Daughter Francesca Archives – Lisa Scottoline

Live Yo Life

September 20, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Last week was a great reminder of my new life philosophy.

Namely, YOLO.

To be honest, the truth is I’ve never been a great planner.

But YOLO makes me sound fun rather than lazy.

YOLO leads to LOL.

At least it did this week, which was momentous in my household.

I got to have experience my happiest day of the year, which is the day that I actually finish a writing a novel and type THE END.

YAY!

That’s right, I just finished my new domestic thriller, which is entitled The Fall of the LaFleurs, and it will be out next July. It takes me a full year to write, research, and edit a novel, so I celebrate typing The End by rewarding myself, usually with carbohydrates.

But this time, it was with a new puppy!

As I wrote about recently, a puppy became available that was a half-brother of Daughter Francesca’s dog Bobby, who’s mellow and affectionate, so I snapped him up.

I handed in my novel, then jumped in the car the very same day, excited to go pick up my new little guy, which involved driving to a McDonald’s in Frederick, Maryland to meet the breeder halfway. I remembered her saying that the best way to Frederick from my house was to take the Pennsylvania Turnpike west to 15 South.

Okay, off I go.

I felt like a kid again, getting a new puppy with a carful of new dog toys, a leash, a collar, and a crate pad.

But that’s when I realized YOLO wasn’t the greatest idea.

Because on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, I started to plug the McDonald’s address into my car GPS, but the screen went black.

At first I thought I was doing something wrong, so I hit a bunch of keys and hoped for the best.

Still a totally black screen.

Then I realized my car had just been serviced and somehow the GPS must’ve gotten dumped.

Hmm.

It occurred to me I could get the directions on my phone, so I tried, but I couldn’t get GPS there either because I couldn’t get Wi-Fi or good-enough reception.

This is where I tell you I love GPS.

It’s the longest and best marriage I ever had.

I’m a person who used to get lost constantly, and all of my road trips were like a first draft until you reach your final destination. I’ve made more wrong turns in my life than anyone I know, not including two divorces, from Thing One and Thing Two.

Meanwhile, I had left the house too late to go back and get my other car, which has working GPS, because I didn’t want to keep the breeder waiting.

So I kept driving, at speed, nervous.

I’ve never been to Frederick MD.

I had no idea where I was going.

Bottom line, I was driving to a place I’d never been with only the barest of directions, and I didn’t have the time to make a mistake.

Then it struck me that I had just finished a novel that was about a woman who will stop at nothing to get to her son.

And I was a woman who would stop at nothing to get to her puppy.

But this wasn’t fiction, this was real life, without a net.

I was so nervous that I pulled into the first rest stop to see if I could get some reception on my phone, but I still couldn’t. I realized that while I was hitting all the buttons on my phone and dashboard, I must’ve deleted my own WiFi network, and I didn’t know the password, and somehow I couldn’t even make a phone call.

I thought, maybe YOLO isn’t such a good life philosophy?

Then I looked over and saw the kind of thing I would usually avoid.

A motorcycle gang.

They were a group of men standing around a bunch of Harley Davidsons, smoking and wearing black leather vests and pants.

But it occurred to me that they would definitely know the roads.

So I got out of the car and approached the motorcycle gang, and they all looked over, puzzled. I said, “I need to get my new puppy!”

And they all laughed, and I realized they were not felons, but fellas.

I explained the situation, then right away they all got out their phones and their maps and their GPS, and they told me exactly how to get to Frederick MD.

They could not have been more helpful.

I mean, they were angels.

For kind of Hell’s Angels.

And I honestly got a crush on one.

I asked them to take a picture with me, because I wanted to memorialize this wonderful day, on which I got to write The End, pick up a puppy, and reaffirm that you don’t always need to know where you’re going in life.

You should just go.

You don’t need a map or GPS.

You just need faith in people.

And maybe in yourself.

The Best and the Worst

August 30, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

It was the best of times it was the worst of times.

But all in one day.

Let me catch you up on last Saturday.

I had been thinking about getting a new puppy for a long time because my two Cavaliers Boone and Kit were nearing 15, and I thought my little puppy Eve would love a companion and a houseful of fur.

And by Eve, I mean me.

And before I continue, let me say first that my rescue credentials are very well established. I’ve rescued dogs, cats, and even horses. I currently have a rescue horse, so I’m fully aware of the need to adopt animals.

But I’m also of an age where I get to want what I want, too.

And what I wanted was a new cavalier puppy. So I called my wonderful preservation breeder, who doesn’t breed her dogs often, so I expected a six month if not a year lead time. I have waited as long as two years for a dog, that’s how responsible these breeders are.

So I sent my email, and amazingly, she wrote me back instantly saying that she had a litter of 15-week old puppies available.

My heart exploded!

It was sooner than I thought, But my life motto is don’t postpone fun.

Especially not at my age.

Francesca happened to be home, and we set up a Facetime and looked at three adorable puppies, two girls and a boy. I was leaning toward a girl and I didn’t care what she looked like as much as her temperament.

Eve is so adventurous that I didn’t need any more adventure in my life.

So we watched how the puppies behaved, not how they looked.

What a concept.

The two girls ran around like nuts, going up and down the stairs, and actually getting into a box of championship ribbons and wreaking havoc.

But the little boy only wanted to sit in the breeder’s lap.

He was interested in the world, but he wanted love.

What a coincidence, so do I!

So you know where I went.

I picked the boy!

This could be my best marriage yet.

I was overflowing with endorphins, if not estrogen.

Really there’s nothing better for your soul than watching a puppy video, and I do it all day, for random puppies online, but this time I was doing it for a puppy I got to bring home.

Francesca and I were jumping up and down all day, thinking of doggy names, picking out puppy collars, all the gloriously fun dumb stuff you do when you are expecting a new arrival.

But while we were sitting on the couch, my little dog Kit came over, walked up the little doggy steps to the couch, and sat in Francesca’s lap. He seemed kind of flat, which isn’t like him, and he smelled a little funny, so I thought he rolled in something.

We decided to give him a bath. And while we did, he was unusually calm but after we took him out, he was positively flat. He’d been having kidney and heart issues, but they were controlled with medication.

Still I couldn’t deny what I was seeing, and neither could Francesca.

We’ve loved and lived with enough animals to know when they are trying to tell you something, especially when that something is goodbye.

We called the vet and took him in immediately.

And we got the news that no pet lover wants to hear.

That he was suffering.

It turns out that his kidneys were failing more quickly than anybody realized and that weird smell we noticed was uremic acid or something like that.

I can never listen when I’m emotional.

And so we cuddled Kit and told him how much we loved him, and how much we adored even his little quirky things like guarding his water, and all of the joy he had given us and we hoped we had given him in return.

And we cried our eyes out and we said goodbye to our little guy as he breathed his last breath.

And so the day began with excitement over a new puppy and ended with sorrow over losing such a dear one.

Francesca and I cried all the way home, but we decided that we are feeling all the feels and that’s a good thing.

Life is feeling the feels.

And so is death.

Anybody knows that those two events are part of the same continuum, even if they don’t happen on the same day, like an illustration of that very lesson.

We will always love you, Kit.

Because it’s the love that continues, always.

Look for Lisa’s new novel, THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING and Francesca’s novel FULL BLOOM, out now in paperback.

Classic Column: Itchy and Scratchy, The Sequel

July 12, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

You may remember that I used to write about Mother Mary’s love of backscratchers.

Yes, I made fun of my mother for profit.

You know what?

She approved.

She loved that I wrote about her. In fact, sometimes when I would call her, she would begin the conversation with, “I did something you should write about.”

And thanks to all of you, who gave me the chance to give her the spotlight that she deserved, and frankly that all of us deserve.

We all do things that we should write about.

So here I am, writing about them, so you don’t have to.

Don’t worry, I’m a professional.

I got this.

Today I’m remembering that Mother Mary had six backscratchers in her house. She even traveled with one when she came to see me, because I didn’t have any.

Let me tell you, a backscratcher looks strange in a suitcase.

Actually a backscratcher looks strange anywhere.

A stick with a hand on the end is the stuff of nightmares.

My mother had a backscratcher that was black enamel bamboo and at one end was a realistic hand with long fake fingernails.

Eew.

Still I wish I had that now, but I suspect my brother does. That would be a Scottoline-style family heirloom.

A backscratcher and maybe a pack of matches.

In any event, I got to thinking about my mother and her backscratchers because all of a sudden, my back is super itchy.

I have a backscratcher, but I have to buy about 300 more. My one is always upstairs, because I keep it under my pillow at night.

How sexy is that?

You know you’re in trouble when the adult toy you use the most in the bedroom is a backscratcher.

Or maybe you’re not in trouble.

Maybe you’re doing just fine.

Maybe you’re living your life exactly as God intended, in purity.

But when I’m downstairs without the backscratcher, I find myself rubbing my back on door jambs like a deer.

I improvise with serving forks, carving forks, and chef’s knives.

There isn’t a sharp object in the tri-state area that I haven’t used to scratch my back.

One time I was with Francesca, I asked her to scratch my back, and she did, but the relief was only temporary.

Asking someone to scratch your back never works out the way you hoped.

It takes too long for them to find the itch, since you can’t properly direct them.

Saying “there, not there,” and “here, not here,” isn’t very helpful.

And before long, the guilt feels worse than the itching.

And even if they find the itch, they never scratch it long enough.

They get bored, probably because it took so long to find the itch in the first place.

I, however, am just warming up.

Scratching my back all day would do just fine.

But I get it, you have a life.

My back started itching when I turned sixty, and I wondered if it was related to aging, like if my skin is getting drying up in general.

But if that’s true, why don’t my legs itch?

Or my arms?

Or my breasts?

I can’t tell you the last time I had any feelings whatsoever in my breast.

So I don’t think it’s aging.

And so here I am, in dire need of more of backscratchers, and on my last book tour, you know what I packed in my suitcase.

Yes, I did.

So it’s come full circle, Mother Mary and me, front to back, and back again.

And every time I reach for a backscratcher, I know Mother Mary is laughing her ass off, in heaven.

I’ve become my mother, but without the smoking.

Profanity included.

You remember at the end of the movie Carrie, when the hand reaches up out of the grave?

Well, in the movie Lisa, it’s Mother Mary who’s making my back itch from beyond the grave, and the thing that’s sticking up out of the soil is a backscratcher.

It’s payback, since I made fun of her all those times.

Or her saying, “I did something you should write about.”

And so I am.

Thanks, Mom.

Lisa’s new book THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING will be on sale Tuesday, July 14^th.

Francesca’s novel FULL BLOOM will be out in paperback on Tuesday, July 21^st.

Sum, Sum, Summertime

July 5, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Who doesn’t love summer?

It is our reward for three seasons of going full-speed, twenty-four seven, in a world that is too complex and way too fast.

We all need a break, especially mothers.

All year around, we have to get everybody ready in the morning, while we pack lunches and find somebody’s missing sneaker.

But it’s summertime, and we get a breather and if we’re lucky, a vacation.

During which we get everybody ready in the morning, while we pack lunches and find somebody’s missing sneaker.

But we do it in a nicer place.

To me, the best part of summer is that the entire world relaxes just a bit, letting down mentally, easing off the gas emotionally.

That’s what we all truly need, a July of the mind.

A time to wear mental flip-flops.

Fewer clothes.

More laughter.

An excess of wasted time.

Life, unplugged.

To me, the best part of summer is the beach.

It’s all about the beach.

Every time I drive into a shore town, I can feel my mood lift and my spirit lighten.

I drive into town, past the saltwater taffy and fudge stores, then the swirly custard stands, fried clam joints, and the drugstores that sell suntan lotion, where the only bottles left will have an SPF of 2 or 18326.

And nothing in between.

I know I’m at the beach when I pass my favorite store, which is the one that sells inflatable toys for kids, so outside will be oversized inflatable alligators, puffy rings like multicolored Lifesavers, funky boogie boards, and foam noodles growing out of a barrel like so many Gerber daisies.

Minus the Gerber daisy part.

The salt air, the warm sun, the happy smiles; all of it is the stuff of summer.

And the great thing is, I feel that way whether I’m on vacation or not.

In fact, I’m going on tour this month for my new novel THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING and Francesca will be joining me at some stores for her new paperback of FULL BLOOM, and even that will feel like a vacation, just because it’s summer time. Hope you can join the fun! The tour schedule can be found on my website.

We’ll drive around together, switching off on the driving, blasting music, eating snacks, and sitting in traffic, just like every great family road trip.

We’re really ordinary and normal, and the more you read about us, the more you’ll see your own life and your own families reflected herein.

Except that you probably behave better.

Because although our relationship is wonderful and we are truly each other’s best friends, that doesn’t mean we don’t fight. I’m here to say that we have fought our way through beaches along the East Coast and we’ll be doing it again this month.

Yay!

Which brings me to my point.

Even in summertime, there will be problems.

You’ll get in fights with your kids.

Or you’ll get in fights with your mother or father.

Everybody knows that a family vacation is hardest on the family.

Also, things will go wrong, like the weather won’t cooperate.

You’ll find yourself with five days of vacation and four days of clouds, which means you’ll stare at your phone, laptop, or television, mentally calculating how much it’s costing you to be depressed in a new location.

Plus, you’ll find yourself spending way too much time in the local grocery store, which will gouge you on price.

Also, the drugstore, which will gouge you on price.

And any restaurant, which will gouge you on price.

Finally, you will get sand in all the wrong places.

You’ll get sand in your sneakers.

You won’t be able to shake all of it out.

You’ll get sand stuck in the elastic in your bathing suit.

You won’t be able to rinse all of it out.

You’ll even get sand in your hair, blown by the wind off the sea onto your very scalp.

You won’t be able to wash it out.

The sand will come back to the rental house with you, where it will fall on the floor, and when you drive home, it will be in the well underneath the gas pedal. You will track it inside your own house, and you will feel a grittiness under your toes in your very own bedroom, maybe even your sheets.

Don’t let the sand bother you.

And above all, don’t nag each other about it or whine about it, because that misses the point.

Flip it.

Think of the sand as fairy dust.

Because it is.

It’s a magical sprinkling of a summertime mood.

If you’re lucky, the sand will always be with you, wherever you go. A gritty little reminder under your feet.

And in your undies.

Summer is truly a state of mind.

If you keep that with you at all times – by that I mean, the mentally easing of worry, the emotional letting go, and more smiles in general – you will have a happier and healthier year.

Until summer rolls around again, and you get to go back to the beach.

To bring home more sand.

Enjoy.

Lisa’s new novel THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING will be out on July 14, 2026.

Francesca’s novel FULL BLOOM will be available in paperback on July 21, 2026.

Classic Column: Game of Thrones

June 28, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

If you read me, you know that I get jazzed about certain products.

And then I spread the word, herein.

I’d like to do that right now, with a short preface before I get to the point.

This, instead of my usual endless preface before I get to the point.

Getting to the point isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

So here we go.

First, my favorite product in the world is my books. If you enjoy these Sunday stories, they’re all collected in books I write with Daughter Francesca, and you should buy some and read them right away.

What you waiting for? You know you already like me, and the books are cheap.

And thank you for your support.

Second, any one of my books would go very nicely with the product I am about to recommend, but this is where we come to another preface. The following is for mature audiences only.

Also my readers.

If you like what I write about, and the way I write about it, you should feel free to keep reading. I say this with confidence because if you meet all of the above criteria, then you have endured stories about bunions, gray chin hairs, and adult diaper rash. And through my misadventures, I’ve recommended products I love, like Boudreaux’s Butt Paste, ThermaCare, and Bradley Cooper.

In other words, you know way too much about me and you don’t mind. Maybe you can relate.

Or you have a strong stomach.

And a great sense of humor.

Even if your breasts sag.

So what?

Unsaggy breasts aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, either.

I mean, we get it, girls.

Soon you’ll be us.

Anyway, to inch closer to my point, there’s an ick factor to the discussion of my second-favorite product, so if I haven’t cured you of your prissiness so far, check out now.

Because we’re entering the throne room with my favorite new throne.

The Squatty Potty.

I don’t know if you’ve heard about it, but it’s my new love.

I heard about the Squatty Potty on the radio, and I thought it sounded like an interesting idea. Bottom line, and no pun, it’s basically a stool that fits around the base of your toilet, and so when you sit on the toilet, it raises your legs into a squatting position.

Still with me?

Good. Either way. You can’t please everybody, and the people who continue to read will have their life changed.

Or at least their colon.

By the way, I have no problem in the bathroom.

Only in the bedroom.

In that I sleep with five dogs and a remote control.

Plus I’m no doctor, but I believe the Squatty Potty website, which says that squatting relaxes the puborectalis muscle, or basically, a kink in your colon. When you use your Squatty Potty, your colon gets unkinked.

Again, not a medical term.

I have a J.D., not an M.D.

But I like the idea that a squatting position is more natural for your anatomy. It may be a sign of the times that I’ve fallen in love with a toilet, but I don’t view it as being about elimination. I view it as being about my health, and by my health I mean me living as long as humanly possible and then some.

I want you to live as long that long, too, especially if you’re buying my books.

I always used to think about death, but after I turned sixty, it became more than academic. I truly wonder what will kill me, but unfortunately as soon as I find out, I’ll be dead.

Everything has a catch.

But I do find myself being more conscientious about eating healthy foods and exercising even when I don’t want to.

Let’s pretend golf is exercise.

Everybody else does.

But my favorite exercise of all is sitting down, and now I can sit down and know that I’m getting healthier, every time I’m in the throne room.

Look at it this way.

If you don’t want to do squats, you can just, well, squat.

Lisa’s new novel THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING will be out on July 14, 2026.

Francesca’s novel FULL BLOOM will be available in paperback on July 21, 2026.

Classic Column: Just Desserts

June 7, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

It can be a problem when your kid comes home to visit. You’re not used to living together, and even the littlest thing can cause a fuss.

For Daughter Francesca and me, it was dessert.

We’re finally on the same page, food-wise, which is a nice way of saying that we’re both trying to lose weight, so we’re eating healthy foods. She’s home this weekend, so for dinner I made politically-correct pasta. By which I mean, I sautéed a few tomatoes in olive oil with whole cloves of garlic, and when the mixture got soft, I took it out of the pan and dumped it on top of whole wheat spaghetti.

By the way, the best thing about this recipe, which I invented, is that it uses garlic without having to chop it up. I hate it when my fingers smell like garlic, and I don’t buy garlic already chopped, because that’s cheating. But this way, if you toss whole cloves in the pan, they get mushy, and you can mash them with a fork. Mashing is more fun than chopping, and doesn’t involve your fingers.

You pay nothing extra for these culinary tips.

Go with God.

And before I tell you about the fight, let me mention also that I’m working on portion control. I know that’s my main problem. This should have been a reasonable-calorie dinner, even though it’s pasta, but I always up the ante by getting a second and a third helping. You might ask, why do you make so much food in the first place, Lisa? The answer is simple.

I’m Italian.

Actually the truth is, I like to make extra of everything, like scrambled eggs, so I can give some to the dogs. Every morning, I make six eggs, knowing that I’ll eat two and give them the rest. They wait patiently during my breakfast, knowing that their eggs will come. It’s all very easy.

But I was doing the same thing with whole wheat pasta, making extra for the dogs, until I realized I was using them as my portion control beard.

I busted myself and stopped.

To stay on point, I made a delightful spaghetti meal, and Francesca made a side salad. We had a fun dinner, yapping away and trying not to eat more helpings of pasta, even though I was calling to us from the colander. When we finished our meal, I wanted dessert.

This, I can’t help.

I love to eat dessert right after dinner. And when I say right, I mean immediately. Timing is everything. It doesn’t have to be a lot of something, just a taste. It’s not my fault, and I figured out why this is so:

It’s because dessert sounds so much like deserve. Also, we say that people get their just desserts, which means they get what they deserve. So, ipso fatso, I feel as if I deserve dessert.

Right now.

But Francesca doesn’t like dessert right after dinner. She can wait, which I consider a four-letter word.

This is a long-standing battle we have, because I like us to eat together, and the conversation usually goes like this: I ask her, “Want some dessert?”

She answers, “No, thanks. We just ate.”

“But don’t you want something sweet? I’m having mine now.”

“No, I’m not hungry for dessert yet.”

I get cranky. “When do you think you’ll want dessert?”

“I don’t know. Later.”

“Sooner later or later later?”

Okay, so usually I don’t eat my dessert then, and we retire to the family room, where we watch TV and work, and I spend the rest of the night asking her, “Is it later yet?”

Just like she used to ask me, “Are we there yet?”

Payback, no?

So last night, I figured I’d solve this problem. All I wanted was a small helping of vanilla ice cream, with a banana. And because I wanted it right after dinner, I decided to have it then. If I had to eat alone, so be it. Plus, this way I’d have more time to burn off the calories, by reaching for the remote throughout the evening.

So I had my ice cream and banana.

Delicious.

But then what happened is that sometime around nine o’clock, Francesca sauntered into the kitchen and returned with a small plate of vanilla ice cream. She strolled over to the couch, sat down, and started eating.

I stared at her, along with the dogs.

It looked so delicious. I could almost taste it on my tongue. In fact, I could taste it on my tongue, because I had it two hours ago.

Two whole hours ago.

So you know where this is going.

I had to have a second dessert.

I told her it was her fault, and we had a fight.

In the end, I apologized, because she was right.

And I got what I deserved.

Classic Column: Bizarro Birthdays

May 31, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

I just got off the phone with Mother Mary, who’s lost her mind. Or maybe it’s Scottoline birthday madness.

Let me explain.

She told me a story that happened to her that day, when she was going outside to do the laundry.

Yes, you read that right.

She lives in Miami with brother Frank and she goes outside to do the laundry because they keep their washer and dryer in the backyard.

This makes no sense to me, but she swears that it’s common in Florida to keep major appliances in the backyard, like shrubs with twenty-year warranties.

Still, it’s hard for me to believe. I suspect that my mother and brother are redneck Italians.

But never mind, that’s not the point of the story.

So Mother Mary is going outside to put in a load of laundry and she sees one of her neighbors, a nice young woman, walking her two-year-old son by the hand. My mother stops to say hello, and the little boy looks up at her with big blue eyes and says:

“I love you, Mary.”

So of course my mother melts, because she loves kids, and she even gets choked up telling me on the phone. The whole story is sounding really sweet until she gets to the next part, which is when she asks the mother of the toddler when is his birthday, and the woman answers:

November 23.

Okay, means nothing to you, but that’s brother Frank’s birthday.

And on the phone, my mother tells me: “I looked at that little boy, and I thought he was like Frank. Like he has your brother’s soul.”

I thought I heard her wrong. “Pardon?”

“When he said he loved me, I looked into his eyes and I could see his soul, and it was Frank’s soul.”

“You mean they’re alike?”

“No, I mean they’re the same.”

I tried to deal. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I’m telling you, he has the same exact blue eyes as Frank and he was born on the same day. He has Frank’s soul.”

“Ma, Frank still has his soul. He’s not dead yet.”

“I know that,” she said, irritably. “They share the same soul.”

“Ma, that’s crazy.”

“Sorry, but I know, I can tell. Remember the earthquake?”

This shuts me up, temporarily. It’s matter of public record that Mother Mary was the only person in Miami to feel an earthquake that took place in Tampa, and the South Florida newspapers even dubbed her Earthquake Mary. Ever since then, she thinks she’s Al Roker, but supernatural.

She said, “It’s the same soul. Absolutely.”

“Ma, just because they have the same birthday doesn’t mean they have the same soul.”

“Hmph. What do you know, about birthdays?”

She was referring to something I’ll never live down, which happened to me over thirty years ago, when daughter Francesca was three years old. I had taken her in a stroller into an optician’s shop in town, and a man walked through the door, pointed directly at Francesca, and said: “Her birthday is February 6.”

I was astounded. “How do you know?”

“I just do.”

I went home that day and called my mother. “Ma, some guy just guessed that Francesca’s birthday is February 6! Isn’t that amazing?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because her birthday is February 7.”

I blinked. “It is?”

“Yes, dummy.”

Look, I have no idea how it happened, but for the first three years of Francesca’s life, I celebrated her birthday on the wrong day.

Sue me.

Maybe it’s because I was in labor for 349,484 hours, so the exact day she was born seemed like a technicality. And since then, it was just she and I celebrating a day earlier, with nobody around to know better.

So now I can never say anything about birthdays, ever.

But at least I know where everybody’s soul should be.

And their washer-dryers, too.

Take My Advice

May 3, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

There have been 3 stages in my life.

Childhood, divorce, and advice.

Each one has been terrific.

Let me explain.

I had a great childhood.

My parents adored me, and all I did was go outside and play.

The only screens were on doors.

My mother would tell me, “Stop reading, it will ruin your eyes.”

She was right.

And wrong.

There followed two marriages, to Thing One, and Thing Two.

The good news is that my first marriage produced my amazing daughter Francesca.

The other good news is that divorce exists.

The other day I read a news story about a Florida woman who killed both of her ex-husbands in the same day. When the police came to arrest her for murder, she asked, “Which one?”

Too dark?

Now we come to the present stage, which is advice.

I say this now because a nice thing is happening to me this week.

I’m getting an award from International Thriller Writers called ThrillerMaster, which is basically a lifetime achievement award.

Wow?

Who knew?

I never thought I’d ever even get published and here I am, forty books later.So there are interviews asking me for advice for up-and-coming writers.

Notice I did not say younger.

Because one piece of wisdom is that nothing is about age.

You can write a book at any time.

In fact, Allen Levi was in his late sixties when he wrote Theo of Golden, the mega-bestseller that was his first book.

Actually he’s the one we should be asking for advice.

Anyway what’s happening with me is that the interviewer usually asks, “What is the one piece of advice you would give?”

And I can’t narrow it down.

I am full of advice.

I have so much advice, it’s coming out of my ears.

I’m not saying it’s all good.

It might be bad.

It’s based on mistakes I made.

The more mistakes you make, the more advice you have.

So look on the bright side, when you file for divorce.

You’re just racking up advice.

It’s called experience.

Nowadays we call it lived experience, which I like because I think we don’t pay enough attention to people and what they learn from their lives.

You shouldn’t need a lifetime achievement award to be asked advice.

Everyone who’s lived a lifetime can give advice.

The irony is that as people get older in this culture, we tend to listen to them less, not more.

Mother’s Day is upon us, and the best advice I ever got was from Mother Mary.

Like, Be Yourself.

So maybe on Mother’s Day, take your mom to dinner and ask her for advice.

She might answer, Eat your vegetables.

By the way, that’s excellent advice.

Nowadays there are diet doctors who sell books about plant-based diets, which is what your mother has been telling you for your whole life, for free.

And maybe you have some advice too.

I really think all of us are so thoughtful and have so much more to say than people give us credit for.

Like Daughter Francesca has given me excellent advice, and much of it I’ve followed. Even little things like, thanks to her, I’m going to the gym now and I started lifting weights.

Me?

I have a great trainer who has an array of barbells, ropes, kettleballs, and elastic bands.

He’s like Felix with his Bag of Tricks.

And for half an hour, I do whatever he says.

It’s not a power I’ve ever given to any man before.

And I don’t intend to make a habit of it, other than my trainer.

But you know what, I’m learning.

That’s my best advice of all.

Keep learning.

Stay strong.

Not every weight is a burden.

And I bet you can lift it if you try.

Classic Column: Which Spices Would You Take To a Kitchen Island?

April 19, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

There’s nothing like home improvement to improve your life.

At least, not in theory.

I say this because I’m adding a garden room to my house, even though I don’t even know if that’s a thing, because I have a garden and I want a room in front of it so I can see it through the window.

Like TV, only without Andy Cohen.

The garden room is attached to the kitchen and since it needed a door, the oven and cabinets had to be moved, and in any event, you see where this is going. Adding a garden room meant that the kitchen got remodeled. Because the thighbone is connected to the leg bone and the leg bone is connected to the wallet.

Anybody who’s ever started home improvement knows that as soon as you improve one thing, you have to improve other things, so that everything is New and Improved, like detergent, only much more costly.

But I’m not complaining.

I feel lucky to be able to make these changes, and since I work at home, I’m spending 24/7 on the premises, I want to premises to suit me. And while we’re turning that frown upside down, let me add that since I’m still terribly single, it’s great to have everything exactly the way I want.

Finally.

And then I’ll die.

My epitaph will read:

HERE LIES LISA SCOTTOLINE

DID SHE IMPROVE ENOUGH?

To stay on point, remodeling the kitchen means that I’m starting to look hard at my priorities, namely, spices. Please tell me that I’m not on the only woman who owns approximately 75,932 spices, accumulated over decades, and that the spices are dusted off every decade, which is the only time they’re even touched.

I’m looking at you, cardamom.

How this came about is that when I moved the oven, I lost the shelf above it, which is where I kept the aforementioned spices, and that meant that I had to find the spices a new home or concede the obvious and throw them out.

So I began to cast a skeptical eye at my spice rack.

And it took me on a tour of my own life.

Let’s begin with Marriage Rookie Enthusiasm.

In that time period of my life, I had just married Thing Two, my daughter Francesca was young and I had two stepdaughters living at home. I wanted to be not only the best mother of all time, but also the best stepmother, so I instantly bought American Mom spices, which you use when you bake apple pie. You know the autumnal array of allspice, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves.

To make a long story short, I made exactly one apple pie.

Divorce ensued, but I got custody of the spices.

Then it was just Francesca and me, and being Italian-American, I decided that I was going to make homemade tomato sauce, or gravy. Mother Mary made the best gravy ever, but she refused to give me the recipe because I was a lawyer.

Don’t ask.

I watched her do it and she always used onion salt, garlic salt, salt salt, and extra salt.

No fresh spices were involved.

Yet it was delicious.

Still I could never make gravy as good as she did, and in time I gave up, though I still have the garlic salt. I feel certain that Mother Mary approves, smiling down from heaven and hoping that the garlic salt has solidified into a sodium bullet.

The next stage of my spice life was Francesca going to college, and that was when I decided I wasn’t going to act mopey because I was an empty nester, and believe me, I got over that fast.

LOL.

But in spice terms, that was the time of my Indian Awakening, an idea I got from a Williams Sonoma catalog. I bought every Indian spice known to man, extending well beyond starter curry into garam masala, turmeric, and vadouvan. They came in round pots full of orange and yellow powders, like nightmare blusher.

These were the coolest spices ever, but I never looked at them again because as an empty nester, I stopped cooking altogether.

Which was coolest of all.

This brings us to the present day, when the only spices I use are salt and pepper.

They require neither shelf, rack, nor cabinet.

They’re sitting alone together on the kitchen island, like survivors of a suburban shipwreck.

Where they’ll stay until the next Williams Sonoma catalog comes in the mail.

Puppy Envy

April 12, 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

I’ve been dog-sitting Daughter Francesca’s dog Bobby.

And it’s created a problem.

Because I like Bobby better than my dog Eve.

Just kidding.

Kinda.

Let me explain.

Bobby and Eve are Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, a tri-color and a Blenheim respectively, and they’re both about a year and a half years old. Francesca and I are besties, so the dogs are besties, and they love playing together.

But this last visit, I could see that Bobby is the model child.

Guess who’s the problem child.

Eve/Evil.

Bobby is personality plus. He’s always in a great mood, he’s friendly to other people and dogs, and he loves to cuddle.

I mean, really cuddle.

Anytime I sit down, he sits right beside me.

If I stretch out on the floor to read or watch TV, he comes over and rests his head on my shoulder.

When I go to sleep at night, he cuddles on my pillow or sleeps with his neck on mine.

I know that sounds crazy, but I love it.

In winter, my neck was nice and toasty.

And I could feel his little heartbeat.

I slept better than ever, like he was furry Ambien.

In contrast, Eve always sleeps at the foot of the bed.

I pull her up to get her to sleep near me, but she won’t have any.

She likes lying on my feet, which means I can’t move.

And she barks to wake me up at 6:00 in the morning.

Meanwhile I don’t have to get up until 7:30.

I am my own boss.

My office is downstairs.

When Eve barks that early, Bobby will lazily open one eye. He’s in no hurry to leave our pillow paradise, either.

Then he’ll lick my face, endlessly.

Yes, we make out.

He’s my Employee of the Month.

He deserves a bonus — or a bone.

Honestly, this is my kind of dog.

Only he’s not my dog.

By the way, Eve chews rugs, furniture, and wooden baseboards.

Bobby chews nothing but food.

His only bad habit is that he will find a sneaker, carry it around, and hide it somewhere. It takes a while for me to find both sneakers.

Do I mind?

No, it’s fun!

Eve and Bobby are the Goofus and Gallant of dogs.

The dogs are from the same breeder, who told us, “female dogs love you, but male dogs fall in love with you.”

Before, I thought that sounded gendered.

And I worried that Eve was getting the bitch edit, literally.

But it’s true, of these two.

In the end, one is sugar and one is spice.

But if I could, would I trade Eve for Bobby?

Not really.

Eve is my sassy, spicy, bossy little girl.

She might even be me in dog form.

Adorable!

Just in her own way.

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