Posts tagged with: golden rooster

On the 1st day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

…one rooster with delusions of grandeur.

Delusions of something, definitely.  Or maybe he’s been just overindulging in the holiday spirit.  (Holidays spirits, judging from the smell of him.)  It’s the only explanation I can come up with for the following exchange, which occurred this morning & which I will now reproduce for you as faithfully as memory allows.

Rooster at RWA National 2008Golden Rooster [slides into the Lair’s kitchen, reeking of rum balls, coxcomb askew under a shiny party hat]:  Bonjour, mes amis, mes amours!  Fear not, I have arrived!

Susan [cautiously moves her pile of just-written Christmas cards to high ground]:  So I see.  You can stop using the plural, though.  It’s just me.

GR:  Just you? [Takes a significant look around the empty kitchen]  And just me? Just us two alone?  Cheri!  You flatter me!

S [sighs]:  No, I don’t.  Seriously.  I’m baking cookies & writing my cards.

GR [ignores her easily]:  Such machinations to get me alone in your lair!  Such lengths to which you go for a private moment!  I confess myself touched.  [Flips open bow tie, swaggers closer, a trifle unsteady on his drumsticks]  Well, perhaps not touched just yet, but if we truly are alone…? [trails off with suggestive brow waggle]

reinventing ourselves rooster bash 08S [straight arms the GR to a halt, leans in for a good sniff]:   Are you drunk?

GR: Mais oui…[Lowers voice to husky whisper]…on your beauty.

S:  Oh for Pete’s sake. [Grabs a cookie from the cooling rack, stuffs it into his beak.]  Give it a break, Lone Free Ranger.

GR [mumbling around cookie]: Ah, cruel mistress, how you wound me!

S: I gave you a gingersnap, didn’t I?

GR:  And it was a sweetly spicy as you, ma petit chou.

S [blinks]:  I’m sorry, did you just call me your little cabbage?

GR:  I did.  [grins foolishly]  You are.

S [palms face, blows out calming breath.  Hands over another cookie.]: Why don’t we soak up some of that alcohol while you tell me what’s got you starting the party so early.

Donna and the Rooster - RWA Conference 2008 - San FranciscoGR [happily munching]: Early?  It’s the First Day of Christmas, my sweet ignorant lass!  And I’m on the job!

S [eyes party hat]:  There’s a job that requires you to be sloshed before noon on a Monday?

GR:  There is, and I have the honor to call it mine.  [Hic.]  I’m pleased to announce that, after an extensive recruitment process, I have been selected as this year’s Lord of Misrule.

S [skeptical]: Lord of what now?

GR:  Misrule. You know, the one the Celts call the Year King?   Perhaps you’ve heard of me as the Minister of Mischief?  The Rooster of Riots?  [Slides wing feather up Susan’s arm]  Some call me the Cock of the Chaos.  Does that suit you?  You like your cocks…chaotic?

S:  Um, no.  I don’t believe I do.

GR [shrugs elegantly]:  As you like, ma petit.  That’s the point, after all.

reinventing ourselves Jeanne with roosterS:  What is?

GR [seductive grin]:  What you like, dearest.  Your pleasure.

S [interested]:  Really?

GR:  Vraiment!  I am charged with facilitating your holiday pleasure, darling.  Everybody’s holiday pleasure, actually.

S [skeptically]:  You got yourself elected Mayor of Party Town?

GR:   The Lord of Misrule, cheri. And, yes, I have been. [Points at an elaborately beribboned badge pinned to his breast.]  Unless you prefer the Cock of Chaos?

S:  Uh, no.  We’ll go with the Lord of Misrule.  What are your job duties precisely?

GR: To upend the humdrum of your pathetic little lives for the twelve glorious days of Christmas.

S: And how precisely do you plan to do that?

GR:  Why, I shall make fools of kings & kings of fools!  I shall supply drink to the men, steal kisses from the women, slip sweets to the children and give bones to the dogs.  [Slides Susan the side eye.]  I give very good bones.  Just so you’re aware.

golden roosterS:  Good to know, thanks. [Takes a moment to get past that one.]  And your price for this…uh…service?

GR:  A song!  A Christmas carol preferably.

S:  Seriously?  You’re going to make people sing?

GR [shrugs]:  I would also accept a trick or a joke.  Any little trifle that keeps the mood merry and the heart light.  Any who fail to bring a smile to my beak shall be tossed ignomiously from the Lair without food or drink, doomed to wander the cold, dark wilderness in the company of the humorless & ill-favored.  Unless, of course, they pay the penalty.

S:  Which is?

GR:  Why, to join my court!  I shall grant them a knighthood and they shall pledge to serve me for as long as the holidays shall last!  [Eyes Susan assessingly.]  You, for example, I would dub Spicy Sugarbottom, & you would see to the demands of my…appetite.

S [quickly]:  I have a joke.

GR:  You do?

S:  If the alternative is being called Spicy Sugarbottom all week & slapping your hands away from my rump?  You bet I do.  It’s even chicken-related, sort of.  Okay, here goes.  Make a fist & hold it out between us.

GR: [sighs but complies]

Pets free stock chickenS:  Now cover your fist with your other hand.  Er, wing.

GR: [rolls his eyes but obeys]

S:  Now say the word “wing” three times in a row.

GR [nonplussed]:  Wing.  Wing.  Wing.

S [takes the GR’s wing off his fist, holds it up to her ear]:  Hello?

GR: [silence]

S:  Oh come on!  That one always brings down the house around our holiday table.

GR [reproachfully]:  You disliked Spicy Sugarbottom so much?

S:  My mother didn’t raise a Bond Girl.

GR [wistfully]: More’s the pity.


Seriously, folks, this is what we’re up against this Christmas in the Lair.  So here’s the deal:  Either you sing us a verse of your favorite Christmas song, tell us a joke or recount an amusing story in the comments, or you’ll be joining the court of the Cock of Chaos.  You will, of course, accept without whinging the humiliating nom de party he bestows upon you.  The best song/story/joke (as determined without rhyme or reason by the Golden Rooster) will be rewarded with a bag of CRAPOLA Granola (a Minnesota favorite!) and a Kindle copy of TROUBLE, the Blake Brothers Boxed Set by yours very truly, Susan Sey.

Good luck.

Oh, & for all you Spicy Sugarbottoms out there, here’s a recipe for you:

cookiesAuntie Pat’s Famous Ginger Snaps


  • ¾ cup butter
  • 1 cup sugar
  • 1 egg
  • ¼ cup dark molasses
  • 2 cups sifted flour
  • 1 tsp baking soda
  • 1 tsp cinnamon
  • 1 tsp cloves
  • 1 tsp ginger
  • 1 pkg (8 oz) diced dates (optional)


  • Cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy.
  • Add egg and mix well.
  • Add molasses and mix well.
  • In a separate bowl, combine dry ingredients (except dates, if using.)
  • Gradually add dry ingredients to wet, mixing well after each addition.
  • Stir in dates, if using.
  • Chill 1 hour
  • Shape into 1” balls and bake on ungreased cookies sheets at 375 for 10 minutes.
  • Makes 3 dozen.

Note: If you want big, fat, soft gingersnaps (which I often do), make the balls bigger and underbake them slightly.   You should make sure to have some really good vanilla ice cream on hand, though, because you’re going to want to eat them like chips and salsa.

Prize Winner!

by Anna Sugden

Sorry!! I meant to post this a long time ago!

Some of you may remember that I had a post about my visit to the RNA Conference in Greenwich and asked you to come up with a name for my little feathered friend – the Golden Rooster’s English cousin.

As much as I loved Pink Peony’s suggestion of Royal Pecker, I had to go with Fowling!

Congratulations to Jane!

If you send your snail mail details to, I’ll pop your prize in the post to you.

And as runner up, Pink Peony, if you send your details I’ll pop a runners up prize of a Romance Bandits bookmark (signed by me) in the post to you.

The Golden Rooster Family Reunion

Ah! What’s this? A postmark from St. Poulet? A missive from my sainted maman, no doubt. The poor chicken. She worries so. I am the only of her chicks to pursue life on such a—how shall we say?—grand scale. Dancing along the knife edge of danger is not for everyone, oui? But it must come as a particular shock when held against the lives chosen by that clutch of spectacular dullards with whom I was hatched. So, alors, I shall read her little letter then compose a reply which shall put her pretty head at ease.

My dearest son,

Ah, you see? Dearest? I am her favorite still!

I hope this note finds you well.

If you consider lying in wait on the decks of a private yacht anchored near St. Tropez well, then yes, I am. Indeed.

I know that you are very busy in your international business.

Business which I shall endeavor to wrap up as soon as a certain wily adversary shows himself above deck. Any minute, I expect. Any minute….

Oh yes, yes. I know there are many roads to cross to be as successful as you are but it is a mother’s hope that you will spare some time for your maman and…many of your other relatives.

Ah, my quarry appears! I crouch and….I spring! And karate CHOP and jujitsu KICK and a slash-slash-slash of the…

Un moment. Relatives?

Yes my boy, it is that time once more. Time for our family reunion.

Sacred bleu!

Cousin Delta is hosting it at the old family homestead in St. Poulet, LA. Ah my, the flock has spread far from the coop but all are making an extraordinary effort to attend.

But of course. My ne’er-do-well relations would sooner surrender to the Colonel himself than forsake the chance to importune me for favors, money, liquor and women.

I know you will not disappoint, ma petite.

I shall not, maman! Though it shall try my patience exceedingly to rub feathers with my déclassé brood-mates for even that short time.

It will be June 30th well before the celebration of Independence when all poultry of worth seclude themselves away from the dangers of deep fryers.

You will attend and make this mother proud.

With all my love, my little hatchling,


And so I begin the long journey back to the broken shell of my youth. To St. Poulet.

Two weeks later…..

A lone vehicle maneuvers its way down SunnySide Up lane, past rows of rice fields to a dilapidated brick mansion.
Bypassing the house, the driver steers down a dirt road to the rear of the property.

Oh, these cursed country two-tracks with their paint-eating gravel! What it is doing to my new coupe!

Aghast, I look at the rusted wire fence beneath spreading oak trees. The din is already more than my nerves can stand.

“Yoohoo! Cousin!”

The squawk makes me cringe. With the fortitude for which I am renowned I step out of the vehicle and (dear Lord) am enveloped in the wings of Cousin Delta.

Normally I have not the slightest objection to being seized to a woman’s breast but merde, ma cousine, a little air? A minor application of pressure at the wing-joint and, ah, sweet oxygen!

“Bonjour, Delta. You have not changed a bit, my dear.” A most unfortunate circumstance, that.

Why mess with perfection?” she laughs, with a saucy twitch of her considerable tail feathers.

“Why, indeed?”

“You ain’t changed much, either, cuz.” She jabs a wing tip into my chest. “No more meat on your breastbone than when you left.”

“Yes, well, an excellent diet and a dedication to the martial arts—“

“And your coxcomb still does that weird thing. Har! Har!”

My wings fly up to my head and….sacred bleu! Ah, this accursed humidity! I have not suffered this particular indignity since my late and unlamented youth here on the family compound. I have done well to shake the dust of this place from my feed scratchers years ago. Perhaps my impressive physique and accomplishments will distract the flock from this most unfortunate nod to history? A rooster can hope, can he not?

But duty first. “Delta, my beauty. Where is Maman?”

“Oh! Your sister’s here. Yoohoo! Junebug! Over here!”

Ahhh, my sister. Elder by two eggs. The pecking order always took on a new meaning when she was around. “Bonjour, Junebug.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so glad you came! When Mama said you might, I almost busted a gut, I was so excited. I can’t wait for you to tell me about your world travels.”

“Vraiment? Shall I begin with Paris or Prague?”

“I always dreamed of getting out of this stuffy old coop.”

“Budapest is lovely this time of year.”

But…well.. .you know, along came Spur.”

Spur? That bow-legged, self-styled, one-rooster Elvis tribute? She married him?

“Now I have Cogburn and Auspice and Augustus (you remember, the twins?) and Octavia, Sebastian and Putt Putt to chase around.”

Good heavens.

*sigh* “I don’t suppose I’ll ever get off the farm now…” *sniff*

Zut alors! Not to be uncharitable but have you considered keeping your drumsticks together once in a while? I pat her wing sympathetically and scan the yard for the nearest exit. Or at least something shiny. Junebug’s attention span is not her most formidable trait.

Suddenly a long silver limo pulls up outside the hen house. The driver, complete in uniform hurries around to open the door, and who should step out, but cousin Delilah, the madame of the best little henhouse in Texas, dressed in her Coco Channel suit, dark glasses and big hat, she kisses her driver and joins us.

“Hey, y’all, it’s been ages since I’ve been back to see y’all! Hey Junebug, how’re all those little chicks? And Delta, lovely as evah!”

Delilah lifts one brow, shakes her tail feathers and saunters toward me…

“Well, well, well, I do declare, if it isn’t the Golden One himself.”

I incline my coxcomb graciously. I have a small fondness for Delilah as her hen house is the site of some of the—how to put it delicately—more memorable incidents in an otherwise unremarkable youth. “In the flesh, madame.”

“So, what have you been up to these days, ya old fake frenchie you!”

Fake frenchie, indeed! It seems my original plan—doing my familial duty with as much haste as decent manners allow—is a sound one. But as the finest tail feathers in the entire parish fall under Delilah’s purview, I muster the strength to do the pretty. “Nothing of note,” I say. “But I feel certain you’ve been leading life a merry chase.” She brays out that rough, two-packs-a-day laugh of hers.

“Ain’t I just! I got this new girl—prime bit of thigh-meat, see? Lord, she’s a pistol…”

I lean in, intrigued for the first time all day, but then a dilapidated yellow bus rolls into the yard. It sputters to a stop, belching exhaust fumes from its rear. The antiquated bus driver down the steps and holds out a hand to an elderly hen.

“Git yer cotton-pickin’ paw offen me, you smarmy fella,” she snarls, leaping to the ground with surprising grace for one so ancient.

I freeze. I am terrified of Great Granny Henster, and rooster enough to admit it. GG is tiny, fierce and extraordinarily rude. She has been, in the lamentable past, particularly cruel about my coxcomb situation. I remain still and pray her eyesight has faded with time.

Immediately GG whirls around and opens the luggage facility beneath the bus.

“Where’s my stuff,” she demands. “I need my Depends, dammit! I need ’em right now!”

Oh. Mon Dieu.

A sporty Italian roadster roars up the drive to the lair, pulling in behind the school bus. A svelte hen steps out, unwrapping the Hermes scarf and tips down her elegant designer sunglasses.

“Where is that reprobate brother of mine?” Dominique D’Or drawls. “I’ve flown in from Paris for this, he better have done what he SAID he was going to do.”

Pardone? I implied I would perform some…service? For my poseur of a soeur? Ridicule!

She scans the various family members scattered about.

“Interesting digs big brother’s found, and such an interesting group of people to attach himself too. Oh, Lord, he invited GG. How does she get around in that bus?”

Dominique thinks I called this meeting? Heavens. She’s delusional. Either that or she’s been drinking breakfast again.

One of the hired cockerels hurries over and asks after her luggage.

“Well, aren’t you johnny on the spot,” she says, with a throaty laugh. “Of course you can carry my bags. You can polish my eggs too, rrrrrrrrowwww!”

Rrrrrrowwww? Perhaps lunch was of the liquid variety as well.
Leaving the roosterling staring after her, she struts up to the front of the coop and calls, “GOLDIE! Come say hello!”

Seeing no better choice, I trudge after her. S’il vous plait, I pray to whatever diety will have me. Please let it be brief. And if it cannot be brief, at least let it be amusing. I march forward to meet my fate, whatever—or whomever—it may entail….

The Rooster Takes Orlando!

by Donna MacMeans

Hi – First wanted to announce the winner of Lisa Cooke’s blog on Tuesday. MsHellion – you’re the winner! Please contact Lisa at with your information.

Second – BIG NEWS! Romantic Times announced the winners of their 2009 awards and yours truly won Best Historical Love and Laughter! I’ll accept the award on Friday — right before the Vampire Ball.
So that’s where you’ll find the GR and I – down here in sunny Orlando at the RT Convention.
We packed our bags and boarded the airplane. The GR insisted he could fly on his own but when I insisted he’d be too tired for the planned events, he relented and claimed the window seat.

We didn’t even make it out of the Orlando airport when the GR tried to pick up chicks.

We arrived at the Wynham Hotel and the GR insisted on leading the way to the room.

He consulted Sheila Clover English of Circle of Seven about making a book trailer. The GR gives new meaning to the term “hunt and peck”.

The GR checks out his competition in the arms of cover model CJ Hollenbach – you know, one “rooster” to another.

The cheeky bird flirts with Kensington author Delilah Marvelle

and inspires Linnea Sinclair to violence with her space blaster.

After spending the night in the bar sharing stories with romance reader Bud Rice (husband of Ellora’s Cave author Dee Brice), but GR signed the bar bill to my room. Now how am I going to explain that $500 tab on my credit card???

Finally, Kensington author Sally MacKenzie reduced the GR to a pool of fur, feathers and alcohol.

I just wanted to leave you with this – the floor show of the Ellora’s Cave models.

And so while the GR and I are out circulating among the fans of romance down here in Orlando, I can’t promise that I’ll be able to drop in frequently to answer questions and comments – but I promise I will read them. I’ll send promo items gathered from RT (including a book) to two commentors from today’s blog. In that spirit, tell me – what’s your favorite kind of promo? Can’t guarantee that I’ll find it here on promotion lane, but I’ll send the GR out to “peck” out the best.

Intelligence Report

Code Name: Golden Rooster

Day 467 in the Bandit Lair

This assignment has been the most taxing of my undercover career thus far. These women (“Banditas”, as they are locally known) are exhausting & elusive creatures. My efforts to ingratiate myself to them so as to better observe them in their natural habitat have been slow to render the sort of intimacy my research requires. As a group, they seem to have an inordinate fondness for sweet biscuits (“Tim Tams”) & luridly colored alcoholic beverages. My ability to observe them individually has been severely curtailed by their implausible habit of raffling me off to early risers for 24 hour periods.

I have made every effort to make these out-of-Lair sojourns productive, however. There was an extremely edifying 24-48 hours of explosives & firearms training, which may come in handy during the next Party in the Lair. “Launch parties” in particular have been known to provoke a most extreme demonstration of enthusiasm & joy, during which time Tim Tams & pink drinks are consumed in alarming quantities, chandelier are swung upon & largely unclothed young men wander unchecked, offering anything from drinks to personal massages. I have escaped molestation by luck alone.

That said, however, I have managed to glean a few bits of classified information which I will now share with you. I will use code names, as this line is most surely monitored. Use the following data as wisdom permits:

Bandita A: Carries an enormous satchel in which she smuggles large quantities of junk food into movie theatres. Also stockpiles DQ Blizzards in her freezer so as to conceal the number she chooses to consume in a given day.

Bandita B: Despite being a “Southern girl” and, as such, bred to prize personal grooming above all else save good manners, has no compunction about appearing in public in grass-stained jeans, a messy ponytail, and an ancient t-shirt, smelling of lawn mower.

Bandita C: Though ostensibly a “medical professional” has a well-documented addiction to State Fair corn dogs.

Bandita D: Nothing chocolate is safe around this Bandita, though in an effort to balance the scales, she consumes equal amounts of Diet Coke and Diet Dr. Pepper.

Bandita E: Has a disturbing love of cooking & cooking-related TV. Treated me to a horrifying phenomenon known as the (shudder) “National Chicken Cook-off” show during a brief stint under her supervision. Seems to have an unnatural obsession with chicken-cide evidenced by her forcing me to bet on a trifecta at Churchill Downs where Who’s your Colonel, Passingravy and Finger Lickin Lady were running. Regretfully, I won.

Bandita F: Forced me to partake of a delicacy known as Underwood Deviled Ham – a canned pork product that contains an entire day’s allowance of sodium, I believe. I suspect this was part of a pagan ritual of sorts as she consumed the entire can while wearing Birkenstocks with socks and dancing to ELO’s “Turn to Stone”.

Bandita G: Engages in an odd ritual in which she reads the first quarter of a book, then the ending, then the remaining 3/4s. I suspect it could be the influence of a neon green beverage she mainlines labeled “Mt. Dew.”

Bandita H: Maintains that while she doesn’t drink anymore, she “certainly doesn’t drink any less.” Avers that, though the Aussie girls can drink her under the table, she does “love a cocktail.” [A term I find offensive, if I may register a personal aside.]

Bandita I: Secretly uses her “writing time” to cruise the most scurrilous of celebrity gossip websites. Paris Hilton is a dear friend of hers.

Bandita J: Actually prefers instant coffee to the real thing. This is not surprising given her other feeding habits. I personally witnessed her eating Potato Gems dipped in Thai sweet chili sauce straight off the oven tray.

Bandita K: Has an extreme footwear fetish–countless pairs of shoes litter her quarters–but she seldom actually wears them, preferring to go barefoot most days.

That is the extent of my current intelligence. I regret I have failed to glean more from my time here. I have been forced to adopt the habits of the natives so as to avoid suspicion. This has resulted in enduring a few massive hangovers & the addition of perhaps 5-10 lbs in Tim Tam weight.

I await your instructions.



A Message from the GR

Hide me! Somebody hide me!

Whew, I barely escaped from the dude with numbers for a name. He had a SERIOUS look in his eyes and a freaky can of something he kept trying to aim at me. It made me sneeze. Thank the Colonel his aim was off. (It was kinda funny watchng him dance around. Reminded me of the Chicken dance Haha)

I tell ya, I haven’t been this nervous since I was locked up in that coop down under with this really intense guy. He growled the whole time and in his sleep muttered “We who are about to die salute you.” Yeah, well I didn’t much care for that “die” part but was so glad when we broke away from the lady who’d written “Claiming the Clucker” or something like that. She kept saying “Come to Mama little clucker. I need a feather.” (shiver)

So, do me a favor while we’re waiting for the next Bandita (cool group of “chicks” btw).
Hide. Me.