Rebekah Jonesy's Blog, page 11

Writers Trapped in War: Their Quest to Canada

Getting caught up, again

Woke up this morning at 5am, because some time during the night my husband opened the bedroom door, let the dogs in, then fell asleep on the couch. The dogs annoyed me so much that I gave up on sleep and got up. He walks in as I'm getting dressed and says he's going to sleep in the bed.
I made coffee and decided not to do "work" work. Instead I washed the dishes, did two weeks worth of laundry, cleaned the kitchen, made a grocery list, answered emails, and wrote out a rough draft. Cause I am bad at not working.

Husband wakes up a little before 9am. My best friend calls and asks to come over. I tell her to come on over as I was just about to take a break. He goes and gets dressed, then sits down at his computer. She and I hang out for @2 hours then she leaves. I follow her out and started weeding my garden, feeding my compost, retying the tomato plants, cleaning the walk and staking my corn. Husband comes out and watches me for a bit. Then says "Once you're done weeding you can come help me run this line." The line he said he would do 8 weeks ago. And every weekend since. Without waiting for any response he turns and goes inside. I continued what I was doing.

I trimmed the herbs, picked cucumbers, peppers, and tomatoes. Tilled the soil and leveled it back out after all the floods we've been having. Drained the water out of the compost and refilled it. Trimmed the citronella plants. Then I went inside, got some water, and explained to my husband that telling someone what they were going to do isn't the same thing as asking someone for help. He agreed cheerfully and left.

So I cleaned all of my herbs and set them in towels to dry. Hung seed heads in bags to ripen. Made 2 gallons of pickles. Mixed up bath salts and bath oils. Made mosquito repellent. Put away laundry. Made the bed. Started more laundry. Mopped the floors. Scrubbed the bathrooms. Made laundry detergent pods while channeling my inner nerd so I pressed them into Star Wars molds. Alas it didn't come through in the picture very well.

Bundled and hung my remaining herbs to dry and sent him out for burgers. The kitchen was a mess again after making the detergent and I wasn't going to risk it getting into food. After dinner I rearranged my pantry and linen closet, find where he's hidden the fitted sheets and light blankets, fold them and put them away. Wash and rehang the curtains. Cleaned the mudroom after tracking mud all over my mopped floors. And periodically hopped on FB to see what my friends are up to.

Anyone wanna guess what I didn't do? I love my husband, but I don't take orders from him. And him telling me I was going to help him, after I gave him three chances to restate it or ask for help, was rude in my opinion. I briefly gave him a hand when he needed it, however. My day was busy enough anyway. Now I am working, on work, roasting coffee, washing the dishes from making everything, vacuumed the house, spilled baking soda everywhere afterward, editing a screenplay, and prepping dinners for the rest of the week. My husband has work in the morning so he is already in the freshly made bed. It's now quarter till 1am. Once these edits are done, and the food is prepped and the last load of laundry is in the dryer, I will be taking a long hot shower and going to bed myself.

Rum Cake

This past Friday we celebrated my husband's 40th birthday. It was a big to do. And of course I made his favorite cake, rum cake. It's usually a bundt cake, but I do everything in my own way and he asked for the tower of rummy doom I have perfected. Considering he literally invited the entire Charlotte NOSQ I tripled my recipe and and used 4 different sized pans to make the cupcake. And 1.5 bottles of rum. I even made towers at the corner with a spiral stack of mini cupcakes. It was awesome. And I made a center moat of rum glaze in a bowl for dipping. If I hadn't been so drunk at that point I would have gotten pictures. But we didn't get to the cake until we had been partying for hours. So sorry, no pics from me.
Edit: I added a picture of the leftover cupcakes I had put away.

But I do have the recipe.

Rum Cake
Cake:
1 yellow cake mix
4 eggs
½ cup water
½ cup oil
2/3 cup rum

Heat oven to 325. Generously grease bunt pan. Mix all ingredients in medium bowl until smooth. Pour into bunt pan and bake 1 hour. Let cool in pan. Invert pan on serving tray. Wait five minutes. Slowly remove pan. If cake sticks, hold at slight angle and gently use a spatula to separate rim of
cake from pan. Let sit again and remove pan. Use a fork or toothpick and poke holes all over surface of cake once it is cooled.
If using a 9x13 pan cook at 350 for 30-35 minutes. Once cooled pierce the top repeatedly all over, then cut into squares.

Glaze:
½ cup butter
¼ cup water
1 cup brown sugar
2/3 cup rum
Put butter, water and sugar in small sauce pan. Heat over medium heat, stirring occasionally until boiling hard. Let boil on med-low heat for five minutes without stirring. Remove from heat. Slowly add rum. This will cause the mixture to bubble and steam so be careful! Being careful of the steam, stir quickly. Spoon on top of your cake slowly so it has time to soak in. Spoon any spillovers back onto the cake. Cover if possible. If it is covered the glaze soaks in better. Uncovered it will form a tacky shell on top.

The longer this cake sits, the more boozy it becomes. The cake itself will also break down and fall apart if it sits too many days.

Do not drive, try to operate heavy machinery, or pick up a date after eating cake.

I personally do not let children eat this cake because the rum doesn't NOT bake out enough.

How I learned to love my scars

In case you haven't guessed by now, I grew up in the country. And if you have ever walked beside me you know I'm not exactly graceful. I can fall down while sitting. It's a talent my mother and niece have as well. Life was especially trippy when I was going through growth spurts. In my family we tend to gain a lot chub before shooting up 3-12 inches in a day.

As a child that led to a lot of accidents. All of a sudden my feet were coming down where they should. My elbows would connect with door frames and spin me around. I would hit my head on things I had ducked under my entire life. One brilliant afternoon, long story short, I ended up with a deep puncture wound from a cow skull, a twisted ankle, and a large chunk torn out of my leg just below the knee. My mother was not happy about any of that, or my missing shoe, or the chunk of flesh I handed her. (I thought maybe the doctor would be able to sew it back in. I was young! Don't laugh.)

As a teenager that led to a lot of stretch marks. I developed breasts overnight and years later I developed hips. The burning pain from that sudden change made it very hard to walk. My legs ached, my knees hurt, and I couldn't keep my gravity centered and would trip or fall easily. In one moment I was able to smash my thumb open, slice my hand on a nail, turn, trip and twist my knee, slam my throat onto a stair tread, bite the tip of my tongue off, and impale my chest on a hidden piece of rusty rebar stuck in the ground. I could barely breathe, and couldn't say anything because both my tongue and throat were so damaged. Instead I pushed myself up off the ground with two bloody hands, dragging the rough ridges of the rebar over my ribs, spit out blood and a chunk of flesh, and barely stand on my messed up knee as blood started pouring out of my chest.

My poor parents knew I needed a doctor, I couldn't stop spitting blood or coughing, but they weren't sure if it would be best to call an ambulance (which could take longer but would bring oxygen) or drive me in because I had already soaked through my shirt and two hand towels. Not being able to speak I didn't have much say. So I tried to wash the blood out of my shirt. It was my first silk shirt and I hoped it was salvageable. The blood came out but the hole left in it was too large. Mom stopped me. Dad shook his head. They grabbed some extra towels to staunch the blood and pushed me in the car. After the ER nurse checked my throat and determined that wasn't going to kill me they did something else I seriously don't remember and told me I had a serious concussion as well. Not my first, and certainly not my last. I got oxygen and was sent for x-rays. Nurses kept coming down to do other things but by then I was sleepy, and puking, so I can't remember what they were. I do remember them pulling the loose broken shard of my rib out of my body though. And the nurses making stupid comments about me not currently wearing a bra. It had also been ripped apart by the rebar and they were actually pulling pieces of it out of my wound.

Now you might think this is a particularly gruesome story. And it kind of is. But it's MY story. And every time someone new, or one of my more forgetful friends, sees my giant gnarled scar I get to tell that story. And explain how an underwire bra saved my klutzy life.

And every time someone sees the scar on my right leg I get to tell them how even when you are running from men with guns you should still be more careful of the barbwire fence.

And when they see the scar on my right leg I get to tell them how my first Girl Scout troop in Bowling Green KY heard that I was moving so they all pitched in and got me a doll and I was so happy I skipped out into the parking lot and tripped. The gravel tore up my knee real bad but my face and chest landed on the doll and it protected me.

And when they see the thick straight scar on my right hand I can tell them the story of my friend's brother that was on the wrong meds as a teenager and he stabbed me in the hand with a paring knife because I made him stop abusing his mom.

My life adventures have written story blurbs on my flesh, in white, purple, and tan. You can't see all of them very well. The scar above my eye that taught me that even the nicest dog will bite is so old and faded even I barely remember it is there. And the dart that pierced my cheek and pricked my tongue healed so small and well it didn't leave a scar on my face. But I still know how to be careful with dogs and I still know how fun it is to blow air out of your cheek with your mouth closed.

I have scars on my face, on my shoulders, on my arms, my breasts, my hands, my chest, my back, my butt, my legs, my vagina, my feet and more than a few on my soul.

Growing up I kept hearing how I should be more careful. Because the scars would make me ugly. And I would hate them as I got older.

I was a tomboy so I didn't care if I was ugly or pretty. But when I was a teen, after the hole in my chest started to heal into a lumpy scar and the stretch marks on my hips shone a bright white, I started to wonder if I should care.

Did they make me ugly?

I stared at myself in the mirror. I stared at my legs. I stared at my arms. I constantly checked the scar under my left breast to see how bad it would be. I never got stitches in it because everything else took so long that once the doctor said we could leave we just left. It wasn't until I was crawling into bed as the sun came up that I saw that there were no stitches. So it healed badly. Very badly. I had to go in to my regular doctor and he trimmed some pieces off it healed so badly. And I had to wear a bulky bandage to high school so everyone stared. And a few people asked what was up with it. And I told them. And they flinched and sympathized. But that was it.

And it wasn't until I was almost completely healed and I saw that it was going to be a huge nasty scar that I realized. I didn't care.

I didn't care about the giant scars on my legs. I didn't care about the thin scars on my back. I didn't care about the white marks on my arms. Or any of the rest of it.

If people thought that I was ugly because of the life I had led, the life that was writ into my flesh, how could they think that I, the person inside that flesh, was pretty? Because I had been through all of those things and the memories wouldn't be erased even after the scars faded.

And that's when I fell in love with my scars. They were my story, my life, my warning, and my litmus test. If you can't handle the scars, you can't handle the real me.

The Writer's Edge: Creative Edge Event Planning

Interference

Interference
I got this book a while back, and I had started reading it before I got distracted by my own work and some other books I had been asked to read. By the time I got back to reading it, I was only on page 4 or so, I felt like I had lost the story line. I, for sure, didn't remember what the book was about. But it was written so well that I rather liked the mystery of not knowing what I was reading. I could have read the blurb again except then I would have to pause in my reading and I did not want to do that. I had a quiet house, a storm, and I was curled up on the couch with my dogs and a hot cup of coffee. So I went in cold.

It seemed to be a wonderful story of love lost as told from three different perspectives. Including the perspective of the dead wife, which was a nice twist. It got me wondering if maybe her ghost was going to show up. Was this a romance? A super natural? A mystery? Then things started getting more complex. Then two of the characters started acting in ways I was not expecting at all. I checked the page count to see how much more of the story was left. There were too many pages left to be at this point in the story already! Maybe the story will continue past a happily ever after? Maybe there will be another revelation about his dead wife that throws him for a loop? Maybe the dog has something to do with it? I didn't know and had to keep reading! Where was this romance story going to end?!

And then the twist. The twistiest twist I have been twisted by in a long time.

I pulled my chin up off the floor and kept reading. Ho. Ly. Craaaaaaaaap! Wha?!

Ok! So it's not a romance! Wow!

And I kept reading. And I had to keep pulling my chin up. There is no way he's going to... holy crap again!

By the time I got to the end my chin was sore, the dogs weren't willing to sit near me because I kept moving around, and my coffee was cold and forgotten on the table. I chugged my cold coffee, flipped back a few pages to reread the end, and laughed out loud.

Excellent book.

It was originally written in French, and the flow makes that a little obvious. But the translation is great. There is no doubt about what is happening as the story progresses. However it is certainly not a typical American love story. Which made me love it even more. I did check the blurb once I was done reading and thankfully it doesn't give anything away either.

They were the perfect couple—but not all is as it seems.Young married couple Gabriel and Chloé have a picture-perfect life. But when athletic Chloé suddenly drowns, Gabriel is left to grapple with the mysterious circumstances of her death. Brokenhearted, he pours out his grief in a bereavement group and is consoled by photographer Emma. While the two grow closer, Gabriel can’t help but feel Chloé’s presence everywhere he goes. And as revelations about Chloé slowly emerge, he begins to wonder, is Emma really that different?

Let me point out now, this is not a love story. This is a psychological thriller. It does require a tiny bit of suspension of belief for the legality of what happens with the twist. But despite that I thought it was a well written story that kept me interested and trying to guess what would happen next.

4.5/5 stars

Boding Evil

Boding Evil
I really wanted to like this book. The actual writing was great. It was very descriptive. But the plot jumps all over the place and is full of holes. There is no continuity of events. What seems important on one page gets discarded later. And it happens in three eras, with little to no connection. And even worse, there was no ending. It just stopped. 
It starts with a man being upset at a diner. It flashes back a few hours to him being kept in one very large stretch of highway and seeing the same exit for a town over and over again.  Then it flashes back to him as a kid getting ready to move to the town. His family moves to the town. Except one daughter who stays behind, somehow, to finish out school. She is only referenced once more in the book, and the timeline and reason no longer makes sense. Then you meet the big bad. Or the big bad's child? Maybe? And there are references to his mom and how she looks like the last woman to live in the evil house. That goes nowhere. And doesn't fit in with the thing that attacked. Then a reason for the attack is given. And that goes nowhere. Then another thing attacks. And another flash back to a very short story of the last family that lived there. And that story doesn't make sense either. It literally contradicts itself as it is being told.
Jump back to the second flashback where the majority of the story is being told. And the second big bad is "attacking". Except it doesn't attack in the same way that it attacked the first time. At all. And it isn't the same. And the first big bad is completely forgotten. Oh wait, now the first big bad is back. And things happen. Somehow. Ok, now dad gets a warning. In a dream. From a dead guy. That is connected to the second big bad. The first big bad attacks again. And that pushes dad to action. Then the second big bad.... implodes? attacks? dirties the house up somewhat? I dunno. But we're expected to believe that a big bad supernatural power strong enough to loop reality and keep a truck driving the same stretch of fifteen miles for hours on end attacks by a smoke plume that doesn't hurt anyone. Or even do anything except show ghosts that don't hurt anything except canned goods on a shelf once.
It's very confusing.
If this story line could be straightened out it could be good. But as it is nothing bad even happens to any of the main characters. A family that is only tangentially connected to the main characters are killed. And the family is scared out of their home. The end?
It's supposed to be a supernatural horror but the supernatural never gets explained fully and the horror just never happens. A real bobcat attack is scarier than what happens in this book. And literally the most suspenseful part of the book is the boy mowing the grass.
The super short horror story added as an extra at the end is better than the main story.
0.5/5 If it gets revised it could be great, but as it is now it's a waste of time to read.

Portraits of Dread

Portraits of Dread
This book made me squeal with glee. I love short horror stories. And humans are the most vicious of monsters. Michael J. Elliott put together another collection of short stories that will seep into your brain and make you question the motives of people you see on the street or in the paper for the rest of your life.
His collection of stories is the more complex, more realistic, creepier older brother to the Scary Stories to tell in the Dark series. And while he expertly writes about supernatural monsters he proves Stephen King is right. "Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win."

As proof of that Michael tells us a tale of the future. Nothing supernatural, nothing you can't believe. It starts as a sad tale of a woman with an eating addiction who lives in a society that is intolerant of the obese. After several chances and government funded health services to try to help her lose weight she finally gets the final punishment. If you think fat camps that exist now are horrible and inhumane wait until you see what can happen when you add in corporate greed and a complete removal of all human rights.

Poor Lynda doesn't realize until it is several steps past too late, but the man that was shot like a dog trying to run away was the lucky one. As were the ones that didn't "succeed" as well as she does. But Lynda believes in the second chance she thinks she's been given. And she finally has a real reason to work to better herself. She works hard, does what she's told, and ignores everything she is told isn't important. Lynda makes herself the perfect calf being led to the slaughter. Except the men in charge are more vicious than the men of Soylent Green.

Every one of the stories in his collection are excellent and invoke a different facet of dread. I would give each one 5 stars. And I will be getting the rest of his books so that I can continue to terrorize all of the kids in my life with his stories around the campfire.

5/5 several times over

Elements of a Broken Mind

   I'm not even sure where to start with this review. This book floored me. From the blurb:

Grant Anderson is a small-town detective whose job was quiet and easy, until three girls end up dead. A serial killer is stalking the young ladies in his town. Without the high tech equipment of big cities at his fingers, Grant must rely on good old-fashioned police work; but with no discernible pattern and no clues to follow, the case seems to be grinding to a halt.
Then Grant gets a visit from a mysterious young woman. Who is Clear Angel? What is her connection to the case? If Grant is to believer her, then he must accept that she has “seen” these things. But Grant is a professional. He cannot believe in psychics! Yet when another girl goes missing, and Grant’s search is yielding nothing he is desperate enough to try.
Clear Angel has always been special. Seclusion has kept the nightmares at bay. Then the nightmares begin again. Are they premonitions of events to come? Are they the sick fantasies of a madman? Then one evening she runs into a stranger and finds out that not only are they real, but they are happening here in her home town. After a lifetime of running and hiding from what she can do, she is now forced to reach out to the most unlikely person in an effort to save innocent girls and perhaps the world.
Grant and Clear team up to stop a madman bent on the destruction of the world. As their feelings for one another grow, they try to deny them. But when Clear goes missing, Grant must face his feelings and save her before it is too late.

   Ok and now you're thinking, "Oh this is going to be a story about a psychic who helps a cop catch a killer so she doesn't have to see and feel their pain all the time and because she's a good person.

NOPE!

   Because this guy isn't just a killer. This cop drama mystery is so much more twisted then that. And you only wish this guy was something as nice and normal as a regular psychopathic serial killer. This guy makes Gein seem normal enough to invite over for a dinner party.


   These characters, even the minor characters, are so well developed and thought out that it feels like you know them. Even the waitress at the diner. Heidi is able to take just a few words describing a gesture, a look, a facial expression, and you know what that person is thinking and why. It's brilliant. I would compare her to some big name millionaire author, but to be honest I don't know of one that can distill the essence of a person or scene so well. It felt like I was there with them. Which is incredibly creepy when dealing with the psychopath they are dealing with.

   But that also led me to quite a shock. I was deep in cathartic reading, totally immersed at 46% of the way through the book. I smiled a little, thinking I knew what was going to happen with the way the scene was developing.

NOPE!

   SHOCK! Freak out! What the Hell, Heidi?! Next thing I know I have tears running down my face and I am trying to keep reading hoping and praying I am wrong. Or that it's a dream sequence or something. But it got worse! And I had to put the book down and grab a tissue. So that is your friendly warning from me. I won't spoil it, but there's a fair warning for you. If you're not a catharsis reader, or not fully immersed I doubt it will be as shocking. But I had been reading for about two hours straight and was really into it. And I have this rescue dog that I am still working with so it was like a punch to the heart. I would have finished the book that day, but I had to take a break after that and picked it up again the next night. And I finished it. Because it is just too good to put down. I stubbed two toes reading while walking and spilled my coffee a few times.

   Oh and then the ending! By that point you know he's not a normal bad guy. (SPOILER!) Which is why Clear is locked up in a loony bin. But the final scene, and his "reasons" for doing it are still mind boggling, and completely fit the narrative and his previous actions.

   Battle over, the male lead and female lead come together and realize that they are happier together and... nope! These characters are way to complex and realistic for them to get a fairy tale version of happily ever after. And after reading and getting to know all of them it is completely understandable, if somewhat frustrating.

   But there is hope! Because Heidi has already written the second book. And the third is coming out soon. If you want to sign up for her newsletter you can get the updates there. Or if like me, you are totally drawn into her stories and need a fix more often you can sign up with her Patreon account and get a free book and weekly updates on her stories and chapter previews. I did it, because I am hooked on her writing. And you should too. $2 will get you this book and all the updates you could want plus chapters of her new collection Survivalist Bible. Go check her out.

Potato Candy, and revenge, are best served cold

Yes you heard me right. Potato candy. Sounds weird I know. But it is so friggin' good. So good. I have gotten so many people addicted to this simple candy, just like it happened to me.

Picture this, and remember I lived in a small, tiny town.

Little, fat Rebekah at the school Fall Festival. Now our town was tiny when I was growing up. We had one school, K-12. So when the school had a festival nearly everyone came to it. And everyone contributed something. We had mazes, cake walks, bingo, pie eating contests, tug of war contests, a haunted hall (my parents usually ran that), class art exhibits, a show of the award winning science projects, and of course a bake sale. Every year I would bake for it. I was always trying to take something new, something that stood out, something original that no one else was bringing. But what I always wanted, what I craved every year, were those peanut butter swirl thingies. I didn't know what they were called. I didn't know who made them. I asked every year but no one told me. But they were my yearly crack fix.

And I loveded my precious. I would save up my pennies just to buy them every year. I would even sacrifice some book money in order to get them. One year I saved and saved and I bought three bags! But I had to hide them. Because they weren't just crack to me, they were crack to my three older siblings too. And they were not frugal enough to save up. Instead they would follow me around and then steal the candies right out of the bag as I was holding it! But I am devious too. I was the youngest and weakest for a long time, I had to learn to be devious. So I would lose my siblings, run through the haunted hall, out the door, around the back side of the school, then in the front again, and make my way to the room with the bake sale. If I saw a sibling I would run again and take a different path. Or go to the used book room and lick my fingers as if I had just finished a tasty sticky peanut butter treat while hiding my candy money in those terrible thick socks that were all the rage in the 80s.

And as soon as I was alone I would sneak into the bake sale room and snag a bag. The year I snagged three bags I thought my heart would explode with happiness. I hid two of the bags in my bookbag, between my books. I knew they would get squished, but they were soft candy and tasted just as good squished so I was ok with it. And if I only took them out at lunch my siblings couldn't steal them. It was a perfect plan! I thought.

But alas, it was not to be.

Because even though they were "candy" and they were in a ziplock bag, they were not hard candies. And soft candies mold. On the third day of my illicit candy smuggling operation, I pulled out my bag, mouth watering, thinking about how good it would taste after the school pizza. It was going to be the best school lunch EVER! But my delicious, delightful, happiness inspiring water and brown swirl of squished sugary goodness was instead a viscous blue/green with peanut butter glop.

Oh the tragedy!

I pulled out my second bag. The one that had never been opened, that had slid down to the bottom of my book bag and had book lines crushed into it. It was even worse! And might have, in fact, been looking back at me! My diabolical plan had all been for naught. I took them home that evening and showed them to my mother who laughed at me for not knowing they had to be refrigerated. She told me that next time I should put them in the freezer if I wanted to keep them. The freezer that I could not reach, not even with a chair, but all of my older siblings could.

Oh the humanity!

And my brother laughed.

And I punched him in the nose. Then I asked my mother if she knew how to make the peanut butter swirl things. But she had no idea. And we had never been able to track down the maker so we didn't even know what they were.

But there was light at the end of the tunnel for this little fat girl. Because that year I hit a growth spurt. The fat turned to height. And over the summer it turned to strength. And the next fall it turned to steely resolve. At that Fall Festival I boldly walked into the bake sale room.  I purchased two bags, the last two!, of the deliciousness. But then my now shorter brother walked up. He was with his friends and liked to showoff by bullying me and taking my things. It didn't work very well any more, but he tried. He grabbed the back of my arm and pinched it hard, trying to force me into giving up my recently purchased candy, I punched him in the face. And knocked him down right there in the hallway. And my mother saw. And so did everyone else. And I looked like a bad kid. Because no one knew he tormented me like that every time I bought a sweet. He would pinch my arm to make it weak, then snatch the bag and run while lying that mom said I couldn't have sweets because I was fat.

Mom came storming up, and I quickly gobbled the first bag of candy, sad because I couldn't savor it, but determined not to give it up to my lying brother as punishment. My brother saw mom and started to fake cry, to get sympathy, before he realized he was surrounded by his school friends. And then, like an avenging angel, my daddy reached down and snatched him up. Dad put him on his feet and demanded an explanation. My brother started his lie. I had a mouth full of three soft candies and couldn't say anything to dispute his lies!

My brother finished his sad tale and quiet as a mouse my father bent over him. And held up one finger directly in front of his nose. The finger! We all knew the finger! It was dad's way of getting your attention right before judgement came down on your head! And it was directed at my brother not me! "I'll give you one more chance to tell me the truth." Dad said, in his scary quiet voice. And behind me I heard one of the mothers say, "He was standing there the whole time. He saw it all." I whipped around and stared and she nodded in response to me. I whipped back to watch my family drama happening in front of everyone, certain my brother would confess. The one sin dad never let slide was lying. If you confessed he would angry. But if you lied on top of the previous lie, he would get ANGRY.

And in front of God, Mom, Coach, and even the principal, my brother lied right to my father's face.

He was snatched up by his arm and frog marched right out of there. People parted to let them through. My brother protested his innocence. My mother ran after sputtering, not knowing what was happening. And I stood there in shock. It was the first time my brother had ever been caught bullying me. And it happened in front of everyone. One of the women from the bake sale brought me a baggie of ice for my arm. A large purple/black lump had started to form and I hadn't even noticed. It didn't even hurt until I put the ice on it. I finally manged to swallow the lump of sugar and peanut butter and thanked her. She motioned to the baggie I still clutched in my other hand. "I'm glad you like my candies." Then turned and left.

I was in such shock I couldn't say anything. I had met the master chef! The woman that made the peanut butter Heaven I lived all year for! And she disappeared into the crowd. I looked but couldn't find her. Then my mother came and got me. My brother had made such a scene in the parking lot that we had to leave early.

I swore that next year I would spend the whole time waiting at the bake sale booth so I could find the woman and thank her. And hopefully learn at least the name of the candy. But she didn't show up that year. Nor did the candy. And the following summer we moved.

Every fall my mouth would water with the memories. And my heart would yearn to be reunited with my first love. But I didn't even know his name. I tried all kinds of concoctions but nothing even came close to my childhood memories.

Then the internet was invented. And the world was turned on it's head. And Google burst into existence. And one fall, a few years back, I did a search. And I found the strangest recipe. "Potato candy? That looks right. But it sounds too weird." So I searched more. And more and more. Until finally I went back to the original recipe and tried it.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

This was it!

It was real! I had found it! I made a giant batch. And I handed it to my friends, and my husband, and my parents! This is the candy I always told you about! This is the wonderful creamy goodness of my childhood that I loved so much! This is it!

But the best part? I didn't let my brother have any of it. But I did give it to his kids.