Darlene's Digest

The manatee swam closer and bumped up against the boat, threatening to swamp it. Julia held on to the sides and rocked with the boat, but the manatee was not put off by the collision, and instead swam back a few feet and watched her placidly, looking for all the world like, well, like a large wet cow blocking her path. “Shoo, shoo.” Julia took off her bonnet and waved it at the creature. The manatee must have considered it an invitation, for it swam back to her and before she realized such a monster could move so quickly, snatched the bonnet out of her hand. Soon the calico was being chewed alongside the greens, a colorful sea salad. “Aaargh! Go away, you beast!” “Now, that’s not a polite way to say good morning, darlin’.” --SMUGGLER'S BRIDE Today is  #ManateeAppreciationDay, though I like to think in Florida we appreciate our official state mammal every day. Manatees are gentle creatures, a valuable part of our ecosystem. Sadly, their biggest threat is from humans, especially hum...

              Julia sniffed. “I am impressed you can recite poetry, Washburn. Rather like a counting pig at the fair. One watches in amazement, wondering how an animal can do that.”             “Now that hurts! I can say pretty things, too.”             He crossed to where she stood beside the bed, and took her hand in his. His touch was warm, and she gave an involuntary shiver having nothing to do with the night air.             He stroked the ball of her hand with his thumb, soothing over the nicks and calluses raised by the chores of daily farm work. He took his other hand and lifted her chin, looking deep into her eyes.             “Y’know how when you whack the woodpile, and all them big ol’ palmetto bugs come scamperin’ out? Your ...

"Possum hangin’ in the tree, Raccoon on the ground; Raccoon say, you stingy rat, Shake them ’simmons down!” Julia paused in her singing and frowned down at the spoon stirring through the cake batter. “Possum hanging in the tree?” Where had that come from? “Goodness, I’m becoming countrified!” She chuckled, looking out the kitchen window at the activity in the yard. Rand was doing the morning chores in preparation for their trip to the Iveys’ farm. For a moment she watched him as she stirred, indulging herself in a fantasy that theirs was a normal marriage, two people on the Florida frontier, making a new life together. But it was as much a fantasy as singing raccoons. --SMUGGLER'S BRIDE If it's autumn in North Central Florida, it's persimmon time! They're starting to come into our farmers market and I snagged a few. These are still at the firm stage and may not make it to the cakes. I also like them sliced up over my breakfast cereal. However, the season is long e...

When Rand opened the cabin door he spied Julia up on the center of the table, skirt hiked up in her hand. “Snake!” she whispered, pointing with her shaking free hand to a darkened corner of the cabin. He dropped his bag and fetched the lamp and the broom. When he raised the lamp and peered into the corner, there was a faint susurrus—a sound like sand falling on the floor. Looking closer, he set down the lamp and broom and said, “C’mon outta there, fella.” He crouched down and waved his fingers in front of the snake, and when it coiled to leap he grabbed it behind its head. The snake wrapped itself around his arm, but Rand didn’t let go of the snake’s head. He straightened and turned to Julia, the snake clinging to his arm, tongue darting in and out in agitation. “This ain’t nothin’ but a corn snake, darlin’. He’s likely more scared of you than you are of him.” He held the snake up, admiring the red, gold, and brown stripes and chevrons patterning the reptile’s body as the snake squirme...

"Mr. Washburn, do you like chicken with dumplings so light they float off the plate? Baked turkey with pecan dressing? Rice that doesn’t taste like paste?" She looked at him through her lashes and drawled huskily, "Sweet potato pie?" --Smuggler's Bride   Springtime is blueberry season in North Central Florida and I love to stock up. According to the Florida Blueberry Growers Association, blueberries weren't a huge crop here until some new varieties were developed and commercial growing began to take off in the 1980s. When I go to the weekly farmers market I bring home a quart or two in season, and what doesn’t get snacked on becomes blueberry pies, muffins, and cakes. Today I was on a Zoom call with #RegencyFictionWriters and I mentioned I was in the middle of baking Blueberry Tea Cakes, so naturally, people wanted me to post a recipe. I confess that I don't especially enjoy baking, but I love eating, especially when it's with fresh, local ingredien...

“Your eyes are like pecans, Julia. Brandy brown, and like the nuts, you’re hard on the outside, but buttery on the inside. It’s a chore getting to that good stuff, but that’s part of the fun, workin’ your way past the shell to the rich meat. And when you crack a pecan and the nut comes out whole, have you ever noticed how it’s like two lips, plump and tasty and just waitin’ for the right someone’s mouth to enjoy all the pleasure trapped within?” A faint smile at that one. “Better, but not quite Byron.” “How ’bout this then?” He moved in even closer, and released her hand, running his finger along her eyebrow down to the outer corner of her eye, where he feathered it over the soft skin at her temple, a touch as light as a moth’s wing passing in the night. The hand behind her back pulled her in until she was standing between his legs, and could feel how seriously he was taking this wordplay. “Your eyes are the smoky bronze of coffee, rich and deep. It settles in your belly and warms ...

Fifteen hundred dollars worth of coffee coming in duty free meant a tidy profit. A simple plan, but one that worked all too well given the poor state of the Revenue Marine. The revenue cutters couldn’t begin to cover all of the coast, not when the ships were spread thin with surveying, rescue operations, and winter cruising between Charleston and Key West. Underfunded, understaffed, looked down on by the regular navy, despised by the merchants who paid the tariffs, the Revenue Marine was no one’s darling. Well, except maybe Alexander Hamilton. He’d loved his revenue cutters that brought money into the Treasury, but look what happened to him, Rand thought. Irritate the wrong people and there you are, worm food. --SMUGGLER'S BRIDE The United States Coast Guard, aka the Revenue-Marine, aka the Revenue Cutter Service was founded on this day in 1790 by US Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton. Happy Birthday, Coast Guard! You can read more about the role of the Revenue Marine in Territ...

She excused herself from the heat of the cane fires and walked to the tables where the women were laying out an array of pumpkin and pecan pies, shortbread oozing with sweet jam, all of it covered with light cloths to keep the insects off. Crocks of preserves and pickled tomatoes, cucumbers, and relishes shone in the sun. Her persimmon cakes were added to the pile. While once Julia might have wondered who could consume so much food at one sitting, she’d seen the Crackers sit down to their victuals and knew the food would be little more than a memory by the time the day was done...The uncooked cane juice in the barrels was pale green, and as it cooked and was stirred it thickened and ripened to a deep amber, becoming the syrup prized for sweetening everything from coffee to pecan pie to biscuits. “It’s a lot of work to get a little sweetness in your life.” Julia looked over her shoulder and favored her husband with an arch smile. “But worth the effort, don’t you think?” She looked bac...

"Possum hangin’ in the tree,  Raccoon on the ground;  Raccoon say, you stingy rat, Shake them ’simmons down!” Julia paused in her singing and frowned down at the spoon stirring through the cake batter. “Possum hanging in the tree?”  Where had that come from?  “Goodness, I’m becoming countrified!” She chuckled, looking out the kitchen window at the activity in the yard. Rand was doing the morning chores in preparation for their trip to the Iveys’ farm. For a moment she watched him as she stirred, indulging herself in a fantasy that theirs was a normal marriage, two people on the Florida frontier, making a new life together. But it was as much a fantasy as singing raccoons. --SMUGGLER'S BRIDE If it's autumn in North Central Florida, it's persimmon time! They're starting to come into our farmers market, a little late this year because of our extra hot summer, but I snagged a few. These are still at the ripe but firm stage and may not make it to the c...

They kept walking and after a while the tension in Julia’s head eased and she could enjoy more of the sight of a Florida she hadn’t seen, the busy autumn world of returning northern birds and squabbling natives, staking their claims to the insects and nesting areas of the pinewoods. Washburn walked through the woods with confidence, but kept his rifle cradled in front of him. When she came up beside him, she saw his eyes were moving over the terrain, scanning it for danger. The trail was wider here and they could walk abreast rather than with Julia trailing behind. --Smuggler's Bride   Autumn is my favorite season for hiking in the Florida woods and I set out yesterday for an afternoon trek through San Felasco Hammock Preserve State Park , one of the last stands of mature forest in the state. If you've only visited Orlando or South Florida, this is a sight to see if you've ever wondered about "the other Florida." Hiking is a good opportunity to think and ...

More shots rang out, going wide of where Rand stood. He stuck his head around the tree and the smoke from [redacted] gun was enough to give Rand something to sight on, and get off a shot of his own before he ducked back. The muzzle flash compromised his night vision and he waited a moment before looking back around, in time to see a silhouette at the river edge—and a darker silhouette moving swiftly through the water. “Get away from the river, there’s a gator coming after you!” “You can’t fool me that way, Wash—” A piercing shriek split the night, followed by a large splash. --SMUGGLER'S BRIDE   This was a Sunday where I needed to get away from the 24-hour news and social media cycle of tragedy and politics. I headed out to my favorite city walking trail at Sweetwater Wetlands Park , where nature and the city meet through reclaimed wetlands. It was a perfect day for a trek and I was rolling along, enjoying the wildflowers and egrets, ibis, ducks and cranes in abundan...

“You may have noticed I am wearing one of your shirts this morning.” “Oh yeah,” Rand murmured. He’d noticed. Looked like she had two puppies in a sack in there, tusslin’ when she moved. “The reason I am wearing your clothes is because the laundry needs to be done and you have not done it.” That statement took him out of his contemplation of how much fun it would be to undo the rest of the buttons on his shirt and give those pups some air. “What?” “I said, you have not done the laundry, Washburn.” Julia turned back to the grate to squat down and flip the cakes. “Yeah, well, that’s your job. You’re the wife.” She turned her head and looked up at him with raised brows. “Is that what you thought? That because that magistrate pronounced a few words over us I would take over all the domestic chores? Who did your laundry before you had a wife?” Rand shifted and ran his free hand through his hair. “I did my laundry. But I didn’t like it!” “No one likes it. Here is what I propose… I will conti...

Julia took a moment to go over and watch the cane mill, where a placid ox hitched to a lever walked ’round and ’round the contraption. The cane mill was two vertical iron rollers set in a heavy wood frame, and Franklin Ivey and the other feeders slowly passed the towering red cane stalks between the grinding rollers as the ox worked the treadmill. As the juice was squeezed out of the stalks of cane, it ran into a trough attached to the mill frame, while the cane pulp fell from the other side. The uncooked cane juice in the barrels was pale green, and as it cooked and was stirred it thickened and ripened to a deep amber, becoming the syrup prized for sweetening everything from coffee to pecan pie to biscuits. --Smuggler's Bride  I admit to some befuddlement over today being #NationalPecanPieDay, because every Southern gal knows pecans are a fall harvest. I keep my fresh, in the shell nuts in the freezer to use all year, but I make my pies for Thanksgiving and winter events. ...

Underfunded, understaffed, looked down on by the regular navy, despised by the merchants who paid the tariffs, the Revenue Marine was no one’s darling. Well, except maybe Alexander Hamilton, he’d loved his revenue cutters that brought money into the Treasury, but look what happened to him, Rand thought. Irritate the wrong people and there you are, worm food. --Smuggler's Bride Today is the anniversary of the stupid duel between Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton, a tragedy resulting in the death of this Founding Father who did so much for our country. I read Ron Chernow's biography many years ago and was captivated by the amazing man who accomplished great things in his brief lifetime. Hamilton's legacy helped me write Smuggler's Bride , my novel about the early Coast Guard, aka the Revenue Marine. Alexander Hamilton was flawed, but his legacy lives on. I haven't seen the musical yet but I hope some day to be in the right place at the right time to get Hami...

It was pleasant rowing, the cypress and sweetbays shading the creek against the rising heat. There was the flash of a deer’s tail as it headed deeper into the scrub oak. A red hawk soared overhead, looking for breakfast, and when she saw a family of otters sliding down the mud into the water, she laughed aloud at their antics. The creek widened and grew, joining with other waters until it was a small river. It was cool and restful in a way she’d never imagined Florida. Here was a side that showed itself like violets hidden in the forest, a face different from the mosquito-ridden, pestilent, humid sweat bath of the cities. Julia was so captivated by the sights that she shipped her oars, letting the current take her, and daydreamed until she glanced over the bow of the boat. And screamed. A massive sea creature bobbed in the water off the starboard bow, gazing at her with limpid eyes while it masticated a wad of greenery in its whiskered mouth. Julia’s hand clutched the front of her dre...

“You ain’t from around here, I can tell that from how you talk.” “No, ma’am, I’m from England.” “Hmph. Only good thing that ever came from England was tea.” Julia didn’t think it necessary to explain that tea came from China, for Ma Ivey was still talking. --Smuggler's Bride Today is #InternationalTeaDay and I'm celebrating at lunch with a pot of gunpowder green. Of course, that's what I do every day when I'm home for lunch. Tea drinking is as much a part of my daily routine as my love of coffee, with a pot of green in the afternoon and a cuppa black in the early evening. I'm very particular about my tea drinking, which is why I almost never order it when I'm out. Unless it's brewed properly, loose-leaf in a warmed pot, I'd rather have coffee. I do take bagged tea when I'm traveling, but I also have a tea press if I have the opportunity to bring water to a near boil in my hotel room. There's nothing quite like a soothing cup of tea in the...

I've switched up my daily walks to get in my steps early in the morning, before the heat, humidity and rain become unbearable. I don't like getting up at 5:45 to manage this, but it's worth it. Not only am I getting in my 10k steps before 10 a.m. but I get to see some beautiful sunrises. It's also an opportune time to observe some of the wildlife. Our heavily wooded neighborhood is home to plenty of owls and hawks, and I see and hear them finishing up their nightly rounds or just starting the day's hunt. It's also the best time to spot the Florida Bare-chested Running Hunk. This is a creature seen throughout the peninsula, but when one lives in a college town the numbers rise even higher. While not as colorful as the Painted Bunting, it has a certain appeal. In the summer it's an early morning or evening traveler due to the aforementioned weather, and spotting a flock does help make getting up (literally) at  the crack of dawn more tolerable. Incidenta...

“Is that coffee I smell?” Washburn filled the doorway to the kitchen, a look of such amazed wonder on his face that she had to smile. “Indeed, there was coffee with the supplies. Help yourself to a cup while I finish this up. The grits are about ready, and if you can wait a few more minutes, there will be ham and eggs as well.” “Bless you, darlin’. I’m beginnin’ to think you an angel sent from above.” He poured a cup from the pot next to the fire and dumped in a generous serving of sugar before bringing it up to his nose. He closed his eyes and inhaled, then opened them and took a reverent sip. “Ah,” he said with feeling. “Hot and sweet, just the way I like it.” He was watching her as he said it, and Julia turned away to whip the eggs more fiercely before pouring them into the pan. -- Smuggler's Bride I didn't need much convincing that coffee is the elixir of life. Heaven knows I need it to jump start my brain in the morning! But it's nice to know that it's no...

Today I was reading an old history of the early United States Coast Guard and I think I found the MacGuffin for my next novel. You don't know what a MacGuffin is? The Maltese Falcon is probably the best example. In my published novels, the pirate treasure in The Bride and the Buccaneer is a MacGuffin. I was reading about the USCG, actually the early Cutter Service aka the Revenue Marine, because they'd been part of the plot for Smuggler's Bride   and I always wanted to do another Coastie book. So much good material there, especially in Florida history! People ask me what kind of writer I am, a plotter or a "pantser", as in "I write by the seat of my pants." I'm a "pantser", though I prefer Nora Roberts' more elegant term, an "organic writer". I start writing and see where the story takes me. Once I start the "what if?" process, my brain cranks up and I find myself filling in gaps or raising questions at odd mom...

Before we celebrated US-style Thanksgiving in Florida (the Spaniards celebrated Thanksgiving with the Timucua Indians at St. Augustine long before those latecomer Pilgrims set foot aboard ship) we had cane grinding in the autumn to share the work and feast with friends: As the shadows lengthened, the men began gathering around the tables like wasps drawn to sweet fruit, cozying up to their women and trying to talk them out of some of the food before the feast officially began. Ma Ivey ruled her dirt yard like an empress and wasn’t above slapping a reaching hand with a wooden spoon when they drew too close. Finally though, the last of the cane was put through the mill and the syrup cooked down, and as the night sky filled with stars the feast began to a chorus of tree frogs and crickets serenading the workers. They lined up before the platters of roast pig and venison, quails, turkey, and doves. Even a possum or two joined the potatoes in the smoldering coals. There was fish stew a...