Since it’s been a hectic week now that I’m back teaching school, I didn’t have time to make it to a movie. I did, however and as always, find time to read. So, I thought I’d share with you some books I’ve recently finished. Maybe you’ll find something here you would also like to read.

Before I forget, if you live in the Spanish Fork area, I’d love to have you join me on Wednesday, September 15th at 6:30 p.m. at the library. I’ll be doing book talks for the adult patrons, and it might be a great chance for you to discover a book or series, or just to meet some other avid readers from our community. Hope to see you there!

Apple Turnover Mystery – Joanne Fluke. This
series is one of my very favorite cozy mysteries. The main character, Hannah
Swenson, owns the local bakery and has an uncanny way of always being the one
to discover the body of someone recently murdered. Hannah is a natural sleuth
and uses her bakery specialties, knowledge of the community, and sense of intuition
to solve the case, even though her policeman brother-in-law sometimes wishes
she would leave that part up to him. If you love to bake, you’ll also love
these books which are always jam-packed with actual recipes for cookies, cakes
and other confectionaries that sound way too many calories or sugar grams for
my diet!



Hush, Hush – Becca Fitzpatrick. Since this book
came out I’ve had a lot of locals ask me if I read it yet, and what did I
think. I’d read an absolutely scathing review by a well-known nationally
published YA author, so of course, I HAD to read the book at that point to see
what all the fuss was about. I picked up the novel expecting to be absolutely
scandalized, and found. . . next to nothing. Okay, so there was a little inappropriate
language, maybe some hinted indication of sex, but nothing compared to some of
the other well-known and widely read YA novels that recently passed around our
community as a “must read.” Maybe I’m becoming desensitized and these glimpses
of impropriety don’t faze me anymore. Honestly the book I’ve reading right now
to review for a national magazine has content much worse than this. Perhaps the
entire industry is leading teenagers down a path toward vulgarity in both
language and sex. One listen to the radio and a look at MTV sort of proves
this. In any case, I actually liked Hush, Hush well enough that I’ve put the
forthcoming sequel on hold at the public library.


Readicide – Kelly Gallagher. This book is a must
read for teachers and administrators, language arts of not. The author tells of
a terrible tragedy that has befallen our country, one that I have cried about
for years. We are developing an alliterate nation—a nation of people who can
read, but who DON’T. The reason? Our teachers are committing readicide—killing the
love of reading by dissecting literature into such small parts that the
students never learn to engage, never learn to read simply because they love
reading. Why do we do this? Because of state and national mandates testing.
Everything in school becomes about the test. Are the scores high enough? Can we
reach 100% proficiency by the target date of 2014 as mandated in No Child Left Behind?Anyone who understands that you can’t compare apples to oranges already knows
that the goal

Helen Marie Heffner was born at home at 810 Daly Street in Indianapolis, Indiana, as the second child of Lewis Orvil and Violet Mae Warner Heffner. She was welcomed to the family by her older sister Leona Mae Heffner, who had just turned two the month before.

At the recommendation of her mother Violet’s doctor, the family left the city while Helen was young and settled in the crossroads known as Hancock’s Chapel in the hills of southern Indiana. Violet’s health had caused the doctor some concern, and he felt living in the big city and working in the marshmallow factory as she did was not good for her. When Lewis located his siblings Herbert and Ethel, who had been adopted by the Wennings family, the tiny crossroads town where they lived seemed to make the most sense for the rest of his family.
   
Helen and Leona loved the outdoors, fishing in the pond, running through the hills, and playing in the barn. They attended the two room schoolhouse on the Wennings’ property behind the General Store. The two girls often sang duets at the chapel where their baby sister, Ethel Louise, is laid to rest. The baby was stillborn in 1922.

One of Helen’s favorite songs was “Fair Lilies,” and her best friend in Hancock was Mary Catherine Kennedy, whose married name was Wolfe. Helen continued to have a love for music throughout the rest of her life, and although she never learned to play an instrument or read music, she often sang as she worked around the house. She always had the perfect song to sing for any occasion to prove a lesson to her children.

When Helen was 12, the family relocated first to “B” Street in Elwood, where their grandma Mary Rose Fry Warner lived, then to Alexandria, Indiana, where they resided at 218 West Tyler Street. She remembered having sock hop dances on the new hardwood floors her father laid in this house, to help polish the floors after coats of varnish were added to them. She lived in this house until she was married.

Helen was very successful in business courses in high school, working in the school office as a student aide and being chosen as a member of the National Honor Society. She worked as kitchen help at the Colonaide, the beautiful building which still stands on State Road 9. She would walk the 2 miles to and from work each day for a meager wage, although sometimes the girls would share their tips if she could clear the dishes away quickly for them.

As a girl, she met and developed a crush on her neighbor Robert Brobst who had a crush on Helen’s cousin Roberta. Eventually, the romance worked out, and Robert and Helen were married at the home of Reverend Bigler at the corner of Water and Clinton Streets in Alexandria. Helen wore a lavender silk dress that she had made. She always wondered, however, if the marriage was legal as the minister insisted on calling Robert “Paul” throughout the marriage ordinance. Only Violet, Leona, and Winona Brobst attended the wedding because Lewis Heffner thought his older daughter should get married first.

The weather was cold and terrible on that January day, and after the ceremony the newlywed couple walked the mile from the preacher’s house to Loren and Opal’s house at 406 Walnut to spend the honeymoon night. Helen took a terrible chill which results in one of the worst colds she ever experienced in her life. She kept apologizing to her new husband and the next day they walked back to Roe Avenue and his family home. He made her a hot toddy that night, the first she had ever had alcohol, and she thought she hear trains rushing through the room. But the drink did its job and she slept through the night, awaking the next morning miraculously cured.

Over the next 45 years, Helen raised their four children (Robert Lewis, Beverly Sue, Donald Eugene, and Lu Ann), worked at Robert’s side at Brobst Photos Supplies, and developed her talents, which included cooking, sewing, embroidery, crochet, cross stitch, and writing poetry, but she never learned to drive a car. The one time she gave it a try, she became upset when she didn’t turn the car in the right place at the corner, which resulted in a chewing out from her instructor. Once she parked the car back home she said, “You can have the wheel. I’m done trying.” I think she later regretted that decision, but there was no way late in life she was going to try again.

Helen was the family historian and kept in touch with cousins on both sides of the family. She loved to read. After she lost Robert, whom she called “my best friend,”she traveled with her youngest child, Lu Ann, to Florida and Utah where she finally moved. She died there in 1995 from complications due to Alzheimer’s disease.

Hearing (or reading) I could care less is one of my eye-twitching peeves, because it states the exact opposite of what the person means.

Has there ever been a time in your life where you tried to spell something, and no matter what you did, you just couldn’t spell it right? You may even know how to spell the word, but for some reason your brain gets itself into a rut, and no matter what you do the correctly spelled word just won’t fall from your lips.

Or in this case, the tip of your pen.

Several years before I started working for Alan and long before Jay and I worked together on many projects for both our ward and the BYU stake singles, I went to the Osmond family several places on the road. I can’t remember for sure where we were when the great brain freeze hit Jay right between the eyes, but I remember vividly the problem he was having spelling my name.

Granted, Lu Ann might not be the easiest name to spell, especially since there are several ways to do so–Lu Ann; Luann; Lou Anne; Lu Anne; Luanne all come to mind.–but never, never in my life have I ever known anyone to spell it starting with LOO.

Until Jay came along.

The brothers had brought along a brand new group of black & white glossy photos for this gig, and I was one of the first to buy the one of Jay. It was a great photo and I could hardly wait to get him to sign it. I had my chance the next day.

As often was the case in those earlier-Osmond days, I was standing around in the parking lot outside of a hotel with a group of fans, willing to wait all day if necessary to get an autograph, snap a photo, and have a minutes’ worth of conversation. Like most of the others who waited, I had a tote to stash the photos I wanted to have signed.

The bag contained an 8 x 10 of each member of the family—including the brand new photo of Jay. I think a few of them were photos I had actually taken, but I didn’t have any with me of Jay that was as good as this new one, so that’s the one I pulled from the bag when just after noon, Jay came walking out to play a game of football with some members of the band.

Pen in hand, I approached him and asked for his autograph.

“Sure,” he said, looking up at me for my then-unknown name. He had already taken the photo and the pen as a group of people gathered around, cameras and photos of their own in hand.

“Lu Ann,” I said. “L–U. . .”

Then I noticed, Jay had already started writing. L–O–O.

“Um,” I started. “Jay, my name is spelled L–U–A–N–N.”

“Right,” Jay said. “L–U.” He looked at the photo, studying what he had already written. “Oh,” he said, scratching through the letters and starting over again.

I watched as he again started to write. L–O–O. The same three letters had once again been written onto the photo. He looked at me, like he was proud of his accomplishment at first, then he saw the perplexed look on my face. He immediately looked back down and the word he had written—LOO.

A sheepish looks came across his face and he again scribbled out what he had written, then perhaps realizing what a mess he had made, he grabbed for my tote bag where the photo had been stored. “Do you have any other photos of me in there?”

“Not today,” I said.

“Oh,” Jay said. “Sorry.”

By this time I was laughing, and all the people around us were just snapping away, taking photo after photo of me with Jay, recording for posterity all the trouble he was having simply spelling my name.

I pushed the original photo back his way. “Why don’t you give it one more try?” I asked.

“Okay.” He took the photo and very carefully, and VERY slowly wrote L–U–A–N–N.

He’d done it. At last Jay had spelled my name correctly. He’d overcome the spelling demon who had earlier frozen his brain.

“Thanks!” I said, taking the photo and returning it to my bag.

In the next few weeks, my friends who witnessed the great brain freeze sent me a series of photos of Jay trying really hard to correctly spell my name. Looking at the completed photo collection was almost like watching an old time movie as every single bewildered look, raised finger asking me to just hold on, and scratched out spelling was recorded in time.

But the story doesn’t end there. From that time on, and for many years of friendship, it became a big joke between us about the day Jay absolutely could not manage to spell my name. As a matter of fact, when I saw him a couple weeks ago and asked him to sign his book for me, I was sure to ask, “Do you remember how to spell my name?”

Laughing Jay said, “Of course I do!” and spelled it aloud just to prove it to me. And guess what, he got it right in the book, too.

Our house has a pretty miserable excuse for a tooth fairy.

It's that time again, the time of year when Josi begs and pleads for happy words about her books to infiltrate the literary worlds and woo fair readers into hypnotic credit-card-swiping moods of grand effusement and joy.

What? Effusement isn't a word says my spell check. Then a pox; a pox on such dictionaries that don't recognize such feedudulement of vocabularic variousness! (incidentally, vocabularic does seem to be a word.)

Alas, I do not simply beg for help without the understanding of reciprocation and therefore the current contest is thus:

• Contest runs from 8/31/10-9/7/10
• Points are only awarded for nice things said during the dates noted above
• For each point you earn, you get entered in to what will be a random drawing done on www.random.org. Hence, if you have 509 points, your name is entered 509 times and you can egg my house if you don't win. 

*Points are earned in the following ways:

• Mention me or any of my books in a positive way in your facebook status
• Mention me or any of my books in a positive way in your twitter update
• Retweet someone else's positive mention in their twitter update
• Blog about me or any of my books in a positive way (you can copy and paste this blog contest post if you would like)
• Leave an online review on any of the following sites for any of my books (you can use the same review on multiple sites)

www.amazon.com
www.deseretbook.com
www.barnesandnoble.com
www.seagullbookandtape.com
www.goodreads.com
www.shelfari.com

Once you have earned your points, come back here and leave a comment on this blog with how many points you earned and a brief description of how you earned them. (remember where liars go if you are tempted to exaggerate). You will be subsequently entered into the contest once for each point earned.

Prizes are as follows:

Grand Prize: An autographed copy of Annette Lyon's Chocolate Cookbook (will be sent when the book is released in October 2010)
Second Prize: An autographed copy of any one of my books AND a bag of Sunkist Fruit Chews because they are so yummy and don't melt like Pretzel M & M's which I don't dare send in the mail.
Third Prize: An autographed copy of any one of my books.
Fourth Place: THIS because I think the world is a better place when everyone who wants a collection of wheat ear pennies has that opportunity.

Keep in mind I can send prizes to someone else in case there is someone you really need to kiss up to right now :-) Christmas is coming, whose naughty list are you on?

PS--you get double points for any reviews left for Key Lime Pie :-)

I think this song by Aaron Shust perfectly portrays the character of Alma the Younger. What do you think?

You can listen on You Tube HERE, or read the lyrics below:

Lyrics from When Everything is Beautiful by Aaron Shust.

verse 1:

take my ashes take my dirt, and clay
take my pride and strip it off, away
take my mourning take my doubt, and fear
say the words i long to hear

chorus:

though your sins were as scarlet
they will be as white as snow
though they were red,
red as crimson
they will be like wool
when everything is beautiful

verse 2:


everything i tried to hide,
all the games I've been playing
every secret every lie,
all the shame I've been claiming
come and whisper in my ear,
say the words i long to hear

chorus:

though your sins were as scarlet
they will be as white as snow
though they were red,
red as crimson
they will be like wool
when everything is beautiful

bridge:

I'm alive with a hope of a bran' new day,
woa oh woa
I'm alive with a hope of a bran' new day

chorus:

ohh... though your sins were as scarlet
they've become as white as snow
though they were red,
red as crimson
they've become like wool

though your sins were as scarlet
they've become as white as snow
though they were red,
red as crimson
they've become like wool

and everything is beautiful...
everything is beautiful

There is nothing like being taught by a master, and that’s how I would classify New York Times Best-selling author and writing teacher Dave Wolverton. Winner of the 2009 Whitney Best Novel of the Year and Outstanding Achievement Award, Dave is one of the most genteel and humble men I’ve ever known. He is always there to nurture a struggling beginner and to applaud the success of everyone who has made the journey into publication.

In addition to his own success, Dave, who has published 50 books in the past 26 years, has been entered into the Guinness World Book of Records for having the most people ever attend a book signing while promoting his Runelords series in Germany, has been a teacher to a list of other best-selling authors, including Dan Wells (I Am Not a Serial Killer), Brandon Mull (Fablehaven), Brandon Sanderson (Elantris and The Wheel of Time: Towers of Midnight), and Stephenie Meyers (Twilight saga).

Recently I had the opportunity to attend one of Dave’s presentations at the LDS Storymaker’s conference, and I wished his session could have gone on for days. I’ve been writing and studying writing for a long time, but I learned so much in his session, short though it was.

His opening words of wisdom for that session were, “Nobody makes it alone. We all build upon each other.” He them went on to talk about how important it is to network. He encouraged the authors to prepare for a brilliant writing career and ask themselves, “What is your first good step?” He said there is no one set path for making a career as a writer, but like fellow science fiction author Kevin Anderson says, “The harder I work, the luckier I get.”

Dave encouraged the writers to do their homework on the person or pesons they most want to network with, then build your confidence for when you meet them. “You just need that one person to get your career started. “If you fail to plan, you plan to fail,” he adds, warning that you should also be aware of your potential competition.

He says to be entertaining, research the world, and develop genuine interest in people and knowledge that you can spread around. When you meet the agent or editor of your dreams, you want to have things to talk about, something with which you can engage them in conversation where they will remember you in a good way. “Prepare emotionally. Prepare spiritually,” he says. If we teach through our writing, we must be careful what we are teaching.”

Authors use writing as their way of screaming, and therefore you should write what is most important to you. Authors can change the world. They create entire communities. Dave says,” We are having a huge effect on people and we don’t even know it. A lot of people need what we have. Each of us has something to share in the world..”

He suggested we use the things he has said as our blueprint—“How to be more like me.” And that makes perfect sense when you understand that one of Dave’s goals is to help all of us become the next best-selling writers who are ready to speak to the world.

If you’re interested in learning more writing insight from Dave Wolverton, sign up for his free e-newsletter, Daily Kick in the Pants, at his website: http://davidfarland.net/. You can also find out about upcoming workshops there as well.

In the 1980s and early 1990s, I found myself free to travel just about anywhere I wanted. Living in Utah, a jaunt down to Vegas, a trip to Los Angeles, a drive north to Idaho, or a short-hop flight to Colorado was as easy as could be, and I never seemed to have difficulty finding a friend or four to   go with me. Even a second trip to the Big Apple—New York—was not impossible to pull off, but long before that my journey begins.

For several years I had been living in Provo, Utah, the place where this all begins. The Children’s Miracle Network annual telethon had made its home since the very beginning at the Osmond Studio complex in nearby Orem. I had almost annually made a trek to see as much of the telethon as I could get a ticket and a seat to attend.

Many, many celebrities came out for these shows and I often had the chance either at the studio or at the Salt Lake City airport to meet them. A few of those I remember include Richard Carpenter, Nia Peeples, Billy Zabka, Frank Stallone, and Andy Gibb. But probably the celebrity I ran into the most often was telethon co-host John Schneider.

John Schneider is one of those kinds of people who truly want to get to know their fans. Every time I saw him in Utah, which are too numerous to count, or even when the telethon moved to Disneyland, John would take the time to stop and talk. He’d pose for pictures and sign autographs, then he would start asking questions toward the group of us as fast as we could thrown questions back at him. He would really listen as we answered those questions, too. I felt like John wanted to get to know me.

That brings me back to New York and the rest of my story. One of my good friends, Mary La Fontaine, had a hankering to fly to New York to see John perform in the Broadway musical Grand Hotel. John would be playing the role of the Baron in the production currently running at the Martin Beck Theater, and she called to ask if I wanted to go.

Of course I wanted to go! I have always loved John as a performer, a singer, and especially as a person. Plans were made, tickets were bought, and a few weeks later, I was flying in late on Friday night after having taught school to meet Mary in New York late that night.

It certainly was late when I got there. My plan arrived at JFK right around midnight, and there I was, a single woman alone on New York, hoping I’d make it to the hotel alive. I’d learned to pack light for weekend trips like this, so I hauled my wheelie-bag from the plane and headed outside to the taxi stand. Now, I’d taken a taxi before when I was in New York, but I’d never done it alone—at night—with all those scary-looking taxi drivers standing around waiting for a final late-night fare.

I stood and stared at a group of them, all hanging out, smoking their cigarettes and staring at me, until I finally got up my nerve, raised my right hand, and said, “Taxi?”

None of them looked especially thrilled, but at last one mam took a final drag, stopped out his cigarette, and motioned me toward his car. I took a deep gulp of air as I slid into the seat. It’s probably a good thing because that cab absolutely reeked of stale tobacco, alcohol, and who knows what other smells.

I gave him the name and street number for the hotel where Mary had us booked and we were on our way. I had no idea where we were going. I only know the car careened one way, then another, sometimes coming to an abrupt halt behind a jam of cars, them tearing away into another side street as we headed somewhere that I assume was across town, although there were times I thought we hadn’t gone more than a street away from where our journey began. The only time I knew for sure we were someplace new was when we crossed the river and I could see bridges on either side of me a little farther up or down the waterway.

At last we arrived at my destination. Somehow I was lucky enough to have the correct amount of cash to pay my fare—some astronomical amount like 50 bucks as I recall, a number that matched the meter so I know he wasn’t being an obvious cheat—and I was a the door to the place, still not knowing exactly where I was headed.

I checked in at the desk then used the house courtesy phone to give Mary a call and let her know I was in the lobby. She came down to meet me, leading me upstairs and chattering all the way about how she had already seen the play this night and talked to John afterwards, telling him I was coming and assuring me that he wanted to see me.

Right! I thought. No matter how many times John had seen me, I knew he had no idea who I was, even if he did say he couldn’t wait to see me.

Somehow we managed to crowd into our postage-stamp of a room and settle in for an almost-night’s sleep. Despite the fact the window was the size of an 8x10 envelope standing on end, the outside noise of car horns, squealing tires, and overhead planes was more than I was used to and they all converged to keep me awake most of the night. Of course, the fact that the twin bed meant for me was more the width of a plank that a mattress didn’t help either. I think even if Mary and I had been able to slide the two beds together the whole thing combined wouldn’t have been wide enough for even a single person to sleep comfortably.

Tired, but not letting it stop me from having a great day, Mary did some Saturday morning sight-seeing before heading to the theater for the matinee. Until my luck with Christopher Reeve, we didn’t see John before the show, but that was okay. We had great seats right down front and both really enjoyed the play, Mary even more than she had the evening before.

After the performance, she said, “Come with me!” and we headed toward the curtain at the front right of the stage. There was an usher there, blocking the way for anyone to get backstage, but that didn’t seem to bother Mary. “Can you tell John that Mary and Lu Ann are here, please?”

The usher gave her a look that seemed to say ‘You’ve-got-to-be-kidding,’ but after a second he shrugged his shoulder and headed backstage. ‘He said he’s really excited to see you,’ Mary said, turning to me.
I smiled, but I didn’t believe we’d even get backstage, let alone have John excited to see me. I guess I was wrong. A few minutes later, the usher returned and Mary and I were suddenly standing on the other side of the curtain where we were walked farther into the dark recesses found backstage. “John will be here in a few minutes,” the usher said, then he was gone.

I can’t remember how long we stood there, but I do remember seeing Mary’s eyes start to sparkle right before I heard the deep voice say, “Hi Mary, and Lu Ann, it’s great to see you!” And there was John, his arms held out toward me, ready to give me one of those great big bear hugs his is notorious for. He started chatting away like we were finishing a conversation that had been started the day before. He asked me how school was going—did I have good students this year?—and how my flight was from Utah, and when did I have to go back, etc. We talked for probably twenty  minutes before he said, “Let’s get some pictures” and called over one of the stagehands who was resetting the stage for the evening performance.

Finally John said, “I’ve got to go. They have dinner waiting back in the dressing room for me, but it was sure great to see you—both of you!” He gave us each another hug and led us to the door that took us back outside. Before we left he gave us the name and address of one of his favorite restaurants in an area of the city known as Hell’s Kitchen and we were on our way—but that’s another story for another day.

Now that you've all finished Mockingjay (Do not tell me the ending!!! I'm still not done with it because my teenage daughter got to it first.) I know you're all looking for some other awesome book.

And what could be awesomer (I know that's not a word, but it should be) than catching up with our favorite incompetent fairy godmother, Chrysanthemum Everstar? So here's your chance to win an ARC before they even go to the reviewers.

Just leave a comment telling me what you would do if a fairy godmother gave you a wish (and no cheating by asking for more wishes, or to have magic, or anything else that would give you more wishes.)Be sure to mention if you're a blog follower since followers get double chances.

And remember--you're agreeing to overlook that whole business about hay and straw not being the same thing and all the other little problems that I hope I caught in the last draft.

May the Random Number Generator be with you!

Grieving doesn't happen all at once, like a fit of crying that lasts for days and then doesn't return.  It comes and goes, sometimes stronger, sometimes as just a dull ache.  Sometimes it overwhelms you, and sometimes it just burns a little.  Sometimes you know it's coming, like when you're driving down the road and you know you're going to pass that street where you used to turn, but there's no reason to turn there now.  Other times, you have no idea when it's coming, like when your five-year-old pulls a picture book off the shelf and starts to read aloud, "My grandpa is the greatest," and you want to sit down with him and make sure he remembers his grandpa, and that he really understands the words he's reading, because you want them burned on his brain.

Sometimes grief is a little bit sweet, because you know you have something worth mourning, and you feel blessed that you had something precious to lose.  Sometimes it makes you feel angry, because you question why you had to lose it. Sometimes it makes you grateful that you recognize the value of the thing you had, and that you cherished it before it was too late.  Other times, it makes you feel ungrateful, as if you didn't do enough to show your appreciation for it, and you wonder if you could have done more, been more, said it more often, showed it in more ways - you wonder if they knew.

Grief can come in the day or the night.  It doesn't hide when it's sunny, just to come out in the rain.  It can follow you to the grocery store, sit with you in the theater, watch while you wash the dishes.  It doesn't have a schedule.  It's not watching a clock, waiting for your time to be up before slipping off to bother someone else.  It's patient.  It can sit there for hours without getting bored.

What grief does most is remind you.  Remind you that you were loved, or that you wanted to be loved, and make you want to be loved again.  It binds you, it ties you, it creates a chain from this side to the next that can't be broken.  The chain pulls a little, tugs you, brings you back when you walk too far away.  Little by little, it reels you in until you can feel the thinness of the veil between this life and the next, like you can reach out and touch it, like the person you lost is standing just on the other side and if you could open your eyes a little wider, you could see them, holding on to the other end of that chain.

Grief is a constant reminder that we have an appointment with someone on the other side, and that we don't want to do anything to spoil that grand reunion that awaits us when it's our turn to pass.  Grief keeps us from forgetting that we have a job to do.



I miss you, Dad.

Everybody’s a critic, and the word alone means those people rarely have anything nice to say. I had a good friend express her concerns this week about a negative review that was left for her by a reader. Like a sore tooth, the hurtful words took joy away from my friend—at least on an emotional level—all the praise and kudos she’s received from hundreds of others not only for this book, but for her other bodies of work as well. In her mind, she fully understood that it was just one person—a lone voice ranting in the wilderness—but that didn’t change the hurt that came along with it.

I’ve heard it said that it takes us seven experiences with praise to counter-balance a single negative comment delivered to us, even by someone who claims to only be giving constructive criticism. Is there really such a thing? If the offering was unrequested, then perhaps those words are better left unsaid.

Like the saying goes, you can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar. If you truly want to bring about change, then perhaps you should look at the words that are said, or choose to leave them unsaid if that’s the better way.

But what if you’re the one hearing those vinegar-laced words? My mother always told me to 'consider the source'. Would that critic set out to deliberately hurt you? Or are they just so blind they cannot see? If their actions seem deliberate, why would they do such a thing? Sometimes it might be out of jealousy, others could be because they simply don’t understand. Maybe they think they are doing you the good they believe you need. A critic is anyone who expresses a value judgment, and if their value differs from yours this may lead them to an erroneous conclusion—one they seem compelled to share, for whatever the reason.

In any case, we should never place more value—or spend more time—on the words of a critic than we would ascribe to those of a friend. The value of friendships is immeasurable in our lives. The listening ear, and open mind, a pat on the back, a word of support when the thorns of life seem to come our way.

True friendships carries with it the desire to give what is best to each other, feel both love and empathy for those we befriend; and maintain honesty, perhaps in situations where it may be difficult for others to speak the truth, not to criticize or correct, but to maintain an openness beget of nothing but true love. Friendship means a basis of mutual understanding and compassion for one another, and foundation or trust, and a place to go for emotional support.

As Walter Winchell once said, “A friend is one who walks in when others walk out.”

With such as these, we should spend our emotions, ignoring those who would seek to do us harm, both physically and emotionally, with their criticizing tongue. Elder David E. Sorensen once said, “It can be very difficult to forgive someone the harm they’ve done us, but when we do, we open ourselves up to a better future. No longer does someone else’s wrongdoing control our course. When we forgive others, it frees us to choose how we will live our own lives.”

So, forgive our critics, those who trespass against us, and set ourselves free. The time we spend on them is time taken away from us to go about doing good in the world, sharing our talents, and building ourselves into a better you and me.  

And that’s what will make this world a better, kinder, and more loving place to be.

Whatcha got cooking? How about cooking somethin’ up with me?

My mother used to sing this song while she was working in the kitchen, a place she really seemed to love to be. That must have been a trait she learned from her own mother, and one that got passed on to my sister, Sue. Didn’t happen though with me, and honestly not with my aunt Leona either it seems. Some girls naturally inherit the “I-love-to-cook gene.” Others do not, and that’s where you’ll find me.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I can cook; I just don’t particularly like to. But just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I can’t cook up a dish or two that rank as some members of my family’s favorite meals. And it’s not all just cake and desserts, either, although they do seem to like that too.

When I started this series some time ago, I had people asking me for some of my favorite recipes, so today I’m going to share one with you. Others will come as the weeks follow. These are tried and true and my boys gobble them up like they haven’t eaten in weeks. Oh, for the days I used to have leftovers for sandwiches or a lunch to take to work!

The main course dish that I’m going to share actually has a story to go with its history.

In one of my early years teaching at Payson Jr. High School, we were having some sort of pot luck meal in which members of the faculty were supposed to bring a favorite dish. I knew I couldn’t make desserts to equal those my sister could make, rolls were out of the question, and the salad I might have made took overnight to prepare and I didn’t have that time luxury, so I decided to make up some breaded tenderloin to share.

This is something I knew how to cook without even thinking. Breaded tenderloin was probably the first thing my mother really taught me to cook, and I know it was the first dish I was asked to prepare all on my own for a family meal. I followed my mother’s exact recipe.

Buy pork tenderloin, sliced as thin as you can get them. Cut off any fat, place the tenderloin between two sheets of waxed paper and pound on the meat until it is paper-thin.

Dip the meat pieces into a well-beaten egg until it’s covered, then press each side onto a waxed paper where you’ve crushed crackers into nearly powder. (I use Ritz crackers; my mother used saltines.) 

Heat an electric skillet to 350∘. Slowly place the cracker and egg-covered pieces into the skillet and let them begin to cook. When the side nearest the heat has started to turn golden brown, gently turn the meat over, cooking until the other side is the same color. Do NOT salt the meat at this time.

Repeat the process, allowing the meat to cook through and the coating to continue to brown on both sides. The third time you turn them, you may lightly salt each side.

At the end of t his final turn, the meat should be completely cooked, but cut open a tiny part in the center of the thickest piece of meat. If all looks good, then you are done and the breaded tenderloin is ready to serve.

Now, back to my story. I had made the tenderloin and brought them to this party at school. My humble offering was sitting on the table amid all sorts of fabulous looking dishes and I wondered if anyone but me would even want to eat any of this lowly meat. It didn’t take long in the line to find out.

Layne Blatter, our German teacher, was not far ahead of me, when I heard him exclaim, “Wienerschnitzel!”

Now the only time I had ever heard that word was when someone was referring to that hot dog place in Orem that served the best coney dogs I’d had since I stopped going to the Madison County fair. I wondered if someone had brought coney dogs to the party.

“Who brought the wienerschnitzel?” Layne asked, looking around for who might be the person responsible for this dish. All of us shrugged our shoulders, and no one claimed the be the cook. “I love wienerschnitzel,” he added.

We continued to go through the line, and I filled my plate, taking a piece of my own dish of meat. Then I took a seat at a table, only finding out a few minutes later when they came back from getting drinks that Layne and his wife would be sitting with me.

As Layne sat, he looked at my plate and saw my meat. “Did you make the wienerschnitzel?” he asked, pointed at my breaded tenderloin.

“That’s breaded tenderloin,” I said, a little confused.

“Not in Germany it isn’t,” he said before he took his first bite. He savored it like he had never tasted anything so good. “And you made it just right—just like I remember from Germany.”

A few minutes of conversation and I discovered that this dish that my mother used to make—one she had learned from her mother—came to us from our German ancestry, and that in that country what we knew as breaded tenderloin was known as wienerschnitzel.

 “All those hot dog stands are wrong,” Layne told me.”Now, can you give me the recipe?”

I shared the same information I have given to you, and Layne went home a happy man. As a matter of fact, several times throughout the rest of the school year he stopped to tell me, “My wife made me wienerschnitzel last night, and I have you to thank!”

And I hope any of you who decide to try this recipe will feel the same. I know my boys do.

Totally stealing this idea from the current (Sept '10) Writer's Digest. It's their "Big 10" issue, where every article and department has a theme of 10.