I realized I’ve been binge-reading romance novels as comfort books because the news from the Republican Convention has been so depressing. You know, among other things.
In times of trouble I have to turn to something. Romance novels and kitchen exploits are my favorite thing to turn to. The Roger’s Red grape vine has gone crazy on me, and I have a TON of grapes that are dark purple and that right kind of sour. I’m planning on making grape jam this weekend before the birds can eat all of them, and possibly I’ll try my hand at a loaf or two of wheat bread. I may even have enough grapes for a REAL, full batch of jam.
I made the tastiest Irish Blaas from scratch last weekend, and my bread-making confidence is all up in the lofty heights of amazingness right now. It was easy, I just had to wait for rising. Wheat bread now seems surmountable, even without a stand mixer with a dough attachment. Kneading for 8-10 minutes? Good exercise. We’ll see if I continue to say that after my arms fall off this weekend. Wheat bread is supposed to be the hard one. It’s reputably dense if not done right, though I wouldn’t know.
It is 10 days from the end of the month, and I have already spent all of my allotted book budget. Which means I will have to subsist on rereading like I used to do in the dark ages before there were e-readers. Can I do it? I can totally do it. If nothing else, I have plenty of Kipling on the shelves. The last time we moved, I was happy for almost a month on a book of his stories.
In other news, we’re starting a new Rippers game on Friday… which means new characters. Which means new character backgrounds. I didn’t have the gumption or the time to make it as much of a short story as the last character, but I felt like the one I came up with was fairly clever. I’m working on all the short stories, but I don’t think anything is good enough to share currently. So in its stead, you can read a few paragraphs about Meg Hews.
She’s got a signature weapon that I’ve named “Carrie” after Carrie Nation – the gal that used to go into saloons with an axe and break stuff (including people). She was very anti-liquor and a little bit insane. Badass women for the win.
There is an old assumption that men whose wives die in childbed visit their grief on their children, but Margaret Hews never found that to be the case. Her father was a jolly man with a quick smile, a firm sense of duty, and a black-and-white view of the word. He was never sad. When her mother died he just raised her at the Pinkerton office, and when Uncle Charlie complained, Dad said it was Meg or him. Charlie knew Dad was too good an agent to lose.
Dad let her scramble around his desk and crumple up old newspapers, teaching her to shoot a BB gun at the tender age of 5, and leaving her with Uncle Charlie whenever he had to go out on a job. Uncle Charlie voiced his dismay, but eventually he shrugged it off and taught Meg to play poker with licorice pipes for winnings.
Dad was against her taking the badge, of course. But she wasn’t fit for anything else when she grew up. She wasn’t demure enough for the boys who wanted a gentlewoman and her housekeeping skills were atrocious. She refused to learn to type. The only thing she could do was shoot straight and spy a lie from a mile off. Pinkerton Agent it was.
It would be easiest to make her way in an office where everyone didn’t call her Meggie or remember that one year where she executed all her dolls for murder and subsequently burned them at the stake in the metal office trash cans. Embarrassing.
So when a spot opened up at the St. Louis office, Meg made Uncle Charlie pull strings to get her in.