had way too many run-on sentences, and peppered every chapter with a series of cliches and overused phrases like, “cooked to perfection.”
Also, my dialogues went on ad nauseam, like a boring conversation you might have with a nosy neighbor. I also added too many irrelevant factoids that nobody needs or cares to know. I could go on excoriating my early writing attempts, but that’s all in the past. Suffice to say, I had a lot to learn.
I tried not to argue with S.L. Wisenberg, because she’d written articles and books, taught writing for adult learners at Northwestern University and the University of Chicago and was well-versed in the world of writing and publishing. Every week, she explained basic rules as she circled mistakes, requested more human-sounding interaction, and used a red marker to slash through all the different ways I quoted people who “advised, recommended, suggested, beseeched, or pleaded with other characters.
After a few weeks, I finally asked, “What’s wrong with descriptive terms?”
Turned out that she wanted me to use the old chestnuts, “he said,” or “she said,” when anyone spoke. Or I could say “he or she asked,” if there was a question involved.
“WHAT?” I nearly shouted, prepared to stand up for what I believed in, like whispering, urging, and promising.
“How can I write an entire manuscript using those same boring words? Why can’t my characters mumble, mutter, demand, claim, request, or hiss?”
“If you continuously write ‘he said or she said,’ Wisenberg spoke slowly to calm me down, “readers will focus on WHAT your character said, rather than the fact that she murmured, implored, petitioned, or mandated it.”
For a few minutes, I concentrated on nibbling my almond croissant. Then I looked at her and asked, “What if a character needs to exclaim, shout, bellow, or cry?”
“You can get away with that sort of thing once in a while,” she said in her assertive Texas twang, “but if you do it consistently, you’ll distract readers into paying attention to HOW a character says something rather than the meaning behind what they said.”
She referenced Shakespeare, as if that guy knew anything about writing a mystery. His characters also “said” most things, instead of purring, crooning, griping, or grumbling.
I gaped at her as if she’d sprung a leak, but I knew I was defeated. “Fine,” I said. “You win.”
Later, on my way out the door, I whispered to myself, “We’ll just see about that.”
About Author G.P. Gottlieb…
GP Gottlieb is the author of the Whipped and Sipped Mystery Series (Battered was re-released 9/2025 in Paperback, Kindle and Nook). She’s a member of the Blackbird Writers, on the Sisters in Crime Chicagoland Board, and active in SinC Colorado. She likes posting on Facebook, reads voraciously, and has interviewed over 250 authors for New Books in Literature, a podcast channel on the New Books Network. Her stories have been published in Pure Slush, Another Chicago Magazine, Grande Dame Literary, and other journals and anthologies. Over 250 of her essays on travel, music, culture, writing, and things that annoy her are available in various publications at Medium.Com.
~~~
Links to G.P’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:
~~~
Thanks, G.P., for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
September 26, 2025
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s #Seafood #Shrimp: PEASANT SHRIMP #Recipe from Karen’s Kitchen
Photo: katie-smith-uQs1802D0CQ-unsplashIt’s time for Karen’s Killer Fixin’s!
Over the years, I’ve filled two 4-inch, 3-ring binders with my own creations as well as recipes my family and friends were willing to share with me. I simply love to cook and want to share that love with my readers. Every Friday, I share a recipe that I think you and your family might enjoy. It might be a main course recipe from my own kitchen or a guest author’s favorite. It could be a cookie or a baked item. Candy. Salads. Whatever strikes the eye and fancy…which today is PEASANT SHRIMP from KAREN’S KITCHEN!!
Here’s another fun recipe from the seafood section of my cookbook. I can’t resist finding a variety of ways to cook shrimp! It’s such a basic food group…at least on my table. I love the taste of tarragon in seafood. It gives this shrimp dish some serious oomph in addition to the garlic. And, who doesn’t love garlic?
I hope you enjoy today’s Killer Fixin’s. Happy eating!
Karen
P.S. We’re at 757 recipes and counting with this posting. I hope you find some recipes you like. If this is your first visit, please check out past blogs for more Killer Fixin’s. You can even look up past recipes by type in the right-hand column menu. i.e. Desserts, Breads, Beef, Chicken, Soups, Author Specials, etc.
~~~~~~~~~
PEASANT SHRIMP
[From Karen’s Kitchen]
(Serves 4)
1 cup chopped fresh parsley
1/2 cup butter
1 T. dried tarragon
1/2 cup oil
4 garlic cloves, crushed
24 uncooked, jumbo shrimp, shelled & deveined
2-3 bunches green onions, thinly sliced
Juice of 3 lemons
salt and pepper
Combine parsley, tarragon, garlic, onion, and lemon juice in a medium bowl. Melt butter with oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add parsley mixture and cook briefly until softened. Return to the bowl.
Add shrimp and toss lightly. Cover and marinate at room temperature for 1-2 hours, stirring several times.
Preheat broiler. Sprinkle shrimp with salt and pepper to taste and toss lightly. Broil shrimp in a single layer just until pink, turning once.
Serve in soup bowls with rice or noodles.
Happy Eating!
