Author Archives: admin

About admin

So many changes! I've recently retired from teaching, returned from living in Germany, and am exploring the many blessings and challenges of early retirement. When not writing this blog, I write mysteries, women's fiction, and dark little stories. Life is good in Tacoma, WA, even though I often feel like a foreigner here. Here's to change, the only constant in life.

On Redemption Songs and Romance

On a recent episode of my new favorite podcast: Smart Podcast, Trashy Books, the hosts discussed romance fiction as resistance. They pointed out that many people belittle women’s escapist literature, romance and cozy mysteries, but not men’s, sci-fi and thrillers. (Of course, I know that many women enjoy sci-fi, etc.)

Why is one type of reading frivolous and contemptible while another is harmless or even admirable? Why is literature is only serious and praiseworthy when the ending is sad, depressing, miserable? Don’t we face enough defeat in daily life without having to fill our bookshelves with tales of ennui and gloom?

These women have a point: falling in love and being loved in return, despite our flaws and our beloved’s, that’s redemption, a peak experience available to all. Love is a victory, something even the goon squad in Washington, D.C. can’t take away from us. Holding onto hope, love, connection in troubled times—that’s an act of resistance. It’s not sufficient to defeat the evil in our midst, but it’s fuel for the fight.

The type of peak experience offered in sci-fi and fantasy stories, rounding up a motley band of resistance fighters to defeat a might sinister force—or the type in thrillers—using whiles and guile to penetrate a criminal organization and lop off its head—that’s available to few of us in real life.

Is only the unattainable worth reading about? Romance readers say no—and roll in that vicarious pleasure like horses rolling in the dust.

Another aspect of romance fiction that feels like resistance is the joyful celebration of women’s sexuality. In another episode of SPTB, one of the hosts posited a response to critics of romance fiction: “What is it about the female orgasm that bothers you?”

“Oh, romance novels are really just porn,” critics say. Nope. The good stuff revolves around determined, smart, problem-solving women, and the men who love them, treasure them, and give them earthquake orgasms. And yes, there are romance stories for everyone on the gender spectrum. Sex is part of finding one’s mate, for the vast majority of people, but it’s not the whole story, just like armed combat is not the whole story in, say, Star Wars.

So, yeah. There is something to reading romance as an act of defiance. To those who say I can’t be a woman of substance and still enjoy these tales, I raise my middle finger—and turn the page.

On Pity Parties, Book Reviews, and Carol Dweck

Thunk.

That’s the sound of another romance novel landing in my Did Not Finish pile.

As a reader, I want to see triumph of some sort, and not just in the form of a sad, scared woman being rescued by some guy. Give me a heroine with spunk, not just a tender heart, and a hero with substance, not just toned pecs.

This week’s discard goes something like this: Horrible people have done horrible things to the heroine and her siblings. She flees, casting herself in the role of their protector, but she’s a dithering, nervous wreck, making near-fatal mistakes at every turn. And something horrible has happened to the hero. He’s really sad about it, and angry, and spends his time brooding. There’s a dog involved—that’s what caught my eye on the library shelf. Who doesn’t love a good dog story? But in this novel, even the dog is sad, mourning the death of his former master. What the author didn’t accomplish by the end of Chapter Six was to give me something to relate to, something to care about, other than pity.

My Did Not Finish pile contains several works of romance fiction, literary fiction, and women’s fiction that adopted this strategy: Look at this poor protagonist! Such terrible things have been done to her/him! Don’t you feel sad, reader?

Ugh.

But then, I don’t like people like this in real life, either. “Hi, my name is X. Thanks for welcoming me into your writers’ group. I have fibromyalgia, anxiety and depression.”

Why do people do this?  I don’t know anyone who’s reached the mid-century milepost without some physical affliction, emotional scarring, or other heavy baggage. And I get it: women have been taught to bond over shared misfortunes. But a blatant appeal for pity right off the bat?

What impresses me, in real life and in fiction, is meeting a person who’s making the most of life, enjoying it as much as possible—and then finding out that she’s dealing with some heavy baggage. That sparks sympathy and admiration. That’s what’s missing in books like the one above: I want to admire the protagonist in some way.

I didn’t write a book review about this novel because A: I didn’t finish the book, and it’s not fair to review a book under those circumstances, and B: I’ve finally accepted that it’s bad karma for an author to leave bad reviews–though I always read the bad reviews before buying a book. This lets me know whether a story is full of my pet peeves, a probable waste of my time and book budget.

Speaking of book reviews, if you work in education or have kids in school, you’ve probably read, or at least heard of, Carol Dweck’s book Mindset: The New Psychology of Success. Dr. Dweck outlines the concept of a growth mindset, the belief that you can change and improve through effort, versus a fixed mindset, the belief that your abilities are unchangeable and beyond your control. Guess which mindset leads to success and happiness? This book should be added to recommended reading lists for authors, especially for those tempted to make pity their main appeal to readers.

How about you? What problems send a book to your Did Not Finish pile?

IWSG January 2018: Schedule? I need one?

Once again, it’s the first Wednesday of the month, time for our Insecure Writers Support Group blog hop. The awesome co-hosts for the January 3 posting of the IWSG are Tyrean Martinson, Ellen @ The Cynical Sailor, Megan Morgan, Jennifer Lane, and Rachna Chhabria!

http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html

Speaking of the many fine resources on the IWSG site, I got so much value from the December 11 article by Angela Ackerman, author of The Emotional Thesaurus. Take a look here:

http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/2017/12/writing-about-emotional-trauma-without.html

January 3 question – What steps have you taken or plan to take to put a schedule in place for your writing and publishing?

Schedule? What is this schedule you speak of?

A big, fat blessing bomb fell on my head at age almost-52, when I was able to take early retirement from my teaching job. At last, I had time to write! Teaching is freaking exhausting, and it ate up most of my creative energy.

But my adjustment to retirement involved a few years of stubborn push-back against schedules of any sort. Throughout my 27 years of teaching, I hated, hated, hated having to get up so early to go to work. (Why do we do that to our teens, anyway? They’re not fully awake until mid-morning, so what are they going to learn at 7:30?) A lot of my first few years of freedom involved lounging in bed just because I could, or taking long, aimless walks around my new town.

About a year ago, I started treating writing as a real job, albeit a part-time one, and developed the habit of writing from my very civilized wake-up time of about 7:30 until early afternoon. I do this every day I’m able, and get cranky if appointments or visits rob me of my writing time. What a treat to devote my high-energy hours to my own goals, rather than to tasks assigned by someone else.

Now that I’ve received my first publishing offer (huzzah!), this shit’s getting real, as the youngsters say. My intention is to devote the morning to my writing, take a break for errands and/or exercise, then devote the afternoon to correspondence, queries, marketing—the business side of things. But I’m sure there’ll be days when business chores gobble up most of my writing time.

Ah well, such is the writing life. And I love it. Here’s wishing you lots of productive writing time in 2018.

What does your writing schedule look like?

 

 

 

18 for 2018

Thanks to Gretchen Rubin and her sister Elizabeth Craft for this excellent idea, gleaned from their Happier podcast. Rubin and Craft suggest setting eighteen goals for 2018—not the usual vague resolutions, so quickly abandoned, but rather smaller, concrete, achievable goals. I’ve noticed a theme as I compile my list: making better use of the resources I already have.

Here are my eighteen goals for 2018:

  1. Write another romance novel. (I’ve already started)
  2. Write another mystery novel.
  3. For fun, and to help my own writing, I’ll read and review books by at least six new-to-me romance authors, six new mystery authors, and six new women’s fiction authors.
  4. Attend one big writing conference.
  5. Take guitar lessons. Since getting a guitar in May, I’ve only learned chords. It’s time to learn scales, finger picking, some cool blues techniques.
  6. Take dance lessons. For years, I’ve been saying I want to learn basic ballroom dancing, and Hubs is willing to try.
  7. Take golf lessons. I’m a baby beginner, but I have a nice set of clubs and access to affordable golf courses, so why not? Hubs loves golf, and I’d like to share this with him more often.
  8. Incorporate more exercise into my writing hours. I’ll use the Pomodoro technique and monitor my progress until it becomes a habit, however long that takes. Sitting is the new sugar, eh? Or is it the new smoking? In any case, I sit too much.
  9. Acquire or make 18 snazzy garments, clothes I could wear to a book signing. Dump 18 seldom-worn garments.
  10. Publish a blog post each week. I pay for the hosting, so I might as well take advantage of it to practice my writing.
  11. Set up my author webpage.
  12. Get a professional author photo.
  13. Do the online Spanish lessons I’m paying for at least three times per week. Me gusta aprender idiomas.
  14. Use the gym at least three times per week. I love going there, but I tend to procrastinate. Again, if I’m going to pay for it, I might as well use it.
  15. Stretch every day. I tend to skimp on this at the end of a workout—not a good idea for an older person who spends most of her day sitting.
  16. At least fifteen minutes of real conversation with Hubs every day—talking about logistics and daily tasks doesn’t count. Let’s get metaphysical, philosophical, or maybe just silly.
  17. Query the everloving shit out of my recently-completed mystery. Someone wants this story!
  18. Explore the Pacific Northwest. I’ve been living here for three years now, but haven’t yet visited much of it.

There you go! Care to share any of your goals for 2018?

The Golden Thread

The King’s English Bookshop in Salt Lake City, Utah

What’s the brightest thread running through the tapestry of your life?

I do love a good metaphor, and this one is apt for expressing an important insight that has helped me focus my efforts and make peace with some difficult choices. Because one of the lessons I’ve learned the hard way is that I can’t fully pursue every passion that comes along. Interesting people are interested in a lot of interesting stuff.  There aren’t enough hours in a day to dance, sing, play guitar, learn new languages, cook gourmet meals, invite friends over to share them, meet new friends, go hear some live music, travel, sew artistic clothing, paint, draw…

Recently, Hubs and I hosted a Christmas party. The menu was simple, three homemade soups, bread, salad, cheese, cake. As always, our friends rounded out the menu with delicious nibbles. After dinner and guitars, our wine-soaked conversation turned to childhood memories. My sister-in-law, an actress, theater teacher, and director, told us that she’d been shaped by her family to be a performer. She tap-danced and sang on a local TV show at age five and, except for a brief pause when her kids were small, she’s been on stage in some capacity ever since. Performing is her joy, her golden thread.

This got me to thinking. What’s my golden thread? The answer is as easy as saying yes to another Christmas cookie: books! Like my SIL, I can trace this thread to earliest childhood. My fondest early memories center around libraries, bookshops, and the shelves of books that lined our family room. When life got too hard, too scary, too boring, I’d retreat into a book. When I had to wait, and kids are always having to wait, book time. Can’t sleep late at night? Book. Long car ride? Book. Creepy guy staring at you on the bus? Book as magic shield.

My sharpest travel memories often center around books: Shakespeare and Company in Paris, the Bouquinistes on the banks of the Seine, the Bodleian Library in Oxford, Green Apple Books and City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco, Powell’s Books in Portland, our own King’s Books in Tacoma, and all the gorgeous, charming independent bookshops I’ve visited, including The King’s English in Salt Lake City, which you must visit if you ever find yourself in that fair city.

Bookshops and libraries are my favorite places to be—I get positively giddy when surrounded by such riches. Is it any wonder I’ve chosen to enter that world as a writer of fiction? Duh!

This blog is entitled Late Blooming Rose for a reason: it’s only now, late in life, that I’m figuring out some of these important epiphanies. I can’t do everything I’d like to do, but I can keep following that golden thread.

What’s your golden thread? And what’s your favorite bookstore or library?

 

Let’s Do the Time Warp Again!

http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html

Once again, it’s time for the monthly blog hop from the Insecure Writers Support Group. On the first Wednesday of each month, writers gather to commiserate, support each other, and laugh over shared foibles. Join the fun here: http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html or here: #IWSG. Thanks to Ninja Captain Alex J. Cavanaugh and this month’s hosts: Julie Flanders, Shannon Lawrence, Fundy Blue, and Heather Gardner.

This month’s question: As you look back on 2017, with all its successes/failures, if you could backtrack, what would you do differently?

The time portal glows–an eerie, pulsing green light that pierces the midnight mist. From within its swirling depths, a seductive voice croons, “Step through. You can undo it all, start again.”

An icy finger of hope and fear tickles the base of my spine. “How far back?” I whisper.

“January 2017.”

“Dang. I was hoping for pre-election—”

The voice cuts me off, harsher now. “January. Take it or leave it.”

I gulp a lungful of air, squeeze my eyes shut, and step through.

I’m holding a phone in my hand. The nice lady has offered me a job, one that involves a commute, not much pay, but the chance to use my skill set again—one that’s rare and in demand, unlike writing fiction. But now I know how much time and energy that job will drain, how my writing will languish, how I’ll writhe with frustration as I prepare yet another lesson plan.

“No, ma’am. Your offer is tempting, but I’ll have to pass.” While I’m at it, I resign from my other time-sucking, low-paying, part-time job and settle in to write full time. Okay, I’m not being paid yet, but I know I need to build up my stable of stories before I can generate an income stream from indie publishing. How lucky am I to have that opportunity!

I smile and turn to the pile of writing craft books before me. Now I know that Lisa Cron’s Story Genius will streamline my revision process and make my next manuscript sleeker, faster, a purring Ferrari rather than a breakdown-prone old Ford.

Now I know that I actually have a knack for writing romance, and that I’ll really enjoy the process. Who’da thunk it?

And then my timer dings, and I get my widening butt out of my desk chair and go for a twenty-minute walk before resuming my work. After all, the brain is an organ of the body.

When my manuscript is finished, I pop over to the UPS store and have the whole thing printed and spiral-bound, then tackle final edits with pencil, highlighters, and sticky notes—because now I know I’ll notice details on paper that I wouldn’t on a screen.

What a productive, satisfying year I’ve had, now that I’ve been gifted with hindsight. As 2017 draws to a close, I strap on my tool belt and return to the time portal to tinker with those controls. If only I can adjust the target to October of 2016…

Imaginary Homesickness

Alton Baker Park in Eugene, Oregon

I’m nearing the end of a writing project, and already I miss Clara and Nick, the lovers whose story it is. I miss Book Nirvana, Clara’s imaginary bookshop–a place now so familiar that I could lead you down the aisles and help you find just the book you’re looking for. I miss Coffee Dreams, the café next door, and Arnie, its snarky barista. I miss Clara’s employees, white-haired, affable Harry and elfin, spike-haired Margot, both dispensers of wisdom as Clara struggles to keep her business and her heart open. I miss Lulu, the orange tabby whose fur carries that faint vanilla-like scent of old books. And I especially miss Jared, Clara’s late husband, who visits her in her dreams.

I miss Clara’s made-up neighborhood, and the slow green slide of the Willamette River through Alton Baker Park in Eugene, Oregon—a city I’ve only visited via Google images. (I will visit soon, though, to make sure I haven’t painted a false picture of that city.) I miss the characters’ funny banter, Clara’s angst and guilt and budding hope. I miss her resilience, too. And I miss Nick’s velvety baritone, the amber flecks that glimmer in his espresso-brown eyes.

As this one’s a romance, its end means good-bye to characters I’ve been living with and a world I’ve been living in for several months. The hero and the heroine are about to be united in matrimony and, according to the rules of the genre, their adventure is done. And I’ll miss them.

Somehow, setting a book in my real-life hometown of Tacoma, Washington seems less—I dunno—romantic? Perhaps I’ll challenge myself to set a romance novel there. That would give me an excuse to delve into neighborhoods, shops, cafes, bars, searching for the perfect settings for a love story. Hmm—that also sounds like a recipe for procrastination.

Because mysteries tend to run in series, I can revisit Lola’s imaginary, hippie-dippy town on the Northern California coast, can spend more time with that cast of characters. I wonder how many writers choose to write series simply because they can’t bear to say good-bye to their imaginary worlds.

Do. Or do not. There is no try.

http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html

It’s IWSG time again! The Insecure Writers Support Group is a place where writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds! Thanks to Ninja Captain Alex Cavanaugh and this month’s co-hosts,  Tonja Drecker, Diane Burton, MJ Fifield, and Rebecca Douglass!

November 1 question – Win or not, do you usually finish your NaNo project? Have any of them gone on to be published?

I’ve finished two NaNoWriMo projects, in 2015 and 2016. Neither has been published yet, but I’m working toward that goal. For me, the greatest gift from NaNo was my now firmly-established daily writing habit.

“Winning” my first NaNo was a challenge, especially because November brings family visits and travel, both of which tend to gobble up (sorry, bad pun) my writing time. The second year, finishing was a delight, and I merrily told interruptions to bugger off—in the nicest way possible. And now, I just write for at least two hours per day, often much more. It’s what I do. On days when I can’t get some writing time, I feel itchy and cranky, like an inveterate runner who can’t log her daily miles.

Offers of “book/writing coaching” continually land in my mailbox, and I wonder: Who needs this? Editing help, yes. Someone to bounce ideas off, yes indeed. (That’s why God gave us critique partners.) Marketing advice? You betcha. Writing teachers? Yes, please—though I’ll work through your craft book before I’ll sign up for your workshop or pricey webinar.

But paid encouragement just to write?

A few years back, I attended a panel discussion by four Seattle-area writers. Someone posed this very question: How do you force yourself to write on days when you just don’t feel like it? The speakers exchanged puzzled looks, and then one replied, “If you don’t feel like writing, you’re not really a writer.” At the time, I found that answer somewhat cold—now, I get it.

Sure, there are days when it just doesn’t work out, but I always feel like writing. My first NaNo helped me eliminate the stress of wanting to write but not getting around to it. And, as a pantser, I need to get that first sprawling, messy draft down on paper before I can begin to shape it up. NaNo is great for that phase; what fun to have a bunch of fellow writers urging you on. The Tacoma area NaNos offer lots of gatherings during November—not so helpful for solitary writers like me, but still fun.

Now, if I could just transfer the enthusiastic focus of NaNo to other areas. National Exercise Every Day Month, anyone?

#MeToo

This is a long one. I try to keep my blog posts shorter, but this needed to be said.

I served in the U.S. Army from 1980 to 1984. Money was tight in our family, as it is in any family getting by on the salary of one public school teacher, and the GI Bill offered me the chance to pay for college. I’m grateful for that chance, and proud to have contribute to our nation’s defense.

Basic training was the hardest thing I’ve ever done—physically, at least. Over the course of three months, our two male drills sergeants—one young and hunky, one older and fatherly—turned a bunch of whiny teenaged girls into a tight-knit, disciplined platoon of soldiers. They were marvelous, honorable men. But one of the other male drill sergeants in our company had a list of girls he intended to sleep with. The list was found. My name was on it. He was not removed from his position; we were merely warned by our drill sergeants to keep away from him.

I was very fortunate: I enlisted at a time when we were not at war, except for the Cold War, of course. I remember our first “alert,” a drill in which we prepared to move out for field maneuvers in the middle of the night. We knew it was coming, of course, and so, when the notification came at three a.m., I ran up and down the hallway of our barracks, sounding the alarm. “The Russians are coming! The Russians are coming!” I thought I was hilarious. My first sergeant thought otherwise.

It takes a lot of people to keep the armed forces running, and a lot of jobs. Mine was 71 Delta, legal clerk. My duty assignments were at the division JAG office, first in Frankfurt, Germany, then in Hanau, Germany, and finally at Fort Stewart, Georgia. I helped the lawyers with typing, phone calls, interviews, research, courts martial, as well as helping soldiers and their spouses prepare wills, powers of attorney, and file paperwork to be reimbursed for damages to their property during moves.

I’m very grateful for the experiences that serving afforded me. I got to travel in Europe, I got tuition assistance for the college classes I took after duty hours, and I met some very fine people from across our nation. Most of them were men. Most of those were good men.

But the constant rain of sexual harassment weighed me down. It’s funny—I remember it got really ugly around 1982, when there was a public service campaign against sexual harassment. It’s as if the male soldiers were pushing back against the idea that it wasn’t okay to yell abuse at passing females. (That’s what they called us, females–or other, uglier things.)

In Hanau, where I was stationed from ’81-’83, a favorite game among the soldiers was to pop their heads out of the top floors of the office or barracks buildings and yell charming things like, “Suck my dick, bitch,” or “You’re only good for one thing, bitch,” or “How much, Baby?”. I knew my rights. I’d march up to the front desk, fuming, and tell the NCO on duty what had just transpired, and what the perpetrator looked like. Sometimes I’d get as far as the commanding officer.

Not once did they do anything about it, except to laugh in my face. Not once.

And then there was the time my NCO organized a weekend run. A bunch of us from the base Legal Center were training for a 10K race. When I got there, it was just him and me, even though he’d led me to believe there’d be several people. Stupid young girl that I was, I left with him. We ran for an hour through the German countryside—the whole time, he tried to convince me to stop by his house “for a beer.” I laughed it off and kept running. Thank God, he didn’t push it; I doubt I could have outrun him.

Things got much worse at Fort Stewart, home of the 24th Infantry Division. The whole base vibrated with machismo. We had just adopted BDUs, the loose-fitting, camouflage uniforms soldiers still wear today. I was a scrawny little person, just over a hundred pounds, and they didn’t make uniforms small enough for me. I looked like a walking shrubbery—short hair, no make-up, cap smashed down over my eyes, my oversize uniform flapping around my skinny limbs. From my barracks, I had to bicycle to work on the other side of the base, a good five miles.

How they knew I was female, I’ll never know. But they knew, and they followed me, yelled at me from their cars—really ugly things. More than once, a car would pull up alongside me, and some guy would yell, “Get in.” I ignored them, of course, but that often made it worse. “What’s wrong, bitch? You think you too good for me? I’ll show you what you good for, bitch.”

Now, mind you, I had some marvelous male friends during this time, many of them gay but hiding it—this was before “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” And if this sort of nonsense happened in front of my guy friends, they’d stand up to the bullies, challenge their ugliness.

But every day, I slunk from building to building, head down, middle finger up. Man after man greeted me with smarmy, sleazy “compliments” and offers of sexual acts. To the few nice guys who only wanted to wish me a pleasant day, I’m sorry—but the abuse was so thick and so constant that I couldn’t, wouldn’t risk talking to any strange male.

Years later, I was talking about sexual harassment with my then father-in-law, a lovely man who retired as a Lieutenant Colonel. He didn’t believe that the situation could actually be as dire as it was portrayed.

I saw red. I told him, mincing not one word, exactly what I endured for four years, exactly what those soldiers had said to me, done to me.

He was shocked.

Good. I’d had enough of protecting men I loved from the truth about that ugliness. No more pretending it’s really not so bad. It was. It is.

What feeds you?

The Japanese Garden in Tacoma’s Point Defiance Park

My husband, a wise fellow, often uses a nutrition metaphor when talking about his work: he says teaching feeds him. I tried this metaphor last week when chatting up an interesting acquaintance. That boring old question came up: “What do you do?”–meaning, how do you earn money? This question only yields interesting results for privileged, prosperous people who’ve had lots of choices in life. Most folks are just working to pay the bills, not to feed their souls.

That’s the question I asked Fred: “What feeds your soul?” He answered without hesitation: music. Turns out he’s a guitarist who’s played professionally and recorded albums in another country. For this guy, music is a vital nutrient.

Taking this metaphor a little further, there are nutrients you can gobble with abandon–say, fiber, and those that are essential but become toxic in large doses, such as niacin. Writing is my main psychic nutrient, the work I find most rewarding and most essential. But a diet of only writing leaves me as malnourished as if I tried to live on, say, cheese.

And if I neglect certain soul-vitamins, I start to crave them. One nutrient that’s been missing from my diet lately is a change of scenery. I’m quite a homebody most of the time, content with long hours spent writing in my comfortable little office. But too much sameness makes my creative motor run down. (Uh-oh, metaphor overload)

Yesterday, wise Hubs and I went for a long walk in Tacoma’s Point Defiance Park, a local beauty spot. I returned energized, cheered, and smacking my head for having neglected these important nutrients:

  • fresh air
  • movement
  • natural beauty
  • new scenery

To that list of nutrients, I’d add social time with friends and family, ditto with interesting new people, time with other writers, reading fiction, music, dancing…

None of these feel like duty, like work, like bitter medicine. They’re all delicious nutrient for my psyche, and I just have to remember–to take my vitamins.

How about you? What feeds you?

Oh, and have you seen the studies that prove cheese is good for us?http://www.eatingwell.com/article/289455/5-reasons-cheese-is-actually-good-for-your-health/?did=181228&utm_campaign=ew_nourish_101617&utm_source=etg-newsletter&utm_medium=email&cid=181228&mid=9530003697

Hallelujah and pass the Parmesan!