Saturday, September 2, 2023

The Everyday Psalmist

  ~ I received no compensation and opinions are 100% my own or my family. ~

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Book Summary:  “If there’s anything we can learn from the many writers of the Psalms,” explains Leslie Calhoun, associate editor of Ink & Willow, “it’s that talking to God doesn’t have to be hard. Prayer can be raw, honest, and messy, and it doesn’t require fancy words or insider language to be meaningful and restorative on a deep soul level.”


The twenty-one devotions are divided into three sections—Life Is Beautiful, Life Is Hard, and God’s Got This—that each focus on different aspects of the spiritual journey with the accompanying appropriate Psalms. In addition to the guided prompts, each devotion also ends with a “Getting Real” section that invites readers to jot down what is beautiful about the day, what is hard, and where they need to see God most. 

This beautiful journal lays out simple, inviting prompts for readers who are longing to deepen their relationship with God through prayer but who might be struggling to find the words to accurately express how they’re feeling. Using the prayer language of the psalms as a starting point, The Everyday Psalmist provides an interactive, creative space for Christians to explore writing their own psalms and prayers as part of their daily spiritual practice while learning more about the biblical psalms—what they are, the different types, the origin, and how they are arranged. With quotes and reflections, this journal acts as writer’s guide that encourages reflection and, in the words of Eugene Peterson, helps get “everything out in the open before God.” 

With undated pages, an approachable layout, and calming images of nature, The Everyday Psalmist awakens gratitude and honesty, and most importantly, will enrichen spiritual lives in a personal, transformative way. 

One (or more) Sentence Summary:  The Everyday Psalmist is a beautiful book that encourages you to connect with God through thoughtful prayer. I really liked the thought-provoking prompts.  I read the section and questions and would think them over for a few days before journaling. I found I needed more time to really think about the prompts and what they meant to me.  I found writing a psalm very difficult, but I believe it is because I have never done so and felt it had to be one certain way. The guide will walk you through how to write one. 

The photos and saying thoughts in the journal are so beautiful.  There are several I would like to frame, however, that would mean tearing my journal apart....which I could never do. My favorite part of the journal (and easiest for me) was the "Getting Real" sections. Three questions are asked:
  •     What's beautiful today?
  •     What's hard right now?
  •     Where do you need God most?
Even after completing The Everyday Psalmist, I can still answer those 3 questions in a daily journal.

The Everyday Psalmist would make a wonderful gift, but make sure you pick up a copy for yourself!

Ink & Willow products infuse contemplation and inspiration into the regular spiritual practice of creative-minded Christians, wherever they are in their faith journey. Each thoughtfully curated gift product is based in biblical truth and sparks a reminder of how God reveals beauty in the midst of our ordinary.

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Kissing Kosher

   ~ I received no compensation and opinions are 100% my own or my family. ~

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Book Summary:

"An unflinchingly honest romance." --Kirkus, STARRED review

From the author of THE MATZAH BALL and MR. PERFECT ON PAPER comes this hilarious and emotional rivals-to-lovers romance.

Step 1: Get the secret recipe. Step 2: Don't fall in love...

Avital Cohen isn't wearing underpants--woefully, for unsexy reasons. Chronic pelvic pain has forced her to sideline her photography dreams and her love life. It's all she can do to manage her family's kosher bakery, Best Babka in Brooklyn, without collapsing.
She needs hired help.

And distractingly handsome Ethan Lippmann seems the perfect fit.

Except Ethan isn't there to work--he's undercover, at the behest of his ironfisted grandfather. Though Lippmann's is a household name when it comes to mass-produced kosher baked goods, they don't have the charm of Avital's bakery. Or her grandfather's world-famous pumpkin spice babka recipe.

As they bake side by side, Ethan soon finds himself more interested in Avital than in stealing family secrets, especially as he helps her find the chronic pain relief--and pleasure--she's been missing.

But perfecting the recipe for romance calls for leaving out the lies...even if coming clean means risking everything.


Author: Jean Meltzer

ISBN: 9780778334408

Publication Date: August 29, 2023

Publisher: MIRA Books

432 Pages

Buy Links:


Barnes & Noble




Jean Meltzer studied dramatic writing at NYU Tisch and has earned numerous awards for her work in television, including a daytime Emmy. She spent five years in rabbinical school before her chronic illness forced her to withdraw, and her father told her she should write a book—just not a Jewish one because no one reads those. Kissing Kosher is her third novel.


Avital Cohen wasn’t wearing underwear.

Standing behind the front counter of Best Babka in Brooklyn, holding their signature pink box in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other, she tried to ignore the pain radiating through her lower abdomen. Despite the fact there was a line spreading around the block, and Shabbat was less than four hours away, the middle-aged woman with streaks of purple in her hair was taking her sweet time.

“I’ve got three black-and-white biscotti,” Mrs. Purpleman said, speaking into her cell phone. “Four confetti rugelach, one challah… I know, I know, but Elissa is on one of her health kicks, again.”

Her name wasn’t Mrs. Purpleman. It was just one of many nicknames that Avital had created in order to remember customers. Mrs. Purpleman was, in fact, Mrs. Perlman, and Avital had come up with the name because she wore her hair styled into a bob and dyed a deep maroon. The effect of which always managed to look purple.

Mrs. Purpleman had been a longtime customer of Best Babka in Brooklyn, arriving like clockwork every Friday morning to stock up on Shabbat goodies for her family.

“But if I buy two challahs,” Mrs. Purpleman sighed heavily into her cell, “she’ll say I’m not validating her feelings…”

Avital glanced down the long line and wondered when Mrs. Purpleman—a professional go-getter when it came to lengthy and irrational amounts of indecision at the counter—would finally notice the eye rolls behind her and make a choice.

“Well, how do you think she’ll feel about some apple cake macaroons?” Mrs. Purpleman asked into her phone.

Avital interrupted. “Those are really good.”

She looked up. “Really?”

Avital began loading three cookies into the box. “They’re always a huge seller on Fridays,” she said, putting a fourth into the box that was angling in the direction of Mrs. Purpleman. “Can I help you with anything else today?”

“Oh.” Mrs. Purpleman placed one finger on her chin. “Well, I guess not…”

All at once, she felt bad for losing her patience.

Normally, Avital was good with the clientele. She could typically deal with indecisive customers and long lines and the total lack of smiles or gratitude that came with the Shabbat rush hour…but today, she was once again dealing with a flare up of her chronic-pain condition.

Since being diagnosed with interstitial cystitis two years ago at the age of twenty-two, her life could be boiled down to one phrase. She came, she saw…she realized she needed to pee and quickly stopped whatever she was doing in order to find a bathroom.

“Tell you what,” Avital said, grabbing two pink boxes tied up in white twine from a shelf behind her. “Why don’t I throw in two pumpkin-spiced babkas for free?”

“For free?” Mrs. Purpleman asked, confused.

“I know I’m rushing you here,” Avital said, bouncing up and down in her spot. “It’s just…it’s an emergency, Mrs. Perlman.”

Mrs. Purpleman finally twisted in her spot and noticed the line. “Oh, Avital—” she said, touching her heart, embarrassed “—I’m so sorry, I didn’t even realize!”

“It’s okay.”

“No, no…” She shook her head, apologizing profusely. “My husband always says, ‘Goldie—you take too much time with everything. Just make a decision!’ I don’t know why it’s always so hard for me. I just get nervous, you know, and Elissa is going through this whole phase, where everything I do is wrong…”

“I know, Mrs. Perlman,” Avital said, gently, before angling to move her along. “You have a good Shabbat, okay? I’ll see you next week.”

Handing the box to Tootles at the front counter, Avital began calling out the order. “One pound marzipan,” she shouted over the hum of the crowds, “Three black-and-white biscotti, four confetti rugelachs, one challah, four apple cake macaroons.”

“What about the babkas?” Tootles called back.

“On the house!” Avital said, and swiftly began taking off her apron. Her break came just in time. Her twin brother, Josh, had just returned from his lunch break. “Baruch Hashem,” she said, taking off her apron and handing it to him.

“That good today, huh?” Josh asked, sympathetically.

“You have no idea.”

Avital escaped through the back door, sprinting down the hall toward her office, where she could enjoy the privileges of an attached private bathroom.

As she closed the door behind her, the vent fan and light turned on, buzzing into a familiar hum. Considering how much time she spent there, her mother had tried to spruce up the place—make it feel more homey and comfortable—with the addition of fancy pink soap and a small dish full of potpourri. Instead, all the floral scents really managed to do was seep into her frizzy hair and make her smell like cherry cough syrup.

Sitting down on the toilet, Avital shut her eyes and tried to breathe though her pain. The burning, aching pressure increased. Her stomach cramped. Really what she needed to do was to take the day off. Lie in bed, with ice between her legs and a heating pad on top of her belly, drowning in rescues, the colloquial term for the over-the-counter medications and nontraditional remedies used when the pain was at its worse.

Unfortunately, going home was not an option. Even though she had specifically returned to work at Best Babka in Brooklyn for the familial benefit of taking off as needed—a luxury not afforded to most anyone living with chronic pain and chronic illness—they were desperate. With its lines out the door and rapidly expanding social-media presence, the bakery needed support staff as much as it needed flour.

A small whine of pain escaped her lips as she finished her business. She waited for relief, for the feeling of better to return to her body…but her pain was relentless. That was the hardest part of it, really. The fact that it never stopped. The fact that it just went on, and on, sometimes shifting form but never being eradicated completely.

Returning to the front counter, she found both Tootles and Josh sweating bullets, working hard to fill orders. As general manager, Avital didn’t often work the front counter, but Sara, one of their bakers, had a custody hearing in Manhattan to attend that day.

Avital threw on an apron and scanned the line. Though it seemed impossible, the crowd cramming the front entrance had doubled in size during the three minutes she was stuck in the bathroom. Avital grabbed a pink box.

“Next!” she called out.

A young woman, with a baby angled on the edge of her hip, stepped forward.

“What can I get you?” Avital asked.

“Two challahs,” Mother Russia said, the thick accent that had earned her the nickname from Avital, evident in her voice. “Six honey cookies, one black-and-white cheesecake, and a mandel brownie.”

Upside: Mother Russia was always decisive. She came in, ordered quickly, and left. She also never smiled or said thank you, which, weirdly enough, actually felt like a gift. Avital didn’t have to fake wellness. She didn’t have to smile through her pain. She could be just like Mother Russia, totally unconcerned about American social norms.

“Anything else?” Avital said.

“No,” Mother Russia said, catching the teething giraffe just before it fell to the floor.


Avital handed off the box to Josh. She was just about to call out the order, when the sight of a young man—pushing his way through the crowd—caught her attention.

Holy pumpkin-spiced babka.

Avital faltered. The tongs dangled unused in her hands. Her lower lip parted from the top, jaw dropping. The long line dissipated into silence. There were twenty-five people waiting at the counter, but her eyes were transfixed on the stranger.

He was exactly her type. Square shoulders. Tangled dark curls that lifted like swirls of icing off a perfectly molded face. The most gloriously prominent nose. He was a recipe of charm, all plated together by a navy-blue peacoat and gray fitted trousers. He made his way through the crowd, tapping old ladies on the shoulders to offer apologies as he squeezed past.

She couldn’t help but be curious. Avital knew most everyone who came into the shop on Friday. They were locals and diehards. People who—like her own family—never skipped a Shabbat.

And then, Prince Charming cut the line.

Her ire began to rise. There was nothing she hated more, on a busy Shabbat afternoon, than a person who cheated the system. Prince Charming suddenly morphed into Sir Cheat-a-Lot.

“Excuse me,” Avital said, pointing her tongs at his head, “there’s a line.”

Sir Cheat-a-Lot smiled nervously. “Uh, no, I… I don’t think…”

“Yeah,” Avital said, rolling her eyes. “I know. Your Shabbat dinner is very important. Far more important than the other three hundred people waiting before you.” She turned to Mrs. Grossman, waiting patiently with her pocketbook, directly behind him. “Can I help you today, Mrs. Grossman?”

“Oh yes,” the old woman said, leaning over the counter. “I’ll take four black-and-white cookies…”

Avital grabbed a pink box. Sir Cheat-a-Lot decided to tempt fate, and her patience, on a high-pain day.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his perfectly adorable cheeks turning red in the process. “I think you’re misunderstanding my intention here.”

Avital didn’t have time for this. She glanced over to Rafi, a plump middle-aged Israeli they had hired for security, and waved him forward.

“Rafi!” Avital shouted. “Can you please show our guest where the line begins?”

“Not a problem, Avi!” Rafi said and moved to escort the young trespasser outside.

Avital returned her attention to dear, sweet Mrs. Grossman. Rafi grabbed the young man by his arm. But Sir Cheat-a-Lot shrugged out of his grasp and reached into the backpack he was wearing, pulling out a piece of paper.

“I’m here for the job interview!” he said, speaking quickly, waving it in her direction.

Avital stopped serving Mrs. Grossman. “What?”

“My name is Ethan Rosenberg,” he explained, nervously glancing towards Rafi. “I have an interview scheduled with the general manager here at two thirty. I believe her name is—” he glanced down at his sheet to double-check “—Avital Cohen. We confirmed via email on Monday.”

Avital squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to die of embarrassment.

She had completely forgotten.

Then again, she had been up all night—every hour, on the hour—using the bathroom, only to return to bed, exhausted and miserable, with pelvic spasms that didn’t let her sleep. Was it any wonder she was forgetting job interviews with desperately needed help? Or that the hours were painfully and purposefully slipping by focused on other things?

Avital waved Rafi off. Then, handing Mrs. Grossman off to Josh, she directed her attention back to the handsome interloper. “Come with me,” she said, raising the entrance to the front counter.

She had to press her body all the way back to allow him to pass. The wool of the merino sweater he was wearing beneath his coat—his broad and apparently extremely fit chest—swiped against her own.

“Sorry,” she said, straightening her back. “It’s…tight.”

“No problem.” He grinned.

She blanked. She knew there were words in her vocabulary, and that she was supposed to be using them, but all she could focus on was his scent. He smelled incredible. Like the leaves of a freshly cut eucalyptus plant, woodsy and delectable.

It was not like her to get so flustered around a man. She considered herself far too practical to be the type of woman who gave in to romantic whims. But he had this bold sort of confidence in the way he walked, and his sense of fashion was impeccable…and all that masculine energy, brushing up against her, reminded her that she hadn’t had sex in years.

It made her feel vulnerable. Exposed.

Avital thought back to his résumé. “I’m sure you’re used to working in much bigger places.”

“Bigger isn’t necessarily better,” he said, as if anticipating her own misgivings. His voice was deep and dreamy. “There’s a lot that can be learned from working in more challenging spaces.”

He was saying all the right things.

He was stoking her imagination, too.

Avital needed to get a grip. Especially since her twin brother was side-eyeing them curiously from the counter.

She waved Ethan to follow, leading him down the hallway and back to her main office in order to begin his interview. Even though she knew—as sure as the burning pain radiating through her lower abdomen—that there was no way in olam haba she would ever hire him.

Excerpted from Kissing Kosher by Jean Meltzer © 2023 by Jean Meltzer, used with permission from MIRA Books/HarperCollins.

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Tuesday, August 29, 2023

Big Little Spells

   ~ I received no compensation and opinions are 100% my own or my family. ~

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Book Summary:  

A smart, modern Rom-Com about a witch banished from her coven who seeks help from the only person who can prove she’s not a threat to witchkind—her annoyingly immortal childhood crush.

Rebekah Wilde was eighteen when she left St. Cyprian, officially stripped of her magic and banished from her home. Ten years later she’s forced to return to face the Joywood Coven, who preside over not just her hometown, but the whole magical world.

The Joywood are determined to prove Rebekah is a danger to witchkind, and she faces a death sentence if she can’t prove otherwise. Rebekah must seek help from the only one who knows how to stop the Joywood—the ruthless immortal Nicholas Frost. Years ago, he was her secret tutor in magic, and her secret, impossible crush. But the icy and frustratingly handsome immortal is as remote and arrogant as ever, and if he feels anything for Rebekah—or witchkind—it’s impossible to tell.

Now, she’s no longer a child…and this time what sparks between Nicholas and Rebekah is more than just magic


Author: Hazel Beck

ISBN: 9781525804724

Publication Date: August 29, 2023

Publisher: Graydon House

18.99 US | 23.99 CAN

Buy Links:


Barnes & Noble

Books A Million


HAZEL BECK is the magical partnership of a river witch and an earth witch. Together, they have collected two husbands, three familiars, two children, five degrees, and written around 200 books. As one, their books will delight with breathtaking magic, emotional romance, and stories of witches you won’t soon forget. Find them at

Social Links:

Author Website: 

Facebook: Hazel Beck

Instagram: @hazelbeckauthor

Goodreads: Hazel Beck

Excerpt: Chapter One

You don’t have to be an exiled witch under threat of the death penalty should you cast the faintest little spell to feel the magic in Sedona, Arizona.

But it doesn’t hurt.

The full moon is shining, high and bright, making the red rocks glow outside my little bungalow. The air is soft and dry instead of swollen with Missouri’s trademark humidity, which I’m not sorry to leave behind.

If it was up to me, I would never have gone back to Mis­souri at all.

Because one thing exile has taught me is that magic is as much a habit as anything else. Unnecessary at best. Danger­ous at worst. An addiction, in other words.

These days I am all about recovery.

Except for tonight. Tonight, admittedly, has been a bit of a relapse.

I breathe out and try to blow away the past while I do.

I’m standing out in my little yard, my head tipped toward the Arizona sky and my shoes kicked off so I can feel the earth and as many vortexes as possible. Because I’m a hippie, I tell myself. Just a run-of-the-mill Sedona hippie. Hair down, feet bare, crystals hanging all around like every other New Ager around here.

Not magic, just vibes.

But before I manage to fully ground myself here, I feel something grab me, like a huge, magical hook around the center of me—but inside out. It’s dark. Hard. Kind of slimy, really—and it makes my stomach heave.

This particular magical tug is a summons, yanking me out of the life I fought so hard to build, all on my own. Not for the first time.

Not even for the first time tonight.

Though this summons is harsher than the one before. Meaner.

I know instantly it’s not him.

Because he yanked me back to St. Cyprian too, but it didn’t hurt when he did it. It’s not supposed to hurt at all, and he made it feel almost good

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