Sunday, February 21, 2021

Meet My Friend Alois Lohn, at 87 Still Writing, and Read About His Newest Book

About Al

Al was born in 1934 on the outskirts of Cologne Germany and educated in the art of apparel manufacturing. He worked until 1956 in his father's business. In November 1956, he immigrated to the USA with his parents and younger brother. Drafted thirteen months later, he served in the US Army for two years, two years in the Army Reserve, and two years on stand- by. While stationed in Germany he met his wife. After his discharge from the Army, he became the manager of Brooks-Van Horn's manufacturing department in Philadelphia, a Theatrical costume company serving the entertainment industry. During his ten year-tenure, he worked on many challenging projects such as 'Holiday on Ice', 'Hello Dolly', the Philadelphia Mummers, historical reproductions for the Marine Corps, the Smithsonian Institute, and wax museums. During his fifty-year career, he served as Corporate Senior Vice President for Liz Claiborne Inc and retired as Corporate Vice President from the Spiegel Group in 1998. His extensive travel during his 50-year career took him around the world to all five continents. His travels gained him a deep understanding of the world's cultures as well as their trials and tribulations. This, combined with his experience growing up in a war-torn country during World War II, and his military service, compelled him to turn to writing after his retirement. He resides in New Jersey with his wife of fifty-seven years were they enjoy their children and three grandchildren. Now he writes and is the author of several published books.


President Tanner of the USA forms a team to investigate the conspiracies of a confederation of totalitarian governments, set to change the world order and become the global rulers.

The president's team consist of the secretary of state, the CIA, FDI, and the military. He picks the CIA deputy director, Captain McDonald, a former Seal Commander as the planner, organizer, and executer of the final mission to destabilize the frightful alliance.

Purchase ENEMY TERRITORY on Amazon

Saturday, February 13, 2021

A Valentine's Day Short Story: Cupid's Beau by Alicia Dean

Alicia is a fellow Wild Rose Press author, and she's been my blog guest many times. Enjoy reading about her Valentine's Day story Cupid's Beau!

Ab0ut Alicia

Alicia began writing stories as a child. At age 10, she wrote her first ever romance (featuring a hero who looked just like Elvis Presley, and who shared the name of Elvis’ character in the movie, Tickle Me), and she still has the tattered, pencil-written copy. Alicia is from Moore, Oklahoma and now lives in Edmond. She has three grown children and a huge network of supportive friends and family. She writes mostly contemporary suspense and paranormal, but has also written in other genres, including a few vintage historicals.

Other than reading and writing, her passions are Elvis Presley (she almost always works in a mention of him into her stories) and watching (and rewatching) her favorite televisions shows like Ozark, Dexter, Justified, Breaking Bad, Sons of Anarchy, and Vampire Diaries. Some of her favorite authors are Michael Connelly, Dennis Lehane, Stephen King, Lee Child, Lisa Gardner, Ridley Pearson, Joseph Finder, and Jonathan Kellerman…to name a few.

Fun Fact


I love to create fictional locations for my stories, and I always try to attach some kind of meaning to them. For Cupid’s Beau, I set it in Wisconsin because I wanted it to be a wintry setting and because my favorite NFL team is the Packers. For the name of the town I chose Castleville. It’s a play on Castle Rock, from Stephen King novels, and a town I lived in as a child for a brief, idyllic time, Cassville, Missouri. (Technically, we didn’t really ‘live’ in Cassville. We lived in some odd Bermuda triangle type location that was a mash up of Exeter, Washburn and Cassville, but we attended Cassville schools, so that’s what I went with 😊)

About Cupid's Bow

    Ivy Pierce is a Cupid who prides herself on doing her job well. Except when it comes to a certain human male, Grant Crawford. Each time she's supposed to shoot her arrow into his heart, her stomach hurts, her chest hurts, and she feels….sad. Cupids are never sad.

Humans who are not looking for love only get three chances to find it. And after Ivy sabotages Grant's last chance, her boss, Aphrodite, sends her to earth to right her wrong. She has until Valentine's Day to help him find his soul mate.

But the more she's around him, the more she wants him for herself, even though she knows that can never be. A Cupid and a human? Unheard of.

As V-Day draws closer, can she sacrifice her own happiness to help the man she loves find his?


He helped Gretchen into her coat and walked her to her car. She hesitated before climbing inside the door he held open. Did she expect a goodnight kiss? Snow had started, and he wanted to get back in, so he leaned forward. She lifted her lips, and he gave them a quick kiss. "Goodnight, Gretchen. I had a nice time."

Her expression showed disappointment, but she didn’t voice it. She slid in the driver’s seat. He closed the door and watched while she backed out of the parking spot and headed down the road.

Before going in, he glanced down the street. A woman was outside a small cottage half a block away. Was that Ivy? What was she doing outside, in the dark, with a blizzard brewing?

None of his business. He turned toward the restaurant, but didn’t go in. What if something was wrong? If she was hurt? How would he feel if he didn’t at least go check on her? Cursing under his breath, he whirled and stalked down the sidewalk to her house.

“Ivy? What are you doing out here?”

She turned to him, her eyes wide. She wore a white coat with a fur hood framing her face. “Grant! Hi. Isn’t it beautiful?”

He blew into his hands and rubbed them briskly together. “It’s freezing. Are you out of your mind?”

She closed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, trapping a snowflake and swallowing. She looked at him. “You try it. It’s wonderful.”

He nearly groaned with irritation. “I don’t have time—”

She took his hand, her soft, gloveless skin warm on his. “Just try it.”

Letting out a heavy sigh, he groaned again. The sooner he acquiesced, the sooner he could leave. He stuck out his tongue. Icy snowflakes drifted into his mouth. Nope. He still didn’t get it.

She squealed. “Wasn’t it great?”

Her green eyes sparkled, the pink in her cheeks making her look…heart stoppingly lovely.

He hadn’t seen anyone show such pure joy in…well, ever. Especially in something so insignificant. He looked up into the sky. Snow drifted down from the blanket of blackness. The Heavens dumping an icy wonderland on Earth. Nature was amazing. While he didn’t exactly share Ivy’s enthusiasm, maybe it wasn’t so insignificant after all.

Purchase Cupid's Beau



Apple Books

Connect with Alicia













Sunday, January 24, 2021

Meet Lara MacGregor and Read Her Inspiring Short Stories

Lara was my first editor when I began publishing with The Wild Rose Press. An extremely gifted editor, she made my work sparkle. I asked her to become my personal editor, which she did, and we became friends as a bonus. Lara has written flash-fiction to full-length novels of various genres.

She wrote two essays that I must say blew me away. They're writing exercises, based on her experiences, and she graciously agreed to let me post them here. She also recently published a book of short stories, HALCYON MOON, which is on sale at Amazon.

Purchase HALCYON MOON on Amazon

Enjoy Lara's stories here:

Write a story that ends with a character asking a question.

Promise from Beyond         

My mother was a counselor and teacher but also a hunter of ghosts and demons. I don’t mean the kind you read about in urban fantasy books, and this isn’t a fictional spiritual thriller story like you might see in the movies. Nor is this a paranormal tale. I like to call the situation: as-of-yet undiscovered science, for it is only a matter of time before scientists come up with sensitive enough machines to measure the existence of the soul, ghosts, angels, demons and the like. So, when I tell you I’m waiting here on this lonely yet serene park bench for my mother, you’ll understand that I mean this to be literal. She passed away three years ago, but she promised me before she left this plane of existence that she’d come to me after she pierced the veil. A prophetic dream announced this would be the day.

            I’m leaning back against the chipped wood of the bench picking at the peeling green paint on the seat. The sloshing of the pond’s water soothes my nerves, but the pulsing of the water matches the incessant grief washing through me, slapping against my heart, receding, then pushing again, shoving loss into me.

            I sigh and stop peeling the paint. I cross my ankles then re-cross them. When will she be here? Ducks softly quack and paddle across the water. If I stood and took three steps, crossing springy cool grass and a ring of sand, I could bend and touch the shiny green- or gray-feathered heads. But I just sat there. Pondering. At the pond. Ha! Despite myself, I cracked a smile.

Those ducks…  I zeroed in on a pretty one with royal blue streaks under his green head. What an elegant combination. Not even for a duck. Did he know he was the prettiest one of the group of five he was amongst? The others were what I would call gray men or rather gray ducks. They blended in with their surroundings, gray twigs with green buds on the periphery of the water and floating on it at irregular intervals.

It was the green duck’s eyes that magnetized my attention. His big black eyes. So simple. Wasn’t his brain the size of a cherry or something? And yet, he had no worries. Perhaps that was the reason why his duck heart was, I assume, free. I could feel his simple energy from here.

I leaned forward and rested my forearms on my knees, watching mister No-care-in-the world Pretty Duck. What was it like not to hurt inside day and night? At least my anxiety calmed in this peaceful place.

Splash splash. I breathed in deeply. Peace, now, go to my heart. A gray duck flapped to the left edge of the pond, and a red toy boat came to my notice. A hamster could fit in that boat and go for a ride. Another smile on my part. My dad once had a model train from the 1940s that he had gotten from his father. Dad would set up the train’s tracks all across the living room, and I’d put my hamsters on top of the cars. They’d go for a ride. I’d laugh, and Dad would pull out his professional camera and take pictures of me clapping my child’s hands. He’d develop the pictures in his own dark room with me peering around him. In the dim light, I’d watch as he hung the wet papers up to dry then voila! Pictures!

Mom was the star of Dad’s most special picture. With her head bowed in humble grace, her black hair touched her waist. Mom, the gentle but fiercely powerful soul—maybe she was so strong because of her true humility—when other kids told me their moms told them things like, “Make sure to eat your vegetables and do your homework,” I’d remain silent thinking of my mom’s last advice. In a pinch, if you don’t have holy water, you can bless the nearest liquid, even soda if you have to! We had a good laugh over that one.


I looked up at Pretty Green Boy again. Just let go. Is that what my duck friend had to say to me? If he could let go and live a tranquil life, so could I. I sighed. Where was Mom? I twisted my hands in my lap. Tears slipped down my cheeks. I tried so hard, and yet, I have nearly exhausted my hope. Having fought the good fight for decades, I had no more strength.

I was eight years old again, braiding my mother’s long hair.

“Your great grandmother was Cherokee, but she hid that fact because of the way society treated her people at the time.”

“That’s terrible.”

“I know.”

I drew the brush slowly down Mom’s locks.

“There are so many things in this world that people don’t yet understand.”

“Tell me more,” I asked.

Mom nodded.

I put the pink brush down and cuddled against her side, hugging my ragged stuffed toy lion in my other arm.

I was sixteen. Mom came home, not looking so well, pale, shaken up.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

“I…will be. I need to rest.”

“What did you do? What happened?”

“You know I went to see one of my friends, a priest.”


“He and I went into a home that had…problems, an unwanted, scary, paranormal problem, and we got rid of the problem.”

Mom went to lay down.

At dinner time, I caught Dad pacing by the red couch.


He stopped and looked at me with worried blue eyes.

I plopped down into the matching red armchair and swiped up my long-haired hamster from the cage next to me on the table. With long strokes, I pet the little furball. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m worried about your mother. I don’t like her doing those things so often.”

“She’s helping people, though.”

His shoulders dropped. “I know, but it’s taking its toll on her health.”

I kissed the hamster’s head and set him back in his cage.

I was seventeen, and the phone rang, as was common, at a late hour.

“It’s one in the morning!” came my father’s sleepy voice.

My mother answered the phone, as I stood in the doorway to my parents’ bedroom, yawning. My dad grasped the blanket and rolled over, annoyed.

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” Mom said on the phone.

The next afternoon, Mom recruited me to pray with her before she left, armed with holy water, rosaries, and the powerful words in her memory.

Alone now, I dropped to my knees, clasping my hands tightly. “Please, let her be okay. Let her be successful.”

Later, she dragged herself through the front door and went straight to her room, closing the door.


I looked at Green Duck and his gray friends. They probably thought he was the ugly one. But he didn’t think he was ugly. No, he was content, at peace with himself and his world, unconcerned with superficial things such as looks or profound things like demons or ghost hauntings.

Mom, where are you? You promised me you’d give me a visitation. My heart is breaking, and I need to know if it’s really worth it to keep fighting with no strength left.

If there is life, there is hope, she had said years ago.  I’m eighteen again, and Mom is clasping my cold hands, sitting on my bed.

I know you don’t think so, but you have a good future.

I don’t think so, Mom.

Your broken heart won’t last forever.

I shake out of the memory looking at those oblivious ducks. What do they know? They know enough to be happy no matter what. Easy for the ducks.

I scrubbed my face with my hands. I really needed my mom’s encouragement. Some would think I was nuts for waiting for my passed-over mom, but I’m telling you, that supernatural stuff is just future science waiting to be discovered. The things my mother had seen, the things I’ve seen…

I leaned back again and rested my arms up on top of the bench, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.

Splash, swish.

I didn’t open my eyes. Suddenly, the hair stood up on my nape, and tingles rushed over me, searing my skin. Mom’s energy approached, entering my auric field.

“Mom. You’re here.”

I promise I have one very important piece of advice for you, then I have to go.

I sat up, my eyes open and stinging with tears. “What is it?”

      Write a story about the relationship between a parent and a child that 

                                                        spans several years.

Promise from Beyond, part 2

On that green park bench by the duck pond, my mother’s loving energy receded from my auric field. I wiped tears from my eyes. Three years without her presence had tried me. Three years since illness took her to another plane of existence. She wasn’t a ghost. Ghosts hung around the physical dimension. No, her spirit had arrived from her beautiful new home and imparted advice given from a wider perspective above my limited earthly viewpoint.

What to do with her advice...      

            I sighed and slid my splayed fingers over the thighs of my jeans. My silver treble clef thumb ring snagged on a tiny tear in the material. Green Boy, the pretty duck, swished around the pond and captured my gaze in his disinterested black eyes.

            I don’t believe in coincidence. This has meaning.

            The splashy pond, the scattered gray twigs with their green buds, the grass, all of it withdrew into the future as my mind travelled back to the past.

            I was six years old again, living in that large red brick Victorian house situated behind the mortuary. After chasing my siblings behind dark secret passageways and through dim hidey spaces, I plunked my little weary self on the piano bench in our home’s chapel. Mom had an altar set up in there, covered with a purple cloth and a gold sun-shaped container on top of it. One of her priest friends would visit once in a while and perform a private mass for our family. But this wasn’t the beginning of my mom’s connections with the spiritual and the paranormal. She had friends and allies in many churches, prayer beads and books from a dozen different religions. In fact, when I was a little girl, she took me around to visit different monasteries. I snickered at the men in one. They dressed weird, had weird hairstyles, and ate weird food. Mom bent down and took me by my hands. “Honey, different doesn’t mean bad or weird. It’s what’s in one’s heart that matters. Always remember that.” I nodded solemnly. She took me to other monasteries, and I filled her day with a child’s curious questions. She gave me a smile of respect. I had gotten the point.

But to go back further, Mom had had a mystical experience as a child and was never the same. Because of that, I was never the same-well, you know what I mean. I was introduced into the world of the beyond at a young age. I saw auras as a kid and could tell if someone was lying to me or if a boy had a crush on me, or if a friend’s aura screamed it, I knew she was about to betray me. Mom and I saw a black aura around an elderly man while walking. We stopped on the sidewalk in front of a 7-11 and frowned at each other. “He’s going to pass soon,” I muttered. “Yes,” she responded.

Prophetic dreams alerted me to breakups, where I’d wake up trembling. Huh, my Cherokee grandmother had those too. When as a fourteen-year-old, I walked into my father’s home office quivering and told him not to get on that plane and take his business trip, he cancelled his flight.

            All the neighborhood kids told us our house was haunted. Often there were funerals at that mortuary that shared a parking lot with us. Certain places in our home chilled me. For instance, I hated entering that dark downstairs bathroom, passing into a narrow inner room and out into the living room. Putting my hand on that doorknob made all the little hairs on my skin raise and had my heart thumping, seeming to rise in my throat, swelling there, and coating my mouth with fear.

            “Oh, by the way, honey,” Mom told me one day at dinner, “the man who built this house lost all his money in the silver crash and killed himself in the bathroom.”

            Gasp! Mom didn’t waste time by sugar-coating reality. Now that pulpy terror I experienced in those two dimly-lit small downstairs rooms made sense. But Mom didn’t try to dispel him from our home. Perhaps because my sister had seen him, and he in his “old-fashioned clothes” only smiled at her and left her alone.

            I played my heart out on that piano in the chapel, but I wasn’t any good.

            Years later, in high school, I noticed that some of my friends and acquaintances disrespected their parents, bad-mouthing them and lying to them at times. My mom had a heart condition. Fear edged my days, tears hidden in my subconscious—please, God, don’t take her from me too soon. No smack talk towards my parents escaped my mouth. Why should it? My mother the quiet, gentle warrior, and my dad, the quiet, gentle…dad.

Music was my life, but I still wasn’t any good.

Mom approached me and sat on my thin blanket on my bed, taking my hands in her  small ones. “Honey, God is love, the glue that holds everything together, and miracles aren’t just miraculous. If you have rock-solid faith, you’ll put the science God made into action. You’ll trigger the physics.”

            Is that what she had done when I fell deathly-ill as a toddler and she and my father had prayed over me? I had had a spinal tap and a bad prognosis, but the day after my parents’ prayer, I was completely healed. Doctors confirmed it with their tests.

            Mom had a heart attack. I wet my pillow every night with my tears while she was in the hospital, but she survived and told me about the beautiful city she had seen on the other side. The phone calls picked up after that. Friends and acquaintances and friends of friends called when they had an unwanted spiritual presence hanging around. Mom would gear up with her holy water, rosaries, prayer books, and her knowingness, and go kick ass, changing lives. Sometimes priests would help her—like with the heavy stuff—and sometimes she went in with spiritual friends.

            One day, she went to lay down in her room and asked not to be disturbed. When she pushed open her door later, and I laid eyes on her, I sucked in a sharp breath. She had bruises on her arms! She had sensed her friend was in danger and needed to get there immediately, but the woman lived hundreds of miles away. Mom left her body and visited her friend in astral form, slipping between her friend and her husband as he was preparing to arc a large knife into his wife’s chest. He dropped the knife, trembling, and wept. Mom stayed on the astral plane helping another friend when a bad presence attacked her. She came back pale and shaken up. I hugged her.

            My senior year in high school, I held my homemade guitar on my lap and strummed. God, I sucked. Why couldn’t I be good at something so important to me? To want something so much but to not have natural talent in it was excruciating. Mom told me to never give up.

            Years later, my heart aching for missing her, on that park bench, flashes of the faces of her friends and people she helped invaded my mind. When Mom had passed over, they had hoped I would take over the reins. But damn, that was some scary shit she had dealt with. She changed lives. I was called to change lives too, but in a different way. I wanted to do it through music. Having always battled depression and anxiety, I seriously doubted myself. I had no talent. So, I asked Mom’s advice.      

            That duck was staring at me, as if to say, “Hey, don’t be a dumb ass. You know what to do. Listen to your mom.” He shuffled his green-feathered tail and paddled away toward his gray friends.

            I bent over and slapped my face into my hands. Can I really believe in miracles? Stupid question.

            Mom, I’m a below-average musician.

            But you’re bursting with heart. She swished side-to-side like a happy teenager, and indeed, she, in spirit form, looked decades younger than when I had last seen her, younger than me. Her long black hair curled to her waist.

            It’s not enough in that cold, hard world just to have heart.

            Her spirit smiled. The world has plenty of technical geniuses, and not all of them have heart. You have more heart than anyone I have ever known.

            Thanks, Mom, but what good is that?

            You have something unique to offer the world.

            I scoffed.

            You want to be successful with music, but you don’t give a care for the glory or the fame.

            You’re right.

            You want to bring sunlight where there is darkness.


            There are certain souls, certain persons, that only you can touch, in your unique way. If you never go out there, despite your depression, anxiety, and self-doubt, you’ll never drop that sunlight into those suffering lives.

            My technical abilities aren’t up to par.

            But you understand music.


            Keep it simple, but keep it pure, and your heart will carry you where you need to go. You’ll be surrounded by the right people. You’ll write the right songs, and you’ll make a difference in the way your heart demands.

            How do I know that is the correct path? I’ve had nothing but one failure after another. Shouldn’t I give up?

            If thinking about music makes you light up with joy, it’s your calling, and it’s the right thing to do. God, the universe, whatever you want to call it, has a point to make with you. That’s why God gave you the strong desire for this but not the natural talent. Go have fun and discover what that point is.

           I sat up on that bench and watched as a breeze carried leaves skittering across the pond. Could I keep torturing myself with pursuing my dream after nothing but failure? Mom said I should. But wasn’t I getting too old? I drew in a long, slow breath and stood, rolling my shoulders back. Stupidity is mere feet from faith. Some stop too soon, and some turn the corner, believing against all logic, and finally meet their success. I’m not supposed to be another Mozart. What am I supposed to be? I can’t wait to find out.








Tuesday, January 5, 2021

Meet Monique DeVere and Read About Her Married Second Chance Romance MATT'S PREGNANT RUNAWAY WIFE

When an award-winning pastry chef marries a Sicilian-born restaurateur in a whirlwind romance she thinks she has it all...until he refuses to introduce her to his family.

About Monique

Monique grew up on a plantation on the beautiful island of Barbados, where her childhood was all about exploring and letting her imagination run free. She moved to the UK as a teen and soon fell in love at first sight with her amazing, strong-silent-type husband. They have four beautiful children and four incredible grandchildren.

Monique writes sweet ‘n’ spicy romance, and when she isn’t working on the next novel or movie script, she can be found spending time with hubby and family, armchair travelling, creating recipes, reading about health and nutrition, or working on her spiritual growth. She enjoys going for walks, gardening, or simply crazy-dancing around the house. 


This might be the biggest risk of her life. 

When her whirlwind romance with gorgeous Sicilian-born restaurateur Matteo Giordano culminates in marriage, award-winning pastry chef Sabrina Newton-Giordano thinks she has it all...until Matt refuses to introduce her to his family. Sabrina desires their baby to have the same love she knew from her grandparents, but Matt’s outright rejection of his family could result in their baby never knowing his or her paternal grandparents, something Sabrina will not accept. Until that is, she hits on the perfect solution—run away to Sicily to meet the in-laws!  

Matt wants only one thing—to keep his wife and unborn child safe. For a man intent on never allowing anything to stand in his way, it should be an easy task. But Matt hasn’t bargained on how stubborn his irresistible, runaway wife can be. Despite his stern objections, she’s determined to form a relationship with his family. He knows, from past experience, they’d never accept her or the baby. Now Matt is torn between the urgent need to protect his wife and fear of causing her undue stress in her pregnancy. 


She kept him on his toes, he’d give her that. From the moment he met her he’d known she was unique to any other woman. The first hint was when he’d arrived unexpectedly to check on his London restaurant. Everyone, except Sabrina, had nervously tripped over themselves in his presence. She’d simply continued to work as though his arrival was as insignificant as a dust mote drifting past her head. The second hint had knocked him the moment she glanced up and locked eyes with his. Something he’d never experienced before had happened. His body had responded to the instant connection in a way that had been shocking and potent. He’d decided right then to make her his. Even then, she hadn’t made it easy for him. She’d resisted their attraction, had flat-out refused to have drinks, dinner, or—her words—anything else with him. To say that she’d become a challenge he’d fixated on was to understate the level of his attraction for Sabrina.

Then one day, after weeks of him putting his best moves on her and about to admit defeat, a delivery arrived at his office. It was a beautifully presented slice of his favourite dessert along with a note that read: if you want more, come and get it! He was pretty sure the soles of his handmade Italian shoes left scorch marks on his office rug in his haste to get to Sabrina. The rest had been white-hot sizzling sexy, whirlwind, and incredible. And now here he was, fighting to keep his marriage from falling apart only after eleven-and-a-half months of wedded bliss.

Matt washed his hands at the kitchen sink, then rummaged in the under counter fridge.

He chuckled. “Surprise, surprise, nothing but dessert and fruit.”

Yep, one thing he could be sure of was that he’d always find some sort of dessert in their fridge at home, thanks to Sabrina’s never-ending effort to create new and exciting after-dinner treats. And, oh look, she had his favourite dessert sitting in a small yellow and white cake caddy, as though she’d somehow been expecting him. When he grabbed the container his gaze landed on the four red apples in a bowl on the shelf below, so he snagged one of those, too.

 Purchase on Amazon

Connect with Monique

Website | Blog | Newsletter | Amazon Author Page | Twitter | Goodreads | Facebook Fanpage | LinkedIn | Wattpad | Pinterest | Instagram |

Monday, December 21, 2020

The Winter Solstice--And A Druid Romance Heroine


Happy winter solstice! Kylah McKinley, the heroine of my time travel romance thriller DARK BREW is a Druid. In the northern hemisphere, the Winter Solstice takes place today--Earth's northern hemisphere is tilted at its furthest point away from the Sun.

The Sun is at its lowest point in the sky, resulting in the shortest day and longest night.

According to Druid tradition, at the winter solstice, people in the village would bring a wooden log to the central fire, so everyone could take part in the celebrations. So the modern chocolate yule log might have its roots in more ancient traditions.

Who are the Druids?

Many people celebrate the Winter Solstice--the mid-winter sunrise and sunset-- coming to Stonehenge. Some people come from far away. However, it is the Druids, a group of Celtic pagans, who particularly celebrate the day when the Sun returns from its furthest point.

The Druids have celebrated the return of the Sun for centuries. Their celebrations bring awe and mystery to others who gather at Stonehenge for the Winter Solstice as well.  

English writer John Aubrey 
wrote in the 17th century about the probability that stone circles, such as Stonehenge, were Temples of the Druids. He called his text on stone circles the Templa Druidum. The first Druids were pre-Celtic inhabitants of Britain. 

Druids, who value peace, nature, and harmony, make a pilgrimage twice a year to gather at Stonehenge to celebrate the Summer and Winter Solstices. Druids are a group of Celtic pagans who have adopted the historical site as part of their history. 

The great prehistoric tomb at New Grange in Ireland and the great cairn at Maes Howe in Orkney are also orientated on the Winter Solstice and they, too, receive Druids for the mid-winter celebrations.

DARK BREW is in print, on Kindle, and on audio with the expressive Nina Price, who rocks an Irish brogue.

Worldwide Amazon Purchase Link


Monday, December 7, 2020

A Tradition of Christmas Past: Spaghetti Aglio e Olio Recipe, and My Italian Heroine, Based on my Great Grandmother

My great grandmother (Grandma to everyone) was the matriarch of the family, the mother of my grandfather. “Josie Red” as she was known in downtown Jersey City was way ahead of her time, as a bootlegger during Prohibition, a real estate tycoon, a small-time loan shark, and according to legend, Mayor Hague’s mistress. 

Every Christmas Eve, her daughter, my great aunt Lucretia, a gourmet cook, invited everyone to her basement for an Italian feast. Grandma’s four children were grown with children and grandchildren of their own. Of course this necessitated a ‘kiddie table’ at which I sat until I was tall enough to sit with the grown-ups. Aunt Lucretia always made two types of spaghetti sauce—regular marinara sauce and aglio e olio—but what I remember is it always contained clam sauce, which I wouldn’t touch, so I went for the plain and safe marinara. Her finished basement had a small kitchen so she was able to do all the cooking right there. Kiddies weren’t allowed to, but several adults helped her carry the steaming plates to the long tables set up and covered with holiday-themed tablecloths. She served all the traditional Italian dishes—after the pasta came the ham, then the fruit and nuts, and of course, an array of desserts, always including her famous struffoli (honey balls) and Italian rum cake. My Uncle Eddie tended bar at the other end of the room. 

After dinner, Santa always showed up. My cousin Mike’s father played the part very convincingly—the kiddies scrambled onto his lap for their chance to gush about how good they behaved all year and how deserving they were of his visit later that night to surround their Christmas trees with presents to be torn open the next morning. Someone always had a home movie camera to capture these special moments on film. I remember the lights always blazing like the noonday sun when the camera started rolling. 

After leaving the party, I always went to Midnight Mass with my friends and someone always threw a party after that. 

Christmas Eves in the basement ended after Grandma left us, but the memories live on! 

Vita Caputo, the heroine of my 1894 New York City romance FROM HERE TO FOURTEENTH STREET, is based on my great grandmother. It’s now on audio with the expressive animated New York native Nina Price.

Recipe for Spaghetti Aglio e Olio


One pound uncooked spaghetti

6 cloves minced garlic

½ cup olive oil

¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes

Salt and ground black pepper to taste

¼ cup chopped fresh parsley

1 cup finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese 


  1. Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil. Cook spaghetti in the boiling water, stirring occasionally until cooked through but firm to the bite, about 12 minutes. Drain and transfer to a pasta bowl.
  2. Combine garlic and olive oil in a cold skillet. Cook over medium heat to slowly toast garlic, about 10 minutes. Reduce heat to medium-low when olive oil begins to bubble. Cook and stir until garlic is golden brown, about another 5 minutes. Remove from heat.
  3. Stir red pepper flakes, black pepper, and salt into the pasta. Pour in olive oil and garlic, and sprinkle on Italian parsley and half of the Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese; stir until combined.
  4. Serve pasta topped with the remaining Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese.