Review of my wild wine book

This was from Amazon- not too bad.


An ideal and thoroughly 'user friendly' introduction, December 12, 2009
By Midwest Book Review (Oregon, WI USA)

Wine making is among the world's most ancient culinary arts and is enjoying a resurgence of popularity today. The latest addition to the Atlantic Publishing Group's outstanding 'Back to Basics Cooking' series, "101 Recipes For Making Wild Wines At Home: A Step-by-Step Guide to Using Herbs, Fruits, and Flowers" by wine making enthusiast John Peragine focuses upon the do-it-yourself creation of wines made from plants growing wild. Organized with introductory chapters on the legality and history of making wines at home, winemaking basics, and grape-based wines, "101 Recipes For Making Wild Wines At Home" moves on to include informed and informative chapters on wines from berries, 'stone fruits', 'seeded fruits', citrus and tropical fruits, and apple cider; wines made from vegetable and grains; and herbal wines. Of special note are the chapters devoted to making meads and wild wine drinks. Novice wine makers will especially appreciate the chapter identifying the ten most commonly encountered problems when making wine. Enhanced with a glossary, a bibliography, a resource list, a comprehensive index, and appendices on 'Wine yeast Strains' and 'Tales from the Vineyard', "101 Recipes For Making Wild Wines At Home" is an ideal and thoroughly 'user friendly' introduction and instruction manual appropriate and recommended for personal and community library reference collections.

2nd Annual Christmas Story

Here is the 2nd Christmas Story. Let me know what you think.

 

Christmas Spirit

There was a rapping on the door.

“Welcome Father Kringle, thank god you could come on short notice. We just did not know what else to do.”

The rather portly man entered the doorway. He was dressed in a large red coat, with the traditional black cloth of a priest peering from underneath.

“May I take your bag, Father Kringle?” asked Mrs. Who as she stepped out of the way to allow the priest to enter.

“No, it contains what I need in situations like this.”

As Father Kringle stepped past Mrs. Who, a scent caught her nose.

“You know Father Kringle, you smell like fresh baked ginger bread.”

Father Kringle dropped his rather large sack on the floor with a thud. He looked at Mrs. Who with some impatience.

“Yes, I get that a lot. You know it’s the time of the year. The sisters are baking a lot. That’s probably what you smell on my clothes.”

“Yes, yes. That must be it.” Mrs. Who thought he must have been rolling in the dough before making the trip because the sweet ginger bread smell was so overpowering. She noticed that the father still had his coat on.

“Can I at least get your coat?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Father Kringle quickly shed his coat. His long white beard looked like a ski slope against his black shirt. His clerical collar was obscured by the immense beard, but Mrs. Who was sure it was there. Even though Mrs. Who had never seen this man before, there was something oddly familiar about him.

“ Have we met before Father Kringle? You look like…”

Father Kringle broke in, “Many people say I look like someone they know. It is the beard I suppose.”

“Yeah, that must be it,” it finally dawned on Mrs. Who who he looked like, “ You look just like…”

Again the priest cut her short, “Can you tell me more about what is going on with your daughter?”

“Sure, sure. Please have a seat while I hang up your coat.”

She took the coat from the priest. It was heavy and seemed very old. The red color was faded and there were some places that were patched. The white trim was dingy with old dried mud. She hung the coat in the front closet and quickly sat down in the chair facing the couch where the priest sat. His immense size let little room for anyone else to sit.

“Well, I am not sure where to begin. I guess it was the Friday after Thanksgiving.”

“Black Friday. Umm hmm. Go on.” His large head nodded in encouragement.

“My daughter, Cindy Lou, and I were shopping. We had gotten up at five o’clock AM in order to get the best sales, you know. We were bumping and pushing our way through Sears. By ten, Cindy was tired and fussy. She is just six years old and did not understand why we could not buy all of things she wanted for Christmas. She was becoming increasingly cranky and I knew it was time to go. I told her to sit down and in the meantime I took my items to the layaway line.” Mrs. Who stopped.” Where are my manners. Is there anything I can get for you? Coffee? Tea?”

“I would like some hot cocoa, but please finish your story.”

“Are you sure you want to wait, it won’t be any trouble.”

“No, please continue. It is very important to know what happened so I know how to proceed.”

“Of course father. I am sorry. Where was I? Oh yes- layaway. So I was in this huge line, but I could see Cindy sitting on the bench. She had a frown and was kicking her feet back and forth. It took 45 minutes for me to get through the line. I swear I never lost sight of her, I swear.” Tears began to well up in Mrs. Who’s eyes. As if by magic, father Kringle produced a cloth handkerchief. Mrs. Who took it. She looked at it a moment. It was beautifully embroidered with a Christmas tree. It had the initials KK stitched in the corner.

“Are you sure you want me to use this?”

“Yes, yes. I have many of them back home. Please continue.”

Mrs. Who blotted her eyes and continued.

“ When I was finished placing all the presents on layaway, Cindy Lou was fast asleep on the bench. I nudged her awake, but I knew instantly something was wrong. It was the look she gave. It was so filled with anger. It was not my little Cindy Lou.”

“ Did she say anything to you?”

“She said- ‘presents. Where are my presents?’ Her voice. It was deep and filled with rage. I can’t fully describe it. It was not her voice. I know this must sound crazy…”

“No Mrs. Who. You don’t sound crazy at all. What did you do next?”

“ Well I took her home. I thought maybe she had come down with a cold or something and that was why her voice seemed so hoarse. Here regular doctor’s office was closed, so I found an urgent care center. They said they could not find anything wrong with her.”

“Did she have a fever?”

“Funny you should ask that. Her temperature was below normal. The nurse thought it may have been a problem with the thermometer.”

“Umm hmm. So then what happened.”

“She had not said anything since Sears. She did not respond to any questions by the doctors, she remained passive with a scowl on her face. I took her home and her silence continued.”

“How long?”

“Well for a couple of days. She just stayed in her room for the weekend. I called her regular doctor on Monday and she said there was a bug going around, but that unless her temperature went up that she should be better in a couple days. That was a week ago. Her temperature stayed low. I tried three different thermometers from the store and they all read “L” which meant it was too low for them to register. I piled blankets on her. And then a couple days ago when she finally said something.”

“ What did she say?”

“ It was about the same as before. It was still in that hoarse voice,’ Presents, when can I get my presents?’” Mrs. Who said it in a low hoarse sounding voice to make the point, “ I told her it would be a few weeks before Christmas. She started convulsing and screaming ‘presents. Give me my presents.’ I did not know what to do. I ran out of the room crying.”

There was a loud thump, and then the sound of breaking glass. Mrs. Who’s face turned pale as she looked up the staircase toward the second floor.

“Where is her father?”

“Oh the doctor? He is away on business. He travels a lot.” Mrs. Who drew a deep breath.

“Father. I know I should have come to church more often, and for that I am sorry. But I promise you, that I will be in front pew every Sunday from now on.”

She swallowed hard. ”What is in the bedroom up there is not my daughter.” Her eyes were wide and her pupils were small pinpoints. “Please father. I called Father Dickens and explained to him what was happened. I did not know where else to turn. He said you were the best one to handle this situation. Please father, can you help me?”

“I believe I can. I will need that cocoa now. It should be tepid, not hot.”

“Sure, sure father. Let me know if there is anything else.”

“You would not happen to have any cookies would you? I have low blood sugar. I should have eaten before I came over.”

“No problem father. I have some sugar cookies I just baked yesterday.”

“Perfect. Now where is Cindy Lou’s room?”

Mrs. Who’s eyes got large again. She pointed at the stairs. “ Up there, second room on the right. Her door is closed. Just go right on in. I believe she is asleep.”

Father Kringle picked up his sack and made his way up the stairs. As Mrs. Who made her way to the kitchen, she was impressed by how such a large man could make his way so nimbly up the stairs. His footsteps did not seem to make a sound.

Father Kringle wrinkled his brow, and touched the doorknob. It was ice cold to the touch. He quietly opened the door and stepped into the room. It was so cold he could see puffs of his own breath. In the bed, neatly tucked in was a small girl with braided pig tails. She looked pale and fragile, and her face was serene as she slept.

Mrs. Who entered the room with the cocoa and plate of cookies.

“Please place them on the dresser. Mrs. Who you will need to trust me now. I have seen this before and I believe I can help your daughter. Have faith. I am sorry but I must ask you to leave the room and wait for me downstairs.”

Mrs. Who looked down at her daughter and shivered.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Mrs. Who. No matter what you hear, please wait for me to come downstairs. Do you understand?”

“Yes” She looked over at her sleeping daughter.” Yes Father Kringle.” She grabbed his hand between hers. There was a far off jingling sound. Her eyes met his. Without a further word she left the room and closed the door.

“ Heh….heh….heh.”

Father Kringle opened his bag and began bringing out items and placed them next to the cocoa and cookies.

“ Heh, heh, heh.” Creaked a voice from the bed. “Father Kringle, have you come to save this little girl. She is ours. OURS!”

“I knew it was you foul demon. As soon as she mentioned Black Friday, I knew I would be facing you once again.”

“Ohh, Father Kringle. Did you miss us. Te he he.” The last part was not in the hoarse whisper, but it was the voice of a little mischievous girl.

Father Kringle picked up the cup of cocoa and said a few words over it. There was still a spoon in it. He scooped a spoonful of cocoa and threw it at the little girl in the bed. Her face contorted in a horrible mask of pain and anguish.

“ It burns, IT BURNS.”

“That proves it. You cannot stand the power of the blessed cocoa. Begone foul…”

“No you fool. It really burns it’s too hot.”

Father Kringle dipped his finger into the liquid to find it was scourching hot. He put the cup down.

“ I said tepid. This was not tepid…” He continued mumbling to himself as he picked up the cookie.

The little girl’s bloodshot eyes became wide as he held it above his head with both hands. The priest broke the cookie in half and said something that was inaudible

“What was that priest? What do you intend to do? Do you think that by holding a mass you can drive me out. Ha, ha ha.”

“ Nuts!”

“What is that fat jolly man?”

Father Kringle threw the cookie halves back onto the plate.

“ I said nuts. She told me these were sugar cookies and she gave me macadamia nut cookies. I can’t eat these, I have a severe nut allergy.”

The girl said nothing, her mouth was agape. Father Kringle reached down and grabbed two candy canes and made a shape of a cross.

“The spirit of Christmas compels you.” The girl writhed and screeched in pain.

“ No, no you can’t. We want to stay. We are greed and impatience.” The voice changed and modulated as she screamed.

“Begone foul ghosts of Christmas present, past and future.”

He went back to the dresser and picked up a branch with green leaves and berries and placed it upon the little girl’s brow.

“ No, stop it. It hurts, it hurts.”

“With this Mistletoe I drive you out unclean demon. Go back to the department store from whence you came.” The Father pressed the branch harder on the little girl’s brow.

“No really it hurts. That isn’t mistletoe you stupid pork chop of a man?”

Father Kringle looked closer. He knew he should have wore his spectacles, but that made his appearance even more conspicuous. He leaned down and gave a closer inspection of the plant.

“Oh I am so sorry. That was holly berry.”

“Are you about done? I mean do mean to save this poor girl don’t you? Or is your plan to send her to the hospital with scratches and scrapes with third degree burns.”

Father Kringle straightened himself up.

“ Be silent!”

A white deluge erupted from young Cindy Lu’s mouth and splattered over the front of Father Kringle. There was the smell of soured milk mixed with cinnamon.

“Egg nog? I have had enough, begone from this young innocent child.”

That is when the second creamy wave hit Father Kringle square in the face. It dripped from his beard.

“You are a naughty child. I am placing you on my list.” Father Kringle produced another embroidered kerchief and wiped his face and beard. Little Cindy Lu had produced a naked fairy Barbie and was rotating her head around and around while she giggled.

“What will it take for to leave this innocent child’s body.”

Cindy Lu looked up. “Presents! We want our presents!” There was a madness in her eyes.

“Presents? You want presents.”

“Yes, Yes. Give them to us. Give them.”

There was a twinkle in Father Kringle’s eye.

“If I give you a present, you will leave this child?”

Father Kringle reached deep within his pack and produced a small wrapped box. It’s bow was perfectly made and there was not a seem to be seen. It was stunning.

“Give it to us. Now!”

Cindy Lou threw down the doll and lunged for the priest. Father Kringle took a step back.

“Remember your promise most unclean spirit.”

“Yes , yes. Give it to us.”

The priest tossed the present. He dared not get any closer for fear of another egg nog bath. The small box landed on Cindy’s lap. She greedily grabbed it and tore at the green paper and the red ribbon floated to the floor. She tore open the box beneath the paper. There was something dark and round inside.

“Noooooooooooooooooooooo.”

Cindy collapsed and then sat up crying.

“Mommy, mommy. Where are you mommy?”

Mrs. Who flew into the room.

“Cindy? Is it you?”

Mrs. Who ran to the bed and embraced her child. She was kissing her head and rocking her.

“Thank you Father Kringle. How can I ever repay you?”

Father Kringle was silent and began repacking his sack. When he was finished, he looked up at Mrs. Who and the beaming face of young Cindy Lou. Father Kringle absent mindedly reached for the cookie on the plate, and then realization stuck him.

“Ahhhhh, nuts.”

John Peragine- Dec. 2009- All Rights Reserved

Proof Your Book Too

LiveJournal Tags: book writing proof editing

I can say from experience of righting a few books that nothing is more stomach wrenching than to open my book straight from print and seeing grammar or spelling errors.

I believe the these types of errors are a shared responsibility. I write the words- type type type. I go over them a few times to try to catch errors- check, check check. After I am satisfied I submit the manuscript. I am a firm believer that you cannot proof your work alone, as your brain will play tricks on you. You will miss things because your brain will fill in errors and not alert you that there is a problem. The universe was nice enough to provide editors for this purpose.

That does not mean that I should not do my level best to try to fix and all all errors in a manuscript it is just that it is a shared responsibility of the editor to find and pick out what I might have missed.

When I am writing a book, an editor will go over my manuscript with a fine toothed comb and many times there there will be a senior editor that will look over as well. Once this is done and everyone is satisfied it is sent to the printer who then sends back a proof. This proof is then reviewed once again and approved for print.

So how can errors make it through so many reviews and still make it to print? Well as an author you have to be proactive. Edit as much as you can and hand it to someone you trust and has a close eye for details to look it over before you submit it. Ultimately, if an error reaches the page in print, it is the author’s fault. try to get a hold of the proof before it makes it to the printer to give it another good looking over. Once it is in print it is permanent, at until the second edition comes out.