Reunion Beach by Elin Hilderbrand (english novels for students .TXT) 📕

far away. I’m just saying, use your heads, people. As to snark? Could we please lighten up? Is it necessary to be so mean? You know, growing up in the South a girl could be as ugly as a mud fence, but if she had nice manners that was all that mattered. So what if the only guy who asked you to prom weighed three hundred pounds? He loves his momma and he has beautiful manners. That’s what my momma would’ve said. My favorite character of all time is Miss Lavinia from Plantation. Her best quote? Remember! Good manners are the moisturizer of life.

Sometimes I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Mostly I laugh because there’s no point wasting my tears on other people’s lunacy. But it seems to me the state of the world has taken a dubious turn. Or maybe I’m just out of touch. It’s possible.

Anyway, I could cite as many examples of this kind of behavior as I’m sure you could. The increasingly off-the-wall things people do is why I’ll never run out of plot. Like we say up here in Yankee territory, I should only live long enough to use the material I have on my desk just today, y’all. (I hold dual citizenship.)

People ask me how I get the ideas for my books and where the characters come from. Maybe the more interesting point is, How do you know when it’s time to stop trying to change the world and to start writing? Long before I published my first book my husband and I took a vacation. We were in Ravello, Italy, some twenty-five years ago coincidentally overimbibing with Gore Vidal and a bunch of his friends. (I’ve never had the right moment to use this story until now.) There must have been eight or ten of us gathered around the banquettes in the bar in the Hotel Palumbo. I swear, fate took us there. I knew Gore Vidal lived in Ravello and I held out a faint hope that he might appear in the restaurant that night. He did. So I asked the bartender to send him a message that some American fans would be delighted to buy him a drink in the bar after dinner. When he appeared, neck scarf tossed jauntily over his shoulder, I saw the bartender upturn a bottle of Johnnie Black and take a long chug. Back then Mr. Vidal had that kind of unnerving presence and effect on people.

We introduced ourselves, he and his friend were as charming as they could be, and we ordered several rounds of drinks, discussing life above the Amalfi Coast and what a dream it was to live in Italy. His friends continued to appear and join us. I’m sure he thought we were a couple of nincompoops, but I didn’t care. I was working up the nerve to ask him a question.

“Mr. Vidal,” I finally said, “how do you know when it’s time to start writing?”

“Are you writing a book?” he asked.

“I’m thinking about it,” I said.

He paused, leaned back, and looked at me quite seriously. After a few minutes he answered my question.

He said, “You’ll write your book when you can’t not write your book.”

I knew it was true and I was almost to that point. Several months after we returned home I began to write Sullivan’s Island. By the way, my husband, Peter, ever the gentleman, picked up the tab for Gore Vidal and his friends. Five hundred dollars. Peter teased me about it for years.

Anyway, the point of this little segue and the peacock story is that when the world has had enough nonsense the pendulum will start swinging the other way. And when you need to express yourself, you will. I owe Mr. Vidal a great debt and he owes my husband a retaliatory cocktail. No, he wouldn’t owe us anything. I get to tell this story and to be fair, he gave me a lot of encouragement as the evening went on.

Writing is like that—your need to speak starts choking you and you write to be heard. And to make your point or points and to be understood. But you have to mold your story in such a way that people want to hear it. It’s even better if people ask you to tell them a story.

I find that humor is one of the more powerful tools in my approach to fiction. We probably all need to learn to laugh at ourselves a bit. How about, we all need to laugh more. The world is a crazy place, especially lately.

In the pages of this book, By Invitation Only, I’m playing what if again. And I’m asking you to decide who are the Haves and who are the Have Nots. Perception is everything. But sometimes things aren’t really what they seem to be. I hope you’ll enjoy this, my nineteenth novel; I’d love to hear from you.

Wishing you every good thing,

Dorothea Benton Frank

Instant Pot Hoppin’ John

Serves 4 to 6

It’s good to remember a couple of things when the world seems to have gone completely nuts. First, in spite of everything, humans never lose their capacity to invent marvelous things, like the Instant Pot, my new favorite kitchen tool. And second, holding on to a few simple traditions can provide us ballast against the buffeting winds of craziness and remind us that everything is fleeting, and that includes the bad stuff. Eating Hoppin’ John on New Year’s Day to ensure good luck in the year ahead is just that sort of tradition. And cooking the black-eyed peas and rice in an Instant Pot means that the good luck can be on the table in a fraction of the time.

4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted butter

1 red bell pepper, seeded and cored, cut into ½-inch dice

1 green bell pepper, seeded and cored, cut into ½-inch dice

1 jalapeño, seeds and ribs removed if desired, finely chopped (optional)

2 celery stalks, cut into ¼-inch dice

1 yellow onion, cut into ¼-inch