Death of a Sculptor in Hue, Shape and Color
by M.C.V. Egan
Genre: Suburban Women's Fiction
Color coded love stories and revealing female anatomies lead to the murder of world renowned sculptor, Bruce Jones.
In life, the artist loved women, almost as much as women loved him. Adored for his art and colorful personality, Bruce is mourned by the world at large. The tale is launched with the multifaceted perspectives of four ex-wives, the current wife, and his new love interest and their children.
Mary , Bruce’s wealthy first love, is always in perfect pink; the color of love. Mother of Clair the famous actress and Aaron the corporate lawyer.
Leslie The Second’s color is yellow for her sunny nature as much as for her fears and insecurities. Her only son Bobby is vulnerable and lost. Mourning his father’s death, he finds himself.
Petra The Third, is outstanding in orange, representing not only her native Holland but also her love of the fruit. Cherished her freedom and had no children of her own.
Toni The Fourth is a vibrant passionate Italian red and part of the eventual glue that creates and solidifies this dysfunctional Jones family. Her teenage daughters Tina and Isa are as different as night and day.
Brooke The Fifth a gold-digger. Green, her color, reflects the color of money and envy. Her young son’s Kyle and Caleb are too young to understand why their world has been turned upside-down.
Mara, as blue as the ocean was the last woman to steal Bruce’s heart. Mother to newborn Baby Peter is the unexpected gift and surprise.
Bruce Jones’ eight children speak out, too. They are as distinctive as the women he loved, their mothers.
Loose ends are tied up by the insights of Sylvia, Aaron’s wife and a trusted keeper of secrets; Scott, the private investigator and family friend; Nona, the quintessential grandmother everyone loves but to whom few are truly related; and Detective Jim Miller who will not rest until he discovers Bruce Jones’ murderer.
Defined By Others
Defining Ways Series Book 1
by M.C.V. Egan
Genre: Suburban Women's Fiction
A word, a single word defines a moment for Anne. She needs to find a new one when her spouse, Frank, leaves her at the age of forty-seven, coming out of the closet literally in a closet.
She finds herself back in her hometown of Skvallerby, Connecticut among her high school friends which she had left in her past.
An inheritance from a frenemy leaves her with the means to meddle and spy on the lives of mutual acquaintances.
In an attempt to run from her reality Anne becomes engrossed in a game of fun and flirtation with her friend and fellow sufferer Connie.
Their fun games turn into a deadly reality. It is no longer a game. Life, death and not even a defining word can stop the reality of manipulation.
Book Trailer
A Love Story and Mystery
by M.C.V. Egan
Genre: Historical Mystery
On August 15th, 1939, an English passenger plane from British Airways Ltd. crashed in Danish waters between the towns of Nykøbing Falster and Vordingborg. There were five casualties reported and one survivor. Just two weeks before, Hitler invaded Poland. With the world at the brink of war, the manner in which this incident was investigated left much open to doubt. The jurisdiction battle between the two towns and the newly formed Danish secret police created an atmosphere of intrigue and distrust. The Bridge of Deaths is a love story and a mystery. Fictional characters travel through the world of past life regressions and information acquired from psychics as well as archives and historical sources to solve "one of those mysteries that never get solved." Based on true events and real people, The Bridge of Deaths is the culmination of 18 years of sifting through conventional and unconventional sources in Denmark, England, Mexico and the United States. The story finds a way to help the reader feel that s/he is also sifting through data and forming their own conclusions. Cross The Bridge of Deaths into 1939, and dive into cold Danish waters to uncover the secrets of the G-AESY.
Book Trailer
A Love Story and Mystery
by M.C.V. Egan
Genre: Historical Mystery
On August 15th, 1939, an English passenger plane from British Airways Ltd. crashed in Danish waters between the towns of Nykøbing Falster and Vordingborg. There were five casualties reported and one survivor. Just two weeks before, Hitler invaded Poland. With the world at the brink of war, the manner in which this incident was investigated left much open to doubt. The jurisdiction battle between the two towns and the newly formed Danish secret police created an atmosphere of intrigue and distrust. The Bridge of Deaths is a love story and a mystery. Fictional characters travel through the world of past life regressions and information acquired from psychics as well as archives and historical sources to solve "one of those mysteries that never get solved." Based on true events and real people, The Bridge of Deaths is the culmination of 18 years of sifting through conventional and unconventional sources in Denmark, England, Mexico and the United States. The story finds a way to help the reader feel that s/he is also sifting through data and forming their own conclusions. Cross The Bridge of Deaths into 1939, and dive into cold Danish waters to uncover the secrets of the G-AESY.
Book Trailer
Death of A Sculptor
Mary: Wife No. 1
© M.C.V. Egan 2016
Thunder, lightning, and rain─that was what we had at our wedding. However, on the day of his funeral, the Florida heat and humidity made my face shiny with perspiration. My hair looked like a dark Brillo pad. My children requested I attend the funeral of my first husband, Bruce Jones, the world-renowned sculptor.
The parking lot was already packed with an unexpected variety of cars. I then realized that it was not peak season. The South Florida snowbirds are attached to their cars and they migrate with them back and forth each year.
I noticed a police car and a uniformed man by the entrance. Even for Bruce a bit much; however, since 9/11, security has been tight everywhere.
The valet attendant opened my rental car door. “Welcome ma’am. Your daughter is waiting for you.”
“Thank you. Please make sure you keep the car in the shade. August Florida heat and sun are not my friends.” I pulled a five-dollar bill from my purse to tip him, but he shook his head and mumbled, “No, thank you.” After all It was Palm Beach. I probably should have pulled out a twenty.
I was surprised that the building looked like an actual church, at least from the outside. The church had a long name. It was Universal something or other─apparently, a place of worship with neither affiliation nor strictures. Bruce’s life had, after all, been too outré to pretend he followed any conventional religious norm.
“Thanks for coming, Mom.” Clair’s voice shouldn’t have surprised me, but I stood still, focused on carefully dabbing my shiny nose. I clicked the compact shut, smiled, and answered, “Anything for you and Aaron, sweetheart.” She nodded as she guided me where to sit. It was toward the back of the church─the ex-wives’ pew.
“Please Mom, don’t look at me that way. This funeral is a time for forgiveness and closure.”
Clair always found a way to get me to do whatever she wanted. The last thing I wanted was to be in the company of the women sitting there. I touched my frizzy hair, regretting my rejection of the keratin treatment.
Wife number two, Leslie, was the first to say hello. “Mary, you look lovely. It’s been years.”
“It has, thankfully,” I replied. The other two simply nodded, and I nodded back. Leslie, the one Bruce left me for, handed me a packet of tissues and winked. Forcing a smile, I took them. The idea that she assumed I planned to cry had not crossed my mind. I pulled the compact out of my purse again to check my makeup; it looked fine. Through the mirror I saw the reflection of the fifth and last Mrs. Bruce Jones, the widow. She was standing waiting for the ushers. I shook my head in disbelief. There next to Brooke was the coffin. The ushers waited with the coffin for the minister’s signal. It had images of Bruce’s artwork. Digital photography makes it possible to decorate anything in living color. Some of the images were blocked from my view by the ushers, but not mine. There I was paraded as a nude sketch. Each one of Bruce’s loves had a color and mine was pink. It was kitsch…even worse, it was downright tasteless.
Bruce had a type. We all had brown hair and pretty faces with full lips and straight noses. The eye color varied as did our size and build. His type was limited to our physiognomy. I clicked the compact shut, and the other ex-wives faced me, startled by the sound. I shrugged with a coy apologetic smile. Look at the five of us; he had a type.
Bruce’s love also had a shelf life. He took the seven-year-itch need to scratch very literally. Some marriages were shorter because sometimes the divorces got complicated and his new loves always overlapped with the old. Public or private, his relationships always lasted seven years.
I was nineteen when I first walked into his classroom. He was tall and muscular. I felt a tingle at the base of my neck when I saw his back, as if somehow I already knew. When he turned to face me, I was gone and completely in love. I fell in love with Bruce and the sculpture next to him all at once. I soon learned he made love in a way no other man did (not that I was very experienced then);Bruce traced every inch of my body with every part of his. At twenty-four, he already made a good living from his sculptures, but teaching remained his passion. As he grew older and wealthier, he taught short workshops in different parts of the world. His last one had been just a few months before his untimely death. He was after all, only sixty-two.
It was clear by the careful shape of his sculptures that he knew the shape of my legs, ankles, feet, and every other part of my body. His sculpture venues varied; his talent knew no boundaries. Bruce loved and sculpted as instinctively as the rest of us breathe. Whoever inherited the rights to his art would be wise to market his sketches as limited edition lithographs. Bruce liked to keep those private, but he always added color to the sketches in a way that made them works of art unto themselves. Bruce was as gifted with hue and color as he was with shapes. Those were the sketches that someone had the poor taste to use for the coffin. As the ushers moved around, I heard the reactions of the other ex-wives, a blend of gasps and giggles. We recognized all the shapes and colors.
Focused on raising our children, I had not noticed when the sculptures started to change. That was when Leslie entered the picture. Bruce may not have planned to divorce me, or at least for years I tried to believe that, but then Leslie got pregnant.
Our marriage, his first as well, was the longest marriage: it lasted ten years. Three of those, Bruce had spent loving Leslie, but playing house with me. His marriage to Leslie was far shorter. I could tell by the sculptures he had loved her for seven years. We all met him through his art in one way or another. Wife number three, Petra, worked in an art gallery. Although not an artist she was very involved with his work. I derived great pleasure from the public scandal when he hurt Leslie that way, leaving her for a mere merchant. By then Bruce had a name, an art, and a face that was recognized everywhere. Leslie had ended my marriage, so curiosity as to who had ended hers interrupted my life for a time. Hers was the only one of Bruce’s love stories I followed carefully, aside from my own.
Aside from relishing in Leslie’s pain, his personal life did not pique my interest. I knew my children were always respected and old enough to voice concern if anyone mistreated them. I could not remember if it was the third or fourth wife who was the only one of us who did not have children with Bruce.
Chopin’s somber Marche Funèbre snapped me back to the moment. The elaborate coffin encasing Bruce’s body had been placed on a movable catafalque. The catafalque with squeaky wheels carried Bruce’s body in a guided procession down the aisle. He was always a large man and had managed to become larger as he aged. His appetite for food and drink superseded all his other appetites.
Leslie whispered in my ear, “She doesn’t look sad.”
Glancing over at the person in question, I nodded in agreement. The widow could not be described as grieving. Grief is, of course, different in all of us. The body language of grief, though, is universal: the defeated, slumped shoulders, head bowed, tears flowing. Leslie was right. The widow was crying, but they almost looked like tears of relief.
A montage of Bruce’s works on a screen at the side of the altar shaped in a semicircle created the focal point. The aisle inclined and my pew toward the back provided a good vantage point. The incline was slight but pronounced enough to give those of us in the back a full view. The ushers seemed to be holding back the coffin so it would not speed down the aisle. The wheels continued to squeak. Bruce would have hated this. The minister or priestess─I am not sure what title this universal church gave her─had a very unpleasant voice and thus was difficult to listen to. No voice, even a pleasant one, could compete with Bruce’s art. For all the rotten things I would be happy to tell you about Bruce Jones, his art was not something anyone could criticize. Even the most prestigious critics raved about his talent and his work.
The slides were in chronological order. The memory and pain from the sting of betrayal flooded me as it had twenty-eight years earlier. I could see Leslie through the corner of my eye and the blush that betrayed her shame.
As wife number two, she had been party to betrayal because she too had been betrayed. I know Leslie grew to love my children very much. I guess she saw me as an extension of that love in some ways. I felt terrible. I had been so curt.
My hand reached to her shoulder in a gesture of solidarity and forgiveness when the images on the screen segued to show the shape of ex-wife number three. My heart ached for Leslie because we had similar builds, and many would not have been able to distinguish when Bruce transitioned from sculpting my body to sculpting hers.
Ex-wife number three, Petra─a very tall woman with long slender limbs─had a body that blatantly displayed the transition from Leslie to her replacement. The unquestionable change in shape left no doubt Bruce’s affections had shifted again. Leslie, pregnant with her second child at the time, lost the baby to grief, a loss I also knew well.
At that point, I did need the tissues Leslie had given me, but I was shedding tears for her, not for Bruce. I miscarried a child with my second husband. I understood her pain and sense of loss. Mine, too, was the last child, the child I never had.
Bruce never sculpted pregnant women. Consequently, wife number three, the one who had never been pregnant had seven years that boasted more sculptures than the rest of us. At the seven-year mark, Bruce transitioned into a new love story, a new model. Petra’s telltale sobs showed her grasp of Bruce’s tell. After all, loving Bruce was a gamble. The change of model in the sculpture showed his change of heart. Petra was from a foreign country; I never paid much attention where. My kids interacted with her, and she welcomed them with kindness. In tandem, Leslie and I passed her the tissues.
Petra took both tissues we offered and her lips moved in a quiet whisper; the words were obviously meant for Leslie, though I could discern they were, “I am sorry.”
My daughter, Clair, had always lived up to the dual meanings of her name: clear and famous. Clair could see things with great clarity, and she could convey them as such. I could only assume that she knew the ex-wives belonged together, ‘for closure and forgiveness’ as she had said.
Clair’s modeling career had started in her teens at her insistence; she was not pushed nor did anyone suggest she should model. She knew she was very attractive, and she knew she could convey her beauty and charm to an audience, a photographer, a camera.
Her modeling spun into acting. She was as natural on a screen as on a stage. It came to her with ease, though she was happy to take classes and learn. My Aaron is also successful, but he is a behind-the-scenes sort of person. I took great pride in knowing that I had always been a good mother. I had known how to allow my children to forge their own paths.
Not everything in my life succeeded, but I was a success at being a mother. I recognized Bruce’s love shelf life because I had one of my own, with a trail of the remains of ended marriages or relationships. Mine perhaps more impressive than Bruce’s.
I guess Bruce might have been the love of my life. But now in my mid-fifties, I questioned whether a spouse or companion had any viable use? I loved art, my passion, and although my work is not as popular or renowned as Bruce’s, I have achieved a certain level of success.
DEFINED by OTHERS © M.C.V. Egan
Chapter One
THUNK! My head was pounding. But this sound was at the front door. Disconcerted by the
thud, I stood, and placed my hand on the wall. I had spent days drinking. Alone. For the first
time in my life. At forty-seven my perfectly organized life was suddenly disrupted, destroyed.
Mother redecorated every few years. She made a change a few months ago; the languid blue
color paint she chose for the walls in the living room was meant to relax Dad. Regrettably, it did
not. With one hand holding my back, I stepped slowly toward the door. My mind was searching
for the ideal word to define the moment. There was only one, despondent.
I placed my hand on the brass door handle. The door would not budge. I turned the lock and tried
the door handle again. This time it worked. A sobering cold gust of wind accompanied by dry
leaves swirled around me. I took a deep breath and held it, as if to dive into water, then bent to
pick up the newspapers. There were several, some large and some small. The thunk that startled
me was from The New York Times—the local paper, the Skvallerby Courier, was too small.
Two clean newspapers were in plastic bags. After grabbing all of them, I dumped the pile at the
entrance wooden floor but kept that day’s local paper. I closed the door and headed for the
kitchen, where I began to make my coffee, French press, always. As it brewed, I removed the
paper from the plastic bag and looked at the front page of the Skvallerby Courier.
There at bottom right corner of the front page was my high school best friend’s face with the
caption: Service and funeral for Ms. Amanda Orm today.
Ms. Orm fought a brave battle but finally succumbed to cancer, see obituaries for more
information. Amanda’s photograph was of a healthy, beautiful woman. In high school
Amanda, Alison, and I were known as the triple A’s. As much for our names as we were for our
grades. We each excelled in different ways, I was and still am the lover of words and languages.
Amanda was clever with numbers, and Alison the top debater in our school.
As I took a sip of my coffee, I looked at the time on the microwave—the funeral was in four
hours. After finishing my coffee, I stood and headed upstairs. Once I finally got in the shower, I
let the warm water and steam wash away my misery. Her death made me realize I was alive.
I put on make-up and fixed my hair. I wanted to go into my mother’s closet to choose a dress, but
I could not. Instead, I chose from my clothes.
Luckily, on my way out the door, I found a good coat in the downstairs closet. Getting in my
father’s Jaguar, I headed to the Skvallerby cemetery. I pulled up to the parking lot and saw the
groups of people elegantly and somberly dressed to pay their respects to Amanda. I recognized
many of my contemporaries. I had left Skvallerby as soon as I graduated from high school. I
visited my parents from time to time, but they owned a second home in Florida and that was
where we usually met. Skvallerby—the name in Swedish means gossip town and it was that
inclination to nasty chatter that had driven me to move away.
As I sat in the car, I wondered if my newfound courage had been misplaced and my hands began
to shake. I got out of the car and clicked it shut, then headed to join the group gathered around
the coffin and the hole in the ground. I heard voices:
“Is that Anne Geyer?”
Another asked, “What’s she doing here? I thought she and Amanda were enemies.”
Then a voice I recognized stated, “Enemies always attend the funeral of the fallen. It’s a way to
show they’ve won.” Alison spoke louder than the others.
I turned, facing the group of women, and directed my words to Alison. “I didn’t plan to attend. I
came to town to sort out my parents’ home.”
“I didn’t mean you, Anne. Just people in general. How’s your dad?”
Alison shifted uncomfortably, and her tone was insincere.
“Not well, Alison. I can’t imagine anyone feeling a winner at a funeral. I saw in the Skvallerby
Courier that Amanda had no family and thought that for the memory of our youth, I would
attend.”
“Poor Amanda. She really was left alone in the world. With a lot of money, but all alone.” I
didn’t recognize the woman who said that. Her comment ignited multiple negative responses
and I walked away, as far away as I could get, while remaining near the open grave.
A handsome man approached me and as he extended his hand he said, “Hello Anne. It is Anne
Geyer, isn’t it? I am Peter Corrigan, Amanda’s lawyer.”
He took out his business card and added, “Amanda named you in her will.
Can we meet at your earliest convenience? Would tomorrow be good for you?”
“In he-her b… w-will,” I stammered. “Are you sure? We had not seen each other in almost two
decades. We were not friends.”
“Don’t be fooled by the turn out. Amanda did not have friends.”
“That’s Skvallerby for you.” Smiling, I shook his hand and added,
“Tomorrow will be fine.”
“Good. I’ll be in my office all day, just swing by when you feel up to it.”
The ceremony began with the music of a bagpipe. I noticed Alison at a distance staring at a large,
ornate wreath. Someone must have cared for Amanda—it was a beautiful arrangement, the kind
selected with much thought and care.
THE BRIDGE OF DEATHS by M.C.V. EGAN
CHAPTER ONE- BILL
He perceived himself to be a sensible man. He surrounded himself with facts and numbers. Those who worked and interacted with him saw him as a levelheaded, reasonable, and credible individual. He was a man of logic and common sense. And aside from a handful of therapists, no one knew him, not wholly.
At this point in time, he had exhausted all practical, reasonable, credible, traditional, levelheaded, common sense, and rational options to try to solve his problem. He now found himself open to the possibility of the unreasonable, incredible, irrational, implausible, and illogical. It could even be said that he was now open to the possibility of the absurd and the ridiculous.
He functioned and lived well enough. To be sure, he functioned and lived better than most. And until now, this had been acceptable, a reasonable way of living. But now this was no longer the case, and at least in part, this was due to his age. He was now past the age of thirty, and he began to have a strong desire for a family of his own. The stress of such desires could also be a contributing factor that was aggravating his problem.
His logical mind made him fully aware of one thing, and that was the type of woman he wanted to share his life with: the type of woman he pictured himself riding off into the happily-ever-after proverbial sunset with was not going to settle for “enough.” It is also probably important to note here that although he did not realize it, he was by all accounts a hopeless romantic.
Now that he was an accomplished success in his chosen field and in a financially stable situation, he felt a need to fulfill other aspects of his life. As was mentioned before, like so many men past the age of thirty, he sought to find a perfect woman, a woman to share his life with. It was not a particular physical type he imagined, for he found (as most men do) all pretty women attractive. The list of requirements for the perfect woman was more along the lines of an educational and socioeconomic nature. And, of course, he required that she have mental stability.
His problems seemed, like so many things in life, not to be fair. Fortunately, he was not one to wallow in self-pity. He knew that enough effort and resources had been spent on various traditional medicines and therapies to try to solve his problem. He had also indulged in the untraditional recreational drug and alcohol escapism cure, as some do in youth. None of the aforementioned had worked, not in the long term.
He had originally sought hypnosis to learn relaxation and control techniques. The first hypnosis session taught him how to apply relaxation techniques. In that session, he learned that while under hypnosis, he was always ultimately in control. He quickly learned that he could choose to stop the session at any time. He could do this by simply opening his eyes.
The second session was quite a different story; it brought back his worst nightmare with such clarity that he had a strong physical reaction. He started moving his arms and legs in such a way that he unfortunately somehow hit the psychologist and gave the poor man a rather nasty black eye. The session was interrupted before he tasted the salty water of the sea, cold salty water, and saw the bridge (that part was always in his nightmare).
With an icepack held to his face, the therapist warned him that a certain door to his subconscious had been opened and that he might start having the dream more vividly than he had in the past. He could not imagine his dream to feel any more real than it already did. The therapist also stated that a problem having lasted seventeen years could hardly be solved overnight.
Inasmuch as he accepted that the therapy might work, he had begun to develop a level of distrust of his doctor. Frankly, he had developed a strong dislike for the therapist and felt that the man-made him feel inferior. The doctor was pushing, trying to take him to places in his mind that he was not ready to visit. And with regard to what he saw in his dreams, the therapist had discussed certain … beliefs he might consider as a possibility for his problems. These beliefs were such that most in a world of facts and numbers would find hard to digest.
He did realize that his first trip to Europe as a teenager with his school had been the beginning of his unpleasant dreams. The therapist called that, the trigger. The problem began with nightmares, but those had grown into other problems. Aside from the trigger, the doctor also spoke of layers of trauma acquired after the trigger. These problems had created certain obstacles in his life.
At first, the transfer to London had been a feather in his cap, a desired jump in the ladder to reach his career goals. As the weeks passed and he began to feel more and more uncomfortable, he began to pinpoint that it had not been puberty, but rather the eighth grade trip to Europe (the trigger) when it all began. Here in London, he felt this “problem” was interrupting the way he liked to function in his life and in his work.
This trigger, according to the therapist—the therapist he did not like—bridged who he had been (in a past life) with who he now was. This principle of past lives was not a tangible idea that he could relate to. If he needed to believe in reincarnation at all, he needed facts that made it seem plausible.
The dreams continued to haunt him. They started out in different ways but always ended the same; the same lettering on the wings and on the side of the aircraft; the taste of salty, cold water in his mouth; the anxious feeling of loneliness and apprehension; and, these days, the inevitability of awakening to a wet bed and the frustrating and unpleasant feeling that he had no control over this.
It was his dislike for the therapist that had introduced him to past-life regression, coupled with the embarrassment about the black eye he had given said man. That made him seek elsewhere for answers on his own. He had to tackle the problem, as he had a fear of losing all that he had accomplished: the steady climb up a corporate ladder—although in his case, it was more of a fancy marble staircase. This had been accomplished through hard work and an extensive and expensive Ivy League education.
Seeking to understand past lives was the very reason he found himself in one of London’s finest (if not the finest) bookstores that had survived the bad economy and competition from Amazon and other online sources. It was there at the bookstore, Foyles, that he was holding a book from an impressive source, which explained why such an unlikely and illogical type of therapy might actually work.
© MCV EGAN 2011
Connie
Loves Sticky Cinnamon Buns (Vegan)
© M.C.V. Egan
LINK
In
my book Defined by Others, Connie’s baking and cooking waft often
permeate the scenes and settings. I am a good cook, to me cooking can be as
free-flowing and creative as writing, but baking? Oh, baking is for the
obedient who follow measurements and sizes—limited, a bit like editing! Ask any
writer, which is the part of the process we tend to dread, and if budget
allows, pay someone else to do it, I think the most popular answer will be
editing.
Our
son was born deathly allergic to dairy, eggs, and some tree nuts, a couple of
decades ago, our options were limited. So, I honed my baking craft, focusing on
Vegan recipes watching out for the nuts in our case. As our son got older, the
product variety increased, and I stopped baking except for Christmas or other
holidays.
Then
COVID19 hit, and none of us knew what to trust. I dusted off my bread maker,
pans, and such, rolled up my sleeves to protect my family and baked almost
every day at first. A funny thing happened, I discovered that today at 61 I
love to bake! I also do not mind editing as much.
These
Vegan Buns, and I do give the link to the source, are so delicious that for the
non-vegans, we add a dollop of cream cheese on top. This blog is one of the
many wonderful ones I have discovered; if anyone you love has food allergies,
please contact me, and I will share all the resources we use.
(We
tried others, they were good, but these are the easiest to make, visit site for
video directions)
Ingredients for 8 servings
(We
freeze in plastic wrap, individually.
They
microwave in 45 seconds to perfection)
2
tablespoons vegan butter, to coat the foil pan
DOUGH
2
cups almond milk, at room temperature
½
cup vegan butter, melted
¼
cup organic sugar
1
packet active dry yeast
5
½ cups flour, divided
1
teaspoon salt
FILLING
¾
cup vegan butter
¾
cup brown sugar
2
tablespoons ground cinnamon
ICING
(we
like icing and make extra)
1
cup powdered sugar
2
tablespoons almond milk
½
teaspoon vanilla extract
Preparation
1.
Generously rub two disposable foil pie
pans with vegan butter.
2.
In a large bowl, whisk together the almond
milk, melted butter, and sugar. The mixture should be just warm, registering
between 100-110˚F (37-43˚C). If it is hotter, allow to cool slightly.
3.
Sprinkle the yeast evenly over the warm
mixture and let set for 1 minute.
4.
Add 5 cups flour and 1 teaspoon of salt to
the milk mixture and mix with a wooden spoon until just combined.
5.
Cover the bowl with a towel or plastic
wrap and set in a warm place to rise for 1 hour.
6.
Preheat oven to 350˚F (180˚C).
7.
After 1 hour, the dough should have nearly
doubled in size.
8.
Remove the towel and add an additional ½
cup (95g) of flour and salt. Stir well, then turn out onto a well-floured
surface.
9.
Knead the dough lightly, adding additional
flour as necessary, until the dough just loses its stickiness and does not
stick to the surface.
10.
Roll the dough out into a large rectangle,
about ½-inch (1 cm) thick. Fix corners to make sure they are sharp and even.
11.
Spread the softened vegan butter evenly
over the dough.
12.
Sprinkle evenly with brown sugar and
cinnamon.
13.
Roll up the dough, forming a log, and
pinch the seam closed. Place seam-side down. Trim off any unevenness on either
end.
14.
Cut the log in half, then divide each half
into 7 evenly sized pieces. About 1½ inches (8 cm) thick each.
15.
Place 7 cinnamon rolls in each cake pan,
one in the center, six around the sides. Cover with plastic wrap and place in a
warm place to rise for 30 minutes.
16.
To prepare the frosting. In a medium-size
mixing bowl, whisk together powdered sugar, almond milk, and vanilla until
smooth.
17.
Remove plastic wrap. Bake the cinnamon
rolls in a preheated oven at 350˚F (180˚C) for 25-30 minutes, until golden
brown.
18.
While still warm, drizzle evenly with
frosting.
M.C.V. Egan is the pen name chosen by Maria Catalina Vergara Egan. Catalina is originally from Mexico City, Mexico. Catalina has lived in various countries and is fluent in four languages; Spanish, English, French and Swedish.
Her first book The Bridge of Deaths revolves around her maternal grandfather's death in 1939. A true-life pre-WWII event. It has over 200 footnotes with the resources of her extensive search through Archival materials as well as the use of psychometry and past life regressions. It is more fact than fiction.
The revised edition of The Bridge of Deaths; A love Story and a Mystery focuses on the story-line as opposed to fact, but all footnotes and facts are available through the website for any curious minds. http://www.thebridgeofdeaths.com
Defined by Others taps into the dark quirky side found even in the best of people. With the 2012 American elections as a backdrop and the fearless reassurance that the world might end on December 12, 2012, as predicted by the Mayan Calendar.
Death of a Sculptor; in Hue, Shape, and Color is a novella written in sixteen different voices. It is a murder mystery. She is currently working on a sequel; Bruce (title subject to change).
M.C.V. Egan lives and works in South Florida. She loves cooking and crafting. She is married and has a son. Aside from writing Astrology is one of her passions and careers she pursues.
You can find M.C.V. Egan everywhere online
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Author Spotlight Tour with Guest Post, Trailers and #Giveaway
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Thank you very much for hosting me. I hope you and your blog visitors will enjoy making the cinnamon buns as much as we do.
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