Easy Sweet & Sour Veggies & Meatballs with Minute Rice

We all have our go-to meals—ones whipped up from pantry and freezer staples that can come together in 30 minutes or less. This recipe has become one of my families favorites. It's inexpensive, simple, and (relatively) healthy. 

A few years ago I was searching for a recipe to use up a fresh pineapple before it went bad. I'd never tried sweet & sour meatballs—beef and pineapple? My family looked at me as if I was crazy, but they trusted my cooking and gave it a try. Everyone loved it! I altered that original recipe a bit each time I made it, balancing the sweet and savory to my tastes and adding tons more veggies. (In my house, the easiest way to get everyone to eat more veggies is to mix everything together.) The fruits and vegetables are more the stars of this dish, while the meatballs are the accompaniment. Dish this over a bed of rice, and you have a tasty, healthy meal.

I've always been a fan of one-pot meals, and this one totally fits that bill. By using Minute-Ready-to-Serve Rice, you don't even need to wash a rice pot. It doesn't get much easier.

*Note: recipe listed uses frozen/pantry staples. It's almost as easy with fresh veggies & fruits. 

 Easy Sweet & Sour Veggies & Meatballs

serves 4

total time 25 minutes 

1 20 oz. can of pineapple chunks (juice reserved)
3/4 cup water
3 tablespoons white vinegar
2 tablespoons soy sauce
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger (or fresh if you have it)
3 tablespoons cornstarch
1 (14- oz) bag pepper stir fry (slice green, red, & yellow bell peppers & white onions)
1 12-oz. bag fresh chopped broccoli florets (or a bag of frozen will do)
1 pound precooked frozen meatballs
ground pepper to taste 
non-stick cooking spray

2 packages Minute Ready-to-Serve Rice (2 servings each) *I like the Jasmine variety with this dish

• Defrost precooked frozen meatballs as per your microwave's settings.
• Coat large pot or wok with non-stick spray. Cook pepper blend and broccoli until thawed and tender, about 10 minutes. Add thawed meatballs.

  

  
  

• Meanwhile, mix the reserved pineapple juice with enough water to make about one cup. In a large bowl or measuring cup, combine juice mix, 1/3 cup water, brown sugar, vinegar, and soy sauce. Whisk in ginger and cornstarch. Stir until smooth. Pour into pot or wok with veggies and meatballs. Stir until mixed.
• Simmer gently for about ten minutes.
• Heat Minute Ready to Serve Rice as per directions (about one minute). 
• Serve Sweet & Sour Veggies & Meatballs over a bed of fragrant rice.

 **Another easy option: toss it all in a crock pot. Reduce water by half, cook on low for 3-4 hours. Serve over rice. Done.

Minute® Ready to Serve Rice is an ideal portable solution for lunch or breakfast because you can eat it on the go, straight from the cup. In just 60 seconds, you have fully cooked rice for any meal or snack. You’ll never get bored with your lunch since there are 10 flavorful and wholesome varieties. If you’re looking for a healthy option, Minute® Ready to Serve Rice provides easy portion control since it’s conveniently packaged in two individual single-serve cups.
Visit www.love-every-minute.com for recipes, including Minute® Ready to Serve Stir it Up recipe ideas and more information about the Minute® Rice family of products.

This is a sponsored post written by me on behalf of Minute® Ready to Serve Rice.

Review: Why Can't I Be You By Allie Larkin

Happy Pub Day to Allie Larkin! Her second novel, WHY CAN'T I BE YOU hits shelves today. Keep reading to see why you should pick up a copy.

Young thirty-something Jenny Shaw's life stinks. No, her house wasn't swept up by a tornado and she didn't just discover she has terminal cancer, but instead of proposing at the airport, her boyfriend dumps her and takes off with her luggage. Her mom is a manipulative piece of work who's not particularly nice even when she's sober. Her PR jr. exec job leaves her far from fulfilled. Jenny has spent so much of her life pleasing others, she's neglected to notice how blase she's become.

A 13th high school reunion just happens to be going on in the same hotel as Jenny's boring conference. When she thinks she hears a stranger call her name in a hotel lobby, she responds—and ends up being mistaken for Jesse, a long lost wild-child best friend. Thrilled to be welcomed and wanted, Jenny slips into Jesse's persona, embracing the stranger's circle of friends and past. But when Jenny finds herself slipping into the arms of Jesse's old crush, things get too real as the lines between what's real and what's wishful thinking blur.

{If you are a teen/young adult of the 90s you'd better have that Cure song stuck in you head now. If not listen here.}

Yes, this is chick lit contemporary women's fiction. It's a sweet, entertaining story that was perfect to lose myself in on a sick day. Yes, I read it in less than 24 hours—because I could. The story carries you along at a crisp pace, and you just can't help wondering when Jenny's cover will be blown.

I groaned internally  a couple of times—first, when poor Jenny gets dumped at the airport. I wanted to smack someone—mostly the boyfriend who admits he has "feelings" for another girl (a fellow volleyball player at that) but a little bit towards our spunky heroine who should have known better. But then again, we've all been there. I cut her some slack and wanted to hug her or buy her a drink at the airport bar.

Then there was the whole impersonating-a-stranger-you-know-nothing-about scenario. Who does that? And gets away with it? And why can't I do that for a weekend? Ah—that's what hooked me. I'd love to slip into the life of someone far cooler and more loved, even more so back in the day when I was a single girl muddling through uninspiring jobs and unfufilling friendships. I couldn't blame Jenny for wanting to jump into the group of friends who seemed to be breathlessly waiting for "Jesse" to reappear in their lives. They were all so nice and well developed. I wanted to have Myra take me home, vent with Robbie in the moonlight, hold Heather's hand. Fish appears as the perfect guy for Jenny—sensitive, outdoorsy, honest, caring. I'd want them to want me, too. And so I let my suspension of disbelief carry me away.

I felt a kinship with Jenny and just couldn't help rooting for her. My parents never divorced and my mom was certainly never a drunk, but like her, I never had that tight group of friends who I knew would never leave me, whose faces would light up and arms would embrace me had I shown up at my high school reunion. So yeah, I'd want to be Jesse, too. . .until the fit hit the shan. But you'll have to read WHY CAN'T I BE YOU  to find out those details.

Read it: It's kind of like a John Hugh's teen flick thirteen years later—a charade filled with angst, sweetness, and what it means to be accepted.


WHY CAN'T I BE YOU
by Allie Larkin
Plume
304 Pages
$9.99 [Kindle] $15 [Paperback]

Allie's website / Twitter / Facebook

Beauty of a Woman | Beyond Skin Deep

My skin is a diary, stained with ink splotches, often fragile and wrinkled as tissue paper.

From my first breath, a hand-sized port wine stain discolored my torso, as if seared by God at birth.

I hid it for years. People gasped whenever they spied just a sliver of the magenta stigma below a stretched shirt bottom. "Oh my God, what happened? Were you burned? What IS that?" Their comments, their distaste—I was not okay. I dreamed of transforming my sprawling brand into a dragon tattoo. Let it breathe fire onto others as their words had scorched me. 

I didn't appreciate how easily I'd gotten off. Most of these stains appear on the face and neck.

In my youth, we worshiped the sun. We lived outside in a land of eternal sunshine, basking on beach towels and pool floats, slathering ourselves with Bain de Soliel and baby oil. My friends glowed bronze, many blessed by their Mediterranean or Hispanic lineage.

I faded into white walls. Translucent.

My mother always praised my fair complexion. I loathed it. I was a vampire in the land of sun goddesses.

I plastered my face with foundation as soon as my parents permitted, masking my smattering of freckles. 

Upon my pale limbs, I traced patterns between my birthmarks and moles. My own constellations. Somehow they looked wrong when I stared at them in a mirror. Though always relatively thin, I allowed my flaws to weigh me down.

On my twenty-first birthday, I believed I'd matured into a woman. In honor of the milestone, I skipped the booze and bought my first bikini instead. Far more gutsy. Go ahead. Stare. This is me.

I've worn many since.

The first time my future husband saw my stain, he said not a word. When he finally spoke up, it was only to say I was beautiful no matter what. I washed off much of my warpaint and let my freckles shine.

When my stomach swelled with life, my dragon grew, protecting the child inside. A slight brown mark appeared above my hip where he often kicked.  He was born with a brown stork bite on his ankle. We matched. Traces of silver webs hung like a fringe over my womb, forever proving I had grown a child. I hope they never fade away.

Just as I learned to accept my different beauty, my skin betrayed me. Skin cancer. Basal cell, thank God. My constellations began disappear, the motley stars hacked out before they turned into dark matter. A little spot burned off here, another bump punched out there. Pink scars became my new stars. The first time they carved a gash in my shoulder I wore a sling for two weeks, taking extreme care so the scalpel would not permanently disfigure me. The fates laughed, and infection caused a welt seemingly stolen from Frankenstein's bride.

I hid it, for a while.

Another two-inch gash marred my back. The sun became my enemy. As I hid in the shade to protect my papery shell, I healed within. My freckles faded. My confidence grew even as other blemishes spotted my skin. Be it age, hormones, genetics, or the damage I'd caused in my youth, this is me.

See that silver lightening flash on my hip—baby. That stitch lined gash—skin cancer. Those splotches and lines and big-ass freckles—my signature.

But I am more than my skin. In yoga class, I pose in black tights, my glowing white skin reflected in each mirrored wall. I'm different. I shine. I'm different, yet I'm beautiful. We all are.

Each constellations in the heavens tells a story. Each each dot, gash, and wrinkle upon my skin forms words, a veritable story of my life written upon my vellum. Ask me about one, I'll tell you my tale.

My story is far from over.

This post is a part of author August McLaughlin's Beauty of a Woman Blogfest. Be sure to visit the other funny, tear-jerking, inspiring, and always beautiful posts.







photo credit: Gabriela Camerotti via photopin cc

Happy Birthday (Juice Bottle) Jeff Kinney—A Diary of a Bottle Biography

biography book report, water bottle person, how to make a bottle person, soda bottle person, biography project, kid's biography class project

 

Dear Jeff,


Happy Birthday! Since I spent all of President's Day pouring over your biography for my son's first book report, I figured we should be on a first name basis. And, well, since my son and I have now immortalized you with craft foam and an apple juice bottle, I feel like we're kinda tight.

Out of the hundreds, maybe thousands of kid-appropriate biographies at the library, my son picked yours. This was no easy feat. He wandered the aisle scuffing his skate shoes, feigning no interest in sports heroes or dead politicians. We couldn't find any books about the captain of the Titanic or the creator of Legos. Just before I thrust Sacajawea's bio into his hands he said, "What about Jeff Kinney? He's kinda cool." 

Indeed.

And what do you know. . .your bio was just waiting there on the shelf for him. My kid who hates to write (yet thankfully loves to read and draw) picked an author as the one person in the world he wanted to lean more about. Zoo-wee, mama!

Now, getting him to read your biography was no problem. To a 9-year-old kid, you're as cool as a video game character (with your own mack daddy turbo blasters).  I owe you a big chunk of thanks for writing books boys like to read. Apparently, reading to him since he was a blob of cells and watching his parents devour hundreds of books a year wasn't enough to inspire him. I mean, we're his parents. But your books hooked him. My kid ran out to buy The Third Wheel with his own birthday money the day it came out. Instead of Legos. There is no higher honor. I was so dang proud I nearly cried.

Book read: check. 

Report written. . .  Now, this child watches me write book reviews (essentially book reports, right?) and write rewrite edit work on my own novel for hours each day. But getting him to write a book report made pulling teeth seem like a beach vacation day. (Seriously. The kid's had three oral surgeries. Boatloads more fun.) I suppose I should have tried threatening him with the cheese touch.

Then there was the whole decorate a two-liter bottle to look like a replica of your "Famous Person!" bit.  This will be fun for you AND YOUR FAMILY. Maybe for Martha Stewart's family, but the crafty gene somehow slipped from our DNA strands.

But  I think we did a pretty decent job. It's not Michelangelo's David, but hey, it works. The head even rotates (I think our Jeff might do a few Linda Blair imitations—minus the pea soup—we're talking 3rd grade boys here.) I think you're going to be a hit come biography book report presentation day.

Once again, Happy Birthday. (And I only know this because it took a half hour of prodding to get my kid to write that first report sentence stating when and where you were born.) I'll bet you're the only guy you know who receives a picture of foamy juice bottle mini-me for his special day. Fame has its perks.

And  thanks again for writing books that somehow make reading cool for boys. The world needs more of them.

Cheers!

 

How To Make a Water Bottle Person

(our cheapo,uncrafty version)

I'm only providing a brief overview of how we cobbled this project together because I figure there must be other parents out there more clueless than me. Like my husband—if he had to figure this out.

• 64 oz juice bottle — we used one with 2 flat sides so the glue adhered better
• craft foam for clothes & skin
• masking tape ring or bottom of an oatmeal canister (about 1-2 inches thick)
• googly eyes (optional)
• more foam or construction paper for hair
• good old Elmer's glue
• 2 popsicle sticks
• markers 
• scissors 
• props

Clean out the bottle. (We almost forgot that step.) Decide upon your "famous person's" attire. I recommend using regular paper to make a pattern before you mess up your crafty foam. We wrapped a sheet of blue foam around the bottom half of the bottle and cut out a V to make jeans. For the shirt, we cut a hole in the center of our "shirt" foam and placed it over the top of the bottle. We cut slits in each side to wrap around the sides and make sleeves. Cut out foam arms to fit into sleeves. Cut out hands and fingers if you're feeling so inspired. Slather foam with Elmer's and push into place. (A few pieces of tape or clothes pins may help hold foam in place while it dries.) 

For the head: trace around your tape or oatmeal container circle on the foam. Cut out. Cut a strip wide enough for the sides. Slather strip with glue and wrap around. With a hole punch (or scissors), punch two holes in the bottom. Insert popsicle sticks about an inch. This makes your neck and attaches the head. Run glue around the edges of each side then attach the big circles for the front and back of head. Once dry, decorate however you like. (We used construction paper for hair, markers to draw face, and googly eyes.) 

Sorry if your head on sticks freaks you out, Jeff.

Don't forget to add a few props for your person's famous talent/skill/whatever. I printed out a picture of Diary of a Wimpy Kid and we glued it to some cardboard for strength. Kiddo made a pencil from a popsicle stick. We glued to the hands. Instant writer.




{An aside to all my homeschooling friends: this is why I could never, EVER, take on that responsibility. This one little project about killed me. This is also another example of why I'm thrilled to have one kid. Good luck to the rest of you...}

Rich. Decadent. Hunky. The World's Best Brownies

{I'm airing a rerun of one of my favorite (and most popular) recipes. These babies are the perfect way to spoil you valentine—or yourself.}

Rich. Decadent. Dark. Hunky. Sweet. Luscious. And easy *wink wink*

Sounds like the perfect Valentine, right? But it is far better than a man. It's silent, scrumptious, doesn't care what you look like and satisfies you anytime, anywhere. It's one of my favorite comfort foods from childhood: my Mom's Magic Camping Brownies.

Okay, so that title doesn't quite give them the justice they deserve, so I shall explain.  Growing up we didn't have much junk food in our house—Oreos were not an after school snack nor did Fruit Loops ever grace our breakfast table (except on my birthday). But we always had dessert. Never a Ho Ho or a Twinkie, but a freshly baked portion of utter deliciousness.

Mom usually reserved these treats for special occasions or baked them upon request for parties, school events, and the regular group camping trips. Forgetting the beer or even breakfast would have been forgivable, but we would have been fed to the alligators if we showed up without the famous brownies.

When I went away to college Mom sent them in care packages. What else could a college freshman possibly want when she woke up Saturday "morning" at 3 p.m. than to nibble on a little piece of gooey chocolate and caramel heaven.  They were also popular at late night parties, and once, perhaps while a little intoxicated, I called them "Magic" brownies. The accidental misnomer excited the party-goers to a near frenzy to grab at the delectable morsels. They were only slightly disappointed when I insisted they were not, ah em, spiked with special herbs  But by then everyone was too busy reveling in chocolate ecstasy to really care and the name stuck.

Mom's "Magic" Gooey Chocolate Caramel Brownies

• 24 kraft caramels (7 oz) unwrapped
• 1 5 1/3 oz can (2/3 cup) evaporated milk
• 1 package devil's food cake mix
• 1 cup chopped walnuts
• 6 tbsp. melted margarine
• 1 small bag (1 cup) chocolate chips

• Combine all but 2 tbs. evaporated milk, cake mix, walnuts, and margarine; mix well (it will be thick).
• Spread half the cake mixture in a well greased 13x 9x 2 inch pan.
• Bake at 350 for 10 minutes.
•  Meanwhile,  melt caramels and 2 tbs. evaporated milk in a small saucepan over low heat until smooth.
• Sprinkle half the chocolate chips over the hot baked crust.  Drizzle the melted caramel on top.
• Drop the remaining cake mixture by spoonfuls all over the caramel and carefully try to cover as evenly as possible (it will still be lumpy).
• Sprinkle the remaining chocolate chips on top.
• Continue baking at 350 for 20 minutes more.
• Cut into bars while still warm (but not hot).
• Cool in pan.
• Enjoy.   If you don't there is something wrong with you.

Review: The Obvious Game by Rita Arens

 Everyone trusted me back then. Good old, dependable Diana. Which is why most people didn’t notice at first.

 ***

"Your shirt is yellow."

"Your eyes are blue."

"You have to stop running away from your problems."

"You're too skinny."

***

Diana Keller accidentally begins teaching The Obvious Game to new kid Jesse on his sixteenth birthday. As their relationship deepens, Diana avoids Jesse's past with her own secrets -- which she'll protect at any cost.




Fifteen-year-old Diana's life is unraveling. Cancer is eating away at her mom, and her family struggles to give her a normal childhood while dealing with the horrible sickness. Her friends are hitting the typical teen milestones of drinking, partying, and ditching her for boys, and she feels left behind. And she's tired of always being the fat girl. Something has to give.

With so many elements spinning out of her control, Diana latches onto the one thing she can manipulate: her weight. Add in a new arrival to her small Iowa town—a guy who actually notices her—yet she can't accept that he likes her for who she is. She whittles herself away, striving for perfection. She exercises far too much and stops eating, waiting for someone to SEE her before it's too late.

**********

I don't read a ton of YA. Yes, I've read today's YA blockbusters. I vaguely remember reading Judy Blume's Tiger Eyes back in about fifth grade, some Sweet Valley High and Girls of Canby Hall before I made the switch to hard core "adult" books. Back then, books for teens didn't include premarital sex, eating disorders, or underage drinking (as this one does). At least none that I recall. I could have been looking in the wrong place. I hated everything about being a teenager—reading was my form of escapism, and the last thing I wanted to do was jump into the life of another angst-filled teen—instead I pretended I was an adult, freed from pubescent hell. So I don't know if I would have been drawn to read Rita Aren's debut YA novel The Obvious Game as a teen.

But I should have.

None of my close friends struggled with eating disorders...none that I noticed. I never caught any Heathers-esque barf fests in the bathroom after lunch or saw any of my friends wither into slight shadows of themselves. But considering estimates that millions of teens  battle E.D.s, I'm sure some of my friends and classmates silently suffered. They just hid it well. And I didn't look. I didn't see. This book will open some eyes, and hopefully let some teens hiding in plain sight be seen.

I found the thought process, the reasoning behind the spiral into Diana's disorder fascinating and terrifying at the same time. While I kept rooting for Diana to stop, just slow down, just eat for Christ's sake, I could see how somehow the destructive behavior made sense to her. And how it became too powerful for her to control, and engulfed her. This sensitive portrayal of her struggle was obviously written with great care, and by someone with firsthand knowledge.

The characters seemed like people I could know. I wanted to be friends with Diana, call her up so she could vent, hang out with her and give her a shoulder to lean on. I liked her father and his mix of awkwardness, love, and quiet strength. I would have loved to have found a Jesse, an attractive, slightly more worldly guy from a big town, who had experienced loss as well.  We've all had an Amanda, a friend who's beautiful and popular and everything we wanted to be on the outside, yet was often ugly and cruel on the inside. And Diana, like many of us, chased after her version of pretty-girl perfection anyway.Thankfully she has a great guy friend—you know, the type with no attraction strings attached.

I enjoyed how the story was set in a somewhat simpler time—before sexting and cyberbullying—which allowed Rita to include chapter song titles from my own youth (The Obvious Game playlist). Pretty awesome.

The Obvious Game is raw, real, yet filled with humor and hope. 

For more about Rita's rough road to get this wonderful book published, check out Wednesday's Guest Post by Rita Arens—A Writer's Pub Journey by the Numbers.


Inkspell Publishing has generously offered to donate a portion of the proceeds of THE OBVIOUS GAME to the Eating Disorder Foundation. Double win.


The Obvious Game
by Rita Arens
Inkspell Publishing
Release Date: Feb 7th, 2013

$13.99 [Paperback] $4.99 [Kindle]

Rita's Website/blog | Twitter | Facebook | BlogHer

 

LinkedIn | Pinterest | Goodreads

Guest Post: Rita Arens — A Writer's Pub Journey By the Numbers

 Today I'm pleased to welcome Rita Arens, author of THE OBVIOUS GAME. Her contemporary, realistic young adult novel set in small town Iowa in 1990 releases tomorrow (February 7th). This "moving, sometimes heart-breaking story about one girl’s attempt to control the uncontrollable" is available NOW on Amazon.

You might know Rita Arens from her position of senior editor of BlogHer.com or as the blogger behind Surrender, Dorothy. She edited the award-winning parenting anthology SLEEP IS FOR THE WEAK (Chicago Review Press, 2008). THE OBVIOUS GAME is her first young adult novel. She is at work on her second. She lives with her husband and daughter in Kansas City.

Rita graciously (and bravely) agreed to answer some questions about her path to publication. As an aspiring novelist myself, I find the real stories of those who have succeeded both reassuring and inspiring. It's an arduous journey; writers face challenges and heartbreak at every bend. But the payoff, the thrill of seeing your words in print, the honor of touching others with your story, is worth the struggle. Rita's journey, by the numbers:

I want to preface this by saying I really debated sharing these numbers, because I always assume I'm the only one who has as much rejection as I have had. However, as I was going through this experience, a New York Times bestselling author shared her numbers with me, and they were way higher than I thought they would be, so I hope this helps aspiring writers to not give up. Don't forget that agents and editors love books, but they also have to eat, so their decisions are business decisions, not decisions entirely of the heart. Listen to what they say if they offer specific feedback about your book and don't get defensive. Revise, revise, revise, and just keep moving forward. Always have the ms out to someone. I would send out three queries a week, and I researched the agents before I queried. It's a ton of work, but you have to be willing to do the research or it's a pointless venture.

By the Numbers

# of agents queried -- 192

# of partials/fulls requested and passes/rejections-- 41 requests/109 rejections

# of months between landing an agent and your pub date -- 13

# of Godiva bars devoured/glasses of wine drunk/miles run (or whatever your stress coping 'drug' of choice may be) during your pub journey -- I burned off a lot of bottles of wine in three years.

#1 surprise on your path to publication -- How much other authors propped me up and were willing to take a minute to offer encouragement when I needed it. Authors are awesome people.

#1 piece of advice for aspiring novelists -- As evidenced by my numbers above, don't give up and don't stop revising. I started sending out my ms before it was ready. I mean, I thought it was ready, but it wasn't. I probably could've halved the number of agents who rejected my full manuscripts had I gotten more beta readers' feedback and made my revisions before I sent it out.

This was my first novel, and thus I'm not beating myself up too hard for learning that lesson the hard way, but I can't emphasize enough enlisting beta readers and revising before sending out the manuscript. Every time I got a rejection with any sort of specificity, I revised to course-correct. The novel now looks very, very different from the novel I sent to the first agent on my list.

In other news, my agent didn't sell THE OBVIOUS GAME, I did. He's a fabulous agent and got me in front of many Big Six publishers, but in the end I went indie. There are many indie presses that will look at unagented submissions. I hope to give my agent my next novel to sell in less time than it took me to get this one together!

Thank you, Rita, for sharing your journey!


Make sure to check out my full review of  THE OBVIOUS GAME later this week. 


For more info about Rita and her novel:

Rita's Website/blog/Twitter/Facebook/BlogHer

Review: Calling Me Home by Julie Kibler

"I knew almost right away Miss Isabelle carried troubles more significant than worrying about the color of my skin. As pretty as she was for an eighty-year-old woman, there was something dark below the surface, and it kept her from being soft. But I was never one to press for all the details—could be that was part of the beauty of the thing. I've learned that people talk when they're ready. Over the years, she became much more than just a customer. She was good to me. I hadn't ever said so out loud, but in ways, she was more like a mother than the one God gave me. When I thought it, I ducked, waiting for the lightening to strike. 

Still, the favor Miss Isabelle asked me, it did come as a surprise."



Calling Me Home is debut author Julie Kibler's story of a heartbreaking, forbidden love in 1930's Kentucky and an unlikely modern-day friendship.

Dorrie's life hasn't turned out as planned. After marrying her high school sweetheart, she dreamed of white picket fences—instead she ended up a single mom running her own small beauty salon in East Texas. She's thinks she's finally found a guy, a good guy, but her previous betrayals by a list of losers has left her unable to trust.

Yet she barely thinks twice when Miss Isabelle, a longtime elderly customer who has turned into a dear friend, asks Dorrie to escort her to a funeral in Cincinnati. The next day. With no real explanation as to why. Close up her shop and leave her kids for a week?  Sure—she has some things to work out anyway (including a nagging suspicion that her teen son may soon be a daddy) and, well, Miss Isabelle needed her.

Once the car trip begins, the two women of different generations and skin colors open up about their pasts. But this is really Miss Isabelle's story. She confesses how at seventeen she fell deeply, madly in love Robert Prewitt, a would-be doctor and the son of her family's black housekeeper. These things did not happen in 1939, in a small Kentucky town where blacks were not even allowed to set foot after dark.

Julie Kibler spins a wonderful tale piping with strong female voices. The story kept me up late not only reading, but reflection upon how horrible things were not so long ago, and how things still aren't quite as they should be. The blatant racism—signs on the edge of town telling "negros" to get out by dark—may be a thing of the past, but the subtle sneers and looks still linger for some.

At times Dorrie and Isabelle's interwoven stories got me spitting mad, and mind went off on silent tirades about ignorance and injustice and just what the hell is wrong with some people and wishing I could banish the intolerant folks to their own island. And then I thought about my son, and how at age six he tried to tell me about one of the kids he'd befriended at the park. I'd asked him to point him out amidst the whole mess of kids tearing around the playground. It took a seemingly infinite amount of descriptors (brown hair, blue shirt, tall, loud voice, dinosaur shoes, standing by that girl) before he even mentioned that the boy had "brown skin." It wasn't important enough to be noticed or commented upon. It gave me hope for the future.

But this book isn't just about race relations. At its heart is a love story—several, in fact. It's a story about following your heart no matter what odds you must overcome. It's a story about learning to trust your heart after it's failed you so many times. And it's a story about how kindness and love can form bonds far stronger than genetics, how family is what you make it. 

I closed Calling Me Home with a delicate gasp, a shy tear, and a heartfelt smile.

This is one you'll pass along to your friends.


Calling Me Home is the February She Reads book club pick. 



Enter to win one of the TEN copies She Reads is giving away, courtesy of St. Martin’s Press (just leave a comment on their post (linked here)–winners will be chosen on Friday)

Calling Me Home
by Julie Kibler
336 pages
$24.95 [hardback] $11.99 [Kindle]
St. Martin's Press


*I received this book courtesy of St. Martin's Press and the She Reads Blogger Network. All opinions are my own.