¡Ay, dolor, hecho de la música!

My history as a musician is a sad one, or a lacking one. Sadness is for those suffering losses. I simply lacked education and/or the motivation to get it. I never learned to read music, for a start. We had free violin lessons at school, but they taught via the Suzuki method, which did not teach sight reading of music until students were at a more advanced level than I reached. I took up the guitar in high school but mostly learned chords and scales. I gave it up at some point in my twenties, as I wasn’t passionate about it. There was other dabbling, such as with harmonicas and piano. My skills for my dabbling instruments never moved beyond beginner level. In other words, I’m not a natural at music. Fast forward to the future when my heart was taken by the accordion. Learning an instrument, really learning it this time, in one’s forties is probably not the best way, but it isn’t impossible.

At the start of my journey, I had a few instructional books, including a book of scales. I used to keep my books in a pocket in my accordion case. It wasn’t a proper case, but a “gig” bag. That was why it had a pocket in it for music. As it was a cheaper Hohner Panther accordion, buying an expensive hard case for it didn’t seem worthwhile. All my books were, therefore, destroyed with the Hohner in the accident. Some of these books I’ve moved past in skill and don’t care much about. Others, I’d like to replace, but, unfortunately, they are all out of print and nearly impossible to find. One of them specifically taught sight reading for the accordion, which I appreciated, albeit it used the American music notation. None taught the songs I listen to on the radio — or YouTube or Spotify. I had one video tutorial I’d purchased on CD that had Flaco Jimenez teaching some traditional songs. Just watching him is inspirational. Flaco is the best. Also, I like his personality.

I’m a stereotype, really, amongst norteño accordeonistas because the first song I learned was Tragos Amargos. It’s not a difficult song, though I’m not sure why it’s the ultimate song for student acordeonistas to learn first. It’s funny how the word “ultimate” has evolved in English to not just mean “last” but to also imply something is “the epitome.” Because I listen to Spanish so frequently, I found myself adding the word “first” as a descriptor so that my audience didn’t think I meant “last.” Moving past that little rabbit trail, I found Tragos Amargos on El Bigshow’s YouTube channel. I used to love doing his tutorials. I still do them every once in a while. He’s easy to follow and has a teaching personality I like; I’m particular about personalities, and that’s going to be a heightened snobbery regarding any artists. I’m sorry, I apologize — it’s just that artists are annoying. Anyway, for most people struggling to pick up an instrument, mastering a song they enjoy will help get them past the hurdle of frustration that comes with learning an instrument. There’s a reason I used to force myself to play only half an hour a day five days a week. It was hard work, but I knew if I put at least a little time in, I’d start enjoying it and experience less frustration. Now I play an hour each day, seven days a week. I would play longer if I had the time.

Another goal that helped me jump over my hurdles of frustration was to be able to play along with songs I liked. It’s one thing to know how to play a song. Playing at speed and with good musicality is another skill. The first song I could play along with was Abeja Reina. I didn’t, however, learn that from one tutorial. I learned the song from various sources, including listening to the song itself (by Los Traileros). Playing with my favorite accordion players has been tricky, to put it mildly. Yes, I can play a handful of simple songs with the recordings, such as the aforementioned, and La del Moño Colorado, Navido Pavido, Hay Unos Ojos, etc. Simple songs…but honestly, playing along is a big hurdle to jump over.

Sometimes, I look at my musical history and realize that it’s a royal mess. Despite never learning to read music with fluency, I did learn the basic structure. FACE and Every Good Boy… You know. And then along came this obsession with norteño, and I’ve had to adapt to the tonic scale. In Spanish, the tonic scale is do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si. No ti with jam and bread, sorry. I play a Fa accordion, which has a row of Fa, Sib, and Mib. The b stands for bemol, which means flat. In America, they are denoted as F, Bb, Eb; I assume the b used for flat comes from the Latin. This is the most commonly played accordion in norteño; that’s why I chose it. I’ve also noticed numerous songs are played in Sib and Mib. I was listening intently to a song the other day because I wanted to learn it and realized the entire song is played on the Mib scale in terceras (thirds). In theory, it’s an easy song to play. More on that in a minute.

I often watch Body Project videos for my exercise, and even when they’re not that difficult, Daniel, in his Aussie accent, tells us we’ve gotten to the point of “mass carnage” on the exercise floor. That’s how I feel about my musical journey at this point. Norteño musicians speak and sing and write in Spanish. They use the tonic scale…in Spanish. I started playing in my forties. I’m still in my forties (for a little while longer), so I haven’t been playing that long. It’s carnage, my brains splattered everywhere. Some days, I understand everything because my brain has adapted, and other days, I just can’t. I can’t figure out the fingering on a song, and if I watch a tutorial, I can’t understand the Spanish. Well, I’m sure I can. It’s just so much extra work. And I’m tired. I suppose opera singers feel the same if they didn’t grow up speaking Italian or German. Maybe scientists do, too, because it’s guaranteed they didn’t grow up with Latin spoken at home. If I’m going to be a norteño accordion player, Spanish will be my trade language, and I have to accept that. By the way, I love Spanish. My love of Spanish long predates my love of the accordion. The only problem is it’s not my first language.

Unfortunately, I’ve reached a point where the frustration with my instrument has returned. Yes, it’s carnage on the exercise floor. I don’t know how to push past this intermediate level I’m playing at. If my fingers were more flexible or if they could keep up with the complicated songs, I could enter the realm of competent musicians. Being competent isn’t what it’s about, though. It’s about the magic. That’s what I want. There are mechanics to it. A song that sounds easy almost never is. There are runs of hidden notes that are played in fast arpeggios that add to that sound but aren’t immediately obvious. And don’t forget the trinos. Trinos are everywhere. In English, that would be a trill. Trinos are what give the norteño accordion such a distinctive and magical sound, and they aren’t as easy as noodling back and forth between alternating buttons; I mean, yes, they are that easy. But there is still a technique to it. There is also the…whatsit that can’t be defined or broken down. Achieving that is like trying to physically capture any intangible. Music itself is inexplicable to a materialistic world. How does one capture the inexplicable? The magic? The thoughts, prayers, or feelings that can’t be put into words? The norteño accordion is, in my not so humble opinion, the most magical of all instruments. I just wish that magic would emerge from my fingers.

Eating & Exercise

This is a follow-up from yesterday. What is my actual eating philosophy? To some, it’s dangerously, weirdly healthy. To others, it’s S.A.D., which stands for Standard American Diet. The truth is there are way too many eating philosophies out there that are polar opposites. So, I eat what I want and adhere to a few principles, but those principles are also to my taste. As in, I can’t stand the taste of soda, diet or regular. Thus, I don’t consume it. That’s not really much of a principle, is it?

  • I don’t eat foods I’m allergic to, except corn…oops. I love my local Mexican food. I try not to eat it often or hives are the result.
  • I balance my macros. E.g. breakfast might consist of plain yogurt with whey protein and blueberries and buttered gluten-free toast.
  • I eat whatever fruits and vegetables I want because I love their tastes and textures. The anti veggie and fruit crowd can…. This is a family-friendly site.
  • Potatoes are the staff of life. Take that haters.
  • Carnitas are amazing.
  • Chile must be consumed regularly. Bonus points for cilantro and raw onions.
  • Black coffee is the other staff of life.
  • I really don’t like sweets and am principled about cooking with only butter and olive oil. Even high-end restaurants will use soy or canola oil, both of which taste like sweaty gym socks. Thankfully, spices cover that flavor.

My exercise philosophy is not that different. My only principle is to do it every day. I don’t care what gym bros say. They can shove their philosophies up their narcissistic… family friendly. If I want to bee-bop up the street to Los Huracanes or Los Dos Carnales (my current favorite band), I will. If I end up with flaccid arms because I’m only doing weight training two to three times a week, sobeit. If I look older than my age, who cares? If I drop dead because I’m not bench-pressing 200 lbs, then I will die happy with the plaintive sound of the accordion in my head.

Choosing an exercise or diet philosophy is like choosing a religion. If you have no real convictions, then there’s not much point because you won’t stick to it. This is the one area where I listen to and learn from the hedonistic Janis Joplin philosophy of how can it be bad if it makes you feel good? That philosophy killed her; I understand that. But I’m not mainlining heroine. I’m eating food that makes me feel good and exercising for enjoyment. Now I just need to work on my personal relationships. Not having them is just as likely to kill me young. Loneliness will eat up a person’s soul from the inside out.

And now for some Los Dos Carnales:

Dietary Dictocrats

There is a comedic Wodehouse story in which some Hollywood folks are put on a diet consisting of a half grapefruit for breakfast, another for lunch, and, you guessed it, another half grapefruit for dinner. Naturally, this diet turns the adherents into crazy people. It’s good for a laugh and a romance that emerges from it, as two of the diet victims find each other, as they can understand each other’s pain.

What’s a harder laugh is knowing these diets and their dictocratic pushers are real, and their advice for health not that different from “eat a half grapefruit for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” Of course, they couch it all in scientific language and show graphs and use fancy words and catchphrases. I used to listen some of these lunatics when I was doing keto to, in theory, reset my digestion and help my insomnia. If a keto guru made a video on how to fix a health ailment, from skin tags to cracks on heels, the cause would be “insulin resistance” and the cure “keto diet” involving organic free range meats and eggs and, if they hadn’t gone the carnivore route, pounds of organic salad a week, skip the veggies like carrots because they will knock you right out of keto and increase your sugar addiction.

Recently, YouTube has been heavily pushing a diet dictocrat called Dr. Boz. I’ve watched a few of her videos out of curiosity and had to laugh because her “what I eat in a day” was possibly more repellent than a grapefruit and a half, consisting of coffee, “bubble” water, and two cans of sardines. I don’t know if these people are liars or have serious eating disorders they’re using the internet to flaunt. Some people just need attention for their disorders to really shine. I laughed, but it’s a little sad when you consider that these people have an audience that laps up their advice. I’ve seen a couple of her other videos, in which she eats entire sticks of butter, and my gallbladder and stomach gave shrieks of pain at the thought of it. So, apparently, her diet consists of two cans of sardines daily, plus the occasional stick of butter…? I have no idea. That’s a problem with YouTube — random, out of context videos. Still, it’s on the creator to give a little more context to very weird health advice.

Keto dieters are insane, in my not so humble opinion. I suppose it has its medical use for obese or diabetic people who can’t control their diabetes. But otherwise it comes across as a religion, much like veganism. Vegans rattle on about heart disease, while keto dieters obsess over insulin resistance. If keto had aided me in any way for my chronic sleep and digestive problems, I might have stuck with it despite the side effects. But it didn’t help with anything. It rather made everything worse, if that’s possible. It’s definitely possible to have worse digestion; my digestion is mostly stable if I remove hard to digest grains like corn, wheat, and oats from my daily eating. The insomnia I consider incurable at this point, and it gets better or worse. Keto makes it worse.

After doing keto for a while, I suffered from massive stomach pain and upset from too much fat, as well as a cessation of my female cycle. Don’t bother telling a keto nutcase about the infertility it can cause in women (I’ve read it’s around fifty percent of women who suffer this way from keto); they will make excuses and claim the dieter is doing something wrong. I had an MD at one time that tried to convince me it was my fault, as he was a big believer in keto. Any food that contained carbohydrates, such as an apple or a whole grain teff tortilla, he called “sugar bombs.” That doctor was into the AIP and wasn’t much a believer in vegetables such as bell peppers or raw salad or…I can’t remember what vegetables he was okay with, but the list of foods worthy of consuming was very small. Surely, if I only ate this list consisting of three different foods, my female cycle would work spotlessly, and I would sleep like a baby and float on a cloud of organic cotton.

Worst among all diets is vegan, however. I call it worst because the symptoms of stomach pain and massive inflammation occur after a week in my experience. Kudos to anyone who can manage veganism long term and remain healthy. You are probably a genetically superior human. And no doubt another big time religious nutcase. Healthy body, unhealthy mind? Or it could be the reverse, I guess.

There was one diet that helped me sleep and didn’t bother my digestive system, but it came with intense migraines: fasting. I’ve fasted for three to ten days at intervals, simply to reset my body or for prayer, and I admit I do sleep while fasting. That isn’t really a long-term cure; it simply means my body has no fuel, and so I pass out. And get migraines. It’s really awful for my health but definitely useful for my prayer life.

Most of the long-lived people in the world are clustered on islands and eating a varied diet that involves plenty of carbs, such as potatoes or pasta. My takeaway from centenarian studies is one must move to an island, be genetically isolated, and drink a lot of alcohol. That doesn’t seem to work for the Irish, however, which is my ethnicity, albeit clustering with Irish Americans. I don’t much care about living a long life. At the same time, I find it fascinating looking at the habits of centenarians. They tend to drink alcohol, eat carbs, and exercise and/or stay active physically. Some are dedicated athletes and others walk daily and do gardening and light housework. They also seem to have let go of grudges and are thankful for life. All I know is carbs, alcohol, walks and gratitude sound a whole lot better than bubble water and sardines.

The Absurdity of Misanthropy

The concept that humans are worthless is very popular in both Catholic and Protestant circles. I’ve been in Protestant services where the extended worship time focused on repeating mantras of self-immolation in song. I’m glad my husband stopped attending that church. To be fair, I stopped attending Protestant services with him entirely because I’m burned out on all of them.

But self depreciation certainly isn’t confined to Protestantism. Catholics have a long history of self hatred, which they have demonstrated through absurd physical means such as flagellation and the wearing of hair shirts. I don’t have a problem with self denial at all; fasting is biblical and can take our focus off the emphasis of meeting our physical needs and onto crying out to God to meet our spiritual needs. But the intentional acts of self hatred and proving our worthlessness to the world is 100% lost on me and, in my opinion, not consistent with either God or other Christian beliefs. Thankfully, these are private rather than corporate Catholic practices. In other words, the Mass is the Mass; there will never be a “led by the spirit” lengthy worship service in which Christians chant about how they need to disappear so that God’s glory can shine.

There is a viral Catholic prayer, The Unity Prayer by Elizabeth Kindelmann, that has caught fire in Catholic circles. The prayer itself is lovely (I will post it below) and the testimonies about it binding Satan’s influence over us probably true. That is the power of praying to Jesus. Being that these types of viral movements, in which numerous miracles are attributed to a specific prayer, fascinate me, I decided to read Kindelmann’s autobiography for more context. What a mistake that was! It wasn’t entirely a mistake. However, it is a tale of human suffering that can be very depressing to dwell on for any length of time. On the other hand, trust in God in the midst of suffering can be inspirational. There is both in the text, but unfortunately too much of the former for my mental health.

I stopped reading not too long after the words spoken to her by the Blessed Virgin Mary and Jesus turned the direction of “your priority is to remember that you are nothing.” Granted, this is a translation into English. In fact, it went from Hungarian to Spanish and then to English from the Spanish, so what I’m reading is twice removed from the original language. How difficult is that concept to translate from any language? I don’t know. I’m asking an honest question. Hungarian is a Uralic language and is therefore quite different from English or Spanish, but it still has a word that translates as “nothing.”

Why is this such a problem for me? On an emotional level, I struggle with nihilism. If there is no purpose to my or anyone else’s life on earth, I’d rather just off myself right now. Please don’t be alarmed by that, as I don’t believe my life is meaningless. I don’t buy that lie the evil one is selling. On a practical level, the pro-life movement, which is very important to the Catholic church, has as its core philosophy the value of all human life. Humans aren’t nothing. They matter. That’s why Catholic crusaders are willing to go to jail for protesting against abortion and euthanasia, as well as the maltreatment of humans. That’s why thousands of priests were killed by Nazis — they stood against the Nazi maltreatment of humans. How can they hold that philosophy while believing they themselves are nothing? Are they not as human and, therefore valuable, as the lives they’re fighting for? It’s a strange dichotomy you find all over the Christian world. I’m meaningless; I don’t have value, but I’m going to save the starving people in a refugee camp because somehow they have value despite being humans, too.

In a larger theological framework, there doesn’t seem much sense to God creating humans and sending his Son to die self-sacrificially for them if he regards them as nothing. What kind of capricious God would do that, and then advise these same humans when they are struggling through poverty and loneliness, as Kindelmann clearly was throughout her life, that their number one job was to remember that they are nothing? Her life as a poor woman and young widow had already taught her she didn’t have value. If she is writing that she is nothing, my guess is it’s coming from the worm in her brain implanted by maltreatment and not from God.

The Good Shepherd does not look pragmatically at his sheepfold and say, “Well, I have ninety-nine here. It would probably be better if I keep watch over these than go out and look for that one that left the fold. She left of her own free will. Her choice. She was warned about wolves. Besides, that’s one less mouth to feed, and who wants to give food to a poor female nobody loves? She’s nothing to us. Should we take a vote?” Those are not godly words. Jesus said he would leave the fold to find that one sheep that was lost. The sheep obviously being a metaphor for us, does the Good Shepherd strike you as a savior who would tell us we are nothing? That we don’t matter?

Humans want and need love. They want and need to know that they have value. They want to matter. It is no surprise to me that God built us chemically to produce pleasurable feelings when we do good for others. Doing good gives us a sense of purpose, a vocation. Yes, our chemical reactions can be tainted; there are sadists who instead feel pleasure when harming others. But we are appalled by that twisting of our God-given natures, condemning such people and their behavior, and rightfully so.

Maybe if I read the rest of her story, I would learn why it was important for her to remember she was nothing. I do not know because I’m not going to finish reading something that has already struck me as being false, closer to Zen Buddhism than Christianity. Instead, I’ll return to my fictional murder mysteries, where the sense of justice enacted in the end is predicated off human life mattering. If it didn’t, there would be little point to punishing murderers — which is, by the way, a biblical concept.

Have You Seen Any Christian Films Recently?

This was inspired by a YouTuber I like, Ready to Harvest, who frequently creates polls. I like him because he’s informational more than apologetic in nature. He describes Christian denominations and sects in a neutral tone. He rarely passes judgment. He’s an information and data collector, who then passes on what he’s collected for the benefit of his audience. I’m sure he has his own beliefs, but they aren’t the purpose of his channel. In a poll that just scrolled through my feed, he asked his audience if they had seen a Christian film in the last year, and there were various answering options.

The question gave me pause. Had I? Yes. And I had seen more than a few if it was a year from last May. For example, I watched Fr. Stu in the theater last spring. I also watched For Greater Glory at home. Those are movies with a clear intent of being Christian. Another that was Christian by default rather than intent was The Perfect Game. All were Catholic. All were based off of true stories. All left an impression on me, with The Perfect Game being my favorite. I’m pretty sure I wrote a blog post about that last one, as that kind of film is my personal crack. True. Inspirational. A story of the underdog prevailing. A sports theme. A dedicated priest, and kids with relentless faith in God. Yep. Make a film like that, and I will be there, and I will probably be wiping away the tears sliding down my cheeks.

I also watched some films that had a darker edge (For Greater Glory was heartbreaking and dark, but in a different way), such as Deliver Us From Evil, which is a horror movie based off the true story of a New York cop who becomes an exorcist. It didn’t get great reviews from horror fans because it was truly redemptive in its conclusion, the power of God overcoming evil. I’m not much for horror; I don’t like being terrified. I can’t stand jump scares, but this is a film worth seeing if you want to reinvigorate your belief in the spirit world. Of course, you have to believe that it’s a true story for that to happen. Belief is the sticky wicket, isn’t it?

Overall, I haven’t watched many movies this past year. I don’t have time for movies and shows, though I do admit sometimes I just want to recline on the couch on Saturday and do nothing but watch video entertainment. The problem is good films are difficult to find. There aren’t many stories like The Perfect Game out there. Most of the films I watched last year were Christian or inspirational in nature — true stories, though. There’s something about inspirational fiction that’s a bit too thick for me.

My original question stands: have you seen any Christian films recently? If yes, did you like them?

Un Instrumento Mágico

Every so often, we manage to go to a concert. For such a small town, we get some big norteño acts, such as Conjunto Primavera. This last weekend we went to Grupo Liberacion, which is a classic Mexican band. To be honest, there were so many acts coming up, I wasn’t sure this was the one I would choose. But I didn’t get a chance because my husband bought tickets with our neighbors, and we went as a group. This was a positive. The concert or baile, to be exact, was in a small venue, the Epiq Nightclub, and I was quite surprised at how many people they could pack in there and still have room for a dance floor.

Grupo Liberacion is really a rock band, but they have done a little bit of everything regional that a Monterrey band would produce; that is, they have a repertoire that includes cumbia and banda. During the 80s, they hit the keyboards pretty hard, but they never failed to have catchy songs. At this event there were about ten band members, including a saxophonist, as well as a keyboardist who doubled as an accordion player. Because they are really a rock band, they had a rock guitarist and bass player. They were very impressive, their performance topnotch. I was particularly impressed by their singing. These men are true performers with incredible voices.

Like all bailes, this one had three bands (some even have four); they start at about 9 PM and go until 2 AM. Yes, that’s a lot for a person not in her twenties, such as myself, but, strangely, there are always people much older than I am dancing until 2. Mexicans are superior that way. They definitely have their cultural strong points, and the ability to dance all night is one of them.

The first and second bands were fairly standard conjunto acts, Conjunto Rienda and La C Norteña. Both were good, the second especially so, and I found myself taken with the acordeonista of La C Norteña. More on that in a minute. First, a definition of terms is in order: conjunto is the term for a norteño band that includes an accordion, a saxophone, and a bajo sexto. Of course, there are drums and a base, but the three instruments I just noted are what make conjunto special. I’ve loved conjunto for a long time; some of my favorite bands, such as Los Rieleros, are classics of the genre.

But I have to admit that lately I’ve become increasingly frustrated with the sound of the saxophone because unless a band really mixes it well, the brassy sound doesn’t complement the accordion at all. AT ALL. I can’t emphasize that enough. In bands like Conjunto Primavera, the saxophone sound predominates many songs, and their sound is so iconic that I accept this reality. In concert, the accordionist and saxophonist being the same person, the songs either had saxophone or accordion, not both together, which is better in my opinion.

Now getting back to the acordeonista that I was quite attracted to (his sound, not him obviously, though I imagine accordion players are chick magnets), I would be just getting into his accordion parts when the sax player would jump right in and obliterate the sound. The saxophone is a dominant instrument, and the players thereof need to be put in the back with their mics turned down to highlight the truly important instrument, which is the ACCORDION.

Sax players need to stay in their lanes, in other words. The sax simply doesn’t have the magic of the accordion. The magic of the accordion is what I live for. It is what I need. It is what I try to achieve. It is why I come home from work and play my instrument every day. The thought of playing it gets me through the day, in fact. Forget about errands — I shouldn’t admit this, but I let myself run out of soap and deodorant for more than a week recently because I always forget to stop at the store when I have my Gabbanelli waiting at home. Did you know shampoo works great as a body wash? It’s true. And scraping the last of the deodorant tube is just good economy… If you don’t quite get it yet, I’m focused and driven to have the accordion in my life, and when I hear the sounds of magic from a good accordionist, I don’t want it suddenly smothered by the primadonna saxophone.

There is a genre I’ve been listening to lately that has replaced the saxophone with a sousaphone. Now THAT is a complementary instrument to the accordion. Sousaphone players provide a pleasant background rhythm that still allows the most important instrument to roll out its magic. Sousaphone players know to stay in their lanes. As far as I can tell, this genre is called norteño-banda, which makes sense, as banda will have a sousaphone or similar tuba-style instrument. I would like to find a friend who plays the tuba or sousaphone; then I could have a rhythm section. For what, I don’t know because the likelihood of my ever performing is about zero. However, I’m still trying to work out some songs about birds because they make the best norteño and banda songs, even if I don’t know precisely why.

I admit I know nothing about the first two bands that played on Friday night, but when I went looking for a video of La C Norteña, it was obvious the first I played had been filmed here in Roswell. A local band, then? The ice cream shop featured is Yoly’s, one of my favorite places. I mean no offense to a local saxophone player. Maybe I do, to be honest. He needs to step back a little when playing live. We all know the accordion is superior and needs to be heard.

Being Particular About Coffee and Books

Finding a good book is like finding a good cup of coffee. Regarding coffee, I’ve come to realize I have to make it myself. It does not have to be high-end coffee. At work, we have a Members Mark Colombian medium roast pre-ground in a can, but if I make it and drink it before the burner turns the flavor, it’s really quite good. It’s a grade above Folger’s, as it’s Arabica — even if not high-end Arabica.

I like medium to dark roasts. I like some light roasts, too, but they are tricky because they often are very mild-flavored and if you try to make them strong for more flavor, they end up so acidic they will take the enamel off your teeth. Roasts like French or Italian are often so dark they taste like ashes, but at least they have flavor. French presses will give almost all varieties a robust flavor, but you have to take the silt and grounds and oiliness along with it. Keurigs are all right if you use high-quality coffee and stick to eight or ten oz cups; otherwise, they produce an unsatisfactory, watery brew.

I avoid local coffeeshops because without exception, their brewed coffee tastes like water. However, I also avoid Starbucks because they no longer keep their brewed coffee fresh. Here’s a clue: if the lights are flashing on the machines, the coffee is no longer fresh. They don’t use burners to avoid burning the coffee; this means when the coffee is old and loses its piping hot temperature, the lights on the machine will flash. I can’t remember the last time I went in a Starbucks anywhere at any time of the day and didn’t see flashing lights. Yesterday, I was traveling and went through the drive thru in the morning; I couldn’t see the machines, but disappointingly, the coffee was barely clinging to a concept known as hot. I’m not sure when or why Starbucks let down its brewed coffee crowd for the diabetic frou-frou crowd, but it has.

I know this will trigger the “Starbucks burns their beans” crowd, but let’s just ward away such ignorance. Starbucks offers an array of roasts from the tasteless light breakfast blends all the way to the Italian roasts, which are meant to be roasted until they are black and sticky with oil. This crowd is under a delusion that Starbucks only has one roast. The truth is, they have many nicely roasted medium beans, but they will not make fresh coffee in house. Not do they serve medium roasts on tap, old or fresh. They do a light roast, a dark roast, and a medium-dark every day in their shops. But good luck with the timing on getting any of it when it’s fresh.

That is my rant on coffee. I’m not a snob. I’ve met coffee snobs, and I’m not one. Plus, it’s difficult to find good coffee in my cowtown. Nobody is a coffee snob in Roswell. The people here don’t want coffee; they want a sugar bomb. This is a growing American fad, I’ve heard. Even though I’m not a snob, I want robust flavor and gone are the days when I’d add a dash of salt to the Farmers Bros coffee at the diner to make it palatable. Therefore, I must always make my own coffee or suffer disappointment.

This do-it-yourself mentality does not work with books, on the other hand. Yes, I write books, but I don’t want to read my own labors. I want something new and different, which is odd because my tastes have dwindled from reading almost all genres (literary, comedy, mystery, sci fi, biography, history, religion/apologetics) to only reading mysteries, gothic romances, and comedies. I still buy religious works, and I start them and lose my patience and don’t finish them.

Mysteries are hit and miss, too, though. Romance is fine, if it’s a side plot. But imagine my distaste when a plethora of mysteries have a focus on romance or sex. No, just no. Cozy can be far too cozy, but at least it doesn’t come with explicit sex or old ladies finding youthful exotic lovers who just fall madly in love with their personalities…or something. I don’t know about other women, but as someone close to fifty, I find it a repellent thought to have a younger mate. The weird thing is, it actually happens more than people like to think. Two of my close friends went that route when they were forty, both dating men in their twenties; one eventually tossed out her boy toy. The other married him and is still married ten years later. So, I guess it worked for her…? But I still find it hackneyed and unbelievable in books.

All that being said, I tend towards cozies from British authors, or at the very least, mysteries where the extent of the sex is a closed door. I like intrigue and investigations. I like justice. I like everything resolved neatly in the end. I prefer unlikely detectives, such as Miss Marple, who simply understand the nature of people. And I also like to see even the most discerning detective get it wrong because humans will always have lapses in judgment.

One series I love is the Slim Hardy mysteries by Jack Benton. They have everything: supernatural and gothic elements, an unlikely hero, and justice done in the end. These aren’t really cozies, but there isn’t a lot of romance and sex is behind closed doors (that is, fade to next morning and spare us the details). And honestly, these books are just weird in a good way. Highly recommend. I will be sad to reach the end of the series.

Another is the Bea Abbot series by Veronica Heley. Bea Abbot is a widow who gets embroiled in murders through the domestic agency she takes over after her husband passed away. These are definitely cozies with a lot of good comedy and plenty of unlikeable characters. They are also very Christian, but in a good rather than preachy way. I love Bea, as she’s her own person. She’s a bit introspective and will often let chaos swirl around her before she tackles it, but she always snaps awake to deal with it. The most important part: she is her own independent person who doesn’t let people push her around. I’m also quite sexist and find this kind of commentary funny: “‘What a day! Suppose you choose something light for me to eat?’ [Bea says this to placate the man she’s eating with after she was late for their date.] Men liked to feel superior that way.” Or: “Men always think you’re intelligent if you get them to talk about themselves.” That last bit is true of women, too. Most people who ask questions and let others talk are perceived as having high intelligence.

Along the lines of a cozy series with a widow, one that I’ve chosen to abandon is the Mrs. Pargeter series by Simon Brett. The first two books were intriguing enough re their plots and mysteries. Like Bea Abbot, Mrs. Pargeter is a widow. Mr. Pargeter seems to have been some kind of Robin Hood of justice, using underworld contacts to bring justice about when it couldn’t be done by ordinary means. Mrs. Pargeter still has all her husband’s contacts and makes use of them, which makes the series interesting. However, I lost interest when Amazon recommended the eighth book in the series to me (which I bought by accident). The books are their own plots; they don’t have to be read in order necessarily. On the other hand, I realized that there will never be any true character development if there wasn’t from book one to book eight. The clue is in the character’s name. In the Bea Abbot series, the widow is her own person and is called by her first name. In this series, the woman goes by her husband’s name, Mrs. Pargeter. She clearly had a domineering, larger than life husband, and the widow has no discernible personality in her own right. At least I can’t detect one. She dresses the way her husband wanted her to dress, uses her husband’s proverbs as life guides because she apparently has no moral compass of her own, and everything she knows about the world was taught to her by her husband. There is a sad bit in this last book I read, where the widow waxes on about how her husband had taught her to have an art aesthetic. She, therefore, decides that a gift of a porcelain cat figure from a man who likes her needs to be hidden away or destroyed because it doesn’t fit her dead husband’s snooty art aesthetic. Near the end, she uses it to smash a bad guy over the head. All that would be fine, if it was her own art aesthetic and she didn’t like the man who gave the cat to her. But it’s not couched that way. I find it exceedingly depressing for a widow with a domineering husband to still lack a personality years after he has passed. I want to see her grow and find out who she is outside her husband. But some people are like that — moldable shells who live through others. I don’t think they make good heroines, though.

There are some men out there — not all or most of them I realize — who believe God created women to live and breathe their life goals. The funny thing is Mrs. Pargeter doesn’t believe in God, but Bea Abbot prays regularly. Because of this, the strange irony is that Bea believes in her own value, but Mrs. Pargeter clings to her husband’s ghost because she doesn’t have anything else, except the loads of money he left her and all his contacts who help solve crimes for her. You know who helps Bea? The two young people she helped, who are loyal to her and not her dead husband.

So sorry about that. I haven’t had a decent cup of coffee in a while, and I have become very particular about my books and my coffee. When it really comes down to it, I like the Jack Benton books the best because of their weirdness. Also, the detective is a divorced alcoholic with PTSD. He doesn’t have pleasant thoughts about his long-gone wife. He’s obsessed with solving mysteries and doesn’t live vicariously through anyone. A true independent. Except dependent on alcohol when he falls off the wagon. Oh, dear. And then he becomes dependent on coffee (which he’s very particular about!)