I’m just back from the Romance Writers’ of America National Conference in New York City.  It was held at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square.  2200 writers gathered to network and attend workshops–and to have fun.  Most of the time, we’re parked in front of our computers but for a

few days each year, we actually get out and interact with other writers and our editors.  During those few days, we’re Cinderella at the ball.  I went to the top of the Empire State Building, looked out on Times Square from my hotel room, assisted in a workshop on

Victorian underwear (no, I did not model), ate at a cool Scottish restaurant with Cara Summers and my editor, Brenda Chin, and went to see Sister Act with a group of writer friends.  And then there was the Harlequin party at the Starlight Roof of the Waldorf Astoria.  Utterly fabulous!  All good things must end and I arrived home, exhausted, to roses from my hubby!  I almost forgot that I have a book out this month–KEPT IN THE DARK, the last book in the 24 Hours Blackout series.

Now it’s back to work.  But first, who has been to New York?  What did you do and did you like it?

It’s travel time!  The annual Romance Writers’ of America conference is at the end of the month, which means I’m headed to New York.  I don’t travel as much as I used to and I’m out of practice.  I haven’t been on a plane since the new passenger screening rules were put into effect.  Does it take longer to get through security than it used to?  And packing–it took me forever to pack for last year’s conference.  Why?  It’s not like I haven’t done it before.

I learned about those space-saver bags that you can squash your clothes into, but they still weigh the same and I have had to take stuff out of my suitcase and cram it into my purse to get under the 50-pound limit at the baggage check-in counter.  I am not a light traveler.

Who’s going on a trip this summer?  Any travel tips?  Please share!

I was all set to tell you about my misadventures on Facebook, where I keep getting suspended (even though I’m following their directions) and ask you to “like” my new author page and I still want that, but a couple of days ago, I learned that the D.C. Dalgliesh mill, Scotland’s last artisan tartan weaver, was on the verge of going out of business and had been rescued by the owners of Scotweb, the company where I bought my son’s kilt. In an email, Dr. Nick Fiddes, Scotweb’s owner, explains: “My partner, Adele Telford, and I have stepped in with a last minute rescue package to save Scotland’s last surviving traditional tartan weaver, D.C. Dalgliesh, of Selkirk, Scotland. Here’s why: if this mill had gone the way of so many others, then 90% of all family tartans would never be woven again.” Only the most common plaids would ever be produced. He goes on to explain: “D.C. Dalgliesh is the ONLY tartan weaving mill able to produce a short length, just for a single garment like a kilt or skirt. The minimum weaving length at most mills is 30-60 yards. D.C. Dalgliesh will weave just four yards, in single-width tartan. This makes a special weave affordable for almost anyone, so anyone can wear their own family tartan.”

“All D.C. Dalgliesh fabrics are produced on traditional flying shuttle looms, which give the tartan the ‘natural’ or ‘kilting’ selvedge that any proper kilt should have. Most mills have been installing modern high speed computerized looms that need each line of ‘weft’ to be cut at each side, leaving untidy threads that give a thick edge when tucked in, and can fray. D.C. Dalgliesh is the only mill to promise this.” Dr. Fiddes narrates a fascinating video you can watch here.

How many of us have enjoyed Scottish historicals? The castles, the windswept moors, the men swathed in tartan. Can you imagine those rugged Scottish heroes without their kilts? Why, they’d be . . . be . . . naked. Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best thing to point out. Stop thinking about naked, Scottish men and concentrate on saving this one mill. If they go out of business, the traditional weaving methods and the ability to reproduce ancient designs will be lost forever. Yes, I know it’s more fun to think about the naked men, and I’m sorry I distracted you. Focus. The Scotweb folks think that the mill ran into trouble because not enough people knew about their unique weaving. What they’re asking is that you spread the word about the mill and “like” them on Facebook. If you’re not on Facebook , you can visit their D.C. Dalgliesh Supporters website.

You can also go play with the tartan designer on the Scotweb site. I designed a Blaze tartan.

Spread the word! Tweet with abandon! Design a tartan! And if you do, tell me about it here and I’ll let one commenter choose a book from my backlist.

I planted a kitchen herb garden this year and as of right now, all the plants are still alive. That’s because I bought them that way and haven’t had a chance to kill them yet. But it’s only a matter of thyme. Ahem. Sorry, but I had to work at least one pun in. It was mint to be. Okay, I’m stopping now. Really.

This looks like a little, no-big deal thing, doesn’t it? I spent all Saturday on this project. First, there were ugly bushes beneath the window, so I dug them out. Then I smoothed the dirt and put down landscaping fabric to keep out weeds. (Weeds, I can grow) I filled those giant pots and moved them into place. No, that’s not exactly how it went. What really happened is that I wanted a layer of rocks in the bottom for drainage. I’d been saving broken pottery for this. I wrapped pieces in a towel and banged on it with the shovel. Those plates and cups that broke so easily when I dropped them on the kitchen floor? Not giving up without a fight. I walloped the towel and when I checked, there were maybe a few more cracks, not the chunks I was looking for. There was a lot more walloping–very therapeutic–until I succeeded. Then I dragged the super-sized bag of potting soil from the patio where it had been ever since I got the idea for an herb garden. The thing is, I’ve been thinking about an herb garden for a while. Certainly since before the last rain. The bag wasn’t water-tight, so it was more like potting mud. Even so, there wasn’t enough of it. I needed dirt. Where better to get dirt than from my hubby’s raised vegetable garden?

Okay, there are better places, and the garden isn’t exactly raised any longer because I needed a lot of dirt. I mixed my potting mud with it and filled the giant pots. Giant pots filled with dirt are heavy, too heavy for me to move I now know. So I emptied the pots, moved them, and refilled them, making a mess in the process. I spread the rocks. (Bags of rocks are also heavy. I know, surprised me, too.) But I soaked the plants in their little biodegradable containers, stuck them in the stolen dirt, (“Heather? It looks like some animals got into our back yard.”) and they are still alive!

Except something is eating my mint.

So who’s got the gardening bug this year? What’re you growing?

It’s rodeo time in Houston and that means chili cookoffs. Whenever two or more cooks are gathered around a bubbling pot of meat and spices, someone is bound to ask whether or not to add beans. In Texas, the answer is, “No.” Usually expressed more colorfully, but still no. In fact, most chili cookoffs follow the official rules of the International Chili Society which strictly forbids the addition of beans or pasta. Some rules spell out more: “No fillers – No beans, macaroni, rice, hominy, or other similar items will be permitted.” When I was looking for pictures of chili, I had a hard time finding one without beans. Although I personally prefer chili without beans, I’m not going to refuse to eat any with beans in it. Recently, I made an insanely complex chili recipe because I happened to have all the ingredients on hand. It tasted fabulous and, yes, had black beans in it.

So how do you like your chili? Beans or no beans?

Twenty years ago this month, my first book, DECK THE HALLS, was published. It’s a story about three sisters who run a Christmas decorating service and came out in the Harlequin Romance imprint under my pseudonym, Heather Allison. How appropriate that this month, A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS, also a Christmas romance, is out. Different line, different name, but still a Christmas romance. There have been five Christmas romances in between these two. I like Christmas romances even though I’m usually writing them when it isn’t Christmas.

Christmas is always a busy, stressful time of year, filled with expectations and calories and shopping and family. Great fodder for book ideas. I remember the moment I got the idea for DECK THE HALLS. I’d just returned from a handbell choir performance, got the kids in bed and was about to hit the shower when I remembered that I had to bake cookies for somebody’s pre-school class the next day. And they had to be homemade using the recipe the school sent home. I thought, “I wish I could hire someone to do Christmas for me.” And got the idea for the book. The SANTA SLEUTH was inspired by a newspaper article about a little girl’s search for the best mall Santa. I was involved in a Christmas program when I thought of the plot for THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE CUDDLY. Families and their expectations prompted both MR. DECEMBER, and CHRISTMAS MALE. LONE STAR SANTA was inspired by a cocktail napkin that said, “Donner and the Vixen.” That was my original title, but I didn’t get to keep it. However, LONE STAR SANTAS was the original title for CHRISTMAS MALE, so it all worked out. The carol “The Twelve Days of Christmas” gave me the idea for A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS because the giver gives his true love such an extravagant set of gifts. What’s more extravagant that a gift of twelve men?

One of the similarities in the books is the Christmas tree. All the trees are decorated with a mish mash of ornaments collected over the years and multi-colored lights, because that’s what I like.

To celebrate, I’ll give away books to 7 people who tell me if they prefer designer trees, where the ornaments have a theme and everything is color coordinated, or what I’m calling a jumble tree, with a mix of homemade, gift, and souvenir ornaments. Winners can choose my new Blaze or any of my backlist, as long as you understand that the older the book, the deeper I have to dig!

And the 7 winners are Patsy Roberts, EllenToo, CrystalGB, Chey, Cathy W, Robin Coll, and Laurie G! Please email me at Heather (at) HeatherMacAllister.com with your contact info. You can pick A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS or any of my backlist, which is on my website. And then I shall brave the post office. What was I thinking? :-O

Last Monday, it was 91° and six days later, there’s frost on the roof. I think we’ve finally seen the last of summer and that means it’s baking season! Let’s talk pie. My favorite is rhubarb, not in season and hardly seen in the south, but after that, I love pecan and Texas has great pecans. I also like mixed-berry pies, but again, not in season. Apple is good, especially mixed with cranberry. Pumpkin, I can take or leave. My family is adamant that the recipe on the back of the Libby’s can must be followed exactly, while I like to jazz up the basic recipe. I also like mincemeat and I make my own. My parents, my mother-in-law, and I love it. Everyone else will leave the room rather than watch us eat it. The kids demand a pumpkin fluff pie that’s made with pumpkin, pudding, and Cool Whip.

How about you? US Thanksgiving is coming up and the Canadians already had theirs, so what pie is going to be, or already was, on your Thanksgiving table? I’ll give away a copy of my December Blaze, A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS, to three commenters who talk pie today.
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And the random number generator has picked Linda Henderson, Cim Hardt, and Colleen as the winners of A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS!
E-mail me your address at Heather(at)HeatherMacAllister.com Thanks for talking pie!
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For years I’ve been loyal to my faithful cell phone, just the way I’m loyal to Windows XP—even Windows 98, which is on my writing computer. All my books are written using WordStar. For DOS. But last month, the ear piece broke on my cell phone and I couldn’t understand what anyone was saying, which is kind of the point of a phone. I say “kind of” because I now own the new Samsung Epic 4G and as far as I can tell, making phone calls is barely the point. It can do anything. Seriously—I bet if I held it next to a mug of water, it would brew tea for me. There’s probably an app for that. Did you catch that? I said “app” like all the cool people, only now I know what it means. Apps (applications) are little programs that do things like calculate tips, show me traffic, where I’ve parked, turn itself into a flashlight, keep track of my grocery list, put my face on the Mona Lisa (not really—I put it on Mount Rushmore), identify all the stars and planets, and, this is seriously scary, it knows where I am with such accuracy, it knew when I walked from the back yard to the street. There’s even a Kindle app. I could download War and Peace and read it on my phone if I wanted to. You get apps in the Android Market. See, this is an Android phone, with a cute little green man who is really Google in disguise, and not an Apple iPhone.

And get this, there is something called Swype, which means I can smear my finger over the keyboard on the screen and it magically knows what I want to say! Neither of my technically savvy sons knew about that and they have iPhones. Anytime you can impress your kids, it’s golden.

Something else they didn’t know about were these little code boxes. You may have noticed them in magazines and advertisements. The phone reads them and shows me short bonus videos or goes to websites. By the way, I made these particular codes. If your phone can read these, it will take you to secret places. Okay, just various pages on my website and Amazon, but still, how cool is that?

Almost as cool as the camera. There’s one on the front AND the back so I can make video calls. I haven’t figured that out yet. I haven’t figured out a lot of things on the phone. I’ve accidentally called some numbers—numbers I don’t even recognize because I didn’t put them in my contact list and I don’t know who or what did. All I have to do is get my fingers close to the screen and something happens. I have taken several lovely pictures of my thigh and the bar code scanner has tried to read my freckles. I keep closing programs—I mean, apps—accidentally, and finding out others have been running for hours and quietly sapping the battery.

This phone is a remarkable piece of equipment. I only wish they’d provided an instruction manual for the instruction manual.

Do you have a “smart phone?” A favorite app? Or do you wish phones would just stay plain phones—preferably with large numbers and screen?

My family came over this past weekend and after they left, I put away the food and carefully separated the dishes according to those that could go into the dishwasher and those that needed hand washing. My hubby expertly loads the dishwasher, but he is not to touch the china or crystal, which he breaks. He loves it when I use the china and crystal. Anyway, I left him to the dishwasher and collapsed in front of the TV to watch TCU beat Oregon State. At halftime, I hear, “Come and see this.” I found him in the dining room. On the table, arranged precisely by type in straight lines (he’s an engineer) is the crystal and china, along with every other hand washable item. They are clean. And whole. “You washed them?” “And I didn’t break or chip any,” he tells me before I can ask. I’m stunned, but grateful, and also beginning to feel a little guilty. And then he hands me a Man Day Pass. It’s a little ticket that says he’s exempt from “engaging in any and all unmanly activities” for twenty-four hours. He’s completely serious. Am I going to argue when he’s just spent a couple of hours cleaning up the kitchen? Not if I ever want him to do the dishes again.

So what did he do with his Man Day? He put up a new antenna (he’s a ham radio operator). It took him all day and although I don’t think it enhances the exterior of the house, I didn’t say anything except, “Don’t fall off the roof.”

Boyfriends, husbands, brothers, fathers, sons–what would the men in your life do with a Man Day Pass?

And apparently squash do it, too. Who knew? My mother, that’s who. I should backtrack and tell you that my husband planted a vegetable garden this spring. His first. All by himself, which is astonishing since he hates yard work. Me, I’m a verified plant killer, so I told him he was on his own with the planting and the tilling and the weeding, but I would be happy to cook and prepare any of the garden’s bounty. To my shock, plants are growing. A couple of weeks ago, I told my mom that the squash had started blossoming.

“Do you have any bees?” she asked.
“What? No.”
“Then you’ll have to help your squash have sex.”

Okay. These are not words I expect to hear from my mother. However, as is usually the case, she is right. By the way, do not Google “squash sex.” The results are not helpful.

After adjusting my search string, I learn that there are male and female blossoms and that if there are no bees, yes, they need help with pollination. Oh, yeah, they only bloom once. That’s right, they get one shot to make a baby squash, and that one shot takes place between 8:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m. So they’re incompetent and picky. Since my husband’s at work then, I am the squash’s only hope for romance. I don’t even like squash.

Outside, I stare at the garden and figure out that there are a lot more females than males, which must be some kind of male squash fantasy. I can see the little squash babies all ready to grow, and know that if I can’t get the males to man up, the unfertilized babies will shrivel and die.

I shall not fail you, my squash sisters.

Early the next morning, I go to the garden with my paintbrush and perform intimate acts with strange squash blossoms. I match make. No kinky brother/sister stuff. And I check all the males—are they strong and handsome? Reliable? Employed? Does their pollen deserve to live on? I am emotionally invested in the lives of the squash.

For three days, I run a squash bordello. On the fourth, I interrupted a bee. I was so startled, I actually apologized to it.

Now, the bees have taken over, and a couple of days after that, the first squash, hand-pollinated by me, were born. They tasted great.

So . . . who read this and Googled “squash sex?”