Karen Docter's Blog
October 17, 2025
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s with THE OTHELLO CLUB #Crime #Suspense #Thriller by J.D. Pennington #Recipe ~ Slow Cooked Curry Lamb
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **AUTHOR SPECIAL** with J.D. PENNINGTON!
Welcome to my Friday bonus feature called Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **Author Special**!! Today, instead of one of my recipes, I will introduce you to a new author who will share a favorite recipe. Not only will you and I occasionally learn how to make something new and delicious, but we’ll also get a chance to check out some fantastic authors. Introducing author J.D. PENNINGTON and his favorite recipe for Slow Cooked Curry Lamb with Tomato Kachumber, Raita, and Indian Oven Fries!
THE OTHELLO CLUB
Suspense Crime Thriller
BY J.D. PENNINGTON
Blurb
Six divorcees seek revenge on their deceitful spouses, but someone starts taking it much too far…
Emily had the perfect life – the perfect job, the perfect house, the perfect husband – before she was blindsided and betrayed and lost it all. Now she’s sitting in a divorce counselling group wondering how she’ll ever feel okay again. What she wants is her old life back, and these group sessions seem to be the only way she’ll be able to move on – past the jealousy, the hurt, and the daydreams of getting revenge.
And it seems everyone in the group is in the same boat: jilted by an ex-partner and struggling to cope. So over post-therapy drinks, the six divorcées come up with the brilliant idea to get a little payback of their own – Strangers-on-a-Train style, with each getting even on another’s behalf. Nothing serious – just enough to disrupt their former partner’s picture-perfect lives.
Emily is hesitant at first, but the more her old life spins away from her, the less she worries about her morals – plus, they agreed no one would get hurt.
But just when the group think they’ve pulled off the perfect petty crimes, one of the exes is found dead… and then another… and another…
With DI Rosa Hawkes on their case and the plan spiralling out of control, Emily doesn’t know who she can trust, and if divorce taught her anything, it’s that you can’t trust anyone, even the people you love. Especially the people you love. Let alone perfect strangers like these.
THE OTHELLO CLUB
Suspense Crime Thriller
BY J.D. PENNINGTON
Excerpt
“But jealous souls will not be answered so.
They are not ever jealous for the cause,
But jealous for they’re jealous. It is a monster
begot upon itself, born on itself.”
William Shakespeare, Othello
1
Emily
2 May
Nobody was supposed to get hurt. She drew a line. No violence. They all swore agreement. But one of them has broken their covenant and redrawn that line in blood.
Emily perches on a leather armchair, one of six arranged in a ritualistic circle, attempting to recalibrate her spiralling thoughts. Dulled to the drone of Malcolm, their group therapist, she studies the faces of her five accomplices. For signs of culpability, or contrition, but realising with terrifying lucidity how little she knows about them. If divorce taught her anything, it’s that you can’t trust anyone. Even the people you love. Especially the people you love. Let alone perfect strangers like these.
Fear billows through her, carrying with it a fresh wave of nausea. She fights the urge to vomit. Or rather, dry heave, the contents of her stomach already disgorged following the shock of that heinous news headline. After scouring the details online, Emily swore never to return to this toxic cabal. Every instinct screaming to take flight. To call the police and end this aberrant madness. Yet here she is, compelled to uncover the malefactor among them. The only thing she is sure of is that one of them is guilty of this atrocity.
Or, it occurs to Emily, perhaps they all are.
2
Rosa
25 May
Love is brutal…” I crane forward, resting my elbows on the interview table. “Believe me, I know. In fifteen years as a detective, I’ve witnessed every act of cruelty possible. But nothing compares to the savagery of crimes committed in the name of love. Especially when its pathology turns to hate.”
I select one of the crime scene photographs fanned across the table and dangle it in the suspect’s face like a macabre tarot reading. Her emerald gaze remains fixed on mine. Emily Hunter is a girlish thirty-three. At five foot eleven, she looms over me by four inches. She could have just breezed off a catwalk, save for her broad swimmer’s shoulders.
“Why won’t you look at the photographs, Emily?” I keep my tone agreeable, to relax the suspect, and reveal more pretext.
“Why do you think?” Cool as Kasparov, Emily exposes none.
“Guilt?”
“Not in the way you’re implying, Inspector. I am not responsible for that.”
“Who do you think is responsible, Emily?” DS Sean Nicholls breaks the spell.
I’d almost forgotten my balding colleague was there. If not for the smell of cedar wood oil from his moustache, perched above his mollifying smile.
Emily turns her tractor-beam on him. “I’ve told you everything I know, Detective Nicholls.”
Unlike the suspect, I can read Nicholls like a trashy airport novel. He’s like a mesmerised teenager interviewing a starlet for the school newsletter.
“Need I remind you, innocent people are dead, Emily, brutally murdered.”
Emily’s jaw muscles tighten. A signifier of anger. Triggered by something I said. Brutally murdered? No, innocent was the inciting word.
“You don’t consider them innocent, do you, Emily?”
“Are any of us?”
“You think they got what they deserved, don’t you, Emily?”
“Of course not.”
“How did it make you feel when they got what was coming to them?”
“Are you a detective or psychiatrist?”
“A good detective is a little of both.”
“You know what they say about a Jack of all trades?”
I mask my vexation with a smile. From her background check, I know Emily is a fellow psychology graduate, receiving a first from Cambridge. As opposed to my two-one from the University of London. For the first time in a long while, I feel outclassed.
“We don’t have time to play games, Miss Hunter.” I abandon the first-name familiarity, prodding a percussive finger at the lurid photographs. “You won’t look at the evidence, Emily, because you are responsible.”
Emily’s harlequin eyes dart from the grotesque images, betraying the first glimmer of emotion. “I had nothing to do with that.”
“So you say, Emily.” I lean closer, scenting blood. “But even according to your questionable version of events, you still share the burden of responsibility.”
“Nobody was supposed to get hurt.” A fissure creeps into Emily’s voice.
“Yet they did, didn’t they, Emily. And I’d say ‘hurt’ is an incredibly benign way of describing murder.” I can feel the balance of power restoring.
Emily steers her gaze to the bloody gallery, her lithe shoulders quivering beneath the police station paper jumpsuit.
“Why don’t you tell us what really happened, Emily?”
Emily traps a sob with her hand. “It all just… spun out of control.”
“When did it spin out of control, Emily?”
A tear glides down Emily’s sharp cheekbone, falling onto the glossy print of a charred corpse stretched on a steel dissection table. Burnt beyond recognition of sex, or age, it stares back at her from scorched eye sockets, ivory teeth glinting from a gaping rictus trapped in a silent scream.
Emily takes a breath, summoning the words. “Where do I begin?”
About Author J.D. Pennington…
J.D. Pennington is an award-winning creative director and copywriter with over twenty years of experience in film and television advertising, creating campaigns for major studios and leading independents.
A native of Merseyside, he now lives in Hertfordshire, United Kingdom with his wife, two children and a mischievous Patterjack terrier. His debut novel, The Othello Club, has been adapted for television by Gaumont for Paramount+ and has recently completed filming in the UK.
~~~
Links to J.D.’s website, blog, books, #ad, etc.:
Amazon US: https://amzn.to/3LeiKfj
Datura Books:
https://daturabooks.com/product/the-othello-club/
Waterstones:
https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-othello-club/j-d-pennington/9781917415125
Penguin Random House:
https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/791237/the-othello-club-by-jd-pennington/
Website: www.jdpennington.com
Instagram: @j.dpennington
~~~
I hope you enjoy J.D.’s favorite recipe today on Karen’s Killer Fixin’s. Happy Eating!
KarenP.S. We’re at 760 recipes and counting with this posting. Hope you find some recipes you like. If this is your first visit, please check out past blogs for more Killer Fixin’s. You can even look up past recipes by category in the right-hand column menu. i.e. Desserts, Breads, Beef, Chicken, Soups, Author Specials, etc.
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: If an author’s favorite recipe isn’t their own creation and came from an online site without alteration, you will now find the entire recipe through the link to that site as a personal recommendation. Thank you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SLOW COOKED CURRIED LAMB
(With tomato kachumber, Indian oven fries, and Raita)
NOTE FROM J.D.: My favourite cuisine is Italian, but my wife’s version of bbcgoodfood.com Indian curried lamb recipe is an absolute winner and seems appropriate as it’s a Killer for Fixin’ a hangover. We usually enjoy it with family and friends on New Year’s Day, the perfect comfort food after a night celebrating. It’s also delicious any time of the year, and I’m already salivating as I type. Enjoy!
SLOW COOKED CURRIED LAMB
INGREDIENTS:
Large leg of lamb
3 Tbsp olive oil
1tsp turmeric
1tsp cumin
1tsp chilli powder
1tsp curry powder
2 onions
6 garlic cloves
3 Tbsp chopped ginger
1 green chili, chopped
2 large tomatoes
1 Tbsp tomato paste
1 Tbsp malt vinegar
1 Tbsp brown sugar
1 pint chicken stock
3 oz natural yogurt
Cilantro, chopped (for garnish)
METHOD:
• Mix turmeric, chili powder, curry powder, and cumin. Rub all over the lamb and leave for 1 hour.
• Heat oil in a large pot, fry onion, garlic, ginger, and green chili until aromatic.
• Add lamb to the pot and brown on all sides.
• Add tomatoes, tomato paste, malt vinegar, and sugar.
• Mix stock with yogurt, add to the pot, and cover.
• Bring to a simmer and place in oven at 320°F for approx. 3 hours until the lamb is tender.
• When the lamb is done, remove it from the sauce.
• Blend the sauce and heat to reduce, if needed, until thicker.
• Pull the lamb apart and pour the sauce over it.
• Garnish with cilantro.
See the Original Lamb Recipe here: https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/curried-pulled-lamb
Serve with
TOMATO KACHUMBER:
https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/tomato-kachumber
RAITA:
https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/cucumber-mint-relish
INDIAN OVEN FRIES:
https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/indian-oven-chips
Happy Reading!
~~~
Thanks, J.D., for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
October 16, 2025
Congratulations Week 10-06-25 Blog Giveaway Winners!
CONGRATULATIONS WEEK
10-06-25
BLOG GIVEAWAY WINNERS!!
Karen’s Killer Book Bench with Brian Asman…
**SPECIAL GIVEAWAY: Brian will gift one ARC (U.S. only) of MAN, F*CK THIS HOUSE to one lucky reader who comments on his Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog.
Thanks, Brian, for sharing your book with us!
WINNER: JAYLEE CONAWAY!!
~~~
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s with Sue Hinkin…
**SPECIAL GIVEAWAY: Sue will gift one print copy (U.S. only) of THE SNAKE HANDLER’S WIFE to one lucky reader and one ebook copy to another lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Fixin’s blog.
Thanks, Sue, for sharing your book with us!
WINNER PRINT COPY: BN100!!
WINNER EBOOK COPY: K.A. BYLSMA!!
~~~
DON’T FORGET TO CHECK OUT THESE BOOKS, TOO!!
~~~
Karen/K.L. Docter’s books stand alone, even in the series. You can read them out of sequence. No cliffhangers. No cheating. Always Happily Ever After endings!
HAPPY READING!
(All giveaway winners are chosen by random.org from reader comments except Rafflecopter events or giveaways, which are determined and announced offsite by the publisher/authors. Thank you!)
October 15, 2025
Karen’s Killer Book Bench #Women #Sleuths #Mystery: DYING CRY, A Timber Creek K-9 Mystery by Margaret Mizushima
KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!
~~~
DYNG CRY
A Timber Creek K-9 Mystery
BY MARGARET MIZUSHIMA
BLURB
A killer lurks in Colorado’s snowy high country in Dying Cry, the tenth thrilling installment of award-winning author Margaret Mizushima’s Timber Creek K-9 mystery series.
Newlyweds Mattie and Cole Walker are teaching Cole’s daughters how to snowshoe in a remote canyon when a shattering scream pierces the air. They know that somewhere ahead, someone has been injured or worse. Cole takes the girls while Mattie and Robo go deeper into the canyon to search for the source of the scream.
From a distance, Mattie and Robo see a shadowy figure at the base of a cliff, but a rockslide buries the person under layers of stone and shale before they can provide help. Desperate to uncover the individual in case they’re still alive under the rock, their efforts are in vain. The victim is already dead. When they investigate the canyon rim from which the person fell, they discover evidence that indicates the fall was no accident. To make matters worse, the victim was one of Cole’s friends.
The Timber Creek County investigative team springs into action, uncovering a trail of greed that leads to a killer who threatens Mattie’s cherished new family and tests her with the most difficult task she’s faced in her duty as a K-9 handler.
~~~
DYNG CRY
A Timber Creek K-9 Mystery
BY MARGARET MIZUSHIMA
Excerpt
Sunday, mid-February
It was a perfect day for a family outing—until a piercing scream split the air. Leading their small party, Deputy Mattie Walker stopped in her tracks, her crampons holding steady, ending the soft thump-crunch of her snowshoes on the frigid snow. She held up her hand, signaling for quiet so she could listen. The sudden cry echoed between the canyon walls, dying slowly as it faded into the distance.
Her breath formed a cloud that hung in the cold air at her face. She peered ahead, hoping to see anything that might point to the scream’s origin. Rock walls rose to a height of at least three hundred feet on either side of the narrow canyon, an ice-covered stream off to the left. Snow, packed beneath fresh powder, choked the trail they were traveling as it wound slightly uphill between ponderosa pine interspersed with short, fragrant cedar.
Nothing. The air was now still, and the sides of the canyon displayed nothing but rock, ice, and snow. Farther down, a flock of birds rose into the air and circled above the canyon wall, a sign that they’d been disturbed.
She turned to seek out the worried eyes of her husband Cole. Looking over the heads of her two stepdaughters—Sophie in her bright red stocking cap and Angela in one of fuzzy blue—Mattie met Cole’s gaze. “Cougar?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“I don’t either.”
Nine-year-old Sophie piped up, her brown eyes wide. “You mean it could be a mountain lion?”
“No, I meant what I said, Sophie,” Cole said. “I don’t think it’s a mountain lion.”
“Whew, that’s a relief.” She lifted her short pole, gripped tight within the red mitten on her right hand, and pointed uphill. Powdery snow from the basket on its end drifted on the breeze blowing from uphill. “It came from up there.”
Mattie wasn’t feeling any of Sophie’s relief. If the scream hadn’t come from a cougar, it meant it was most likely that of a human. A glance at the worry lines on Angie’s forehead above her blue eyes told Mattie that their sixteen-year-old had figured out what it meant as well.
Mattie’s K-9 partner, Robo, a large male German shepherd who weighed in at a hundred pounds, raced down the path toward her, his black lips open, showing his white teeth and pink tongue. Their Doberman pinscher, Bruno, and Bernese mountain dog, Belle, followed closely behind him. Belle’s slight limp was evident as she charged through the snow. It felt good to have Robo and Bruno there for protection in case they needed it. Belle was a big lover, but she would also come to their rescue if necessary.
“What are you thinking?” Cole asked.
Mattie was thinking that someone had fallen off one of the cliffs up ahead, and the scream’s sudden end meant the person had crashed onto the canyon floor. She glanced at the kids, letting Cole know she needed to couch her thoughts in softer terms. “I wonder if someone fell from up above, but I can’t see anything from here. I need to go on up and see if someone needs help.”
Or if someone is dead. She didn’t want to voice her final thought.
“We’ll go with you.”
Again, she swept the tops of the girls’ heads with her gaze. “I need to hurry and shouldn’t take time for small steps. Besides, I’m not sure what I’ll find.” She paused, sending Cole a message with her eyes that it could be bad and she didn’t want the kids exposed to anything traumatic that could haunt them for, well . . . for the rest of their lives.
In her work as a sheriff’s deputy and from her childhood experiences, she knew what it was like to see and hear things that were too ugly for a person to register without lasting pain. She didn’t want her children to ever have to bear that burden. “I’ll take Robo and see if I can find something. Take the girls and the other dogs down to the end of the canyon until you get a cell phone signal. Try to reach Brandon and have him send help, in case we find someone who’s been injured,” she said, referring to the manager at the resort where they were staying.
Cole frowned. “I don’t want to split up.”
She understood. “I don’t want to either, but in this case we’ve got to.”
“I could take Sophie back to the lodge and get help,” Angie said, the creases between her eyebrows saying something entirely different.
Cole spoke first, his words voicing exactly what Mattie was thinking. “No, you shouldn’t go alone out here. It’s too easy to take a wrong trail and get lost. Mattie’s right, you kids come with me and we’ll get help.”
About Author Margaret Mizushima…
Margaret Mizushima writes the internationally published Timber Creek K-9 Mysteries. She served as a past president of the Rocky Mountain Chapter of Mystery Writers of America and was elected Writer of the Year by Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. She is the recipient of a Colorado Authors League Award, a Benjamin Franklin Book Award, a CIBA CLUE Award, and two Willa Literary Awards by Women Writing the West. Her books have been finalists for a SPUR Award by Western Writers of America, a Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Award, and the Colorado Book Award. She and her husband recently moved from Colorado, where they raised two daughters and a multitude of animals, to a home in the Pacific Northwest.
~~~
Links to Margaret’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:
Amazon: https://amzn.to/4q2Yb5P
Facebook/AuthorMargaretMizushima, X @margmizu, Instagram @margmizu, and her website www.margaretmizushima.com.
~~~
Special Giveaway: Margaret will gift one print copy (U.S. only) of DYING CRY to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog. Good luck!
~~~
Thanks, Margaret, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
October 10, 2025
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s with THE SERPENT HANDLER’S WIFE, A Vega & Middleton Novel #Domestic #Thriller by Sue Hinkin #Recipe ~ Mexican-Norwegian Tacos
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **AUTHOR SPECIAL** with SUE HINKIN!
Welcome to my Friday bonus feature called Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **Author Special**!! Today, instead of one of my recipes, I will introduce you to a new author who will share a favorite recipe. Not only will you and I occasionally learn how to make something new and delicious, but we’ll also get a chance to check out some fantastic authors. Introducing author SUE HINKIN and her favorite recipe for Mexican-Norwegian Tacos!
THE SERPENT HANDLER’S WIFE
A Vega & Middleton Novel
BY SUE HINKIN
Blurb
When photojournalist Lucy Vega’s war correspondent significant other, Michael, suddenly takes a job in Iraq, Lucy is left alone with their young child on her isolated California ranch. His unstable, college drop-out daughter shows up hoping to meet her half-brother who is Lucy’s 4-year-old son, Henry. Despite Michael’s warnings, Lucy hires the girl to help care for their child. Weird things begin happening—Lucy’s beloved horse is bitten by a rattle snake, animal enclosures are vandalized, and young Henry finds a loaded gun he thinks is a toy. Lucy doesn’t know the daughter has fallen under the spell of a sexy, snake-handling religious cult leader who will do anything to get Lucy’s ranch and her child.
THE SERPENT HANDLER’S WIFE
A Vega & Middleton Novel
BY SUE HINKIN
Excerpt
Editor’s Note: Sensitive readers, please take note of the title before proceeding.
Mark 16:18
“They will pick up serpents with their hands, and if they drink the deadly poison, it will not hurt them…”
CHAPTER ONE
It was beginning.
The Man walked stealthily through the pre-dawn darkness. A single yard light cast tepid shadows along the ranch’s outbuildings. The scent of horse flesh and creek willow filled his nostrils, soothing a hint of nervous anticipation as he entered the barn.
The faint rattling sound emanating from the basket he carried, calmed him further.
The first step in this divine plan came upon him in a holy vision. Directed by God, like the Israelites in Israel, he would own this land and inhabit it for His glory.
Approaching the stall, the gravel beneath his boots crunched like soft tissue paper. The Paint horse nickered. The Man stroked the equine neck and spoke reassuring words as he slipped inside the enclosure. The brown and white stallion watched him carefully, stomped once, but showed little sign of concern.
The Man opened the basket in the far corner of the stall and watched the serpent slither from its confines into the straw. The rattle’s ominous susurration accelerated.
The Man whispered to the horse, “As in the Book of Genesis, The serpent shall be in your path and bite your heel so the rider will fall…”
He kissed the animal’s warm cheek, reflecting on serpents in the Garden before leaving the barn. The horse snorted and shook his head. Don’t do this, he seemed to say, but it was prophesied.
Shutting the stall door, The Man further reflected on the next step toward fulfillment of his sacred ambition. It was in the hands of an unsure blonde girl who loved him with an addict’s compulsion. The snakes etched on his body stirred. He had to have her, now.
The Man disappeared into the darkness just as the sky began to lighten in the East.
About Author Sue Hinkin…
Sue Hinkin is the author of the award-winning thriller series, the Vega & Middleton Novels, featuring the investigative team of Los Angeles TV news journalist Bea Jackson and best friend, photographer Lucy Vega. BestThrillers.com called Lucy and Bea one of the top 10 female detectives of 2023. A former Cinematography Fellow at the American Film Institute, Hinkin has worked in higher education and was a TV news photographer like her character, Lucy. Now living in Colorado, she was voted Rocky Mountain Fiction Writer’s Writer of the Year. She is active in that organization as well as Sisters in Crime and the Rocky Mountain Chapter of Mystery Writers of America. She loves her friends and family, growing things, and long walks with her puffy white rescue dog, Harley. Visit Sue at www.suehinkin.com.
~~~
Links to Sue’s website, blog, books, #ad, etc.:
AMAZON
https://www.amazon.com/Snake-Handlers-Wife-Middleton-Novel/dp/1956615547
BARNES AND NOBLE
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-snake-handlers-wife-sue-hinkin/1147737097
GOOGLE BOOKS
https://books.google.com/books/about/The_Snake_Handler_s_Wife.html?id=TDBf0QEACAAJ
LITERARY WANDERLUST PUBLISHER
https://www.literarywanderlust.com/product-page/ebook-the-snake-handler-s-wife
YOUR LOCAL INDIE BOOKSTORE
www.bookshop.org
~~~
I hope you enjoy Sue’s favorite recipe today on Karen’s Killer Fixin’s. Happy Eating!
Karen
P.S. We’re at 759 recipes and counting with this posting. Hope you find some recipes you like. If this is your first visit, please check out past blogs for more Killer Fixin’s. You can even look up past recipes by category in the right-hand column menu. i.e. Desserts, Breads, Beef, Chicken, Soups, Author Specials, etc.
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: If an author’s favorite recipe isn’t their own creation and came from an online site, you will now find the entire recipe through the link to that site as a personal recommendation. Thank you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
MEXICAN-NORWEGIAN TACOS
NOTE FROM SUE: My heroine, Lucy Vega, had a Mexican mother and a Norwegian father, both children of diplomats from those countries. After her parents died when she was just a youngster, she was raised by her uncle of Mexican heritage and a Norwegian grandmother from Oslo. The two women enjoyed spending time dreaming up recipes that combined the cultures. Mex-Norge tacos was one of their favorites.
The Taco Shell: Norwegian Lefsa
The most important part of this recipe is to substitute Mexican tortillas with lefse, a traditional, soft Norwegian flatbread, similar to a tortilla, but made with potatoes, flour, butter, and cream. The recipe for lefsa is below.
Fish Taco Filling
The fish: Some might suggest Norwegian lutefisk (definitely an acquired taste), but I go for Atlantic cold smoked salmon which is readily available at supermarkets (365 Organic, Kroger Private Selection, Trader Joe’s etc).Shredded red cabbage with a squeeze of limeChopped cilantroShredded cheese of your choiceSour cream or Greek yogurtGuacamole or avocado slicesHow to Make Traditional Norwegian Lefse
Lefse is a delicious Norwegian flat bread that gained popularity in the mid-1700s when potatoes became a common food in Scandinavia. When I was an undergrad at St. Olaf College in Minnesota, it was a regular presence in the dining hall. Learn how to make a delicious lefse recipe using real potatoes. For the winter holidays, roll lefse in sugar, cinnamon, and butter to enjoy lip-licking decadence.
Make lefse fresh (recipe follows) or save time and order online from Norske Nook: https://norskenook.com/shop/lefse/norske-nook-lefse/
There are many good lefse-making videos on YouTube, all with the maker’s unique family tips.
Ingredients
2-and-a-half pounds peeled potatoes (approximately 4 medium russet potatoes).1 stick salted butter, chopped or riced, room temperature1/2 cup heavy cream1 teaspoon salt1 cup all-purpose flourInstructions
Simmer peeled potatoes in water for 45 minutes or until tender, then strain.Mix the potatoes and butter.Let sit at room temperature for an hour to cool.Cover and put in fridge overnight.Next day, mix potatoes & butter mixture with the cream, flour, and salt. Combine by hand like you would bread dough. It will be of similar consistency but crumbly.Divide lefse into eight portions and roll each into a ball. Put back in the refrigerator until you are ready to grill them.Preheat lefse grill (if you have one) to 500°, or use a flat pan of your choosing. I don’t have a grill that allows me to calibrate temperature so I use the flat pan I make pancakes on and heat it to the hottest setting. Most of you, not being traditional Norwegians with lefse-making tools, will have to improviseAdd flour to both your rolling surface and rolling pin. Generously flour up to avoid sticking.Take a lefse ball out of the fridge and gently flatten. Then roll it out into a circular shape that looks like a tortilla or pizza.Once the lefse is flat as possible, use a turning stick or other kitchen tool (large spatula etc) to get under the lefse without tearing it.Lift the rolled-out dough and drape it onto the edge of the preheated pan. You should be able to gently lay the lefsa onto the grill or flat pan.Start your timer. When it hits 1 minute and 30 seconds, carefully flip the lefse.Once your timer hits 3 minutes, remove lefse from your grill and put on a large plate to cool for an hour.Add your fillings and enjoy your first Norwegian-Mexican fusion dish!
Happy Reading!
~~~
Special Giveaway: Sue will gift one print copy (U.S. only) of THE SNAKE HANDLER’S WIFE to one lucky reader and one ebook copy to another lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Fixin’s blog. Good luck!
~~~
Thanks, Sue, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
October 8, 2025
Karen’s Killer Book Bench: MAN, F*CK THIS HOUSE (And Other Disasters) #Horror #ShortStories by Brian Asman
KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!
~~~
MAN, F*CK THIS HOUSE
(And Other Disasters)
BY BRIAN ASMAN
BLURB
This all-new expanded edition of the viral sensation Man, F*ck This House includes six brand-new stories by Brian Asman, “a singular voice in horror fiction” (Eric LaRocca).
In the titular “Man, F*ck This House,” Sabrina Haskins and her family have just moved into their dream home. At first glance, the house is perfect. But things aren’t what they seem. Sabrina is hearing odd noises, seeing strange visions. Their neighbors are odd or absent. And Sabrina’s already-fraught relationship with her son is about to be tested in a way no parent could ever imagine. Because while the Haskins family might be the newest owners of this house, they’re far from its only residents…
In “The Hurlyburly,” a troubled teen loses his grip on reality after checking out the wrong internet meme…
In “In the Rushes,” a coastal cycling trip turns terrifying for a feuding mother and daughter…
Malevolent doppelgangers, bizarre murders, ancient evils, Western ghosts, mirror monsters, poisonous playthings, and more populate the pages of this brilliant—and petrifying—collection of stories.
~~~
MAN, F*CK THIS HOUSE
(And Other Disasters)
BY BRIAN ASMAN
Excerpt
SUNDAY
Shortly after lunchtime, a beige Toyota Camry took a long, lugubrious left into James Circle, the back-end sagging from the combined weight of the Haskins family and what worldly possessions weren’t left for the movers.
“This is it, team!” Hal Haskins said brightly. Hal was a man whose personality favored his car’s paint job, prone to dad jokes and bland observations. His hobbies included checkers, Roth IRAs, and assorted flavors of sportsball—his word. Even played a little sportsball, too, when his trick knee allowed it.
“Aren’t you excited, kids?” Sabrina Haskins asked, twisting around in her seat to regard her literal two-and-a-half children—ten-year-old Damien had eaten his own twin in the womb. Or absorbed him, as the OB/GYN corrected, but she couldn’t quite part with the notion she’d given birth to a cannibal. For years she woke up in the middle of the night, soaked in sweat, terrified she was pregnant all over again, her son digging his way out of her uterus with a pickaxe jury-rigged from his dead brother’s bones, gasping for breath as her own blood rushed from the wounds, threatening to drown him—
His older sister, Michaela, barely looked up from her phone long enough to roll her eyes. “Whatever.”
Sabrina was excited, even if the kids couldn’t be bothered. She’d always thought of their previous home town, Columbus, as a stop on the way to bigger and better things, but after dropping out of Ohio State mid-sophomore year to pursue her real passion—getting groped by hot sauce-fingered rednecks at Hooters—she’d gotten stuck there. Then she’d met Hal, who came in one night with his coworkers for a plate of mild wings and exactly two beers. Maybe they hadn’t fallen in love, per se, but he was a good guy with a steady job selling reverse mortgages to widows. Part of her always figured something would change—what specifically she couldn’t say—and then life would be different. More exciting. More interesting.
But it hadn’t.
Four years in Columbus turned into fourteen. Two kids, stretch marks, a series of part-time jobs and aborted stints at community college. Sabrina literally took a basket weaving course. BASKET WEAVING! Which led to her other recurring nightmare, becoming the world’s foremost weaver of baskets, the Martha Stewart of basketry. Flying off to Paris or Dubai at a moment’s notice to weave a basket for some foreign dignitary or oil sheik.
Becoming famous was one thing, but becoming famous for something so gosh-darned boring seemed like its own special kind of H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks.
So when Hal came home from work one day and told her he’d been offered a big promotion, but they’d have to move, she didn’t even ask where. Columbus was a fine town, but she needed a change so badly anywhere would be an improvement. She’d never heard of Jackson Hill, but it was apparently one of America’s most desirable small cities. Whataburger had even opened a franchise there the year before! Maybe it wasn’t San Fran or Seattle or even the less-murdery parts of St. Louis, but she kind of liked that. The whole city seemed like a blank envelope. Anything could be inside. She could reinvent herself, become whatever she wanted.
If only she could figure out what that was.
The Camry came to a halt outside a two-story Craftsman with brand-new slate blue siding and a slightly-overgrown yard. Across the street, in front of a house painted a very off-putting mustard-yellow, a grey-braided lady glanced up from her flowerbeds long enough to wave at the Haskins family with a pair of shears. Sabrina tried to wave back, but the lady had already looked away.
“One, two, three, break!” Hal said, shutting off the car.
Sabrina grabbed her purse off the floor and got out, legs stiff from spending the last six hours in the car, and another twelve the day before that, the trip only broken up by brief stops at gas stations and a night at a Motel 3 (Half the price, twice the fun!) where she’d had to leave the Gideon Bible with a confused front desk clerk because Damien wouldn’t stop ripping out the pages. The fall breeze ruffled her hair pleasantly.
“Just got a text,” Hal said, coming around the car. “The movers are late. Go figure, right?”
Sabrina looked at her husband and winced—powdered sugar from their gas station donut breakfast spackled his face. She slipped a crumpled napkin from her purse and dabbed his left cheek.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Hal craned his neck away. “Geez.”
“Just trying to help.” Sabrina rapped on the car window. “Kids?”
Michaela reached for the handle, frowned, slapped the window.
“Sorry,” Hal said, leaning back in the driver’s side. “Forgot the child locks.” Ever since Damien tried to bail out on the freeway, both Haskins children had had to suffer the indignity of child locks. Now freed, both took their sweet time getting out of the car. Michaela, to her credit, slipped her phone into her jeans and acted like she was part of the moment. Damien, however, stood sullenly in the driveway, staring down at his feet.
Hal dropped into a crouch next to his son. “What’s wrong, champ?”
“I don’t like it.” The words came out cold, monotone, like most everything Damien said.
“What’s not to like, buddy?”
Damien shook his head and said no more.
“Such a freak,” Michaela muttered.
“I heard that, young lady,” Sabrina said, then cringed because she sounded like her mother, a strict and uncompromising woman who choked to death on a California roll when Sabrina was in high school. Whenever Sabrina said anything too overtly motherly, she imagined her throat closing up, her skin turning blue, and her two children laughing their butts off while she clawed impotently at the air.
Hal hefted Damien up on his shoulders. “Come on, let’s check out our new digs. I think you’ll really like it once you get your bearings.” Stooped under the weight of his son, Hal staggered up the flagstones to the front door, Michaela trailing behind.
Sabrina watched her family for a moment, heart swelling—they weren’t perfect, but they were HERS—then hurried to join them.
***
The house was unbelievable.
They—with the exception of Michaela, who rushed upstairs to inspect her unfurnished new room, and Damien, there in body but not in spirit—started with a tour of the house, Hal in the lead. He was the only one who’d seen their new house so far, thanks to the speed of the move and the kids’ school schedules, and the opportunity to play tour guide further buoyed his already chronically-high spirits.
“Welcome to Casa Haskins,” Hal said, bowing deeply. “The, uh, foyer.” Not even Hal could muster up more interesting commentary on such a transitional space. A stairwell headed straight up to the second story. To their left was the living room, a roomy space with hardwood floors. They poked their heads in, noting the curving archway, then headed towards the kitchen—recently updated with granite countertops, a fetching grey/black backsplash, and shiny steel appliances. Even better, the counters seemed to go on for days. Another door led to the empty dining room, which connected through to the living room.
Sabrina couldn’t wait to cook a meal without banging a shin or elbow on some sharp corner.
“Get a load of the porch,” Hal declared, stepping through a door at the rear of the house. “Perfect place to relax on a hot day.”
Sabrina followed him out to a screened-in porch looking out on the backyard—enclosed by a wood fence, nothing but trees beyond.
“Other side’s a state park,” Hal said. “Lot of privacy.” He set Damien down on the back steps. The boy wandered into the yard and sat in the grass, cross-legged. He commenced massacring dandelions, blowing fluff away with a soft pooft of his lips.
Sabrina didn’t want to think about whatever the boy might be wishing for.
The yard wasn’t huge, but that would make it easier to maintain. Damien could probably mow the lawn in a few passes—one of the few household chores he deigned to do—likely because it involved the massacre of living things—under Hal’s careful supervision, of course. They had a shiny metal shed, one of those pre-fab jobs. Maybe she could take up gardening. Get their new neighbor, the old lady with the shears, to give her some pointers, finally turn that black thumb green.
“Should we head up upstairs?” Sabrina asked.
Hal nodded. “Wait’ll you see the master bedroom.” He cupped a hand to the side of his mouth. “Let’s go, buddy!”
Damien didn’t look up.
“He’s fine,” Sabrina said, grabbing Hal by the arm. Together they went back in through the kitchen.
Passing the stairs, Sabrina noted a door she hadn’t seen on the way in. “Where’s that go?”
“Basement?” Hal said, but it sounded more like a question than a statement.
Sabrina shrugged it off, she wanted to get a look at the bedrooms first. Specifically hers. If they’d re-done the master bath like the kitchen—
Hal stomped up the stairs. “They sure don’t make them like this anymore. Solid, solid construction. This thing’ll still be standing when we’re long gone, I’ll tell you that.”
Sabrina froze in her tracks, gooseflesh standing up on her arms. The idea of the house outlasting not only her and Hal, but her children too, seemed perverse. But that wasn’t all. Long gone was totally relative. The house need not survive into some far-flung future, when polar bears were extinct and the Eastern seaboard lay completely underwater, fish swimming in-and-out of the broken windows of submerged IKEAs. If the Haskins family dropped off the face of the earth that very day, the house’d only have to stand a few years longer to make Hal’s Confauxian wisdom come true.
What’s long gone, anyway?
About Author Brian Asman…
Brian Asman is a writer, actor, and director from San Diego. He’s the author of Good Dogs from Blackstone Publishing. His other books include I’m Not Even Supposed to Be Here Today, Neo Arcana, Nunchuck City, Jailbroke, Our Black Hearts Beat as One, and Return of the Living Elves. He’s also published short stories in Pulp Modern, American Cannibal, and Kelp, and comics in Tales of Horrorgasm. Brian holds an MFA from UCR Palm Desert.
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Links to Brian’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:
Barnes & NobleBookshop.org
Find him on social media (@thebrianasman) or his website (www.BrianAsmanBooks.com).
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Special Giveaway: Brian will gift one ARC (U.S. only) of MAN, F*CK THIS HOUSE to one lucky reader who comments on his Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog. Good luck!
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Thanks, Brian, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
October 7, 2025
Congratulations Week 09-29-25 Blog Giveaway Winners!
CONGRATULATIONS WEEK
09-29-25
BLOG GIVEAWAY WINNERS!!
Karen’s Killer Book Bench with Kathleen Donnelly…
**SPECIAL GIVEAWAY: Kathleen will gift one signed paperback (U.S. only) of COLORADO K-9 RESCUE to one lucky reader and one Kindle copy (U.S. only) to a second lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog.
Thanks, Kathleen, for sharing your book with us!
WINNER (Kindle copy): ALICIA HANEY!!
WINNER (paperback copy): SHERRILL DENNISON!!
~~~
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s with Renee Gilmore…
**SPECIAL GIVEAWAY: Renee will gift one print copy (U.S. only) of WAYFINDING to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Fixin’s blog.
Thanks, Renee, for sharing your book with us!
WINNER: BN100!!
~~~
DON’T FORGET TO CHECK OUT THESE BOOKS, TOO!!
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Karen/K.L. Docter’s books stand alone, even in the series. You can read them out of sequence. No cliffhangers. No cheating. Always Happily Ever After endings!
HAPPY READING!
(All giveaway winners are chosen by random.org from reader comments except Rafflecopter events or giveaways, which are determined and announced offsite by the publisher/authors. Thank you!)
October 6, 2025
Karen’s Killer Book Bench #Christmas #Cozy #Mystery: MURDER ON 34TH STREET, Ho-Ho-Homicide Book 1 by R. A. Muth
KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!
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MURDER ON 34TH STREET
Ho-Ho-Homicide Book 1
BY R.A. MUTH
BLURB
‘Tis the season for murder at the North Pole…
Juniper Hollybright is a mediocre toymaker with ADHD, anxiety, and a knack for flying under the radar. When the Head Toymaker is found dead under a pile of toppled gifts, with a broken peppermint stick and his ledger missing, everyone assumes it was a tragic accident. Everyone except Juniper.
Armed with her mystery-novel expertise, her nervous knitting habit, and Figgy the trainee reindeer, Juniper uncovers a trail of embezzlement, fake vendors, and financial fraud that threatens to destroy Christmas itself. But asking questions makes her a target, and someone is willing to kill again to keep their secrets buried under the snow.
With suspects ranging from jealous craftselves to stressed accountants, Juniper must solve the case before the killer strikes again—or before she becomes the next “accident” at Santa’s workshop.
Perfect for fans of cozy mysteries, holiday magic, and adorable animal sidekicks who save the day. Murder on 34th Street delivers fair-play clues, holiday cheer, and a hero who proves that being underestimated is the best disguise for a brilliant detective.
Murder on 34th Street is Book 1 in the Ho-Ho-Homicide Cozy Mysteries series. No graphic violence. Maximum cocoa and holiday vibes.
~~~
MURDER ON 34TH STREET
Ho-Ho-Homicide Book 1
BY R.A. MUTH
Excerpt
Chapter 1
The thing about being an elf in a family of legendary toymakers is that everyone expects you to be legendary too. Spoiler alert: I’m not.
I’m Juniper Hollybright, and my greatest accomplishment this week was not gluing my fingers together while attaching wheels to a wooden train. My second-greatest accomplishment was remembering to eat lunch before three in the afternoon. ADHD and a workshop full of shiny distractions make for an interesting combination, like peppermint sticks and dill pickle spears. Technically possible, but nobody’s asking for it.
“Juniper!” My supervisor’s voice cut through the cheerful chaos of the North Pole Toy Factory’s main floor. “Those trains need to be on the sorting line in five minutes, not next Tuesday!”
“On it!” I called back, fumbling the train I’d literally just finished painting. It clattered to my workbench, leaving a festive streak of red across my apron on its way down. Perfect. Nothing says “professional toymaker” like looking like you lost a fight with a candy cane.
Around me, the factory hummed with its usual Christmas magic. Conveyor belts whisked completed toys toward the wrapping stations, where elves tied ribbons and made bows with the speed and precision of people who’d been doing this for centuries. Some of them had been. The warm glow from the workshop windows painted everything in shades of gold and amber, and the air smelled like cinnamon, fresh pine, and that slightly chemical scent of new paint that never quite leaves the toy factory.
I loved my job here. I was also terrible at it.
The train, which was attempt number four at getting it right, finally made it onto the belt without incident. I allowed myself a small moment of pride before checking my station assignment for the afternoon. Maybe I’d get moved to something less disaster-prone. Doll hair, perhaps. How much trouble could I get into with doll hair?
“Juniper Hollybright?” An unfamiliar voice made me jump, which sent my entire tray of paint pots wobbling. I caught them at the last second. See? I could have functional motor skills when it counted. When I turned, it was to find an elf I didn’t recognize standing near my bench.
She wore the pressed uniform of the Administrative Wing, all business and no paint stains. Behind her stood a young reindeer who was hyper focused on a piece of tinsel on the floor. A very young reindeer. Like, still-fuzzy-antler-nubs young.
“That’s me,” I said, wiping my hands on my already-ruined apron. “Did I miss a memo? Because I’m really good at missing memos. If missing memos was an Olympic sport, I’d have a string of gold medals.”
The reindeer looked up at me with huge brown eyes and made a soft chuffing sound that I chose to interpret as friendly.
“You’re assigned to Elias Gumdrop this afternoon,” the elf said crisply, checking her tablet and ignoring my commentary. “Ledger review in the Head Toymaker’s office. You’re to bring…” She glanced at the reindeer with visible skepticism. “Your assistant.”
“Pardon, but did you say assistant? I don’t have one.”
“You do now. The reindeer.” She said it as if having a reindeer assigned to me was perfectly normal information that I should already know.
The reindeer, apparently my assistant, wagged his tail.
“I don’t have an assistant,” I said slowly. “I barely have a workstation. Last week they moved me next to the furnace because I’m ‘better suited to isolated tasks.'” That had stung, honestly. The term isolated tasks was management-speak for we don’t trust you near anything important.
“You do now. Reindeer Training Program, Tier One. He’s been assigned to you for practical experience.” The woman thrust a folder at me. “His name is Figgy. Try not to lose him.”
She left before I could point out that I lost my lunch bag twice last week, so assigning me to keep track of a whole reindeer was setting the bar a little high. Okay. A lot high.
Figgy looked up at me and tilted his head, ears swiveling forward with interest.
“Hi, Figgy,” I said, crouching down to his eye level. “I’m Juniper, and I’m going to be honest with you. I have no idea what I’m doing most of the time, but I make a mean cup of cocoa. I’ve read every mystery novel in the North Pole public library. We’ll figure it out together. Deal?”
He booped my hand with his nose, which I took as a yes.
About Author R.A. Muth…
As Becky Muth, she gives her readers fun escapes into sweet romance and romantic suspense books. R. A. Muth entertains readers with quirky characters who solve not-too-scary murders in places she’d like to live in real life. Rebecca Muth writes heartwarming children’s books inspired by raising children of her own.
One Author ~ Multiple Pen Names
Becky Muth – Sweet Contemporary Romance & Romantic Suspense
R. A. Muth – Paranormal Cozy Mysteries With Magical Pets
Rebecca Muth – Children’s Books
~~~
Links to R.A.’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:
Murder on 34th Street Preorder Link
https://beckymuth.com/HOHO-01
Ho-Ho-Homicide Playlist on Spotify
https://beckymuth.com/hohomusic
Author website – www.beckymuth.com
Books – www.beckymuth.com/books
Substack (newsletter) – authorbeckymuth.substack.com
Social media content for authors
www.authorsgetsocial.com
Buy me a coffee
buymeacoffee.com/authorbeckymuth
~~~
Thanks, R.A., for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
October 3, 2025
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s with WAYFINDING A #Memoir by Renee Gilmore #Recipe ~ Lemon Cake Pie
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **AUTHOR SPECIAL** with RENEE GILMORE !
Welcome to my Friday bonus feature called Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **Author Special**!! Today, instead of one of my recipes, I will introduce you to a new author who will share a favorite recipe. Not only will you and I occasionally learn how to make something new and delicious, but we’ll also get a chance to check out some fantastic authors. Introducing author RENEE GILMORE and her favorite recipe for LEMON CAKE PIE!
WAYFINDING
A Memoir
BY RENEE GILMORE
Blurb
(October, 2025; Trio House Press)
Throughout her life, Renee Gilmore has been in love with the open road. Her passion for exploration has taken her across all seven continents—but the real journey has been much more personal. In Wayfinding, she confronts the impetus behind her wanderlust: a lifetime shaped by loss, betrayal, and sexual violence. Told through a series of car trips and postcards from the road, this powerful memoir maps a route toward healing, acceptance, and hope, with stops at Waffle House and the Monaco Grand Prix along the way. Narrated with unflinching honesty and flashes of humor, Wayfinding is the story of a fiercely resilient woman determined not only to survive but to remap a new life filled with freedom, connection, and joy.
WAYFINDING
A Memoir
BY RENEE GILMORE
Excerpt
Angels in Plaid Shirts
Thank you, Angels.
Twenty miles outside Sidney, Nebraska, I heard the thump, thump of a tire that was breathing its last, leaving its skin in the right lane of I-80, and its bones on the wheel. It was January, and I was leaving Minnesota in the rearview and heading to Albuquerque. I was a mid-year transfer student to the University of New Mexico, and it was time to go. I was both driving toward my future and away from something else. Away from a lot of things. I had made mistakes and put myself in danger – real danger – more than once. In the previous two-and-a-half years, I had been battered and nearly destroyed by two separate assaults, and I lost the scholarship I needed to stay at the Catholic college I attended in northern Minnesota. I made terrible choices in men, money, and alcohol. I had recently come home from studying abroad in Ireland, and during the last couple of months I was there, I got engaged to a boy, and then we broke up. It was messy, and I felt lost.
When I got back from Ireland, Duluth had gotten too small, too cold, too provincial for me, and I needed a change. There were too many people I knew, and too many places that held very bad memories. I fired off applications to colleges in warm places that I could sort of afford. I was accepted by Arizona State, the University of Texas at Austin, and the University of New Mexico. New Mexico was the cheapest. I prepared for a new start in the desert.
I didn’t know a soul in Albuquerque, and that was okay with me. The inside of my 1976 Plymouth Duster was packed to the rafters with pots and pans, clothes, and my Smith Corona typewriter, hefty in its light blue case. The trunk of the Duster was a treasure trove of shoes, frying pans, and bedding in white garbage bags, anchored by my 50-pound RCA television.
I had been fiddling with the radio, trying to find the sweet spot between Jesus and Dolly Parton, when I heard that sound and felt the pull of the wheel. I had been on the road for hours that day, driving by dormant cornfields with their lonely stubby stalks, waving at truckers, and eating gas station doughnuts. I was trying to make it to my grandmother’s house in Fort Morgan, Colorado, for lemon cake pie, homemade biscuits, and easy games of cards. I confidently flew by every exit for Grand Island, Nebraska, where my family usually stopped, with the hubris that only a 20-year-old can possess.
I pulled over on the shoulder and stopped. This was years before cell phones. If I got out, that flat tire was going to be real. I thought I would just sit for a minute. I hummed along to Led Zeppelin on the radio. Ate a chocolate-covered donut. That minute turned into five and I finally clicked out of my seatbelt and opened the door. Yep, the left rear tire, flatter than flat and missing several layers of rubber. I knew how to change a tire – my father wouldn’t let me out in the world without it. We had practiced and practiced when I got my driver’s license at 16. By practice, I mean my father stood in the driveway, in his baggy jeans, plaid shirt, and cardigan, smoking a cigarette. He pointed out where I missed something, very occasionally telling me, that was pretty good. I knew where to locate the jack, I knew how to loosen lug nuts, and I could heft the spare out of the trunk. I knew what to do.
I opened the trunk and sighed. It had taken two of us, my father and I, to get that huge RCA television into the trunk.
There is no way one of me was going to hoist it out. And the spare tire, which we had checked just two days before, was tucked in its compartment under everything. I looked to the freeway, and there were no cars for several flat miles, in either direction.
More sighing.
I started unloading the trunk on the side of the road.
Comforters. Shoes. A spare winter coat. My red Slimline telephone. I dug and lifted until nothing was left in the cavernous space but that damn RCA. I rocked it one way and then the other. There was just no way I could get it out. I stood with my hands on my hips. I was a 20-year-old girl with no more good ideas.
I turned toward the freeway. I heard the distant rumble of 18 wheels eating the road. Long before I saw it. I had no choice.
I flapped my right hand listlessly. I tried hard to look brave and tough and not cry. Tried not to think about the fact that I could be kidnapped right there by the side of the road, or murdered. My picture and story would end up on 48 Hours, for sure. The mountain of a vehicle started to slow, edging toward the shoulder, and came to a stop with a whoosh of air brakes. The driver, with his straw hat, cowboy boots, brown suspenders, and round belly, stepped down from the truck cab. He was as old as my dad, sun-soaked and strong. “Looks like you have a problem there, little lady.” Without permission, two tears wobbled down my face as he approached me. He hitched up his jeans. “Let’s see what we got.”
He helped me yank that TV out of the trunk like a tooth from a socket. We grabbed the spare tire and the jack and got to work. I jacked up the car, and he unscrewed the lug nuts. One was very stubborn and he swore at it with great creativity and enthusiasm. We pulled that tire off, and as we did, the rest of the rubber shrugged off the rim onto the ground. We put the wheel, its once-shiny surface now pitted and scratched, on my front seat, and loaded everything back into the trunk. He got on his CB and found out good news and bad. The good news was there was a garage 20 miles away, in Sidney, and they could get me a tire. The bad news was that they would get it tomorrow. Or the next day. He told them I was coming.
I thanked him and offered him ten dollars for helping me, but he laughed and told me to spend it on a new tire. I pulled back on the interstate, and drove far slower than the posted speed, with the radio off, straining to hear any signs of distress from the spare tire. There was honking, as I was passed by every car and truck heading in the same direction. I made it to Sidney. I found the garage and pulled a third of my cash out of my red wallet to pay George the mechanic for the new tire. I left my car and most of my possessions in his care. I stayed overnight a few blocks away in a Howard Johnson’s Motor Inn, with the dresser pushed in front of the door. When I walked back to the garage early the next afternoon, the tire had arrived. George clearly felt sorry for me. “Hey, I got a kid your age.” He didn’t charge me to remove the spare and tuck it back into the compartment in the trunk, next to the jack, under the bags of bedding, and the RCA. George said that damn TV weighed 60 pounds.
I made it to Fort Morgan, a day late. I stopped overnight, ate two good meals, and was sent on my way in the morning, with a lemon cake pie and a plastic fork. From Fort Morgan, it was about an eight-hour drive to Albuquerque. I arrived right before the sun was thinking of setting over the mesa, and there was just enough golden hour left to read the street signs. I already had my key, so I hauled everything out of the Duster and up to my apartment until nothing remained but the TV. I stood in the parking lot, in the deep twilight, and assumed the hands-on-hip position, as I stared into the trunk. An angel, in the shape of a plaid-shirted man named Terry Garcia (or that’s the name he gave me, anyway), asked me if I needed some help. Together, slowly, we carried that TV from the parking lot up the stairs to my second-floor studio apartment. The next morning, I wanted to thank him. I described him to the apartment manager. She said that no one named Terry Garcia lived there. I never saw him again.
I was not prone to thinking about God, about angels, about mysterious, mystical protectors. I attended Mass when required by family obligation, I lit candles in church because the ritual was comforting. But my hard-edged cynicism about religion, about those all-powerful beings who supposedly lived in the clouds, who controlled what happened to me in everyday life, had begun to seep in. It all started to make less sense than when I blindly accepted it earlier in my life. All the dogma, the unlikely-to-be-true Biblical myths I absorbed during five years of Catholic school, two years of confirmation classes and then Catholic college. I mean, didn’t God control the hands of the men who wrote the Bible? Whispered in their ears, shared the Truth
, the Good News, His word, to control the people? But I digress.
Maybe a benevolent God, a personal savior did not, could not exist. I was starting to think that maybe this patriarchal God was just not for me. Maybe I just had “daddy issues.” How would this Father God explain sitting on the sidelines while I experienced such horrible, evil things? I was sad and angry and I wanted answers. But at that point, I didn’t have anything better to replace Christianity, Catholicism so I continued to search. I wanted to believe so badly.
Copyright, 2025, Renee Gilmore. Excerpted from Wayfinding: A Memoir with permission from Trio House Press.
About Author Renee Gilmore…
Renee M. Gilmore is the author of Wayfinding: A Memoir (October, 2025; Trio House Press). A multi-genre writer, essayist, and poet, she earned a BA from the University of New Mexico and an MA from Hamline University, and her work has been featured in The Louisville Review, The Museum of Americana, Fatal Flaw, The Raven Review, and Pink Panther, among others. She lives in suburban Minneapolis with her husband Steven and you can visit her online at reneethewriter.com.
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Links to Renee’s website, blog, books, #ad, etc.:
Amazon Kindle: https://amzn.to/42ZLpe9
Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/4nH9Wgk
Trio House Press:
https://triohousepress.myshopify.com/products/pre-order-wayfinding-a-memoir-by-renee-gilmore
Inkwell Booksellers: https://www.inkwellbooksellersco.com/
Bookshop.org:
https://bookshop.org/p/books/wayfinding-a-memoir-renee-gilmore/0a7dc8280e24bca2?ean=9781949487626&next=t&next=t
Website: http://www.reneethewriter.com/
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I hope you enjoy Renee’s favorite recipe today on Karen’s Killer Fixin’s. Happy Eating!Karen
P.S. We’re at 758 recipes and counting with this posting. Hope you find some recipes you like. If this is your first visit, please check out past blogs for more Killer Fixin’s. You can even look up past recipes by category in the right-hand column menu. i.e. Desserts, Breads, Beef, Chicken, Soups, Author Specials, etc.
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: If an author’s favorite recipe isn’t their own creation and came from an online site, you will now find the entire recipe through the link to that site as a personal recommendation. Thank you.
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LEMON CAKE PIE
Note from Rene: I have so many good memories connected to my grandmother Merna’s lemon cake pie. It was my father’s absolute favorite. We took plenty of road trips from Minnesota to Colorado to visit my grandparents, and we would always drive away with a pie (or two) and plastic forks. Most times, we only made it as far as the first rest stop—maybe in Sterling or Brush. We’d stake out a worn wooden picnic table, choosing the spot with the least amount of bird poop and obvious splinters, and clean it as best we could. My father would cut the pie into slices with his pocket knife, and we’d grab forks and dig in. The pie is zesty and sweet, with a bottom layer that has a lemon-curd consistency, topped with light chiffon. It’s unique and delicious. My father and grandmother both passed away years ago, but every time I make this pie, I smile and think of them.
1 cup sugar
1 T. butter
2 rounding T. flour
Juice and rind from 1 lemon
Yolk of two eggs
white of 1 egg, beaten
1 cup milk
Put in a pie crust. Bake 10 minutes at 450 degrees. Then 20 minutes at 350 degrees.
Happy Reading!
~~~
Special Giveaway: Renee will gift one print copy (U.S. only) of WAYFINDING to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Fixin’s blog. Good luck!
~~~
Thanks, Renee, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s with WAYFINDING A #Memoir by Rene Gilmore #Recipe ~ Lemon Cake Pie
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **AUTHOR SPECIAL** with RENEE GILMORE !
Welcome to my Friday bonus feature called Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **Author Special**!! Today, instead of one of my recipes, I will introduce you to a new author who will share a favorite recipe. Not only will you and I occasionally learn how to make something new and delicious, but we’ll also get a chance to check out some fantastic authors. Introducing author RENEE GILMORE and her favorite recipe for LEMON CAKE PIE!
WAYFINDING
A Memoir
BY RENEE GILMORE
Blurb
(October, 2025; Trio House Press)
Throughout her life, Renee Gilmore has been in love with the open road. Her passion for exploration has taken her across all seven continents—but the real journey has been much more personal. In Wayfinding, she confronts the impetus behind her wanderlust: a lifetime shaped by loss, betrayal, and sexual violence. Told through a series of car trips and postcards from the road, this powerful memoir maps a route toward healing, acceptance, and hope, with stops at Waffle House and the Monaco Grand Prix along the way. Narrated with unflinching honesty and flashes of humor, Wayfinding is the story of a fiercely resilient woman determined not only to survive but to remap a new life filled with freedom, connection, and joy.
WAYFINDING
A Memoir
BY RENEE GILMORE
Excerpt
Angels in Plaid Shirts
Thank you, Angels.
Twenty miles outside Sidney, Nebraska, I heard the thump, thump of a tire that was breathing its last, leaving its skin in the right lane of I-80, and its bones on the wheel. It was January, and I was leaving Minnesota in the rearview and heading to Albuquerque. I was a mid-year transfer student to the University of New Mexico, and it was time to go. I was both driving toward my future and away from something else. Away from a lot of things. I had made mistakes and put myself in danger – real danger – more than once. In the previous two-and-a-half years, I had been battered and nearly destroyed by two separate assaults, and I lost the scholarship I needed to stay at the Catholic college I attended in northern Minnesota. I made terrible choices in men, money, and alcohol. I had recently come home from studying abroad in Ireland, and during the last couple of months I was there, I got engaged to a boy, and then we broke up. It was messy, and I felt lost.
When I got back from Ireland, Duluth had gotten too small, too cold, too provincial for me, and I needed a change. There were too many people I knew, and too many places that held very bad memories. I fired off applications to colleges in warm places that I could sort of afford. I was accepted by Arizona State, the University of Texas at Austin, and the University of New Mexico. New Mexico was the cheapest. I prepared for a new start in the desert.
I didn’t know a soul in Albuquerque, and that was okay with me. The inside of my 1976 Plymouth Duster was packed to the rafters with pots and pans, clothes, and my Smith Corona typewriter, hefty in its light blue case. The trunk of the Duster was a treasure trove of shoes, frying pans, and bedding in white garbage bags, anchored by my 50-pound RCA television.
I had been fiddling with the radio, trying to find the sweet spot between Jesus and Dolly Parton, when I heard that sound and felt the pull of the wheel. I had been on the road for hours that day, driving by dormant cornfields with their lonely stubby stalks, waving at truckers, and eating gas station doughnuts. I was trying to make it to my grandmother’s house in Fort Morgan, Colorado, for lemon cake pie, homemade biscuits, and easy games of cards. I confidently flew by every exit for Grand Island, Nebraska, where my family usually stopped, with the hubris that only a 20-year-old can possess.
I pulled over on the shoulder and stopped. This was years before cell phones. If I got out, that flat tire was going to be real. I thought I would just sit for a minute. I hummed along to Led Zeppelin on the radio. Ate a chocolate-covered donut. That minute turned into five and I finally clicked out of my seatbelt and opened the door. Yep, the left rear tire, flatter than flat and missing several layers of rubber. I knew how to change a tire – my father wouldn’t let me out in the world without it. We had practiced and practiced when I got my driver’s license at 16. By practice, I mean my father stood in the driveway, in his baggy jeans, plaid shirt, and cardigan, smoking a cigarette. He pointed out where I missed something, very occasionally telling me, that was pretty good. I knew where to locate the jack, I knew how to loosen lug nuts, and I could heft the spare out of the trunk. I knew what to do.
I opened the trunk and sighed. It had taken two of us, my father and I, to get that huge RCA television into the trunk.
There is no way one of me was going to hoist it out. And the spare tire, which we had checked just two days before, was tucked in its compartment under everything. I looked to the freeway, and there were no cars for several flat miles, in either direction.
More sighing.
I started unloading the trunk on the side of the road.
Comforters. Shoes. A spare winter coat. My red Slimline telephone. I dug and lifted until nothing was left in the cavernous space but that damn RCA. I rocked it one way and then the other. There was just no way I could get it out. I stood with my hands on my hips. I was a 20-year-old girl with no more good ideas.
I turned toward the freeway. I heard the distant rumble of 18 wheels eating the road. Long before I saw it. I had no choice.
I flapped my right hand listlessly. I tried hard to look brave and tough and not cry. Tried not to think about the fact that I could be kidnapped right there by the side of the road, or murdered. My picture and story would end up on 48 Hours, for sure. The mountain of a vehicle started to slow, edging toward the shoulder, and came to a stop with a whoosh of air brakes. The driver, with his straw hat, cowboy boots, brown suspenders, and round belly, stepped down from the truck cab. He was as old as my dad, sun-soaked and strong. “Looks like you have a problem there, little lady.” Without permission, two tears wobbled down my face as he approached me. He hitched up his jeans. “Let’s see what we got.”
He helped me yank that TV out of the trunk like a tooth from a socket. We grabbed the spare tire and the jack and got to work. I jacked up the car, and he unscrewed the lug nuts. One was very stubborn and he swore at it with great creativity and enthusiasm. We pulled that tire off, and as we did, the rest of the rubber shrugged off the rim onto the ground. We put the wheel, its once-shiny surface now pitted and scratched, on my front seat, and loaded everything back into the trunk. He got on his CB and found out good news and bad. The good news was there was a garage 20 miles away, in Sidney, and they could get me a tire. The bad news was that they would get it tomorrow. Or the next day. He told them I was coming.
I thanked him and offered him ten dollars for helping me, but he laughed and told me to spend it on a new tire. I pulled back on the interstate, and drove far slower than the posted speed, with the radio off, straining to hear any signs of distress from the spare tire. There was honking, as I was passed by every car and truck heading in the same direction. I made it to Sidney. I found the garage and pulled a third of my cash out of my red wallet to pay George the mechanic for the new tire. I left my car and most of my possessions in his care. I stayed overnight a few blocks away in a Howard Johnson’s Motor Inn, with the dresser pushed in front of the door. When I walked back to the garage early the next afternoon, the tire had arrived. George clearly felt sorry for me. “Hey, I got a kid your age.” He didn’t charge me to remove the spare and tuck it back into the compartment in the trunk, next to the jack, under the bags of bedding, and the RCA. George said that damn TV weighed 60 pounds.
I made it to Fort Morgan, a day late. I stopped overnight, ate two good meals, and was sent on my way in the morning, with a lemon cake pie and a plastic fork. From Fort Morgan, it was about an eight-hour drive to Albuquerque. I arrived right before the sun was thinking of setting over the mesa, and there was just enough golden hour left to read the street signs. I already had my key, so I hauled everything out of the Duster and up to my apartment until nothing remained but the TV. I stood in the parking lot, in the deep twilight, and assumed the hands-on-hip position, as I stared into the trunk. An angel, in the shape of a plaid-shirted man named Terry Garcia (or that’s the name he gave me, anyway), asked me if I needed some help. Together, slowly, we carried that TV from the parking lot up the stairs to my second-floor studio apartment. The next morning, I wanted to thank him. I described him to the apartment manager. She said that no one named Terry Garcia lived there. I never saw him again.
I was not prone to thinking about God, about angels, about mysterious, mystical protectors. I attended Mass when required by family obligation, I lit candles in church because the ritual was comforting. But my hard-edged cynicism about religion, about those all-powerful beings who supposedly lived in the clouds, who controlled what happened to me in everyday life, had begun to seep in. It all started to make less sense than when I blindly accepted it earlier in my life. All the dogma, the unlikely-to-be-true Biblical myths I absorbed during five years of Catholic school, two years of confirmation classes and then Catholic college. I mean, didn’t God control the hands of the men who wrote the Bible? Whispered in their ears, shared the Truth, the Good News, His word, to control the people? But I digress.
Maybe a benevolent God, a personal savior did not, could not exist. I was starting to think that maybe this patriarchal God was just not for me. Maybe I just had “daddy issues.” How would this Father God explain sitting on the sidelines while I experienced such horrible, evil things? I was sad and angry and I wanted answers. But at that point, I didn’t have anything better to replace Christianity, Catholicism so I continued to search. I wanted to believe so badly.
Copyright, 2025, Renee Gilmore. Excerpted from Wayfinding: A Memoir with permission from Trio House Press.
About Author Renee Gilmore…
Renee M. Gilmore is the author of Wayfinding: A Memoir (October, 2025; Trio House Press). A multi-genre writer, essayist, and poet, she earned a BA from the University of New Mexico and an MA from Hamline University, and her work has been featured in The Louisville Review, The Museum of Americana, Fatal Flaw, The Raven Review, and Pink Panther, among others. She lives in suburban Minneapolis with her husband Steven and you can visit her online at reneethewriter.com.
~~~
Links to Renee’s website, blog, books, #ad, etc.:
Amazon Kindle: https://amzn.to/42ZLpe9
Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/4nH9Wgk
Trio House Press:
https://triohousepress.myshopify.com/products/pre-order-wayfinding-a-memoir-by-renee-gilmore
Inkwell Booksellers: https://www.inkwellbooksellersco.com/
Bookshop.org:
https://bookshop.org/p/books/wayfinding-a-memoir-renee-gilmore/0a7dc8280e24bca2?ean=9781949487626&next=t&next=t
Website: http://www.reneethewriter.com/
~~~
I hope you enjoy Renee’s favorite recipe today on Karen’s Killer Fixin’s. Happy Eating!Karen
P.S. We’re at 758 recipes and counting with this posting. Hope you find some recipes you like. If this is your first visit, please check out past blogs for more Killer Fixin’s. You can even look up past recipes by category in the right-hand column menu. i.e. Desserts, Breads, Beef, Chicken, Soups, Author Specials, etc.
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: If an author’s favorite recipe isn’t their own creation and came from an online site, you will now find the entire recipe through the link to that site as a personal recommendation. Thank you.
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LEMON CAKE PIE
Note from Rene: I have so many good memories connected to my grandmother Merna’s lemon cake pie. It was my father’s absolute favorite. We took plenty of road trips from Minnesota to Colorado to visit my grandparents, and we would always drive away with a pie (or two) and plastic forks. Most times, we only made it as far as the first rest stop—maybe in Sterling or Brush. We’d stake out a worn wooden picnic table, choosing the spot with the least amount of bird poop and obvious splinters, and clean it as best we could. My father would cut the pie into slices with his pocket knife, and we’d grab forks and dig in. The pie is zesty and sweet, with a bottom layer that has a lemon-curd consistency, topped with light chiffon. It’s unique and delicious. My father and grandmother both passed away years ago, but every time I make this pie, I smile and think of them.
1 cup sugar
1 T. butter
2 rounding T. flour
Juice and rind from 1 lemon
Yolk of two eggs
white of 1 egg, beaten
1 cup milk
Put in a pie crust. Bake 10 minutes at 450 degrees. Then 20 minutes at 350 degrees.
Happy Reading!
~~~
Special Giveaway: Renee will gift one print copy (U.S. only) of WAYFINDING to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Fixin’s blog. Good luck!
~~~
Thanks, Renee, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
October 2, 2025
Congratulations Week 09-15-25 & 09-22-25 Blog Giveaway Winners!
CONGRATULATIONS WEEK
09-15-25 & 09-22-25
BLOG GIVEAWAY WINNERS!!
Karen’s Killer Book Bench with C.A. Phipps…
**SPECIAL GIVEAWAY: C.A. will gift an ebook copy of A WISH TO DIE FOR, Witches and Wishes Book 1, to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog.
Thanks, C.A., for sharing your book with us!
WINNER: JAYLEE CONAWAY!!
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Karen’s Killer Book Bench with Angel Nyx…
**SPECIAL GIVEAWAY: Angel will gift one of her ebooks (winner’s choice) to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog.
Thanks, Angel, for sharing your book with us!
WINNER: K.A. BYLSMA!!
~~~
DON’T FORGET TO CHECK OUT THESE BOOKS, TOO!!
~~~
Karen/K.L. Docter’s books stand alone, even in the series. You can read them out of sequence. No cliffhangers. No cheating. Always Happily Ever After endings!
HAPPY READING!
(All giveaway winners are chosen by random.org from reader comments except Rafflecopter events or giveaways, which are determined and announced offsite by the publisher/authors. Thank you!)
