When I was a child in the early sixties, colds required soft-boiled eggs with melted butter and toasted Wonder Bread. My caring mother’s loving fix for everything. Today that remedy would require a chaser of Lipitor. Foiled TV dinners of Swanson’s Fried Chicken in front of The Flintstones and The Jetsons were a Friday night treat. Now, the treat is roast chicken with a salad in front of an On Demand episode of Outlander or Downton Abby.
Health consciousness now reigns with an over-wealth of unhealthy food―if only enjoyed vicariously with a remote control and the Food Network. Paula Dean and her butter pats inside a hamburger and mayonnaise on just about everything used to crack me up―until she disclosed her diabetes. My eyes travel from Guy Fieri’s spikey hair to his sphere above his belt. Look away and check out what he’s cooking on that grill.
Even though unthinkable, I recall picking off that crispy chemical coating from the chicken and waiting as long as possible to empty the foiled compartment of its sweet-and-savory apple crisp. I still can’t get through a cold without that runny egg and toast . . . sans the butter. Even at my worst, I follow the new rules while I reach back to my youth. Gets in the DNA.
And remember sandwiches slathered with Deviled Ham, Spam, or fried Taylor Ham (for those of us who lived in New England)? Yeah . . . salted road kill of lips, snouts, and tongues. But those options were standard fare for lunch, accompanied with a chemical salt powder of fake Lipton's noodle soup in a mug. Today―while I write―I pile butter lettuce with unsalted wild-caught albacore and garbanzo beans with a drizzle of fresh lemon and olive oil. Fills the void, but I enjoy it―my new comfort food.
We little champions started our day with toy surprises, luring us kids to boxes of sugary cereal that might as well have been Cracker Jack with whole milk. I shake my head when I think about it now, spooning raisins over my plain Shredded Wheat soaked with almond Silk.
So, how have I remained alive? I have no idea. Must be the preservatives still hanging out in my organs.
Courtney Pierce is a fiction writer living in Oregon with her husband of thirty-seven years and bossy cat. She writes for baby boomers. Her novels are filled with heart, humor, and mystery. Courtney has studied craft and storytelling at the Attic Institute and has completed the Hawthorne Fellows Program for writing and publishing. Active in the writing community, Courtney is a board member of the Northwest Independent Writers Association and is a member of Willamette Writers, Pacific Northwest Writers Association, She Writes, and Sisters in Crime. The Executrix received the Library Journal Self-E recommendation seal.
The Dushane Sisters are back with Courtney's new release of Indigo Lake. More laughs, more tears...and more trouble. Protecting Mom's reputation might get the sisters killed―or give one of them the story she's been dying to live.
New York Times best-selling author Karen Karbo says, "Courtney Pierce spins a madcap tale of family grudges, sisterly love, unexpected romance, mysterious mobsters and dog love. Reading Indigo Lake is like drinking champagne with a chaser of Mountain Dew. Pure Delight."
Colorful characters come alive in Courtney's latest trilogy about the Dushane sisters. The fun starts in The Executrix. When three middle-age sisters find a manuscript for a murder mystery in their mother's safe after her death, a whole new view of Mom will guide their future. Is it fiction . . . or truth?
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