1.Cut tomatoes into ½-inch slices. Sprinkle with the salt and pepper. Let tomato slices set for 10 minutes.
2.Put flour, milk, eggs, and bread crumbs separately into four different shallow dishes. Dip the tomato slices in milk, then flour, then eggs, then bread crumbs.
3.Heat 3 tablespoons of the oil in a skillet over medium heat. Fry the tomato slices in batches for 4 to 6 minutes, or until both sides are golden brown. Add the remaining oil as you cook additional batches.
4.Blot on paper towels. Season with additional salt and pepper to taste.
About the Authors
KAMI GARCIA and MARGARET STOHL came up with the concept for the world of Beautiful Creatures over lunch. Margaret had always been captivated by fantasies and wanted to write a supernatural novel, while Kami loved stories set in the South and wanted to write a book that drew upon her deep Southern roots. With nothing to write on, they scribbled their ideas for a story that combined their shared passions on a paper napkin. By the time they left, the world of Beautiful Creatures had been born. Both Kami and Margaret live in Los Angeles, California, with their families. They now write on computers instead of napkins and are excited that Beautiful Creatures is now a major motion picture. They invite you to visit them online at beautifulcreaturesauthors.com.
BY KAMI GARCIA & MARGARET STOHL
The #1 New York Times Bestselling Series
Beautiful Creatures
Beautiful Darkness
Beautiful Chaos
Beautiful Redemption
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BY MARGARET STOHL
May 2013
“Epic in scale and exquisite in detail—a haunting futuristic fable of loss and love.”
—Ally Condie, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Matched trilogy
Unbreakable (The Legion: Book 1)
BY KAMI GARCIA
October 2013
“Tense and deliciously twisty, Unbreakable is a breath-stealing midnight run through some of the creepiest locales I’ve seen rendered in fiction.”
—Ransom Riggs, #1 New York Times bestselling author of
Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children
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A Sneak Peek of Beautiful Darkness…
BEFORE
Caster Girl
I used to think our town, buried in the South Carolina backwoods, stuck in the muddy bottom of the Santee River valley, was the middle of nowhere. A place where nothing ever happened and nothing would ever change. Just like yesterday, the unblinking sun would rise and set over the town of Gatlin without bothering to kick up so much as a breeze. Tomorrow my neighbors would be rocking on their porches, heat and gossip and familiarity melting like ice cubes into their sweet tea, as they had for more than a hundred years. Around here, our traditions were so traditional it was hard to put a finger on them. They were woven into everything we did or, more often, didn’t do. You could be born or married or buried, and the Methodists kept right on singing.
Sundays were for church, Mondays for doing the marketing at the Stop & Shop, the only grocery store in town. The rest of the week involved a whole lot of nothing and a little more pie, if you were lucky enough to live with someone like my family’s housekeeper, Amma, who won the bake-off at the county fair every year. Old four-fingered Miss Monroe still taught cotillion, one empty finger of her white-gloved hand flapping as she sashayed down the dance floor with the debutantes. Maybelline Sutter was still cutting hair at the Snip ’n’ Curl, though she had lost most of her eyesight around the same time she turned seventy, and now she forgot to put the guard down on the clippers half the time, shearing a skunk stripe up the back of your head. Carlton Eaton never failed, rain or shine, to open your mail before he delivered it. If the news was bad, he would break it to you himself. Better to hear it from one of your own.