Hi, I'm Liz McKeown. Welcome to my writer's blog where I promote self-published writers, Tweet about them and promote them on Facebook.
Friday, July 10, 2015
Chef Russell Jackson Pulp Fiction writing contest update: First Entry posted.
So far, we have four contestants: Stephanie Greenhalgh, Jessica Samuels, Stephanie Parke and Cheryl Johnson.
I am posting Cheryl's entry: http://creativewritersboost.blogspot.com/2015/07/pulp-fiction-writing-contest-cheryl.html
I am having some computer issues at home which I expect to have solved long before next weekend. I expect to have Chef Russell select a winning entry by Sunday, July 19th.
By the way, Chef Russell has his own TV show, check it out: http://www.popfoods.tv/
Pulp Fiction writing contest: Cheryl Johnson's entry.
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| Chef Russell Jackson's picture gave me inspiration for this story. |
“What The Marco?” exclaimed the Dissident Chef, eyebrows raised in surprise, as he surveyed the contents of the carefully packed insulated shipping crate. The special order of organic Emu Eggs had arrived 30 minutes earlier and he was anxious to make sure none of them had been broken in transit. When he lifted the lid and pulled off the layer of soft foam packing he saw that the egg nestled in the center of the first layer was not at all what he was expecting. Instead of a dark green/black color, it was bright gold. He reached in and gently picked up the golden egg. It was feather light and felt very fragile to the touch. He carefully held it up and turned his hand back and forth to look at the egg from all sides.
‘Hello,
anyone there?” came a call from the back door of the commercial kitchen he had
was using for his current Foie Gras soiree.
Chef carefully set the egg back in its place, quickly replaced the foam
and crate lid and set the crate under the prep table before scurrying to the
back door to see who was arriving.
There was a
tall brunette standing just inside the back door. He smiled as he read the ‘I love Rock &
Roll’ logo on her light blue t-shirt. ”Hello,
how can I help you” asked the Dissident Chef.
I am looking for a Chef to cater a private party this weekend and was
told I might be able to find someone to help me here at this kitchen.” said the
woman. “My name is Cheri, may I ask who
you are?” It’s very nice to meet you Cheri. I am called the Dissident Chef. I don’t know who referred you to this
kitchen, but I am afraid there isn’t anyone here at this time that could help
you. I do cook for private events from
time to time, but I am busy this weekend with an event of my own.” “Oh, I see” she said disappointedly, “Well do
you know of anyone or any place else I could contact that might be
available?” Chef quickly thought through
his list of chef friends, ripped off a small piece of white butcher paper and
wrote down several names for her to contact.
She thanked him; he told her good luck with her private party, locked
the back door behind her and hurried to the front of the kitchen to lock the
front door before lifting the crate back up to the prep table top.
He once
again removed the lid and packing and lifted the golden egg out. This time he
noticed a small folded piece of paper resting under the egg. He removed the paper, replaced the egg and
unfolded the paper. The note inside
read: “To the Dissident Chef, please
keep this safe for me until I can come to San Francisco to retrieve it from
you. Thanks You”. The note was just signed “T”. The Dissident Chef was baffled. He started going through the list of all the
people he knew who had first or last names starting with T. Finally he took out his cell phone and speed
dialed a number. “Hey Lance, you know that case of Organic Emu eggs you ordered
for me from your special source? Well, I
need to know where they come from and how to contact the supplier.” “Was there something wrong with the order?”
his friend Lance asked. “No, I just have
some questions about the eggs that only the supplier can answer. “Said Chef. Lance
was silent for a moment, and then he said “Well, I have to telegraph my orders into
the supplier. I understand the Emu farm
is on a small island off the coast so they don’t have phone or internet. I just know that I telegraph my order and get
a return telegram with the expected arrival date and the eggs come on time
every time.”
“Hmmm” said
the Dissident Chef. “Well do you at
least know the name of the Emu farm?”
“Yes, it’s The Golden Emu Farm”.
“Thanks Lance, I’ll see if I can’t find some way of contacting
them.” Lance wished him good luck and he
ended the call. The Dissident Chef
knew he didn’t have time to spend on this mystery right now. He should be cooking for the 6 course dinner
he was serving in two days, but he could not resist entering the Emu farm name
into the internet search box. After
about 45 minutes of searching he had found the name of the island where the Emu
farm was located. He knew any further
action on the egg mystery would have to wait until after the dinner, so he
wrapped the golden egg in several kitchen towels, put together several layers
of foam take-out boxes and cocooned the fragile egg inside. He then placed the package with his other
personal items to take home that night.
Soon his staff arrived and the kitchen was abuzz with activity. Chef was too busy to think about the egg
again until he got home that night. He
surveyed his own kitchen, trying to decide where would be the safest place to
put the egg. He finally decided to leave
it in the packaging and hide it in his pantry cupboard behind the giant sized
jar of Nutella he kept for his late night chocolate cravings. He ran through the list of names staring with
T again as he ate a couple spoonfuls of Nutella before setting the jar in place
to hide the egg package. He still could
not imagine who had sent the egg.
The next two
days were so busy he did not have time to think about the egg. His 6 course dinner went off without a hitch,
except a small kitchen fire when a towel got too close to the stove flame. All of his guests left with smiles and full
happy tummies.
As the
tired, but happy Dissident Chef collapsed on the couch in his apartment, he
again thought of the egg hidden in his cupboard. He had put the note that came with it in his
wallet and now took it out to see if he could maybe recognize the hand
writing. It didn’t seem familiar to
him. He moved over to his desk and
started to search for travel information to visit the island where the Emu farm
was located. There were several boat
rental companies listed for transporting cargo to and from the island. Chef noted down their numbers and decided to
call the next day to see if they also took passengers to the island. As he fell asleep that night he was still
running through the names of people he knew that started with the letter T.
The first
shipping company he called the next morning immediately stated that they were
not making the trip to that island anymore because the tides and reefs made it
too dangerous. The second company had a
going-out-of-business message on their recording, but the third company he
called said that yes, they were still picking up and delivering shipments. He was ten told that they would not be going
to the island again for several weeks because of bad weather. “With the shallow reefs and strong currents
this time of year about the only way to get onto that island is to parachute
in” stated the crusty seaman who had answered the phone. “Well”, thought the Dissident Chef to
himself. “Lucky for me that I am a seasoned skydiver if it really comes down to
that.” He thanked the old gentleman and
hung up the phone.
His hope of
going to the island to solve the mystery dashed, he took out the egg package
and unwrapped it to check the egg for any more clues. As he sat there turning it over and over
trying to think of another way to solve the mystery, his doorbell rang. When he checked to see who was in the hall he
recognized his old friend Tory B. He
opened the door and greeted Tory warmly.
“What are you doing in SF?” he asked Tory. “I came to pick up the egg” said Tory. The Dissident Chef felt the questions
tumbling quickly out. “What? . . . You’re the one who sent it? How did you get it? What were you doling on the island? Why did you send it to me?” Tory held up his hand to stop the rapid fire
barrage. “I’ll tell you the whole story,
but first do you have any beer in your fridge, I could kill for one right now
Tory was
with a film crew filming the lives of the hill people of the island. One of the village elders took a liking to
Tory and gave him the golden egg as a present.
The elder said it had been made for his Grandmother as a wedding gift
from his Grandfather but he did not have any children to pass it down to. Many of the other island residents knew Tory
had been given the egg and were not happy that it would be leaving the island
with him. He was sure there would be
trouble when he tried to take it home.
He and his crew were given a tour of the Emu farm and when they were in
the shipping facility Tory spotted the unsealed crate with the Dissident Chefs’
name and the SF address on it. He
decided to slip the egg into the crate but didn’t have time to write a long
note of explanation so decided a short one would have to do. He knew he could trust his old friend to keep
it safe for him. Tory was right about
the trouble. No one ever asked him
directly about the egg, but when they got to the mainland and claimed their
luggage it was evident that it all had been searched thoroughly. The Dissident Chef put the golden egg back in
its strange package for his friend to take home. As Tory left with the package the Dissident
Chef said. “Hey Tory, next time you have
to smuggle something home would you please send it to someone else?” Tory laughed and agreed to the Chefs’
request. As he shut his apartment door
he was relieved to have the mystery of the golden Emu egg solved at last but
sad to think he didn’t have any excuse now to parachute onto the island. Oh well, maybe next time . . . The End.
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Pulp Fiction writing contest! Revolutionary Chef Russell Jackson is the muse!
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| Chef Russell Jackson |
Write a Pulp Fiction short story for the Chef who started the SubCulture Dining movement: Chef Russell Jackson. Chef Russell was one of the top three finalists on the popular series Food Network Star: http://www.foodnetwork.com/shows/food-network-star/contestants/russell-jackson.html and also faced off against Iron Chef Jose Garces on Iron Chef America in Battle Rhubarb. For a more extensive biography, click here: http://www.russelljackson.com/bio.html
All finalists short stories will be featured in my blog two weeks from today. These finalists will be the subject of a Tweet storm on Twitter. The winner, chosen by Chef Russell, will be the star of my blog and will receive even more publicity on Twitter and Facebook.
How do you get hold of me? Either message me on Facebook (find me under Liz Kingsbury Mckeown) or send me a private message on Twitter. My Twitter handle is @WritersBoost
Rules: The stories will have a maximum of 1,500 words, but this is not cut in stone. Chef Russell Jackson will be the subject of your story. May creative inspiration be with you!
Sunday, June 28, 2015
An Unpredictable Life release party Sunday, July 5th! #CancerSurvivor

Facebook link to the event: https://www.facebook.com/events/426966157484301/
Want to see more of Elaine's novels? Click here: http://ellelainey.wix.com/secretsofavelina
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Short Story contest: The Love Chef has chosen!
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| Chef Jernard Wells - the Love Chef! |
He has chosen Stephanie Parke's story. Here is her entry "Sweetest Madness": http://creativewritersboost.blogspot.com/2015/06/love-chef-writing-contest-entry.html
Stephanie will receive a case of Chef Jernard's signature sauces and spices. View the shopping section of his website here: http://hautecuisinechatt.com/shop/
Because I want to thank the talented Elizabeth Lorraine for her participation and support of my VERY FIRST writing contest, I am gifting her choice of two Chef Jernard products! Elizabeth has written many books. Here is her impressive Amazon page: http://www.amazon.com/Elizabeth-Loraine/e/B002Z8JEIY/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1434735899&sr=8-2-entSaturday, June 20, 2015
Two finalist entries posted for the Love Chef writing contest!
Here is Elizabeth Lorraine's entry: http://creativewritersboost.blogspot.com/2015/06/love-chef-writing-contest-entry_20.html
And here is her Amazon page: http://www.amazon.com/Elizabeth-Loraine/e/B002Z8JEIY/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1434735899&sr=8-2-ent
Here is Stephanie Parke's entry: http://creativewritersboost.blogspot.com/2015/06/love-chef-writing-contest-entry.html
Check out Stephanie's contribution to Love Bites here: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=stephanie+parke
Now, it's up to Chef Jernard!
Love Chef writing contest entry. Finalist Elizabeth Lorraine.
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| Chef Jernard Wells - the Love Chef |
Short Story Entry
Cooking My Way To Her Heart
By Elizabeth Loraine © 2015 all rights reserved
“What is it that
you really want, Aaron?”
I glanced across
the desk to my boss, Chet. How long had he been out of college? Two years?
Since when did a Masters degree give you as much credibility as years of
experience anyway?
The years review
wasn’t going well. This new guy, who came in six months ago, was making changes
and I was going to be one of them, I could feel it. I decided I might as well
step up and not tell him what he expected to hear, but what I really thought.
“I want the
company to be successful. I’m just not sure if it’s going in the right
direction. Instead of bringing people up from within; people who know the
business inside and out and what our customers want and expect; we are bringing
new people in.”
Chet sat back in his chair. “New people, with new, fresh
ideas. Companies like this have a tendency to get stale.” He looked through my
file, glanced back over to me and smiled.
“You’re doing a
good job, keep it up.” He stood and shook my hand.
At the end of the
month I was packing up my things. Six years, and they didn’t even have the
balls to tell me in person? A pink slip in my check….nice.
I thought about
leaving the box of miscellaneous items on my desk. I mean did I really need
that employee of the year award now? Instead I took the walk of shame with it
and tossed into the back seat of the cab I’d called.
I took out my
phone and called my best friend.
“I need a drink,
meet me at the Whiskey Tavern?”
“Sure, when?”
“As soon as you
can get there. I just have to stop at home and drop something off first.”
The cab waited as I threw the box in my storage unit along
with my coat and tie. When I got to the bar, my best friend Liza was already
surrounded by men. She looked gorgeous of course, how could anyone resist that
beautiful face, green eyes, and thick brown locks which cascaded down her back.
Those long legs and perfect curves didn’t disappoint, but it wasn’t the most
attractive thing about her. It was the way she was; thoughtful, fun, hilarious
and smart, but unpretentious, and low maintenance. What other woman could you
call at a moment’s notice and she’d beat you to the bar?
“There you are.
Sorry guys, my dates here.”
She took my arm
and gave me the smile that made my stomach tense. Yeah okay, I had it bad for
her. Who didn’t? She always says she’s not the marrying kind. She likes her
independence.
“What’s going
on?” she said as she slid onto her side of the booth. “You look like someone
stole your glass slipper.”
I had to grin.
“Well it was the last one I had. I got fired, today was my last day.”
Liza frowned, reaching across the table for my hand. I took
it, feeling heat rising from my fingers. It was a good thing it was fairly dark
here, my face felt hot. I always seemed to act like a sixteen year old when we
were alone. Liza on the other hand was relaxed. There was no problem she
couldn’t solve, no situation she couldn’t spin into something tolerable.
“They never
deserved you anyway. You are way too talented of a business man to sit in the
background and wait for some less qualified person to climb up your back.”
“Obviously I’m so
talented that my services are no longer needed.”
The waitress came over and we ordered bourbon. I need to
mention that Liza could drink you under the table, out swear you while telling
you the stats of every quarterback in the NFL. “Actually I am going to take a
little time off before I decide what I want to do.”
“Do you have any
idea what that is?”
I looked deeply
into her eyes. “I want to get married, and start a family.” Liza’s smile dimmed
and she sat back.
“There’s a perfect woman for you. If that’s
what you really want I don’t see any reason why you wouldn’t find her sooner
than later.” She took a big swig of the caramel colored liquor and raised her
glass so the waitress would bring another. “Why don’t you let me make you some
dinner?”
“Why not. I can
drown my sorrows in one of your fabulous sauces.”
“That’s right and
you can help me chop vegetables. It’s relaxing. My mom always said it was the
way to show someone you care. I care. Come on, let’s go.”
It wouldn’t help
to tell her now it was her I wanted, so I canceled her drink and paid the bill.
We headed over to her apartment in SoHo, and I had to admit I felt better
already. I still had her all to myself and I was going to get a home cooked
meal, something most people didn’t get in Manhattan. Everyone either went out,
or ordered in.
Liza tied her hair back and put on a black apron. It was the
one I bought her for her birthday last year. In pink ornate script it said
‘food is love’.
I helped her chop carrots, celery and onion
into a fine dice. She didn’t direct me or scold me because it wasn’t perfect. I
didn’t cut myself; that was a victory in itself. She was right. It was a
relaxing and distracting, and exactly what I needed.
We ate steak and potatoes with the red wine
sauce, which I help make and took full credit for its fabulous flavor.
“So don’t tell
me,” I said as we sat down to watch some TV. “It’s the food channel tonight.”
She grinned and
turned it on. “You might learn something.”
Being with her
was enough. Some nice red wine and the finally of a show called Cutthroat
Kitchen. Actually it was fun and the chef that won was full of personality. He
had the same philosophy as Liza. Making someone a meal was his way of showing
love. The winner; Jernard Wells is even called, ‘The Love Chef’.
When I got home I
looked him up on the internet, he had some cookbooks out, and some sauces
available. Then it hit me. I was out of a job for the moment. I could explore
my options, and this Chef’s cookbook was going to get me started. I ordered a
digital copy and pulled it up on my laptop.
88 Ways To Her Heart was the title, and I was going to make every single
one. I was going to tell Liza how much I loved her with food. This was
something she’d understand.
It was time to
call in the big guns so I picked up the phone. “Mom, can you come for a visit?”
With my mom’s
help I practiced my way through chapters one and two, and then I was on my own
through chapter three starting with the Body-Rocking Baby Bleu Salad and moving
through Wet ‘n Wild Watermelon Salad along with several more salads and soups.
My days were filled with planning and shopping for fresh ingredients, and I
knew why Liza loved it so much. Finally confidence began to fill me as I moved
through main course after main course and onto dessert. In less than a month I
had finished. I’d chosen my menu, the wine, the music and invited my best
friend to dinner.
My heart was
pounding when I got to the door wearing a similar black apron. I took a deep
breath, swallowed hard, wiped my sweaty palms on the apron and opened the door.
Liza smiled broadly. “You look adorable. I brought some
wine.” I froze. She handed me the wine and continued. “Um can I come in? It
smells amazing in here.”
“Oh of course,
sorry. It’s The Love Chef’s menu. I’ve been teaching myself to cook with it. I
wanted to surprise you.”
“Well you sure
did.” Her gaze narrowed and I turned and walked back to the kitchen. I put her wine
in the cooler and poured her a glass of the one I’d picked.
“I know why you
love cooking now, and I chose this menu because I wanted you to know something.
Food is love Liza. I love you. I always have, I always will. I am your
friend, but I want more, much more, I want you to be my wife,” I blurted. I searched her eyes, and they started to well.
I held my breath and my gut twisted.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
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