For previous editions, go here.

“Who spread this rumor?” Dallas Jean fumed, shouting over the noise of the engine as Adelaide skidded around a corner.  “How did the press find out about it so fast?”

“Clementine Jane’s boss is the one let the cat out of the bag,” Adelaide reminded her over the squeal of the tires.  “Clementine Jane probably confided in him before we got to her at the office…”

“And the son of gun turned on her.”  Dallas Jean swore under her breath.  Then her eyes narrowed and her face darkened into a scowl.  “You know, this is all Norman’s fault.”

“We can’t prove it,” Adelaide reminded her, throwing the car into fifth gear.

Dallas Jean clutched the puppy as the car swerved around another tight turn.  “Maybe not in a court of law, but my gut says Norman stirred all this up.  Especially after the way he acted the other night.”  She peered down the road and cried out with glee, clapping her hands in suprise.  “Oh, Adelaide!  You’ve made me the happiest girl in the world!”

Adelaide grinned.  “I thought I might.”  Jerking the wheel, she skidded on two wheels into the parking lot of Miss Maisy’s Pie Shop.  With the puppy flopping in her arms like a stuffed animal, Dallas Jean was barreling towards the front door before the car had even stopped.  Throwing the door open, she dropped the puppy on Miss Maisy’s counter and gasped.

“I need one peanut butter, one butterscotch and one chocolate oreo ice cream pie stat!” she howled.  The puppy licked Miss Maisy’s flour covered hands as the elderly woman laughed.

“I saw the press conference.  I didn’t think it went that bad.  Is there something I missed?”

“The press conference wasn’t bad.”  Dallas Jean bared her teeth.  “I just have to deal with a bad…situation.”  The tiny silver bells on the door tinkled and Adelaide walked in.

“Are you in need of pie, too?” Miss Maisy asked, scratching the puppy’s ears.

Adelaide nodded.  “Coconut cream, blueberry and cherry, if you don’t mind.  A la mode on the fruit pies.”

Miss Maisy whistled.  “A la mode is serious.  I’ll hurry right out.”  Taking the puppy with her, she disappeared into the kitchen.  Luckily for Miss Maisy, the health inspector was her brother in law.

Collapsing at a gingham-cloth covered table, Dallas Jean propped her dropping face onto her elbows.  “What are we going to do, Adelaide?  How can we get back at Norman?”

“I personally prefer something violent,” Adelaide murmured.  “But I know that’s not the right thing to do.”

“It wouldn’t be good for the campaign,” Dallas Jean agreed.  She smiled up at Miss Maisy as she set three plates in front of her.  “Thanks, Miss Maisy.  Your pie always makes me feel better.”

“Pie is magic like that,” Miss Maisy agreed, setting down three plates in front of Adelaide.  Giving them a pitcher of both water and milk, she returned her attention to cooing at the puppy.

“That’s why I can’t wait until we open up my pie center,” Dallas Jean beamed, smacking her lips together as she shoved an enourmous bite of peanut butter pie in my mouth.  “Joy and love and frivolity for everyone!”

“Except Norman,” Adelaide snorted, stirring her ice cream into her warm blueberry pie.  “That man wouldn’t know a good pie if it slammed into his face.  He doesn’t have a happy or kind bone in his body.”

Dallas Jean’s eyes glittered.  “You know, Adelaide, that’s a really good point…”

——-

As her mother wondered what to do to Norman, Clementine Jane was busy figuring out how she could get away with slapping him.  Jerking her arm out of his grasp, she glared up at him.

“What do you want?” she hissed, crossing her arms.  “If you think you can keep me from talking to my father”–

“I would never do that.”  Norman’s smile could only be described as a leer.  “I wondered if you might be interested in a deal.”

“The press doesn’t make deals with campaigns,” Clementine Jane snapped automatically.  “You can’t buy me for good press.”

“I can generate good press,” Norman drawled, his face smooth and polite.  “What I need is your help.”

“Another wild goose chase?” Clementine Jane sneered.  “I almost got grounded for a year because of you, and I nearly lost my job.  I’m not playing your games anymore, Norman.”  She turned, ready to march away into the remnants of her mother’s crowd.

“What if I told you that I could give you evidence of your grandfather cheating?”  Norman called.  “What if I told you I had the evidence in my office?”

Clementine Jane’s shoulders stiffened.  Whirling around, she hurried over to him.  “What are you talking about?”

Norman smirked.  “I’ve been handling your family’s affairs for a long time, Clementine Jane.  There’s not a piece of paper that hasn’t crossed my desk.  Let’s just say that your grandfather’s ranch–your family’s trust funds–weren’t built on oil alone.”

Clementine Jane paled.  Her hand holding the reporter’s notebook quivered.  “Do you know what you’re saying?”

“The question is, do you know what you might be missing?  What kind of story you might turn away?  Think about it,” Norman purred, melting into the crowd with a small wave.  “You know where I’ll be.”

For the second time in several days, Clementine Jane wondered what the hell she was going to do.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  Tomorrow we have a new whimsical post and next week, more whimsical fun!  Stay tuned!

When Ben and I were in college, we were a rarity because we cooked three to four nights a week.

You don’t cook in college, friends and parents told us.  You study (parents), party (friends), get internships (parents) and go on road trips (friends.)

We still cooked.  We did plenty of studying, interning and road tripping (we weren’t really the party type.)  But we did plenty of cooking too.  And even though our skills were limited to quesadillas, grilled chicken on the George Forman and tuna casserole, a staple in the pre-Pond apartment was baked chicken with boxed macaroni and cheese.  And if it wasn’t Parmesan or bisquick chicken, it was cornflake chicken.

After two years of baked chicken, Ben went on a beef craze and developed an unholy passion for McDonald’s cheeseburgers that lasted until senior year.  And except for the occasional dish, our chicken was either grilled, fried, barbecued or stuffed in a taco or enchilada.

Until now.

As I admitted in my all about me post, we actually eat pretty healthy most of the time in the Pond.  Where we used to eat a lot more fried dishes (I grew up in Texas, ya’ll), we’ve cut those back and do a lot more baked and grilled, broiled and slow-cooked…

I’ve officially become boring and old. I need to go fry some chicken now.

But in my quest for new, healthy dishes, I brought back an old favorite.  Cornflake chicken.

Of course, me being me, I couldn’t leave well enough alone.  I had to improve and spiff up the recipe.  And in my newest issue of Women’s Health, I had seen a Katie Joel Lee recipe from her new cookbook about oven fried chicken using cornflake crumbs.

So I tried it, tweaking it a bit.  And I’m happy to say…

Cornflake chicken is once again a Pond staple.

This recipe has been Ben-approved.

Cornflake Oven Fried Chicken (based on Katie Joel Lee’s recipe)

2-3 cups crushed cornflakes

1/2 cup Dijon Mustard (or more if needed)

4 chicken breasts, tenderized and sliced into thin strips

Parchment paper

Onion powder and garlic powder to taste

1) Heat oven to 400 degrees.  Line baking pan with parchment paper and spray with cooking spray.

2) Dip chicken breasts into Dijon mustard–don’t be skimpy–then roll in cornflake crumbs.  Place on pan.  Repeat until done.

3) If desired, sprinkle on seasonings.  I forgot to do this but will do it next time.

4) Bake at 400 degrees for 15- 20 minutes until chicken isn’t pink.  It’ll be real soft and tender, so don’t let that fool you.  Serve with ketchup or barbecue sauce and macaroni and cheese.

Or whatever else you like.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a new Dallas Jean tomorrow and Saturday, more whimsical fun!  Stay tuned!

To read the previous editions, go here.

“Vet school?” Frankie repeated, her eyes wide.  “He’s been demented that long?”

“I’m telling the story here,” Percy snapped.  “Anyway, when he was a”–

Suddenly, the steel door burst open.  In the shadows, Mr. Pemberely’s yellow eyes glowed.  “Hello?  Who’s there?”

“Hide,” Percy hissed, shoving the girls behind a tall rack of hamster cages.  “When I go in the other room, run out the front door of the shop.  It’s open.”

“It’s open?” Frankie repeated, glaring at Birdie.  “You mean we could have just walked in?  We didn’t have to sneak around and”–

“Hello?” Mr. Pemberely called.  “Who’s there?”

“It’s just me, Mr. Pemberely!”  Percy’s hoarse voice cracked.

“Percy?”  The yellow eyes narrowed in the shadows.  “What are you doing here?  I thought you went home.”

“I did, well, I was sir,” Percy stuttered.  “But I forgot my–er–watch, and I thought I best come back and get it…”

“So you wouldn’t be late in the morning,” Birdie whispered as Percy bobbed his head.

“So you–I mean I–wouldn’t be late in the morning,” Percy repeated, his cheeks turning pink.

The yellow eyes stared at him for a moment, the slitted black pupils narrowing to a thin line.  “Percy, why are you acting so strange?”

Percy’s eyes flicked toward Birdie.  She shrugged.  Frankie buried her face in her hands and shook her head.

“It’s a girl, sir,” Percy stuttered, his cheeks flaming now.  “You see, I was just”–

“Say no more, my dear boy!” Mr. Pemberely boomed, his laughter ringing out through the quiet store.  The tiny hyenas cackled along with him in shrill bursts.  Many of the dogs pawed at their ears and the kittens hissed at the sound.

“I was young once,” Mr. Pemberely continued.  The hair on Birdie’s neck rose as Sassy began to growl.  “I understand these things.  While you’re here, my dear boy, come and look at my newest development.  I think you’ll find it quite…interesting.”  He chortled, the yellow eyes disappearing into the dark room.

Percy remain rooted to the floor, a ridiculous smile frozen to his face.  He waited a moment then whispered without turning his head, “Meet me at the bench under the magnolia tree in the park.  I’ll tell you the story there.”  With his back curved even lower, he scurried into the dark room after Mr. Pemberely.  The door slammed shut with a metallic bang.

“I can’t believe the front door was open the entire time!” Frankie slammed her elbow into Birdie’s ribs as she struggled to her feet.  Glaring at her back, Birdie pushed herself up with one hand, clutching Sassy’s leash in the other.

“How was I supposed to know that?” she hissed, rushing to the front door as Sassy ran after her.  She glanced down, her brow furrowed.  “What happens if some of the animals get out?”

Frankie shrugged.  “Apparantly they come and go as they please.  I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Birdie nodded and jerked the door open.  Just as she had suspected, several dogs and kittens trailed out, followed by a few foolish and curious parakeets and hamsters.  The three ran down the sidewalk, glancing around as shadows danced under the streetlights.  Finally, out of breath and red-faced, they collapsed on the bench.

“So, as I was saying”–

Frankie screamed and Birdie grabbed Sandy.  A pale curved figure scurried out of the shadows, waving his hands.  “It’s just me!  Percy!  Don’t scream!”

“How did you get here before we did?” Frankie panted, holding her chest.  “We ran.”

“I ran faster.”  Percy shrugged.  “Do you want to hear the story or not?  You were smart to release those animals.  Mr. Pemberely sent me after them.  But he’ll expect me to return soon, so I can’t stay long.”

“I thought animals could come and go as they pleased,” Birdie said, her voice suspicious.

Percy shrugged.  “Apparently, not tonight.  I don’t make the rules, I just follow them.  Do you want to hear the story or not?”

“That’s a stupid question.”  Birdie snorted.  Percy stared at her blankly and she rolled her eyes.  “We would love to hear the story.  Please tell it.”

Percy’s large head bobbed up and down.  “Anyway, during vet school Mr. Pemberely wasn’t very popular.  He had a lot of strange theories and beliefs, and was quite a loner.  So he spent a lot of time in the lab, doodling around.  One day, he got an idea.  He wondered that if animal parts, like pig hearts and such could be used in medicine for humans, if human attributes like singing and language and personality could be put in animals.  And if animal attributes, like smell or sight, could be given to humans through a chemical enhancer.”

“Oh God,” Birdie whispered.  Frankie buried her face in her hands for a second time.   Sassy growled, her tiny white teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

“Rather than work on cadavers, Mr. Pemberely decided to try the experiments himself….” Percy trailed off.  “The scientific explanation is really complicated and difficult to understand…”

“Summarize, please,” Birdie instructed, as though she were a teacher dealing with a remedial student.

“Essentially, Mr. Pemberely tried to recreate the chemical attributes of personality with the attributes of an animal’s personality, like a cat’s ability to land on it’s feet or a dog’s smell.  Unfortunately, he got the chemicals mixed up in the lab.  He injected the animals with a placebo and himself with the animal chemicals.  But what he didn’t expect was not only would he gain the animal’s attributes, but it’s features.”  His mouth thinned into a line.  “That’s what he wants to do with his pet shop.  He wants to create a world of pets that have feelings, personalities, languages, arts, sports….like little miniature humans.”

“We already knew that,” Birdie said impatiently.  “We know he was crazy.”

Percy’s eyes bored into them.  “But did you know he wants them to turn humans into animals like him?”

Frankie sputtered, “He can’t do that!  It’s ridiculous.  How is a tiny elephant going to give me a dog’s sense of smell?”

“A tiny elephant can’t,” Percy pointed out.  “A big one can.”

Birdie narrowed her eyes.  “I don’t like the way you said that.”

Percy shook his head.  “Didn’t you wonder what he was doing here?  Isn’t it obvious?”

“You can’t create an elephant,” Frankie snorted.  “I don’t care how good of a chemist you are.”

“No, but the man owns a pet shop where animals roam without a cage, with distinct personalities and that can be seen and not seen,” Birdie mused, eyeing Percy.  “He’s got a plan, doesn’t he?  A bigger plan than the shop.”

Percy nodded, his face solemn.  “A much bigger plan.”

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  Tomorrow we have a new recipe and Friday, a new Dallas Jean!  Then more whimsical fun this weekend!  Stay tuned!

On a bright and sunny Saturday,

When neither of us have anything pressing to do.

You look at me and grin,

“Want to see what’s down that road?”

In a ponytail and dance pants,

I follow you out the door.

The air is crisp and the sun is shining,

And we’ve never gone this far down the road before.

The miles fly by,

The city traffic fades away,

And soon it’s just you and me,

On a long stretch of Texas highway.

The music is blaring,

The wind is blowing through our hair.

You nod to a tiny white Mexican cafe on the side of the road,

and ask, “Want to stop there?”

And inside the small cafe,

there’s a sense of that special magic.

The special magic that comes from a hole-in-the-wall with incredible food and people,

With the same locals that come day after day,

A secret that is kept close,

And only the lucky can find.

Although it’s not on the menu or a special of the day,

they giddily whip up blackened tilapia tacos for me and nachos for Ben.

With fresh salsa, refried beans, corn tortillas and an apple pie sizzling in a fajita skillet,

It’s as close to heaven as you can be.

And before you know it,

We’re joking with the owner,

Sharing stories with his daughter,

And the hours slip away into the afternoon.

Bidding goodbye to our new friends,

Our full bellies stretching at the seams,

We drive off into the blinding afternoon sun.

With my feet on the dashboard and my hair whipping in the cool breeze,

We sing and talk and laugh,

And the wheels roll down the road.

And then the city blinks overhead,

The miles slow as the traffic jams around us,

And the open road turns to a crawling one dotted with lights and people,

Exchanging freedom for routine and demands,

Adventure for shopping and errands.

But as we pull in the driveway,

Ben looks at me and grins.

“I think next weekend,

We may have to go down the road again.”

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  Tomorrow we have a new Pemberely Pet Shop story and Thursday, a delicious recipe!  Friday a new Dallas Jean and Saturday, more whimsical fun!  Stay tuned!

Hello, Invisible Friends.  Bear here.

You may not be able to hear it, but I am wuffling in dismay.

Why? Because I am mistreated.

I am unappreciated.

I am unloved.  Wuffle, wuffle, wuffle.

You see, when Ben’s parents came down to celebrate his birthday, they had all sorts of delicious treats.

Cupcakes…

Krispy Kreme….

Blueberry Muffins…

Blueberry Pie…

Homemade oatmeal raisin cookies…

BBQ and steak…

And they didn’t share.

Wuffle, wuffle, wuffle.

Ok, so maybe they gave me some bbq turkey.  And brisket.  And chicken.  And more turkey.  And beans.

But I still didn’t get any pie.  Or cupcakes.  Or muffins.

Wuffle, wuffle, wuffle, wuffle.

While I wuffle, you can read Miss Pickles.  For the previous editions, go here.

To read the original Miss Pickles published book, go here.

Meanwhile, I’m going to stay here.  Without any pie or cupcakes.

I’m so mistreated.

Wuffle, wuffle, wuffle.

—————————————————————————————————————————

Deciding to go to Forlorn Falls didn’t take long.

Figuring out how to get there, however, was another matter entirely.

Spreading out a old, yellowed map across the Seabreeze’s oak table, Miss Pickles and Ladybug peered at the ancient ink drawings.

“I think we should go down the river,”Miss Pickles announced, her eyes glittering.  “I’m sure I’ve got canoes and kayaks in here somewhere…”  She began to dig in her pink handbag.

The Ladybug shook her head.  “That will take forever.  The smartest thing is to go by air.  If we take the lift that runs through the jungle…”

The Seabreeze ground her beak together.  “The lift can be unreliable in this part of the jungle,” she murmured.  “The train might be the fastest…”

“The train?” Miss Pickles protested.

“Isn’t the conductor a bit crazy?” Ladybug questioned, her black brow furrowed.

“Canoeing is much more fun than a train,” Miss Pickles murmured, still digging in her handbag.

“Pardon me,” Mason interrupted, seeing as this could go on for an eternity, “But isn’t the most important thing time?  Shouldn’t we pick the fastest route?”

“And the safest,” Don added, who had begun to hyperventilate at the thought of canoeing down rapids.

“And the one nearest food,” Ralph chirped.  Everyone turned to look at him.  “What?” he asked, raising his shoulders.  “We need to eat.  We have to keep our strength up.”

Don eyed Ralph’s stomach.  “I don’t think you have a problem with that.”

“Mason has a point,” the Ladybug interjected.  “We’ve only got a few hours to get to the Falls and get the tears to the Giggler before my party tonight…So what is the fastest way?”

Miss Pickles shrugged, her head swallowed in the tiny pink bag.  The Seabreeze thought for a moment, then smiled.  “Let’s ask the map.”

Don narrowed his eyes.  “How do you ask the map?”

“So suspicious,” the Seabreeze muttered, fluttering her wings and flying across the room to a large shelf.  Plucking a large purple jar and a tiny green vial in her talons, she dashed back over to the map.  Mason watched as she sprinkled a shimmering white powder from the purple jar and dark blue crystals onto the map.  Perched on the table, she flapped her wings and cried:

North and south,

East and West,

Tell us, O’ Map,

Which path is best!

Don snorted.  “That is the cheesiest spell I’ve ever heard!”

“I miss cheese,” Ralph whimpered, rubbing his stomach.  “Cheese pizza…cheese enchiladas…cheese sandwiches…cheesy potatoes….”

Ignoring Ralph, Mason leaned forward and watched as the white and blue powders rolled across the map, gathering into a thin line.  Curling into a spiral, the powder swirled in a white and blue whirlpool in the center of the map.  As it swirled faster and faster, dark blue lines began to crinkle across the map, spreading like tiny cracks in glass.  With a brilliant flash, a dark blue line surrounded by two white borders shimmered across the map.  All the children leaned forward to look closer, their breath in their throats.

The Ladybug leaned across the table and raised her eyebrows.  “The Lost Path?”

The Seabreeze shrugged.  “You asked for the fastest way.”

“But the Lost Path?” the Ladybug pressed.  “How is that the fastest way?”

“Of course it is!” Miss Pickles cried, emerging from her purse with a triumphant grin.  She pulled out a golden compass and waved it in the air.  “For the best way to find a Lost Path is with a Found compass!  For then the Lost Path isn’t lost anymore, is it?”

Don leaned over to Mason.  “Is it just me, or is Ladybug Island like a giant opposite day?”

Mason nodded.  “It seems that way.”  He turned to the Seabreeze.  “Is the Lost Path dangerous?”

“All paths are dangerous.”  The Seabreeze’s blue eyes glittered.  “But with the compass, you stand a greater chance then most.”

For the second time this adventure, Mason reminded himself never to underestimate what was in a woman’s purse.

“You must hurry,” the Seabreeze continued, fluttering her wings as if to usher them out.  “There’s not much time.”

“She’s right,” the Ladybug replied.  “Come on, kids.  Let’s get organized outside.”

With a chorus of thank yous, the class filed out of the tree.  Mason glanced up at the Seabreeze, who winked at him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she mummured.  “And you don’t have to worry.”

Mason bit his lip.  “This all seems impossible,” he admitted.  “How are we going to find the Forlorn Falls, defeat the Giggler and get Ladybug back to her party in one night?”

The Seabreeze cocked her head, her golden feathers glimmering in the soft light of her treehouse.  “Before you came to Ladybug Island, did you ever think you’d see a parrot turn into a girl?  A entire Ladybug castle in the clouds?   Sharks that crave sugar instead of flesh?”

“No,” Mason admitted.  “But…”

“But remember this,” the Seabreeze mummured, perching on his shoulder.  Her golden talons dug in his skin.  “What is lost can be found and what is found can be lost.  But what is never found can never be lost.”

Wrinkling his brow, Mason turned to look at her.  “But that doesn’t”–  He started, whipping his head around.  “Where did she go?”

“She doesn’t like goodbyes,” Miss Pickles said gently, shoving the long map in her tiny handbag.  “They’ve always bothered her.”

“She bothers me,” Don muttered, crossing his arms.

“I can’t imagine why, duckie,” Miss Pickles replied cheerfully.  Plopping a fake patch over her eye and clipping on her giant hoop earrings, she pulled out her fake rhinestone-covered sword.  “Shall we go?”

“What did she mean?” Mason interrupted.  “What is never lost can never be found?  If you don’t know something is lost, how can you look for it?”

Miss Pickles shook her head.  “This is your adventure, duckie.  Your path.  It’s time you found out.”  Sweeping out her sword, she stormed out the door.  “To the Lost Path!”

“To my lost saniety,” Don muttered, following behind her glumly.

Glancing around the empty treehouse, Mason bit his lip. “Goodbye, Seabreeze.  Thank you.”

As he left, he could have sworn he heard the flapping of wings.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  Tomorrow we introduce some new Spring Creatures to the Pond, and Wednesday a new Pet story!  Then Thursday we have a delectable recipe, and Friday, a new Dallas Jean!  Stay tuned!

To read the previous editions, go here.

Dallas Jean Lee glared at the hand in the crowd.  “Who said that?”

Everyone turned.  Smirking and holding up a video camera, Clementine Jane’s boss raised his voice.  “So what about those rumors, Dallas Jean?  Do you have a past worthy of a Vegas showgirl?  Your grandfather’s poker games were legendary, after all.”

“Why you son of a–”  Dallas Jean snarled, lunging forward.  Adelaide clamped a hand over her mouth, gripping her arm and holding her back. “Dallas, don’t lose your temper!” she hissed in Dallas Jean’s ear.  “Especially in front of the press!”

Norman hid a smile as he watched Dallas Jean’s face turn puce.  The puppy in her arms whimpered.  The crowd murmured and whispered, their stares of adulation turning to suspicion.

It was all working out the way he had planned.

Dallas Jean rocked back on her heels, gritting her teeth.  Suddenly, her face transformed.  The blinding smile was back as she shook her hair over her shoulders.  “Listen, ya’ll,” she drawled, fluttering her eyelashes.  “You know me.  You know I’m more likely to deliver a puppy to you than a hand at the craps table.”

The crowd laughed and clapped.  Norman clenched his jaw as Grayson put his fingers in his mouth and whistled.

“And to be frank,” Dallas Jean cooed, cradling the puppy in her arms.  “My darling daughter, Clementine Jane, actually came to me the other day.”

Clementine Jane winced, keeping her head down and scribbling on her reporter’s notebook as hundreds of eyes darted her way.

“She came to me and she said”–  Dallas Jean paused.

“Oh Lord,” Grayson muttered, shaking his head with a grin.  “She’s gone into her Baptist mode.”

“Baptist mode?” Norman questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Pulpit thumping,” Grayson confirmed.  “She does this when she gets wound up.  She starts yelling and waving her arms around just like a Baptist preacher from the Deep South.  Any minute she’s going to have the crowd getting on their knees to let Dallas Jean into her heart.”

“Blasphemy,” Norman muttered sarcastically.

Grayson nodded in agreement, the stupidly pleased grin still on his face.  “You know, it’d almost be worth her winning,” he murmured.  “Just to see what she’d do with the town.”

Norman shot him an icy glare.  “Don’t ever let me hear you say that again.”

Shrugging, Grayson watched as his wife, even more wound up, stomped up and down on the Mustang seats.  “My poor daughter said that she had heard a filthy, vile, vicious rumor about me!” Dallas Jean howled.  The audience protested along with her.  Many were beginning to clap after each sentence, as though she was a great world leader.  “She had heard that my grandfather’s games were illegal!  That we were funneling money or drugs or something vile!”

Norman’s face drained of color.  This was not working out the way he had planned. “I can’t believe she talked about it publicly,” he muttered.

Grayson raised an eyebrow.  “It’s Dallas Jean.  What does she not do publicly?”

Norman watched in horror as Dallas Jean cradled the puppy in one arm, waving the other wildly in the air.  “And ya’ll know me.  Ya’ll know that I was raised in a good Christian home with upstanding values.  My daddy was a fine citizen of the community.”  Many older members of the crowd whooped and whistled.  “And I’m not going to let his name be sullied in the grave.  So along with the Dallas Jean Pie Center, I’ve got another campaign goal.”

Her smile could only be described as terrifying.  Clementine Jane felt icy fear grip her neck as her mother’s eyes roamed over the crowd.  “When I find who started these rumors, I will destroy them,” she murmured, her voice as loud as a shout.  “And after I destroy them, I shall bring back the beauty of my father’s games as he would have wanted them to be–a charity event benefiting the animal shelters and children’s centers of our fine town!  Gambling with a purpose!”

The crowd, who loved to gamble with or without a purpose, screamed and hollered with joy.  Many of the television crews winced as they swung their boom mikes around.

But to Norman, it was all white noise.  All he could hear as he stared at the reveling crowd was the thump of his own pulse in his ears.

Blowing kisses to the crowd, Dallas Jean Lee plopped back in the front seat as Adelaide threw the car in reverse and flew out of the main square.  Reporters chased after the car and camera crews turned to the crowd to get quotes for the evening news.  Still scribbling, Clementine Jane looked up to see a hand on her shoulder.  She scowled.  “What do you want?”

“Do you think Mom meant that?” her brother Beau asked, shading his eyes as he peered at his mother’s fading taillights.

“Who knows?” Clementine Jane shrugged.  “You know she’s crazy.”

“But do you really think she’ll help people?” Beau pressed.  “Or is this another crazy idea of hers?”

Clementine Jane shrugged a second time.  “Who cares?”

Beau pressed his lips together.  He nodded.  “Did someone really come to you with that rumor?”

“I can’t talk about it,” Clementine Jane replied curtly, flipping to a new page.  “Look, I got to go interview Dad.  Can we talk about this at home?”

“Sure,” Beau murmured as his sister barreled into the crowd after her father.  “Why not?”

Nudging people out of the way, Clementine Jane barreled her way through the crowd.  Smacking into a white button down shirt, she looked up and narrowed her eyes.

“I need to interview Dad,” she warned, glaring at Norman.  “You can’t stop me.  As the other candidate, it’s my right”–

“Of course, of course,” Norman replied, his white teeth blinding as he took her elbow and steered her away from the crowd.  “But first, I have something to discuss with you….”

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a week of whimsical fun coming up!

Twenty six years ago, I didn’t know you.

You were in Louisiana, I was in Texas.   You grew up in a Southern world of private schools, small-town friendships and the son of a businessman and teacher.  I grew up in Austin, world of live music, Mexican food, public school and cowboy boots, the daughter of an engineer.

On one of our first dates, you took me out with your friends to Fuddrucker’s on your birthday.  And you paid for your meal and mine.  As I watched all your friends inhale gobs of melted cheese on tops of thick burgers, I thought, “If he took me out with his three buddies on his birthday– a birthday that doesn’t include binge drinking or topless girls or illegal things like most 18 year old boys adore– before we’re even officially dating, he must be really special.  A true gentleman.”

With that in mind, I married you as fast as possible.

Since that first birthday, I’ve learned a lot.

I’ve learned you hate big parties, preferring only close friends and family.  In fact, you hate any attention on your birthday.

Don’t think of this as attention.  Think of it as a tribute.

You hate surprises but love getting your presents early.  Even five months early.  Especially when you pick them out.  And get to open them right away.

You love chocolate but don’t want to have a whole cake to yourself.  But you’ll never turn down brownies or chocolate chip cookies.

I prance around with a tiara, you prance around in grey shorts and Birkenstocks.

For you, a perfect day begins with Krispy Kreme or blueberry muffins, a gun or car show, an afternoon of lounging or napping followed by a tasty steak dinner topped with chocolate cake or blueberry pie and in bed by 7 p.m.

Anytime there are animals involved, it’s going to be a good day.

No matter where you are or what you’re doing, it’s going to be a good time.  A giggle-inducing time that causes me to snort water up my nose.

No matter how old you get, you’re still the same charming boy I fell in love with at Baylor.

Thank you for making me part of your last seven birthdays, darling.  I can’t wait for a lifetime more of celebrations.

Happy 26th Birthday!!!

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a new Dallas Jean tomorrow and a week of whimsical fun after that!

When Ben first saw this chicken dish at his mother’s over Christmas, he freaked out.

“What is that?” he scowled, peering into the dish.

“Chicken,” my mother in law replied, whisking the dish away from him and blocking the recipe.  She’s a smart woman.

“What’s in it?” he demanded.

“Chicken,” she hedged.

Ben raised an eyebrow.  “What else?” he demanded, poking at the dish with a fork.

“Olives, capers, white wine, spices….” she trailed off.

“What are the black things?” Ben sniffed, peering closer at the dish.

“Prunes,” my mother in law whispered.  She closed her eyes and braced herself.

“PRUNES?” Ben bellowed.  “You want me to eat prunes?  Why would you put prunes on chicken?”

“Don’t judge it until you’ve tried it,” she snapped, shoving it in the fridge to marinate overnight.  “It’s tomorrow’s dinner.”

Needless to say, Ben wasn’t looking forward to dinner the next day.  When he sat down to his plate, he scowled.  Again.

He pouted.

He sulked.

He balked.

And then he picked up his fork and took a bite.

And then he took another bite.  And another.  And another.

And then he was up at the counter, getting seconds.

Let’s just say my mother in law looked just like this literary figure.

And when I made this same chicken last weekend, Ben happily gobbled it up.  “I think this is one of my top fifteen meals,” he cooed, slurping up his chicken.  “This is good.   This is so good.”

It’s so good that every night this week he has reminisced about the chicken.

In short: Don’t judge the chicken.  Just eat it.

Paula’s Chicken Marbella

3 packs boneless, skinless chicken thighs ( I used 5 chicken breasts pounded flat.  But I’ve had both versions and they’re equally fabulous.  If you like dark meat, go with the thighs.  I do, Ben doesn’t.)

Minced garlic in a jar (equal to 1 head of garlic)

1/4 tsp dried oregano

salt and pepper to taste

1/4 tsp parsley

1/2 cup red wine vinegar

1/2 cup olive oil

1 cup pitted prunes

1/2 cup Spanish green olives, pitted

1/2 cup capers with juice

6 bay leaves

1 cup brown sugar

1 cup white wine

In baking dish combine raw chicken, garlic, oregano, salt and pepper, vinegar, olive oil, prunes, olives, capers, bay leaves.  Cover and marinate overnight in fridge.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Arrange in a single layer and spoon juices evenly over chicken.  Sprinkle chicken with brown sugar and pour white wine around chicken.  Bake at 350 for 50 minutes or 1 hour, basting with juices.  Chicken is done with pricked with a fork and yellow juice comes out.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  Tomorrow we have a tribute to Ben’s birthday and Saturday, a new Dallas Jean!  Stay tuned!

My in-laws are in town for Ben’s b-day, so I may be slow on visiting your blogs!  I’ll be back to full speed Monday!

To read previous editions, go here.

Birdie grasped onto the doorway, her head spinning.  Her breath jumped out of her nose in silent spurts and her tongue felt like lead between her teeth.  She couldn’t tear her eyes off Mr. Pemberely’s face.  She had expected an old man, a thin man, a fat man–anything but this.

“What is it?” Frankie hissed.  “What’s he look like?”

Birdie’s mouth opened and closed.  She shook her head, raising a trembling finger into the back room.  Frankie rolled her eyes.

“And you tell me I’m dramatic,” she whispered, crawling forward carefully so she wouldn’t disturb the cat curled on her lap. Angling her shoulders between two hamster cages, she used her fingertips to pull her forward.  Twisting her head at just the precise angle, she peered around the doorway.  A whimper escaped from her lips and Birdie clamped a hand over her mouth, sealing the scream.  She dragged her back, tightening her fingers as Frankie’s wide eyes darted back and forth.

“I know, I know,” Birdie whispered, petting her hair like you would a fretting child.  “It’s ok, it’s ok.”

Her own words failed to convince her, though they calmed Frankie.  Her eyes quit bulging and the color returned to her cheeks.  Sucking in a deep breath through her nose, she nodded and Birdie removed her hand.  “Birdie, what happened?” she whispered, shuddering.  “What happened to him?”

Birdie shook her head and raised her shoulders.  Bracing herself, she turned back around and peered through the doorway at Mr. Pemberely’s face.  It was less of a shock the second time around, but it was still a shock.

Curls of grey and black hair shrouded a face covered in silky orange fur.  Black and white and brown splotches peppered the cheeks and chin, like a calico cat wearing an old man’s wig.  His nose began as a human’s but ended in a pink and black speckled cat nose complete with long white whiskers and feline fangs.  His yellow eyes peered around the room, and a long orange and black tail peeked out from his shirtwaist.  The hands grasping the monkey had human fingers, but were covered in orange fur with long claws that could contract and extend.

Mr. Pemberely had turned himself into a cat man.

Sassy straightened in her lap, the guard hair on her neck rising.  A growl rumbled in her throat and Birdie shook her head.  “Sassy, shh!” she whispered.

Mr. Pemberely’s head snapped up.  His tail straightened like an exclaimation point as he swiveled his gaze around the back room.  “Who’s there?”  he called.  “Who’s there?”

Frankie and Birdie clasped hands, their fingers squeezing tightly so neither of them would scream.  Sassy growled louder, baring her teeth.

Mr. Pemberely put the monkey down and peered into the back room.   Frankie and Birdie plastered themselves to the wall, praying he wouldn’t see the top of their heads over the window.

“Someone’s here,” he muttered.  “I know someone’s here.”  He stepped out of the back room into the main part of the shop, pausing in the doorway.  Birdie held her breath, her slick fingers squeezing Frankie’s until her joints were white and aching.  Her ears back, Sassy growled again.  Mr. Pemberely glanced down at her and frowned.

“Strange,” he murmured, “Very strange.”

Birdie stared as he stepped forward a few feet, glancing around the shop.  She was so close to him that she could see the pattern on his socks, the laces on his shoes.  Sassy was only a few inches from her toes, yet he acted as though he had noticed them at all.  Biting her lip to quell the hysterics rising in her throat, she watched as he silently walked from the main shop, through the back room and opened the steel door he had come out of.  Disappearing inside, she heard a metallic click as the lock slid into place.

After a moment of excruiating silence, both girls exhaled and slid down onto the floor.

“Sassy!” Birdie hissed.  “Were you trying to get us in trouble?  What were you growling like that for?  He almost saw us!”

“He didn’t see you.”

Birdie and Frankie whirled around to see Percy lurking over them.  With his curved back and hunched shoulders, he looked more miserable than ominous.

“What are you doing here?” Birdie hissed as Frankie ducked, looking guilty.  “We saw you go home.”

Percy shrugged sheepishly.  “I came back to get a goldfish.  I was lonely.”

“I don’t believe you,” Birdie snarled.

Percy shrugged a second time.  “Believe what you want.  You should be glad I came back.  You almost got in a lot of trouble.”

“What’s wrong with his face?”  The whisper exploded behind Birdie’s shoulder.  Frankie trembled, closing her eyes as if to erase the image.  “What happened to him?  What did he do?”

Percy gave them a bitter smile.  “One of his experiments gone wrong, I’m afraid.”

“Is that what he does?” Birdie growled, her blood boiling.  “He experiments on animals?”  She leaped to her feet, clenching her fists.  “I’ll show him an experiment!”

“Calm down,” Percy hissed, grabbing her arm.  “He doesn’t experiment on them.  Only on himself.  The tiny animals you see were born tiny.  He rescued them from a zoo in New Orleans.”

“A zoo of tiny animals?”  Not even Frankie believed that one.

“It was a voodoo zoo,” Percy began, then shook his head.  “Never mind.  It’s not important.  All you need to know is that the animals here are safe.  Most of them came to him.  Others, he rescued.  They don’t live in cages, they are free to come and go whenever they please.  The only science they receive is typical medical care–shots and vaccinations and things.  But there are no experiments done–on them.”

Birdie crossed her arms.  “Who is experimented on?  What are his expierements?  Why is he running this pet shop?  Why couldn’t he see us?  I want to know what’s going on.”

“He couldn’t see you because of the same reasons you couldn’t see the animals when you first came in,” Percy answered, his voice weary.  “As for the rest– that’s a long story.”

Birdie leaned against the wall.  Sassy mimicked her behavior.  “I got all night,” she said, shooting a warning look at Frankie.

Percy sighed and shook his head.  “Well, it started right after vet school….”

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  Tomorrow we have a delicious recipe and Friday, a birthday tribute!  Then Saturday, a new Dallas Jean!  Stay tuned!

One day, the Blond Duck decided she wanted a cookie.

This was not unusual.  The Blond Duck loved cookies.

Only this time, when she went to the cookie jar, there wasn’t a cookie to be found.  Not even a crumb, a speck, a tiny nibble.

It was all too clear what had occured.

The Cookie-Stealing Bunny had struck again.

“I’ve got two solutions,” the Blond Duck mused to herself.  “I can make more cookies, or I can track the Cookie-Stealing Bunny down and make him return all the stolen cookies.”

As much as the Blond Duck loved to bake, she loved justice even more.

So armed with a box of Girl Scout cookies for bait, she set off to find the Cookie-Stealing Bunny.

“I certainly don’t know where he is,” Queen Bitty sniffed.  “But when you find him, tell him to beware.  He stole my peanut butter puppy cookies!”

“I don’t know where he is,” Bear said, wuffling in sorrow.  “But he stole my last Pupperoni!   Wuffle, wuffle, wuffle.”

“I haven’t seen the Cookie-Stealing Bunny,” the Love Pig pondered.  “But if I find him, I’ll shoot him with an arrow for you.  That bunny has got to love something other than cookies.”

Not even the Glitter Chicks had seen him.  “He won’t come around here no more, no more,” the first chick sang.  “After he stole our cookies, we threatened him with the door, door, door,” sang the second one.  “Now he’s gone, gone, gone,” added the third.

“Oooh, the Cookie Stealing Bunny is on my bad list,” snarled Penelope the Pig.  “He stole my entire box of Oreos!  The whole box!”

And we all know a pig without Oreos is not a happy pig.

“We find the Cookie Stealing Bunny to be the rudest bunny in the Pond,” declared the Pink Penguins.  “For he stole our delicious Pink Seaweed Sparkle cookies.”

Not wanting to ponder what a Pink Seaweed Sparkle Cookie was, the Blond Duck moved on to Miss Frizzle and the Yellow Chicken.

“I knew that bunny was no good,” Miss Frizzle clucked.  “No sir.  He was bad from the moment I laid eyes on him.”

“Did you know he once stole my birthday cookies?” squawked the Yellow Chicken.  “I didn’t even get a nibble!”

The Blond Duck knew that the Cookie Stealing Bunny had to be somewhere in the Pond.  “Where does one go to hide away and sneak desserts?”  she pondered aloud.  “Of course!  The back of the pantry!”

And sure enough, perched on a pile of cookies with a great extended belly and crumbs smeared around his whiskers lay the Cookie-Stealing Bunny.  He glanced up at the Blond Duck and groaned.

“I was going to ask for my cookies back,” she said, studying him.  “But you look like you’ve been punished enough.  Do you promise you’ll stop stealing cookies?  And ask nicely?”

The Cookie-Stealing Bunny nodded, holding up his paws.

“Good,” the Blond Duck replied.  “Now, I’m going to go bake some cookies.  You may have some, if you promise to ask and not steal them.”

The Cookie Stealing Bunny bobbed his head up and down, hiding a smile as the Blond Duck left.

After all, she didn’t see he had crossed his toes.

He was the Cookie Stealing Bunny after all.  And now, he had more cookies to steal….

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  Tomorrow we have a new Pet Shop story and Thursday, a new delicious recipe!  Stay tuned!