The Great Dane and Little Turtle: A Cooking Adventure

The Great Dane and Little Turtle

A Cooking Adventure

Sharon Bailhé

Copyright © 2013 Sharon Bailhé

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Front Cover & Inside Cover. Photography by Kelly Kane

Flowers by Sorbello’s Gift and Nursery

Back Cover, Easy Summer Layered Salad photography by Sharon Bailhé

Illustrations by Lydia Johnson Grandy

Hair & Makeup. Fringe Salon, Fayetteville, N.Y.

Wardrobe. Chico’s Store Fayetteville, N.Y.

ISBN: 978-1-4497-8700-4 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013904164

WestBow Press rev. date: 5/30/2013

Contents

Introduction to Cooking as an Art Form

The Great Dane and Little Turtle, A Cooking Adventure By Sharon Bailhe’

Chapter 1 Brunch, Soups, Stocks and Starters

Brunch

Soups

Stocks

Starters

Chapter 2 Breads, Sandwiches and Dough

Breads

Sandwiches

Dough

Chapter 3 Salads and Vegetables

Salads

Vegetables

Chapter 4 Pasta and Pizza and Pearls

Pasta

Pizza & Burritos

Pearls

Chapter 5 Beef, Lamb, Pork and Veal Entrees

Entrees . Beef

Entrees . Lamb

Entrees . Pork

Entrees . Veal

Chapter 6 Poultry

Poultry. Chicken. Turkey Duck and Goose

Chapter 7 Fish and Shellfish

Fish And Shellfish

Chapter 8 inaigrettes and Dessert Toppings

Sauces And Vinaigrettes

Chapter 9 Desserts and Drinks

Dessert Toppings

Chapter 10 Desserts and Drinks

Desserts

Pies

Puddings Soufflé Mousse Brulee’

Cookies

Brownies . Bars. Kringle & Crepes

Drinks

Christmas Carols

Celebrating The Love Of Jesus

Acknowledgements

Thank you for your assistance: Lisa Daly, Joanne Bovee, Sister Margot Allen and daughters Anne Russell and Caroline Davidson. To my dear friends Rita Rennick and Marcia Koren for listening and listening to all of my ideas. Thank you to Kelly Kane, photographer and Lydia Johnson Grandy, illustrator for donating their talents. I am so very grateful for all of you. Thank you to my worldly, generous, father Jacques, a true gentlemen and charismatic raconteur and my beautiful mother Sally. They gave me the greatest gift of all, love.

Dedication

As the author of this story, my efforts have been to tell of the love Jesus has for us and to emphasize His authencity as the one and only God of the universe; the God of the Old Testament and New Testament. Quoting biblical verses and the prophecies that Jesus fulfilled are to substantiate who Jesus is, the resurrected Messiah.

Introduction to Cooking as an Art Form

Cooking is truly an art form, cultivated with great precision and care. It encompasses the realm of standards of technique. From the selection of the finest ingredients, the recipe and the final presentation, the desire is to entertain, nurture and give pleasure. Food is the reflection of the spirit of people surrounding you. Food connects people, and as we know, the best food is made with love. It is with great devotion and patient stirring that I present these recipes selected from France, Denmark, Sweden and the USA.

Before preparing a recipe, take the time to read it first as this will prevent missing ingredients and a misunderstanding of the methods and time intervals. I am assuming that you are using fresh ingredients, organic and reduced fat. It is important to use meats that are less than four months old such as veal and pork. All fish and poultry should be young and small so has not to have more time to be filled with pesticides. My recipes do not designate this, as it is our mutual understanding, and of course your choice, to make these healthier choices.

Keep your kitchen pristine. Hands are washed between intervals of touching produce, meat, poultry, fish and dairy. One can never make good food out of bad provisions and a lack of cleanliness can make good food bad. Knives are kept sharp, and all kitchen utensils, pots and pans, glasses and place settings are kept sterilized and clean.

When I married and had a family of my own, I felt duty bound to continue the tradition of fine cuisine as I had learned to eat well while traveling with my French father dining in the finest restaurants. Therefore, I rolled up my sleeves and began my own journey of the palate.

The first cookbook I indulged in was Gourmet Techniques of French Cooking by Louis Diat. He had a lifelong career as a chef and teacher. As a young man, he apprenticed at the Maison Calonde in Moulins, France. The kitchen was his lure. He eventually taught chefs at the Ritz Carlton in Paris.

Being of French heritage, I have favored classic French cooking with fresh ingredients and sauces. I have lightened them up in deference to the current healthy trends. I have been asked if I Live to Eat or Eat to live. My answer is neither. My intention is to prepare nutritionally sound food and enjoy the presentation, surroundings and company of family and friends. Eating is not always about survival. It is also a way of having fun, being happy and enjoying life.

The Great Dane will have none of that low fat philosophy. He liked tempting me with a juicy piece of crispy duck whenever he ate duck. He believes in eating all that you want and then take a two-hour walk through cities, towns and hamlets. By his side, I have learned to enjoy this past time and am brought back to my own Swedish/ Danish heritage on my mother’s Kemp/Johansson side of the family.

Comforting traditions passed down through the generations enhance our celebrations. My heritage started generations ago in Gaillac, France in 1607 on the Bailhe’ family compound. To this day, my cousins are growing grapes and producing wine in the southern Basque region.

During the evening dinner, create your own Garden of Eden. God made every fruit, vegetable, meat, fish and fowl. He wants us to delight in our food and family in sharing the events of our day, opening with a prayer blessing the food, reciting poetry, telling stories and laughing together. Come along with me as we The Great Dane and Little Turtle take you on a cooking adventure full of flavor and fun.

Psalm 68:11 "The Lord gave some a Word; great was the company of those that proclaimed it.

2 Corinthians 13:12 Greet each other with a holy kiss.

The Great Dane and Little Turtle, A Cooking Adventure

By Sharon Bailhe’

Once upon a time a baby girl was born. The Los Angeles Times headline read Miracle Baby Lives! I was born October 8, and at 1 pound 3 ounces -I think on angel wings. I was immediately flown to St. Judes’ Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee as I had one chance in a million of surviving. I was placed in an incubator as a preemie, until my parents could bring me home for the Christmas Holiday. Apparently, I was feisty and very determined to live and with God’s blessings did.

Even though of French and Swedish/Danish heritage while in Tennessee, I was given the middle name of Lee. This gesture was to reflect my new Southern Belle status Sharon Lee, having been in Memphis, Tennessee for three months. It is traditional down south to have a middle name, Mary Lee, Sarah Lee, Jimmy Lee, Bobby Jo.

I grew strong, happy and healthy, having been given much love. I loved roller-skating., and playing cowboys and Indians. I wore my Indian headpiece with feathers as I rode my tricycle. I played with my dolls for many hours while enjoying Swedish sugar cookies, my Mom baked. They were our favorite. There were other days when I dressed-up in torn white sheets to look like the Franciscan Nuns who were my teachers. I hung a large white cross and a pair of paper scissors by my side just as my Nuns did in Santa Monica. They changed my handwriting from left to right. We know now that is not a good thing to do.

The Ptarmigan, a 55 ft. yacht. My father had a dream for his little girl."

My father had a dream for his little girl who was the apple of his eye, to live and sail on his 55 ft. yacht, The Ptarmigan, for six months, sailing and catching fish. The adventurous passage was through the Caribbean, Cuba, Dominican Republic, and Haiti. At age four, I took my first swim with the sharks by falling off the family schooner. After that incident, my father roped in all of the deck like a big playpen. My Dad knew to kept me busy so he gave me things to do like go to the bow to ring the ships bell as we were coming into port. I think that is where I first learned leadership skills.

During that adventure vaccines were required at two ports of entry. My Dad would not allow the smallpox vaccinations given on my shoulders, only on my ankles. He envisioned me in a strapless prom dress someday and did not want my shoulders to be scarred. Both of my ankles have vaccination scars. I proudly point to them, telling that the officials could not catch me to vaccinate my ankles but finally grabbed a toe.

"I never forgot their big brown hungry eyes, I knew that I never wanted to see anyone hungry again."

While moored in the bay of Golfe de la Gonave, off Port au Prince, my father rowed us to shore where I saw two little orphan boys rummaging for food. I never forgot their big brown hungry eyes. I knew that I never wanted to see anyone hungry again. I asked if we could take them home with us and was told no. This would not happen for another fifteen years, and then I would have two Haitian brothers, Georges, Eduardo and a sister, Guerda who were adopted and living with my family, but that is story for another time.

My father took me everywhere with him when he could. As a toddler, he would take me with him on many business trips. While he was talking on the phone, he put me in the hotel bathtub with a tube of toothpaste without the cap. I did a lot of damage having fun with that one. Another outing was to Eddie Condon’s Club in New York City. He propped me up on a chair with a telephone book, and ordered me a Shirley Temple with a cherry on top. There I listened to the famous drummer Gene Krupa playing jazz with many other great musicians. I began to feel very special being served another Shirley Temple. I began to think that I actually was Shirley Temple as later I began to watch, The Little Princess movie, over and over again. I loved my Daddy very much just as she did.

When my father remarried, having lost my mother at age six, we moved to a gentleman’s horse farm in Connecticut. My father commuted New York City to Madison Avenue to his ad agency. Even though my father was French and my mother Swedish/Danish and Catholic , thus the Franciscan nuns in Kindergarten, now with a step mother we were raised as WASPS ( white Anglo Saxon protestants) otherwise joked about as the frozen chosen. My brothers, John and Jacques, sisters Margot and Jill and myself all attended church wearing our black velvet riding hats as that was considered very fashionable. Can you see us all lined up in a row, and not yet even learning that Jesus was a Jew. Prejudice was rampant in our enclave. My father would have none have that and taught us not to be that way either by acts of kindness and respect to all walks of life. He taught us by example to display our American flag with pride and to protect our Bill of Rights, our Constitution and never miss voting in our elections.

In this WASP culture you grow up repressed, in a very strict world of etiquette, stock options, friends with names like Biffy/Buffy/Muffy, Silver Springs Country Club, bridge, chess, tennis, sailing and large quantities of alcohol. For example, a game of croquet, which WASPS love, as it is an excuse to get dressed up and drink. It is also a sport which you can play while holding a drink in one hand, usually a Bloody Mary or a Grapefruit Mimosa; and, you use your mallet to steady yourself just like a cane with the other hand. Riding to the hounds was another favorite activity, finished off with brunch and large quantities of Bloody Marys or other alcoholic beverages of choice.

One Saturday morning my Dad was sitting on a wicker chaise lounge and started calling all of our horse friends. We are inviting you to come for brunch later this morning, please bring chilled vodka. To another friend, please bring lemon and tomato juice, to another, please bring four dozen eggs and butter. To another, bring Canadian ham and celery. To another bring a loaf of bread, jam and orange juice. We provided the ice. They all came horseback bringing their provisions. A wonderful brunch, unfolded, which my Dad had orchestrated while never moving. He is the man! Everyone joined in with the cooking and pouring. Then everyone mounted their horses and went off for a mid-day trail ride for a couple of hours through the green pastures.

At home, I rode our horses daily wearing my cherished Portuguese riding boots. I learned to sift the gold, cleaning the stalls of horse manure. On weekends Dad, sometimes attached the Morgan horse, King to a buckboard or a sleigh. He would take all five of us out for a ride. One summer evening, after watching the movie Ben Hur, my sister Jill asked Dad to build us chariots so we could have chariot races with our horses. He did and we did. A few years later he made us an airplane so we could swing through the trees. Nothing was impossible.

Eventually, we had a stable of thoroughbreds and raced them at Saratoga and Belmont, New York as Steeplechasers. They are the ones that jump over fences. Our jockey was all decked out in black, white and copper diamond racing silks. Top Scotch and Genetic were the steeplechasers we raced, and sometimes they stubbed their toe over the last jump and we lost. This was especially embarrassing when our whole town of Wilton, Ct. turned out to watch.

While at the racetrack, my Dad taught me how to gamble. He gave me ten dollars to bet and I lost it all on the first horse race. I was upset over that and let him know it. What am I learning Dad? He replied, A bad habit, come on let’s go place another bet. Off we went to the naughty betting window.

In the evening, while at home, he often made a big pot of Sweet Basil Vegetable Provincial Soup. One of his efforts did not end well. Home from college, I had been assigned to clean the kitchen after dinner. I found a pot of dirty water on the back burner of the stove. I emptied it out dutifully and scrubbed it clean thinking that it was left over soup. Dad wandered into the kitchen and was struck with horror. He had spent weeks slowly boiling down the maple sap to make maple syrup. That was the only time in my life that I can remember my Dad being angry with me. In fact, I think I saw rage in his eyes.

Years later, he would take me for Sunday brunch at the Plaza Hotel or The Pierre Hotel in New York City for my sixteenth birthday or a night out on the town at the El Morocco nightclub made famous in Hollywood movies. He would let me invite my childhood sweetheart Gerry Skey who was a great dancer so the evening was such fun. Years later, we would rendezvous at the wonderful French restaurant Lutece. Life has changed for me many years later.

I am a widow now. " To be or not to be, that is the question." as Shakespeare wrote in his play Hamlet, the soldier and Prince of Denmark. I was worn out and devastated. Three weeks after his death my body blew apart with PTS, from high performance as a caretaker . I guess, The show must go on."

My husband Jim had died of cancer at age 49. He was a man of with eclectic, eccentric tastes having a deep passion for music, art, film, his black and tan cocker spaniels and me. He was handsome and his style was impeccable. He had a love for Italian suits and Italian boots. He had a soft side, loving Kermit the Frog, Tweetie Bird and our dogs. The day of our wedding, I heard Jim say, Kermie we are going to go get married today. He was talking to his wristwatch, which had Kermit the Frog on the clock face. Our Christian wedding ceremony ended with the Jewish tradition of stomping on a wine glass to signify the reality that love is fragile. Cherish your love and protect it. Mazel Tov. What a beautiful tradition.

He could do almost anything, from running our ad agency, to painting, wallpapering or laying a tile floor, to lovingly tending to our Iris Hill gardens. He loved going ballooning here in beautiful Upstate New York. He could be very temperamental as he was a perfectionist A+ personality. What I was not good at, he could do, and vica versa. I miss having him to share in the days of our life and be a witness to it. He would rise at 5:30 a.m., start the coffee, go outside and clean the pool, every morning, and then water our gardens. Then he would disappear into our office and began his workday as an Ad man with our company, MarketShare Plus, representing the manufactures in Central New York in Thomas Register. I would rise at 8 a.m., I needed my beauty sleep, exactly eight hours every night. We now recognize that a full night’s sleep is crucial to good health and drinking plenty of water; 10-12 glasses daily.

I would pour my coffee, start our breakfast and call out two eggs or one, poached or scrambled, and he would join me. Then our day began together. I did the marketing research on our clients’ companies. I armed him with what the competition was doing and prepared him to go out into the field, with in depth marketing information and strategy to enlarge our client base revenues and finding new clients.

We worked well together except when it was his way or the highway. I asked for God’s help many a time to, zip up my lip and prayed Romans 12:12 "Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer." Sometimes I would joke with him and play Frank Sinatra’s song, My Way. He never really had a sense of humor but a discerning eye. He wanted Just the facts Mame. If I got a little chatty he would say, I am not your girlfriend.

Many evenings we worked. With his powerful Chutzpa, he wanted the direct answer and quickly. He learned not to expect that before I had, had my morning Starbucks coffee. We would reward ourselves after long weeks of long hours by taking a weekend and go to a film fest in Toronto, Canada or we took advantage of local events, ballooning in beautiful Central New York, sailing or listening to great Jazz and Blues at our outdoor festivals. We hosted some pool parties and offered water aquatics three mornings a week. What a difference that made in my health and agility.

During the winter months, we took in Syracuse University football and basketball games or the Arthur Storch Syracuse Stage plays on opening nights. Then there were many evenings when I cooked up a gourmet dinner, and he would put on a special film from our film collection. We made it all work for us in any circumstance. He lived with illness, pain and many surgeries. Life was difficult at times with him and now difficult without him. We were together 24/7 sharing in the division of labor and fun.

On the twenty-second of each month, we celebrated our wedding anniversary. I am glad of that now. It was a pause for a moment to honor our marriage. He would usually bring me something simple, a daisy picked by the roadside. Or a single red rose. I would find him a silly windup toy or a poem I had written. Then we would kiss to honor our years of marriage together. And we would laugh and say it seems like one hundred years. If you are married, you might want to consider taking up this monthly tradition, as we never know how long we have with each other.

For our yearly anniversary, he showered me with beautiful jewelry. He would not allow me to ever wear any custom jewelry. Cherish the moments together and fill them with love, respect and of course, good food.

We celebrated Christmas, Passover, Easter, Valentine’s Day, birthdays and many other holidays. It all changed when he was diagnosed with cancer while at the Cleveland Clinic. When you hear that C word the hair stands up on the back of your neck and you never forget where you were standing or where you were when you heard it. I had been diagnosed with thyroid cancer four years earlier and had beaten it. I remember him holding my hand firmly when we were told. Something he usually never did Caroline, my daughter, and I were by his bedside always there for him during his many, many surgeries. Caroline would give him the best foot massages. No wonder she was the apple of his eye. He adored her.

I bought Jim, a Kermit talking frog. He and all of the nurses loved Kermie, so I had to buy them all one. Jim was a brave heart through it all. So much of his life had been pain and suffering with Crohns disease, surgeries and now cancer. He did not want to die; but he knew he was dying. His last gift to me was a stunning 3-carat Bolivian emerald ring surrounded by twelve diamonds. He proudly presented it to me saying, This is my lifetime gift to you. I know how much you love emeralds, this should shut you up. He died at age 49 at home with us. I had planned on living a long life together. Sadly, it did not work out that way.

When he converted from Judaism to Christianity, two years earlier, he became more gentle, humble and thankful. The Holy Spirit had transformed a man who had a major streak of combativeness, arrogance and impatience. He now called himself a Completed Jew. His memorial service was at my church Eastern Hills Bible Church with Pastor Bullock. He asked his sister for a second service at Concord Temple but she said, What do you think you are a King? Even though he had converted to Christianity, he was culturally a Jew.

When he converted from Christianity, two years earlier, he became more gentle, humble and thankful. The Holy Spirit had transformed a man who had a major streak of combativeness, arrogance and impatience, He now called himself a Completed Jew."

Caroline, blue eyed, with her blond streaked hair pulled back in a pony tail, wearing a white crisp shirt with cuffs rolled back, tailored trim trousers looking very French chic, walked to the front of the church and prayed, Lord open my lips so that I may sing your praises. Caroline began to speak.

Jim came into my life when he married Mom. He took me on as his daughter and I took him on as a father. I thank God for him, even though it was a bumpy road with lots of conflict: yelling, screaming, slamming of doors and running away from each other. A lot of the conflict came from my own rebelliousness and authority issues. No matter how intense it got we always made sure that we sat down and talked it out to the point of exhaustion until we understood where we were coming from. He loved me so much that he did not want me to learn anything the hard way the way he did.

After I came to Christ, at age 17, I wanted to share my new joy with everyone. I just could not understand why he would not believe in Christ and his resurrection. It got very heated again. He said, "Don’t you understand that for me to believe in this goes against my ancestors, my family; everything that I am as a Jew. It would be the height of betrayal; don’t you understand? No, I did not understand. Don’t you know how many Jews have died in the name of Christ? Would you go off to a Holy War, and I thought, No I would not because that is what man wants, not God.

Soon our conversations escalated and reverted to slamming doors but this time suddenly out of my mouth came something different. I did not run away. I just stood there on the stairs. You know what Jim, I love you. I will always love you. I don’t care what you believe, and I just kept screaming that over and over and then there was only silence. He slowly opened the door, came out, and sat on the stairs with me and we talked and talked.

I never brought the topic of Jesus up again. But years later he did while I was getting ready to move to California and he was in the hospital again. This time he was in intensive care. He confessed to me the story from a few years ago, when he attended the Easter sermon at Eastern Hills Bible Church in Manlius, N.Y. with Mom. He told me that he was waiting for her to join him next to his seat in church. He was reading his Hebrew Bible, the Torah, also known as the Old Testament. He came to Isaiah 53 and he knew that it was talking about the coming of the Messiah, Jesus Christ. He had no doubt. There it was in Hebrew, in his own bible. He put the verse in Pastor Bullock’s face and said, Who is this? The Pastor replied, Who do you think it is?

He told the secret that he had been keeping to himself; He had accepted Christ as his Lord and Savior but was too stubborn to admit it. As he was dying, he knew that he had to ease our minds that he would be in heaven waiting for us someday when it was our time. We filed into the church with our cellist friend Ellen Smith playing Gershwin and later joining in with the song Amazing Grace. All of our family had come in from California and Delaware. It was a deeply meaningful, Godly time of sharing the gospel.

Endless friends and family shared stories about their memories of Jim. Vince and Jane, our friends shared the challenges of witnessing to Jim. Songwriter and composer Ellen Walters having just arrived from her drive from Boston sang a song, The Dragon Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. The song was agonizing with Jim in his long struggle with illness, pain, drugs, wanting to live, only surviving a while longer because of liquid morphine.

My son John read the Lord’s Prayer. My daughter Anne brought Kermit the frog upfront and introduced him as one of Jim’s best friends through the long hours, days, and weeks in and out of hospitals and surgeries. My son Jamie sat quietly watching but he was the one who had arranged that his company pay for the black limousines, champagne and chocolate dipped strawberries for Jim’s Memorial Service.

We filed out of the church sanctuary while Eddie Campbell’s, blues rock music played, as Jim had asked Caroline and I to do when we spoke about his funeral. I told him no matter what, Caroline and I would make sure that the people got the essence of him, also known as JR. He was laid to rest in his family plot in the Jewish cemetery. The bluestone marble tombstone read James R. Rosenbloom, June 14, 1953-June 24, 2002 and on the other side written His beloved wife. Written that way, as I am not culturally Jewish so I cannot be buried beside him.

Without him, broken and half crazed, I began the alien invisible like state of widowhood. Even our three black and tan cocker spaniels, Cleopatra, James and Jesse were thrown into grieving and looked to me to be their new master. A broken heart, is a state which is not just a metaphor but one in which grief and loneliness can kill you. Physicians from John’s Hopkins document it in the New England Journal of Medicine. As we live in a couples’ society, our society has not in general, recognized the plight of a widow as they do in Europe, the path can be long and lonely. There living in closer proximity, they protect and care and socialize with the widow. In the USA, I have personally experienced that you are rarely included socially. I discovered that you are a fifth wheel or considered a threat, as a single woman, to those around you who are married. Even at my son’s wedding, six weeks after Jim died I had to make an entrance unescorted while everyone else had a partner. We are more aware today as Christians to make sure that the widow is honored, protected, and not left alone, unescorted or sitting alone at a table at an event. My own situation was made worse with the reality that my adult children now, are living in Delaware, now Georgia and California.

Fully aware that I was vulnerable as a single woman living alone, I knew to protect my privacy. Our phone number was unlisted. I continued wearing my wedding rings for another year or two. The alarm system was in place at home. Unexpectedly, a prisoner wrote me and asked for a relationship. His address was from the Auburn State prison. He had read Jim’s obituary and knew that I was alone. I was advised that it is common for prisoners to scan the newspaper obituaries hoping to score a widow who is alone and lonely. This traumatized me, as this was an uninvited invasion of my privacy. It did not matter to me that he was locked up. He could have friends on the outside and they knew where I lived. There were many other attempts of scamming me; like the young married couple who asked for half payment deposit to paint the outside of my home, placed their ladders and never returned. I have made my share of mistakes in my life and was trying not to again. I err on the side of being trusting. Wouldn’t you rather be trusting, than jaded and bitter?

It was rough going. Those who have not gone through a loss think your life is back to normal in a short time. The secluded grieving cycle endured is a frightening spectrum of emotions feeling hermetically sealed away from the outside community. Very few understand the grieving process. Little do they understand that life will never be the same, a big emptiness and sleeping alone is awful. I thought, it’s just you and me God, I wish you had skin on. I miss Jim, the division of labor, feeling protected, the sharing, the companionship, the romantic times, the celebrations of family times.

During the next four years, I worked hard to recreate my life and myself AND NOT MAKE ANY DUMB DECISIONS. We as business partners, had lost our marketing/advertising business due to a scoundrel business owner of the 14 New York State territories for Thomas Register. He took away our territory and with it our livelihood while knowing that my husband would have to battle cancer. We had not even learned yet that he would eventually die from the cancer. The next month, our automatic deposit (six figure income) in our MarketShare Plus account had a balance of zero. We were not given a letter letting us know of this devastating, cruel decision that our territory had been taken over. I could have hired someone to work with me while my husband was going through chemo-treatments fighting to live. Our church fellowship was there to help us get through. I was determined that I would survive, and flourish.

I was well qualified; I had owned and published a real estate magazine Syracuse Homes, owned a small Ad Agency called Media Works, been Executive Director of The Citizens Foundation of Syracuse, New York, licensed in commercial and residential real estate, invented the Cosmetic Cooler, Medical Info-.In Case of Emergency ( put inside all helmets containing all medical information if one were injured and needed this pronto) and Pillow Art, a silk-screened pillow businesses. I had grown up with wealth around me and sometimes, the shallow philosophy of who you know and not what you actually do. My inner soul was one of doing, not, Who you think you are. I knew that I was in terrible distress and a six-figure income would not be easy to re-build and recreate. I searched my mind for a verse, Jeremiah 29:11 For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not harm you, and plans to give you hope and a future. God is faithful and so am I. God is faithful even when I am not.

I decided to start over in California and made plans to move from Fayetteville, New York to Northern California to be near my oldest son and daughter and grandchildren. I often played the Michael Buble recording, I just want to go home. There were farewell parties given by my friends with much joy and tears. As I am about to embark on my cross-country adventure, on a cold November night, I had a chance meeting with a 6’6 Dane from Copenhagen, Denmark.

He had been sent on loan from the Royal Danish Air Force to develop the radar systems for the defense of Denmark.

He has lake blue eyes, handsome with the charm and wit to compliment his stature 6’6". He has been sent on loan from the Royal Danish Air Force to develop the radar systems with an International Company, Lockheed Martin, for the defense of Denmark. Later the Queen of Denmark knighted him for doing so.

The Royal Danish Air Force would of course pay for his resident expenses while living in America. I looked down at his hands and noticed that he was not wearing a wedding ring. This was good. We talked and laughed but I had no interest in him as I was moving to California to be near my family. So good luck to you Mr. Handsome Great Dane Viking, I thought to myself. Anyway, he was leaving to return to Denmark in time for the Christmas celebrations.

The Dane returned to Copenhagen and a month later we had been corresponding at great length. He had decided that it would be nice for him to take such a lovely girl out for dinner at the Brewster Inn in Cazenovia, New York. We had considered the New York Wine and Culinary Center in Canandaigua but decided that it was too far and save it for another time. Off we went to the Brewster Inn and had been seated in at our lakeside table. The Dane had just ordered a lovely bottle of Spanish Rioja wine and was looking over the duck choices on the menu, when a hostess approached our table and came in to make an announcement. We were anticipating her greeting us with Merry Christmas but instead she announced that the Inn was on fire and would we please file out quietly. The other patrons nervously scurried out but the Dane took my arm as he walked me towards the door as if nothing were wrong. He chuckled, I hope you like your food well done. I made it clear that I like everything well done, except my food.

We filed out through the side door and the snow quickly filled my Italian leather strappy high heel shoes. He offered to carry me through the snowdrifts, but I declined, as I hardly knew him. He took my hand firmly and guided me through the deep snow. I should have let him carry me but I was too shy. The Dane commented that if he had known that we were going to be asked to leave, he would have brought our fine bottle of wine with us so we could have a sip in the car.

We sat in the car hoping to be able to return to our table as