The Lost and Angry Pound

Posted by Author Jodi Lea Stewart on February 7, 2012

–Image by John Lofgreen http://johnlofgreen.blogspot.com/2011/09/my-most-famous-paintings.

Draped over a rock still warm from the day’s scorcher…

…the lizard gazed thoughtfully at the ghost town silver lined by a full Arizona moon. A saloon glowed softly among the deserted buildings. Tinkling piano music mixed with the occasional clamor of loud voices and laughter drifted into the night sky.

The desert iguana slithered off his vantage point and moved silently through thirsty weeds and baked red rocks.

Cautiously, he darted beneath the rotting boards of the old boardwalk running the length of Main Street. He paused to chart the slope of the saloon wall and catch his breath. His eyes rolled in a full circle to check for danger before he scampered up the rough-hewn timber. Upside-down and hidden by the shadow of the overhang, the desert sentinel gazed through the dull glass window into the amber haze of kerosene lamp light.

Something definitely had the customers riled up inside.

Buttery yellow and dirty-white shapes clustered against the inside walls. More shapes waddled side to side around the room. The choking odor of rancid grease hung in the air.

Yessir, the lizard allowed, Blubber Gulch Saloon was like no other this side of the Rio Grande. It was known in the West as a place where outlaw fatty globules and lost, lonely pounds could hang out with no diets breathing down their double necks.

“Bartender! Give me another!” shouted a clotted, ill-shaped Pound at the bar. He lifted a shaky mug toward the serene Pound behind the bar.

“You betcha, Blob,” said the bartender, quickly filling Blob’s mug full of syrupy lubricate. Blob downed the liquid in one gulp, burped an oily belch, then spat on the floor.

“Yeah, I dropped off ol’ Jodi and laid on her floor shaking like curdled cream. That is, until I got mah wits back together.”

Blob’s wheeze sounded like a sack full of cats. He turned to the crowd gathering around him and continued. “When I got back to sensibility, I rolled over to a corner and waited. Couldn’t even sit up at first.”

Once again, Blob extended his mug toward the accommodating bartender.

“It ain’t no fair. That Jodi never appreciated me. Nah, not one bit. Fact is, she out and out hated me!”

A collective gasp rose from the onlookers. Blob’s eyes narrowed to slits as he leaned toward them.

“Don’t feel sorry for old Blob, gents. I’ll bide mah time and hang low for a spell. You just mark my words. Before that ornery Jodi can cram her legs into those new…” He looked around with fiery cinder eyes “… SKINNY…jeans, I’ll be right back where I came from, right in the middle of her left thigh!”

Commotion broke out among the Pounds.

“Now listen here, Blob. This is a respectable place. Don’t come in here using bad language! You cuss that ‘skinny’ word again, and I’m gonna have to throw you out,” the bartender warned.

Blog growled and dipped his fingers in a jar of grease sitting on the bar. After noisily sucking them clean, he pointed at the ceiling.

“I’ll be back, Miz Hotsy-Totsy Jodi Lea Stewart, and I’m bringing a bunch of mah renegade friends with me. You ain’t seen the last of me and my kind!”

With that, Blob fell backward in a greasy stupor. His cohorts strained as they pulled him toward the wall, leaving a broad streak of fat on the floor.

No one noticed the lizard shaking his head over the smudgy glass window. Slowly he made his descent and disappeared into the darkness. He walked until the light peeked over the horizon, his tail leaving curvy “S” marks in the silent sand.

Did you ever think about where all those pounds go when we drop them? Maybe a little ghost town in the Arizona desert? If you’re like me, my pounds don’t have to wait very long before “coming home!”

Of course, a visit isn’t a visit without a two-way conversation. I really want to hear from you.

I truly hope you’ll pick up a copy of my novel Silki, the Girl of Many Scarves: SUMMER OF THE ANCIENT. The print version is on sale at Amazon for only $9.85!!! For your convenience, it’s also available for Kindle, the Nook and for most other eBook readers. If you love the Southwest and kooky little characters that make you laugh aloud as authentic danger and mystery swirl at every turn, you’ll love this novel! The second book in the series, CANYON OF DOOM, debuts in early 2013.

While you’re here, please have a look around my website. To sign up to receive notices of my new blogs, recipes, appearances and media news, just leave your email address above. I’ll take care of the rest. Y’all come back soon…I miss you already!

Ants as Miners

Posted by Author Jodi Lea Stewart on February 3, 2012

Ants carrying a stick

If you grew up without television, you’d probably think watching fat red ants bringing goodies home to their anthills was loads of fun,too.

I know I did. Luckily, we had tons of anthills to scope out on our Arizona ranch.

If I stood or squatted on a rock beside the mounds, the ants pretty much thought of me as scenery. That was okay with me. Some types of ant attention can be painful, you know.

For hours, I watched ants carry bits and pieces of sticks, weeds, rocks, dead insects (especially beetles and wasps) and flicks of flint back to their mounds without a word of complaint.

I never actually witnessed them placing their treasures on the outside of their pebbly homes. Invariably, they took their gleaned material straight into the mysterious opening leading to the central parts of their colony. I was sure all good ants made sure they obtained Queenie’s orders before doing any exterior decorating.

Unless they were rebels.

I don’t think I saw any of those, but I thought I saw one wearing a tee-nightsy little leather jacket once. Or did I imagine that?

My favorite anthill pickings were tiny hollow beads made of bone, little bits of ancient pottery and fragments of flint and obsidian. Less often, I found miniature arrowheads fashioned centuries ago for hunting small animals and birds.

What I never found was an Arizona pyrope garnet—an anthill garnet.

Cartoon ant Reportedly, most of the anthill garnets (silicates) are mined by ants from beneath the earth in the Navajo Nation. The gems are not only rare, but also known to be some of the brightest reds of the entire garnet family.

Arizona pyrope garnets were fashioned into bullets by the Navajos in the 1800s.

Navajos believed the dark red color helped produce fatal wounds. Or so I’ve heard. I haven’t asked any of my Navajo friends if that’s true or not, so I mention it here only as a point of interest.

One myth I’m happy to squash is about the two and three-carat size “anthill garnets” touted on infomercials and ads. Though sources vary widely about how much weight an ant can carry (from ten to fifty times their own weight…and I lean toward the latter), it’s doubtful an ant can carry much more than a garnet about the size of an English pea.

Thoreau said…

Over the centuries, ants have been used as examples of diligence and sacrifice. Most famous people had at least one or two things to say about them.

For example, Thoreau said it wasn’t enough to be busy like the ants. He said we should also know what we are busy about.

Garnets I agree. And Thoreau’s end-of-sentence preposition is okay, too.

Likewise, I think Thoreau would agree that ants mining little jewels out of the earth is both resourceful AND beyond cool.

And no, I don’t believe they use pickaxes.

Treasures from the earth seem extra special. Have you ever found a treasure gathered by an ant or another kind of insect?

Just because you may want to know…a few facts about Garnets

Garnets are called carbuncles in the Bible.

Garnets have been found in Egypt, dated around 3100 B.C.

Garnets were found In Samaria, dated about 2300 B.C.

Garnets come in every color.

January’s birthstone is a garnet.

A brief look at the industrial use of garnets:*

Garnets are a 7 to 7.5 on the Mohs Scale of Hardness. To compare, diamonds are about a 10.

Since garnets are 1) generally inexpensive, 2) rate high on the Mohs Scale of Hardness, and 3) are easy on equipment, they are preferred for use in cutting metal, plastic and stone with water-jet cutters.

A water jet uses garnets in granular sand 50-, 80- to 120-grit sandpaper manufactured in Coeur d Alene, Idaho.

Two hundred hours of use is garnered from one mixing tube of garnet sand grit, vs. only thirty minutes from an aluminum oxide mixture.

*Many thanks to Michael Castaῆeda, water-jet professional, for this information.

Of course, a visit isn’t a visit without a two-way conversation. I really want to hear from you.

Chicken Tortilla Casserole

Posted by Author Jodi Lea Stewart on January 29, 2012

Painting

2 large chicken breasts w/skin and bone
2 bay leaves
2 to 3 cloves fresh garlic cloves
2 Tbls. olive or canola oil
1 can chopped green chilies
1 sm. bottle of pimentos
½ cup chopped black olives, optional
1 can Cream of Mushroom soup, undiluted
1 can Cream of Chicken soup, undiluted
½ lb. + 1 cup cheddar cheese, shredded
½ lb. Velveeta cheese, cubed
1 dozen corn tortillas
2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. black pepper, optional

Boil chicken breasts in a heavy pot with water, bay leaves, salt and pepper until done. Cool slightly. Cut and pull the meat into very small pieces, carefully removing all bones. Reserve 1 cup of the chicken broth. Sauté onion in oil. Don’t overcook. Add chicken broth, both cans of soup, green chilies, pimentos, black olives, Velveeta cubes and black pepper to taste. Stir over low heat until cheese melts. Butter a medium casserole dish. Line the bottom and sides with corn tortillas. Layer chicken pieces, shredded cheddar and cheese sauce. Add more tortillas and continue layering until all ingredients, except one cup of shredded cheddar cheese, are used. Finish with sauce. Cover top with remaining cheddar. Bake at 350-degrees until bubbly.

Comment: My mother, Vivian Woods-Myrick has been making this casserole for almost as long as the Israelites wandered in the desert. Everyone thinks it’s yummy!

Comment: Vivian suggests using a shallow glass pan for the casserole to distribute the heat better.

Of course, a visit isn’t a visit without a two-way conversation. I really want to hear from you.

Why Farm Wives Prefer Romance Novels (a theory)

Posted by Author Jodi Lea Stewart on January 23, 2012

Right off the bat, I need to let you know that I haven’t conducted a Gallup Poll about who does and doesn’t read romance novels.

I’m not basing my opinion on any audience measurement, or public-opinion tallies or anything else quite so snooty-wooty.

My theory evolved accidently. I didn’t expect it. Romance Novel

Flashback: Long ago. Arizona. Small, satellite office. Boxes of Harlequin Romance paperbacks everywhere – packed, unpacked, mailed somewhere. Typewriters clacking away in another room. Jodi working for a temp agency before her major move to California.

Have to admit I was a bit of a clerical snob back then. I was a shorthand whiz (130 wpm) and typed at least 80 wpm on a normal day. So when I was told my job for the next two weeks was to read mail, highlight the main points and hand the letters off to someone else to type a response…I scoffed.

Say what? Read letters? In a romance novel office? Embarrassing!

Basically, I needed the job, but my attitude stunk. It got stinkier when they wheeled in a huge mail-room cart full of handwritten letters.

We’re talking back when people wrote to publishers, and their letters were actually read and answered.

Now run outside and scream.

I know.

It’s that strange.

With a heavy spirit, I started reading. Before I knew it, it was lunch time. Then it was time to go home. Next morning, I was back and eager to continue. I read and read, highlighted and highlighted. *personal habit…isn’t everything important?*

Women poured out their hearts about what those books meant to them, and how they managed to squeeze water out of a rock – that is, find time to read. The largest percentage of letters I read was from farm wives in the Midwest and the South. Coming from a country/ranch background, I identified with them.

Somewhere into my umpty-umpth letter, I began to like the gals who wrote to Harlequin. A lot. I learned all about their lives.

They cooked huge country breakfasts for their families and cleaned up the mess themselves. No husband help in the kitchen back then. Most of the time, the kids were still in diapers, or off to school or doing other chores.

After breakfast, these farm wives headed to the garden to hoe or pick vegetables to clean, can, freeze, puree or cook. If not that, hundreds of other tasks needed “tended to.”

Hubby resurfaced about lunchtime, often rolling in from the fields on his tractor– HUNGRY!

They cooked three meals a day, scrubbed their houses, raised kids, worked beside their husbands, grew crops, turned live chickens into dinner, slopped pigs, tended to livestock, watered lawns with hoses, sewed clothes and curtains and raised flowers.

They were deeply involved in their children’s school activities, neighbors’ calamities and successes…and church.

They talked about their husbands in positive, humorous ways. Sometimes they caught them reading their Harlequin romances, and it delighted them, even as it gave them fodder to tease those poor dudes unmercifully.

Somehow, bless their hearts, they found a little time to curl up with a Harlequin romance paperback.

Their letters dripped with sincere praise as they literally begged for the next exciting adventure.

So here’s my homemade theory – romance books were (are) the best little mini-vacations for rural women facing a daily flood of endless tasks.

Picture it! After farm wife…

Snapped a zillion bushels of green beans, and/or,

Spooned the last batch of scalded, peeled peaches into sterilized Mason jars with a few whole cloves and a sprinkle of cinnamon, and/or,

Stayed up all night with a stressed-out mama cow in labor,

…she dives into the pages of a romance novel for an imaginary ski trip to Aspen, an ocean romp in Jamaica or a wild holiday in Rome with a handsome rogue *think Gerard Butler* pursuing her knock-down, gorgeous bod and brilliant mind.

For oh-so-brief lapses of time, farm wife’s own impossibly thick lashes fluttered,

her fair cheeks burned,

her pulse raced.

She was admired, beloved, and sought after like the rare beauty she truly is.

Scores of men want her, but only her one true-love hero will ever win her heart!

Sigh.

Farm wife closes the book and stares wistfully out the window for a few seconds.

Okay.

On her feet.

Time to mop, weed, cook, can, drive, water, hoe, plant, sew, feed, restore, carry, soothe a worry, smooth an argument, or smooch a kid.

See what I mean?

Romance books are escapism on steroids for work-weary females.

You love these farm ladies now too, don’t you?

Are farm wives still into romance books? I don’t know. I would really love to hear from some of the rural wives out there. Also from you brave urban warrior wives.

What books transport you to another world where you don’t think about wiping noses, cleaning dog poop off your shoes or worrying about cooking meals?

We’re all dying to know!

Of course, a visit isn’t a visit without a two-way conversation. I really want to hear from you.

Skillet Cookery…Mexican Spoon Bread

Posted by Author Jodi Lea Stewart on January 16, 2012

Mexican fry bread

1 16 oz. can cream-style corn
1 small onion, chopped
2 eggs, beaten
1/3 cup melted shortening
2 tsp. baking soda
½ tsp. salt
1 Tbls. chili powder
1 cup cornmeal, yellow or white
1 4-oz. can Green Chilies, chopped
1-1/2 cups shredded cheddar cheese
8” to 9” iron skillet (mine is square)

Use cheese strips or dollops on top if desired

Heat oven to 400 degrees. If skillet is not seasoned well, use non-stick spray on bottom and insides. Set aside. Combine first eight ingredients. Mix well. Pour half the batter into the skillet and top with green chilies. Add half the shredded cheese. Pour on remaining batter. Sprinkle with rest of cheese. Bake approximately 35 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean. Transfer skillet to a rack. Cut and serve warm with beans and/or salsa, or eat it by itself. Wrap up leftover bread in foil when cool. Delicious leftover by itself or with accompaniments.

Comment: Very rich – butter sparingly.
Comment: Mexican Spoon Bread with homemade pinto beans and bean juice on the top is delish! – Jodi Lea Stewart
Comment: Photography by Elizabeth Cerza.

Of course, a visit isn’t a visit without a two-way conversation. I really want to hear from you.

Jodi’s Black-Eyed Peas

Posted by Author Jodi Lea Stewart on January 5, 2012

Black-Eyed-Peas

1 lb. dried black-eyed peas
Salt pork (1- or 2-inch piece)
1 med. diced onion
2 cloves fresh garlic pulp (don’t slice)
1 stalk celery, sliced
¼ to ½ cup carrots cut into small chunks
¼ bell pepper, diced
1 can Rotel diced tomatoes and green chilies. For slightly spicy, use ORIGINAL. Otherwise, use MILD.
4 cans chicken broth, or use water
2 Tbls. chili powder
Black pepper and salt to taste
2 cups cubed, cooked ham

Prepare black-eyed peas: Pour dried peas onto a flat surface. (Note: I use the kitchen table, using my hand to scrape the cleaned peas into a colander in my lap). Rinse under running water. Put into a heavy 6 qt. pot.

Add salt pork, onion, garlic, celery, carrots, bell pepper, can of Rotel and the broth or water. Add enough liquid to cover peas plus 2-4 inches of liquid above the peas, depending on how “soupy” you want them. They will swell somewhat as they cook, but not as much as pinto beans. Stir. Add chili powder, lots of black pepper, and start with 2 or 3 tsp. of salt. As the peas soften, taste and add salt as needed. Use less salt if using a chicken-broth base.

Bring to a boil, uncovered. Reduce heat. Cover partially and simmer about 25 to 30 minutes. Stir and check often for desired softness. Don’t overcook. Add ham, heat through and serve. Delicious with corn bread. Happy New Year!

Of course, a visit isn’t a visit without a two-way conversation. I really want to hear from you.

Mules Don’t Drool

Posted by Author Jodi Lea Stewart on January 5, 2012

Do Mules Rule?

Grand Canyon mules dressed and ready for work

Of Course! They were “the bomb” before tractors were invented. Especially for farmers who couldn’t afford farm equipment. Imagine trying to transform acres of rocky, tree-infested soil into bountiful crops without mules and their relatives!

Mules STILL RULE for many farmers of today. Especially with the Amish who, shunning contemporary machinery, depend on thousands of mules for plowing their fields.

Mules are the offspring of a female horse and a male donkey. Inheriting the endurance of their donkey fathers, they are generally considered stronger than horses. They are faithful, hard-working animals asking only for food and water for survival.

John Wice, mule expert and rescuer, says mules are easy keepers. “They tend to be more sure- footed than horses, aren’t picky eaters, and are often good watch dogs over their own territory. They have a definite dislike for coyotes – they’ll run them off,” he says.

Wikipedia says mules are the animals of choice in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, where at least sixteen commercial mule pack stations continue to operate.

When the going gets tough (steep, narrow trails),

precarious (carrying tourists in and out of the Grand Canyon),

or danged-near impossible (accessing/supplying mountain base camps)…

people need mules!

Are Mules Merely Beasts of Burden?

This may surprise you, but equine trainer and competitor Audrey Goldsmith and her six-year-old mule, Porter, enter English Dressage Classics all the time. As Porter racks up the ribbons, he and Goldsmith are changing opinions about mules everywhere they compete.

Goldsmith claims mules are extremely trainable and are as eager to please their owners as dogs. “They’re like rideable border collies,” she says. Further, they keep their heads better when they’re scared. Instead of running until they drop or their owner gets control, a mule will run a short distance and stop. He senses the danger is over, and he quits freaking out.

Sadly, mules are forbidden to compete in most hunter and jumper competitions. Chalk it up to old-fashioned paradigms and the fact that a few flighty horses really are terrified of mules.

Why do mules scare certain horses? Maybe it’s their longer ears flopping about like unattached carrots as they trot or run. Or perhaps some of the horses sense their owners’ sanctimonious attitude toward these so-called “lesser” equines.

The U.S. Dressage Federation is an exception to the rule. They allow mules to compete right along with the horses in Dressage.

Same rules. Same penalties. Same rewards. You know…fair and equal treatment.

But wait, there’s more…

Mules Barrel Racing

Besides gulping down Philly cheese steaks, hamburgers, onion blossoms, kettle corn or hot apple fritters at the annual Mule Mania event in Dayton, Washington, this July 10-22, you can watch mules in cattle events, barrel racing, English dressage, obstacle drives and even a Fast Ass Express Relay Race!

Washington isn’t the only state in love with these hybrids. California, Oregon, Montana, Wyoming, New Mexico, Colorado, Tennessee and many other states have their own Mule Days celebrations.

Mule Days started in 1840 in Columbia, Tennessee. In fact, Columbia claims to be “The Mule Capital” of the world. Their mule celebration is a four-day event attracting more than 200,000 people.

(l-r) Vivian Myrick, Red Myrick

My late step-dad, Red Myrick, a distinguished equestrian, trained two miniature mules for bird- hunting trips. Those little sure-footed cuties walked behind him and my mom in the field as quiet and humble as could be. When my parents stopped, the mules stopped, too. When they started walking, their mules did too.

Red sure liked his mules, except for the time he had a couple white ones hitched to a small work cart and they took off running. One took the right side of an oak tree, and the other chose the left side. Using the control of a fighter pilot on a war mission, Mom suppressed her laughter until she was sure 1) Red was alive and didn’t need paramedics, and 2) she was safely locked away in her own bathroom. Then she let the snickers rip.

To this day, she can’t tell that story without hee-hawing!

I’ll be sharing more mule facts and stories in future blogs. It’s my small way of extolling the virtues of these fine, worthy animals.

I think they deserve it.

Do you own a mule, donkey or burro? Tell us about it!

Of course, a visit isn’t a visit without a two-way conversation. I really want to hear from you.

Grandma’s Christmas Cake

Posted by Author Jodi Lea Stewart on December 19, 2011

Old-Fashioned Version:
Christmas Cake

2 cups sifted flour
3 tsp. baking powder
¼ tsp. salt
1 cup sugar
½ cup lard (shortening)
3 eggs, separated. Put egg whites in the refrigerator.
¾ cup milk
1 tsp. vanilla

Sift flour, baking powder and salt three times. Work shortening with spoon until fluffy. Add sugar gradually. Continue to work with spoon until mixture is light. Beat egg yolks with a fork until thick. Add to sugar mixture. Add flour gradually, alternating with milk, beating each time until thoroughly mixed. Stir in vanilla. Bake in two greased and floured 8” round pans. Bake at 375° for 25 minutes* or until a matchstick** stuck in the middle of the cake comes out clean. Cool. Remove from pans. Spread meringue between layers, on the sides and on top of the cake. Sprinkle crushed candy on top and sides. Put in stove and watch it. Take out when candy starts to melt. It won’t take long! Remove from stove and cool. To cut cake, put tip of knife in the center of the cake and tap hand to “break through” light crust of candy on top.

* Grandma Woods baked this cake in unreliable wood-burning cook stoves. She had to watch it closely or it would burn, sometimes on just one side.
** or you can use a toothpick or broom straw.

Meringue (Frosting)

4 egg whites (add one egg to the three whites left over from making the cake)
3 Tbls. Sugar
1 tsp. vanilla

Beat egg whites until frothy. Add vanilla. Add sugar a tablespoon at a time. Beat until stiff. Spread inside layers and over the sides and top of cake.

Crushed Candy Topping:

Crush with a hammer inside a dishtowel:

1 large peppermint stick
About a cup of ribbon Christmas candy (preferred) or any type of hard candy.

New Version:

Christmas Cake Use any from-scratch or packaged yellow, white or spice cake recipe. Spice cake is extra delicious in this recipe. Bake in two 8” round pans. Cool. Spread New Version Meringue Topping between layers and on outside of cake. Sprinkle crushed candy on top and sides. Put under broiler and watch constantly until candy begins to melt. Remove from oven and cool. To cut, put tip of knife in the center of cake and tap hand to “break through” light crust of candy on top.

Meringue Frosting (new version):

1-1/2 cups sugar
6 egg whites
1 tsp. vanilla

Put sugar, egg whites and vanilla in a double boiler. Cook over simmering water, whipping constantly for 3 or 4 minutes or until mixture reaches 140° on a candy thermometer. Remove from heat and pour into a large bowl. Beat at high speed for 10 minutes or until thick and spreadable. This meringue tastes a lot like creamy marshmallows. The thin crust of melted candy on top is an unexpected treat. Delicious!

Comment: Read how this cake put face-cracking smiles on the faces of nine children in the Christmas of 1936: Christmas in a Sock: jodileastewartblog.com
Comment: Photography by Elizabeth Cerza.

Of course, a visit isn’t a visit without a two-way conversation. I really want to hear from you.

Christmas in a Sock

Posted by Author Jodi Lea Stewart on December 19, 2011

1936. December 24. 7:30 p.m.

If I wanted Doodles to sleep warm as buttered biscuits, I’d have to do some more quilt tucking.

I pressed it in good and tight all along her side and under her chin. There. Now she wouldn’t shiver in her sleep or roll off to the floor. It wouldn’t hurt her any if she did cause our mattress was only four inches of feathers and cloth and it was laid right on the floor just on top of an old blanket that had a few moth holes.

Winter scene Doodles was eight years younger than me and my responsibility. Truth is, I was so glad to get another girl in this family, I didn’t mind doing anything for that skinny little baby. I had two older sisters, but they was already married.

I’d been stuck with seven brothers and me the only girl for miles around for so long, shoot, Doodles was like getting a tiny angel to take care of. Ole heaven sure waited a long time to give her to me, though, cause I’m nearly growed now. Ten years old next month, and that’s the truth.

I put my ear on top of the floor planks and tried like crazy to understand what the soft talking was saying in the room down below me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make out the words. Something was scooted here and yonder. Something big.

Yep. That’s the right sounds for shore. Same as every year. It meant mom and dad was getting things ready for us kids to have Christmas in the morning. My ole raccoon grin broke out so big on my face, you couldn’t have erased it with a mop!

I yelled straight into my squashy pillow until my eyes watered. I did that sometimes when I was excited and didn’t know what else to do. I got that over with and flipped on my back. I cracked every one of my fingers one at time. I learned how to do that from PeeWee—one of my brothers. Those boys was good for nothing at all, except learning me how to do things like fistfight and how to get in trouble. Only thing I was glad about was how Tadpole teached me how to spit acrost the room and make it land in a can. That was useful.

Shush now, I told myself. None of that mattered tonight. Not with the magic dust swirling all around me so hard my stomach felt like a jar full of cow cream about to turn into curdled butter.

Nothing no how could ever be as fun as Christmas at the Woodsons’ house, even if it wasn’t much more than a shack. It had us in it, didn’t it? That was enough, even if we was as poor as dirt and too dumb to stop laughing about it.

Us kids had to go to bed extra early on the night before Christmas so special things could happen. I didn’t know how Mom and Dad did anything special for us with us having just about no money in the world. I sure loved it when they did, though. Loved it more than running home barefooted the last day of school.

I stared into the dark with my hands folded over each other and whistled for a little while until those sweet banana pies Mom was making after breakfast tomorrow just rastled my mind down to the ground. She never made such a thing as that except on Christmas day. Those pies tasted so dang good, you felt rich as Solomon when you ate them. She made enough for us kids to have two whole slices if we cut them kinda skinny.

After them pies, she’d stir together the best thing anyone ever made—the Christmas cake! She’d take that pretty thing out of the stove with the marain icing sitting up on it like stiff snow. Shiny patches of melted red, green, and white candies sparkled from the top. Whoo-ee man! Us kids about lost our eyeballs right out of their sockets just looking at it. Wouldn’t have been surprising at all to see lots of kids’ eyes just rolling acrost that wood floor after Mom whisked her cake over to the griddle to cool down.

Thinking about it now almost made me throw up since I wanted a piece of it so bad. How could I ever fall asleep? Dang near stupid to try.

Next thing I knowed about is when one of them no-good brothers threw a pair of overalls on my head. I flung it off madder than a bee with three stingers and couldn’t believe it was light outside. Morning? I leaped off of that mattress and grabbed Doodles up tight and barreled down those creaky steps two at a time. I ran quick into the big room, which was anything but big but that’s what we called it anyway.

Had it happened? The magic?

The glow in my mom’s eyes was as loud as a hollered out bunch of words. I couldn’t hardly take my eyes off of hers, they was so bright. I put Doodles down and skipped around the room twice just to get my nerves out of me.

Can we? Can we look now? Huh?

Apple and orange Mom counted our heads to see if we was all there. After the last head, her usual serious face broke out in a smile bigger than the whole of Oklahoma. She stepped away from the iron-post bed where her and Dad, and sometimes a few young’uns, slept. I tell you, us kids scampered under that bed like rabbits running from a pack of slobbery hound dogs! When we came back out, we was holding on to one of Dad’s long grey and white wintertime socks. Those socks looked like they got the mumps, they was so full. Doodles laughed right out loud at us holding our fat socks in both our arms like someone would steal them.

We clawed them open and dumped everything out in our own special spots. Hazelnuts, walnuts, Brazil nuts and pecans poured out first. Then came an apple and an orange. My mouth went dry to bite into that shiny red apple, so I did and ate it all up. That was all the winter fruit we’d ever get, so us kids always gobbled it up quicker than you could say shut up.

The bottom of our socks sagged with every kind of hard candy. Oh, them colors and shapes just made us nutty. Some of the candies was square with dimples all in them. Other kinds was round with flat ends and little drawings like Christmas trees and holly inside. Best of all was the big hunks of folded over ribbon candy. That was our mom’s favorite, too.

I finished eating my orange and was looking for a dishrag to wipe my hands on when my brother Bear threw a orange peeling at the side of my face. My hands turned into fists, but then something kind of strange took me over and dusted the mad feeling right off me. I just felt like smiling at him instead. I tossed him a piece of my own candy. He looked plenty surprised, I’ll tell you that for sure.

After a breakfast of Mom’s special red-hot pork sausage, eggs, biscuits, gravy and sorghum, we started in eating our candy. Only time all year we’d get any. We sounded like hogs rooting and grunting at feeding time, except for the sound of cracking candies with our teeth.

Mom made two of those no-account boys help me with all them stacks of dishes. Most the time, I had to do it all by myself and I hated it. While we worked, we had a contest to see who could put the most ribbon candy in their mouths.

I don’t know who won cause we sucked and slurped on it with our mouths gapped open and our eyes bugging out just like a dog when you pulled his ears way back. After a while, we busted out laughing and about choked to death on candy juice.

Dad said, “Hey,” at us in a low, gruff voice. We knew that meant stop right now or get your rear ends whooped, so we hid and did it one more time.

Christmas Cake frosting After making them banana pies, Mom got out a hammer and put a big peppermint stick and some of them ribbon candies inside a dishtowel. We all gathered around her to watch. Every time she swung that hammer in the air and brung it down to crush the candy, we made saucer eyes at each other. I can’t swear if it’s true or not, but I think God Himself must have gave my mom that recipe for the Christmas cake.

I mean, why not?

Don’t you think He’d want a Christmas cake like that for His son’s birthday? I shore do!

—Biddy*

*From the novel, Biddy—based on the life and times of Jodi Lea Stewart’s maternal grandparents and her ten aunts and uncles. Look for it in 2013/2014. /Photography: Elizabeth Cerza

Want the recipe for Grandma’s Christmas Cake? Look in Chuckwagons & Campfires.

What holiday stories and recipes have been passed down in your family? Have you made any of them your own traditions?

Of course, a visit isn’t a visit without a two-way conversation. I really want to hear from you.

I truly hope you’ll pick up a copy of my novel Silki, the Girl of Many Scarves: SUMMER OF THE ANCIENT. The print version is on sale at Amazon for only $9.85!!! For your convenience, it’s also available for Kindle, the Nook and for most other eBook readers. If you love the Southwest and kooky little characters that make you laugh aloud as authentic danger and mystery swirl at every turn, you’ll love this novel! The second book in the series, CANYON OF DOOM, debuts in early 2013.

Ya’at’eeh and Howdy! Sure nice of you to stop by…

Posted by Author Jodi Lea Stewart on December 12, 2011

Since this is the first blog of the rest of my life…

…can we pretend we just met at a backyard barbeque and we’re hugging a couple of those aluminum chairs crisscrossed in greenish-blue nylon straps and we’re small talking to get to know each other?

What’s that? You don’t like the heat? All right, hon. Get yourself up and follow me—we’re going inside. Have a seat on that big ‘ol fluffy sofa and make yourself at home. I’ll go get us some tea.

Do you want Navajo tea, Sassafras tea, Sweet tea or Texas-style tea?

Iced Tea Dark or light?

Hot or cold?

Cup or glass?

Real sugar or sweetener?

A little cinnamon?

Cream?

Dash of chocolate?

Now isn’t that funny? I just reminded myself of why I’ve started this blog. Did you know life is like a 16^th Century English Sampler?

A few hundred years ago, Samplers were greatly treasured for their different needlecraft styles and the mixture of threads used in creating elaborate art with needles. Women spent a lifetime collecting stitch examples and patterns.

English Sampler What does that have to do with a blog? Well, a blog, unless it’s about a specific subject like writing or pickling beets or whatnot, can be a sampling—or collection—of one’s life journey.

Recently, I had an epiphany. I could write novels (fiction) and write a blog (non-fiction) from the Sampler of my Life – thus satisfying both sides of my little brain. That way, my life would continue gathering illustrious EMBROIDERED stitches not only from my own adventures, but also from experiences my readers share with me.

Who am I, and why am I talking?

Ten-second tour: I grew up on an Arizona ranch with an Okie mom, brothers, cowboys, Angus and Hereford cattle, horses, chickens, and an eclectic mix of Native American and Hispanic friends. I fell in love with everything southwest and southern, and I weave those elements into every facet of my life.

If we share blog time together, what will we talk about?

Since I grew up next door to the Navajos, I like sharing interesting things about their culture, art and sense of humor. We’ll talk about country topics too, everything from windmills to fried okra to Buck Brannaman. Then there’s stuff like crazy cakes, king snakes, growing jewelry and Spanish treasures. It’s all southwest and southern – a literal gold mine of sparklers waiting for us to explore.

Speaking of gold mines – you’ve heard the ghost stories about the Lost Dutchman’s Gold Mine in the Superstition Mountains, haven’t you? Spooky! We’ll dig into some of the best lore about it one of these days.

So back to my earlier offer of tea…what’s your favorite kind? Do you know which soft drink used to have sassafras root tea in it?

Hang out with me and you’ll find out why my granddad made us all drink sassafras tea in the spring and about his personal cure for snakebite. Works, too. Saved my mom’s life when she was five years old.

So…come back often. We’ll put the little pot in the big pot, brew up some coffee or tea and have ourselves a grand ole time!

Of course, a visit isn’t a visit without a two-way conversation. I really want to hear from you.

Draped over a rock still warm from the day’s scorcher…

If you grew up without television, you’d probably think watching fat red ants bringing goodies home to their anthills was loads of fun,too.

Right off the bat, I need to let you know that I haven’t conducted a Gallup Poll about who does and doesn’t read romance novels.

Of Course! They were “the bomb” before tractors were invented. Especially for farmers who couldn’t afford farm equipment. Imagine trying to transform acres of rocky, tree-infested soil into bountiful crops without mules and their relatives!

1936. December 24. 7:30 p.m.

If I wanted Doodles to sleep warm as buttered biscuits, I’d have to do some more quilt tucking.

Since this is the first blog of the rest of my life…

Do you want Navajo tea, Sassafras tea, Sweet tea or Texas-style tea?

Now isn’t that funny? I just reminded myself of why I’ve started this blog. Did you know life is like a 16th Century English Sampler?

Who am I, and why am I talking?

If we share blog time together, what will we talk about?

Now isn’t that funny? I just reminded myself of why I’ve started this blog. Did you know life is like a 16^th Century English Sampler?