Olympic Sized Hangover

I love the Olympics for so many different reasons. The opening ceremony! Parade of Nations! The amazing athletes and their almost super-human achievements! New sports! Hot bodies! So much to see and think about, like, 'What would it feel like to pole vault?' or 'How the HELL do the rhythmic gymnasts bend their bodies that way???' And, of course, coming from Jamaica I have to watch the athletics. I don't think anyone who hasn't seen where many of our athletes come from can truly appreciate how far they've come to be on the world stage, winning medals and hearts. It always makes me feel like I'm about to burst with pride.
But the thing I love most of all are the stories.
They can be heroic or sad, inspirational or distressing, but with this many focused, determined people in one place you know there are a million stories worth hearing. Mark Oldershaw of Canada following in his grandfather, father and uncle's footsteps to compete in canoeing. Usain Bolt's support of his small village and the schools back home that nurtured his talents. British diver Tom Daley's loss of his father and determination to continue on toward his Olympic dreams. Mo Farah's amazing win in both the 5000 meters and 10,000 meter races. The sad case of Australian pole vaulter Steven Hooker who, after winning gold in Beijing developed a fear of heights and didn't qualify for the finals in 2012. My mingled joy and devastation as the Jamaican men won the gold medal in the 4x100 relay and the Canadian team was disqualified after coming in third. I was riveted to my TV, taking it all in.
And with a tradition this long standing, Olympic history has so many other stories that are well worth hearing over again. This year was the 100th Anniversary of Jim Thorpe's amazing win of gold medals in both the pentathlon and decathlon. Rarely mentioned is his fourth place in the high jump competition and seventh place finish in the long jump, or the fact that someone stole his shoes just before competition, and he competed, and won, wearing discarded shoes he found in the garbage. And, with the new political correctness, no one mentions anymore that he was part Native American. His story had an unhappy ending, as he was stripped on his medals because he'd played two seasons with a professional baseball league, apparently earning somewhere around the equivalent of $50 during that time. Thirty years after his death the medals were reinstated, but that doesn't change the fact that the man who received a ticker-tape parade on his return to the US died in poverty, and lived much of his life saddened by the desertion of the same people who'd lauded him.
I miss the excitement of the Olympics, the stories, the what ifs. Higher, faster, stronger takes on so much more meaning each time the games roll around. I'm left with a sense of wonder, an impression that while we all can't win races and break records, the fact that these people can, and with such style, a grain of that greatness lies in all of us, if we could just find, hold on to, and live it. Live our own Olympics, every day.

Dangerously Delicious Food? Say it Ain't So!

Traditional Foods That Can Kill

I think most people are familiar with the Puffer Fish, or Fugu, the delicacy adored by many Japanese and yet so poisonous the Emperor of Japan is forbidden to eat it. While many of us may shake our heads at the thought of eating something that with improper preparation could be fatal, Fugu isn’t the only food that falls into the category of tasty-but-deadly.

I think, if you investigate, you’ll find many cultures consume potentially dangerous foods. In my own, Jamaican, culture there are not one but two traditional dishes that are prepared from poisonous plants. In fact, one of those two is part of the national dish, and no, I’m not talking about the salted cod…

The Ackee tree (Blighia Sapida) originated in West Africa and is thought to have been brought to the Caribbean on slave ships. Yes, the botanical name is in honor of Captain Bligh, but that’s because he introduced the tree to the Royal Botanical Society, rather than introducing the tree to the islands. In Jamaica the ackee is, for the most part, treated with the utmost respect, because everyone knows improper handling can be fatal. The fruit has to ripen on the tree, and shouldn’t be picked until it’s fully opened. The seeds and the red filaments must be removed before boiling, and the water it was cooked in must never be consumed.

The other perennial favorite in Jamaica made with a dangerous plant is bammy, which are flat, dry, savory cakes made from bitter cassava. All cassava has a certain amount of cyanide, but the bitter cassava has far more than the sweet. The cassava has to be processed in some way to eliminate the poison and, in the case of bammy the process involves grating the tubers and soaking the coarse meal repeatedly before straining, molding and pressing all the liquid out. Again, it’s the liquid that can do you in, but I’ve never heard of anyone getting sick from eating bammy, so I doubt there’s much danger involved.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case with ackee, as Jamaica sees a few cases each year of people getting ill or dying from the consumption of improperly prepared dishes. On my father’s side of the family very few members can eat ackee, even when properly cooked. My grandfather developed an allergy to it in his forties, my father and two of his siblings did too, but in their thirties. I developed it in my twenties and, as a result, I’ve never even considered giving it to my son. My allergy is so severe just lightly kissing my husband after he’s eaten some brings on a bad reaction.

This may sound as scary to the uninitiated as the Fugu does, but just a cursory search on the internet will show there are lots of potentially dangerous foods many of us are eating every day. They include some of my favorites, like nutmeg, potatoes, cherries, tomatoes and almonds. It’s almost enough to make a woman go on a starvation diet…

Nah, I’m willing to take the risk because, well, I love my food, and what a potentially delicious way to go!

Speaking of Cocks

Do you ever wonder what characters would cook if they got into the kitchen? I sometimes do, because often I find I’ve written an entire book, or read an entire book, and the characters have been too busy doing…um…other stuff to actually make an entire meal. Strange, really, in the case of my own writing since I’m a devote foodie! With that in mind, Foodie Friday was born.

Sometimes it’ll just be a recipe I particularly like, or maybe some strange food fact I’ve come across. On occasion you’ll find a short story involving a character from my or other author’s books getting crazy in the kitchen. Foodie Friday is about the love of food, in all its forms, so come back often for a little taste!

I was on Twitter the other day when someone posted a link to this Amazon page http://www.amazon.com/Grace-Cock-Flavored-Soup-Mix/dp/B002Q46EH6/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1339373016&sr=8-2&keywords=Grace+Cock+Soup with a rather cheeky comment.

Okay, I know what a lot of you are thinking—WTF? But hear me out, and remember what sound EEEEWWW to one person is *shrug* to someone else.

I’m Jamaican, and Grace is a large manufacturing company on the island. They specialize in what Jamaicans use on a daily basis in their kitchens…stuff people from the rest of the world might never have heard of but are considered essentials to us. One of those products is Cock Soup.

Before I get into what we do with this soup, and what it tastes like and all those good things, let me explain one thing…it is NOT penis soup. A look at the actual package should make that pretty clear, but I thought I’d reiterate it. In Jamaica, traditionally, a ‘cock’ is a rooster, coming straight from our colonial, English roots. Now, if someone were to offer you “hood soup” or “buddy soup” (words denoting penis in our vernacular), I suggest you politely decline. There is one soup, cow cod, that’s made from the intimate bits of a bull, so if that kind of thing makes you queasy, that the one to watch for. Otherwise, if offered cock soup on vacation in Jamaica, I say go for it!

So, the packaged Cock Soup is like any other dry chicken noodle soup mix, except it’s spicier, with a more intense flavor. I use it as a base for making a large pot of chicken soup, add it sometimes to chicken stew and it makes a delicious broth for boiling chicken. (Use skinless chicken breasts, bone in or out, as you prefer. Chop into approximately 2” chunks. Get rid of the noodles from the soup by emptying the package into a strainer and shaking out the flavor base into a bowl. Discard the noodles, because they get flabby and gummy if boiled too long. Put the flavor base into boiling water and add the chicken, cooking just until done. Serve with soya sauce.)

I’ve actually also used the above method to boil shrimps for shrimp cocktail, because it gives them just enough of an oomph without overpowering the shrimp flavor! Of course, if you just want a nice bowl of soup to eat with your crackers, and plain out chicken noodle isn’t cutting it, Cock Soup may be right up your alley.

So, that’s the low-down on Cock Soup, a great Jamaican tradition! Thinking about it, this is probably the tamest blog I’ve ever written with the word “cock” in it… *shakes head*

Six Sentence Sunday!

Welcome to Six Sentence Sunday! This week I thought I’d give you a little taste of my short story, Rescue My Heart, which can be found in the Steamlust: Steampunk Erotic Romance anthology, being released on October 11^th. I was so very pleased that a reviewer at Publisher’s Weekly called my story “powerful.” While I don’t usually read reviews, I was glad I clicked through to that one!

I hope you enjoy this snippet and make sure to check out all the other great Sixes posted by the talented authors.

In this scene Beatrix, Duchess of Palisadoes, has been granted her dearest wish, under the very worst of circumstances.

I am lost, as though broken from the tether of my life and floating away—a casualty of a hurricane-force wind. Not even the now-vague memory of Hardwick’s presence can lessen my pleasure at being surrounded by the touch and scent of the two people I love best. Lust is the physical manifestation, the only one I dare express, but my heart sings to have received this one chance to experience their attentions.

Forcing myself to break away is the hardest action I have ever taken, but if I do not I will forget all in their arms, and my plan will go awry.

Pulling back, I look across at Hardwick. His gloating, lascivious stare causes a chill to trickle down my spine.