At a certain point in Peter Little Wing, Peter and the others meet a group of wētā, which is the common name for a group of insects endemic to New Zealand. These flightless cricket-like bugs are among the heaviest insects in the world!

Wētā are preyed on by introduced mammals, and some species are now critically endangered, as are so many of the endemic animals of Aotearoa.

About the novel:
Peter, a captive Southern Fiordland tokoeka kiwi, and his friends from the National Aquarium—Onion, a little blue penguin with an inner ear imbalance; Tim, a tuatara with Generalized Anxiety Disorder; and Rangi, a kea with clipped wings—embark on a quest through the unfamiliar wilderness of New Zealand in search of three ingredients needed to create an elixir to cure Peter’s ailing grandfather. Together, they traverse the length of the South Island of Aotearoa, all the way across the Cook Strait and back home to the North Island. They learn what they are all capable of in the wild of the wop wops, and what the world beyond the "Wall of Shadows" of Peter’s habitat is all about.

About the author:
That's me! Check out About Me and My Background and Other Projects on this very website!

About the illustrator:
Gordon Bagshaw, is a Canadian comic strip author and freelance illustrator. He is the creator of the entertaining online comic strips Stories According To Whom? and Frodo the Sheltie, including three book galleries. Gord drew the children’s book Sleep Time For Mammals, which garnered 1 of 3 L.M. Montgomery Literature for Children Awards in 2014. He illustrated the multi-award-winning Libby The Lobivia Jajoiana, which won 2021 Purple Dragonfly Book Awards for Best Illustrations (2nd place). Gordon resides in São Paulo, Brazil, with his lovely wife, where he teaches ESL.

PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY OF PETER LITTLE WING NOW!

And join us for the launch party Saturday February 4th 1-4pm ... in person at Hot House Restaurant in Toronto, or virtually for the readings at 2:15pm & 3:15pm.

Ingredients
1 pkg/can (7/8 oz) almond paste
1 C (2 sticks) butter
1 C sugar
4 large eggs separated
1 tsp. almond extract
2 C unsifted flour
Red and green food color
¼ C seedless raspberry jam
¼ C apricot preserves
1 pkg semi-sweet chocolate pieces
 
Directions

1. Grease bottom and side of 13x9x2 inch pan; line with wax paper, grease the wax paper.
2. In large bowl, beat almond paste, butter, sugar, egg yolks, and almond extract until fluffy; stir in flour. In small bowl, beat egg whites until soft peaks form; stir in almond paste mixture.
3. Place 1 1/3 C of batter into each of 2 small bowls. Add red food color to 1 and green to the other. Spread red batter into prepared dish. Bake at 350 degrees for 15 minutes. Lift layer onto wire rack.  Reline dish and bake in turn green and white batter. Cool completely.
4. Invert green layer; spread with raspberry jam. Add white layer, spread with apricot preserves, top with red layer. Cover, set heavy pan on top; refrigerate overnight.
5. The next day, melt chocolate pieces. Spread over red layer, trim edges. Let chocolate set slightly. Cut cross wise into ½ inch strips. Cut each into 4 pieces. Makes 8 dozen.

 

Certain songs in anyone’s life can evoke a past moment. The start of a song can bring us back to an exact date and time trapped in amber. We can see it, smell it, hear it, and sometimes even taste it. Through a series of musically notes we can be transported through time back to another age, a powerful feeling, a past point of view. Christmas songs are some of the strongest of these talismans of time and memory.
 
Blue Christmas
by R.J.Downes
 
Christmas 1981          
 
“Feliz Navidad! Feliz Navidad!”

The voice of Jose Feliciano came from the wood paneled speakers of the stereo system. His voice sounded a bit thin and reedy and the pop and hiss from the speakers betrayed the age and wear on the album. Seven-year-old Ricky noticed none of this. It was his second favorite song on his second favorite Christmas record and as long as it played it made him feel happy and warm as he sat on the floor in the living room of his family’s home.

“Feliz Navidad! Prospero ano y Felicidad!”

Ricky’s first favorite record, Elvis singing Blue Christmas, would be put on before the night was through. He was determined to make this happen, even though he knew it was already dark outside and his bedtime was fast approaching.

“I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas! I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas!”

Christmas day was only three more sleeps away and the school break was only two days in. Ricky had planned to get the most out of the time at home. He’d already played both records most of the day, taking breaks only because his parents and his older sister had insisted he do so quite vehemently.

“I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart!” 

As the music came to an end, Ricky turned the knob on the side of the player. The needle lifted off the record like magic and the record arm traced its way back to it’s small cradle on the side. The record kept spinning even though the motor stopped propelling it.

Without waiting for the record to stop, he reached towards the edges. It slowed in his fingers, coming to a halt. He lifted the record off the player, only holding the edges gently, just the way his father had shown him and carefully slid it back into the paper sleeve that lay on the floor next to the album jacket. He then slid the papered record back into the jacket and placed it on the wire shelf in front of his father’s Gordon Lightfoot albums.

Beside him, on the coffee table, lay the dog-eared Sears catalogue. His other Christmas obsession. When he wasn’t playing records, he was thumbing through the now worn pages dreaming of all the toys he wanted. The fact that he knew he really wouldn’t get most of them hadn’t dimmed his excitement one bit. The thrill of the possible was enough.

He’d written his letter to Santa, his mom had mailed it and chances were, he’d get at least one or two of the coveted items. He’d put them all on the list, all the items in the catalogue that remotely piqued his interest. He wasn’t greedy, he didn’t expect everything, but he figured Santa had to cut him a break and give him something. He’d followed all the rules. He’d been nice all year, hadn’t fought with his sister much at all and made sure to give change to the plastic dog at the grocery store that raised money for the blind; At least he did whenever his mom would give him some change for it.

He'd really tried this year. Santa must have noticed.

He’d even made his own envelope out of some leftover gold wrapping paper. The envelope had been a bit misshapen, and a bit off sized for the letter he wrote, but he had proudly tapped it shut with his list inside knowing that Santa couldn’t help but notice its uniqueness in with all the normal letters. Santa would have had to read it first. He was sure of it.

His sister Wendy, who was five years older than him, hadn’t even made a list this year. If she had written to Santa, he never saw the letter and when he asked his mom, she’d said only, “Your sister is making a different choice about Christmas this year.” and left it at that.

Even at seven, Ricky could remember what felt like endless Christmases before where he and his sister had fought over the Sears catalogue, each circling their chosen items with different coloured markers, each counting the other’s circles as to not be outdone by the other for wants. This year Randy didn’t even have to circle anything. The whole catalogue was his. She’d glanced through it once or twice but left the toy hunt for him.

Ricky realised he was sitting staring at the cover of the catalogue. Should he partake in one more round of Christmas wishes or play his favourite, Blue Christmas? It was a constate debate he’d had with himself a lot over the past couple of hours. He couldn’t do both at the same time either. Whichever he chose required his full attention. He chose the record.

Reaching for the sleeve on the wire shelf, this time in front of Feliz Navidad, he pulled out the familiar red cover; A photo of Elvis looking just off centre in front of a collection of shiny wrapped presents.

He pulled out the paper sleeved album and with as much care as he had put the last record away, he put the new one on the turntable and turned the knob. The arm did its magic again and lifted up and over. As the needle settled down gently on the turning record, the speakers crackled back to life.

“I’ll have a blue Christmas, without you…” crooned Elvis, followed by the back-up singers doing the part of the song Ricky loved the most.

“Ew ee ew ee! Ew ee ew ee!”

“How do you not get tired of this song?”

It was his mother’s voice behind him, laughing as she asked.

“Because I don’t.” said Randy turning back to look at her.

She was all done up in a long green dress he’d never seen before. Her dark brown hair was up in a bun, where she normally wore it down. She was also wearing lipstick and a bright gold bulky brooch on the dress in the shape of an angel blowing a horn. He could smell the perfume she was wearing. It smelled like flowers.

“Can you turn it down a little, honey?”

He did as he was asked and turned the volume knob on the stereo system. Elvis was lamenting red ornaments on a green tree. The backup singers were less clear now. The rise and fall of their tones blended into the background and almost sounded inhuman. Ricky determined to himself that he would have to hear the song in its entirety again at a better level once his parents left for their evening out.

They were going out to his father’s office holiday party. His mother had secretly told him for days that she didn’t really want to go. She told him it was their little secret and he couldn’t say anything to his father since she didn’t want to let him down. Ricky liked being able to share something with his mother that no one else knew. It made him feel important.

 Even though he knew they were going out for the evening, the sound of the doorbell ringing surprised him.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

“Who do you think?” she countered.

His mother smiled her lipstick glossy smile and headed towards the door. As she did, his father came down from upstairs dressed in a suit and tie. He’d just gotten his hair cut that afternoon. The short buzz made him look a lot younger.  

He tussled Ricky’s hair as he bent down to him.

“How’s it going, Skipper?” His father always called him that. Ricky was never sure if he liked the nickname or not.

“Good.” Ricky said.

“Listen,”, his dad looked him in the eye. “Your mother and I will be out a bit late tonight, so I need you and your sister to behave and be good for Jennifer, all right?”

“You can count on me!” Ricky said. It was too close to Christmas to risk getting in trouble for anything. He knew his dad had just had the same talk with Wendy upstairs in her room where she always hung out now.

“Good!” his father smiled back. “Your mother has been looking forward to this and I don’t want to disappoint her.”

Ricky nodded his reply.

“Excellent!”

His father stood up again and groaned slightly as grownups did when they had to get up from kneeling. Ricky always wondered what was so painful.

His father looked down at him and around him and laughed at the record sleeve lying on the ground.

“You and your mother and Elvis. I was always more of a Beatles fan.”

“Elvis is better.” Ricky parroted his mother. “Fifty million Elvis fans can’t be wrong, Daddy.”

His father laughed.

“All right. You win this round.”

His mother came back into the room with the babysitter, Jennifer. She must have walked over from her house a few blocks away because she smelled like fresh snow.

Jennifer was seventeen with short blonde hair and a look of boredom on her face all the time. She dressed like she had just come from cutting down trees in a worn-out red plaid jacket and jeans with an old army green backpack slung over one shoulder. On the backpack in black pen were drawn several band names and logos Ricky didn’t know.

Ricky had asked his mom why Jennifer always dressed the way she did. Some kind of teenaged rebellion, was the answer he got, whatever that was.

When his mother was young only farmers wore jeans. That’s why she always dressed him in cords or dress pants and button up shirts, so he looked like a proper young man. He liked the clothing his mother picked out for him but decided there was something exciting about the things his babysitter wore. Maybe someday he’d have his own teenaged rebellion.

“Hi Jen!” said Ricky, smiling shyly.

“Hey, Little Man.” She smiled back at him. He liked that nickname much more than Skipper.

His father straightened up a bit in his suit when Jennifer and his mom entered.

“How’s school going, Jennifer?”, he asked.

She looked up at him with glazed eyes.

“It’s there,” she said, “whether I like it or not.”

His dad seemed to laugh a little too hard at this.

“We’ve all been there.”, he said.

“I enjoyed school.”, his mother added.

His mother, father and Jen stood awkwardly together for a moment, almost hovering over where Ricky still sat on the floor.

Jennifer broke the silence.

“So…?”

“So William and I will be late tonight.” His mother smiled down at him as she spoke. ”They’ve both eaten. Ricky has his usual bedtime, which is very soon, and Wendy spends most of her time in her room now and goes to bed when she wants.”

“Which isn’t really fair.”, Ricky piped in.

His father bent down to him again.

“Hey. You just promised, you’d be good tonight. Don’t start that.”

His mother leaned down to him with a softer approach.

“You know we talked about this, Ricky. Your sister is older and has some privileges you don’t, but she also has more responsibilities. Fair is fair.”

Ricky huffed a bit at this.

“I wish I was older.”

Jennifer stepped back from the group and set her backpack down on the coffee table.

“Trust me Little Man, you don’t want to get older. It’s all homework and chores and jobs. Stay a kid as long as you can.”

“She’s right.” His mother smiled.

His father laughed again.

“When I was your age, I already had a job. Not the worst thing in the world.”, he added.

“You had a paper route.” , scolded his mother.

“I had to get up on Saturdays and deliver them and I got paid. That’s a job. Kids these days don’t know how easy they have it.”

“They still have paper routes, Mr. Stevenson.” Jennifer smirked.

“But now you have to be twelve to get a route.”

His mother laughed out loud at this.

“That’s because it’s not safe or fair to expect that sort of commitment out of a seven-year-old.”

His father shook his head. “I did it and I did a good job too.”

His mother was still laughing.

“You told me you threw half the papers in the ravine.”

His father smiled sheepishly.

“Only on the rainy days when I wanted to go home, get dry and watch cartoons.”

Jennifer sat down on the couch looking down at Ricky.

“See, what I’m saying Rick? Don’t grow up. Stay young.”

Randy looked up at his parents and Jennifer.

Do you include your pets in your holiday festivities? Do they make their own fun during this time by getting into mischief?

Our Christmas tree skirt is always askew from our cats Guinness, and Dublin playing tag underneath and in the tree. Ornaments often litter the floor from our dog Rescue’s tail sweeping the branches.

We hang stockings for the cats and dog which are of course filled by Santa Paws. They seem to enjoy trying to pull things out, sniffing and sampling each new gift. They all receive new toys and treats and sometimes there is even a new Christmas bandana for Rescue.

We decorate the backyard with Christmas lights for Rescue to enjoy in the evening. Although, her nose is usually on the ground sniffing so I’m sure it is mostly me who admires the lights when I go outside with her. Her tail wags from the moment we say “outside” till she is back on her bed, asleep in front of the Christmas tree.

All three of our pets are adopted from rescues or shelters. Rescue is 15 and now sports grey on her face, paws, and ears. Like many seniors she has the occasional bump or lump, is hard of hearing, and a little unsteady when she first gets up, but she still has a happy doggy smile and loves to give kisses.

Rescue holds a special place in my heart.  My husband and I adopted her when she was brought to Canada at ten months old. She was born in a Louisiana shelter and pulled by a rescue organization there as she was on the list to be euthanized to make room for more dogs. She was so skinny and sat quietly in her crate as people walked around checking out the dogs. When we took her for a walk, she looked at me with her big soulful eyes and I was hooked.  My husband went and filled out the paperwork to adopt her while I took her for another walk. She had never been in a car before and drooled so much my pant leg was soaked by the time we got home. Since that day she has loved for going for car rides, walks, and being anywhere we are. She also loves treats.  Christmas dog cookies are one of her favourites.

Her story is what inspired me to write my first children’s book, Twelve Days of Rescue. The idea for the story came to me while I was watching a Christmas movie with her curled up beside me. I thought it would be fun to have a version of the Twelve Days of Christmas from her perspective. A book that kids and families could read and sing along to.

I’d like to share this video of myself and some of my family members reading Twelve Days of Rescue. Some of them may even sing. Rescue is also in the video giving me doggy kisses and there are other dogs enjoying the story too.

Rescue and I wish you and your family, including your furry members, Happy Holidays and a very Merry Christmas.

By day, Tonya Cartmell is a registered nurse currently working for a hospital in Hamilton, Ontario. “I’m many things to different people: a wife, stepmother, nana, daughter, sister, friend, nurse, etc. But, the one thing I have kept secret from most is that I’m also a dreamer.” For as long as she could remember, she dreamed of being a published author. “Somewhere, in a box stuffed in the attic, is the first book I wrote when I was a child.” Turning 50 was Tonya’s “aha’ moment. It was time to stop dreaming and start doing and get her stories published. As Tonya says, “I was the only obstacle to obtaining my dream.” When her first children’s book, Twelve Days of Rescue, was published in 2020, she fulfilled her dream of becoming a published author. Her second book, Pa’s Hockey Sweater, was published in 2021. Tonya’s first middle-grade novel Second Hand Witch was published in 2022. Tonya holds a BA in Social Sciences from Brock University and is an Honours Graduate from the Nursing Program at Mohawk College in Hamilton, Ontario. She spends her time with family, both human and four-legged, when not writing or working. You can find her up at the cottage during the warmer months, relaxing by a campfire.

The Narcissist Who Stole Christmas
by Leigh Goff
 
Last Christmas, I was visiting friends in the small town of Koush Hollow outside of New Orleans. I ran into a woman named Rayna. I’ve known her for a while, although I doubt she would have bothered to remember me. She is a rather miserable, scary energy exec living in a beautiful, scary mansion on a beautiful, scary bayou. She has a teen daughter she’s trying to shape into a perfectly beautiful, scary image of herself. I know her daughter, Jenna, also. She’s too smart and strong-willed of a girl for that to happen…I hope. Anyway, I’m sharing this story about Rayna, and if she minds, that’s too bad since she stars as the antagonist in my latest book, Koush Hollow, and there’s nothing she can do about it.
 
I see Rayna sitting at the bar of a swanky local restaurant, the Ritzy Oyster. The restaurant is fairly crowded and the sounds of jazzy Christmas music float around us. I can tell from the empty bottle of expensive Chardonnay and the half-empty wine glass in front of her, Rayna’s feeling good. She’s looking good, too. Not a day over twenty-nine, when I know she’s edging closer to fifty. As much time as I’ve spent in this town, I’ve noticed she doesn’t usually talk to anyone outside her social circle. She’s known for being the queen of snubbery, but from her expression, I can tell she requires someone’s listening attention and I’ll do for now.
 
I sit down in the tall chair to her right, curious. The bartender recommends a drink to me—the Koush Hollow Christmas Cocktail. I agree with a nod as Rayna starts to talk about a strange dream she’d had the night before. I do listen. What kind of dream would a woman like this have?
 
Her enormous blue diamond pendant sparkles in the dim light and her pricey Louis Vuitton bag occupies the seat to her left. “I dreamed about my dead ex showing up to my beautiful Christmas dinner.” She closes her eyes and puts her hands out as if to stop the memory. “It was absolutely horrible.” She paused and looked at me. “He was horrible. He never complimented me. He never appreciated my attractiveness and intelligence. He only complained about how much I worked and that I wasn’t an attentive mother. He’s dead now, so who’s the more attentive parent? Me, that’s who. And does my daughter Jenna appreciate it?” She sighs and sips her wine.
 
I’m guessing she wants me to say no, but I know Jenna and she doesn’t need any more attentiveness from this woman than is necessary. I decide to steer the conversation in a positive direction. “Tell me about this Christmas dinner?” I’m sure it’s amazing, perfect down to the last detail. I picture a hot, catered meal on silver platters and shimmering crystal goblets filled with the best Champagne. Her circle of friends, dressed in couture and dripping in gems. These women included only the top tier of Southern ladies. They were rich and as eerily youthful looking as Rayna.
 
An evil grin curled across her tight cheeks as she thought about it. “Christmas dinner?” Her mouth puckered as if she had just tasted a bad oyster. “I hate Christmas. Terrible holiday.”
 
A picture of the grinch, green and bitter, flashes in my mind. “Who hates Christmas?”
 
“I do. At the power plant, I instituted a mandatory workday on Christmas, so I had something to do.” She tosses me a frosty look, daring me to argue with her.
 
I take the dare. “What about your employees who want to celebrate with their families?”
 
“That’s not my concern.”
 
Yikes, I thought. I twirl the rosemary sprig in my gin and cranberry drink and sip. The cranberry tartness and hint of lemon quietly delights me. “What if you did host a dinner? Better yet, what if you hosted a dinner for people who really needed a nice meal like the Marais sisters?” The outcast Marais sisters were the lowest women on the Koush Hollow social ladder.
 
She drew back, her face filled with disdain. “Why would I do that?”
 
I took a bigger sip and stared at the cranberries dancing with the effervescent soda bubbles. Here was someone who had so much to give and gave nothing at all. I set my eyes on hers. “Because it’s Christmas. It’s the time of year we’re reminded to be selfless. Look at this way, giving of ourselves to others is like giving a gift to ourselves.”
 
“How can giving to someone else be a gift for me?” Disbelief penetrated her voice.
 
I imagined the tiny heart in her chest barely able to keep up with her.  “No worries.” She turned away and focused on her wine glass again. I finished my delicious cocktail and signaled to the bartender that I wanted the check. I paid for my drink and Rayna’s bottle of wine and gave a big tip. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Rayna watching in silence. Before I left, I tapped her on the shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Rayna.” She set her gaze on me, the ice in her eyes seemed to melt slightly.
 
“Thank you,” she said with a modest nod of her head.
 
I waved goodnight and walked out into the warm winter evening, greeted by palm trees twinkling with tiny lights. I hoped my little bit of generosity might spark the same in Rayna. It was the time of year for hope, but that wasn’t the point. Sitting with her for only a few minutes made me realize something. It is important to be kind and generous, even to those you may not think deserve it. It is important to strive to be a better person, whether it is Christmastime or not. That realization was the gift Rayna gave me that night. Then I said a quick prayer for Jenna. That girl was going to need it.

Here’s a new twist on an old favorite that will leave you longing for those good old days when family holiday get-togethers were spent hanging with your cousins, and playing with your new toys at your grandparents’ house. Not only perfect for the dessert table, these holiday-inspired muffins also make wonderful gifts. Fill a festive tin from the dollar store to create the perfect present for teachers, baby-sitters, hair-stylists, and neighbors. Happy holidays!

Prep: 15 minutes
Total: 1 hour
Makes: 12 muffins

What You Need:
1⅓ cups all-purpose flour
⅔ cup brown sugar
1 tsp baking powder
2 eggs
½ cup unsalted butter, melted
½ cup milk
1¼ cups mincemeat
6 glace cherries, halved
Glaze
1 cup icing sugar
2 tbsp of milk

What You Do:
PREHEAT oven to 350°F. Line a 12 cup muffin pan tin with cupcake liners.
WHISK flour with sugar and baking powder in a large bowl. Whisk eggs with butter and milk in another bowl, then stir into flour mixture. Stir in mincemeat. Spoon batter into prepared muffin tin. Bake until a skewer inserted in a muffin comes out clean, 40 to 45 minutes.
COOL completely in pan.
WHISK icing sugar with milk. Brush muffins with glaze and top with glace cherries.

While you’re waiting for your muffins to cool, take a seat in your favorite comfy chair and crack open one of my books. May I suggest a visit to Fairy Falls, or if you’re feeling really adventurous, a trip back in time with The Last Timekeepers? Whichever you choose, I guarantee either series will take you on a journey far away from the busyness of the holiday season.

Here’s a glimpse of the premises of both my young adult series:

The Last Timekeepers Time Travel Adventures…
Chosen by an Atlantean Magus to be Timekeepers—legendary time travelers sworn to keep history safe from the evil Belial—five classmates are sent into the past to restore balance, and bring order back into the world, one mission at a time.

Children are the keys to our future. And now, children are the only hope for our past.

Mysterious Tales from Fairy Falls Teen Psychic Mysteries…
Imagine a teenager possessing a psychic ability and struggling to cope with its freakish power. There’s no hope for a normal life, and no one who understands. Now, imagine being uprooted and forced to live in a small tourist town where nothing much ever happens. It’s bores-ville from the get-go. Until mysterious things start to happen.
Welcome to Fairy Falls. Expect the unexpected.

The Last Timekeepers Time Travel Adventure Series:
The Last Timekeepers and the Noble Slave, Book #3
MIRROR WORLD PUBLISHING ׀ AMAZON ׀ BARNES & NOBLE ׀
The Last Timekeepers and the Dark Secret, Book #2 Buy Links:
MIRROR WORLD PUBLISHING ׀ AMAZON ׀ BARNES & NOBLE ׀
The Last Timekeepers and the Arch of Atlantis, Book #1 Buy Links:
MIRROR WORLD PUBLISHING ׀ AMAZON ׀ BARNES & NOBLE ׀
Legend of the Timekeepers, prequel Buy Links:
MIRROR WORLD PUBLISHING ׀ AMAZON ׀ BARNES & NOBLE ׀
 
Mysterious Tales from Fairy Falls Teen Psychic Mystery Series:
Lost and Found, Book One Buy Links:
MIRROR WORLD PUBLISHING ׀ AMAZON ׀ BARNES & NOBLE ׀
Blackflies and Blueberries, Book Two Buy Links:
MIRROR WORLD PUBLISHING ׀ AMAZON ׀ BARNES & NOBLE ׀

Sharon Ledwith is the author of the middle-grade/young adult time travel adventure series, THE LAST TIMEKEEPERS, and the award-winning teen psychic mystery series, MYSTERIOUS TALES FROM FAIRY FALLS. When not writing, reading, researching, or revising, she enjoys anything arcane, ancient mysteries, and single malt scotch. Sharon lives a serene, yet busy life in a southern tourist region of Ontario, Canada, with her spoiled hubby, and a moody calico cat.

Learn more about Sharon Ledwith on her WEBSITE and BLOG. Look up her AMAZON AUTHOR page for a list of current books. Stay connected on FACEBOOK, TWITTER, PINTEREST, LINKEDIN, INSTAGRAM, and GOODREADS.

My REAL Christmas Angel
by Warren A. Shepherd

Children are born believing in magic. The very nature of life is a miracle to them, every new experience casting a rapturous spell of mystery and wonder. Christmas is the epitome of that sweet, innocent outlook — every good intention, every ounce of goodwill and cheer, all the excitement of sharing gifts with treasured loved ones — it all manifests in one beautiful time of year.

I have very fond memories of my childhood Christmases. I’d be lying if I said that a great number of them didn’t revolve around me lying under the tree, eagerly scrutinizing each wrapped present, trying to guess the contents or better yet, hoping the recipient was me! But even at that early age, I knew that the true meaning of the season was not in tangible gifts, but rather in the values epitomized by my very own Christmas angel, the reason for every heartfelt moment, every magic memory — my mum.

We lost Mum earlier this year as she finally succumbed to the double threat of cancer and dementia, and it’s been hard plodding on in a world without that guiding light, that quiet, subtle core of strength and inspiration. For sure, this Christmas is going be a very different one, but I’m comforted by the warm memories of her sacrifices, her love and protection, and her generous spirit.

So how can I pay tribute to the person who’s meant so much to me all my life and always will? Well, through food, of course!

Let’s get one thing straight, my mum was not a great cook, but she did try. My mind still boggles when I think of the variety of meals she used to prepare for us. (In later years she sadly seemed to devolve into surviving on frozen, processed meals for the majority of her sustenance.) But one thing she always took pride in was her Christmas feast. Turkey was a specialty of hers, wrapping the bird in a layer of bacon was a magical wonder to my young eyes – and taste buds! But what really set her meal apart was her Potato Croquettes. They weren’t fancy, and they sometimes weren’t pretty, but they always were a comfort, hitting all the right notes of flavour and indulgence.

So, what do you need to prepare this tasty treat? It’s pretty simple.

• Potatoes (if you’re making your mash fresh, you probably already know that drill. OR use instant mash — stop your laughing and read below!)
• Egg – for binding
• Flour – if you’re using freshly-made mash, you’ll also need this as a binder
• Breadcrumbs — Mum always used plain, but I like to season with salt, pepper, garlic powder, and maybe a bit of paprika. You can also use panko crumbs for that extra crunch.
• Butter/Oil or a frying medium of your choice — Mum used to use vegetable oil, but I like to use a mix of butter and Olive Oil.

 
Of course, you start with the mashed potatoes. Let them cool so they’re easier to work with. As I said earlier, you’re going to laugh at this next bit, but true to Mum’s simple, prefab proclivities, she always used instant mashed potatoes. And you know what, they work best — something about already having a binding agent that negates the need to add flour which might make them a bit claggy. (I’ve tried to replicate this dish with real mashed potatoes and no flour, and they’ve always fallen apart.) For extra zing, she’d use the garlic and herb flavoured mash.

Feel free to use your real mashed potato mix, add what every herbs you desire, but remember to add some flour for binding.

Add a beaten egg, also for binding. You don’t want the end result too wet as they need to hold their shape. You be the judge. (I can’t do everything for you.)

Mum always used to shape the croquettes into flattened capsule shapes about 2” by 3”. (Don’t ask me where she came up with that design.) You can make whatever shape catches your fancy, but this is the form that will always remind me of her.

I know some recipes suggest rolling the croquettes in flour and then egg and then the breadcrumbs, but Mum would never have been so cheffy. She went straight for the breadcrumbs, plain and simple. (Feel free to experiment with your own family to weed out the food snobs.)

And then fry away, flipping as necessary to achieve ultimate golden crispy magic.

And that’s it! Guests will be amazed, but if they’re not, you’ll know who not to invite for next year. In the end, it doesn’t matter if your food is perfect, or is restaurant quality, or is even edible. It matters that it was prepared with love, for those you love.

I’m happy to have been able to share only a sliver of what my mum means to me. So, as we all sit around the dining table this Christmas season, take the time to appreciate those in your family/friend circle. We build our lives on the experiences and memories shared with others. Tell them how you feel while you still can, before they’re no longer in your life, and hopefully you can make some new memories with your loved ones this year that will last a lifetime. However you celebrate, enjoy this special time to the fullest and, above all, Merry Christmas!

Sonata’s Snag
by Jen Frankel

Sonata knew exactly who was at the door when she heard the deep bong of the bell. She was tucked up in her bed with the green and crimson covers drawn up to her chin, the velvet tickling her nose in a way that was both comforting and subtly annoying. It was cold in the room, as usual, and the hot chocolate her mother had brought up earlier was losing its halo of steam despite the magic infused to keep it warm.

The rumbly bass of the North Polar Bear followed the bell. “We have visitors!” he called, in his NP bear dialect. Sonata was fluent in seven bear languages thanks to him, but sometimes his accent made it hard to understand him. He once claimed that she just needed to grow more fur in order to understand him properly, something that she found a little insulting since she was thirteen at the time and desperate to start shaving her legs despite her mother’s insistence she wait.

“Once you start shaving, it just comes back bristly like your father’s beard in springtime. We don’t need more than one ouchy bear in the house!”

Visitors was exactly why Sonata wanted to start shaving her legs, and armpits, and the weird white hairs that grew around her earlobes. It didn’t help that her mother liked to twist the latter into curlicues that stood out in stark contrast to her own brown hair. It didn’t even matter that no one but the elves, the reindeer, and the Bear were around to see for most of the year, and none of them would dream of commenting on her appearance. Being the boss’s daughter was generally harmless but mostly irritating, especially since it meant that no one really wanted to interact with her except in the most superficial way.

But during the midsomer nights holiday, it really hurt. Santa liked to bring children up to the workshop when things were at their quietest, show them around, and soak in the adoration. The kids loved it, of course, especially since they were hand-picked from the upcoming year’s “nice” list. Sonata suspected it was a ploy to inspire them to maintain their goody-goody status until Christmas Eve. There was nothing that got Santa more upset than a nice kid who slipped off the list.

Sonata sighed and tried to pull the covers further over her head while still staying within hot chocolate-grabbing distance. Sixteen years of age now, she’d already been through fifteen too many of these command performances: putting on her best dress, letting Helga Elfwand do her hair up in braids with holly woven through them, and standing like a good little doll beside her mother on the long, sweeping staircase in the Great Hall. There was no way she was going through it again, this pointless show of unseasonal cheer. She felt anything but cheerful. If you could put a colour on her mood, it would be as dark as midnight at midwinter, which was about the blackest thing she could imagine.

In the olden days, she mused, kids around the world probably were as shocked as delighted by the toys Santa brought them on Christmas Eve. That must have seemed insane – just this random box with a ribbon around it showing up and no one could tell you where it came from except with some fantabulous story about a jolly fat man sneaking into your house in the middle of the night. It was different if you ate dinner with the guy every night of your life.

Stupid warm-weather kids, with their electronics and their t-shirts. She bet all the girls had their own personal favourite shops online or even at a mall. There was no such thing as a mall at the Pole. She might live at the epicentre of Christmas toy production, but did she have any opportunity to express her own taste? Yeah, her dad encouraged her to write a letter to him every November asking for what she wanted to find under the thirty-foot tree in the Great Room, but it wasn’t much of a thrill when you knew perfectly well Santa was real.

Online shopping was entirely out of the question, and there was no courier service anyhow. Mail service to the North Pole was strictly reserved for Santa letters. She’d dreamed of having a pen pal when she was younger, but nothing every arrived but the mountains of mail from eager kids (and a surprising number of grown-ups).

Which meant, of course, that everything in her closet had the literal stamp of Santa’s workshop, and unless she made it herself, it was going to be tinselly, bright, and cheerful. In other words, utterly awful.

The bong of the door meant she should be ready to go with bells on, literally. Bells in her hair, ribbons around her wrists, like she was more parcel than person. Humiliating.

The question she should be asking herself was, “Does it matter?” These kids were total strangers. Not only that, but they’d wake up in the morning under the comforting illusion that the night before had all been a dream.

She turned the corner at the end of the hall and emerged onto the landing above the Great Hall. Her mother was waiting, a huge grin suddenly freezing on her face, the hand she’d stretched out to toward Sonata drooping like all the meat had gone out of her sleeve.

From below, a gasp from the collective throats of the visiting children.

Then, from Santa himself, as he twigged to the fact that all was not unfolding correctly in his carefully rehearsed pageant, a bellow.

“What in the blisteringly frozen North are you WEARING?”

Sonata looked down as if she had forgotten herself what she’d put on. Doc Marten-style boots that she’d begged Elfer Third Class Redicchio to craft her earlier in the year, with their red-and-green leather buffed over with black polish, the candy-striped tights that looked positively punkish under her black leather almost-miniskirt, and of course, her homemade Misfits t-shirt, which she’d torn in several artful places.

Santa’s forehead turned as red as his cheeks. His fat, friendly white eyebrows snuggled themselves closer together than she’d ever seen them before, making the twinkle in his eyes more of a sinister glint.

Mrs. Claus was making a jerky transition from stunned to horrified, each element of her face twitching before changing, the expression defying all description until it finally settled. She hadn’t said a thing, but her hand finally picked itself back up to grasp her own throat, as if she couldn’t understand why she’d abruptly become mute.

There were a few dozen kids circled around Santa below, still bundled up in their winter coats and scarves. As Sonata scanned their faces, she noted as many different reactions as there were children, but all of them seemed to live in the neighbourhood around “confused.”

“Hey,” she said, giving an inadequate little wave.

Santa breathed in, swelling his round chest enough to threaten a couple of the coal black buttons. “Hey? Is that honest to Christmas all you’re going to say?”

Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

#

Instinct told her to prop a chair under the door handle. It was a candy-cane-back one with a bright crocheted seat. She waited for the inevitable – either the thump-thump-thump of her father’s big fist, or the softer but just as firm rap of her mother’s knuckles.

Instead, there was silence, or at least silence in the hallway outside her door. She could hear carolling from below, some round of “Up On the Rooftop,” she thought. Her hot chocolate was still warm, and she plunked down on the edge of the rug beside her bed to drink it.

Finally, when she had almost convinced herself that she’d been blissfully forgotten, the door bumped inwards, dislodging the chair as if she hadn’t even tried to block everyone out. The yellowish point of the North Polar Bear’s head, black shiny nose in the middle, poked in. “Sonata, Big Guy wants to see you.”

Of course he did. The Bear wouldn’t meet her eyes. He knew she was in for it; usually, it was something he’d done that required Santa’s stern finger-shaking. Sonata knew she wasn’t a bad kid; she didn’t set fire to the Christmas tree even though the real candles made it a serious temptation when she was in her worst moods. She didn’t scream “Boring!” when the time came to hear her mother read ’Twas the Night Before Christmas for the millionth time. She didn’t steal the boot black from the elves and try to use it to dye her hair. Not after the first time anyhow.

But then, the North Polar Bear wasn’t a bad bear either. Well, he was probably a bit bad for a bear, because he liked to live indoors at the North Pole in the stable with the reindeer, and drink hot cocoa, and never tried to eat any of the elves even though they were the same size (and some of them the same shape) as the seals he preferred for his dinner. But he was good for a Bear who lived with people (and elves, and reindeer). The trouble he got into was usually accidental, and he was very accident-prone, in part because his friendly nature convinced him he could attempt tasks that, for example, would have been much better for someone with thumbs.

Sonata wasn’t sure what a child at the North Pole was supposed to be, exactly, because in all the centuries Santa and Mrs. Claus had lived here together, she was the first one. There wasn’t exactly an instruction manual. Even if there had been, Sonata couldn’t see herself following it, because it would necessarily have been written by someone who wasn’t her. Someone who didn’t know what went on inside her head or her heart, and who obviously wouldn’t suggest that punk rock or heavy metal were worth listening to, or that asymmetrical haircuts including at least a little shaved scalp should be chosen over neat bangs and a centre part.

No one was going to write that manual, and so she was going to continue to get into trouble, she supposed. But tonight felt different. Tonight, her parents had let the North Polar Bear come to get her instead of coming to her room themselves to talk over what she’d done. She finished off the cocoa, and followed the Bear out to discover just how bad she’d been.

#

Santa’s office was in the heart of the Big House, just off the huge kitchen for easy access to cookies and milk. It had its own wide hearth beyond which burned a cheerful fire. Sonata shuffled her feet, far too conscious of the black boots covering them. She imagined herself answering him, “But you have black boots! Why do mine have to be all green and red?” She was so sick of green and red.

Santa himself was fluffy sideburns-deep in a large leather-bound ledger, the North Pole guest book that every child signed when they arrived on their special once-in-a-lifetime journey here. Every now and then, there’d be a squeal from one of them as they saw the name of a parent or other loved one on a preceding page – Santa encouraged them to look through the book for just this reason. Once a kid, eyes wide, had whispered to Sonata that seeing her mom’s name in there was “like magic.” Or a PR stunt? Sonata had almost replied, but bit her tongue instead. So what if the Big Guy liked to manufacture a little extra sizzle for his young guests? Everything at the North Pole was manufactured one way or another – including Sonata herself, if you thought about it.

The heat in the room was almost too much as Sonata waited. She wished she could magically transport herself to the stable where the thin, uninsulated walls would allow the harsh wind to cool her down. She could bury her face in Donner’s velvety neck, inhaling the musky scent of the doe’s fur. Donner was probably the least talkative of the reindeer in the team, and Sonata loved her for that as well as for the animal’s appreciation of Sonata’s cello-playing. The other deer could take it or leave it, but Donner was happy to sit for hours while Sonata practiced, her legs folded neatly under her, liquid eyes half shut.

It was always a bit of an ordeal to find a temperature that was comfortable for both of them, not too hot for the snow-loving reindeer but warm enough for Sonata to play without her fingers freezing up.

In fact, it had been Donner’s suggestion that Sonata look for a way to pursue her music, even if it took her beyond her home and into the world below the Arctic Circle. If she was not mistaken, Sonata could even now see the envelope she’d been desperately waiting for sticking out of the pile of letters on Santa’s desk, the distinctive Julliard logo on the corner. A chill went through her, then a flush that made the room spin a little. Not today, of all days! Not when she was already in so much trouble.

Not that it even would be good news. After all, she had sent in her audition recording knowing that the distance and the cost of the prestigious music school were both prohibitive if not the most serious barriers to her attending.

Some errant, and definitely naughty, gust of air from the roaring fire caught hold of the letters on the corner of Santa’s desk, the stack containing the one with the prominent Julliard crest.

Sonata actually said, “Whoops!” as if she was a cartoon instead of a desperate daughter-of-a-Claus (a version of something she’d heard her mother call Santa when she was really, really mad at him). She made a grab for the letter, hoping past hope that she’d be able to snag it mid-air and stash it before Santa saw, but instead, she knocked over the whole pile. She tripped backwards over the edge of Santa’s cheery deep-shag green rug, and landed with a snowfall of envelopes drifting down onto her supine form.

Santa reached out with one of the big fingerless mitts he wore even inside, and caught the nearest letter. It was the exact one she had hoped to hide.

“Sonata!” Claus rumbled with concern. “Are you all right?”

Sonata scrambled to her knees. It was all she could do not to scarper forward and snatch the dangerous missive out of her father’s fist. Instead, she made a quick inventory of all her parts and found that they were in order and mostly unharmed.

“I bumped my bum a little,” she said ruefully.

“Come here,” said the jolly man. The serious mood he’d seemed to be stewing in when she entered apparently evaporated by the fear she’d injured herself. Sonata ran to his arms and was enfolded in the familiar softness and warmth of his embrace.

She found herself tearing up in relief, and when he realized she was crying, he said, “Oh sweet Sonata, my heart’s music. Run off and get some cocoa. We can talk about earlier after that.”

She did, almost tripping over her own boots in her haste to depart. She said nothing about having barely finished her last hot chocolate and ran as fast as she could, not to the kitchen but through it and into the bitter cold outside.

She couldn’t let him find her again, not until she’d hidden the letter she’d managed to swipe out of his hand during the hug. Not until she knew what it said, and maybe not even then. Maybe she’d just keep going until she hit Alaska and hop a bus to parts unknown. If he saw the letter, it was going to get even colder at home.

#