The Reality of the Recipe – #FrenchCuisine #FactCheck #NewRelease

https://www.theseasonedmom.com/beef-burgundy/

Saturday I had a new experience.

We’d invited friends for dinner at our apartment. When I asked Jean about her favorite types of food, she listed French as her first choice.

I’ve always enjoyed cooking, but I have little or no expertise in the area of Gallic cuisine. However, having just published Her Secret Ingredient, a rom-com featuring a Chinese chef who runs a Michelin-starred French restaurant in Hong Kong, I thought, “What the heck? Why not give it a try?” So I decided to try my hand at boeuf bourguignon, one of the dishes featured in the story.

I learned quite a bit. For one thing, this recipe takes forever. Just marinating the beef requires four hours! (Fortunately I had allocated the whole day for cooking and preparation, so this wasn’t a problem.) My cookbook calls for a minimum of three hours on the stove; beef tends to be tough in my part of the world so my cooking time was closer to five hours.

Then I faced issues with ingredients. The recipe includes salt pork (what the French call lardons) but that’s simply not available here. I substituted bacon, which seemed to work fairly well. Instead of button mushrooms, I used shitake mushrooms, which are much more flavorful (as well as easier to find here, and less expensive). I also couldn’t find any small white onions (I was supposed to have 24 of them!) so ultimately I cut up some larger ones. This made the dish look much less elegant, with random pieces of onion rather than consistently-sized pearls.

But it tasted amazing! Though I did find I needed to add more broth and adjust the seasonings, overall the dish was a huge success. As well it should have been – I devoted a full day to the preparation!

The experience made me realize that I’d been a bit unrealistic in the book. Emily whips up her boeuf bourguignon in just a couple of hours. And she and Etienne actually demonstrate the recipe on their TV show.

You could demonstrate individual stages: the marinade, browning the meat and creating the roux, frying the onions and pork... but it would take imagination or prior preparation to pull the whole thing together within a single hour-long demonstration.

Just for fun, here’s the scene from the book:

 

“You should let me do the talking,” Etienne instructed. “At least at first. You’ll find that it’s not all that easy to cook while focusing into the camera.”

“Yes, sir.” In another situation, I would have found his bossiness offensive, but now that I was actually here, minutes away from being on live TV, I was willing to listen to anyone’s advice.

Marty came up to clip a wireless microphone to the stand-up collar of my cheongsam. “Say something,” he ordered.

“Um—good afternoon. Testing, testing…”

“Great. Thanks!” He scurried off.

Etienne resumed his lecture.

“I’ll introduce you and ask you to say a few words. Then we’ll begin making the beef. You prepared the vegetables this morning, right?”

“As you suggested.” I went to the refrigerator to retrieve the bowls of chopped onion, garlic, carrots, parsnips and potatoes, which I set upon the counter in what I hoped was an artistic arrangement.

“One of the challenges of cooking for television is managing the time. We have just scant of an hour, so we have to take short cuts.” He checked out my veggies, reminding me of my old teachers in Paris. I found I was holding my breath until he nodded his approval. “The other problem is keeping the viewers’ interest while things are actually on the stove or in the oven.”

“I’ve made pissaladières.” I indicated the tray of onion, olive and anchovy tarts I’d created just before heading off to makeup. They were still warm. The savory, thyme-laced aroma set my saliva flowing. I hadn’t had time to eat any lunch.

“Excellent. They look delicious.” His praise made me glow. “We’ll sample those and chat about you and your background while the beef is stewing.”

“Sixty seconds,” someone called out from beyond the glare of the lights.

I took a deep breath. My pulse was loud in my ears. I can do this, I told myself. Compared to Cordon Bleu, this will be easy.

“Thirty seconds!”

Without any warning, Etienne encircled my shoulders with his arm and gave me a quick squeeze. “Don’t be nervous. I’ll take care of everything.”

Right. That was just what I was worried about.

“Cue theme.”

The Baroque melody sounded familiar, harpsichord and viol starting low and soaring higher. Lully, or perhaps Marin Marais. The spotlights grew brighter and hotter still. My smile felt glued on. A bit of sweat trickled down my spine.

“Bon jour, mes amis. Welcome to Toutes Saveurs Francaises, the place for people who love authentic French cuisine.” Etienne’s rich, carefully modulated voice was like a fur coat on an icy day, full of luxurious warmth. He smiled broadly and extended his arms as if blessing his invisible audience. “Today we’re fortunate to have a very special guest, a talented cook from the other side of the world.”

The music changed to the dissonant notes of a Chinese fiddle, a jingle-like tune reminiscent of old Charlie Chan movies. Behind my fixed smile, I fumed. Was that really the best they could do, when San Francisco was more than thirty per cent Asian?

“Mei Lee Wong is head chef at acclaimed Belvedere Restaurant in Tsim Sha Tsui, Hong Kong, which was recently awarded three Michelin stars. She holds a Grand Diplôme from the original Cordon Bleu school in Paris, and is renowned for her creative mingling of Asian and traditional French cooking techniques.”

At least he was aware of my reputation!

“On today’s show, though, Mei Lee and I are going back to fundamentals, preparing one of the classic recipes that form the foundations of Gallic cuisine. In any case, I’m delighted to have you cooking with me, Ms. Wong.”

His pause shook me out of my paralysis. “Ah, thank you very much, Etienne. It’s quite a thrill for me to be here, as you might guess. I’ve been a fan of your show since the first time I watched it.” On YouTube, five weeks ago—but why be picky? “And your book French Cooking: From Basic to Advanced was one of our texts when I studied in Paris.”

Etienne beamed. Was flattery all that was required to win him over?

I probably should have done more detailed research before writing this scene.

Hopefully readers will be sufficiently engrossed in the plot that that they’ll not notice!

Friday Friends: Awesome Imagination and a Big Heart -- #FridayFriends #AlanaLorens #LyndiAlexander

For today’s Friday Friends feature, I am celebrating the life and work of one of my favorite author friends. I don’t exactly know how to introduce her because she has a number of different pen names: Lyndi Alexander, Alana Lorens, Barbara Mountjoy... She also writes in an amazing range of genres: sweet romance, science fiction, paranormal/horror, suspense and urban fantasy.

Babs has been a guest at Beyond Romance many times. (Follow the links on the genre names above for some of her posts.) She has also been kind enough to host me for almost every book I’ve released over the past five or six years, since we got to know each other. Like me, she’s a “mature” woman (don’t ask us our ages!) She’s also a huge ailurophile. Maybe even more than I am – she fosters homeless cats and kittens, teaching them what it’s like to be loved.

Here’s a photo she shared of her “catio”, where the felines that she cares for hang out. Lucky cats!

 

One of the things I love about Lyndi/Alana/Babs is that I can never predict the twists in her books. One of the first things I read by her was The Elf Queen.

 

Blurb

At her friend's coaxing, Jelani tries on a glass slipper left lying on the sidewalk. When she steps into the shoe, it shatters, cutting her foot. As blood trickles to the pavement and mingles with the broken glass, dozens of two-inch high creatures emerge and then scurry away into the shadows. Soon she is approached by two mysterious and handsome men claiming to be elves who need her help to rescue their queen. More revelations come, threatening to unravel the life of this sassy barista from Missoula, Montana. Jelani must learn to accept that elves are real and living in the forests of the Bitterroot Mountains

You can read my review here: https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2020/09/review-tuesday-elf-queen-by-lyndi.html

I loved the complexity of the back story, the elven politics, and the setting. (I’ve spent time in Missoula myself.) Although I guess the book fits the general notion of “urban fantasy”, its themes are a long way from the typical “vampires-werewolves-demons taking over” tropes that I’ve come to associate with the genre.

More recently, I devoured Remnants of Fire, which I guess you’d consider paranormal suspense. 

 

Blurb

Looking for a fresh start, Sara Woods takes a job as a news reporter in a small town. Her first assignment for the Ralston Courier is to investigate a string of deaths, all young women, all her age. To deal with chronic back pain, she goes to the Goldstone Clinic, a local healing center with a strange reputation. As local doctor Rick Paulsen teaches Sara how to access hidden energy skills and reveal secrets from her past, police officer Brendon watches Sara’s every move. The deeper she digs into the Goldstone, the harder it is to deny links to the paranormal. Can she figure out what is going on and who to trust before it’s too late?

Read my review here: https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2023/09/review-tuesday-remnants-of-fire-by.html

This is one of the most suspenseful and creepy novels I’ve read in a while. It put me through the emotional wringer. That’s a good thing – when a book keeps you up at night, you know it’s skillfully written.

Here’s an excerpt. Sara, the heroine, is talking to her fellow reporter Dedra. They’ve both been treated at the Goldstone Clinic.

“So they didn’t creep you out? All that touchy-feely stuff?” Dedra shifted in her chair and hugged her knees close to her chest.

“What do you mean? It’s a medical clinic. There’ll be examinations and manipulation of bones and things.” But I knew what she meant. The nurse, the doctor, both had touched me much more often than I’d expected.

Europeans as a whole had a reputation for more body contact between friends and associates than Americans. Maybe it was just their way.

“This was different. First the nurse, who kept smoothing down my arms and back after she asked me all her usual questions. You know, patting me, like I was a dog.” She demonstrated by running her hand down her arm, shoulder to wrist. “It felt cold the first couple of times she did it. By the end, it was warm, almost hot.”

“Hmm. That’s an odd technique. Not what happened to me, but we had different complaints, you know?”

“I guess.”

“Maybe it’s just part of their treatment, a therapeutic touch. Like all those studies that show old people living alone need hugs frequently, to help stimulate their immune system? Every time they are touched, it gives their own healing powers a kick in the pants.”

“Oh, I remember reading that,” Dedra said.

“If everyone in the clinic is vested in helping your treatment, if they’re working together, that makes sense.”

Dedra swirled the tea in her cup. “Did you ever give blood?” she asked. My breath caught in my throat, and I nodded slowly.

“When he was done, it felt just like I felt after that.” Dedra looked at me in earnest across the table.

So we’d both felt depleted of life fluids? I sat back, feeling the solid chair behind me, my feet on the floor, again solid, something I was sure of. That reaction was surely unique and more than a coincidence. But the clinic practitioners hadn’t done anything that could be envisioned as removing blood or plasma or anything. No needles. No medications.

A cold rock about the size of my fist formed in my stomach. Something wasn’t right. Something frightening. No. My journalist’s ear for accurate wording nagged at me. Not frightening. More like disquieting. The feeling the moment just before opening the dark and scary door. Waiting to see what was going to grab you.

What was making me so uncomfortable? I felt so much better, so in tune with how my body was supposed to be. No pain! But at the same time, there was something. Maybe just the novelty of the new age healing: chakras and reflexology and acupressure. Previously, I’d gone the strict medical route. This was different. I had the opportunity now to get some information, particularly if it was going to be practiced on me.

I realized with a start that Dedra had babbled on, and I made a conscious effort to catch up with the random thread.

“I’ll have to thank Melissa for recommending the place,” Dedra was saying. “If I can get rid of a migraine that quickly, I’ll do it in a minute. Besides, if I can see Chal more often, my life is destined to improve dramatically.” She giggled.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing him myself.” I thought about that brief burst of heat when our eyes met. More than a spark there, I was sure of it.

“Oh, no you don’t. He’s mine.” Triumph spread her grin wide.

That made me laugh. “You did get first shot.” A quick memory of the nurse’s admonition to the man, this one is for Dr. Ruprei, passed through my mind. Was that strange? Or was I just paranoid by now, thinking about the oddities? “And those paintings.”

Dedra blinked. “No kidding. They were something else. I couldn’t stop looking at them.”

“Or the staff. They were all really beautiful.” As I said it, I realized it was true. All the women, even the man in black, had thick, shiny hair, smooth, perfect skin. They were fit and proportioned perfectly.

“I noticed that. Huh.” Dedra finished her tea. “Want another?”

I shook my head and stood up. Dedra had reclaimed some of her usual perk, and I had things to do. “No, I’d better go home. I plan to take it easy tonight, though. You should, too.”

I discovered in looking at her Amazon author’s page that Babs has been writing for more than four decades, including her work as a newspaper reporter and her non-fiction. Makes my two and half decades sound paltry!

Just to pique your interest, here are a few more of her books:

Anyway, I hope this Friends Friday feature has made you a bit curious about Babs/Alana/Lyndi. You can find out more about her work at https://lyndialexander.wordpress.com/ and https://alana-lorens.com/

New Year’s Mistake! – #FreeStory #NewYearsEve #ParanormalRomance

 Image generated by Gemini AI

I messed up. Today you were supposed to see this post, a retrospective to round out the year. However, it appears that when I set it up last weekend, I forgot to tell Blogger that I wanted it to appear on the 31^st. So it was published immediately.

Oh well...

Anyway, I’m not one to dwell on my failings (that would take too much time away from more productive endeavors). So instead, I’ll thank you for your visits and support by sharing a paranormal New Year’s story you might enjoy.

Wishing you abundant blessings in 2026!

 

First Moon

By Lisabet Sarai

I'm good at being human. No one ever guesses the truth.

I hold down a responsible, well-paying job as HR Director for an up-and-coming biotech company. The ability to smell emotion and read non-verbal cues gives me an advantage when working with tense or angry employees. I have a handful of women friends, including Lyssa, the hostess for tonight's festivities. I join them for coffee or shopping or movies, just like an ordinary person. We complain and gossip. We talk about men. Yes, I've even had lovers, occasionally, though I have to admit they always leave me feeling unsatisfied – not necessarily physically, but in some deeper sense. Lyssa and Janine tease me, telling me I'm too much of a perfectionist, that I should compromise, that these days nobody expects to meet her soulmate. I laugh along with them, pretending to agree.

People like me, are drawn to me in fact. I'm no anti-social loner, despite the reputation of my kind. And yet, there's always a wall, keeping me separate. Tonight especially, as the clock counts down to midnight and my friends get progressively more tipsy, I'm aware of the distance between me and my fellow celebrants. It's as if I'm looking through one way glass. I sense their joys, their fears, their rising excitement, the surges in hormones triggered by the closeness of the opposite sex. New Year's Eve, a night to be a bit reckless, to take chances one can blame in the morning on too much wine. No one really sees or understands me, though. My weariness from the effort of maintaining my mask. My longing for freedom. My unending, unalterable loneliness.

Almost everyone is dancing. The loud rock music stirs my body but hurts my ears. Lyssa's condo suddenly feels stuffy and overly warm. Twenty five or thirty humans give off significant heat. I'm sweating in my velvet top.

I slip out onto the tiny deck, closing the glass doors behind me, and the noise mutes, though drum beats still vibrate the planks under my heels. Gazing across the Cambridgeport rooftops to the river, I fill my lungs with frigid December air. The cold, still night is as delicious as Lyssa's champagne.

It snowed earlier, so every surface is frosted in white, but now the sky is clear as crystal, black as my ebony hair. The moon climbs above the chimneys and my breath catches in my chest. It's barely half-full, no real challenge to my self-control, but still, the beast in my stirs and stretches. Moonlight glitters on the icy Charles. I crave the sensation of that stark, pale light on my nakedness.

“Oh, sorry! Hello!” A pleasant-voiced, even-featured man appears beside me. “It's just too loud in there, isn't it? Do you mind some company?”

“No, not at all,” I'm forced to reply, though I'd really rather savor the night alone.

“I'm Brett,” he adds, then wraps his arms over his nicely muscled chest. “Jeez, it's cold out here! Aren't you freezing?”

“Not at all.” I let the awkward pause lengthen, refusing to pick up the conversational ball and tell him my name as he expects. I stare at the moon, so bright it practically burns. “I love winter nights.”

I smell Brett's arousal, sense his frustration and confusion. “It's nearly midnight,” he says finally. “Want to come in?”

I can practically read his mind: his lips on mine as the year turns, his big hands molding my hips and pulling me close. I'm tempted for an instant, but I know how it will end - like every other encounter, flat and empty.

“In a minute. You go ahead.” He sighs, turns, leaves me to my solitary vigil.

“Five. Four. Three. Two. One.” My friends' voices are a million miles away. The moon whispers to me. Why resist your nature? Why surround yourself with strangers when what you want is the earth under your feet and the night wind in your hair?

New Year's Eve, a night to be reckless. I make my way through the crowd of laughing, kissing humans, to offer Lyssa my thanks and regrets. Nobody really notices me leaving.

My coat swung over my shoulder, I head for the river, high heels loud on the empty pavement. The deserted Esplanade gleams in the moonlight, embroidered with the intricate shadows of the bare-limbed oaks and maples.

I manage to hold off the change until I'm under the trees. The brief, familiar disorientation ripples through me, then the flavors of the night deluge my senses. The faint rustle of a few crisp leaves clinging to the branches above me. The pulsing blood-smell of a rabbit crouched under a footbridge. Tar and car exhaust, blackberries and rust, the damp, ripe scent of the ground, still unfrozen under the thin carpet of snow.

Stretching out my paws, I work the stiffness out of my spine. The moon beams down on me. My snow-dusted jet fur sparkles.

I have just enough human left in me to suppress my howl. Instead, I run.

It's effortless. I race through the shadows along the river bank, eating up the ground. The power surging through me has me drunk as any liquor. Sights, sounds, scents flash by, each one acute and distinct despite its brevity. The world does not blur as I run; it sharpens.

I head upstream, out of the city, the river winding westward into the wealthy suburbs, conservation land on either side. The trees crowd thicker here, but they don't slow me down. Sure-footed and strong, I streak between them, bounding over fallen trunks and ice-crusted tributaries that block my path. Now I let the joy rise in my throat and ring out over the countryside. My howl echoes through the blessed night. The moon approves.

The chill winter air slices into my chest. I'm miles from home, but I don't want to stop, not yet. This is too perfect, a glorious relief from the endless, everyday effort of fitting in. I don't really think about my human life, though. I don't think about anything. I merely sense and feel.

Finally, I slow to a trot, my heart pounding against my ribs. I'm exhausted, close to spent, yet excitement still sings through my body. Squatting, I loose a stream of urine to mark my passing. My nostrils twitch at the ripe warmth of my own scent. I spring to the top of snow-draped boulder, sink down onto my haunches and survey my surroundings. Gradually my pulse drops and my breathing returns to normal. A deep sense of peace steals over me.

“Grrr!” The growl drags me out of my trance of weariness. I start and emit an answering growl. A flood of maleness assaults my nose and my nether parts swell in automatic response.

He steps out of the shadows, all bristling red-gold fur and blazing yellow eyes. He's easily twice my size. When he bares his teeth, they're ivory-hued daggers that could crush me in a single vicious bite. He doesn't attack, however. Of course, I have the advantage, perched on the rock above him.

I'm terrified, but thrilled, too. I know what he wants. I want it as well. But there's a fine line between lust and violence when you're a wolf. I've just enough human left in me for fear to hold me back.

He paces back and forth below, his eyes riveted to mine. Finally, he sits, patient as a pet hound, waiting for me. Then I give in to the beast, leaping down to land in front of him.

His voice, half wail, half growl, welcomes me. He circles my crouching form, snapping playfully at my ear when I allow him to get close, raking his claws across my flank. I know this dance; it's in my blood, though I've never mated with another wolf. My body knows how to bend, how to arch, how to open as he drives into me from behind.

Our coupling is over in minutes, but feels endless. Pleasure pure and sharp as moonlight pours through me as he launches his seed into my depths. His teeth close on my shoulder. The pain simply amplifies the intensity.

When we're done, I'm shaking. The moon won't be full for two weeks and my wolf-self is fading. The male trots off into a copse of beech, obviously expecting me to follow. I limp after him, cold seeping through my paw pads and up into my aching shoulders.

Thankfully, it's not far. He leads me to a snug-looking cabin dug into a hill, half-buried in the underbrush. A few yards before we reach it, the change seizes me. My limbs liquefy and rearrange themselves. In an instant, I'm sprawled in the snow, dizzy, naked and shivering. I can't move.

The male wolf nudges me with his snout. I force myself to crawl toward the wooden structure, noting how awkward four legs can be. The door's unlocked. Inside, embers glow gold and scarlet on the fieldstone hearth.

I collapse on the cot in one corner, lulled by delicious warmth, unable to stay awake for an instant longer. The wolf crouches by the bed, as if to guard my sleep.

Buttery sunlight wakes me, streaming in the small window above the bed. The fire has died. The room is cold, but there's smooth heat against my naked back.

I turn to find him curled around me – tall, well-muscled, his bronzed skin dusted with red-gold down that matches the curls on his head. I breathe in his scent, ripe male musk spiked with a sharp evergreen edge. He's sleeping, but he wakes as I gaze on his beauty and pulls my body to his. “Happy New Year,” he murmurs, nuzzling my ear and sliding his hardness into my soaked cleft.

Joy surges through me, almost drowning my lust. Almost, but not quite. As a man, he's nearly as fierce a lover as when he was wolf. I let myself go, let him see the animal that that is my true self. I know he won't be disgusted or afraid. And I'm quite certain that afterward, I won't feel empty.

Charity Sunday: Shelter for All – #Homelessness #FreeStory #CharitySunday

Welcome to the final Charity Sunday of 2025. During the last eleven months, with your help, I’ve sent $290 to various worthy causes.

Compared to Elon Musk’s fortune or the US national debt, that might seem like a pittance. But what if every adult in the U.S. – approximately 250 million people – matched that donation? That’s 72.5 billion dollars. Think of the good that could do.

Each of us does what we can.

For this last, holiday-themed Charity Sunday, I am supporting the Coalition for the Homeless. Centered in New York City, they provide not only shelter but also legal assistance, crisis services, emergency food and other critical types of help. In addition, they advocate for people who are homeless, working to change punitive laws and to free up resources to help deal with homelessness.

The stereotype of a homeless person is a drunken bum living in a cardboard box under a bridge, panhandling and looking for opportunities to grab things that don’t belong to him. People without shelter are often dirty, smelly and unpleasant to be around—you would be too, if you didn’t have a shower available. Often there are psychiatric or substance abuse problems that exacerbate the shelter problem. Homelessness might seem like another world (although I wouldn’t be surprised if some of my readers had shelter problems). But anyone can end up homeless.

When I was in college, I had a friend from my home town—call her Marnie—who had been accepted to the same elite university I attended. She was brilliant and creative. Unlike me, she had serious conflicts with her mother (her father was dead). In addition, she was bipolar. As a result, Marnie ended up living on the streets for a number of months. For me this was a wake-up call. Who would have expected the high school valedictorian to end up dirty, hungry and homeless?

Anyway, I will donate two dollars to the Coalition for the Homeless for every comment I receive on this post. I’m also sharing a complete mini-story I wrote, a long time ago, for a member of my online crit group who was in fact homeless. Warning: it's somewhat erotic. But it's also a beacon of hope.

Easy

By Lisabet Sarai

For G.T.

Sleet was the worst. He huddled under the awning of the shuttered refreshment kiosk, shivering as a gray veil swallowed the skeleton trees across the lake. It wouldn't take more than ten minutes for sleet to soak through his sweatshirt and the two sweaters he wore underneath. Then the wet clothing would freeze against his skin. The icy slush pooled at the curbs would leak into his battered shoes on his way back. Bally was a top brand, but the miles he had walked in the last six months had worn through the soles. Anyway, leather, even the best quality, was no good in winter weather.

He remembered his down ski parka – Columbia! – how toasty warm he had felt as he swooped down the black diamond trails up at Killington. Gone, like so many other things. If he had only realized what was happening, he might have planned a bit, held on to what was really important. The change happened so gradually, though. Plus it had violated all that he had believed and trusted.

He would have found it inconceivable if someone had told him he'd find himself in this situation: jobless, homeless, broke and alone. On Christmas Eve, yet.

He had a Harvard MBA, for God's sake. Who could have imagined that his plum product manager position at a top hi-tech, his BMW, his four bedroom colonial, his wife, his kids, his life, could all melt away like snow on a steam-tunnel manhole?

In the distance, the clock in City Hall tower struck three. Two and a half more hours and he could return to the shelter. Trying to reduce the surface area, he clenched his hands inside the canvas work gloves he had found discarded on trash pickup day last week. His fingers were already numb. His feet were blocks of ice. He had to get inside, somewhere. The temperature would drop as dusk approached.

He had two quarters and a dime hidden under his layers of rags, but he had already had his coffee today. He had made it last for two hours, while the Burger King staff glared at his bedraggled form slumped in the corner. Tough. He was a paying customer.

Cloud-colored ice skinned the lake where he used to take his daughter canoeing. Not strong enough yet for skating. He could start walking across. He knew the surface would crack long before he reached the boathouse on the opposite shore. It would be so easy. The lake was deeper than you'd expect.

The ice would freeze over his entry point. They wouldn't find him, not for days or even weeks. No one visited the park in the winter. That's why he came. The cops didn't hassle him here and he didn't have to suffer the looks of pity and disgust he got on the street.

Easy, yes. So tempting. Everything else was so difficult now, a daily struggle to survive. Why should he bother? Who, after all, would care?

He'd thought he was so clever, hiding his affairs, but his wife eventually lost patience. She took the kids out west, leaving him with the huge, empty house and an equally enormous alimony payment.

Then came the downsizing—hell, how many “personnel reduction strategies” had he helped to plan? The bottom dropped out of real estate, but the mortgage had to be paid. No one, he discovered, wanted to hire a manager in his fifties, no matter how stellar his credentials.

His sigh hung in a white cloud before him. He had pawned his Rolex early on, but he guessed that about ten minutes had passed since the clock had chimed. He closed his eyes, unutterably weary, longing for his cot in the shelter. It was hard to sleep there in the dorm, with the bums raving around him all night, but right now he would have given anything to be able to collapse onto the thin mattress and pull the rough blanket around his ears.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

He started, the youthful voice pulling him from his drowsy stupor.

“Ah—um—good afternoon.” She was a beacon of color in the monochrome landscape, with pink cheeks, copper curls and a long, holly-green coat. A matching green ribbon held her fiery hair away from her face. She was young, certainly no more than twenty, with a freshness that made her seem old-fashioned. That coat reminded him of one his mother used to wear in the fifties, shaped like the letter A with those funny sleeves—raglan sleeves, they were called. He felt irrationally pleased that he could remember. His mother's coat had been a sober brown, though. This woman's garment was so bright it made him blink.

She stepped closer, out of the sleet, joining him under the overhang. “Wintery weather,” she commented, smiling up at him. Her eyes were the same startling hue as her coat. Her lips formed a perfect bow. Even in the chill air, he caught a hint of her scent, cool and fresh like evergreens in snow.

He was suddenly aware of his own funky smell, his ragged clothing and his three days of stubble. He searched the girl's face for the inevitable sympathy or scorn. He found neither. Instead, inexplicably, he recognized desire.

His cock stirred inside his sweatpants. Was it possible? Exhausted and underfed, he hadn't been horny in months.

She took his hand in her own small, bare fingers. “I know someplace warmer. Come with me.”

She drew him along the slippery path that circled the lake. Needles of sleet pricked his cheeks. His sweatshirt grew wetter with each step. In her cashmere coat and patent-leather boots, the woman seemed not to notice the weather.

Another spot of color grew before them. A Japanese-style bridge, rust-red, arched over the narrowest point in the hourglass-shaped lake. The trail crossed the bridge. He had never noticed the stairway leading down the bank. There was a ledge underneath, bordering the water, making a snug private space. He had to crouch down to follow her inside. The bridge swept upward, just over their heads.

“We're out of the wind here,” she told him, her voice like bells. “Let's sit down.” She slipped the coat off her shoulders and spread it over the dry stone.

He couldn't believe his eyes. Under the festive-hued coat, she was naked. Her skin was a creamy peach tone. The buds tipping her sweet, small breasts were a deeper rose. A ginger tangle at the apex of her thighs hid her sex. She looked like an innocent angel. Her smile as she reached for his zipper, though, hinted of lascivious delights.

“Wait—I can't...” His erection thickened by the second as she worked at his jeans but his shame was stronger than his lust. “Please, I haven't had a shower in a week. I smell...”

“I don't care,” she murmured, peeling the denim away from his hips and starting work on the sweatpants underneath. “I like the way you smell.” She gripped his rod. Her flesh was hot against his chilled skin.

“But why...?” His protests grew weaker as she pumped her hand up and down his length. “Who...?”

She stopped him with a peppermint flavored kiss. “Because I want you. Now. I can't wait.”

He surrendered, sinking back onto the soft wool, entwined in her arms.

After that, there was nothing but glorious warmth, luscious wetness, tightness coiling in his groin and then expanding into utter relief. I must be dreaming, he thought, as she wrapped her thighs around his waist and drew him deeper. Maybe I'm dying.

He didn't care. She offered him her fire and he accepted her gift. He forgot everything except her satin skin, her cushioned hollows, her scent of fir trees by the ocean. There was no past, no future, only an eternal present.

They drifted together, passion cresting and receding and peaking again, lost in the ancient rhythms of the flesh. Finally, even their bodies melted away. All that remained was joy.

The chimes woke him, five strokes that reached him through some kind of fog. Darkness had fallen. Shadows filled the cozy nook under the bridge. Even in the gloom, he could tell that he was alone.

His limp, sticky cock hung outside his pants. As he noticed, he realized how cold he was, not just his penis but his whole body.

A dream. Still, shreds of joy clung to him. A dream like that was far better than waking life. Perhaps he could recreate the dream tonight, in his dormitory bed. He closed his eyes, summoning her emerald eyes and plump lips. Yes. He would not forget.

He needed to hurry, though. The shelter opened in a half hour and beds were allocated on a first-come, first-serve basis. He zipped up and then pressed against the ledge to lever himself onto his hands and knees.

He felt the plush softness of cashmere beneath his palms.

It was too dark to see, but he knew it was her coat. But if she had left her coat here, did that mean that she was wandering naked in the park in these frigid temperatures? Was she crazier than the old coots at the shelter?

I've got to find her, he thought, gathering the warm garment in his arms and crawling out from under the bridge. She’ll freeze.

The sleet had stopped. The December air was a knife in his lungs, clean and sharp. He peered into the darkness, seeking the slight, pale form of a nude woman.

A cluster of stars was born. To his right, twinkling points of brightness twined through the tree branches. Another tree leaped into light down the path. One by one the black winter skeletons transformed into fairy tale shapes as the city turned on the holiday decorations.

Finally, surrounded by glory, he understood. He swung the coat over his shoulders and wrapped himself in its warm, pine-scented folds. Another gift, to remind him how precious life is. Even his life.

He headed for the street, humming an old carol under his breath. He had only twenty minutes to get to the shelter, but he wasn't worried. It would be easy.

Don’t forget to leave a comment. It might help put a roof over some deserving person’s head.

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Looking Back, Looking Ahead – #NewYears #Goals #AmWriting

Image by Gundula Vogel from Pixabay

It’s New Year’s Eve, the boundary between the old year and the new. Although this is really an illusion – tomorrow will likely be quite similar to today – it’s traditional to use the turning of the year as an opportunity to gaze back at activities and accomplishments from the previous twelve months, and to lay out plans for the months ahead.

Did you know that my entire publishing history is posted in reverse chronological order on my website? Stretching back to 1999 and the release of the first edition of Raw Silk? Cumulatively, I’m proud of my body of work. I’m also pleased that I’m still writing and publishing after more than two and a half decades, despite all the changes in the industry and in my own life.

For the past few years, though, I’ve had very little time to devote to being Lisabet Sarai. In 2021 I accepted a rewarding but demanding real-world job that shrinks my writing time to a few hours per week. I have to cram blog maintenance and the minimal marketing I do into the evenings of the days when I can work remotely. (With a three hour total commute on the days I have to be in the office, it’s too late by the time I get home.)

In 2025 I brought out two new books, both novellas, for a total of about 70K words. They’re extremely different from one another.

The Slut Does Vegas is light-hearted, no-holds-barred erotica that brings together two of my fictional worlds. One of my most devoted fans inspired this story with his fantasy of seeing heroines from the two worlds get together. I labeled it as Book 7 of my Vegas Babes series, in the hopes of attracting previous readers. 

 

Free Fall: Escape from Xanadu, on the other hand, is a serious lesbian sci-fi romance, with some nods to the current world situation. I hadn’t written “pure” lesbian fiction since By Moonlight in 2023. I had no idea how to market it, or to whom, but with help from the community, especially the IHeartSapphFic website, the story has found some readers at least. That book was inspired by a pre-made cover I fell in love with. I bought the cover with a conviction that there was a compelling story behind it. Bringing that story to life was a difficult but rewarding exercise.

I’ve also used the last few days of 2025 to publish a new edition of Her Secret Ingredient, a romance from way back in 2013. I was startled to realize that this book, written when I was a romance novice, has many elements of a rom-com. So that’s the way I’m marketing it.

So, three short books in twelve months. Not very impressive. It’s fortunate I am not trying to make my living writing!

Of course, Lisabet Sarai did more than just write erotica and romance in 2025. My blog Beyond Romance featured an average of three posts per week, including seventeen reviews over the course of the year. (Since the blog debuted in 2009, I’ve done more than 4,500 posts and had 2.7 million visitors.) On the last Sunday of every month, I’ve hosted a Charity Sunday event, raising money for various worthy causes.

I’ve also spent some time trying to acquire new skills, especially in the area of graphic arts. I’m getting better at using Gimp, the open-source alternative to PhotoShop. Although both my newly written books this year feature professional covers, Her Secret Ingredient is one of my first independent attempts to use generative AI as a starting point for my cover art.

Finally, I’ve put significant effort into maintaining our writing community. I belong to several author groups, including Marketing For Romance Writers. We share knowledge, suggestions and support, as well as exchanging promo help. Some of my dearest friends are people I know through my writing. I may never have met them in person, but I know I can count on them (and vice versa).

As for 2026, I don’t have firm plans, but here are some of my potential goals:

• Bring out the rest of my novels in print format. Right now only three of my books (Raw Silk, Incognito and Rajasthani Moon) are available in hard-copy form. I’m not sure this makes a lot of sense commercially, but I do know that some readers (including me) really love a book they can hold in their hands.

• Package some of my novels into super-bundle boxed sets for Kindle Unlimited. I publish wide in order to give my readers a choice of sources. However, I do have a few boxed sets targeted at the KU market, which is (I can see) a different group of people who might not buy the individual titles.

• Publish a new edition of The Ingredients of Bliss, the novel-length sequel to Her Secret Ingredient, after I get the rights back in late 2026.

And what about new work? Well, I recently bought two more covers (on sale) from my favorite cover artist James Help (https://goonwrite.com). He’s the guy who did both of this year’s covers. Working from a cover to a story inspiration actually turned out well with Free Fall, so I’m going to try this again. The first story I plan to attempt will be another lesbian title, a historical romance/mystery set in Victorian London and Boston. I’m working on the outline now.

I don’t like to make resolutions on New Year’s. Often they’re just an opportunity to feel guilty. Over the years, being Lisabet, creating worlds and characters and connecting with readers and other authors, has been a journey of joy. I don’t want to taint that joy by feeling pressured.

I do hope, though, that readers will tag along with me on the next leg of my journey.

Image created by Gemini AI

 

The Accidental Rom-Com – #NewRelease #ContemporaryRomance #SteamyRomance

The first edition of Her Secret Ingredient was published more than a decade ago. At the time, I was pretty much of a novice at writing romance, as well as clueless about the genre as a whole. The impetus for the title was a series my publisher was doing called “What’s her secret?”. I had an inspiration, created a quick, steamy contemporary story about an ambitious young woman whose plans spectacularly backfire, and marketed it as contemporary erotic romance.

I know a lot more now about all the genres and sub-genres, labels and tropes, under the big tent of romance. As I was editing the manuscript for this new edition, I found myself grinning frequently and sometimes, laughing out loud. This is better than I remembered, I thought. It’s really pretty funny. But I didn’t fully understand what was going on until I went to publish the book on Amazon and saw that one of the category options was romantic comedy.

Something clicked. Of course! I didn’t sit down to write a rom-com, but this book has many of the typical features of the genre: embarrassing mishaps, unexpected misdirections, a hint of the wacky, and a smart but in some ways clueless heroine who doesn’t realize she’s going after the wrong guy. It’s not as wild and woolly as one of Julia Kent’s tales (she’s the rom-com goddess, in my view), but it’s moving in that direction.

So if you pick up a copy of the book (and I do hope you will), don’t expect anything too serious. Except the love, of course. That’s about as serious as things can get.

Blurb

Stir in a pinch to stir up his passion.

When the Tastes of France food channel offers Mei Lee “Emily” Wong a series of guest spots, she jumps at the opportunity to take her culinary career to a whole new level. Ultimately, she wants a show of her own, but first she has to prove herself to Michelin-starred network founder and effective dictator, Etienne Duvalier. A legend in the world of classic French cuisine as well as a domineering perfectionist, Etienne is skeptical about the culinary abilities of a woman from Hong Kong. To make things more difficult, the master chef is also so gorgeous that Emily can’t help being attracted to him.

Emily tries to solve both problems by spiking her luscious profiteroles with an ancient Oriental aphrodisiac. Unfortunately, Harry Sanborne, the low-key, bespectacled producer for Emily’s show, samples the delicacies she intends for Etienne’s consumption. His powerful reaction to her secret ingredient comes as a pleasant surprise to them both. Harry turns out to be far more impressive in bed than on the set. However, he can’t do nearly as much to advance her ambitions as Etienne. Emily tries once more to tempt the exacting Monsieur Duvalier with her special cooking as well as her feminine charms. The outrageous results threaten to end her TV career forever—until Harry steps in to save her reputation and claim her heart.

Find a spicy excerpt and all the buy links on my website: https://www.lisabetsarai.com/hersecretingredientbook.html

Or visit the Universal Book Link: https://books2read.com/u/mdkrAw