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'At Bus Stops on Thanksgiving Day' Poem by Donal Mahoney

11/27/2015

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Before dawn, people

who work on Thanksgiving Day  
wait in the wind for a bus 
to arrive or maybe not.
It's too cold to talk  
so the people stand 
like minutemen and plan 
a revolution that would shock  
nice families who drive by later, 
children tucked in scarves 
and mittens, laughing 
all the way to Nana's house  
for turkey, gravy, stuffing 
and later in the day 
a ballerina of whipped cream 
twirling on pumpkin pie.
Thanksgiving is the day 
America asks for seconds
and sorts its servers 
from the served.
 
 
Donal Mahoney
 
 
————————————————————————--
Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, The Chicago Tribune and  Commonweal.  Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs=
 

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Nonfiction Book Review for ‘Whitney Miller’s New Southern Table’ Cookbook Published by Thomas Nelson Books

11/27/2015

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Book Description
MasterChef winner Whitney Miller shares her favorite family recipes with her own unique flair, making them lighter and infusing them with global flavors.

Following her great-grandmothers' examples of creatively stretching meals during the Great Depression, Whitney Miller transforms recipes from her Southern roots, preserving flavors of traditional family dishes while offering the excitement of her own special touches. She offers a taste of her family table with dishes like Southern Horchata, PB&J Chicken Satay, Dehydrated Okra Chips, Sweet Corn Grit Tamales, Peach Bread Pudding with Sweet Tea Rum Sauce, and much more. Using new techniques and cooking methods, Miller reimagines classic recipes and experiments with flavors from around the world, inspired by her travels since winning MasterChef.

About the Author
Whitney Miller, winner at twenty-two of MasterChef, has been featured across the globe in Southern cuisine cooking promotions and as a judge in food competitions, including the 2013 World Food Championship. Her recipes and articles have appeared in People, Women’s Health, Masterchef, Clean Eating, and Cooking Light magazines, and her cooking demonstrations have been featured in the MasterChef app. She lives in Plant City, Florida.
 
My Thoughts:  I was excited to get this book as I am an alumni from the same university the author is. I am always pleased to help promote others’ work.  I didn’t get the first book that she published. I might have liked it better.  This one is putting a southern twist on recipes from around the world, and as such, has quite a bit of ingredients and recipes in here that most southern people aren’t going to be familiar with. Having been born and raised in Mississippi for the most part, I can tell you that these recipes are not true southern cooking. However, I can see that these recipes probably make the book more marketable to a wider audience, and will help bring new flavors and recipes to the southern table.  But if someone is wanting true south Mississippi cooking, this isn’t it. 3.5 Stars.

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Nonfiction Book Review for ‘The Chili Cookbook’ by Rob Walsh, Published by Ten Speed Press

11/27/2015

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5 stars!  All I can say is, wow.  This book has more than just chili recipes.  The pictures are beautiful.  The beginning has some introductions on what types of chilies to use, and a history of chili in Part 1.  I personally love Part 2, Tex-Mex Traditions. I lived many years in Texas and then moved away, and really miss the Tex-Mex flavors that I haven’t been able to find anywhere else. Part 3 is Chili Road Trip, featuring chili recipes from around the world, and Part 4 is Modern and Vegetarian Chilies.  This book has recipes for everyone from meat lovers to vegetarians, from seafood and goulashes, really hot and spicy and mild flavors, and green chili.  The author even included a cornbread recipe, and a section on how to throw a chili party.  The author resides in Texas, is a former food reviewer, and co-owns a Tex-Mex restaurant.  This is a man who knows his food, especially Texas style!  This book was a great find for me. I can now enjoy the Tex-Mex flavors that I have missed since I left Texas.
 
Disclaimer: I received this book for free in exchange for writing a review. I was not required to write a positive review, and all thought and opinions I have expressed are my own.

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'Big Thanksgiving Snow' by Donal Mahoney

11/26/2015

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Big Thanksgiving Snow
 
"Sometimes Jesus walked around with a big staff, just like me," Mrs. Day says to herself as she looks at the frayed picture on her kitchen wall just above the little kitchen table. She cut that picture out of a magazine 50 years ago when she subscribed to Life and Look and Colliers magazines.
 
"Jesus doesn't need that staff," Mrs. Day tells herself. "It was a sunny day in Jericho, the article said. I'll bet He used that staff to go up in the hills to pray. The Bible says He often left the apostles behind to go away and pray. I'd have kept an eye on Him if I was there."

 
At 80 Mrs. Day is legally blind with one good leg. She has a staff of her own to help her walk to stores and then back to her little house. The staff is at least a foot taller than she is. It was a gift from a dead neighbor who was handy with tools and liked to carve and whittle. Mrs. Day needs that staff this Thanksgiving Day as she makes her way through drifts of snow, an unusual amount for this first big winter holiday.
 

With nothing in the fridge except old bread and prunes, Mrs. Day hopes to find a diner open. Even Jack in the Box is closed for Thanksgiving so there will be no coffee with a Breakfast Jack to go but Mrs. Day has time today to find a place that is open. And she knows that place will probably be Vijay's Diner, where she's a customer on days when every other place is closed.
 
Vijay came to the United States long ago when Mumbai was still Bombay. He cooks for everyone every day of the year, whatever God they worship or ignore. He makes fine Indian dishes for customers who emigrated from India as he did. And he makes fine American cuisine for people from the neighborhood, most of whom have yet to adjust to Indian dishes and their redolent spices.
 
"I have a nice turkey leg, Mrs. Day, if you'd like that," he says, but all she wants is coffee, two sugars and a muffin to go.
 
"I'm on a diet," she tells him.
 
Vijay puts her items in a small brown bag and adds a free candy bar, a Baby Ruth bar, a big one, for later tonight. Mrs. Day will be angry when she gets home and finds it but that's okay. She can't come out at night to look for something to eat. It's tough enough for her to get around in sunlight.
 
Vijay waits for Mrs. Day to dig in her big purse and put all of her change on the counter. Then they count aloud together each coin that he picks up one at a time. Finally they agree he has the right amount even though Mrs. Day has trouble seeing the coins. Usually she can tell which are which by the feel of them. Now Vijay smiles at Mrs. Day, his customer on the holidays only.
 
"Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs. Day," he says. "I hope you'll come again. We'll have leg of lamb on Christmas. And ham and yams on New Year's Eve. I'll make you a nice big sandwich. I know you'll like it. You can skip the diet for one day.”
 
Donal Mahoney
 
————————————————————————--
Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, The Chicago Tribune and  Commonweal.  Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs=
 

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'It’s Not for the Usher to Ask', Poetry by Donal Mahoney

11/19/2015

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Many churches today
have a food pantry that never
had a pantry before.

I attend a church like that.
Some folks are well-fixed,
others poor, most betwixt.

Some had money before
but not enough now to pay
the mortgage and then buy food

so the pantry helps them
the same way it helps clients
it has helped for years.

Some folks in the pews quietly
support the pantry with
checks and canned goods

enabling the nouveau poor
to stand in line with the
forever poor on Mondays.

A neighborhood baker slips
into the church Sunday mornings
just prior to the end of service

and quietly stacks his trays
of unsold bread in the dark foyer.
He says nothing and disappears.

No one seems to know
who he is but the hungry
love his bread and word

of its excellence has reached
the woman who leaves church early
and always grabs two loaves

of French baguettes and is
out in the parking lot long
before anyone else and

drives off in a red Mercedes.
Perhaps she’s on unemployment,
low on food stamps or is still

making payments on the car.
It’s not for the usher to ask.
I simply hold the door.

By Donal Mahoney

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'Just Like you', a poem on bullying by Peyton King, written at age 13

11/18/2015

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Just Like You

Written by: Peyton King, age 13
 
Bullying, bullying
It’s not cool.
Tripping, laughing, teasing.
Why do you do this to me at school?

 
It gets old and boring,
You are all just the same,
I am lonely and numb;
You find new ways to cause me pain.
 
I’m in this corner,
With nowhere to run.
So get out of my face!
The damage is done!
 
Let me go now please.
Just leave me be!
I’ve had enough,
Can you not see?
 
Don’t push me, don’t hit me.
I’m in enough pain.
Don’t tease me, don’t laugh.
From all of this, what do you gain?
 
What did I do,
To deserve this all?
Why must you hurt me
When I walk down these halls?
 
I walk alone
With my books, my papers, my lunch.
And here are these bullies,
They walk in a bunch.
 
They say I deserve it,
But I’m not sure how.
What did I do?
Tell me right now!
 
Is my hair not right?
Am I too tall, too fat, too clumsy, too smart?
You call me desperate and pathetic
And laugh at my clothes from the Dollar Mart.
 
I get home from school,
No one is home.
I go to my room,
And look at my phone.
 
Twenty-three messages,
You’d think that was good,
But as I read them,
I feel more misunderstood.
 
I’ve made my decision.
It’s final, it’s true.
No one would miss me,
I know what I must do.
 
Online, I send out ten words:
‘I won’t be missed, from my pain I will be freed.’
I get out a gun and point it straight at me.
I aim the camera so they can watch me bleed.
 
I get one reply,
‘No! Without you, I’m over, I’m through!
I guess you don’t know,
That I’m just like you.
 
I get teased, hit, pushed,
Every single day.
I, too, can’t deal with the pain.
Maybe together we can find a way.’
 
I don’t know who it was,
Not a first or last name,
But I’ll face tomorrow
Because that message came.
 
I am no longer alone;
I’ve made my first friend.
Because of them,
My life did not end.

This poem first published in the summer 2015 edition of Skipping Stones Magazine.



ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Peyton is currently a freshmen in high school, age 15.  Peyton writes what she sees around her.  This poem is not about her.  She has not been bullied like this or been this depressed. This poem was inspired by real life events in the lives of those around her, however. Peyton and Dreaming Big share this poem in an effort to raise awareness of the very real - and very dangerous - consequences of bullying.  It's not "teasing" and a kid should never be told to "just deal with it; you have to learn to put up with difficult people" or "man up".

Peyton writes poetry and song lyric. She is currently writing and composing her newest song. Peyton is the author of the children's picture book, "Hokey Pokey Pirates", which can be purchased here 
http://www.amazon.com/Hokey-Pokey-Pirates-Peyton-King/dp/151424862X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1447844882&sr=8-1&keywords=hokey+pokey+pirates&pebp=1447844880823&perid=0MW6KFXQ4F8R7ZZRW7GS in print and ebook format.. The ebook is free for Kindle Unlimited subscribers through Amazon.
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Fiction Book Review for "The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto" by Mitch Albom

11/16/2015

1 Comment

 
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ABOUT THE BOOK: Mitch Albom creates his most unforgettable character—Frankie Presto, the greatest guitarist ever to walk the earth—in this magical novel about the power of talent to change our lives.
In Mitch Albom’s epic new novel, the voice of Music narrates the tale of its most beloved disciple, Frankie Presto, a Spanish war orphan raised by a blind music teacher. At nine years old, Frankie is sent to America in the bottom of a boat. His only possession is an old guitar and six magical strings.
But Frankie’s talent is touched by the gods, and it weaves him through the musical landscape of the twentieth century, from classical to jazz to rock and roll. Along the way, Frankie influences many artists: he translates for Django Reinhardt, advises Little Richard, backs up Elvis Presley, and counsels Hank Williams.
Frankie elevates to a rock star himself, yet his gift becomes his burden, as he realizes that he can actually affect people’s futures: his guitar strings turn blue whenever a life is altered. Overwhelmed by life, loss, and this power, he disappears for years, only to reemerge in a spectacular and mysterious farewell.
With its Forrest Gump–like journey through the music world, The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto is a classic in the making. A lifelong musician himself, Mitch Albom delivers an unforgettable story. “Everyone joins a band in this life,” he observes, be it through music, family, friends, or lovers. And those connections change the world.


About Mitch AlbomMitch Albom is a bestselling novelist, a screen-writer, a playwright, and an award-winning journalist. He is the author of six consecutive number-one New York Times bestsellers and has sold more than thirty-four million copies of his books in forty-two languages worldwide. Tuesdays with Morrie, which spent four years atop the New York Times list, is the bestselling memoir of all time.
Albom has founded seven charities, including the first-ever full-time medical clinic for homeless children in America. He also operates an orphanage in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. He lives with his wife, Janine, in suburban Detroit.


MY THOUGHTS: I'm giving it 3.5 stars because the book just wasn't my type. Great story line, and I really wanted to like it more, but I had a hard time getting into it. That's always a bad sign for me.  I can't exactly put my finger on why this was the case.  All I know is that some books grab me and I can't put them down, and others are more of a chore to read. It's probably the writing style.  I will give the author a resounding 5 stars for his charity work though. Founding seven charities is awesome.  As a bestselling writer, I suppose I'm in the minority not being able to get into the writing. Keep up the good work.


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Fiction Book Review for ‘The Martian” by Andy Weir

11/14/2015

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In this book, an astronaut is abandoned on Mars by his crew, who left him for dead.  He wasn’t dead like they thought, and the book is about his survival on the moon.  This book has received good reviews from scientists who say that the author’s science is sound.  I’m not a scientist, but I can say that the book is full of science and math.  Almost too much.  My eyes would begin to glaze over and my mind would want to skip ahead to “the good parts” when these scientific explanations would get too lengthy. 

I felt that the main character needed some more human elements in order to flesh out the character and relate to him.  The saving grace was his humor here and there throughout.  That’s the only thing that didn’t make this basically a textbook-like read.  I felt it could use more of this.  More emotional elements to make the character come to life.  We know that he was hungry and tired of potatoes, but there wasn’t any focus on this as far as him feeling weak or lacking strength.  There also wasn’t anything to suggest he was worried about family back home or missing anybody. 
Visually, I thought the author did a great job.  I could easily visualize the scenes in my head.  I can’t wait to see the movie.  Overall, I give this a 4 star rating.

I received a free copy of this book in exchange for posting an honest review.

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'The Little Big Things' by Diamante Lavendar

11/11/2015

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When she cleaned her house, she always decorated the table with flowers. Then she would go and put a single flower in a vase in the bathroom for added effect. Her house was her sanctuary and she was determined to make it a happy one.

Whenever the days were long, she would come home and sit and gaze at her flowers. They filled her with life and hope and determination. Sometimes she wondered how something so small could bring changes so large to a home or a heart. But then, she knew, the small things in life often did.

Like the time that her daughter burst in the house after school, excitedly running up to her. Her eyes glittering like diamonds, she held out a drawing that she had made in art class. “I did it for you, mommy! Just for you!” Her daughter smiled, wiggling expectantly back and forth, barely able to contain herself.

When she looked at the picture, what she beheld was more beautiful than anything Picasso himself could have conjured up. “I love it, sweetie! It’s beautiful!”

The hugs and kisses that ensued were more “little” life pleasantries that swelled her heart to a gigantic size. Nothing could compare to the hugs and kisses of her child, the happiness engulfing them like a soft, fuzzy blanket.

She would then find a frame and hang the picture in a prevalent part of the house; a constant reminder of her child’s love and creativity. Her house was filled with many of those very creations.

She also remembered when she was having a particularly bad day. She was at the store and was buying groceries. When it came time to pay for them, she rifled through her wallet looking nervously for the correct amount that was due. No matter how hard she tried, she kept coming up with the bleak realization that she didn’t have enough.

A feeling of desperation filled her and eyes began to tear up. “Why does this have to happen on the worst days?” she asked herself, tears stinging at the back of her eyes.
“I’ve got it,” the man behind her said, a big smile consuming his face. “It’s only ten dollars.”
Feeling as though she had just won the lottery, she looked over at the man, feeling her tears begin to flow.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” he smiled even more. “Really.”

“Thank you so much! Thank you!” she exclaimed several times. She smiled back, trying to display her gratefulness. She wanted to run over and hug him but was too shy to do so. Instead he smiled even more.

“It’s my pleasure! I can see you’re having a bad day. I just want to brighten it for you! I’m glad I was able to!”

She sat back, gazing at the colorful flowers.  They filled her with hope.  And wasn’t that what everyone needs?  A little hope?  She realized that the little things were the hope builders, the heart repairers.

And those were the things that meant the most. Those were the things that were remembered. Those were the little things that were really the big things. The little big things were the most important pieces in life’s journey!

Visit the author's website here: http://diamantelavendar.com/
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'Jenny and the Hornet' by Barbara Ruth

11/10/2015

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Jenny and the Hornet

When I was five we lived in Lee’s Summit, Missouri, at the end of the town, where the farms began. Our house was the last one on the block. Our closest neighbor was Jenny, the cow in the pasture next door. The other kids yelled at her, and some of the boys threw rocks that never quite hit her but came close. Jenny kept her distance from them, but ambled up to the fence when I came over. She was my friend, someone I could tell my secrets to while I stroked her velvet nose. I fed her grass she could perfectly well munch up from the ground for herself, but maybe she liked the feel of my hand as much as I liked the pull of her lips.

We all heard it on the radio: Schwinn was having a contest - any kid under thirteen could send in an original poem. Schwinn would make the winning poem into an advertisement. Sitting on the other side of the fence from Jenny, I worked out my poem - my try for the Schwinn bike - and practiced telling it to her until it sounded just right. She thought I had a good chance.

I printed the lines, and Mom typed them up and addressed the envelope to the Post Office Box where the judges lived. My poem went like this:
I sure would like
A brand new bike
If it’s a Schwinn
I’ll always win.

It took a whole month but finally our mailman delivered a letter from Schwinn addressed to me.

“Congratulations! Your poem has been chosen as our new Schwinn jingle. You have won a 26 inch red Schwinn Hornet. Please have one of your parents call the number below to assure an adult is present when it comes.”

My parents really tried to convince me to ask Schwinn to send a smaller bike. “Let’s look in the Sears catalog and find a little Schwinn that you like, “ Mom said. “How about a 20 inch with training wheels?” Dad said.

“That’s like a tricycle! I won the 26 inch Hornet and that’s the bike I want.”

When the post office truck delivered it, all the kids on the block came to see. The Hornet was shiny red and silver, with a light on the front, and a rack on the back. I was really glad I’d won a Hornet because sometimes I wanted to BE a hornet and sting everybody I was mad at. Ribbons hung from the handlebars. I hadn’t expected them to be quite that high. I hadn’t expected 26 inches to be quite that tall. If my Grandpa had been there, he would have said, “You can do it. Show ‘em your spunk.”

So I gathered up my spunk and strode beside Dad as he walked my Schwinn to the top of our hilly street. “I’ll run along beside you,” he said.

Several grown-ups and teenagers came out to their front lawns to watch us. The younger kids were still waiting at the bottom of the hill.

“Is that the bike you won?” Kenny asked.

“Yep. I’m going to ride it.”

“Don’t you think it’s too big for you?” Mrs. Brownsworth said as Dad and the Hornet and I walked past her house.

“Nope. It’s just right.”

Dad tried to lift me onto the bike. “I can do it!” I insisted. He lowered the kickstand and I stepped one foot on the farthest pedal, put one hand on the handlebar on the same side, stood up on the pedal, put my other hand and foot on the pedal and handlebar closest to my right foot, then lifted it up too. It found the other pedal and I wriggled my bottom up onto the seat.

“Seems like a pretty sturdy kickstand,” Dad said. “Now remember, you pedal backwards to put on the brakes, just like your trike.”

“I know!”

“Okay, I’m going to hold onto the bike as I push away the kickstand with my foot. I’ll be right beside you. Mom is down there by our house, she’ll run toward you if you need her. Don’t let go of the handlebars.”

I didn’t want any more advice. I wanted to fly like a Hornet. I pushed my feet once, maybe twice. No more pedals. I leaned forward over the handlebars, reaching my legs as long as they would go. Where were the pedals?

“Step on the brakes!” Dad yelled. But his voice came from somewhere behind me, not beside me. I didn’t look back to see where he was. I didn’t look for Mom beside our house. I didn’t look at the neighbors. I looked at the fence at the bottom of the hill, the one in front of the pasture. First the kids were standing there, then they were running to one side or another.

I squeezed my eyes shut as I plowed into the fence. I was sure Hornet and I would get tangled in the barbed wire and I’d wreck my bike in front of everybody.

But I cruised right through. I felt stings and slashes on my arms and legs as the fence buckled and broke.

I don’t remember trying to steer. We were still going fast, the Hornet and me, when we rammed into Jenny, the wall that finally stopped us. She staggered, but kept her balance. The Hornet and I collapsed on the ground beside her.

I can’t remember if the bike was repaired. I don’t know if I was hurt; if so, it didn’t require a trip to the doctor. What I remember is the wide-eyed panic on Jenny’s sweet face as she shook her head and ran to the far edge of the pasture.

We were no longer friends. I was just another dangerous kid.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Barbara Ruth is a published photographer, poet, essayist, and fiction writer, as well as memoirist. Her recent photography, memoir, and poetry appears in the current issues of Memoirabilia and Barking Sycamores.
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