Easter Ham

My idea of a traditional Easter dinner includes ham as the centerpiece of the meal.  It’s a long standing tradition in my family although today many folks choose other options, everything from turkey to barbecue.  I know in some areas lamb has long been a popular choice for Easter but I can’t imagine serving anything but ham.  I’ve already purchased a bone in half ham for next Sunday to avoid the rush and I can’t wait to cook it the old-fashioned way.
    True hams – as in the joint from a pig – have a bone.  Whole hams are very large and we most often buy a half ham.  The bone can be used to season a delicious pot of beans at another meal as well.  While I don’t know the exact date (and couldn’t narrow it down with research) that boneless hams were first marketed, I know that in the mid to late 1960’s, my Pop got on his soapbox about them.  I’m not talking about canned hams or even small “picnic” hams because I think both have existed in various forms for a long time, maybe even a century or more.  I’m talking about the boneless hams, often around four or five pounds, with no bone and that slice with ease.
    Some are delicious, almost as tasty as what I consider “real” ham.  Since they’re made from actual hams with the meat removed from the bone and then formed into the convenient loaf shape, they are made from ham.  Some manufacturers use whole pieces of ham, others create a product with ground ham.  I’m not very fond of those.  The end result is very soft and the flavor has come a long way from the rich taste of a smoked or cured traditional ham.
    My Pop’s concern wasn’t just taste, however.  He worried that younger generations wouldn’t know what a true ham looked or tasted like.  In his lifetime, as the world and technology moved forward, he saw many marvelous improvements and other changes not as tasty.   You may have heard the expression – “the best thing since sliced bread”.  Well, at one time, up into at least the 1940’s, bread was sold unsliced.  And, although it’s long before my time, it’s my understanding that along with slicing and packaging the loaves, the recipes changed to provide bread with a longer shelf life.  I know my family much prefers when I bake homemade bread than the store variety but in the interest of time, being practical, we do of course eat our share of “store bread” in a plastic wrapper.  We also buy some of the bakery versions when I lack time to back.  Pop knew what homemade bread and early commercial bakery bread had been.  He also knew biscuits before they came shaped and pressed into a tube.
    He would probably have had a similar issue with boneless chicken.  In Pop’s lifetime, chicken was roasted whole, stewed and then boned to add to soup, dumplings, or another dish, or cut into pieces, then fried to a crispy brown.  Kids in my own childhood wouldn’t have known what a chicken tender was – we were routinely served drumsticks.  That piece was meant to be easier for little hands to wrap around and I remember when I became old enough to ask for a thigh, breast, or wing piece.
    Chicken tenders and nuggets have become so popular that some years ago, I had family members over for fried chicken and one nephew stared at the pieces on his plate with a combination of shock and awe.  He leaned over and whispered, “Dad, this chicken has bones.”  Once over his initial surprise, he soon learned chicken with bones also tastes great. 
    If I’ve accomplished nothing else (and I hope that I have), my children can recognize a traditional ham.  They know chicken has bones, although they’ve enjoyed their share of boneless chicken products.  However, they prefer me to make my own tenders or nuggets with my own coating over the freezer case variety whenever possible.
    Convenience foods are often handy for the home cook but on Easter Sunday, we’ll have our ham and a little lesson about where the food on our table comes from to reach it.
    Happy Easter to all as we join in celebrating a risen Lord!
    
 

A little fiction: Lake Taneycomo 1924

 Here's a little piece of fiction I wrote sometime ago - still a favorite (but then aren't they all - my stories are like my children):

Lake Taneycomo 1924

           

                                               

 

 

 

 

Lake Taneycomo,

Rockaway Beach, Missouri

1924

Chapter One

            A cool breeze rippled the surface of the lake as he walked across the dance pavilion toward her, different and dangerous, a leopard among paint ponies.   His raw and masculine scent was an intoxicating fragrance combining bay rum with bathtub gin.   He wasn’t smiling but his grey eyes burned with living fire igniting her senses into flame.

            “You wanna dance?” His voice sounded different too, rough and with an accent she’d never heard before.

            “I do.” Her mouth was dry and she wondered if her speech sounded as odd to him as his to her.  “I want to dance with you.”

            His hands encircled her and drew her into his arms.  Graceful and light on his feet for a large man, he swirled her among the dancers as if flying her to the moon.   Full bellied and round, the moon cast a silver light over Rockaway Beach and painted the ordinary scene with magic.   Behind the pavilion, Lake Taneycomo stretched from the beach to the wooded hillside opposite, a wide lake that resembled a fat river more than a large body of water.   Created by damming the White River in 1913, the lake drew summer folk from faraway cities like flies to a sorghum spill.   Although it was just May, vacationers were arriving in droves to swim, fish, and enjoy the solitude.  He must be one of them because he was different and even the way he moved on the dance floor spoke of away, of the land outside the Ozark hills.

            “What’s your name, beautiful?”

            She found her tongue to answer. “Genevieve Johnson.”

            “It’s a pretty name for a pretty lady.” His lips moved against her ear.  “I’m Al Brown.”

            His name was common. She’d expected something grand, an exotic name that summoned images of the stars or a foreign land.   With his white Fedora slanted to one side, his tailored grey pin stripe suit and fine shoes, he must be from Kansas City or maybe even St. Louis.

            “Are you from the City?” she asked, feeling shy and countrified.

            He laughed, a low bass rumble that reminded her of their tomcat when he purred.  “You might say that, doll – I’m from Chicago.”

            “Chicago?” That was where Sears and Roebuck headquartered and the city that had burned to the ground in the great Chicago fire started by a careless cow.  “You’re all the way from Chicago?”

            “Yeah, doll face, I am.” Laughter thickened his voice.

            “Is this your first time here?” Genevieve leaned into him, drawn the way moths failed to resist flame.

            Putting her head against his broad shoulder felt natural and he didn’t mind because he touched his lips to the top of her head in a quick motion.

 

 

            “Yeah, I never been so far out in the sticks until now.  I’m really from New York, though.  I’ve been in Chicago for a few years, though, and I’m in the used furniture business.”

            His hands were soft, not calloused like those of a man who did heavy work and although he was built sturdy, he lacked muscles.  Genevieve knew the look of a man who worked hard with his body and Al Brown lacked it.   Intrigued rather than repulsed by what seemed to be a lie, she snuggled closer and asked another question, “Where are you staying?”

            “Hotel Rockaway.” He named the biggest of the hotels along this arm of Lake Taneycomo.  Hotel Rockaway featured tall white columns like a Southern plantation house. There were others, including Hotel Taneycomo where she worked and a number of tourist camps, tiny resorts scattered in the trees above the lake.  “What about you?”

            She shook her head. “I’m from around here, born and raised within five miles of the place.”

            Al acted surprised, then intrigued. “You don’t say.  Whatcha do for fun, honey, watch the grass grow?”

            “We dance.” Genevieve said, prickling at the old joke. “And pick strawberries and go boating and fishing and work like the dickens.”

            “So you’re a working Jane.  What do you do for a living?”

            “I work in the brown hotel, Hotel Taneycomo.  I clean the rooms, fetch for the guests, and meet the boat when it docks from Branson.  Don’t you like the country, Al?”

            “Hang on.” The music ended, the piano and the drums fell silent so he led her

across the dance floor and outside.   Moonlight fell across the lake waters and turned

them to silver.   He took her hand and they walked down to the shore, away from the crowds and the noise.   Near the dock, he grasped her and kissed her, his lips demanding and urgent.  Al was greedy and devoured her mouth like some hungry man, eating pork cracklings on hog butchering day.  No one had ever kissed her with such selfish desire but it kindled her and she locked her arms around his neck.

            “Oh, baby.” He shook his head but his full lips curved into a smile.  “Yeah, I like the country.   The lake’s pretty and I like the trees.  They grow on you, ha, ha.  I never have been any place like this, where all the roads are dirt and people are living like pioneers or something.  It feels different here than in Brooklyn or Chicago, like a man could be something else here if he wanted to be.”

            Dizzy from the kiss, she leaned toward him in the darkness.  “Who would you like to be, Al?”

            He pulled a fat cigar from the inside pocket of his jacket and fired it with a match.   Her question had been teasing but he pondered it, his face serious. “I’d like to be someone without responsibilities, without a lot of razz-a-ma-tazz. I’d like to run a hotel or something, stay here and spice up the night life, open up a club, swim in the lake, and never worry about nothing more than what’s for supper.”

            Dreaminess gave his voice huskiness and she felt his emotion, sympathizing with it.   Whoever he was, she doubted he was in the furniture business.  When her arms had wrapped around him, she felt the strap of a shoulder holster beneath his suit jacket.  

 

 

 

Furniture men didn’t need to carry a gun but Al Brown, whoever and whatever he was, did.  Something she’d heard, a snatch of gossip or a bit read in a discarded newspaper niggled at her brain.  Al Brown, Al Brown, she thought, something about it rang a distant bell.  Still, Genevieve liked him and wanted him to hang around.

            “So, stay.” The bold words burst from her mouth before she considered them.

            Al laughed.  “I wish I could, cutie.  I wish life was so simple.”

            “Then how long are you staying?”

            He shrugged. “I don’t know; I was in St. Louis and heard about the place, came down on the train to scope it out.  You game to play with me while I’m here?”

            This man was fire. The old adage, play with fire and get burned had been one of the first things she learned as a child but Genevieve nodded.  “I’m game, Mister Al Brown.”

            “Then let’s play, Miss Genevieve, let’s play”.

            Genevieve danced with him until the stars faded and the first light of dawn illuminated the eastern skies.  He walked her back to the hotel where she worked, where she had room and board as well as pay and lingered. His cigar glowed in the dark, a burning ember clutched in his fist.

            “I gotta go get some shut-eye,” he growled. “I’m not a day kind of guy, sweetheart.  But if you’re out tomorrow night, look me up.”

            “I will,” Genevieve said, mesmerized by the stranger.  She had to skedaddle though, a day’s work waited and sometime she’d have to try to steal a nap so she could play with Al Brown again.

            At dusk she headed for the dance pavilion, dressed up and with all the bravado she could summon.   It wasn’t until after full dark fell she saw Al Brown again but he made for her the way a hungry trout heads for fresh bait.

“You want to dance some more or what? I’ve got good whiskey if you want a drink.” Al Brown held out a flask and she took it.

            The flask he pulled out was silver and the bourbon Genevieve tasted was fine, nothing like the rank, raw ‘shine her daddy made over Forsyth way.

            “That’s sweet.”

            “And you’re the cat’s pajamas, kiddo.  Let’s go dance.  Do they do the Charleston here or do I need to teach you?”

            Laughter bubbled up like a rainy day spring.

            “I can do the Charleston all night with you, Al.”

            “Then let’s go dance, my little bearcat.”

 

 

            Sweet, strong perfume wafted toward them in a cloud ahead of a woman who lurched on high heels.  Her hem was six inches higher than Genevieve’s and her face, even in the moonlight, was painted.

            “There you are, Al!  I been looking for you.  Who’s the dumb Dora? She looks like a rag a muffin for sure.”

            His voice was a growl, an animal sound that contrasted with the easy way he’d talked to her moments before. 

            “Scram.”

            Genevieve looked down at her plain blue dress, worn organdie she’d remade from one of her aunt’s old dresses.  The full skirt, the long sleeves, and the high neckline contrasted against the flapper’s straight dress that stopped at her knees.   Embarrassment flamed her cheeks and she would have fled into the night if Al hadn’t grabbed her arm.

            “Not you, pretty girl.  Let her take a powder – I want you to stay.”

            “But, Al, she’s a flapper and I’m just a country girl at a dance.  I’m not pretty – she is.”

            He was so close that she could smell the bourbon on his breath and the smoke from his stogie floated into her face.

            “You’re beautiful, honey, with that hair streaming in the wind.  Your dress is out of date but I’ll get you some glad rags tomorrow and we’ll paint the town, what there is to paint.  Come on, baby, let’s dance and forget the dame.  I don’t know her except she came over on the boat from Branson, down on the train from Saint Louie same as me.”

 

            “Hey! You can’t talk about me like that!” Mouth pursed into a bow, the flapper from far away stamped her foot.  “What’s eating you, Al?”

            He tossed the smoldering cigar down at his feet and ground it out.  “You are - so get lost.  Don’t make me tell you no more.  Capiche?”

            His harsh tone persuaded her and she yielded. “I get ya, already.  I’m going, I’m going.”

            Genevieve didn’t watch the flapper leave.  She couldn’t, her eyes stung with unshed tears.  She seldom dared to come down to the dance  and it had taken every atom of stubborn resolve to come.   Until Al Brown sauntered onto the floor like he owned the joint, no one but shy, simple Horace Holden usually asked her to dance.  Around Rockaway, she wasn’t beautiful – she was the girl who worked at the brown hotel, daughter of a moonshiner, a hillbilly, nothing much to look at.

 Hours of hand stitching to convert the dress to something wearable seemed futile now and she turned her face away, humiliated and ashamed of her tears.

            Al’s hands cupped her face. “Hey, what’s got you balled up? Don’t mind her – she was just beating her gums.  She’s green over you; you’re an orchid and she’s a daisy.”

            Tears that had threatened erupted at his kind tone and she sobbed as she moved into the shelter of his arms.

            “Here, now, honey, come to Al.  Don’t cry now.”

            He patted her back with one big hand and the weight of   it was comforting.  Genevieve leaned against him and felt safe.  From one pocket he pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes with it.   Although he was clumsy, he cared and that meant something.  So did the kisses he covered her face with and the way her body responded to the light caresses.

            “Thank you.” She sniffed twice and scrubbed her face with both hands.  “I didn’t mean to cry.”

            “I hate dames crying.” Al said, tucking the hanky back into his pocket.  “You still wanna dance or you done for the night?”

            Her legs ached, her heart was heavy and she had to be at the hotel by six in the morning but she didn’t want to leave the dance or Al. “I want to dance.” Dancing would take her mind off her troubles and if anyone wanted to stare, let them. “Let’s dance.”

            And they did, first the Charleston, then the Black Bottom, and last she waltzed in Al’s arms until the band stopped playing for the night.  By then the kerosene lanterns had burned down until the wicks sputtered and no more than three other couples lingered. 

            “It must be midnight.” Genevieve said as they left the pavilion.

            Al checked his watch. “No, it’s almost one.  I’m beat.  Want I should walk to your hotel?”

            That wouldn’t do.  The folks who owned the place frowned on fraternizing with summer visitors and she wouldn’t risk it a second time. “No, thank you. It’s not far.”

            “I’ll walk you home.”  It wasn’t a question and she gave in without any more protest because she enjoyed his company. “Thank you, Al.  That would be nice.”

            He snorted. “It ain’t for nice, girlie.  I like you and I want to see you again.   Meet you tomorrow?”

            The road to hell was sweet and paved with temptation but she felt her lips curl into a smile. “Sure.  I get off work around six.”

            His arm around her shoulders was a pleasant weight as they walked up the narrow lane.  A fresh cigar glowed like a devil’s eye in the darkness and she figured the strong aroma would cling to her clothing like cockle burrs but Genevieve didn’t care.   Too soon they reached the hotel. “This is it.  Good night, Al.”

            “Hey.” He growled the word and dropped the cigar to the ground. “A gentleman gives a lady a good night kiss, don’t he?”

            Somehow she didn’t think he was a gentleman. Heat radiated the length of her spine as she tilted her head back for the kiss.  If he’d been greedy before, he savored her mouth now with the slow, deliberate appetite of a connoisseur.  Al awakened dormant passions within and she ached for more.   Gentleman or not, though, he released her.

            “Good night, kid.”

            “Bye.” With one finger she traced the scar that marked his face from near his left ear to the corner of his mouth.  He flinched at her touch and then relaxed, cupping his large hand over hers.  And the scar reminded her of something.  Al Brown.  Al Capone.  Scarface.  She knew who he was now, and although she should, she didn’t care.  She made no move to go inside but stood facing him, their eyes locked.  After a long pause, heady in its silence, he spoke, “Genevieve, you move me, kid, down deep.  I want to drink you in like champagne and eat you up like I was starving.”

            “Then drink me.” Reckless abandon did what lipstick, what paint and powder could not – made her into a vamp.  He circled her with his arms, his Cupid’s bow mouth poised over hers.

            “I gotta tell you something first.” His voice was a growl, a low rumble that made her think of thunder. “My name’s not Al Brown, its Alphonse Capone.  Now you know who I am?”

            “I do but I already made the leap, Al.  It doesn’t matter to me.  Here, you’re just another stranger from the city.  And I like you.  I like you a lot.”

            He laughed and the sound in the darkness echoed without amusement. “I wish everyone felt that way, little doll.  Too many people in Chicago know me and judge me but you don’t and maybe you won’t.  Will you?”

            His eyes were like the lake waters, clear and almost placid but she could sense the ripples that rocked his soul.  Fear, need, and longing warred in his grey eyes and mirrored her own.  Although her throat was dry, she scraped the words out,

            “I won’t judge you, Al.”

Intensity flickered between them like heat lightning on a humid summer night, so strong that she might have feared it in anyone else but she wasn’t afraid of him.  His very difference, the ways he stood out as a stranger in her world were intoxicating and she sensed he felt the same.   Her thoughts fluttered and jumped like grasshoppers in knee-high summer grass but when he touched her, everything faded but the man and the night.

            His lips tasted both sweet and bitter as she gloried in the wild feel of his mouth on hers.  The kiss erased her sordid reputation and negated anything he might be in Chicago.  She savored the pleasure with delight; there had been very little in her life lately. In the honeysuckle scented darkness there was no Al Brown, no furniture dealer, no Genevieve Johnson, no hotel maid, and no Alphonse Capone, nothing but a man and woman who hungered and needed, two people who came together in the way that a compass points true north.

            What would happen didn’t matter because they had this night and maybe more.

           

 

Life's but a walking shadow

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more

Macbeth act five, scene v

 

I lost a friend this week, a good friend and no less of one despite the fact we never met face to face.  Bennet Pomerantz was a a renown reviewer, a writer, and a radio show host on Blog Talk Radio.  I found him to be pleasant, knowledgeable, intelligent, possessed of a savvy wit, and an original. There was no one else quite like Bennet.

I first knew him on this wild and wonderful place we call the internet, a place where our lives can intersect others through social networking. It was soon after my second book, Love Tattoo, the first of my Love Covenant series debuted from Evernight Publishing that we made the leap from acquaintances to friends.

For those not familiar, Love Tattoo is a paranormal romance between an Irish vampire who was once a highwayman and a young would-be singer from Texas. Will Brennan is fond of quoting Shakespeare which makes him unique among most fictional vampires.

Bennet invited me to appear on of his radio programs and I accepted – but first he called me so we could get better acquainted. That first call, we talked for hours, having discovered a like-mindedness, a penchant for old horror flicks and good literature and life.

And we became friends.

I appeared a number of times on his programs especially on Anything Goes – in which anything did. Sometimes I was a solo guest and more than once, I was one of several other writers, some of which I consider having greater fame than myself so for this gal with some Southern leanings, it was walking in tall cotton.

He always teased me about my Southern accent – which is far more obvious when talking with anyone reared in any borough of New York City or the East Coast.  And he always encouraged me in my work.

One night, on the show, Bennet dared me to write a new vampire book and promised if I did, he would write the forward to it.  I went right to work and the result was The Comanche Vampire, first published as Comanche Forever. As promised, he did write the forward to that book and it became one of his favorite stories he told about me – how quickly I took the challenge and made him hold true to his vow.

He shared my twin daughters’ birthday and when I did come eastward, he was invaluable in offering advice and insider knowledge.  On my trips flying into Washington DC, I chose Reagan as my airport of choice over Dulles or Thurgood Marshall because he advised it.  When my daughter spent her first year of college at George Mason University in Fairfax, VA, thousands of miles from home, he offered up his contact information and said she could call on Uncle Bennet anytime.

Life has a way of taking unexpected turns and mine did in 2017.  The same year I returned to the journalism game; my husband’s health shifted into a faster decline which left me widowed in January 2019. Through it all, Bennet, who had lost his wife, was always an ear to hear, a shoulder to lean on, and a friend.

During my husband’s last months, my creative writing suffered but as a new widow, I returned to it and Bennet encouraged me all the way.  When I took a voluntary separation from my newspaper job in December, he applauded it.

I last appeared on his show last August and told him about my work in progress, a novel titled Scrooge & Marlee – not Ebenezer but Theo Scrooge, a chef in the German heritage town of Hermann and Marlee, the woman he loves. Bennet was enthusiastic and encouraging – there was some talk about another possible forward and I would have welcomed it.

He died unexpectedly during a blood transfusion yesterday and the shock to me was huge, to learn than my dear friend was gone from this earthly plane.

We always ended every phone call – even the ones after a show aired – with three words – I love you.

Bennet, my friend, I did love you and will always love you with the pure love of friendship and kinship.

This is that first review, the one that led us to build a friendship:

Dear Leeann,
I do not wish to sound too familiar or pally with you. However, after reading your book Love Tattoo, which you sent me the PDF file, I was awestruck. I don't wish you to think this review is a fan letter, it isn’t..just an amazing piece of work from a man who likes steamy erotics combined with romance. You have done that and more in your book

Your Characters of Will and Cara seem so real I can almost touch them. They truly jump off the page

Did you write Cara from your own life? She seems personal the way she was crafted.

The plot seems ripped from a country singer's life. I don't know where you got your inspiration, but it strong and powerful in the right places.

The plot in a nutshell --The singer trying to get a real break in Nashville . Then she befriends a truck driver with a heart and a brain. The sparks fly from that.

Let me say this, Love Tattoo isn’t Romeo and Juliet. You aren’t the erotic Shakespeare. However you did good.

I do hope I am not gushing too much. You crafted a well done, romantic erotic novel that drew me in and won me over

I cannot wait until you use these characters again. I hope I see these characters again in print
Sincerely
Bennet Pomerantz

 

I end this eulogy with these words from Shakespeare:

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more

Macbeth act five, scene v

Godspeed my friend. You will live in my heart as long as I live.