Suzanne Beecher

Dear Reader,

Will you have leftover turkey this week? If so, here are a couple of ideas of what to do with it.

"Suzanne, One of my fondest memories from when I was very young, 5 or 6, was Thanksgiving leftover turkey tacos! I really think almost everything tastes better as a taco!  We would get together again the weekend after TG with just my grandparents for a taco bar with traditional taco additions to the leftovers. We created some amazing and unusual taco combos! Dreaming of those leftovers! Thanks for your daily columns and the books!" – Jennifer G.

Idea number two is my own turkey leftover pie…

Most people think of shopping on the day after Thanksgiving, but I think of leftovers. The original fare always tastes great, but to me the leftovers are even better. Before I put the turkey in the fridge after the big meal, I pick the bones clean, and the "leftovers" go into turkey pies.

My quick and easy recipe for Leftover Turkey Pies:

Line a pie pan with ready-made crust and fill it two-thirds of the way with cut-up leftover turkey. Dice a fresh onion, add vegetables (a package of frozen, or leftover fresh veggies from the relish tray). Pour any leftover gravy on top. If Uncle Fred polished off the gravy, open a can of turkey or chicken gravy. I prefer chicken because it has more flavor. Season with pepper. Add top crust.

Bake in a 400 degree oven until golden brown. You've got the perfect leftover turkey pie. It's as simple as that.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@firstlookbookclub.com

P. S. This week we're giving away 10 copies of the book I, Medusa: A Novel by Ayana Gray. Click here to enter for your chance to win. 

AFTER

It's well after midnight when the woman finds the temple.

Her first thought, as her heels sink into the beach's wet sand, is that the place at which she has arrived is not at all what she was expecting. The holy sites she is accustomed to are grand and imposing marble complexes staffed by a retinue of dutiful priests or priestesses. The lone torchlit building that looms before her in the dark, with its crumbling stone ramparts and visibly neglected grounds, is neither grand nor imposing. The woman notes that the place is, in fact, quite small, half obscured by the surrounding dunes, and unlikely to have other visitors this late in the night. The woman is not deterred as she diverts from the coastline to draw closer.

Tonight, a temple without visitors is auspicious.

A crude path lined with pebbles and driftwood leads her from the beach to the temple's only entrance. The moment she crosses its threshold, the smell of myrrh fills her lungs, drawing from her a dull ache, a long-buried grief. She ignores that ache, smothers the grief, then presses on. Eventually, she finds the old priest alone in the temple's open courtyard. He's holding a broom, locked in fierce battle with the sand that litters the tile. His olive skin shines with perspiration, his gray tunic is modest and plain. He is a foreigner in these lands, just as she is. It takes several seconds before he looks up and notices her. He has cloudy, albeit kind, brown eyes and a decidedly paternal smile. That smile makes the woman think of her own father, what he'd think if he knew what she was about to do. She dismisses that thought quickly. Her father is a god, and if she knows anything about gods, it is that they care little for mortals and less for mortal plights. Instead, her attention returns to the priest. She offers him a low bow—a lingering habit from her time as a priestess. Then she speaks. Her voice is petal soft.

"I've come to ask for a blessing."

The priest sets his broom aside and laces his gnarled fingers. Silence stretches between them before he gives his answer.

"What do you offer in exchange?"

The woman bows her head, contrite. "I've no coin, nothing of value." This is met with more silence.

"Please, I'm . . . I'm desperate." The woman waits a beat before lifting her gaze. When she does, she finds the priest's expression has changed. She knows what he sees: a young, dark-skinned woman wearing a simple white tunic and a simpler white head wrap. She knows that this is a game, that she has already made the first move. Now it is his turn.

"It is no matter," the priest says gently. "There are always other ways, other kinds of exchanges." He gives the woman a significant look-a look she has been anticipating—before he beckons. "Come, child."

The woman obeys, closing the small gap between them to accept his veiny hand. She does not shiver when he traces the pad of his thumb over her palm.

Then his grip tightens.

The woman does not object when the priest pulls her against him, nor when he crushes his wrinkled lips against hers. She does not protest when he lowers them both to the sand-swept floor, nor when he guides her to clumsily mount him. His body is bony and frail, but she feels it harden with desire between her thighs.

"I am untouched," she whispers. "I have never . . ."

"That is all right," says the priest. In the flicker of the torchlight, his once-kind eyes have grown wolfish. "I will show you what to do. But first, let me see you."

The woman hesitates, then unfastens the pins that hold her tunic together at the shoulders, so that the garment falls around her waist. A low, appreciative groan escapes the priest's lips.

"Tell me your name." His voice is scraped raw with lust.

A small smile touches the woman's face. "I could tell you who I am," she says. "But I think it better to show you what I am."

The old priest looks up from her bare breasts, confused, but the woman is already loosening her head wrap. She lets it slip to the floor, then blinks with newly yellow eyes. The priest's grow coin- wide with terror.

"Abomination," he rasps. "You're a—" He does not finish his sentence. Already, his vital organs are calcifying to cold, gray stone, as is the rest of his body. His fingers curl inward as he claws at the air, grasping at something he'll never reach. All the while, the woman sits silently astride him, waiting. Some distant, detached part of her—the part of her that's remained human, perhaps—knows that she should feel something. Relief. Vindication. Horror.

The best she can manage is exhaustion.

The woman presses her fingertips to the priest's stone tunic as his fluttering heartbeat slows, then stills. Only when she's certain that he's dead does she rise. She reaches up as hissing fills the temple, and the ink-black serpents that sprout from her scalp in place of hair taste the salt air with eager forked tongues while they nuzzle her hand.

Vaguely, the woman wonders how long it will take to drag the statue of the priest down to the shoreline, how many hours might pass before his absence is noticed. She tallies how many men she has killed thus far and wonders how many more she will kill before the rage within her is sated, before it feels like enough.

As she douses the temple's torch and surrenders to the dark, Medusa thinks about monsters, and how easily she became one.

PART 1

MORTAL

I

 "MEDDY!"

I straighten at the sound of my name, doing my best to look attentive. The effort is entirely wasted on my mother. Her dark, glittering eyes are already fixed on me, and narrowed with familiar disapproval.

"You aren't paying attention," she accuses. "Do it again."

I stifle a whine as she ushers me, none too gently, to the center of our veranda. Once I am in the correct stance, she claps.

"Begin."

A slave seated nearby on a wooden stool starts to pluck a short- necked lute, filling the warm morning air with a sweet melody. On cue, I pivot, raising my arms and clapping in time with the music while attempting to ignore the stiff ache in my biceps. I focus on the heady scent of flowers in the distance, on the hard press of the tile against the ball of my foot. I try to lose myself in the song's rhythm, and when I close my eyes, I pretend I'm somewhere else, anywhere else. Barely a minute passes before my mother tuts. The music halts.

"Stop grimacing," she says irritably. "You're moving like you're in pain."

"I am in pain," I mutter. "I've done this dance a hundred times."

My mother remains unmoved. "You'll do it a hundred more times, if that's what it takes," she warns. "You must be perfect. The gods gracing our halls will expect nothing less."

This is a reminder I do not need.

Tomorrow night, my parents will host a feast under the guise of celebrating the start of spring, but I've spent enough time watching the political games of gods to understand the real reason for the occasion. My sisters and I are now all of age, which means it is time to see us made useful. For my parents, this means married.

"The gods of the Sea Court won't be the only ones in attendance." My mother speaks as though she were privy to my thoughts. "There may very well be potential suitors present, men of high and noble birth in search of a young bride. It's all the more reason for you to be at your best."

"Do any of these men of high and noble birth come from an interesting place?" I ask.

My mother assesses me anew, suspicious. "They could."

"Do you suppose any of them might bring anything interesting with him, like maps or scrolls from his homeland? I'd love something new to read." As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know they are a mistake. A young male slave sweeping at the other end of the veranda shakes his head, visibly amused. The two female slaves flanking my mother with sunshades exchange looks of uncertainty.

"Of course not," my mother snaps. "And I don't want to hear another word about maps, scrolls, or any other nonsense. Start again."

I return to the dance's first position and wait for the lute player to resume. This time, I stumble as I pivot, then trip on the hem of my tunic. Behind me, there's a poorly disguised snort from one of my sisters. A tingling heat that has nothing to do with the sun overhead creeps up my neck.

"You're not trying hard enough," my mother scolds. "Each step should appear light, effortless. I want you to try to move with more grace, like—" She catches herself, but I finish her sentence in my mind.

Like Stheno and Euryale.

I turn to look at my older sisters, not far off, reclined on chaises in the sunlight. Plenty of goddesses—our own mother included— prefer to manipulate their appearances so as to seem ever young. But my sisters truly are twenty-one and nineteen, only a few years older than me.

Stheno is like a gazelle—tall, supple, and fine-featured. Euryale is of a more petite build, but she has inherited our mother's round cheeks and dimpled smile. I don't like to imagine how I look when I stand next to them. My sisters and I share the same dark, sun-blazed skin. We all favor our parents, but there, our similarities end. At seventeen, I'm still skinny, devoid of any feminine softness about my hips, and I once overheard a slave call my wide-set brown eyes "owlish."

(continued on Tuesday)

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