Author: L. A. Lewandowski

Lois Lewandowski graduated from Rutgers University with a degree in Political Science and French Literature. A passion for life lived well is reflected in her novels, Born to Die-The Montauk Murders, A Gourmet Demise, and My Gentleman Vampire, giving readers a glimpse into the world of the beau monde. Lois lives in Tampa, Florida. Learn more at her lifestyle blog, and her Amazon author page.

“Mommy, Where Do Books Come From?”

It is one year since I published my first novel. I cannot begin to describe in a mere 750 words the journey I have made over the last year. Self-publishing is certainly a roller-coaster ride, and not for the faint of heart.

I affectionately refer to last year as “The Year of the Apocalypse.” I learned first hand what it is to battle health issues. It was not my desire to be able to evaluate the expertise of an I.V. technician, nor did I wish to experience the constipating effects of narcotics. These were realities I had to face as I struggled through the self-publishing process. You can read about the details of my health crisis on my blog here and here.

As I lay in bed after a bout with a kidney stone, I was visited by a man. I immediately knew him and there was a connection between us. Some might say that oxycodone has this effect, but I prefer the opinion of a psychologist friend. I needed this person to make me laugh and to distract me from the two surgeries that were in my immediate future. He was as real to me as if he stood in my bedroom. Continue reading ““Mommy, Where Do Books Come From?””

If Tombstones Could Talk

We all die. The goal isn`t to live forever, the goal is to create something that will.  – Chuck Palahnuik

So true …

There is something very important that all humans share, and that is our mortality. Yes, my fellow oxygen suckers, no matter your wealth, talent, or monk-like existence, you will die. At a point in the perhaps not too distant future, we will all die. Expire. Cease to exist. Death is the ultimate equalizer.

I am not usually a morbid person, and I don’t think about dying very much, unlike Woody Allen who obsesses over it. I have lost people close to me. This is always painful, no matter how you appear to be handling the loss on the surface. The cards, scraps of paper on which they wrote, and the faded photographs are mementos I have secretly hoarded, removing them from their hiding places from time to time and running my hand softly across the signature. It is at these private moments that I have wondered how I might be able to leave behind something of value that represents who I was in life. Continue reading “If Tombstones Could Talk”

The Many Faces of Spam

Don’t spam me, bro.

“Hark, spammers! Night will descend upon you as you feast upon the rotting flesh of thy life’s work.” – Anonymous

Spam means vastly different things to those who have encountered it in all its annoying forms. The first time I heard the term was in the early seventies while watching the BBC comedy series, Monty Python. If you are a Monty Python fan you are familiar with the “Spam” sketch where a waiter in a café recites a menu in which every dish contains the product named Spam. A group of Vikings (there are always Vikings or Masons somewhere close by) chant – “Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, wonderful Spam”. The brilliance of this television show continues to amaze me. Their sketch about the ubiquitous meat product consumed widely in Great Britain after WWII struck a nerve with the world. The idea of spam as more than just the tasty meat in the snappy tin was right around the corner. Continue reading “The Many Faces of Spam”

Cooking With Nona

Cooking with NonaStella leaned forward eagerly at the sound of the sizzling onion, celery and carrots. The mouth-watering smell wafted out of the stockpot, hanging in the air like a delightful promise. It was their weekly day together and Nona was teaching her how to make Italian wedding soup. No one could make soup like Nona. Nona called this making the mirepoix, soffritto, or “The Holy Trinity” as Emeril Lagasse called it.

“Yesterday I make the stock, the chicken kind I show you last week. Today we make the meatballs and the soup. Your mama will come by after work to have dinner with us, and the soup is a surprise. This is one of her favorites, from when she was my little girl. I have a surprise for you, too.”

Stella stirred the veggies with the old, long-handled wooden spoon Nona always gave her. After the carrots and celery softened and the onions were translucent Nona poured in the stock, a beautiful golden yellow waterfall that soon swirled and bubbled. Continue reading “Cooking With Nona”