Mansions in My Mind by Julie Hyzy

When Julie Hyzy isn’t trying to sneak her way into famous homes, she keeps busy writing two mystery series for Penguin/Berkley Prime Crime. Grace Among Thieves, the brand-new third installment in the Manor House Mystery (Grace) series, came out this past Tuesday. Julie also writes the New York Times bestselling White House Chef Mystery series. She and her husband have three wonderful daughters and make their home in the Chicago area.

MANSIONS IN MY MIND
by Julie Hyzy

Have we met? You and I, that is… have we interacted in person? Or even online?

I’m going out on a limb here, but if you know me, even a little bit, I’ll bet you’d say that I’m an okay person. Nice, polite, even-tempered. Except in fictional situations I pose no danger to others. I’m not disruptive. I’m able to keep quiet when necessary (er…make that able to keep quiet most of the time). I never take what doesn’t belong to me, and I can be trusted not to touch expensive items in fancy homes.

So then why is it that the White House, The Biltmore Estate, Hearst Castle, and other mansions/tourist attractions won’t let me wander at will? How come I’m not allowed beyond the velvet ropes or into the locked rooms? I’m no threat. Can’t they see that? I’m harmless as a lamb. Come on, White House! You should be able to back me on this. You’ve run my background check often enough.

But no…Invitations to come visit¾and even better, to make myself at home¾never arrive.

What’s wrong with these places?

Can’t they understand that in order to research my novels, I need to wander their halls, explore nooks and crannies, run up stairs, slide down bannisters and (:::winking to Kaye:::) “meander” to my heart’s content? Apparently not.

This I know:

Biltmore would kick me out if they caught me traipsing through the restricted areas.

The White House would have me arrested if I tried sneaking upstairs to the family quarters.

Hearst Castle would haul me out of their gorgeous pool before I completed a single lap.

Fine. Who needs them?

Because none of these prestigious addresses would allow me to roam their grounds freely I needed to fine one that would.

And so…I invented Marshfield Manor.

Marshfield is mine. Every extravagant inch of it. Named for the famed and beloved Chicago department store, Marshall Field’s (which was bought out by Macy’s some years back), Marshfield Manor is—yes¾a figment of my imagination. But Marshfield is perfect because it’s open to my wanderings, my…meanderings, if you will (wink-wink, Kaye), any time of the day or night. Although I know its floor plan, I haven’t yet learned all its secrets. I get to experience that particular excitement alongside Grace with every new book.

From the time I was a little kid, I always fantasized about living in a fabulous home with hundreds of rooms¾one with secret passages and hidden staircases. (You think Nancy Drew might have had an influence on me?) With servants and treasures beyond compare. A place I could explore without somebody (and I’m talking to you, Secret Service) telling me I wasn’t authorized to be there.

As an adult, I’ve come to the realization that I’ll probably never live in the sort of mansion I envisioned. You know what? That’s okay. It’s hard enough keeping up with maintenance on our very normal, very average Chicago home. I don’t think I could handle anything bigger. But living and working in a mansion like that—via my imagination?—that’s perfect!

As much as I enjoy writing the White House Chef stories, I am LOVING writing the Manor House Mysteries. I have to believe it’s because of my fascination with Marshfield Manor. My protagonist, Grace, who’s just as fascinated as I am, is in charge of the magnificent estate and does a pretty good job of it (if you don’t count the murders). At this point—we’re in book three¾Grace doesn’t possess the level of confidence Ollie (White House Chef) displays. Not yet, at least. Grace’s story arc is different. She’s coming into her own, slowly, after a series of heartaches and setbacks that Ollie has been fortunate enough to avoid.

I’m still getting to know Grace, just as I’m still learning the history of Marshfield. It’s an exciting time for me. And because I’m delighted to welcome everyone to visit Marshfield, to allow them to explore its floors and rooms and secret passages to their hearts’ content, I hope it’s an exciting time for readers too!

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Cooking, Baking and All That Jazz - recipes and even a wedding

Any excuse to use these videos - Don't you love 'em?!

Now that we've pretty well handled all the "All That Jazz," back to the cooking and baking . . . .

One of my favorite blogs is Mystery Lovers' Kitchen, and I was honored to be invited as a guest blogger a year or so ago by my friend, Julie Hyzy, who writes the White House Chef Mystery Series and The Manor House Mystery Series.  I admitted there that I'm not much of a cook.  The type of cooking I do enjoy consists of tossing a lot of stuff into a pot, like soups, stews, chili, spaghetti - you get the idea.  A little of this, a little of that - maybe a little more of this, etc.  Nothing ever tastes like it did the last time, but still tastes pretty good - or so we hope.  I seem to lack the focus, or the interest, in following a recipe closely.  I just feel the need to tweak; to add and/or subtract from the original.  For this reason it strikes a lot of people (including myself) as odd that I love to bake as much as I do.  

You don't get to do a lot of tweaking while you're baking.  Oh, you may get away with a little, but take that tweaking too far and you're gonna end up with a disaster on your hands sooner or later.  Mother and I can attest to that as we threw away a very messy, expensive version of a Harvey Wallbanger Cake many years ago.  WHY we felt this recipe needed more Galliano, I have no idea.   I have made it since (following the recipe to a "T" and it was delicious.  There are a lot of recipes for it on-line, including one at allrecipes.com, if you're interested.

But there is one recipe I love that I will fix for special occasions.  It's pretty labor intensive, not to mention the "fat factor," but I love it.

I vividly remember running across this recipe at my friend John's house.  He was always cooking wonderfully elegant meals, entertaining with ease and panache and I always just sat back and enjoyed the fruits of his labors.  If there's one single thing I miss about living in Atlanta it would be John's parties.  But.  Since he's now in Miami and not Atlanta, it's a double moot point.  Now we have to travel to Miami (NOT that we're complaining - we adore Miami!) to be wined and dined by John, who still does it all as lovely as he ever did.

Speaking of John and his entertaining - he graciously opened his home on May 11, 1986 and gave Donald and I one of the most memorable gifts of our life.

Our wedding reception.

He had just recently bought this wonderful old home in Atlanta and had just started the long project of renovation.  Having our reception put a bit of extra stress on him, and we'll be forever grateful.  It was the most beautiful wedding ever.  

 

and here he is - 

Isn't he handsome?  We adore him.

Anyhooooo -  (I do manage to get off on a tangent now and then, don't I?)

Back in those days in Atlanta, while John cooked and threw the most perfect parties ever,  I would spend loads of time looking through his Gourmet and Bon Appétit magazines and scribble down recipes.  Some I would actually try.  One I did try and am still using is Joan Hackett's Country Pâté. I've guarded this recipe with my life. I've made about a beezillion copies of it in case one (or 20) copies might get lost. It also now resides on my computer (in several places). Then, just to be "for sure, for sure," I bought a copy of an old cookbook which I learned had the recipe in it. THE BEST OF BON APPETIT published in 1979.  1979!  See how long I've been guarding this recipe?  I was so happy to finally find, just recently, that it's actually in a cookbook!

And, just in case you're interested, here's the recipe:

Joan Hackett's Country Pâté
20- 25 servings

    4-6 bay leaves
    6 thin slices bacon

    3 tablespoons butter
    1 cup chopped parsley
    ½ cup chopped green onion
    ½ cup chopped onion
    3 garlic cloves, minced
    2 shallots, minced

    2 pounds sweet Italian sausage
    1 1/4 cups beer
    1 teaspoon fennel seeds

    1 tablespoon butter
    1 pound ground veal

    1 thin slice bacon, chopped
    2 cups crushed herb stuffing mix
    2 large eggs, lightly beaten
    Salt & freshly ground pepper
    ½ cup shelled pistachio nuts

Put bay leaves in single layer in 9 x 5 inch loaf pan.  Line length of pan with bacon; set aside.

Half fill a large roasting pan with water and place in oven.  Close oven door and preheat to 350.

Melt 3 tablespoons butter in large skillet over medium-high heat.  Add ½ cup parsley, green onion, onion, garlic and shallots and saute about 2 minutes.  Remove to large bowl.

Place sausage in large skillet; add 1/4 cup beer and cook over medium heat, mashing and turning with spatula, just until sausage starts to lose pink color but is only partially cooked.  Stir in fennel.  Remove from heat and add to parsley-onion mixture.

In same skillet melt 1 tablespoon butter.  Add veal and saute until partially cooked, about 2 minutes.  Add 1/4 cup beer and cook 1 minute more.  Remove from heat and add to bowl. 

Place chopped bacon in same skillet and saute about 2 minutes.  Add stuffing and blend thoroughly.  Stir in remaining 3/4 cup beer and cook 1 to 2 minutes more.  Remove from heat and stir into onion-meat mixture.  Add eggs, remaining ½ cup parsley and salt and pepper to taste; blend thoroughly.  Mix in pistachio nuts.

Carefully pack mixture into loaf pan, pressing down firmly.  Wrap entire pan in heavy duty foil (or doubled regular foil) as if wrapping a package.  Place carefully in roasting pan and bake 1 hour.  Very carefully remove from roaster and weight pâté for 3 to 4 hours by placing another loaf pan filled with heavy objects (such as books or canned goods) on top of a cookie sheet on top of wrapped pate loaf.

Remove weight and refrigerate pâté several hours or overnight.  To serve, remove foil, loosen completely with knife and unmold onto serving plate.  Pat off excess fat with paper towel.

 

OR - if you love cookbooks as much as I do, it's available at some of the used bookstores on-line - such as abebooks.com

How 'bout you guys - do you have a favorite recipe you do for special occasions?  I'm going to do the Country Pâté for our little neighborhood Christmas party.  Thank you, Joan Hackett!

Pat - I don't know why I didn't think to include the torte recipe!  But here it is - with my thanks to my friend Gigi Markyna for sharing it with me many years ago -

Fruit Torte (Obsttorte) from Gigi Markyna
Grease torte pan carefully, flour.

Beat 3 eggs on high speed till very foamy.
Add 5 Tbsps. warm water while beating.
Add 1 cup sugar - beat vigorously.
turn mixer to slower speed and add 1 cup of flour, and 1 tsp. baker powder
add 1 tsp. vanilla flavoring (or almond, or rum)
Pour into pan and bake at 350 for 15 or 20 min., till top is lighly golden.  Remove to cooling rack immediately.
When completely cool, arrange fruits of your choice as desired.
Use Dr.Oetker clear glaze over the top (found in the baking section of your local grocery).
Serve with cool whip.

Parents by Julie Hyzy

Anthony and Barry Award winning author Julie Hyzy writes two national bestselling mystery series: the White House Chef Mysteries (fourth in the series, Buffalo West Wing, came out in January), and the Manor House Mysteries (the second book, Grace Interrupted, just came out last week). She recently entered the eBook arena with her first harder edged novel - about a Chicago-based female private investigator. Playing With Matches is written under the N.C. Hyzy pseudonym. Julie lives in the Chicago area with her husband, three daughters, and two cats. Learn more about her at JulieHyzy.com

 

 

Parents

by Julie Hyzy

I have a brand-new new book out, Grace Interrupted. It was released June 7th, so it’s not just new, it’s shiny-new. I’m excited to talk about it, of course, and I’m still in high-power promotion mode, but I’ve decided not to use my visit here to Kaye’s wonderful community to talk about it. If you’re on Facebook, Twitter, or if you’re one of my newsletter recipients, you already know it’s out. You may even be sick of hearing about it because I’ve been chatting it up for weeks.

So, what’s the topic of today’s post?

Parents. Specifically, mine.

According to news articles, I’m part of the sandwich generation—busy raising kids while caring for elderly parents. Squeezed in the middle, like bologna and cheese. Pick up a women’s magazine and you’ll find strategies to cope with a parent’s dementia, or unwillingness to give up a driver’s license.

That’s not me. I do have kids, but my folks aren’t around any longer. Both my parents are deceased. It’s been quite a while, in fact. My dad died in 1995, my mom in 1998. Not only were they not all that old, they both looked and acted much younger than they  actually were. Both were vibrant, fun, busy, involved-with-their-kids-and-grandkids kind of people and I miss them every single day.

Bear with me. I don’t intend to turn this into a sob fest. In fact, just the opposite.

Over time, I’ve come to appreciate just how indulgent my parents were. I don’t mean with material goods. I came from a family (and a neighborhood) where no one got a car at age sixteen unless it was a used clunker you paid for yourself.

Heck, my parents could barely afford the one car we had. We lived on a busy street, on the edge between residential and industrial. We were constantly in the market for a new used car, either because our Ford (always a Ford) parked out front got smashed by a drunk driver, or because someone stole it. Our house was small, and our vacations were always by car. Usually to a Wisconsin or Michigan family resort.

Long car trips equaled boredom. Back then there were no portable DVD players, and reading in the car usually resulted in car sickness. So what were we to do for those four or five hours? My younger brother and I shared the back seat (no seatbelts back then), desperately trying to make the time pass by playing games.  Instead of naming license plates, or animals, or birds, like normal kids might, Paul and I would pretend we had a swimming pool in the back seat of the car.  We’d jump and dive,  while holding our noses, or mimicking breaststrokes across the back of the car. Did we believe we’d fooled the people behind us? Oh yeah.  Did we really? Oh no. But it was fun.
 

Other parents may have ordered us to sit down, to behave, to not jump around like little lunatics. But our parents laughed and even encouraged us. At the time I thought nothing of it, but I realize now they were indulging our imaginations.

Worse (or better?) was when characters jumped into the car with us. That was my forte. We’d pass a town with an interesting sounding name and… boom… a new character was born. For days, and sometimes weeks, my parents and brother would have to deal with my antics as a crazy lady who sampled everyone else’s food, or a wacky man who waxed poetic about my mom, or a little kid whose name was pronounced backwards. And you know what they did? They laughed. And encouraged me to do more.

Yeah, I was a little bit of an odd kid. I guess that’s why I’m a little bit of an odd adult.

You’ve heard of coloring outside the lines and thinking outside the box. I’m more of a act-out-of-the-bounds- of-normalcy sort of person. If you’ve met me at Bouchercon or Malice, or another mystery conference, you’ll think I’m completely sane. Don’t worry, I’ve learned to curb my craziness in polite company. But I’ve come to realize that my parents’ willingness to tolerate my weirdness has probably been the single greatest gift they gave me. They nurtured my young imagination. They allowed me to believe I could do/be/try anything.  Because of them I believed in myself and I felt strong, relying on my imagination for fun, interesting, and exciting ways to play.

I think about my parents every day, but every year in this brief period between Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day, I spend a little extra time remembering and sharing these wacky stories with my kids. I’m so, so grateful that my folks lived long enough to get to know my kids, and to see that I’ve adopted their parenting style, but I can’t help but wish they’d seen me become a published author too, because then they’d be able to see how all those years of my goofiness have paid off. I’m doing what I love and having fun. What’s better than that?  And it’s all thanks to my mom and dad.

Finally! I'm a Real Author! by Julie Hyzy

Born and raised in Chicago, Julie Hyzy knew she wanted to be a writer from the time she was old enough to hold a pencil. But life kept her busy and it wasn't until about 2002 she was able to make writing a priority. Now, the author of several award-winning short stories, Julie has also won awards and critical acclaim for many of her novels.

Julie writes the White House Chef Mysteries, featuring Ollie Paras who feeds the First Family and saves the world in her spare time. The first book in that series, State of the Onion, won an Anthony Award and a Barry Award at Bouchercon in 2009. The novel also garnered a Lovey (Love is Murder Readers' Choice Award).

Julie's newest series - the Manor of Murder Mysteries - begins with Grace Under Pressure which earned a *starred* review in Publshers Weekly.

Julie's books include:
Artistic License (standalone romantic suspense)

Alex St. James series:
Deadly Blessings
Deadly Interest

White House Chef Mysteries:
State of the Onion
Hail to the Chef
Eggsecutive Orders
Buffalo West Wing (January 2011)

Manor of Murder Mysteries:
Grace Under Pressure

Please visit Julie's website at www.juliehyzy.com

Finally! I’m a Real Author!

by Julie Hyzy

I started writing when I was about six years old. My mom, bless her soul, saved quite a few of my first attempts at novel writing and they are the source of much hilarity around my house these days. My kids—trying to make me feel good?—have even said that maybe, if I ever get really famous, these folded-notebook-paper tales (with accompanying artwork!) will be worth something someday. Gee, thanks, kids!

But… I didn’t feel like a real author at age six. Nor at age eleven, even when I started writing my Mary King Mystery stories. Watch out, Nancy Drew, I thought. I planned to be published by the time I was twelve.

Didn’t happen.

My first real novel came out in 2004. Although I’m still quite proud of it, it had quite a few flaws. And I learned a lot. Still… one novel… did that make me a real author? Nope.

Something was missing. Something big.

Fast forward: Here I am in the middle of 2010, and my eighth book, Grace Under Pressure, was released last week. Finally, I feel like a real author! But not because of the new book’s release. Nope. It’s because in the fall of 2009 I finally achieved something momentous. And I’ll bet you can guess what that is…

I got a cat.

Everybody knows that writers and cats go together. Especially mystery writers and cats. But even when I was little I knew there would be no felines in my future. My dad said, “No cats!” and when I got married, my husband said, “No cats!” How could I ever be a real writer with such limitations?

From the time we were married my husband let it be known that we would never have a cat in our house. His family hated them and he professed to hate them too (note the use of the word: “professed”). My cat requests became a bit of a joke because we knew that it was probably the only argument he consistently won. And that made him feel very good.

Every six months or so, I’d remind him of his ongoing triumph and we’d have an interchange that went something like this:

“I’m a writer, I need a cat. Can we get one?”

“No.”

“Okay, you win.”

Dogs are great. I love dogs and when our beloved lab/mix, K’Ehleyr (it’s Klingon) left us last summer, I was devastated. No more pets, I vowed. It hurts too much when you lose them.

It was about that point I decided to stop my humorous pleas for a cat. Just wasn’t funny anymore.

And that’s when Kitka entered our lives.

My middle daughter happened across two sister strays up at school. She couldn’t keep them up there and none of the overcrowded local shelters would take them. My eldest daughter adopted the all-black one, but that left the tiny tuxedo cat we’d named Kitka (from the original Adam West Batman movie). My husband and I agreed to keep Kitka for a week until our daughter could find her a home. 

That was last September…

Now Kitka sits on my lap as I type, crawls into an empty box atop my desk for afternoon naps, and paws pitifully at the door when I close it to take important phone calls. She’s a cutie and I’m nuts about her. My husband, the professed cat-hater, rassles with her when he gets home at night, pets her on his lap as we watch TV and constantly says, “I didn’t know cats were so friendly. I didn’t know they had personalities.” Of course, he has been known to call Kitka by another name: Pita-cat. Pita being short for pain-in-the—youknowwhat. To be fair, Kitka can get into trouble… but most of the time even the trouble makes us laugh.

So thank you, Kitka! Finally, finally, I’m a real author. And now I even feel qualified enough to give one of my protagonists a cat as a pet. If you pick up Grace Under Pressure, you’ll meet Grace. But it isn’t until her next adventure, the one I’m writing right now, that you’ll meet Bootsie…

Woo-hoo! I’m a real author now!