While I physically live in NW Ohio with my husband, son, a lab/pittie mix, a blind chow chow, and a tortie to rule us all, my soul alternates between the 12th-century UK and the Great Smoky Mountains. Sadly, my mind makes that leap on a whim, like a squirrel with a precious nut to hide.

When young, real young, I’d sit on the picnic table under the grape arbor, enthralled as my Bulgarian Grandfather told me stories about beautiful princesses and brave knights.  It’s no wonder that I gravitate toward medieval stories. 

When not perched over my keyboard by the light of the moon, like the bat I am, I can be found reading fiction, medieval non-fiction, basically anything, yes, that includes the backs of cereal boxes, sewing, gardening, or brewing up some medieval concoction from my herb garden, some edible and not so edible. I have a killer moist potpourri recipe from the 13^th century that looks truly atrocious but smells divine.