FOOD ON THE FOOD

Huevos Rancheros

The first thing I did when I made my deadline was to drag my neighbor out for Mexican, and then proceed to devour an entire Fiesta Plate all by myself along with most of my friend's refried beans, half a pitcher of sangria, and a giant piece of tres leches cake. Don't look at me like that—you can't celebrate a partially-completed dessert cookbook without cake!

That was followed soon thereafter by the peanut marzipan you saw in my previous post, because I can't go a whole week without sugar, you know that. Then came the huevos rancheros: warm corn tortillas strewn with cumin-scented black beans, fried eggs nestled on top, scattered with crumbled cheese and cilantro leaves, and ribboned with salsa or hot sauce. What can I say, I've really been digging Mexican food lately. I know I need to get back to work eventually, but right now, the fiesta continues!!

Huevos Rancheros

This is one of my favorite lazy meals because we always have eggs, cheese, a can of black beans, and a partially eaten jar of salsa on hand. If I have corn tortillas in the back of the fridge, I'll use them. If not, I leave them out. We eat this as often for dinner as for brunch.

1-2 Tbsp. olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
1-2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 tsp. ground cumin (or more)
Pinch of cayenne
Salt and pepper
1 big can black beans, rinsed, drained
1 Tbsp. chopped cilantro
Fresh farm eggs
Cheese, crumbled or grated (e.g., queso fresco, cheddar, monterey jack, mozzarella)
Small corn tortillas
Salsa or hot sauce

Heat olive oil in a medium pot over medium heat until shimmery. Sauté onions until soft and translucent, about 4 minutes. Add garlic, cumin, and cayenne, and stir about 30 seconds. Stir in rinsed beans and a few tablespoons of water. Season with salt and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until liquid evaporates and flavors meld, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and cover with lid to keep warm.

In a non-stick pan, cook the eggs how you like them. I like mine over-easy (i.e., runny). Husband likes his with the yolks broken and completely cooked. My kids only like them scrambled. You can make a whole bunch of sunny-side-up eggs at once by cracking them into different quadrants of the same pan so the whites run together but the yolks are spaced out. Let them fry for a minute or two, then add a bit of water on top, cover, and steam until the tops are set. Then just use a spatula to cut between the yolks into portions.

Heat up the tortillas. I do this in the microwave in a stack covered with a damp paper towel. You can also do it in a hot, dry skillet for about 30 seconds per side.

To serve, arrange tortillas on plates. Scatter some beans on top. Set an egg in the middle and sprinkle with cheese. Spoon on some salsa or a squirt of hot sauce, and sprinkle with cilantro, salt, and pepper. Customize as you see fit, with sour cream, avocado or guacamole, or your own homemade pico de gallo when tomatoes are at their best.

Local Ingredients
Eggs: Allandale Farm, Brookline, MA
Tortillas: Cinco de Mayo, Lynn, MA

Tuesday Peas

Turns out that the shooting pain in my left wrist that I've been ignoring for the past month is some kind of tendonitis/carpal-tunnel-type situation. Which is fanTAStic news for me leading up to my first manuscript deadline.

I nodded obediently as the doctor told me the first stage of treatment: Advil, ice, wrist brace, and not using my left hand for three weeks. My left hand is my dominant hand, by the way. It's my writing, chopping, typing, whisking, stubborn-peanut-butter-jar-opening hand. Then I went home and had this conversation with my left hand:

Me: Hey. Listen up. There's one week left until my deadline so you better man up. This book isn't going to write itself.

Lefty: The doctor prescribed rest. You told her you would...

Me: Pipe down. You already had a week of rest during the big Norovirus Extravaganza. I get one shot at a book. ONE SHOT and you're not going to ruin it for me.

Lefty: Ice! I need ice!

Me: You'll get your bag of frozen peas in a minute. First type this stupid post.

Lefty: Why don't you ever make the other hand do any work? It's not like she has anything better to do.

(Right Hand is sunning herself under my desk lamp in a skimpy bikini and earbuds.)

Me: What? That useless thing? The only thing she's good for is helping to keep me from sinking to the bottom of the pool, and she can barely do that, frankly.

Right Hand: Whatevs. (Rolls over onto her other side)

Me: Do you know what would happen if I put Righty over there in charge of operations?

Lefty: What?

Me: Sure, you'd enjoy a relaxing convalescence, but you'd return only to find that all five of your fingers had been chopped off. Is that what you want? God, I can't even read her writing. Would you look at the draft for this post? Does this say "bloody stump" or "broody crumpet"?

Lefty: (gulp)

Right Hand: Another margarita, please!

Suddenly, another week isn't looking so bad!

Some Observations About Writing a Dessert Cookbook, Part 2

It has come to my attention that when you're writing a dessert cookbook, you will put on a lot of weight. Seems pretty obvious. I, however, was under the impression that I possessed some sort of magical metabolism that could absorb the extra calories and channel this new wellspring of energy into learning a great new skill, like carpentry or Mandarin. Turns out, that's not how it works. Turns out the only skill that interests you is how to break your previous pie-eating record.

Before I started writing this book, I ate dessert only a few times a week. Okay, yeah, sometimes I'd have double portions if Red happened to make her lemon cream tart or BFF made her dulce de leche ice cream pie because they're such great cooks and they don't judge me like you do, Internet! And the holidays don't count, either, because sometimes you just have to eat a whole tray of fudge. YOU HAVE TO!!! (Storms off crying)

The occasional indulgence doesn't matter all that much, really, but now? Now I eat multiple servings of dessert every single day. In the past three months, I've gained 10 pounds. That's nearly a pound a week! You can't argue with the scale. In that same period of time, Husband lost 25 pounds. Twenty-five! He dropped it like most men drop trou—without any hesitation whatsoever. How did he do that? By not eating any of my desserts, that's how. And by adhering strictly to the tenets of the South Beach Diet. Can you believe that jerk? That sexy jerk? Fuck him! (Storms off crying)

Point is, I haven't weighed this much since I had another human being growing inside me. What's more, this book requires another nine months of gestation. At that rate, I'm set to gain 30 more pounds. While I'm not fat at the moment, if I do gain those 30 pounds (and I think it's reasonable to expect that I won't get any taller), I will meet the definition of "clinically obese." All while working out five days a week! (Shoves cookies into pocket then storms off crying)

What to do? What to do? I really can't exercise more than I already am. I can barely keep up this pace as it is. And I can't not eat dessert. I could eat less, maybe, but then I would argue that the quality of the book will suffer. Because sometimes, readers, if I can be frank for a minute, I just want to get the recipe done. Just get it done and say it's fine as it is, but it's not fine, it's too sweet or too dry or too mealy, so I make it again but then it's way too smooth, so unbelievably smooth it's creepy, and it's not until the 15th or 16th bite that I finally admit it to myself.

So hi, everyone, and welcome to the Emotional Rollercoaster of 2012. Because I can't just be happy. I can only be happy with an equal and opposite amount of angst.

Some Observations About Writing a Dessert Cookbook, Part 1

I just finished a draft of the first chapter of my cookbook! This had me feeling pretty pleased with myself until I remembered that I have to do that nine more times. Things are going to get ugly come June, I can tell you that much.

So, what's it like writing a dessert cookbook? I won't lie. It's pretty awesome. Especially at this early stage where my editor isn't breathing down my neck, yet, and I can pretend that what I'm cooking and writing is exactly what she wants, and she's going to make sweet, sweet love to my manuscript! But I know that's all wrong. A good editor will poke holes in every aspect of what you've written, questioning the very foundation of your ideas, until the world as you knew it doesn't make sense anymore and slow death feels like a better alternative than all the nit-picking work you have ahead of you. Of course, after the revision process is complete, even you have to admit that your manuscript is a million times better than it was before, but by then all the hard work is over so it's a lot easier to be honest.

The biggest problem with a book that revolves around sugar, as you might imagine, is all the sugar flying around. Before I started this project, a five-pound bag of sugar could last me two months easy. Now I'm lucky if it lasts the week. My brown sugar spends so little time in the pantry that it stays soft and fluffy instead of turning into the usual stale bag of marbles. I'm single-handedly keeping Cabot in the butter business. And I don't even want to tell you how many empty containers of heavy cream are in my recycling bin right now, but it looks like all the neighborhood babies crawled over here last night and had a huge bender.

In order to stay on schedule, I draft 2-3 different recipes every week. Each one has to be made 2-3 times to get it to the level it needs to be. Maybe more if it insists on sucking. Often, that translates to seven or eight desserts coming out of my oven per week. In other words, 7-8 bowls that get licked, 7-8 cakes/pies/puddings to be tasted and compared to the ones before, each one tempting me with the sweet promise of a sugar-high and an equally dramatic sugar-low. My workout regimen can barely keep up!

The obvious answer to this problem of surplus sweets is to give them away, right? And I have many willing takers, including neighbors, teachers at my kids' school, and farmers at my farm. I'm more than happy to give away the good stuff. Proud, even. But who wants to claim credit for the crappy stuff? Not me. Even I have some pride. My creative process is messy and unpleasant. It's not good PR to be all, here, have another shitty cake and, by the way, buy my cookbook! Yet, I can't bear to throw food away. So what ends up happening is that the reject versions sit around for days cluttering up my kitchen counters until I realize that I need one of the baking dishes that's already in use. Before I know it, I've blacked out face-down over a tray of subpar bread pudding until Husband comes home and, after peeling my face out of the custard and clearing my airways, scrapes everything into the trash while I protest incomprehensibly.

See? It's not all fun and games, people. This is serious, serious business.

But I will say that I'm very proud of the work I've done so far. I can only hope that a diabetic coma doesn't claim me before I have a chance to finish!

Finally: Primal Picnics

Guess what just arrived in my mailbox today?  A copy of Primal Picnics, that food fable anthology I mentioned way back when, which features a story by yours truly.  It represents the first time I've been published in a book.  Hopefully, it won't be the last. 

For those of you who pre-ordered the book oh about a year ago, all I can say is patience truly is a virtue.  If you didn't, I hear there are more copies available right now.  Go get one if you want it.  If you buy it through this link to Amazon, 6% goes to my kid's school, but I'll understand if you'd rather order it through your local independent bookstore like Back Pages Books in Waltham where the old Jordan's Furniture used to be (pssst...Alex).

Anyway, if you read it, do report back with comments on the book as a whole and your favorite stories.  And don't say mine.  If you say mine, I'll know you're just trying to increase your odds of winning the next raffle.  However, if you were to, say, write a review of the book on Amazon, preferably positive, I'm not going to say it will help you win any raffles, but it certainly couldn't hurt!

Hot Stacks

Oh my god, you guys, I have to tell you about this awesome place I discovered. They let you pick out books to borrow, as many as you want, FOR FREE. No kidding. I mean, assuming you return them on time or miniscule charges will accrue. It’s called a “public library” and there’s one pretty much everywhere. There are free slow computers with even slower Internet access, too. Why haven’t we heard anything about these “public libraries” before?

Now that we’ve cancelled our Netflix account, discontinued our magazine subscriptions, and slashed every area of our budget besides mortgage, utilities, and food, I’m starting to explore all of the areas of the public library, not just the book section. Like the public restrooms. Just kidding, but did you know that you can rent DVDs? It’s true! Cookbooks? Of course. Magazines. Well, you can at least flip through them on-site and write out your freelance ideas onto note cards that will later be formulated into query letters that will be systematically rejected by every one of those publications because everyone has cancelled their magazine subscriptions. Apparently, I’m shooting myself in the foot with this whole library thing, but that’s okay because the building has these large, low buttons that, if you aim your cane just right, activate these automatic doors that open right in front of you. AMAZING!

Anyway, I’ve been reading a lot of books lately. First, I read all of the breast cancer memoirs that have been published, both to help me sort out some of this emotional baggage that’s been packed away for six months, and also to see if all of the cancer-related writing that I diverted away from this blog and into a folder in the dank basement recesses of my hard drive could be turned into anything useful. Maybe something that might help somebody else. But no, according to my formal queries. Apparently, cancer’s not funny. Really? It’s not? Thanks for telling me. Also, it’s overpublished. Call us back when you have a more obscure, deadlier disease. Okay. I’ll keep my fingers crossed! Also, nobody reads essays anymore. Are you sure about that? Short-form writing is dead. (cough) Twitter.

But that’s okay. I didn’t want to write about cancer anyway. Cancer doesn’t deserve it. So I’m back to reading food books, and, my oh my, do I love them. Here are some of my favorites:

• Cod by Mark Kurlansky. Doesn’t this sound like the most boring read ever? About a fish. Well, it’s not. The history and plight of the cod are fascinating and still very important today. If only my high school social studies teachers were able to convey history so enjoyably. Kurlansky also wrote Salt about the humble mineral that changed the world.

• Farm City by Novella Carpenter. A UC Berkeley grad moves to Oakland and starts a small urban farm amid the gangs and crackhouses. First it’s just vegetables, but soon she’s raising poultry, bees, rabbits, and pigs. From dumpster-diving for pig chow to navigating the transition from life to their inevitable death, her writing is full of dry humor and a passionate love of food.

• A Platter of Figs by David Tanis. Written by the co-chef of Chez Panisse, this cookbook is full of relatively simple, seasonal menu ideas that will put your farm vegetables to good use. The photography is absolutely gorgeous and makes you yearn for in-season cherry tomato crostini with ricotta and Vietnamese cucumbers. The Preschooler was fascinated by this book and made me help him read the recipe names over and over and over again. I didn’t mind a bit.

• The Jungle Effect by Daphne Miller. Possibly my favorite so far (though I haven’t finished it), this book examines how certain indigenous diets evolved, from Mexico to Cameroon, and how they relate to low incidences of diabetes, cancer, and heart disease in those same populations. The idea is to examine how some of these concepts can be applied to our diet today to help counteract the negative impacts of a modern, industrialized diet. Fascinating stuff, I tell you. Very interesting psychological insights as well. There are a couple of copies available at the Lexington and Medfield libraries, if you’re interested (you can also request that a copy be sent to your own branch if you’re part of the Minuteman Library Network).

So, what else have you guys been reading lately?

Test Kitchen Confidential

Every once in while, a magazine will take pity on my queries and let me write something.  It’s not often, so when it happens, it’s cause for celebration.  My latest article is in Tufts Magazine, my alma mater’s fine publication.  It’s about my short but memorable time working behind the scenes of America’s Test Kitchen.  It’s also, quite possibly, the best thing I’ve ever written (not saying much, I know).

Link is here: Test Kitchen Confidential

I wonder if Chris Kimball has a sense of humor?  Guess we’ll find out.

Taking Stock

I’m kind of burnt out, if you must know, so posting may be light this week and next.  I say “may” because as soon as I commit to taking a blog vacation, I suddenly get bombarded by inspiration in the most mundane things, and then I have to handcuff myself to the radiator so I don’t spend six hours on the computer when I’m supposed to be doing other stuff.  Stuff in the vicinity of the radiator, I guess.

Me: (in my best whine) I can’t think of anything to write about.

Me: Fine.  Don’t write then. 

Me: …

Me: That’s right, the blog is closed.  You’re cut off.

Me: Wait, no... 

Me: Don’t worry, there are plenty of other blogs for people to read.

Me: But what about all this important shit I have to write about?

Me: (sigh) Like what.

Me: Like, um…stock.  Yeah.  Somebody asked a good question about stock last week and they deserve an answer, goddamnit.

See?  Some might call it co-dependency, but I prefer to think of it as outsmarting writer’s block.  Tomorrow, we’ll see if it worked.

Sweet Tweets

In case you’re wondering why I haven’t broken up with Twitter, yet, here are a handful of reasons:

• Methane plume on Mars is a sign of life but, more importantly, real possibility that pork may exist on other planets. –@karlstier

• Going to the gym a few hours after eating at Denny's is more exorcism than exercise. –@matthewbaldwin

• There must be one honest person in Nigeria, and I bet that person can't get a response to a single email. –@wisekaren

• Getting to clean and simple is dirty and complicated. –@simplebits

• My bathroom smells like cumin.  –@davidlebovitz

In the Land of Too Much Information that is the interwebz, there’s something to be said for a 140-character maximum, no?

No Free Lunches

Lately, I’ve noticed that people are only interested in me writing for them if I’ll do it for free.  Which I won’t.  I think the lack of ads on my blog gives the wrong impression.  I also won’t write for “exposure,” “potential fame,” or “certain glory,” none of which are quantifiable in just how they might be applied to my heating bill.  So when BlogHer approached me about writing for them, I was thrown off balance by the negotiation process, which went a little something like this.

Her: Want to blog for us?

Me: I only write for free for myself.  This is an automated message.  I only write for free for myself.

Her: We’ll pay you.

Me: Sure you will.

Her: No, really.

Me: Pay me in what?  Clam shells?  I already live near the water.

Her: …American dollars.

(I consult with the other voices in my head: “She’s bluffing.”  “Is American currency even worth anything anymore?”  “Find out how much.” “It won’t buy us any fur coats, but it might be enough to get the cleaners back, praise Jesus.”  “Pssst, try to talk her down on the word count.”) 

So, I’ll be blogging over at BlogHer once a week from now on until they fire me, which shouldn’t be long.  My first post is up here.  It’s about, uh…me.

And It Begins

The winter squash I mean.  At the farm today, we got the first of many to come, I’m sure.  These cool nights have arrived a little too soon for my taste.  I like to be under the down comforter at night, don’t get me wrong, but we technically still have over a month of actual summer left.  Let’s not be too hasty.  At this rate, it’ll be snowing by the end of September and we’ll be totally fucked if we decide to do this year’s Eat Local Challenge in October.  (October?  Really?  Thanks a lot, Jen Maiser.)

Anyway, speaking of fall and the elephant-sized pile of squash in the room, I have an article in the September/October issue of Yankee Magazine that’s out right now on butternut squash.  My article starts on page 92, so even if you don’t want to splurge for the soup recipe I was moaning about six months ago, you can at least flip to that page at the supermarket and say to no one in particular, “Hey, I know that idiot!” 

Maybe if I spent as much time sending out query letters as I do blogging, I’d have an actual freelance career. 

Nah.

Fun Fact

Did you know that butternut squash, the variety we all know and love and hold so dear, was invented in Waltham, Massachusetts?  Maybe invented isn’t the right word.  Developed?  It’s true.  By a guy named Bob Young.  UMass said so.

So, here I am, sitting in Waltham, Massachusetts, still working on this squash article because I’m a slacker, and it turns out that butternut squash was practically born in my own backyard.  My editor is going to think I’m just making shit up. 

In the Test Kitchen

I’m working on a freelance article, and, of course, it has to be about squash.  I’ve been putting it off and putting it off because, you know, it’s about squash.  None of my previous stabs at original squash recipes had driven me wild, but finally, finally (on my last CSA butternut), I came up with a recipe I love.  I even heard myself say out loud to no one in particular, “This is fucking delicious.”  And you know I don’t like to bandy about gratuitous profanity. 

Unfortunately, I can’t share the recipe right now.  The magazine is paying me actual money, and you, my friends?  You are not.  But if you’re still with me in September/October 2008, I promise to tell you then. 

(Update 8/08: I lied.  It would be bad form to post the recipe while the magazine is still on newsstands.  Maybe later if you ask nicely.)

My, Time Flies

Why, it seems like just yesterday when I wrote my very first blog post.  To think, after a whole year, my content still hasn’t improved.  They say practice makes perfect, but I think that’s a load of crap.

Over this past year, I’ve learned many things, most of them the hard way.  One was to read my camera manual (actually, I still haven’t learned that one).  Another was to write my blog entries in a Word document first before copying them into Typepad, just in case the Typepad people are spying, criticizing all aspects of my creative process.  You know, like department store staff behind the mirrors of dressing rooms.  The bastards.  This policy of paranoia also comes in handy on the rather frequent chance that your browser application might unexpectedly quit mid-sentence.

Every once in a while, though, I write something that’s just too stupid to even begin to ask you to read (like the one where I go to Confession after 15 years and ask the priest if my estrangement from the Church, as my dad has suggested, is the reason why Dunkin’ Donuts’ doughnuts suck so badly).  I keep all of these types of idiotic posts in that same holding document forever and ever.  Maybe for a rainy day when I’m willing to settle, maybe for a particularly depressing menstrual cycle when I find myself running outside to scream at the trees for no reason.  (It’s just wind.  Stop moving, YOU STUPID TREEEEEEEESSS.)  For example.  (I do try to weed out the menstrual posts as best I can, but I’m not always successful.)

Anyway, what I’m left with after this whole year is 86 pages worth of posts that never made it onto the blog for one reason or another.  Eighty-six PAGES of rejects.  That’s right, you’ve been reading the good stuff.  Scary.

I’m not going to get all mushy on you on my blog birthday, don’t worry, but it’s true what they say about blogging improving your life in unexpected ways.  This rather far-flung community of bloggers and readers has made me think, made me act, made me laugh, made me cry.  Which means you guys suck way worse than Cats.

As we approach Thanksgiving, I’d like to thank my reader(s) for reading me everyday, with the glaring exception of Saturdays and Sundays (I don’t know what the hell you’re all doing on the weekends that’s so damned important, by the way).  I’d also like to thank the people who comment regularly or just whenever the mood strikes because it adds so much to the conversation.  Even if I get sad when you eventually leave me to live your own lives (Where are you Heath and Jim?  Don’t grow up, yet.).

Anyway, blah, blah, blah, I really like presents (expensive ones).  I also like lurkers who get brave and delurk.  Except that I figure some of you might be lurking for good reason.  Like the hair you’re growing out is still at that awkward stage.  Or you have a gimpy left leg.  Or the mental illness.  I figure you have your reasons and I can respect that.  In fact, do me a favor and keep that shit to yourself.  I don’t need any competition for crazy on my own blog. 

But if you do want to drop me a line, the magic number is 13.  That’s the record number of comments I’ve received (on this post and this post), and that’s the number to beat.  It will make the difference between a good blog birthday and a shitty one.  No posting twice (you hear that, Self?).  To make things interesting, I shan’t be posting again until we get there.  Will I be back for a second year?  We’ll find out.

Happy birthday, FotF.

How Not To Pitch a Story

It’s funny how sometimes you can write something and think it’s so brilliant, witty, and overall completely bulletproof.  And you wonder why things didn’t work out.  Then, a few years later, you stumble across the same piece of writing, and you can’t stop laughing at its ridiculousness, both in concept and execution.  Was I serious?  Yes.  Yes, I was.

I have one such piece of writing to share.  Actually, I have a stack of such writing, but not to share.  This is not a joke.  The following is an excerpt from a real query I pitched to more than one national food magazine three years ago about a story on vegetable-based party dips:

At any given party, you can be sure of two things.  The obligatory crudité platter, jewel-toned and geometrically arranged, will look just as pristine at the end of the party as it did at the start.  Meanwhile, the chips and dip that were haphazardly flung into the nearest open containers will appear as though they were ravaged by wolves.

I am interested in submitting a story idea to [redacted] magazine about healthy party dips for the vegetable-averse.  The problem with veggie platters is that they’re backwards.  Party food has always been about the dip.  But ribbony red peppers don’t want to wait in the wings while Hidden Valley Ranch steals the show.  Cauliflower doesn’t want to be the wallflower in the crudité chorus line.  And, frankly, it shows.

Let’s just stop the insanity right here.  Hmmm.  I wonder why this idea was rejected?  Let’s review.

Rules broken = 32 (but we’ll just focus on the top 5):

1. Highbrow magazines don’t like their writers to drop names like Hidden Valley Ranch.

2. Highbrow magazines try to avoid comparing foodstuffs to chorus girls and/or anything show-tunish.

3. Highbrow magazines don’t like to anthropomorphize food in any other way, either. 

Actually, this was corroborated by another source.  In an article I wrote for Boston Magazine years ago, my editor axed a suicidal hot dog from my opener.  When I asked him why, he said, “Hot dogs don’t commit suicide.” 

Oh. 

However, on food blogs, suicidal food is a-okay and, in fact, highly encouraged (see Fancy Toast for a pictorial account of a despondent Brussels sprout.)

4. Highbrow magazines think vegetables are swell.

5. Highbrow magazines don’t like it when you act like a dumb-ass in your query letter. 

Oh.

Ah, the hilarious life of a struggling freelance writer.

(It should be noted that one editor of the highbrow magazines in question handled the rejection of said query with great tact and professionalism, free from the spirit-crushing techniques usually associated with the industry.  In return, said editor was rewarded with…more of the same.)

Cooking and Writing Have Lots in Common

Raw shrimp, just because.

As it turns out, this blog isn’t just about food.  It’s about other things, too, for which food serves as a convenient metaphor.  You know, including food itself.

One of the things it’s about is honesty.  But, actually, it’s just as much about dishonesty as it is honesty.  For example, I mentioned in a previous post that I didn’t have any friends.  Clearly, a lie.  I have one friend.  Actually, two (one is a backup).  The other handful of people I’m sometimes seen with are acquaintances or, as I like to call them, “reserves” who get called up when “main friend” and “beta test friend” are busy having sex or something when I finally get a night out of the house. 

I’ll just leave it up to my friends to figure out which one they are.  And…now I have no friends.

Which brings me to my point.  Sometimes, through dishonesty we find honesty.  Other times, the reverse is true.  Like when we use the right words, the polite words, but what we end up saying isn’t really the truth of it.

Where I was mistakenly hoping this tangent would lead was to the subject of writing.  Only recently have I admitted to anyone, including myself, that I’m a writer.  That I actually write things down, read them, rewrite them, reread them, think I’m brilliant for a few fleeting moments, come to my senses, and then refuse to ever let anyone see them.  The reason is because, until now, I’ve always been afraid of “that look.”  The look that says, “you silly, deluded little girl, just because you write in your diary twice a year doesn’t make you a writer.”

I’m not sure anyone really said that out loud, but it doesn’t matter because people who like to think of themselves as writers, or artists of any sort, are also psychic.  Nothing gets by us.  Nothing.

What’s worse than the look are the teacher’s comments.  What’s worse than the teacher’s comments are the rejection letters.  What’s worse than the letters are the editor’s comments.  See where I’m going with this?

Except that they’re all good because they make you better.  And you won’t get better unless you write.  So write.  The same goes for cooking.

I hope to write honestly (but not so honestly that disgruntled readers can hunt me down and kill me).  I'm not above taking cheap shots, but I hope there is always a grain of truth in what I write.  That's why I use my real name.  However, as a former fact-checker, I can tell you with absolute certainty, truth is in the eye of the beholder.  That's what the comment section is for.  Use it.

My name is Tammy.  I love food.  I love to write.

Oh, and I use the F word occasionally.  Sometimes, it’s the only word that can truly convey my meaning.  You will see it again.  My apologies in advance.