Card Club

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Loretta Giacoletto

Old friends never fade away. Nor should they.

Eons ago, after graduating from high school, my girlfriends and I would get together. Once a month we met at each other’s homes. Actually our parents’ homes, until we acquired our own places, mostly rented apartments followed by first-home purchases. Card Club we called our group even though we never played cards. Not once. Or any other games for that matter. With our numbers fluctuating between eight and fourteen, there were too many important things to talk about—boyfriends, college, engagements, weddings, husbands, pregnancies, children, and divorces. Every so often we’d go all out with a shindig that included our mates, a major social event elevated from the usual snacks to more substantial food and drink. Oh yeah, those events I still recall fondly, especially the yummy grasshoppers and pink squirrels. We partied well into the night yet managed to remain friends the next day.

After ten years of get-togethers the demands of family life and re-entry into the work force started interfering with Card Club and eventually it fell by the wayside. By that time, some of the girlfriends (as I still think of them) had moved away. On the plus side, when they returned for a visit, we would seize the opportunity to play catch-up. Such was the case a few weeks ago when one girlfriend traveled from Maine to reconnect with family and friends in the Midwest.

Over the course of a single week and a fluctuating number totally ten, we met on three separate occasions, including a local eatery that once was a popular Italian-American restaurant where locals went to see and be seen. The new restaurant owners are Bosnian; their theme, Mediterranean-American. They graciously (and wisely) isolated our group in an out-of-the-way area known as The Porch.

Ever heard a bunch of hens all clucking at the same time? To the uninformed outsiders, that would’ve described our gathering; but what did a bunch of strangers know. We still consider ourselves to be the same chicks we were in high school. At least from my perspective, that’s what I saw that day. And I see everything with my newly restored 20/20 vision, thanks to the amazing ophthalmologist who not only removed my nasty cataracts but eliminated any need for contacts or glasses.

As in the past, girl talk was the only game we played on The Porch. Me with one ear tuned into my immediate tablemates; the other ear trying to keep up with two other simultaneous conversations. Talk about a pleasant fugue, this non-stop chatter laced with belly laughs capable of raining tears! At some point my mind drifted into a reminiscence of Card Club’s passages through time. Two dear friends have passed away; others are dealing with health issues, and more than a few are widowed. We’ve all endured the inevitable loss of parents and some of us, the devastating loss of children.

The cacophony of multiple topics finally settled into a mutual discussion centered on change. Some friends are downsizing, not by choice; others are working toward that direction.

Downsizing! Yikes, just thinking about downsizing, making such a drastic change in lifestyle hurts my head. All those decisions—what to take with, what to sell or give away or push onto adult children who don’t want what they’d perceive as junk. Even though it would be their mom’s junk.

Thanks but no thanks. For now I’ll stick with the lifestyle I still enjoy. But it does make me think about decluttering my life. Now that I could live with.

Yes, maybe I could. Or should. As soon as I finish my current work-in-progress …. Sigh.

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Marinara Sauce, My Way

Posted on July 15, 2016 by Loretta Giacoletto

Hubby D and I were driving home from our place at Missouri’s Lake of the Ozarks when my cell phone rang. It was my good friend E, who along with her husband J, have a successful year-round catering business, mostly weddings, bar mitzvahs and bat mitzvahs for their St. Louis Jewish clients. During the spring, summer, and fall, city residents J and E also plant and harvest veggies on their small farm across the river in Illinois. Which explains the purpose of E’s phone call.

“I got you some tomatoes,” she said. “Green bell peppers, zucchini, yellow squash too. Stop by the shop on your way home.” The shop would be the industrial-size catering kitchen where E and J were finishing up the preparations for a small party of forty—barbecued ribs, cole slaw, potato salad among other items. All food I knew to be awesome, having tasted it often enough—most recently at their Fourth of July gathering for one hundred and fifty relatives, friends, and friends of friends. Where else but at their Illinois farm surrounded by its white rail fencing and boasting a pond filled with catfish, crappie, and bass.

The rains came and stayed that July holiday. Not a problem for J and E; they’d set up tables and chairs under a huge tent and in their charming barn decorated with antique hand-held farm implements. Live music played throughout the afternoon and evening, encouraging a number of guests to join in the line dancing.

Talk about a Soul Food buffet to whet the most diverse of appetites. This one started out with artichoke dip, three other dips I didn’t sample, super-sized hot dogs, lamb chops with mint jelly, cold shrimp with cocktail sauce, plus assorted crackers and snacks. All of which got washed down with J’s secret-recipe peach tea, any kind of soda, wine and cold beer that kept two bartenders hopping from early afternoon until well after dark.

I’d barely patted the appetizer crumbs from my mouth when guests started lining up for the main courses. As near as I can recall, the spread included mixed green salad, potato salad, cole slaw, green beans, corn on the cob, baked beans, mac’n cheese, spaghetti, crudité assortment, barbecued ribs, fried chicken, roasted goat, roasted pig, grilled squirrel, raccoon, quail, and rabbit, plus deep-fried catfish, blue gill, and crappie. It had been years since I tasted squirrel so that I had to try—not bad. Somehow I inadvertently overlooked the raccoon and rabbit—dang!

Was there no end to the array of desserts? For me it began and ended with the white cake covered with butter cream and coconut icing, the same goodie I choose at every J and E gathering.

Anyway, back to E’s gift of garden produce. As soon as I got settled at home, I sliced most of the green peppers into strips and froze them. The pepper ends I chopped into chunks to combine with tomatoes and sweet onions and then marinate in Italian salad dressing. The tomatoes I left sitting on my kitchen counter; the squash and zucchini I refrigerated. Phew! Done. Or so I thought.

The phone rang. E again. She’d finished prepping food at the shop and was now at the farm, picking produce before the impending storm. “I got you some more tomatoes,” she said. “Green ones, as big as softballs lying on the ground and too heavy to tie up. Red ones too. Come get them at my house in St. Louis tomorrow.”

Sigh. Yes, it’s that time of the year again, which means I’ll be making multiple batches of marinara sauce, just as I’ve done in the past. Here’s my basic recipe, one that can be enhanced with a bit of creativity.

Loretta Giacoletto’s No-fuss Marinara Sauce

Wash, core and stem about 14 medium-size ripe tomatoes (about 14 cups, any variety), cut into small pieces. Plan on using the seeds, juice, and pulp—no need to peel. Hey, that’s where all the flavor comes from.

Heat ½ C extra virgin olive oil in a large, heavy-bottom stainless steel pot over medium heat.

Add and sauté over low heat:

2 C chopped onions until translucent, lightly sprinkle with sea salt

Add and sauté over low heat:

1 C chopped carrots and

1 C chopped celery (again, lightly sprinkle with sea salt)

Add chopped tomatoes, pulp, seeds, and juice to pot.

Increase heat to bring to boil, then turn down heat and allow to simmer for about one hour or until reduced to half the original contents.

While simmering contents, add chopped basil and/or parsley and oregano. My herbs come fresh from my garden, which is not to say I wouldn’t use dried herbs if that happened to be my only choice.

Important, if you prefer a smooth sauce (which I do): Using a hand-held emulsifier or hand mixer, blend all ingredients together until smooth. Simmer for another five minutes. Done!

For a chunky sauce, don’t bother with blending. Either way, season to taste with salt and pepper, if necessary.

This recipe will make about 9 cups of sauce. Use sauce with pasta or as a base for meat dishes.

To preserve for later use, allow sauce to cool. Spoon about 3 cups into each of three quart-size freezer bags, flatten contents to release excess air, and freeze until ready to use.

Note: Larger batches will require longer cooking time.

How about you? Any cooking tips for marinara sauce you’d like to share?

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Doing the Math

Posted on July 1, 2016 by Loretta Giacoletto

Our pool came with the house Hubby D and I purchased eons ago, an impromptu decision with no subsequent pangs of buyer’s remorse. Yes, it’s true: if you have to ask the cost of maintaining a pool, you should think twice about acquiring one. Naturally, every pool needs that special someone who understands the importance of monitoring cleanliness and chemicals, whatever it takes to avoid the horrors of health problems and out-of-control algae. Enter the indispensable Pool Guy. Our Pool Guy does a terrific job and works dirt cheap, actually for nothing more than food and drink and an occasional swim. Er … that would be Hubby D.

From Day 1, the pool has been my guilty pleasure, one I justify by money saved from not smoking or gambling or carousing, and by limiting my alcoholic intake to the occasional glass of wine, beer, margherita, or Limoncello. The pricey Scotch I reserve for discriminating guests. Or, sometimes as a medicinal pain reliever or nightcap when I can’t sleep. Additional savings come from our pet-free zone—not that I have anything against four-legged creatures. Cats, I find intriguing but they make me sneeze. Dogs, we always had when I was growing up but the adult me prefers the freedom of coming and going as I please.

There’s something quite uplifting about swimming at six o’clock in the morning, with the sun sitting low in an overcast sky and the only sound coming from a medley of chirping birds. Time passes quickly while I think about my current work-in-progress and watch a mix of cardinals, robins, yellow finch, and hummingbirds fly overhead. Eventually, they perch on the branches of surrounding trees—Austrian pine, weeping cherry, American elm, American holly, and ginkgo. Our prized ginkgo has grown to three times its size from when we moved here, with sturdy branches continuing to extend further and further over one end of the pool. Ah, yes, the ginkgo, a species dating back to pre-historic time and still valued today for its longevity and fan-shaped leaves. In early fall those leaves turn a golden hue and drop into the pool they partially shade—by the thousands and much to the consternation of my indispensable Pool Guy.

From late spring to early fall my daily pool routine consists of fifty laps, a non-stop, forty-minute session alternating between the sidestroke and backstroke. During the 90-plus temperatures of summer I start each day in the water, after setting the coffee to brew and before eating breakfast. For a number of years I swam 178 laps every day—the equivalent of one mile in our 34-foot pool length. Those 178 laps took about 75 minutes to complete. At some point I slowed down and committed to a half-mile daily swim—88 laps. But as time went on, those 88 laps started taking as much time as the full mile used to take.

If returning to my original routine was a matter of stamina, I think I could still manage those 178 laps if they were on my back or side. That’s the beauty of swimming with my face out of the water. But the issue now boils down to commitment—how much time am I willing to dedicate to a swim that used to take 75 minutes but could now take … upwards of two hours. Hmm, I don’t think so, not when I feel this virtuous for meeting a realistic goal that meets my current expectations.

What about you? Any virtuous feelings or goals you’d like to share?

 

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Resurrecting Characters

Posted on June 15, 2016 by Loretta Giacoletto

My fictional characters, they’re all mine—to make, to break, to kill off, or to bring back—which is what I’m doing in my current WIP (work in progress), Book 3 from the Savino Sisters Mystery Series.

It seemed a shame, leaving Stefano Rosina (from The Mystery Series Book 2) in Northern Italy pining for his lost love of sixty-plus years ago, the sassy long-time widow, Clarita Fantino Riva. Stefano and Clarita’s WWII teenage romance had initiated a series of tragic events that resulted in Clarita emigrating from Italy to America when she was a mere eighteen. Clarita lives with her daughter Toni in St. Louis, not too far from thirty-something granddaughters Ellen and Margo Savino. El and Margo recently returned from Italy, where they met Stefano and his son Franco—a somewhat sobering experience for all concerned, as had a similar experience been for their mom Toni when she visited Clarita’s village years before.

That said, for Book 3 I decided to send Stefano and Franco on a surprise visit to St. Louis. Unlike Clarita, who claimed she never wanted to see Stefano again, he is determined to rekindle the flame that once burned so passionately for both of them. Of course, not everyone in these two families is on board with the reunion that Ellen narrates in this scene …

Rather than taking my car, Franco insisted on driving the rented SUV, which I didn’t challenge since it would allow me to see how well he navigated our St. Louis streets. While I gave him Mom’s address, he entered it into the Italian version of the rental’s GPS and relied on those instructions instead of mine that made more sense.

 “For those times, Papa and I go without you,” he explained so as not to offend me.

Right, as if he fully expected Nonnie Clarita to welcome her one-time lover with open arms. Only time would tell and very soon. As expected, the GPS route took longer than my shortcut way; but Franco handled the traffic with no problem, a breeze compared to what I’d experienced in Italy where controlled havoc ruled, even in the smaller villages. I told Franco to turn into the alley behind Mom’s house; and to my relief, when we pulled into the asphalt parking area, there was Margo getting out of her car.

As soon as we exited ours, I waited for the usual hugs and kisses to pass, yet hoping they would go on and on, whatever it took to delay our entering into the den of unknown horrors. During the second round of greetings, Margo caught my eye from over Stefano’s shoulder and gave me a confident thumbs-up. Already I felt better, knowing her relaxed attitude would take the edge off of my uptight attitude.

Stefano was already walking toward the back door, meaning I’d have to do a quick sprint in order to catch up with him. Instead, Franco pulled me back with a firm grip to my arm. “Let this be Papa’s time,” he said. “And Clarita’s.”

“He’s right,” Margo said. “Regardless of the outcome, we will be here to soothe the shattered egos.”

We stood our ground midway along the sidewalk; Nonnie’s flourishing vegetable garden to our right; her fragrant rose garden to our left. Stefano found the backdoor buzzer, hesitated but a moment, and then held his finger to the button. “Basta, Papa,” Franco said in a voice too low for his father to hear. “Basta.”

Margo touched Franco’s forearm. “It’ll be okay; you’ll see.”

Or not. Nonnie’s voice came roaring through the closed door and into the yard. “All right, dammit. I’m coming. I’m coming.”

Stefano removed his finger from the button and the door flew open. As did Nonnie’s eyes. Never had I seen those expressive eyes so wide.

“What the … oh my God … it can’t be. Is that you, Stefano?”

“Si, Clarita.” After that a flood of words in Italian erupted too fast for me to understand.

 Or Margo, she looked at me with a shrug and said, “I think he’s begging her forgiveness.”

“No, no, he is talking about times past,” Franco said. “The rest I cannot tell you—it is too … how you say?”

“Personal,” Margo said. “Damn, I didn’t believe the old gal still had it in her.”

“Nor my papa. Perhaps we should leave them alone, go someplace for a drink.”

Which we were preparing to do until Mom pulled her car into the space next to Margo’s.

She got out and walked over to where Margo and I were standing with Franco. To him she gave a polite nod, obviously not recognizing him. To Margo and me she asked with an air of authority, “What’s going on?”

“Uh, we have company from Italy,” I said.

Before I could say Franco’s name, he stepped forward, bowed slightly, and then straightened up, a look of ambivalence crossing his face. “Ciao, Toni. It has been a long time. Do you remember me—Franco Rosina.”

She gave a smile, the polite one with pursed lips. “Yes, of course. So nice to see you, Franco.” He stepped forward and placed his hands on her shoulders. She allowed him a kiss to each cheek but did not return the greeting. “What brings you to St. Louis?”

“My papa,” he said. “I brought him to see your mama.”

“You what!?” She stepped back, making no effort to hide the stunned look on her face that was growing redder with each passing second. “No, no, no, no, no!” She stomped her foot onto a weed creeping through the cracked asphalt and using the ball of her foot, twisted the weed into obliteration. “You should’ve checked with me first.”

She released a small snort when Franco opened his hands. “Papa was afraid you’d try to keep him from her.”

“As well I would have. I’m sure you meant well but my mother is getting up in years. As is your papa, who’s even older. Whatever was once between them is no more. Although knowing the extent of that whatever, I’m sure it served at least one good purpose at the time.”

Looking from one daughter to the other, she spoke with a voice raised several decibels. “Margo. Ellen. What were you thinking? And why didn’t you warn me? Mama must never know Stefano Rosina came to St. Louis. Never, never, never. Do I make myself clear?”

“Sorry, Mom,” Margo said in a voice higher than normal, one that betrayed the nervousness that would’ve matched mine. “You’re too late. Stefano already came knocking and Nonnie Clarita let him in.”

Mom’s face went from its current state of red to a putrid shade of green. She bent over, clutching her stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“No, you’re not,” I said. “Nonnie can take care of herself. If she doesn’t want Stefano around, she’ll tell him.”

“Toni, please,” Franco said. He reached out one hand to her, then quickly withdrew it. “You should have seen your mama’s face when she saw my papa’s. So bella I almost wept. Do not deny them this time together after almost a lifetime apart.”

 “Keep out of this, Franco. My mother is none of your business.”

 “Ah but my papa is. And you need to stay out of his business and your mama’s.”

 End of excerpt … must keep writing.

 

 

 

 

 

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Got My Kicks on Route 66

Posted on June 1, 2016 by Loretta Giacoletto

I grew up in an era when various combinations of Illinois Route 66 took my parents, my brother, and me from our house to my grandma’s in Benld, a coal mining town some 40 miles to the north on State Route 4. Our Sunday drive over two-lane roads that also included State Routes 159 and 157 lasted about an hour or so each way. That is, if my dad didn’t have to pull over to the side and change the usual flat tire. Or two. Yes, how well I recall the trip in which we had a flat on our way there and one on the way back, somewhere on the outskirts of Hamel, north of Edwardsville. Was it any wonder my dad puffed on one cigarette after the other during those drives, all the while preparing himself for the inevitable breakdown that never failed to occur.

Upon our arrival at Grandma’s house, we immediately transitioned into the Italian-American mode. More so Italian than American, with my mother and grandmother engaging for hours in the Piemontese dialect the rest of us hadn’t learned to speak—much to my later regret, my brother’s too, especially when we traveled together to search out our roots in Northern Italy. Fortunately by then, I’d been married for years to my high school sweetheart, a first generation American who still speaks fluent Piemontese. And grew up eating the same kind of food my grandma cooked, an everyday occurrence for him since he lived with his grandparents for much of his childhood.

Ah-h, in today’s world if I lift my head a certain way, I can still smell my grandma’s kitchen—the garlic-laden roast beef simmering in red wine, usually a home brew better than any sold in the store. Potatoes, yes, cooked with the beef and cut in less-than-perfect chunks known as rustic style, same as I do mine. If not potatoes, then Grandma would make polenta with a few potatoes added for good measure, which is not the way I do my polenta. Always a salad at Grandma’s, greens from her garden dressed with the perfect ratio of vinegar and imported olive oil purchased from the Italian co-op where she bought most of her groceries, along with the lemon drops that served as a simple dessert.

I wrote about the Piemontese Italians in my saga The Family Angel. Petty bootlegger/Italian immigrants Carlo Baggio and his brother Jake move from 1920s Prohibition Chicago to the Southern Illinois town of St. Gregory, an hour or so south of St. Louis. You won’t find St. Gregory on any Illinois map—it’s only located within the confines of my imagination, which gives me lots of freedom to create a town square inspired by the one in Carlinville (also along the Route 66 corridor) and houses like those I recalled from an earlier Benld. Like many of the immigrants who came to Benld, my fictional Baggio brothers wind up mining coal in St. Gregory and boarding with immigrants who already found their place, in this case Mario Roselli and his wife Irene.

In this scene from The Family Angel, Mario gives the Baggio brothers some insights into St. Gregory during its heyday.

The church-going preferences of St. Gregory’s inhabitants didn’t interest Carlo. Sluggish from a full belly, he stifled a yawn. “How far are we from St. Louis?”

“Ninety minutes by train, less by car,” Jake said. “The damn train stops for every whistle.”

“St. Gregory has just about everything,” Mario continued. “And what we don’t have can be ordered from Sears Roebuck. ‘Course some ladies still take the train to St. Louis every so often to shop. Even my Irene.”

The heart of the business district formed a four-block square jammed with buildings, most of them two-storied. In the middle of the square a circle of earth held three twenty-foot American Linden trees, five lilac bushes, and a scattering of park benches. Mario pulled into a parking slot facing the common green, turned off the motor, and got out, as did Carlo and Jake.

“The park ain’t much,” he said as they strolled through it, “but it’s where everybody comes to watch everybody else. Those crowded benches remind me of Italy: old men trying to outdo each other, young ones hoping to arrange a date, or maybe some nookie, depending on the girl.”

Jake lifted his brow. “So that’s where the action is.”

“As if you didn’t already have your own connections,” Mario said with a wink.

At the bronze statue of three doughboys with bayonets drawn, Mario tipped his cap, and said, “In memory of three St. Gregory men who died in the Great War.”

“You fought?” asked Carlo.

“Nah, my lungs couldn’t pass the physical.”

They shared a bench and watched the parade of Sunday drivers circling the park. The beep-beep of horns reminded Carlo of Chicago’s quieter streets, a thought he quickly dismissed. “So everybody’s got a car.”

“Except me, and now you,” Jake said. “The town’s overrun with Model Ts, Chevys, Oldsmobiles, and Plymouths. Yesterday, I saw a Hudson.” He motioned to a passing car. “Hey, Mario, ain’t that your neighbor driving a Hudson?”

“Brand new, just off the showroom floor, he paid cash.” Mario pointed out a row of hitching rails near the circle’s outer perimeter. “Those are for the horse and buggy diehards.”

“Times must be good,” Carlo said.

“Booming, same as the coal company,” Jake said. “Not just here, everywhere. Coal fuels the whole damn country.”

“Since I first came over, the town has doubled in size, all because of the mines. Italians, Germans, even hardscrabble from the South. I tell you, Carlo, and Jake’ll back me on this, won’t you Jake?” Jake nodded and Mario continued. “Any man can make a good living if he ain’t squeamish about the conditions. You know: the underground cave, the picking, chipping, shoveling, and hauling for eight hours a day, six days a week.”

Carlo narrowed his eyes to Jake. “How much did you say?”

“Fifty to sixty dollars, every two weeks.”

“And we owe it all to John L. Lewis,” Mario said. “In case you don’t already know, he’s head of the United Mine Workers. I ain’t going to whitewash what we do. Mining can be hellfire dangerous: cave-ins, fires, explosions, and methane poisoning. But it ain’t as bad as before. Not like when I first came here. Not like it was for my pa.”

If you’d like to read more, check my website for various sites to purchase The Family Angel.

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Omelet, Anyone?

Posted on May 1, 2016 by Loretta Giacoletto

Unless I’m traveling, I seldom sit down to breakfast in a restaurant or diner. But when those few occasions do arise, I’m rarely satisfied with the results. Even when perusing a substantial buffet, I wind up with the most basic of choices—scrambled eggs or omelets, neither of which fail to disappoint.

I’ve written about the ideal scrambled eggs before. Not those abominations slapped onto a hot commercial grill and wind up resembling pancakes, but my favorite technique for preparing them the French way. That is, softly scrambled with butter in a non-stick skillet over low heat—a process not to be hurried.

Even more frustrating in my diner’s view is what passes for a commercial cheese omelet, one containing a pathetic amount of un-melted shredded cheese that could easily pass for packaged sawdust.

So, I ask you: how difficult can it be to make a cheesy omelet, big enough for one or two, depending on the individual appetites. Easy-peasy. Seriously. After one or two endeavors, you’ll have this baby down to a science. I did and you can too.

Here’s how I make mine.

Classic Cheese Omelet

Equipment:

9 or 10-inch non-stick omelet skillet

Pancake or omelet spatula (non-metal to preserve non-stick finish on skillet)

Platter or plate for serving cooked omelet

Ingredients:

3 extra-large eggs (I get mine direct from the farmer but that’s not essential)

1 Tablespoon butter (preferably without salt)

2 or 3 ounces of cheese that melts easily (Your choice. I prefer Cheddar but in a pinch, American works fine. Cut cheese into small pieces or shred by hand.)

Salt and pepper to taste. Perhaps a dash of hot sauce or some finely chopped French tarragon or chives.

Preparation:

Assemble all of the above ingredients before beginning.

Break three eggs in bowl and whisk until well-blended. Add salt and pepper now or during cooking process.

Melt 1T butter in skillet over medium-low heat, making sure butter covers entire bottom surface.

Add eggs to skillet, retain medium-low heat.

When eggs start to set, carefully loosen the edges and give the skillet a slight shake.

Arrange cheese over entire egg mixture, except for 1/4-inch around the rim. If salt and pepper wasn’t added before, do so now. Also hot sauce or herbs if you’re so inclined.

When cheese starts to melt, place spatula under one-half of the omelet and fold onto the half remaining in the skillet to create a half moon.

Turn skillet for better access and roll raw edge of half-moon omelet onto the folded center.

Cook omelet another 15 to 20 seconds before sliding it onto a platter.

To Serve:

Divide the omelet into two portions or treat yourself to the whole thing. Decadent calories be damned! This is not a daily occurrence (unless you reduce the amount of cheese and only use the egg whites, which makes for a decent though less delectable compromise). Ready? Press your fork into that omelet you just created and watch the melted cheese ooze out. Yum!

Side notes:

Excellent for breakfast with toast or English Muffins or bagels. Plus, freshly brewed hot coffee or tea.

For lunch, add a salad of mixed greens and pair with a nice dry wine.

What about other ingredients to either complement the cheese or substitute for it—use your imagination!

You can do this. Yes, you can. I did, and when it comes to cooking, I’m one, maybe two notches, above mediocre. Okay, two notches.

Enjoy!

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Outlander Revisited

Posted on April 16, 2016 by Loretta Giacoletto

In May 2015 I wrote about the Starz TV extravaganza Outlander, having discovered this time-travel/romance/historical adventure toward the end of Season One. Talk about hooked, I could not get enough of Outlander, which, of course, then extended to the entire book collection written by Diana Gabaldon, starting in 1992 with her original Outlander.

After reading the first seven books in the series in digital format, (Outlander, Dragonfly in Amber, Voyager, Drums in Autumn, The Fiery Cross, A Breath of Snow and Ashes, and Echo in the Bone), I switched to the audio version for Book 8, Written in My Own Heart’s Blood. I enjoyed Davina Porter’s narration so much, I decided to listen to the eBooks I’d already read. It’s amazing what I missed the first go-around on my Kindle and then heard with renewed enthusiasm. What’s more, I find myself having now developed an incredibly lazy attitude toward the audiobooks, having gone from turning the pages of a print book to the press of my thumb with eBooks to sitting back with earplugs for audiobooks and doing absolutely nothing but listen to the story evolve in a variety of voices from one very talented voice actor.

Hmm, what’s next on the technical horizon for literature? Perhaps a listening—better yet, visual device—planted in the brain, one that would be capable of providing entertainment with little effort, other than being the recipient of endless enjoyment.

I should mention the Outlander series books are really Big Books—anywhere from first Outlander’s 560 pages to Drums in Autumn’s whopping 1,456 pages, the equivalent of three decent-sized books. Each time I closed in on the final chapters of my current book in the series, I found myself torn between wanting that book to go on and on, yet looking forward to starting the next one.

After finishing Diana Gabaldon’s eight Outlander books, I turned to her Lord John series, an on-going pivotal character from the Outlander series starting with Dragonfly in Amber. This time it was back to the print paperbacks and in the order I preferred, starting with The Scottish Prisoner and now Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade. Ah-h, yes there still is something about the smell of a new book, the printed words on cream-colored paper, the turning of … oops, almost forgot to turn the next page.

With all this reading of someone else’s books, one has to wonder how I find time to write my own books, and yet since discovering Diana Gabaldon’s books, I have managed to finish my second book in the Savino Sisters Mystery Series, Regrets To Die For. Currently, I am well-immersed in Book 3 (working title Not Worth Dying For), which brings Ellen and Margo Savino back to St. Louis after a long summer’s vacation in Italy. The creative side of my brain is also conjuring up ideas for a sequel to one or more of my historical novels, a chance to bring back some of the characters that still live inside my head.

And how do my historical books compare to those by Diana Gabaldon? In no way whatsoever—different period in time, different country, different culture, different politics, and life style. But when it comes to Diana Gabaldon, there is one thing I must admit we have in common: when I grow up, I would be quite happy to become half the writer she is.

As for Outlander’s Season Two on Starz, don’t get me started—I’ll save that for a future blog.

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Bringing Characters to Life

Posted on April 1, 2016 by Loretta Giacoletto

Creating intriguing characters in a novel can be quite the challenge; but when several characters make an easy connection that drives the story forward, there’s no denying the level of writing satisfaction. As was the case with this scene in Regrets To Die For—for me, a particular favorite in which Franco Rosina tells El and Margo Savino how he first met their oh-so-proper mother in Northern Italy when he and Toni were teenagers.

Chapter 20

 In the words of Franco Rosina from Margo Savino’s first person account:

 “Bruna Fantino sent a letter to her daughter in America, insisting she come home for a long visit. Clarita being a self-employed widow, could not afford the loss of income so instead she agreed to send her daughter. These things I know because Filippo Sasso told me on our way to the train station in la macchina, the automobile he’d borrowed from his pappa Lucca. The year was 1973, a summer day that felt more like early spring even though droplets of sweat had fallen from Filippo’s brow and stained the collar of his shirt. While Filippo was making a hard shift into the Fiat’s first gear, he said, ‘Since Bruna Fantino considers my pappa her convenient savior, she expects me to look after the American nipote. An impossible demand, you know how jealous Nora gets when I so much as glance at another girl.’

“I gave him a playful poke to the arm and said, ‘Come on, a smart guy like you can work things out.’

“Filippo pleaded as only he could. ‘Not when it comes to Nora, I need your help.’ ”

Franco looked from El to me. He tapped the fingers of one hand against his chest. “My help, you have to understand. I loved Filippo like a brother, helped him out in the past, but this time he’d gone too far. Me, Franco Rosina, only son of Stefano Rosina, Stefano who despised Bruna Fantino as much as she despised him, looking out for the daughter of Clarita Fantino, Stefano’s lost love who Bruna had sent away years before, all this because Filippo did not have the courage to speak up and just … say … no. I told Filippo that Bruna would kill me when she found out who I was. And then after killing me, she’d have my pappa thrown in jail for giving me the life he had forced her to destroy.

“We pulled into the station and Filippo told me to relax. ‘Bruna does not need to know every little detail of her nipote’s free time,’ he said while parking the car. ‘Besides, I can pay you.’

“Money … money talks when you don’t have any. I shook his hand after he stuffed mine with lire, enough to equal one hundred American dollars, at the time a small fortune for me. After getting out of the car, we waited on the platform until the train came into view. As soon as it stopped, the door opened and out flew a leather shoulder bag, landing at my feet. Only one passenger followed that bag onto the platform.

“Mamma mia, never had I seen an American such as this. Considering the sourpuss Bruna Fantino, this daughter of Bruna’s daughter looked like no other young woman in Pont or Cuorgnè or the villages in either direction. Dark hair fell below her shoulders and was secured by a piece of cloth around her forehead. She wore flared pants low on the curve of her hips and a yellow tee shirt as bright as the sun peeking out from behind the clouds, as if the sun’s only reason for being there was to spread its light on her. Those eyes—blue with amber specks. Lips painted a soft pink. Around her neck hung a long gold chain and from the chain a jeweled crucifix, as if warding off any guy with impure thoughts.

“Filippo welcomed her in better English than I’d expected but not as good as mine. We’d been classmates, Filippo and me. He was my strongest competition in English language. The daughter of Clarita’s daughter put one hand on her hip, then said, ‘You must be Fil.’

“He replied with a slight bow. ‘Filippo Sasso, here at the request of Bruna Fantino.’

“Those blue eyes narrowed as she spoke her first words. ‘Right … Fil. And my name, as I’m sure you already know, is Antonia Riva but I answer to Toni.’ She turned to me. ‘And you are?’

“I told her my name was Franco but for her I would answer to Frank. She cocked her head to one side and gave me … gave me …”

“The once-over,” I said.

“Si, grazie, Margo. I will continue. ‘What? No last name?’ Toni Riva asked.

“After swallowing the lump in my throat, I managed to say, ‘my name is Franco … Franco Rosina.’ The hard slap I expected from her did not cross my face. Instead, a sweet laughter erupted from her mouth, followed by words tumbling out too fast for me to understand. ‘Please to speak slowly,’ I said. ‘My English, it is not so good.’

“She picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. ‘If you say so. Shall we go?’

“Filippo did not move. ‘Pardon,’ he said. ‘First we must explain.’

“Not we, I let Filippo do the talking. That much he owed me, and the lire already tucked in my pocket. After Filippo finished connecting me to my father Stefano and Stefano to her mother Clarita, Toni cocked her head for a second time and looked from Filippo to me before she spoke. ‘So how is this supposed to work?’

“Filippo cleared his throat and swallowed whatever words had been stuck in it. A few seconds passed before he managed to say, ‘Perhaps you have some ideas. But if you must speak American, slow down so we can understand you.’

“Toni rubbed her chin and gave some thought to her next words. ‘Right, so let me see if I’ve got this straight. You, Fil, picked the one guy with a last name I’ve never heard before—the name my grandma won’t allow spoken in her house—and I’m supposed to let him be my pretend boyfriend so your girlfriend won’t get jealous.’

“Filippo hung his head. He kicked a stone from the platform and said nothing. So I found the courage to say, ‘Is a problem, si, but not to worry. We—Filippo and me—will think of something.’

“Toni rolled her eyes. ‘No, you won’t. I am perfectly capable of finding my own friends. But thanks anyway.’ She put one hand over her mouth and held back a yawn. ‘Can we go now? I am so wiped out.’

“Filippo’s face turned red as a pomodoro, I mean tomato. He yanked on his shirt collar like it was a rope around the neck of a condemned man. ‘But … but … your nonna.’

“Toni took his face between her hands and kissed him on the lips, to his horror and at the time, my envy. ‘Don’t you worry about Granny,’ she said, ‘I’ll take care of her.’ ”

End of excerpt. If you’d like to read more, please check out Regrets To Die For at Amazon.com and other retail sites.

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Happy to be back

Posted on March 17, 2016 by Loretta Giacoletto

Hello to my old friends and to those stopping by for the first time. I am delighted to be back after a self-imposed sabbatical in which I finished Book 2 from the Savino Sisters Mystery Series, REGRETS TO DIE FOR. After practically typing the imprints off of my fingers, I’ve decided to ease into my blogging and re-introduce myself with a repeat of the first blog I wrote four years ago.

What’s in a Name?

I started out life at 40th and Waverly in East St. Louis, Illinois. My parents named me Loretta Mary Kay, a simple name that flowed nicely and for a child, easy enough to remember. Nevertheless, it confused some people, mostly adults who thought me a bit dense. “No, honey, what’s your last name, the one that comes after Kay.” The name goes back to Wisconsin a good 140 years or so, and before that to Germany. Considering the brevity, Kay might’ve been shortened from one more complicated but this I don’t know for sure. As for me, I don’t feel the least bit German because I grew up around my mother’s side of the family, who came from Northern Italy, and eventually I married my high school sweetheart whose parents also emigrated from Italy. In fact, his family and mine lived near each other in the Piemonte region of the Italian Alps, their four homes no further apart than thirty minutes.

Now I feel as though I’ve been Loretta Giacoletto forever. It’s not the simplest of names but it does flow nicely even though the pronunciation occasionally confuses some people. For those of you among the challenged this is an easy way to remember Giacoletto:

Gee-ah-co-let-to

 Now say it aloud, in the Italian way, quickly with the accent on the third syllable and be sure to pronounce both ts:

Gee-ah-co-let′-to

Beautiful, yes? I still can hear a young man paging my name at the picturesque Hotel Lucchesi located on the River Arno in Florence, Italy:

Signora Giacoletto, Signora Giacoletto

Italy never stops calling to me—the wonderful sights and smells, the mouth-watering food and earthy people. I’ve been there a number of times but still haven’t had my fill. So, in the meantime I write about an Italy and its people that only exist in my mind although to me they seem so real I want to share them with my readers.

Rather than repeat myself any further, I’ll just say, ’Til next time …

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It’s Shaping Up

Posted on July 1, 2015 by Loretta Giacoletto

“It’s shaping up,” as my piano teacher from long ago used to tell me. Words to live by, I can finally say the same about my current work-in-progress, Memories to Die For from The Savino Sisters Mystery Series. I’m almost done, by done I mean approaching the final chapter. After that comes the fun part, at least for me: the endless tweaking, the double and triple checking of facts, deciding between a semi colon and period. After finishing that, I’ll turn this baby over to my beta proof readers while I work with a terrific designer to create an unforgettable cover, one to complement Italy to Die For, my first mystery with the Savino Sisters.

I usually write in chapter-by-chapter sequence, but for this book I made an exception and let the characters tell me how the story should open. So here it is, Chapter 1:

On the Bridge

1944, Northwest Italy. During the day a panoramic view of Pont Canavese boasted a picturesque scene of clay-tiled roofs against a backdrop of lush, green foothills leading to the magnificent Italian Alps. But a closer perspective of the village told a different story with its convoluted mix of loyalty, mistrust, pride, and defiance. Although the Allied Army had liberated much of Southern Italy, Germany still occupied the Piemonte Region and its war-torn city of Torino where the Italian Resistance was quietly gaining momentum. And in those lush foothills and snow-capped Alps, the local partigiani did their part by gathering intelligence for The Allies and carrying out covert operations, whatever it took to secure their positions and eventually liberate all of Italy.

When evening turned into night, the villagers of Pont extinguished their lamps before crawling into bed.  In the event an alpine storm invaded their sleep, the villagers made sure the shutters were latched and the animals secured before returning to bed with thoughts of what tomorrow would bring. Not much since the German soldiers took more than their fair share of wine and cheese and meat. Such was the time of war. Open resistance invited reprisals. A cloak of secrecy produced better results.

On a night in late spring when the snows had disappeared from hills surrounding Pont, a storm like none other hammered the village and countryside with unrelenting rain and damaging hale, some half the size of a bocce pallino. Thunder rumbled as bolts of lightning shot across the sky, ever so briefly illuminating an otherwise eerie landscape that included the rivers Orco and Soana. One bolt offered a snapshot view of a vehicle without headlights approaching the Soana. As soon as the bolt disappeared, a view of the vehicle did too.

A close up of the bridge spanning the Soana would have revealed that same vehicle making its way across, only to stop on reaching the middle. The driver hopped out, leaving the motor running. By the time he reached the passenger side, a second man exited from the rear door. Together they pulled a third man from the back seat. The third man broke loose from their grip and started to run on wobbly legs. In a matter of seconds the driver jumped the wobbly man, causing him to fall on an already bloodied face. He was crying when the other two dragged him to the bridge railing. He begged for his life and made certain promises when they bent him over the railing. After they lifted his feet into the air and sent him into the rushing current of the Soana, the man with wobbly legs did not utter another sound.

The driver let out a sob and crossed himself. The other man blew a fingertip kiss to the Soana. They got back into the car but instead of going forward, they backed across the bridge, made a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn, and drove into the hills.

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