Monday, April 20, 2026

Knitting with Cynthia Sally Haggard #ArtsandCrafts #Knitting #AuthorGuest


Arts and Crafts with author of MAIDEN TOMB Cynthia Sally Haggard who adores knitting!


I first started to knit at age eleven, when my mother tried to show me what to do. I remember that we got the first line of loops onto one needle. (These were old-fashioned wooden knitting sticks that were pointy at one end, and not at the other.) Then I was supposed to put the point of the other needle through the loops but—I couldn’t! I tried and I tried but I couldn’t get the other stick through. So my eleven-year-old self gave up in a flounce, and learned to do crochet instead!

Several years later I was visiting my best friend in England. It was February—cold, damp and forbidding outside. But as we sat in front of her fireplace, she handed me a ball of wool and a couple of those old-fashioned needles.

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “I couldn’t possibly do that. I’m far too busy!”

My friend gave me one of her looks, telling me that she thought I would love it. And she was right. (This is a great example of how your friends know you better than you do yourself.)

Sooo, what do I knit?

Well, I hate to put anyone off, but the truth is I love to knit sweaters, especially if they have (simple) patterns!

So how do you knit a sweater without driving yourself crazy?

Step #1 ~ Never knit with cats in the room. Just because you really don’t want them to, they will gravitate towards your yarn, jumping and pouncing and generally making it impossible for you to knit.

Step #2 ~ Choose your pattern carefully. There are too many people out there who claim to be knitting pattern designers who frankly have no idea what they are doing. Make sure that your designer is someone reputable and experienced. If you are still not sure, buy a pattern book that has excellent reviews.


Step #3 ~ Find the perfect yarn. Like most, I really cannot wear wool as it itches too much. So what you want is something that is a wool blend. However, what you are also looking for is yarn that will not pill. By that, I mean yarn that creates its own version of dust-bunnies that will squat on your garment, waiting to be plucked off. So you will need to experiment and ask questions. It is only recently that I discovered that the Madeline Tosh Farm Twish doesn’t pill, unlike most of her other yarns.

Step #4 ~ Always knit gauge especially for anything fitted like a sweater. Knitting gauge means that you knit a swatch of material that is typically 4 inches or 10 centimeters square. You will need to measure with a ruler, and once you have done that you count the number of stitches and the number of rows to get the gauge for your garment. You may have to experiment with different sized needles to get the correct gauge. (The instructions always occur at the beginning of the pattern.) Once you have it, be sure to make a note of it. You can open an account on ravelry.com and leave your note to yourself there.

Step #5 ~ To avoid driving yourself to distraction with all the instructions (especially for patterns), use markers. They are those plastic thingies in bright colors that you place between stitches to mark a place. So if you have a pattern that has a 10-stitch repeat, you would place a marker between each of the 10 stitches. That way, you can (a) do a much better job of keeping track of the pattern and (b) easily see a mistake and correct it.

Step #6 ~ Don’t be shy about changing the pattern. As most sweater lengths are far too short for me (they always seem to end in the middle of my stomach, thus drawing attention to an area I would prefer to forget about,) I usually add 5 inches, turning it into a tunic. If you choose to be bold and do this, don’t forget to take notes. You will thank yourself later.

Step #7 ~ Blocking. This means taking your finished garment and dunking it into a bucket of cold or tepid (but never warm or hot) water. The reason why you do this is because the wet fabric is like putty and easy to alter for a better fit. However, if you are knitting with hand-dyed yarns, do not let it sit there. Take it out immediately, or the colors will bleed. I dry my garment using two towels, then pin it using T-pins to a foam board that is marked out in 1-inch squares. (If you are not sure about blocking, consult You-Tube.)

But be aware that yarns (and knitted garments) have a mind of their own. I thought I had knitted myself a thigh-length tunic until I made the mistake of dunking the entire garment into that pail of water.

It decided to lengthen.

So now I have a dress!

If you are not sure, just wet the part that needs attention, like the hem that won’t stop curling up. If you keep the rest dry, the garment should behave itself.


Step #6 ~ Don’t forget to enjoy yourself and take your time. Knitting should be soothing, relaxing even. A great way of passing the time by yourself or with loved ones, especially when the weather is bad outside.

Happy knitting!

Warmly, Cynthia


Maiden Tomb
Twelve Cursed Maidens Series
Book One
Cynthia Sally Haggard

Genre: Fairytale Retelling, Fantasy
ASIN: ‎ B0DNWVFZ81
Publisher: ‎Cynthia Sally Haggard Press
Publication Date: ‎ February 4, 2025

Tagline: Would you marry a stranger to free your sisters from imprisonment?

Book Description: 

In this retelling of The Twelve Dancing Princesses, sixteen-year-old Justice wants to release her sisters from the maw of Father's imprisonment. But what can she do? The easiest way would be to find suitors for them.

However, that is not so easy, for Justice's elder sisters are strange. What with All-Gifted's madness, Protectress's hair writhing with snakes, Death-Bringer's grief (not to mention her strange name), Shining's too-overt sexuality, Maiden's tart tongue, Shadow's crippling shyness, no sensible man would want her sisters as wives. Which leaves Justice, the seventh daughter, the one who possesses a quiet authority.

Justice has already acquired an admirer in the shape of Lord Nobody, who proclaims his undying love for her. But what does he really want? And doesn't he have a wife already?

Amazon     BN     Author Website     Google     Books2Read

 

P r o l o g u e ~ The Twelve Mysterious Daughters

Playful speaks

 

In the past week or so since we’ve arrived, life has taken on a predictable rhythm. I spend the mornings entertaining the ladies of the castle, with the lyre, my singing, playing knucklebones, and listening to their gossip. Truth to tell, nothing they say is particularly interesting as high-born ladies spend their time inside. When they are not diverting themselves with such pastimes as I provide, they are spinning, weaving, running the household, and caring for their children. They talk incessantly about their children. They know little of the outside world.

I escape after the midday meal, taking advantage of the ladies’ habit of resting as the sun’s chariot crests at the highest point of the day. While they sleep, I head out into the scorching countryside looking for Father.

We sit together in the shade, while Father does some task, usually repairing something, while I tell him everything I’ve learned the evening before. It is not that hard. Because I am small, and people are now familiar with my face, no one pays me any mind as I take my seat at the bench that runs along the side of the huge table where all the working folk of the castle eat their meals.

Father has told me never to be inquisitive, but I am dying to know more about the twelve mysterious ladies locked up in the castle tower, the ones people whisper about behind their hands when they think no-one is noticing.

As the light of the sun drains from the sky, as the king’s men sink lower onto wooden benches eating dish after dish, quail, pheasant, peacock, duck, eggs, bread, olive oil, wine, and olives, the noise of seven hundred men sharing jokes, laughing, and swilling wine reverberates around the hall.

Finally, I can take it no more."Is it true what they say about the King’s daughters?"

The grizzled stranger on the bench next to me wipes the grease off his mouth with the back of a hand and spits out an olive pit.

"Where’ve you popped up from? You shouldn’t be here. You’re only a young lad."

I am used to these remarks. After I left home I took a ship that was blown off course, taking me west to the land of the Italoi. I had to beg for money in the streets and in the taverns and it was not long before I heard news of Father, who was sailing to the west of this land.

And so I made my way across steep mountains before coming down to a lush plain. Playing my lyre to entertain strangers I followed their directions to the sea, to a wide bay within sight of a simmering, high, conical-shaped mountain.

And there, in a tavern, I met Father.

Now we are traveling home together. But Father is not here on the bench beside me, as he should be, but outside at a nearby farm pretending to be a stable hand.

This is one of Father’s clever strategies. He is a master at extracting information. He calls his strategy "divide and conquer" and it means that I have to use my lyre to find a berth for the night in some local chieftain’s house. This is not usually difficult, especially if there are ladies around because for some reason they always want to pet me.

Meanwhile, Father finds work on the outside as a shepherd, farmhand, or stable boy. By concealing his origins and pretending to be dumb, drunk, or both, Father is able to overhear a great many things. We have a plan to meet every day at noon, I escaping the blandishments of the ladies to visit the local farm for milk, cheese, eggs where I could happen upon the new stable boy, farmhand, or shepherd.

The only fly in the ointment is my age. I am only twelve years old and to my great annoyance, I look it. So Father made me memorize some phrases to offer when this issue arises.

"Father is here with me, but is suffering with an ache to his belly."

One sentence is usually enough for most people. Father has instructed me never to offer explanations that are not asked for as it only makes people more curious.

But the fellow is staring at me, waiting for more.

I turn my eyes down. "Father told me to eat supper and then berth with him in the stable yard."

"He’s the new stable hand, is he?"

I nod.

"Much good he’ll be with a bellyache."

I look up. "Do you have a remedy for that good sir?"

Father always stresses the importance of asking for advice when a conversation turns sour, as it flatters the vanity.

The fellow hawks and spits, rising from his seat. "You’ll have to go to the kitchens for that, son." He ambles off.

I return to my meal, hoping the others will forget about me and the conversation I’ve just had. Fortunately, it is that time of the meal when men turn tipsy. Pretty soon they are laughing, singing, and telling dirty jokes. One song goes like this:

 "There once was a king with twelve daughters—"

                        —"Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters," sing the others in an out-of-tune chorus.

"But he refused to marry them off—"

                        —"Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters!"

"And why did he refuse to marry them off?"

                        —"Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters!

"Because they would make unsuitable wives—"

                        —"Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters!"

"The eldest is mad.

The second is bad.

The third is sad.

The fourth too bold.

The fifth too shrill.

The sixth too shy.

The seventh too just.

While the eighth loves her father too much—Ha! Ha!

The eighth loves her father too much!

The ninth is a boy.

The tenth a mermaid.

The eleventh a goddess.

While the twelfth has only five years, five years,

The twelfth daughter has only five years."

"Do not touch!" yells someone to guffawing laughter.

The men pick up their song again:

"But the one you need to watch for is number four, number four,

The one you need to watch for is number four.

For the fourth daughter is a very naughty girl,

With large bold eyes and a nearly naked form—"

This goes on for some time. The fourth daughter seems to fascinate the men. I chew thoughtfully. Somehow, I must find a way of meeting her.

I turn to another man. "Is it true he locked all twelve of his daughters up in a high tower?"

The man nods.

"Why are they going on about the fourth daughter? I thought it was the eldest who dishonored the family name—"

"Keep your voice down," hisses the fellow. He looks around and then stares back at me from under bushy brows. "Your information is quite good, boy. Most of what you say is true."

"Which part is false?"

The fellow rises to his feet. "If you’ll take my advice, you’ll keep your mouth shut. Folk pay with their lives by asking too many questions." He glances around and draws his forefinger across his throat.

"But—" I gesture to the men singing lustily.

"They’re drunk."

"But—" I say again. But the man vanishes into the press of sweaty male bodies.

Outside, it is a lovely evening with a couple more hours to run before the sun dips below the trees. The castle tower stands up like a finger, a beckoning, a warning, that people can see for miles around. If their eyesight is good, they will see a window set high in the tower, just underneath the tiled roof. On a fine day, the window unlatched, the wind carries the sound of voices, the high sound of girls’ voices gossiping, chattering, giggling. Now, on this late summer evening, someone closes that high window shut. I catch a glimpse of a heart-shaped face with deep-set dark-grey eyes, and light-brown hair drawn back into a braid. Which daughter could she be? Not number four, for she is dressed modestly in a light woolen robe dyed a soft grey to match her eyes.

I lift my head to the moon, a thin fingernail of a crescent. A shiver runs up my spine. Something is going to happen within the month, I can feel it. This place hums with suppressed tensions.

Father will be so interested when I see him tomorrow.

 


About the Author:

Cynthia Sally Haggard was born and reared in Surrey, England.

About 40 years ago, she surfaced in the United States, inhabiting the Mid-Atlantic region as she wound her way through four careers: violinist, cognitive scientist, medical writer, and novelist.

Her first novel, Thwarted Queen, a saga set in 1400s England with a Game of Thrones vibe, won the 2021 Gold Medal IPPY Award for Audiobook. Her second novel, Farewell My Life, a dark historical about a hidden murderer, won the 2021 Independent Press Award for Women’s Fiction and was a 2019 Distinguished Favorite for the New York City Big Book Award. (Farewell is now a set of four novellas that make up the Grace Miller series.)

Maiden Tomb, the first of four projected novellas that will form the Twelve Cursed Maidens series, was a 2026 Distinguished Favorite for the Independent Press Award. Cynthia graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University, Cambridge MA, in June 2015.

When she’s not annoying everyone by insisting her fictional characters are more real than they are, Cynthia likes to go for long walks, knit something glamorous, cook in her wonderful kitchen, and play the piano.

You can visit her at: 













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Wednesday, April 8, 2026

April Ghouls Day at the Flint Farmer's Market

 Join me this Saturday at April Ghouls Day 

Saturday, April 11, 11 am - 4 pm


Flint Farmer's Market

300 E 1st St

Flint, MI 48502


Artists, authors, filmmakers, crafters, musicians, and more!


FREE for all ages at the Flint Farmers Market.


Event by the Flint Horror Collective

https://www.facebook.com/events/1020060861186900


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Friday, March 20, 2026

Guest Blog: Ghostly Returns by Stephanie Hansen #Horror #Romance #BookTour #GuestBlog


Share Stories with Your Children 

Between my two jobs, I barely catch my breath, though with my teenagers now driving themselves and managing their own schedules, I’ve reclaimed slivers of time—even as my bank account hemorrhages for their pre-adult needs. 

The reading habit I cultivated in them years ago has blossomed into something precious: conversations about books we’ve loved or hated. 

Research told me to talk to my infants constantly, but monologuing to a non-verbal human felt absurd, so I read stories aloud and sang lullabies instead, their little brains absorbing rhythms and fractions through music. 

My son was reciting polysyllabic words by toddlerhood, while my daughter—who scaled her crib at nine months and gave me perpetual heart attacks—absorbed stories kinesthetically, listening while in constant motion. 

She still processes information brilliantly whether reading or listening. 

As preschoolers, they’d sometimes create the bedtime stories instead of hearing them; by middle school, they were collaborating on fan fiction online. 

Nothing compares to watching this love of stories spread through generations.

Ghostly Returns 
Ghostly Howls 
Book Two
Stephanie Hansen

Genre: Horror Romance
Publisher: Hypothesis Books
Date of Publication: 2/10/26
ISBN: 979-8245440408
ASIN: B0FSXRJLYY
Number of pages: 113 (novella)
Word Count: 25,000
Cover Artist: Miblart

Tagline: Irish Folklore meets Small Town US

Book Description: 

Strange visitors have appeared in Ethel, their clothes and mannerisms jarring against the familiar rhythm of the coastal town. The woman in Orla and Dave's spare room speaks in archaic phrases and marvels at electric lights, while the silent man staying with Molly and Cormac carries a translucent device that glows with symbols no one recognizes.

As fog rolls in from the sea, bringing with it the now-familiar whispers and cold spots that signal another haunting, the four friends realize they must unravel the temporal mystery before them. The clock tower strikes at midnight, and both past and future hang in the balance.

*Contains mature themes, open door sex scenes, and mature language.

Books2Read      Amazon      BN     Apple       Kobo

Excerpt:

Three years ago, the small town of Ethel, VA, was rocked to its core when the lighthouse became a beacon for something an-cient and hungry. Every year since then, we’ve cast a protection spell, tying knots in rope while visualizing a protective shield, at the weathered tower a week before Samhain, our voices car-ried away by the salt-tinged wind. This year’s no different.

Cormac’s slender fingers intertwine with mine as we ap-proach Orla and Dave across the grassy shoreline. We’ve man-aged to mostly heal from the toxic tendencies of the past—the jealousy, the competition, the midnight arguments that left scorch marks on the walls. Magical abilities complementing each other have a tendency to do that, like puzzle pieces finally finding their fit.

The mid-October sunlight glints off Cormac’s long, blonde hair, turning each strand into spun gold against the blue sky. We don’t meet here at night anymore, not since the shadows began to move independently of their owners. She gently squeezes my hand in reassurance, slight crow’s feet crinkling around her eyes with a smile that blooms one of my own in return. She tries to continue her broody exterior by wearing a scuffed leather jacket with silver buckles, but her face is too full of light these days to continue the façade.

“It’s about time you two showed up,” Orla says as she wraps me in a hug, her dark curls tickling my cheek. Her automatic soul-possessing ability takes hold straight away, a warm honey-like sensation flooding through my veins. I feel her anxiety—sharp and metallic—and she feels mine. While hers is about the treacherous events three years ago, mine is about the small vel-vet box burning a hole in my pocket, holding a moonstone ring for Cormac.

I know she’ll say yes; I hear Orla’s thoughts echo in my mind like a whisper in an empty room. To assuage her anxiety, I push forward images of Cormac and me from earlier in the morning. We’d stayed in bed, all consumed with passionate kisses and bodies moving in rhythmic dance together; sheets twisted around our ankles, the taste of her still on my lips.

Okay, okay, you’re excused for being late, Orla sends through the connection, her mental voice tinged with amuse-ment. Then it’s gone as Dave, tall and broad-shouldered in his flannel-lined jacket, gently pulls her out of the hug. He com-plements her power as Cormac complements mine, his deep voice carrying over the crash of waves against the shore.

“Did you actually expect them to be on time?” he asks her, his breath visible in the chilly air.

Orla looks at me, her eyes sparkling, and we snicker like schoolgirls sharing a secret.

“Some of us know how to keep a woman in bed,” I goad Dave, watching his cheeks flush crimson.

Before he can respond, Cormac says, “Guys, I think you should come over here,” her voice tight with tension.

She’s rounding the other side of the lighthouse, her boots crunching on the path. I jog over to her, worried she might be in danger, the wind whipping my hair across my face. Once I’m next to her, I’m struck with frozen terror, my breath catching in my throat. As Orla and Dave’s footsteps catch up, I try to count the sleeping bodies sprinkled around the remnants of a bonfire.

Sprawled across the damp autumn ground lies a peculiar as-sembly of slumbering figures—some adorned in woolen cloaks and flowing medieval gowns; others draped in shimmering flapper dresses and tweed vests and flat caps. The incongruous sight sends a chill down my spine, conjuring memories of that haunted night years ago when phantoms in pheasant feathers and tarnished armor materialized from the mist. Could history be repeating itself? I draw Cormac closer, my fingers tightening protectively around her shoulder. A bitter wind sweeps through the clearing, rustling crimson leaves and stirring the strange visitors from their dreams.

“Oh, halloo,” calls a woman with cascading silver-streaked hair that catches the morning light. Deep laugh lines frame her eyes as she rises gracefully to her feet, brushing debris from her embroidered skirts. Her button nose crinkles above heart-shaped lips as she smiles warmly. “I’m Marie. We weren’t expecting anyone so early.”

“You’re days early for Samhain,” Orla informs her, her voice carrying across the clearing.

“Samhain!” exclaims a younger woman with stylish curls and bright eyes. She leaps up, clapping her hands together with enthusiasm, silver bracelets jingling at her wrists. “I’m Florian. I absolutely adore a proper shindig.”

Another woman glides forward, her tweed vest firmly hug-ging her body. She loops her arm possessively around Florian’s slender waist and extends her other hand, adorned with bangles that glint in the early light. “Kiersten,” she offers, her voice me-lodic but guarded.

“Molly, and this is Cormac,” I reply, mirroring Kiersten’s protective gesture by drawing Cormac against my side, feeling her warmth through her leather jacket.

“Might there be lodgings available in your village?” Marie inquires, her eyes scanning the distant rooftops visible through the thinning trees.

“Not anywhere that could accommodate a gathering of this size,” Dave responds, his weathered hands resting on his leather belt.

A tall woman with anxious eyes approaches Orla hesitantly. A man with sandy blond hair clutches her trembling arm as she nervously smooths out her skirt. Dave and I don’t miss her flinch with his touch, juxtaposing their closeness. It resurfaces memories from when Dave and Orla couldn’t touch. “Hello, I’m Claudia,” she murmurs, “and may I present Alex?” Her delicate fingers twist together nervously while Alex soothingly rubs her goosebump-covered arms.

“Orla and Dave,” Dave announces, nodding curtly. When Alex extends his hand to Orla, Dave intercedes and shakes his hand, so Orla doesn’t have to.

“Um, Orla,” Alex interjects, his deep voice surprisingly gen-tle. “Pardon our intrusion, but might Claudia ask you something rather personal?”

“Of course, what troubles you?” Orla asks, leaning forward with interest.

“Do you perceive others’ thoughts when you make physical contact?” Claudia whispers, her pale cheeks blooming with a rosy flush that spreads to the tips of her ears.

“Perhaps we should escort this assemblage to our home-stead,” Dave interrupts, clearing his throat. “We have several spare rooms. Not sufficient for everyone, but certainly prefera-ble to camping outside.”

“We’d be eternally grateful,” Marie responds, casting a con-cerned sideways glance at Claudia’s distressed expression. “A proper rest would benefit us tremendously after our... unusual journey.”


About the Author:

Stephanie Hansen is a PenCraft and Global Book Award Winning Author as well as an Imadjinn finalist. Her debut novella series, Altered Helix, released in 2020. It hit the #1 New Release, #1 Best Seller, and other top 100 lists on Amazon. It is now being adapted to an animated story for Tales. Her debut novel, Replaced Parts, released in 2021 through Fire & Ice YA and Tantor Audio. It has been in a Forbes article, hit Amazon bestseller lists, and made the Apple young adult coming soon bestsellers list. The second book in the Transformed Nexus series, Omitted Pieces, released in 2022. Her debut spicy paranormal romance, Ghostly Howls, released 2023. Her debut historical magical realism, Armored Hours, released 2024. The Armored Hours sequel, Guarded Time, released 2025 and the Ghostly Howls sequel, Ghostly Returns, released 2026. She is a member of the deaf and hard of hearing community, so she tries to incorporate that into her fiction.










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Monday, March 9, 2026

Release Day Blitz A Sea of Ships and Souls by Jordan S. Keller #ReleaseDayBlitz #YAFantasy


A Sea of Ships and Souls
Jordan S. Keller

Genre: Young Adult Fantasy Adventure 
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Date of Publication: March 9, 2026
ISBN: 978-1509264612
ASIN: B0GBY23QNF
Number of pages: 242
Word Count: 83,000
Cover Artist: The Wild Rose Press

Tagline: A Dread Pirate’s curse. A Sea Sprite’s secrets. And one boy who dares the tides.

Book Description: 

As the son of two washers, Jace Kit has only dreamed of adventure—until a fabled Sea Sprite washes ashore and turns his world upside down.

The Sea Sprite needs a hero to save the Ocean Queen from a ruthless pirate terrorizing the Remos Ocean. With a legendary trinket and handmade boat to his name, Jace is her only hope—even though he knows the trinket is fake.

With Jace's skilled sailing and the Sea Sprite’s magic, the pair enters a competition to win a ship capable of catching the pirate. The only thing darker than the depths are the Sea Sprite’s secrets, and Jace realizes too late his adventure might cost a price too high to pay.

Wild Rose Press      Amazon     BN     Indie Bound     Walmart

Excerpt:

The cove was calm when Jace arrived. The horrors carried in by the damaged ship were washed away with the tides overnight. The clear waters took Jace’s breath away, as it did every time, and for a moment, he forgot his purpose for coming. Legends told of angry Sea Sprites luring sailors into the water and returning their skulls to empty offering bowls. Their mystic lullabies compelling sailors to leap headfirst off their ships.

It wouldn’t take a magic song to lure Jace. He’d followed the stunning refraction of water and sky without question. Without hesitation. Without regret. The compass needle in his soul never wavered from the water, his true north.

Jace stepped toward the shore, his leather boots sinking into the sand and his gaze unwavering from the water. I’ll stop at the waterline, he reminded his body. His soul pouted at the refrain, and his legs stopped an inch from the foamy wave cresting the sand. As the wave pulled back into the ocean, the distance returned some sense to Jace. He couldn’t walk himself into the middle of the ocean without risking ruining his boots, which his parents worked hard to get him. Nor could he get far enough into the cove with just his legs to satisfy his hunger.


About the Author:

Jordan S. Keller is the award-winning author of the Ashes Over Avalon superhero trilogy, the cyber-punk dystopian Failing Gravity, and oceanic adventure A Sea Of Ships and Souls. She is a type-one diabetic, a serial dog walker, and is impatiently waiting for her favorite bands to visit. She lives in Cincinnati, Ohio with her husband and their critters. 

You can visit her online at: 








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Monday, March 2, 2026

In the Kitchen with Author Melissa Widmaier - Recipe Melissa’s Famous Salmon Tacos #InTheKitchen


Writing is my calling, but cooking is my love language. I enjoy spending time in the kitchen making delicious things for my friends and family. I have quite a few tested and tasted recipes that I harken back to in a pinch; however, this one has to be in my top 10 for how easy and yummy it is.


Melissa’s Famous Salmon Tacos

This recipe can be as fancy or as lazy as you want it to be, but it is always tasty.

Ingredients (for about 4 servings)

Salmon (4 canned in water or 2 fresh-baked filets)
Half a pack of small potatoes (red or white is best)
A bottle of salsa verde
2 tablespoons of lime juice
Chipotle seasoning (to taste)
Red pepper flakes (to taste)
Paprika (to taste)
Cheese of choice (jack, cotija, or cheddar are nice)
Taco of choice (hard or soft, corn or flour)
Handful shredded red cabbage/lettuce (optional)
Fresh cilantro (optional)
Sour cream (optional)

Instructions:

1. Wash the potatoes and prick them with a fork.
2. Boil, bake, or microwave the small potatoes until tender. (Most microwaves have a nifty potato setting now; just add 2 tablespoons of water.)
3. Move the potatoes to a bowl and carefully tear them to pieces with a fork.
4. Add the canned (drained) or baked salmon, mixing with a fork until the potatoes and fish are mashed together (but not overtly gooey).
5. Add the salsa verde, seasonings, and lime juice until well-combined.
6. Scoop into your taco of choice and top with cheese, cabbage/lettuce, sour cream, cilantro, etc.—whatever makes your heart happy.

I make this all the time—camping, potlucks, or just because I am craving it. I have even been super lazy and thrown everything in a crockpot on low. The recipe is foolproof.

It is the only fish dish my husband enjoys. Hope you get a kick out of it, too!

The Roses of Carterhaugh
Melissa Widmaier

Genre: Fantasy/Fairytale Retelling
Date of Publication: March 1, 2026
ISBN: 979-8-9877992-9-1
ASIN: B0G5SKM55R
Number of pages: 208
Word Count: 50K+

Tagline: A plucky 16th century Scottish lass saves a 14th century Scottish knight from a fairy kingdom of magical misfits.

Book Description: 

Love is immortal.

In a quiet souters village in Scotland, an earl’s rebellious daughter stirs up trouble with the fabled faeries known as the Daoine Sìth. Can she lift the veil on a darkened past and rescue her knight from the seelie queen’s clutches?

Based on a beloved Child Ballad, this fairytale retelling mixes magic with devotion, leading our heroine and her loved ones on an adventure worth recounting in an enchanted glade or a royal hall.

Books2Read    Amazon    BN

Excerpt

Heartsick, the Lord of the Unseelie slipped from Carterhaugh through the portal oak. He materialized into Elphyne, trembling. There was someone he missed as much as Tam missed his father, and, like Old Thomas, he was never returning—to this realm or the mortal one.

He ambled through the pristine meadows and grasslands of his grandmother’s seelie kingdom and slipped easily into the forest that bordered his own.

Much of the Sìth folk gave him the space his rank was due, especially the ones who had known and feared his grandfather, Finveara. But the unseelie creatures found Alfarinn exhausting. They made a point of glaring with beady eyes and sharp hisses whenever he passed by. He was no Finveara.

It wasn’t until he reached the marshes that Alfarinn noticed something was odd. He stopped abruptly and looked around, hoping the stillness in the damp air was only the result of his sister’s mysterious cats mid-stalk.

His grey Sìth eyes settled on a horse head bobbing in the muddy waters, with a passenger in the form of a slimy snail. This could only be one particular kelpie. The Lord of the Unseelie groaned and approached his nosy subject.

“Your grandfather would have thrown a fireball at me for spying,” Ceol teased.

The silver beast pulled himself up out of the water and shook from snout to tail. It was a miracle that his pet snail did not fly off.

Alfarinn whipped the water from his clothes with a wave of his hand. “You admit to spying?”

“Perhaps a little.”

Ceol’s horse face split into an eerie, sharp-toothed grin as his monstrous body metamorphosized into the figure of a man. The kelpie usually graced the courts in faerie form but there were times that he retreated to the cool marshes to transform into his true nature. It was a face he only showed his kin, his master, and his victims.

“I’m just curious, my lord. Why do you sulk about your holdings? Do you seek mischief? If so, I am eager to be of assistance.”

Alfarinn snickered as the smiling kelpie delicately hid his precious creature in his enchanted pocket. “Are you now? Actually, I could use a little help, Ceol.”

The kelpie pranced about, waving his arms wildly.

Alfarinn raised a hand in warning. “This will require more stealth than anything, Ceol. I will not have you mauling anyone for this task.”

The kelpie deflated and gave a resentful pout. “But I haven’t mauled anyone in ages!” he whined.

Alfarinn did his best to hide his shiver. Kelpies were forbidden from attacking other fae, but the souls of mortals were fair game. Tam fit into both categories, much to the kelpie population’s displeasure.

“What if I told you that this mischief would be wrought on a certain earthly knight? Would you be willing to play my game to be rid of him?”

The kelpie reverted back to his horse form and danced fluidly around his master. “Pretty Tam’s flesh is tantalizing, and his soul would be delicious. If you want to be rid of him, let me have him. I'll not tell a Sìth it was you.”

Alfarinn scowled, channeling his grandfather’s energy. The kelpie recoiled.

“No, Ceol. The queen would fly into a rage the likes of which we've never seen.”

The creature’s eye fixed on the Sìth lord, gleaming maliciously. “Are you afraid of her, Lord of the Unseelie?” It was a declaration more than a question, a search for weakness in the chain of command.

Alfarinn squinted and folded his arms over his chest, pulling himself up to full height. “Afraid! No. I am her grandson,” he reminded with a smug smile. “She loves kin above all else. You, on the other hand, council member or not, would do well to keep in her good graces.”

Ceol swallowed and quickly changed back into his less-intimidating configuration. “Noted.”

He looked about the marsh for a moment, perhaps weighing his choices, and fondled the poor snail in his pocket. After some moments avoiding his exasperated master, the kelpie turned and nodded his acceptance.

“So, what exactly must I do to annoy the tasty mortal boy?”


About the Author:

Melissa is an award-winning author on the spectrum who likes to mix a little ink with her magic. Her books focus on the familial bond and exploring the natural world. When not manipulating words, she can be found camping with a camera in hand, getting lost among things green and growing. She lives in Arizona with her husband, three boys, a dapper old cat, and a rambunctious corgi.



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