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Eileen Goudge

Tall Poppy Review: Loyalties Shift in “Garden of Lies”

in Buzzworthy by

In 1943, as the prologue of Garden of Lies (Open Road Media) opens, a young woman named Sylvie succumbs to her first stirrings of true passion—with the handyman, Nikos, instead of her rich, older husband. She soon discovers she’s pregnant. Sylvie prays that the baby is her husband’s, but when the baby looks just like Nikos, she panics. Nikos is long gone—her husband had not been blind to the affair and fired him. So when a hospital fire breaks out and the mother of another infant perishes, Sylvie impulsively uses the cover of the smoky evacuation to swap her infant with that woman’s daughter, who will be easier to pass off as her husband’s. You won’t like Sylvie much for this…

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Why she said “enough already!” to New Year’s resolutions

in Potpourri by

New Year, new you. Wait, what’s wrong with the old me? Suddenly I’m not good enough? New Year’s resolutions used to be the stick with which I’d beat myself up annually. I wasn’t thin enough. Fit enough. Prolific enough. I wasn’t flossing after every meal. And what about that $200 microdermabrasian thingie I only used twice? It was a short list, but the stick grew longer with each passing year as: The five pounds I’d resolved to lose crept off and on. The excuses for not working out outnumbered the times I did. My daily word count refused to budge. The vicious cycle would begin again the following year. Then one year I thought, what if I resolved to make…

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Eileen Goudge shares a cookie swapper’s basic recipe — no BS, no wheat germ.

in Fiction by

Show me a cookie, I’ll tell you a story. They say taste is the sense with the longest memory. It must be true because my most memorable moments growing up involve food. Baked goods, in particular. With six kids, my mom always had a full cookie jar. With five daughters, she had a full kitchen. On Saturdays my sisters and I would each choose a different cookie recipe, then get out the bowls and measuring cups and tie on our aprons. Mom had only one rule: We had to clean up after. Mine was this: Cross the line and get shot. I was the Berlin Wall of baking. Nobody messed with my cookies. Ah, sweet memories. There was the time…

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