Anita in Romania 2018

Emily Briggs

MERCHANT OF DREAMS

A Kirkus Reviews Best Indy Book of 2018

SEPTEMBER

The goldenrod is yellow, the corn is turning brown.
The trees in apple orchards with fruit are bending down.
The gentian’s bluest fringes are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed its hidden silk has spun.
The sedges flaunt their harvest in every meadow nook;
And asters by the brookside make asters in the brook.
By all these lovely tokens September days are here
With summer’s best of weather, and autumn’s best of cheer.

There are more verses.

Helen was born in Amherst, Massachusetts in 1830, the daughter of a professor at Amherst College. She was educated at a series of boarding schools, and in 1852 married Major Edward Hunt. They had two sons, one of whom died in infancy and the other in early childhood. In 1863 Major Hunt was killed in a military accident. Turning to writing as solace, Helen quickly became successful. She reestablished contact with her childhood friend Emily Dickenson, and was one of the few who realized her genius.

In 1873 she moved to Colorado Springs and in 1875 married William Sharpless Jackson, a banker and railroad executive.

In 1875, visiting in Boston, she met representatives of the Ponca and Omaha Indian tribes who were attempting to rouse public indignation over the confiscation of tribal lands by the US Government. She worked assiduously for reform, but seeing little result, decided to put the case in the form of a novel, Ramona, the story of a half-breed girl and an Indian forced off his land by white encroachers. The novel was a great success, but its intent was misunderstood. She said “Not one word for the Indians; I put my heart and soul in the book for them. It is a dead failure.”

In little more than a year she died. She was eulogized, the book having become an impetus for the romanticization of southern California history. It has gone through over three hundred printings and been transformed into stage plays, movies, and pageants. It was one of my Mother’s favorite books; she took my first name, Anita, from one of the characters in the book. Anita was not a very nice person, but Mother loved the way

the name flowed rhythmically with my middle name, the Cherokee Tsianina (another story, about which more later). Despite Helen’s disappointment, her book A Century of Dishonor and further writings inspired other reformers to continue their efforts.

WRITER ALERT!
Beware scams from telemarketers purporting to put your book on the best-seller list. I dodged this a few weeks ago when a very well-spoken man offered to feature my Merchant of Venice at the Florida book fair in unspecified ways for an unspecified amount of money. He wanted me to sign up immediately and took offense when I told him he could email me with details. I looked up the name of the company and was deluged with accounts of scams; one writer had lost over $9,ooo. There are many perfectly legitimate services out there. But one must never agree to anything before researching it thoroughly on the web---one of its legitimate and benevolent uses. Check out others’ experiences, as well, on writer sites. This particular company, I found, is based in the Philippines.

There’s a nip in the air. Last night it was fifty degrees. This always sends me to our 1793 farmhouse kitchen in search of spicy autumnal aromas!

When Walter and I were married, I decided, in a burst of euphoria, to organize my recipe file and separate the good from the useless recipes. I did so, then fastidiously threw away all the good recipes.

For years I tried with little success to replicate the recipe for pumpkin tea bread, a star attraction at the Manchester, Vermont 1811 House, then owned by dear friends of ours, who generously hosted me and my three children on many skiing expeditions. No luck; I mourned the day that, besotted by love, I tossed my best recipes away.

Then one day, searching for something nontoxic to serve at my piano students’ Halloween party, I found the original 18ll House recipe….in my recipe file. Don’t ask. It was crumbling into concentric circles due to mysterious scorch marks, but hey, that’s life.

It is wonderful warm, cold, toasted with butter and honey; with cream cheese, whipped cream, or lemon curd. I’ve made scores of these over the years for new neighbors, the newly bereaved, book clubs, family gatherings, holidays, and lonely people. It freezes wonderfully, and is fine in high altitudes—positively refuses to fall. I’ve made it many times at our Colorado home which sits above 8,700’.

NB: bake in a bundt pan or two loaf pans, well greased or sprayed with Pam. A word about cooking oils: I used canola until I realized how unhealthy it is. Now I’m trying half a cup of softened butter, and half a cup of coconut oil (gently heated to liquify, then cooled). You can also substitute part of the oil with unsweetened applesauce or ripe banana, mashed. This is a very forgiving recipe!

1811 HOUSE PUMPKIN TEA BREAD

Preheat oven to 350. In a large bowl, with a hand mixer, combine:
1 cup oil (see above)
3 cups sugar (I use half brown, but use all white if you prefer)
3 eggs
2 cups canned pumpkin (not pumpkin pie filling)
3 cups flour
I tsp each ground cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and cloves
1 tsp each baking powder, baking soda, salt

Combine whole recipe and beat until very well blended. Pour into greased pans. Bake at 350 for one hour or until knife comes out clean (check at 45-50 minutes). Cool until pan is just warm; run knife around cake (and middle spire if using bundt pan). Invert onto rack to cool completely.

OPTIONAL: song for making pumpkin bread
Of all the birds I ever did see, the owl is the wisest in her degree.
For all day long she sits in a tree, and when the night comes, away flies she.
Towit, towit, towtoo…..Towit, towit, towoo….Oh,
Cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and cloves, that’s what gives me my jolly red nose!

I sing this every time I make pumpkin bread. However, it is possible that the recipe will succeed if verse is omitted.
Red leaves soon! Good writing weather coming up!
Happy Fall--Anita

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Past Posts

Briggs (Violet, 2015, etc.) offers a haunting, gothic mystery set in Northern England. Felicity “Lissa” Godwin was a rising star in the classical music world until a series of tragic deaths and professional disappointments caused the gifted harpist to abandon her promising career.

The young American woman journeys to the frozen, windswept Yorkshire Dales in search of healing and peace. There, the dignified beauty of an old country estate serves as the perfect setting for Briggs’ sublime cast of characters and arresting narrative. Lissa’s destination, Denham House, is more than just a country retreat; it was also once the home of her recently deceased aunt, acclaimed harpist Ciara Rossi. Lissa falls in love with Yorkshire and discovers not only familial affection, but an unexpected reignition of her musical passion. She’s further caught off guard by the handsome, mysterious, and extraordinarily talented Dr. Richard D’Annunzio. A series of accidents, unexplained occurrences, and whispered rumors hint at dark secrets lurking within the house’s staid walls and behind the inhabitants’ courtly manners. Briggs deftly lays the groundwork for a gripping mystery, suggesting that Ciara’s short-lived marriage to her husband, John, may not have been the fairy tale that it appeared to be. Briggs is a lyrical writer who composes her narrative with a skillful hand. Her evocative prose draws on elements of literature and music to describe such things as Lissa’s stunning concert dress, which conjures images of “Isolde dreaming of Tristan, watching the restless heaving of a cold Cornish sea.” She also expertly imbues her characters’ musical performances with a tension and emotion that are truly breathtaking; Briggs draws upon her own experiences as a harpist when describing a transition from an intermezzo to a finale, which Lissa feels as “an ironic, disillusioned snarl that cut into my heart.”

A memorable tale of suspense and passion.

Kirkus Reviews---Starred Review

Summer / Fall 2019

Where, oh where did Summer go?

Spring came late and was short-lived. Summer followed, with daily rain and chilly nights. Our gardens loved this and were beautiful; we used our air conditioner on just two nights. Our lawn looked like an English park. I made fresh strawberry preserves and picked and froze blueberries to last through the winter. But there has been very little sitting outside or lying on blankets to watch the stars; just too cold!

And now it’s time for Helen Hunt Jackson, a poet and writer who is famous for her work on behalf of American Indians. She penned this little verse which was loved by my mother and taught to all four of her children as a two-part song; I did the same with my three, and still sing it every autumn.