Ya Gotta Eat!
Ya Gotta Eat! is a cozy hybrid of family memoir and community cookbook, where Catherine Ring Saliba braids together Italian, Syrian, and old-school New England dishes with stories about the people who cooked them and the kids who grew up eating them. Recipes for things like lamb-bone spaghetti sauce, Christmas lasagna, kibbeh, koosa, bacon rolls, and corned beef and cabbage sit alongside memories of her scientist father whose mantra gives the book its title, long-ago tablecloths, nursing-school nights in snowy Vermont, and grandchildren circling the kitchen. It feels less like a polished “chef” book and more like being handed the family recipe box and a stack of photo albums at the same time.
I really fell for Saliba’s voice. She talks the way a good home cook talks in the kitchen, with side comments and little detours and a lot of humor. She admits when something is fussy, when she cheats, when she never mastered mashed potatoes. I liked how often she lets herself wander for a page before getting to the “official” recipe, like the story about her father’s grapes before stuffed grape leaves, or the rant about the IRS and that catastrophic turkey wing before the lemony wing recipe. Those bits made me feel oddly cared for. I could hear the clatter of pans, the low family chatter in the background, the sense that food is what you reach for when you do not quite know how else to love people. The writing is simple, sometimes rambly, but it has a warm pulse.
I also felt a lot of affection for the way she treats the recipes themselves. They are specific enough to cook from, yet they keep a loose, older style that trusts the reader. There is plenty of “a dab of butter,” “a big scoop,” “as much as you like,” and jokes about not remembering why the wooden spoon matters, only that it does. The dishes can be rich and old-fashioned, full of bacon, lamb bones, George Washington seasoning, and long-simmering pots. For me, that gave the book real character and a strong sense of era and place. I sometimes wished for clearer cues on yield, timing, or substitutions, especially when she leans on products that are not as common now or skips steps a beginner might need spelled out. The balance tilts more toward “let me tell you how we do it in this family” than toward test-kitchen precision.
I would recommend Ya Gotta Eat! to readers who like cookbooks with a personal, lived-in feel and to home cooks who already know their way around a stove and want to add some deeply nostalgic Italian and Syrian American dishes to their rotation. It is a great fit for people who cook to remember their own families. If you are happy to read family stories, dog-ear pages, and let the house smell like sauce for hours, this book feels like good company.
Pages: 268 | ASIN : B0GDZB8RGG
The Ancient Moon Goddess, Crushed by Patriarchy, Buried by Judaism, Hidden in Christianity
The Ancient Moon Goddess by Dale W O’Neal tells a bold story. The authors argue that early humans saw menstrual blood as “moon blood” and as the raw stuff of life, so the first religion centered on a powerful moon Goddess. From there, they follow a long “blood trail” through Stone Age animism, sacrificial rituals, castration and circumcision, and then into Hebrew scripture and finally Christianity, where the Goddess gets pushed underground but never quite disappears. The book mixes myth analysis, archeology, and close readings of biblical texts to claim that many familiar doctrines about sin, sacrifice, and salvation grew out of this older Goddess religion.
The core idea was gripping and unsettling for me. The link between menstrual cycles and the moon seems obvious once they lay it out, and the way they build a whole religious worldview from that simple pattern has real power. I felt drawn in when they described ancient people living in a “spirit-filled” world, where every hill and river had a soul and where the moon’s waxing and waning set the rhythm for life, death, and rebirth. Their account of how sacrificial systems grow from imitation of the moon’s self-emptying cycle hits hard emotionally, because it turns grim stories of blood and death into a kind of tragic misunderstanding of nature rather than pure cruelty.
The writing is clear, direct, and often vivid, and the authors do a good job explaining ideas like sympathetic magic, animism, and “as above, so below” in plain language. The personal backstory of Dale O’Neal’s exit from evangelical Christianity gives the project emotional weight and makes the stakes of the argument feel very real, especially when he wrestles with doctrines of hell, female subordination, and blood atonement. The tone carries a clear, unapologetic conviction that readers may find energizing, and its strong critique of patriarchy keeps the argument sharp and focused. The authors write with such confidence in their perspective that the book often feels like a manifesto, which will especially appeal to readers who prefer bold, decisive interpretations over cautious academic debate.
I would recommend this book to readers who are curious about the deep roots of biblical religion, who enjoy mythic thinking, and who feel ready to question standard church teachings about sacrifice, sin, and gender. I think it will especially resonate with ex-believers, feminist readers, fans of Joseph Campbell or Marija Gimbutas, and anyone who likes bold “big picture” narratives about religion’s origin and evolution. For me, it was a provocative and emotionally charged read that I will keep turning over in my mind for a long time.
Pages: 322 | ASIN : B0FRN9PNXL
The Man in the Dam
Andrea Barton’s The Man in the Dam is a contemporary cozy-style mystery set around Mansfield and Lake Eildon in Victoria’s High Country, where journalist Jade Riley is meant to be writing a feel good arts piece about a local production of The Importance of Being Earnest. Instead, she wakes after a tense night with her partner Brett, spots a body in the property’s paddock dam, and the week turns into a knot of interviews, small-town suspicion, and a mystery that widens beyond that first death into family history and hidden motives.
What I liked most is how Barton anchors the book in everyday texture before letting the plot accelerate. The opening has that sharp, slightly painful intimacy of real life: Jade replaying a relationship argument, noticing mess on the counter, trying to steady herself, and then the sudden wrongness of seeing “something” in the water that becomes a person. The writing is clean and easy to move through, with lots of forward motion. And I enjoyed the author’s playful structural choice to use song titles for chapters, plus the nod to a playlist, which fits the creative-arts thread without turning the novel into a gimmick.
Barton’s bigger swing, though, is the way she braids “performance” into everything: the literal theatre production, the public masks people wear in a small town, and the private selves they protect when grief and money and reputation start pressing in. That theme lands because it shows up in character choices, not speeches. Jade is a journalist, so she has a believable reason to ask questions, notice tells, and keep pushing even when it gets uncomfortable. I also appreciated that the story doesn’t stay simple. It adds layers of family backstory and a second mystery that turns the book into something closer to a puzzle box, where one answer opens the next door and you start wondering how far back the damage really goes.
I’d recommend The Man in the Dam to readers who like character-driven mysteries with a strong sense of place, a community cast, and an investigation that feels like it’s happening over cups of coffee and awkward conversations rather than car chases. If you enjoy amateur-sleuth stories, theatre and arts settings, and mysteries that mix present-day danger with long shadows from the past, you’ll have a very good time with The Man in the Dam.
Pages: 310 | ASIN : B0GGWHFPY9
Escala’s Wish
Escala’s Wish is a high fantasy novel set in the world of Valla, framed as a story told by Wigfrith Foreverbloom, a gnome bard performing in a Dunwell tavern. He recounts how Escala Winter, a mischievous pixie princess from the Court of Dreams, breaks sacred fey law when she kisses a mortal man to see what love feels like, triggering death, a looming magical punishment called the Wane, and a chain of events that threatens both the fey realm and the mortal world. Around that one impulsive choice the book weaves trials, family secrets, political schemes between fey courts, and a slow, painful reckoning with what it costs to try to fix a mistake.
The frame with Wigfrith on stage works for me: he jokes with the crowd, pauses to explain fey lore or theology, then dives back into Escala’s story, and those breaks give the epic parts some breathing room. The chapters are short and snappy, so even though the book is long, it never felt like a slog. Some of the worldbuilding sections, like the detailed explanation of how different kinds of fey come into being or how the Courts of Dreams, Nightmares, and Twilight work, are still pretty dense, but because they are delivered in Wigfrith’s voice, with little asides and running jokes, it felt more like listening to a talkative friend than reading a rulebook.
What I liked most, though, was how personal the story feels under all the magic. Escala starts out as this curious, slightly spoiled pixie who just wants the kind of love story her parents had, and her playful stunt ends in blood on the grass and the death of her best friend. The book keeps circling that wound: her guilt, her grief, and the way everyone around her responds to it. Her father, Rowan, is torn between his duty to the Court of Dreams and his love for his daughter, and that tension gives the big fantasy stakes some real emotional weight. When the story leans into those family relationships and into Escala’s growth from naive troublemaker to someone who has to make terrible, sacrificial choices, it really lands. At times, the quippy banter and tavern humor brush up hard against serious scenes like parental death or questions of divine justice, and the shift can feel a little quick, but overall, the mix of heartache, sarcasm, and wonder feels honest.
If you like character-driven high fantasy, especially stories that feel inspired by tabletop campaigns, this will probably hit the spot. It has magic systems, fey politics, and a looming cosmic order called the True Cycle, but at its core, it is a coming-of-age fantasy about a pixie trying to live with the consequences of one reckless wish and figure out what love and responsibility really mean. Readers who enjoy long series, tavern tales, and found-family adventuring will have a lot of fun here. If you want a fantasy novel that lets you laugh, wince, and maybe tear up a little while a bard talks to you like you are sharing a table in the back of the inn, Escala’s Wish is worth your time.
Pages: 662 | ASIN : B0G1XRP6DW
Tales of Spooner Pond: Supernatural Tales of Unforgettable Characters and Peculiar Gifts
In Tales of Spooner Pond, by Terry Rasner, a girl named Pippy Natalie Hyland discovers her “dreams” are less pillow-fog and more passport: she’s being called from ordinary North Star Ridge into Spooner Pond, a lush otherworld populated by talkative animal-humans (“palimals”) and overseen by Truggles, a towering, dog-and-panda-like guardian who insists she can learn to travel back and forth, and even bring a few friends along. The book opens with a domestic alarm (a bedroom wall turned into a map, furious parents, a counselor visit) and quickly widens into episodic adventures where strange gifts appear, loyalties form, and the geography of wonder becomes almost tactile.
What hooked me first wasn’t the premise, portal fantasies are a well-trod trail, but the particular grain of the telling: Pippy’s voice can be earnest, snarky, and suddenly luminous in the same breath. The adults are drawn with a kid’s exacting fairness (my favorite detail is how her father “towered…like a stout oak tree,” which is both affectionate and indicting), and that tension gives Spooner Pond a real narrative job: it’s not just escapism, it’s relief-pressure, a place where a child can feel chosen instead of merely managed. Even the language invents its own little rituals, “noggin nudger” moments, like the story is quietly training you to adopt its private vocabulary.
Once the “palimals” take the stage, I found myself smiling at how the book refuses to sand down its oddities. Kitty Joe, the oversized cat with his chewy idiolect and disconcerting carnivore pride, is both cuddly and feral; he’s the kind of character who can purr in your arms and, two sentences later, remind you he’d prefer his breakfast with a crunch. And the set pieces have a fable-like clarity, Barney becoming “Feathers,” learning to glide and then “fly” by turning ears into wings, is delightfully implausible in the way childhood logic can be: if you want it badly enough and you practice hard enough, anatomy negotiates. I admired the book’s stubborn commitment to its own cadence, unembarrassed, a little eccentric, and often genuinely sweet.
Terry Rasner’s YA novel feels best aimed at middle-grade readers (and read-aloud families) who like fantasy, portal fantasy, supernatural adventure, and magical creatures with a dash of moral weather, patience, courage, and loyalty, threaded through the spectacle. If you loved The Chronicles of Narnia, Spooner Pond offers a similarly sincere invitation, just with fur, oddball slang, and gifts that arrive sideways. Tales of Spooner Pond is a warm and peculiar pocket-universe where the weird feels like a kind of truth.
Pages: 288 | ASIN : B0G6VKNV2Q
Waves of Light and Darkness
Waves of Light and Darkness is a short story collection that circles big, tender questions, then keeps circling them from different angles: grief, desire, family duty, fear, and the stubborn need to make meaning even when life feels random or unfair. The book moves between intimate relationship dramas and more metaphysical turns, story by story. One early piece, “The Yellow Butterfly,” sets the tone: a widowed astrophysicist is knocked off balance by loss and then pulled into an uncanny encounter that feels half therapy, half dream, half cosmic riddle.
What I kept noticing, in a good way, is how Danenbarger writes feelings as physical states. A room gets too quiet. A routine becomes a trap. A conversation turns into a tight knot you can feel in your chest. Even when the stories lean surreal, the emotional footing is very human, like when that grieving scientist can’t decide if he’s being helped or manipulated, and either possibility hurts. The prose likes to linger on atmosphere, the smell of a place, the small habits people use to stay upright. Sometimes it’s almost cinematic. You can hear the café, feel the late-night glow, and then, suddenly, you’re somewhere stranger.
I also got the sense that the author is deliberately mixing “real life” tension with the itch of bigger ideas. One moment you’re watching people play social games at a fancy event, the next you’re hearing characters talk like reality itself might be bending. That blend can be compelling. It can also be a little blunt at times to make sure you do not miss the point. I respected the ambition. The stories keep asking: what do we cling to when certainty falls apart? In “Fragments of Existence,” a father’s sense of purpose snaps into focus while his kids are literally suspended above him on a ride, and it’s simple and sharp, like a truth you did not realize you were avoiding.
If you like literary short fiction with existential, occasionally speculative edges, this will probably land for you. It sits in the neighborhood of writers like George Saunders or Ted Chiang in the sense that the stories use unusual premises to press on ordinary human nerves, though Danenbarger’s voice is more earnest and romantic than wry. And it makes sense that he describes his own lane as “existential literary fiction.” Read this if you enjoy character-driven stories that are willing to get philosophical without turning cold.
Pages: 308 | ASIN : B0GFXPT5KM
Under Two Flags: A Novel of World War I
Under Two Flags by Janis Robinson Daly is historical fiction that reads like a staged memoir: Josephine Therese Marzynski, a young Jewish woman from Boston, goes to Berlin in late 1916 to study opera, only to find herself living inside the tightening grip of World War I, where suspicion, rationing, propaganda, and fear seep into everyday life. The book opens in 1918 with Josephine back in Boston, preparing to tell her story with the help of a publisher, framing everything that follows as a deliberate act of witness and persuasion.
What grabbed me first was how Daly builds Josephine’s inner life through concrete moments instead of speeches. The arrival sequence is a gut check. We watch Josephine get inspected like a threat, even while she’s carrying “harmless sheet music,” and we feel the private defiance of her sewing an American flag into her skirt and later hiding it in her pillowcase. The writing leans into bodily details, the hot embarrassment, the cold air, the nervous calculation of what to say and what to swallow. It makes the big theme of “patriotism” feel small and personal, like something you tuck into a hem and hope no one notices.
I also liked the author’s structural choice to treat the novel like an opera in itself, with an Overture, Acts, Scenes, and even musical notations sprinkled in. It could have felt gimmicky, but for me it mostly works because it matches Josephine’s mind. She hears life in cues and crescendos, and she uses performance as survival. There’s even room for humor when it fits, like the bitter, half-laughing talk among women who are stuck eating carrots over and over, trying to make scarcity feel normal for one more day. Those lighter beats do not erase the dread. They just make the dread more believable, because that’s how people cope.
What stayed with me after I closed it was the tension baked into the title. Josephine is always balancing, not just between nations, but between versions of herself: dutiful daughter, ambitious musician, “good girl” who knows when to wink and when to keep quiet. The book is also honest about how identity can be both shelter and target. She’s American, she’s Jewish, she has German roots, and none of those labels stay simple once the war machine starts deciding who gets to be “safe.” I appreciated the grounding too: Daly is upfront that this is fiction inspired by real events and tied to a memoir (With Old Glory in Berlin) connected to her own family, which adds a quiet sense of responsibility to the storytelling.
If you enjoy historical fiction, especially stories that zoom in on one woman’s day-to-day choices inside a huge world event, this one is worth your time. I’d recommend it most to readers who like war-era settings without wanting only battlefield scenes, and to anyone curious about the intersection of art and survival, like how a voice trained for opera can double as armor. If you want an immersive, human-scale WWI novel with music in its bones, you’ll heartily enjoy Under Two Flags.
Pages: 290 | ISBN : 978-1685137328
Libraries Preserve Stories
Dead Drop in Lily Rock follows a newly unhoused hiker as a Fourth of July stopover turns into an investigation of a murder at a library where classic-book devotion and small-town secrets lead to an interesting culprit. What sparked the idea to make a library the crime scene, and to make books function as evidence?
A Little Free Library is one of the last places we’d expect violence. Quiet, ordered, built on the assumption that knowledge is shared freely and stories are preserved with care. That sense of safety is exactly what made it the right crime scene.
Mysteries disrupt what feels stable in a community. A murder in a back alley is tragic. A murder at a Little Free Library is personal. It unsettles a town’s sense of who it is. It forces people to ask not just who did this, but why would anyone violate a community service devoted to ideas?
In Dead Drop in Lily Rock, books aren’t props. They’re catalysts. They carry history, ideology, memory, and sometimes controversy. A bookmark can signal allegiance. A marginal note can reveal motive. A banned title tucked into a Little Free Library can expose fault lines in a community that otherwise prides itself on harmony.
I was also drawn to the metaphor: Libraries preserve stories. A murder investigation uncovers one.
In Lily Rock, stories matter. So when something violent interrupts that space, the truth has to be found between the lines.
Officer Janis “Jets” Jets’s sarcasm is practically a climate. How did her voice develop, and what role does she play in shaping the tone of the series?
Janis’s voice developed before Avery arrived in Lily Rock. She first appeared in the original Welcome to Lily Rock Mystery series, sent as an undercover cop during the holiday season. Once Olivia arrives, in Getaway Death, Janis becomes the counterweight to Olivia’s empathy. When Olivia leans into intuition and connection, Janis leans into process and proof.
Her sarcasm grew organically out of that tension.
Small-town policing is intimate. You’re not just enforcing laws, you’re dealing with neighbors, gossip, fragile reputations, and people you’ve known since high school. Sarcasm became Janis’s armor. It’s how she maintains authority without becoming brittle. It’s how she keeps her footing when emotion threatens to swamp the facts.
In the Avery Denning books, Janis serves as tonal ballast. Avery feels the world deeply—animals, shifts in energy, subtle emotional undercurrents. Janis cuts through that with sharp clarity. Her voice sharpens scenes, prevents sentimentality, and keeps the series from floating away into pure intuition.
If Avery listens to crows, Janis reads warrants and sometimes invents her own to make a point.
Lily Rock feels authentic down to Mayor Maguire’s bookmark celebrity. What’s your process for inventing those hyper-specific town details without overloading the story?
I treat Lily Rock like a real town with zoning restrictions and a Chamber of Commerce. Before I write, I quietly ask the following:
What would this town brag about?
What would they put on a postcard?
What would they argue about at the hardware store?
Mayor Maguire, the labradoodle with local celebrity status, began as a small detail. But once he existed, the town responded to him. Someone would absolutely put him on bookmarks. Someone else would roll their eyes about it. Others called him psychic without knowing why. That’s how details become an ecosystem rather than decoration.
The key to avoiding overload is restraint. I think of world-building like seasoning. The reader doesn’t need the entire spice rack. They need the right pinch at the right moment.
A Little Free Library doesn’t need a full architectural history. It needs one crooked hinge, a banned book tucked inside, and a note written in a hurried hand.
Specificity creates authenticity. Selectivity creates readability.
How do you design clue trails so they feel fair and still deliver a snap of surprise?
For me, fairness is sacred to a mystery.
I design clues in three layers:
- Visible clues – The reader sees exactly what the sleuth sees. No hidden evidence withheld unfairly.
- Misinterpreted clues – These are the magic ones. The clue is accurate, but its meaning is slightly bent by context emotion, or assumption.
- Quiet clues – Small, almost throwaway details that only gain weight later.
The “snap” of surprise happens when a reader realizes: Oh. That was there the whole time.
I avoid surprise for shock’s sake. Instead, I aim for inevitability disguised as misdirection. The ending should feel both startling and earned.
And perhaps most important: I design suspect motivations before I design mechanics. If the emotional truth tracks, the clue trail will feel organic.
Mystery, at its heart, isn’t about trickery.
It’s about perception.
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Instead, she finds a murdered woman at the foot of a Little Free Library.
Arriving in the mountain town of Lily Rock for the Fourth of July weekend, Avery plans to rent a room from Stella Rawlins—a friendly local known for her love of books and quiet acts of defiance. When Stella is killed by a sabotaged firecracker hidden inside her library, Avery becomes the discovery witness… and an immediate suspect.
With parades planned and tensions rising over which books belong on public shelves, Lily Rock’s only police officer, Janis Jets, has her hands full. Olivia Greer, a constabulary consultant with a gift for listening, offers Avery a place to stay—and a chance to explain how she ended up at the scene of the crime.
As Avery begins asking questions, she uncovers a secret network of Little Free Libraries, anonymous religious threats tucked inside children’s books, and a second shocking death that turns the case deeply personal. Along the way, she reconnects with Brad May—older, steadier, and quietly trying to make a better life—awakening feelings Avery thought she’d left behind.
Soon it’s clear this isn’t just about books.
It’s about control, belonging, and who gets to decide which stories are worth protecting.
Armed with sharp instincts, a knack for noticing what others miss, and the growing realization that her outsider status may be her greatest strength, Avery steps into a role she never expected: amateur sleuth.
But in Lily Rock, asking the wrong questions can be deadly…
and staying might mean risking her heart as well as her life.
Dead Drop in Lily Rock launches a new mystery series set in the beloved Lily Rock universe—perfect for readers who love small-town whodunits, strong women sleuths, and cozy mysteries with heart.
