February 2024 – Ink-Stained Wretches

By Helen Currie Foster

The three burros who live with Alice MacDonald Greer, lawyer/amateur sleuth protagonist of my Texas Hill Country legal thrillers, bear a strong resemblance to the three burros who rule our patch of the Hill Country.

We manage our small piece of the planet for native grasses and birds under the county Wildlife Management Program. Today I received our spring box of blue grama and buffalo grass seed, for re-seeding bare patches with native grass. (More below on bare patches.)

The burro idea sprang full-blown into life at a wedding on the banks of the Blanco River years ago, when we were enchanted to see docile and well-behaved burros with panniers on their backs full of cold bottles of water and beer, being led to the guests by docile and well-behaved teenagers. Immediately I envisioned myself trekking up and down our fields leading a burro bearing panniers of grass seed which can be (believe it or not) heavy. As a bonus we knew the burros could help keep down tall dry grass–a concern during fire season.

**The Platonic Ideal? Belle, a lovely donkey painted by Helene Feint.** https://www.singulart.com/en/art-galleries/france/normandie/honfleur/feint-h%C3%A9l%C3%A8ne-16660

So just before Christmas we bought two smallish burros from the wedding venue, with certificates attesting to their conformation, heritage, and names (Amanda and Caroline, mother and daughter). Both were elegant, with classically lovely faces, straight legs, and dainty hooves.

Per Random House Unabridged, “burro” is “a small donkey, especially one used as a pack animal in the Southwestern U.S.” (We use donkey interchangeably.) Let me say for the record that the “pack animal” concept went nowhere with Amanda and Caroline–they were deeply insulted at the idea of any burden on their backs. They made it crystal clear that they had not signed on to work. Still–they were decorative, and they ate down the grass.

But on Christmas morning when we looked across the pasture, my spouse asked, his voice disturbed: “How many donkeys do you see?” …Three.

The newcomer was shorter, pudgier, and male–well, an “altered” boy. Knock-kneed, chipmunk-cheeked, he seemed to keep a chewable cud in each cheek. He’d climbed through a fence to visit. We found his owner and bought him. Given his appearance (and the snootiness of Amanda and Caroline) we gave him a new and more dignified name: Sebastian.

While Amanda and Caroline are ladies of leisure, Sebastian has taken on two jobs. First, he’s our designated greeter. He brays a loud greeting as you drive through the gate. He brays again to salute the dawn (or pre-dawn).

Second, Sebastian has declared himself the official guard-donkey. In particular, he’s hell on canines. Pre-donkeys there were cows on the property–and coyotes. But no coyote dares invade Sebastian’s turf. He’d be happy to kick a coyote into the next county. Donkeys are shockingly fast on their feet and could easily catch a coyote. Earlier this year I found Sebastian standing triumphant and motionless in the middle of the dirt road, ears back, head up, posture stubborn, hooves planted–a picture of victory. Visible in the dirt? Tracks of a mama coyote with one pup, who’d erroneously strayed into forbidden territory. The tracks indicated a frantic exit. As he stood in the road, surveying his domaine, Sebastian was announcing, “I’m walkin’ here.”

Random House Unabridged includes a definition of “donkey” as “a stupid, silly or obstinate person.” Donkeys are not stupid. They are curious, persistent, intelligent, and acute of hearing. Are they silly? Well…Amanda and Caroline are aloof and standoffish, but Sebastian wants to play. With a bucket between his teeth, he’ll run over and whop Amanda on the hindquarters with it, then stand there. He so wants her to join in his favorite game, which is apparently called “I’ve got the bucket, now you come bite the bucket and yank it away, then you can hit me with it, then I will chase you, and then…?!?!?” So far, the girls steadfastly refuse to cooperate. When whopped with the bucket, Amanda chooses to bite Sebastian instead of biting the bucket. Maybe that’s a different game?

Obstinate? Oh, yes. They are persistent in searching for ways to get past the gate into the yard and eat the roses. They’re also very hard to stop when they want to go somewhere, and very hard to move when they intend to stay put.

Re-seeding bare patches? These three donkeys pick a spot, then take turns rolling on their backs until the grass gives up and a circular bare spot remains. Then, after rain, they race to the soggy bare spot and roll on their backs until they’re thoroughly muddy. Hence my constant race to re-seed bare patches.

Donkeys model companionship. Indeed, they need it. Despite their occasional spats, Sebastian, Amanda and Caroline spend their days and nights together, never more than about 100 feet apart.

Writers have to take breaks, or go nuts. https://www.masterclass.com/articles/taking-a-break-from-writing. I’m in that boat right now, because I’m almost but not quite finished with Book 9 in the Alice MacDonald Greer Mystery series. As is well known, writers in such circumstances can be subject to breakdowns–small rages, or tears, or snappishness, or overdosing on Cheezits.

I can recommend burro therapy. As I stand next to Sebastian, stroking his neck, and he leans back against me, I feel my heartrate slow and my breathing relax. Maybe that’s how burros feel too? Maybe this is their secret advantage, a resource that helps explain their long presence on the planet? Here’s how Alice puts it in Ghost Cat:

“Donkey hugs meant leaning into their sides, stroking their necks. The donkeys instantly settled, leaning back against her. The weird thing, Alice thought, was how the donkeys settled her. They weren’t dogs, loyal and needy, or cats, neutral and non-needy. Donkeys were ancient residents of the planet, tough, independent, curious herd animals with their own inner life.”https://amzn.to/431skan

And in Ghosted : “Finding herself needing a little burro therapy, …Alice stood in her driveway surrounded by the three. At the moment she was brushing Big Boy. He leaned against her; the warmth felt good in the late morning chill. Those eyelashes, those soft ears, Alice thought. No wonder Titania fell in love with Bottom.” https://bit.ly/3OXu3rm

Indeed, Queen Titania, seeing Bottom with his head magically changed to an ass’s head, says,

“I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again.

Mine ear is much enamour’d of thy note;

So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;

And thy fair virtue’s force perforce doth move me

On the first view to say, to sweat, I love thee.”

A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act III, Scene II.

So if you’re in need of burro therapy, fellow writers, come on out. Bring some carrots!

Francine Paino, a.k.a. F. Della Notte

I sat with my cup of café e latte and looked around. The paper with the picture on the kitchen table intrigued me. No, I thought. Gotta clean this place first. I chugged my cup of coffee, grabbed my cleaning supplies, and began. While I twisted and turned, scrubbing granite countertops to a gleam, something whizzed past my eye – a cup of espresso splashed its contents into the air, and then all of it dissolved into nothingness.

My heart sank. Persistence had arrived. No passive muse, this one. She was furious. She’d been prodding me for days to try my hand at baking a gluten-free King Cake. Lent was approaching, and with that came Fat Tuesday. One of the charming Southern traditions is the King Cake, but I’d completely blocked out Persistence.

Again, I refused to budge. “I will finish cleaning this kitchen. I can’t work in a messy environment.” I set the King Cake recipe on the counter, hoping that would mollify her, and moved on to preparing the guest room for my grandson’s weekend stay. Then, I cleaned the bathrooms while Persistence harassed me.

She followed me from room to room, perching on any surface that caught her fancy, reminding me how much she had held back during the trying times of dealing with my mother’s passing, arranging her burial in New York, and taking care of my husband during his major back surgery. But now, things were settling down, and she refused to be silent any longer.

Times up. Hubby is recovering, and you are disgraceful. Wretched imposter, how can you put the elimination of dust bunnies before writing?

“Oh, shut up!” I whispered, not wanting to wake my husband with my side of a conversation with . . . .?

Persistence wasn’t having any of it. Have some backbone. Stop whispering. If he wakes up, you can always say you were talking to Miss Millie.

I laughed despite my annoyance. “Touché,” I answered. After all, Miss Millie is the smartest feline creature we’d ever adopted. Sometimes, her expressions are so human-like that it’s uncanny. But I digress.

“Have another espresso, and chill out,” I grumbled.

I’m tired of waiting; Persistence shot back. And so the conversation, or the argument, went on for another hour. In the lotus position, Persistence sat on the bathroom counter, sipped her coffee, stared at me through the mirror, and then pointed to something on the sink.

You missed that.

I looked down. Sure enough, I’d missed a spot. “I thought you wanted to stop cleaning and get into the kitchen to bake that cake,” I muttered.

The sooner you finish your obsession with domestic tasks, the sooner you can be creative. Now hurry up.

Jump ahead an hour. House chores done, I gathered all the ingredients for the King Cake. Following the directions carefully but substituting gluten-free flour for all-purpose wheat flour, I mixed, stirred, folded, and kneaded everything into a dough, covered it, and allowed it to rise – as best as gluten-free can. While I waited, I scribbled the first part of this essay, which made Persistence happy.

About time. I heard her snarky tone.

An hour later, I rolled the dough into a 16 x 20 sheet. Trust me, if you haven’t done it, rolling gluten-free dough is a challenge. I then spread the cinnamon, sugar, almonds, and raisins over the surface and rolled it into a long loaf. (the recipe says to make it into a ring – gluten-free dough isn’t as malleable, so I didn’t try that). Into the oven, it went.

While it baked, I stuck out my tongue at Persistence and cleaned up my baking mess. “And don’t you dare throw another cup,” I warned while Miss Millie sat at my feet, staring up at me. If she could use words, I’m sure she’d have asked, Who are you talking to?

Forty-five minutes later, I pulled my creation out of the oven. The top was a beautiful golden brown. Once it cooled, I sprinkled the Mardi Gras sugars colored gold (yellow), purple, and green over the top and cut a slice to taste. As my late mother-in-law used to say, “If the ingredients are good, it’s bound to taste good.” And it did, but the texture was too dense.

You see, said Persistence, sitting crossed leg on the countertop with another cup of espresso in her hand. Instead of cleaning, you should have spent more time assessing the necessary changes to accommodate gluten-free flour.

“Listen, Madame Know-it-all, some recipes do not adapt well to gluten-free flour. This is one of them. Eventually, I’ll try again, but this year, I’ll make Anginetti Cookies (Lemon Drops), sprinkle them with the colored sugars, and call them Francesca’s Mardi Gras cookies.”

Persistence smiled for the first time. Nice to see you using your right brain again. I’m sure they’ll be delicious. See ya soon, she said and disappeared.

“And next time, drink decaf espresso. You’re too high-strung for Caffeine.”

The tinkle of her laughter echoed through the house, with her words, Laissez les bon temps rouler.

***

Fat Tuesday and Ash Wednesday open book one in the Housekeeper Mystery Series, I’m Going to Kill that Cat. Lent arrives at St. Francis de Sales Church, and so does a new housekeeper and murder. Before we delve into the crime, we meet two people of deep faith who do not hide from the realities and the dark side of life.

Father Melvyn Kronkey is a devoted priest with a sharp intellect but a bit stuffy and standoffish. That changes with the arrival of Mrs. B., a widow of unwavering faith, a fiery temperament, and a talent for cooking, organization, and problem-solving.

She is outgoing and cares about people to the point of being nosy. Her expansive personality even makes cats respond and trust her—a lesson that Father Melvyn learns in dramatic fashion.

While these two opposites learn to work together, a missing cat drags them into an old feud, which unravels a potential scandal. Can murder be far behind?