sylvia ashby

“The White Cottage Mystery” by Margery Allingham

 

51ukNLTFQnL._SX324_BO1,204,203,200_This was Margery Allingham’s first detective story, originally serialised in the Daily Express in 1927. Margery Allingham was one of the beloved writers of the Golden Age of Crime alongside Agatha Cristie, Anthony Berkeley, Freeman Wills Croft, Father Ronald Knox etc.

Like every classic Golden Age of Crime novel “The White Cottage Mystery” features an impossible murder, a love story, a noble detective, a suspicious inheritance and demons from the past. There are a lot of charming ladies struggling to do “the right thing”. There is a man who fought in the war and a villain with a cockney accent; a nanny, who is obsessed with her charge and simple but arduous “house staff” who reveal snippets of information about their masters at exactly the right time.

When Eric Crowther is shot to death Chief Inspector Challenor and his son Jerry are involved in solving the crime. Moments before the crime is committed Jerry drives past the White Cottage giving one of its inhabitants – charming Nora – a lift. As Jerry and his father dig deeper into the lives of the people present in the house at the time of the murder, they realise that

anyone could have killed Mr Crowther.

He was a vile man who enjoyed nothing more than collecting peoples’ secrets and torturing them with what he knew.

The novel was, perhaps, fast passed for its time but it lost a bit of it’s shine at present. The emotions are a bit over the top; the dialogue a tad stifling.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed the book the same way I’d enjoy watching a black-and-white movie from the fifties. Or the same way I crave Shepherd’s pie every now and again. “The White Cottage Mystery” is comfort food for the mind.

J.K.Rowling claims her favourite Margery Allingham’s book is “The Tiger in The Smoke”, so I’m off to check out that next.

I’m grateful for this book to Netgalley and the publisher in exchange for an honest review.

The Treachery of Trains Tour Day 1, 2 and 3

3d-the-treachery-of-trainsHello!
The Treachery of Trains Tour is well and truly on its way. I’m collecting all the links here, so I can keep you posted.

Day 1: 9th of May

The tour opened with a post in Red’s Midnight Readers. There is an eBook giveaway until 20th of May. Go WIN a free ebook if you haven done so by now!

The Treachery of Trains got mentioned in Ever Growing Book Obsession on Facebook.

Day 2: 10th of May

The book was all over the Belgian Reviewer. Since I live in Belgium I think that’s quite fitting 🙂 The 3D hardback rendition is a nice touch to the post. Thanks, Inge.

Day 3: 11the of May

The book is visiting Steamy Book Momma with another giveaway (would there be any ebooks left after all this is over?!).

Tomorrow I’ll be giving the book some well-deserved rest and I’ll be appearing myself on Judging More Than Just the Cover

Talk soon!

Sylvia A. x

 

 

“The Treachery of Trains Tour” One Week To Go

Tour

Hi there!

May is upon us and with it the blog tour of The Treachery of Trains. My latest book. I can’t tell you how excited I am since quite a few people have opted to review it. I can’t wait to hear what you make of it, bloggers! Thank you so much for taking part.

Now, because this tour is a special event I’d be

giving away the book on Amazon

on a single day. I’m not going to tell you upfront which day it is going to be, so stay tuned and follow me on twitter @bysylvia_a

Happy #chicklitmay! I couldn’t choose a better month to talk about my book.

S. x

 

 

“Missing, Presumed” by Susie Steiner 

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“Missing, Presumed” is a surprising crime novel on quite a few levels. Good surprising, I must say as opposed to “what is this?” surprising.

For one, the narrative is predominantly driven by DI Manon Bradshaw story, not the actual crime. By her own admission, Manon is “Misanthrope, staring down the barrel of childlessness. Yawning ability to find fault. Can give off WoD (Whiff of Desperation)”. This is an excerpt from a description of herself she’d like to put up on a dating site. She doesn’t post this, no, instead she cuts and pastes another woman’s resume, which she thinks sounds more enticing. And which attracts only weirdos: a poet, who sleeps on his ex’s couch and likes petite women (Manon is not); a guy who doesn’t stop talking about himself, but Manon still sleeps with him.

The crime itself is a dubious one, at best.

A Cambridge student, Edith Hind, is missing from her home. He boyfriend returns to their shared cottage to an open door, a bunch of coats knocked to the floor in the hallway and some blood in the kitchen. That’s it.

Edith, however, is a beautiful, popular, white girl. “An intellectual” according to her father Ian Hind, so the Police take notice. It helps that Sir Ian Hind is the go-to surgeon for the Royal family and frequents the theatre with the Home Secretary. The Police is quick to escalate the manhunt for Edith to national and international scale with mounting costs and disgruntled Police superiors.

At the same time, the body of a young black man is washed up from the river near the Hints holiday home.

Taylor Dent’s been missing for weeks.

His little brother has tried to report him missing, but the Police have taken no heed. The brother is only 10 years old; Dent is impoverished and black. Their mum is a drug addict. Nobody is looking for Dent.

DI Manon Bradshaw stumbles through the investigation in much the same way she blunders through life. She doesn’t so much follows leads and questions witnesses, as we are used to in crime novels, but rather lets the crime evolve until all is revealed.

And all is revealed.

There is a lot of umbrage in this novel. I mean the word “umbrage”. For a rare word like that the characters in the book use it a lot.

Also, I don’t think separating the structure of the novel through many voices adds to the narrative. The voices sound very much alike. There was little difference who’s name was at the beginning of each chapter.

Still, these little facts don’t change that “Missing, Presumed” is a wonderful effort. Looking forward to meeting Manon Bradshaw again.

Fractal Novels

 
What do snowflakes, cauliflower, and novels have in common?
The answer to this question is: fractals.
 
Fractal geometry is relatively new – the term was coined by Benoit Mandelbrot in 1975. A fractal is a geometric pattern that repeats at every level of magnification or in Mandelbrot’s own words “a fractal is a geometric shape that can be separated into parts, each of which is a reduced-scale version of the whole.”
Think of Russian nesting dolls.
 
But how are fractals relevant to writing?
 
Fractals help us study and understand scientific concepts, such as the way plants grow, as in broccoli or cauliflower; the patterns in freezing water – snowflakes, and the brain waves. Anything with a rhythm or a pattern has a chance of being fractal-like.

And what is a text, or a novel, if not a concept that you’d like to put through to people and be understood? The more structure there is to a text, the easier it would be for those reading it to make sense of it.
 
In his work “Poetics” Aristotle puts forth the idea of the three-act structure.
“A whole is what has a beginning and middle and end.” He writes.
 
I think that should be applied universally. I think that every part of every text – paragraph, sentence and even phrase, should also have “a beginning and middle and end”. In other words, it should be fractal. What is found in the whole should be found in its parts. That is how a text becomes consistent.

Let take the first paragraph of “Pride and Prejudice” by Jane Austin as an example:
 
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”
 
“It is a truth universally acknowledged…” is the beginning. Its purpose is to ease us in. It could be by adopting a universally known phrase, like here or something punchy that’d excite us, so we’d carry on reading.
 
“…a single man in possession of a good fortune…” is the middle of things. It’s not as exciting as the beginning or as dramatic as the end, but it’s still indispensable. It’s one of those things that you need to know in order to connect the dots.
 
“…must be in want of a wife.” Is the end. The climax in which, after all is said and done, all should be revealed. In good texts it’s surprising, as it is here. In bad texts it’s common and repetitive and dull.
 
“A whole is what has a beginning and middle and end.”
It’s as simple as that.

Image: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/297589487852138935/

Sunday Salad

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Sunday is that kind of a day when even boiling an egg seems too much of an effort.

If, however, you are persuaded to boil four eggs here is what you could do with them.

SUNDAY SALAD
Serves 2; 15 min to prepare

4hardboiled eggs
2 avocados
1 packet of prewashed salad
1 tbs Dijon mustard
2 tbs olive oil
cheese (in my case goats cheese but feta or mozzarella would be good too)

Hard boil the eggs. This takes approximately 6 min from the moment the water starts boiling.

Meanwhile cut the avocados in halves. In a small bowl put half an avocado and mash with a fork. In a salad bowl put the salad leaves and chop the rest of the avocado in it. Mix the mustard and olive oil and pour over the salad and avocado, keeping 1/4 of the mixture behind. Stir until salad is coated in dressing. Divide between two plates.

Once the eggs are ready, rinse under cold water and peel. Cut in halves. Put the yolks in the small bowl with half the mash avocado and 1/4 of the mustard and olive oil. Mix thoroughly.

Arrange the halved egg whites over the salad and spoon the avocado and yolk mixture in them.

Crumble some cheese. Eat.

Beautiful Depression: “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath

41LdnNav2xL._SX309_BO1,204,203,200_“The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther.”Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

The Bell Jar is (almost) modern prose; (almost) an autobiography; and (completely) a perfect piece of art. I could write for days about the poetry of the prose of Sylvia Plath. Of her mesmerising metaphors and allegories; the quickness of her mind and her unaffected writing style.

But as beautiful as our words could be, ultimately, they would be about depression. That’s what The Bell Jar is all about.

Sylvia Plath’s fight with this multifaceted demon lasts throughout her short life. She dies at the age of 30, after countless suicide attempts, leaving behind two very young children, numerous poems, and one novel – The Bell Jar. Half a century later, I’m as fascinated by it as all those before me, who’ve read it and attempted to write about it.

Sylvia Plath’s first suicide attempt is at the age 19, by swallowing her mother’s sleeping tablets and hiding under the house to die. She survives, by the skin of a miracle. The Bell Jar is about that summer, which marks the start of Sylvia Plath’s relationship with elusive Death.

In the novel her name is Esther and the book was first published under the pseudonym Victoria Lucas, but it’s all about Sylvia Plath. Like Plath, Esther loses her father at an early age; like Plath, Esther spends a month in New York on a magazine scholarship; like Plath, Esther attempts to commit suicide by taking sleeping pills. Esther leaves behinds a letter to her mother, which is, word for word, the letter Sylvia Plath leaves to her mother when she attempts to commit suicide.

Same as Esther in the book, Sylvia Plath gets inadequate help and dismal reactions to her depression symptoms: electroconvulsive therapy and her mother’s words “I knew you’d decide to be all right again.”

In the 50ties, electroconvulsive therapy was all the rage when it came to treating physiological symptoms. It was prescribed and administered for epilepsy and kleptomania; depression and catatonic states. Esther/Plath receives electroconvulsive therapy during the months spent under psychiatric supervision. They appear to have helped. But the prose in The Bell Jar is like the skin of a maiden spread over broken bones. They threaten to puncture the surface and expose the pain and suffering bellow with every verb and noun.

In The Bell Jar, Esther talks about her doctors with humour and warmth, but her care and gentleness are not reciprocated. Painful and humiliating therapies – insulin shocks alongside the electroconvulsive – are administered.

The sketches of the women in the psychiatric hospital are like the pages of a ghost book. Esther/Plath keeps asking herself why are all these women in the hospital with her, when they appear so normal. Then the pains, the losses, the failure, the shame are revealed; as if through them Plath reveals her own feelings of inadequacy.

Esther’s best friend in the hospital is discovered hanging from the ceiling one morning. This successful suicide attempt is like an echo of the last suicide attempt Sylvia Plath would ever make. As if she knows success is only a matter of time. A delayed execution, that’s never far from her thoughts and would be, ultimately, part of her reality one day.

Eva’s sort of an Apple Pie

Eva's2

I don’t know who Eva is. My mum doesn’t remember either. This recipe comes from her old recipe book: a handwritten, splitting-at-the seams notebook that’s my only inheritance, probably. That, and her “good” red dress that’s only slightly blobby. At least it still fits.

The recipe is from a section of the notebook enigmatically entitled “Baking”. It takes approximately  10min to assemble and  50 to bake.

Eva’s sort of an Apple Pie

3 apples
75g/half a cup raisins
75g/half a cup brown sugar
75g/half a cup crystal sugar
Juice of 1/2 lemon
90g/2/3 cup butter, softened
1 egg
150g/1 cup self-raising flour
75g/half a cup milk
25g almonds, peeled if possible

Preheat oven to 160C.

Peel and core apples. Cut into thin half-moon slices.

Butter a 20-25sm tin and arrange the apples at the bottom, sprinkling raisins, brown sugar and lemon juice over them. Set aside.

In a bowl beat crystal sugar, butter, egg unlit well combined. Add flour, milk. Stir until homogenous.

Pour over the apples. Arrange almonds on top. Bake. For about 50min or until golden brown.

Enjoy with a scoop of vanilla ice cream or a pot of tea.

Sunshine is optional.

“I Promise You This” by Patricia Sands

I Promise You ThisThis is Book 3 in Love in Provence by Patricia Sands. It will be, from what I gather, the last book in the series. If you are a bit random, like me, I think you can start from it and work your way towards the beginning of the trilogy. The book sat well as a stand-alone novel and I had no trouble following the story and getting to know the characters.

I Promise You This is the story of Katherine, or Kat, a suddenly single, fifty-something Canadian, who’s left her hometown Toronto after a heartbreak. We meet her as she travels to the Parisian airport with Philippe, a charming and gentle Frenchman she’s fallen in love with. Katherine  is going back to Toronto to take care of her friend Molly, who’s had a life-threatening accident.

Despite the enchanting settings of the book – the French Riviera, Paris and Toronto, I had qualms about this book from the very beginning. There was something that was pushing me away from the text, but I couldn’t quite put my finger to it. The book is well written. The characters believable. I could relate to the emotions and struggles they went through, and yet…

And then, just as Nick was sending his private jet to fetch Philippe from Paris to Toronto for Kat, I knew what it was:

this book was not one of us.

First class flights (with air miles); sending planes to fetch friends. Syrian refugees as private chauffeurs. Hunting the food of famous chefs around Toronto. Private rooms in hospitals. The list goes on. All the characters led really privileged lives to a point that, frankly, I was beginning to resent them.

After this revelation, I finished I Promise You This with a curious detachment. It was a good enough book and I saw no reason not to finish it, but the whole experience wasn’t entirely satisfying. A bit like eating a gluten-free crumpet. Or soy sausage.

Still, I’m grateful for this book to the publisher in exchange for an honest review and I’m sure there are many readers out there who would enjoy reading I Promise You This to the full.

I Promise You This is out on 17 May 2016

Galette with Ricotta, Aubergine and Fresh Herbs

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There is always ricotta in my fridge. Sometimes, like in this recipe, a tub or two of ricotta feeds the whole family.

Before I start, I’d like to issue a warning: the dough in this recipe is a bit of a genius discovery on my part. And as it usually happens with genius discoveries, it was accidental.

I try to be healthy in my cooking using wholemeal flour wherever I can, combining it with white flour for best results. This works out OK for dough with yeast or baking powder in it, but in galettes there is no raising agent. The raising happens from pockets of butter forming between thin layers of dough, which swell out while backing and give the finished galette flakey consistency. Wholemeal flour, however, is a bit on the heavy side and butter can’t always lift it. As a result, my healthy galettes were often dense and though.

Two years ago I was distracted while making a galette. I only realised I’d mixed my wholemeal flour with self-raising flour after it was already in the oven. I stared at the self-raising flour packet for a second, then shrugged. What’s the worst that could happen from putting a bit of baking powder in a dough?

Instead, something magical happened: my wholemeal flour galette was finally flakey! That little bit of self-raising flour had given it the inspiration to be a better dough. I never baked wholemeal flour galette with normal flour again.

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Galette with Ricotta, Aubergine and Fresh Herbs

DOUGH:
190g/1 1/4 cup* wholemeal flour
60g/1/3 cup self-raising flour
120g/3/4 cup cold butter
60ml/1/3 cup cold water
2tbs lemon juice (freshly squeezed)
a handful of finely chopped herbs (basil, mint)

FILLING:
1 eggplant
1 tub ricotta (250 g)
30g/1/2 cup chopped basil and mint
3tbs olive oil
salt, pepper to taste

In a food processor put the butter, cut into cubes. Add wholemeal flour and self-raising flour and pulse until coarse crumbs. If you don’t have a food processor rub butter and flour with your fingertips.

Transfer into a bowl and add water, lemon juice, and herbs. With fingertips again (to keep it cold) knead dough until it forms a ball. Roll out to a thin (5mm) round circle and put on a baking sheet. Galette is free-form so any baking sheet will do. Put in the fridge while working on the filling.

Preheat the oven to 190C.

Cut the eggplant into rounds and fry gently in olive oil.

In another bowl mix ricotta, salt, pepper, and the fresh herbs.

To assemble the galette spread the ricotta in a thick layer in the middle of the dough. Leave about 5cm to the edge for folding over. Arrange the eggplant circles over the ricotta, then fold over the dough edge crimping it where needed. Galettes usually have rustic appearance, so don’t worry about neatness or accuracy.

Bake in the oven for about an hour or until golden brown.

This galette could be eaten hot or cold. Enjoy!

*cup=150g