Sugar and Spice and All Those Lies by Evy Journey - Book Tour + Giveaway
Gina’s grandfather was a French chef whose life was cut short by a robber’s bullet. The only lasting legacy he could leave his family was his passion and talent for cooking.
Growing up poor but with a mother who is a gifted cook. Gina learns cooking a great meal is an act of love. An art that sustains and enhances life.
A world of new challenges, new friends, and new loves opens up for her when she’s chosen to cook for a Michelin-starred restaurant.
But danger lurks where one never expects it.
Can her passion for cooking help Gina survive and thrive in this world of privilege, pleasure and menace?
Evy Journey, writer, wannabe artist, and flâneuse (feminine of flâneur), wishes she lives in Paris where people have perfected the art of aimless roaming. Armed with a Ph.D., she used to research and help develop mental health programs.
She's a writer because beautiful prose seduces her and existential angst continues to plague her despite such preoccupations having gone out of fashion. She takes occasional refuge by invoking the spirit of Jane Austen to spin tales of love, loss, and finding one’s way—stories into which she weaves mystery or intrigue.
Top Ten
List
Ten of my favorite things
Why
do I love Paris? It has or does at least ten of my favorite things. I have
“lived” as a transient in Paris a few times. That means I stay 2 to 6 months.
It is:
- A vibrant city where la joie de vivre is often evident in so many ways and nearly every day; so, it is
- a shot in the arm, and an escape into a different kind of reality;
- A communion with history we can still relate with, a history boasting some of the greatest thinkers and great architecture spared from bombs that leveled other European cities;
- A veritable tableau where a gathering of people in a park reminds you of a Manet or Monet painting;
- An ode to light and colors celebrated in artistic revolutions that gave birth to gothic churches and modern art, starting with Impressionism;
- A lover of art and culture with world-class exhibits in its world-class museums as well as days or nights dedicated to celebrating the arts;
- Rich with world-class parks with beds and large vases of flowers massed in harmonious colors. They invite you to linger on benches and plentiful green metal chairs under sprawling shady trees;
- Where you needn’t go beyond your block (or two) to find a boulangerie where you can get a warm crusty baguette in late afternoon, great macarons or tasty tarts—fresh, everyday. And cheap, compared to pastries you buy in fancy bakeries in the US;
- In a country where cultivating food and wine and preparing them for consumption is considered part of the patrimoine—the French national heritage, and
- where mayonnaise and many other dishes and sauces that help make eating a pleasure were “invented”.
Excerpt
I open my eyes inside an
ambulance. My shoulder feels numb but at least it’s not hurting anymore. I say
to the paramedic sitting to my right, “Am I still bleeding?”
“No. You passed out from
fear, shock. Just a few minutes. You lost some blood, but not as much as it
looked. Don’t worry, they’ll patch you up good. We’re almost there.”
At the hospital, they put
me on a gurney and wheel me directly to a room blazing with lights. People in
shapeless blue garb, caps, and surgical masks fuss over me, sticking needles
into my arm and wrapping monitors around it.
I close my eyes. I can’t
believe this is happening to me. I’m supposed to be relaxing, waiting until my
mother calls me to dinner. She says I need time away from pots and pans and
refused my help in the kitchen. Can’t I rewind my life like a film, back to
before I call Cristi?
An efficient voice breaks
into my thoughts. “Can you breathe well enough?”
“Yes,” I say, glancing up
at the woman with the efficient voice. I see only her eyes.
She puts an oxygen mask on
half my face; and as cool liquid courses down my arm, she fades into blackness.
A smiling, maternal face
is saying something—about me, I think.
“Everything went well. We just finished stitching and bandaging your
wound. We had to probe about a bit. The scissors were blunt. They left an ugly
wound and grazed your shoulder blade, but luckily the wound didn’t go deeper.
No serious harm done, although we’ll have to wait to see if there’s some nerve
damage. If so, it may take a few weeks to have full use of your right arm
again.”
I force myself to say
“thank you,” but all I remember is “no serious harm.” That’s all I need, to
know that I can go back to life, as usual.
“We’re keeping you
overnight, at least. I think we’ll be able to discharge you tomorrow. We’re
just waiting for hospital aides to take you to your room.”
A day in the hospital.
What about Thanksgiving? “Are my parents here?”
“Yes. They’ve been
informed about your room number so you’ll see them there.”
Sometime later, my parents
come into the room. Mom is scowling, her eyes dark with worry. “Thank God,
you’re okay. How are you feeling?” She pulls a chair next to the bed.
“Groggy. My shoulder is
sore.”
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