Taking Care of Your Work

The Newburyport Literary Festival was a wonderful occasion to sit and talk about books with friends and strangers, and my panel with Michelle Hoover and Steve Yarbrough went well. (Steve and I also got to talk about Mississippi Delta accents versus Tennessee mountain accents, and how both our families have Lena's, and that felt a bit like home.) A 9:00am talk brings out a certain kind of audience--a bright, listening audience, ready to go, and I like that. They asked good questions, mostly about process and publishing challenges. At the end, the three of us sat at a table and signed books--fielding more questions and listening to the struggles of the writers in the audience, trying had to find a place for their work, an agent, an editor, even a bit of attention.

During the talk, there was some discussion of how our (or maybe just my) work was repeatedly deemed "unpublishable" or "without an audience" or "difficult." Michelle warned against self-publishing because you are tired--tired of coming up against these walls, tired of rejection after rejection, most of them with no reason as to why you were rejected, you just were. It made me think about my own time fighting with the desire to self-publish, and subsequently getting the call from my agent that someone was interested and could I wait maybe two more weeks for them to make a decision.

This made me think of this trend toward e-self-publishing, or digital-self-publishing, or whatever they are calling it these days, as a way of twarting the difficulties of the Publishing Business, and maybe--maybe--making a quick buck. Lots of attention has been paid to this new model--sell on Kindle, Nook, iPad, etc, and charge 99 cents, and make a mint. The theory of microtransactions. But I want to say to authors considering this model: Know what your work is worth, and know that readers will follow your lead.

The other part of me--the more radical, lowlife, street rat part--feels like this is Scrooge-y and coming from a more knowledgeable place, and young writers (read: younger than me, and not that different from my limited experience) need to find audiences however they choose. Not publishing kills you inside, I know. But please don't rush to publication until you've thought a lot about what you want from it.

Publishing is difficult--it takes something very intimate and specific and blows it up into something that people will take as vague and "for their consideration." They'll say its autobiographical when it isn't, and fictitious when it's pure realness. They will write horrible things about you personally on Amazon.com and GoodReads and B&N.com, and other places where democracy is at its worst. They will write things like "I strongly recommend that you don't waste your time on this one" and "I kept thinking to myself, 'Who Cares.'" This is all if you're lucky.

Then, once you've been published and all these wonderful things start happening--and they do, really incredible, deeply fulfilling things do happen. The rewards are many, though mostly very personal and intangible. But the thing that happens after that, is that you have to figure out how to write for yourself again. Because suddenly, you're writing for the world, which, at least in my case, was never who I wanted to write for in the first place. You will have to figure out to make it back to the fearless place, to the courageous, invincible-and-vulnerable place that good art comes from.

All of this is only to say: take care with your work. Give it the right foundation, the best pathway to success, give it the most careful ushering into the world. Then you can rest and feel accomplished for about 24 days. And then immediately after that, start working on something else.

Attn: Awkward-Wording Police

In the Moment Chili

My friend Jane, as is her custom, demanded that I blog the recipe that I mentioned in my Facebook post this evening. She is a tireless advocate for transparency in cooking, and has on several occasions forced me, despite my reticence, to give up the secrets that have made my cooking so remarkable. So, while I sit on the couch waiting for the above chili to simmer, I will do my best to share with all of you, the legions of devoted readers, how to make my version of "In The Moment Chili."

The cornbread I make is probably like any other one you might make yourself. 2 cups cornmeal (local and stone ground if you can get it....if you use horse-powered you win,) followed by 2 teaspoons of baking powder, 1/2 teaspoon baking soda, more salt than you think, some pepper, followed by 2 eggs, about 1.75 cups of buttermilk, and a glug of maple syrup. Mix this all together, but don't over mix it, and then let it sit for 10-12 minutes while you do this below.

Here's the important part: You need a cast iron skillet that's about 100 years old, and that belonged to your great grandmother who lived in Atlanta your whole life in a house that you loved. If you don't have this, another cast iron skillet will do, but you know I can't promise anything. Put 3-4 tablespoons of butter, and big swirl of canola oil in the skillet, and then put it in an oven that you preheated to 400 degrees. Let the skillet get very hot in the oven, melting the butter and heating the oil. When you pour the batter in, it should sizzle. Then leave it in the oven about 20-22 minutes. When it take it out, turn the cornbread upside down on a plate, and let it cool. If you want to, you can drizzle over some melted butter, or, if you have it, some hot pepper maple syrup, like I did.

It's called In the Moment Chili because that's really what it is--it's whatever you have plus whatever you feel like. Taste it every time you add something, and see what your mood asks for--more heat, more acid, more salt. So, tonight, my version went like this:

• 3 small onions, chopped
• 3 cloves garlic, chopped
  
• 1 lb. ground pork
• 2 chopped chipotle chiles
• 2 cans crushed tomatoes
• 1 cup of water
  
• 1 big can black beans
• 1 big can small red beans
• 1 sweet potato, cubed
• lots of salt
• juice of two limes
• big shake of ground coriander, some oregano, some curry powder, 2 shakes of cayenne.
• a bit of garlic powder
• Secret ingredients: 1/2 cup of cocoa powder, plus one mug of coffee.

So, you do all of this like you think you would--onions & garlic in some olive oil, plus pork, and then so on down the list, and then you let it simmer until it's super thick and delicious. I like to be able to stand a spoon up in the middle of the pot. Like this:


How you serve it is really up to you--I like a big chunk of cornbread in the bottom of a bowl, then pour two scoops of chili on top, then put some shredded cheddar. Be generous with everything--it's a bowl of chili, and it's Sunday night, right?

Pizza Dough

Now that the seasons are changing, and the nights are becoming cooler, I've found myself in the kitchen again. Each year I attempt to get really good at something that I think people should know how to make well, quickly, and at home, with few ingredients. Last year it was "cheese," in general. (Although I managed to get two or three cheeses down to subtle, ethereal perfection--I'm not shy about this--I don't have the equipment, time--or patience--to make the kinds of cheeses that really blow me away: this one, this one and this one, are my favorites.)

So, the new project is pizza dough. I am certain that I have come about 80% of the way there.
Here's a good recipe that will make you 3-4 skillet-sized pizzas, which you can top however you like.

-1 package active dry yeast
-a spoon full of honey
-1 cup of warm water
-2.5 cups of flour (bread flour if you have it, but AP will work fine, too.)
-1 teaspoon salt
-olive oil

--Stir the yeast, honey and water together and let them sit about 5-7 minutes. It should foam a bit and look like a creamy miso soup.
--Then add the flour and salt, working the dough with a spoon until it wants to come out of the bowl and be worked by hand.
--Knead the dough for 3-4 minutes, flouring as you need so it doesn't stick, until you have a lovely soft, bouncy-back dough.
--Let the dough rest for about 5-10 minutes.

Now, I don't like to heat up the whole oven if I'm just cooking pizza for myself--particularly in the summer--so I started cooking the pizza in my cast iron skillet, which turns out beautiful, soft, spotted-black crusts.

Cut your dough into three or four pieces, and roll one out to about 1/4 inch thickness. Lightly brush the bottom of your skillet with olive oil, and then lay one circle of dough on the heat. Pop the air bubbles if they happen, and about 3-4 minutes later, peek under the edge and see how done it is. When you are ready to flip--making sure you have all your toppings ready in advance--flip the dough over and start with your sauce, cheese, toppings, what have you. Put a lid on the skillet so the cheese melts beautifully. The second side won't need as long, and you can adjust the heat if you find it's cooking faster than you like--peek when you need to, so it doesn't get too black. Although, I find that I like a little spot of carbony crust every now and then.

This dough tends to be very soft, almost like Indian nan, so if you want a more traditional, crunchy-edge kind of pizza, then, of course, do it in the oven. You can also run the whole thing under the broiler if you want to crisp up the prosciutto or whatever you put on it--but I promise this, as is, will do you right.

Still Alive

Still Alive, Part 1:

Skiing in Maine was fabulous. I did not die. Skiing is somewhat horrible in that for the first few hours that you are on the skis and in the snow, your body is refusing everything. You are convinced that you are going to begin falling down the mountain at uncontrollable speeds until you end up in a pile of broken bones and bloody ice hanging from your nostrils. Plus, you have all these clothes on that are puffy and weird and are too big for you. Or maybe all of this is just the amateur's response to skiing for the first time in about fifteen years.

We had a lovely house filled with lovely company, and I was so glad to have been asked. Cory even made Frito Pie.


Still Alive, Part 2:

My mother called today to see if I was still living. Over the weekend, due to who knows what, I came down with some kind of stomach virus, which sent me to the bathroom for about 36 hours in various states of "hmmm," "rush," and "emergency." I want to blog about the gory details, but something tells me that we all know them deep down somewhere already. I'm not sure I really have anything particularly revelatory or original about shitting your brains out and puking out of your nose. There, I said it.

Okay, fine, JUST THIS: after you have puked, and you blow your nose and everything, and you think you are ready to go back to bed, do one extra thing. Throw your head way back and snort around a bit. There is some kind of place back there, some kind of pocket, where the puke waits. And just when you get horizontal, it comes sloshing back into your throat, and you have to get up, spew it out, and try again. I'm just trying to save you a step.


Still Alive, Part 3:

My friend Marc, who lives in Paris, sent me a New Year's postcard with a gouache of a man who has hung himself from the top of the Christmas tree, which is bent over sideways. Underneath him is the fallen chair he has kicked over. Sort of morbid, but I thought it was hilarious. I laughed right there at the mailbox. I survived the holidaze, despite how much distaste I have for the season. The older I get, the more I'm able to just let it be what it is. I think I'm starting to realize that Christmas comes around every year, just like New Year's, and birthdays and Thanksgivings and so on. So if the fondue turns out not as thick as you wanted, eh, who cares? There's always next year. I think I'm finally starting to loosen up.