*does a happy dance*  That's right, a second agent has expressed interest in my ghost story manuscript! I'm pretty darn tickled about that. If only one had shown any interest, my inner-cynic would have forever written it off as a fluke. But now that TWO have asked to see more, I can give that petty little green-faced gremlin a smug, "I'm sorry, you were saying?" look. Chances are that this agent will ultimately decline to represent me, also, but hey, I will take every existing inch of encouragement until I claw my way to the finish line.
      This is a short post, merely to provide the above update and also to announce that my employers are out of town next week, so I am dedicating myself to hard-core novel writing. Anything that can be put off, will be put off, and I intend to do my damndest to get my zombie novel written. If I actually manage to finish it (a long shot, but not impossible) I will reward myself by going out and buying myself a new article of clothing. If this seems flimsy and/or flighty, consider that - aside from necessities like bulk socks from Costco - I have not bought myself a single item of clothing in almost four years--new or second hand! Any additions to my wardrobe have been hand-me-downs or gifts.* Hey, when you're on a budget, you're on a budget. So frankly this is a pretty big indulgence (and hopefully a strong incentive).
      I'll keep you apprised of how this is going. I'll also let you know if I bake any pies, because novel writing - like everything else in life - goes better with pie. OH! And I'm happy to say that after some wheedling on the part of my husband, KitchenAid has agreed to replace our ice cream maker even though it was past the warranty. So that means pie a la mode!

*Usually from my mother, who has far superior fashion sense to me. Every time I get an compliment on something I'm wearing, it's something my mother bought me.

ADDENDUM: Ok, faced with ten days of dedicated writing time, and what's the first thing I do? I'm peeling carrots for dinner, and SWISH! I take a little slice out of my left pointer finger. Nothing that needs stitches, but big enough to require a huge bandaid all sloppy with "Neosporin." Which means that I can't use it for typing without getting several keyboard letters all goopy. D-8< So now my typing speed is sufficiently reduced from about 98 words a minute (my average) to about 55 words a minute. The Muse smacks her forehead in frustration at being stuck with such a clumsy apostle.
And this is going to make creating the pie crust tomorrow a pain in the ass.

      It was an animal-themed weekend.
      Let me start with the practical part: it turns out that for some reason, people using Safari as their web browser were unable to comment on my blog. That has been fixed. Ta daaa! And...you know...safaris...animals...whatever, it's in the theme, just go with it.
      Part two - which is, as far as I'm concerned, much more exciting - my friend and soon-to-be-published-author Camela Thompson flexed her artistic muscles and created a beautiful drawing to be my "logo!" All I did was name three objects, and she used her psychic powers to delve into my mind and draw out the image I had hoped for in its perfection.

      She has mad skillz of an artist--she has mad writing skillz, too, and I'm excited for her novel coming out in October!
      My final and most fabulous animal-themed bit of the weekend involved going to the Columbus Zoo with my brother- and sisters-in-law. I'm lucky to have in-laws who are fun, interesting, and diverse in many ways but so wonderfully dear to each other that they can't help enjoying one another's company*. Doing stuff together is always a good time, and the Columbus Zoo is one of the best I've ever seen. Growing up, my parents were big believers in taking their kids out to DO stuff, so I'm fortunate that I've been exposed to many zoos and aquariums in addition to lots of museums, national parks, etc. I've enjoyed all of the above, but despite my affection for them I find museums can get dull with repetition--not so zoos. Living creatures are never the same twice, and a great zoo creates fabulous opportunities to see them at their best! I dare anyone who is feeling blasé about the world to go to a good zoo and walk away feeling uninspired--it's all happening at the zoo!**
      It got me thinking about animals in stories. Children's stories often include animals as side character, main characters, or even anthropomorphized protagonists. This dates back to fairy tales, of course--and even further back, in religious imagery across every inhabited continent. However in terms of contemporary adult stories, aside from revamped fairy tales and the occasional outlier genius like David Sedaris, you just don't see that many animals as the star of the story.*** Why is that? The psychologist in me becomes more and more intrigued with this the more I think about it. Certainly "primitive" societies see nothing undesirable about featuring animals are powerful characters in stories. What is the root of our hesitation? Is it because the spread of Christianity instilled an idea of man's superiority to animals? Is it because Western culture is so fixated on animals in children's stories that adults just feel too damn silly considering them as serious protagonists?
      Whatever the reason, I feel we're missing out on a great literary opportunity by being so closed-minded. When I think about it, to this day I consider Watership Down to be one of the most ingenious stories I've ever encountered. Do you have a favorite story with animal protagonists, whatever the intended audience? What kind of reaction do you get when you recommend it to other people?


*Um, no...they are not animals. I mean, they are - technically - but that's not why they're in this post.

**All together now! "The monkeys stand for honesty/Giraffes are insincere/And the elephants are kindly but they're dumb/Orangutangs are skeptical of changes in their cages...." Wait...what do you mean you don't know this song!?

***No, we are not counting werewolves. Don't go there.

      In the time-honored classic Anne of Green Gables, a young Anne Shirley pronounces that she takes no pleasure in cooking, because it holds no "scope for the imagination." I could not disagree more. The cooking process accommodates plenty of day-dreams, the recipes themselves beg an educated palate imagine substituting a bit of this or tweaking a touch of that, and then the final product, well...! The right plate of food can transport me to anywhere from Buckingham Palace to deserted tropical islands, from ancient Japanese rice paddies to log cabins in the old American West.* And the last of these is easier to imagine than ever when baking a real, rustic, fresh fruit pie!
      In keeping with my Pie of the Month Oath for 2014, I obeyed reader feedback and made my first-ever Plum Pie last weekend. It was a double first: not only had I never made a plum pie, I'd never eaten one, either. As far as my mania for summer fruit goes, plums have always been appreciated but not sought after. If one of my farmer's market vendors tells me they have some particularly good ones, I will indulge, and if there happen to be some nice ones at a potluck I may munch on a slice or two. Peaches, nectarines and cherries have been what really get my pulse up, but I had hoped that swaddling the fruit in a couple layers of flaky pastry might deepen our relationship, so to speak.

      When getting to know a new ingredient, I generally start with a fairly straight-forward recipe. I chose this Spiced Plum Pie from Bon Appetit Magazine's website, and followed it essentially to the letter except for omitting the vanilla bean (I used vanilla sugar instead of regular sugar) and substituting some Meyer lemon zest for the orange zest. I also dotted the filling with butter because I have never met a fruit pie that didn't go from tasty to luscious with this simple addition.


Finally, I used this opportunity to break out my Pie Bird. It's a lovely crimson creature I had not yet employed simply because I never had one growing up, but in theory this little fellow lets out the steam in lieu of fork holes or knife slashes, plus looks really darn cute. Here he is rearing from the freshly baked pie like a phoenix from its crusty nest!



 *Ok, you caught me: I basically write stories because as an adult if you play pretend out loud, you get put on medication.

      Sometimes, writing is like getting wet in the rain: it just happens, so sit back and let it flow, Baby. Other times the process is more of a struggle. I am currently at a point in my latest project that is requiring all of my stubbornness* to work through. The best analogy is that I have wad of "Play-Doh" and I'm trying to mold it into a reproduction of someone's face, only to wind up super frustrated and mash it back into a wad and start over--probably because a) I am not a sculptor and b) I don't even know what the person's face is supposed to look like, so how can I reproduce it?
      The problem is that I didn't put enough detail into this portion of my story outline. So I've been taking the time to go back and fill it out, which takes time and struggle and - metaphorically speaking - lots of "Play-Doh." This morning as I was taking a walk it occurred to me that working on my pitch might be a good creative exercise, and help me get back in the vibe. These are just drafts, of course, it's silly to work on a final, polished pitch before the manuscript is even complete, but it's a small exercise and will hopefully give all you out there in Readerland a bit more insight into the publishing process.
      Pitches come in two very similar flavors: the verbal pitch (which is essentially an elevator speech) and the written pitch (which is what appears in a good query letter). Both should be brief, concise, intriguing, accurately represent the story and contain a good "hook." My friend and fellow writer Camela** wrote an excellent blog entry about the verbal pitch process, which she has used to successful ends. Thus far in my writing career I have been using written pitches, which have the benefit of being a couple sentences longer and don't require me to try not to stutter and/or pass out during the delivery.
      So here I'm going to try three different pitches for my current writing project. In case you're wondering, it's what we call an "alternate history"; basically, you pick a point in history and say, "What if this had happened instead?" I think you'll catch on to my "what if" pretty quickly. The manuscript's about half-finished, with a full outline. If I can get through this stubborn bit (mash mash mash) I hope to have it complete before the end of summer, and then hopefully start sending out queries by the end of fall.***
      Ok, here's the pitches--feel free to weigh in with considerable feedback!

In 1848, they discovered gold in the Sierra foothills of California. In 1850, they discovered zombies. 

#1 - Llewelyn Brix was no stranger to corpses, but after five years of bounty hunting Man Eaters, it was a shock to find a murder scene. Even more astonishing: she knew the victim. Llewelyn only wants to put the dead to rest, but instead she finds herself pulled from one end of the country to the other, following a trail of gold, greed, and conspiracy between the living and the dead.

#2 - Llewelyn Brix came to California as a nurse to fight the unholy plague sweeping the goldfields. She would soon discover the only cure for a Man Eater was a well-placed bullet in the brain. For Llewelyn, there's more money to be made in bringing in Man Eater bounties than can be dug up out of the ground. But gold is "the great unkept promise of California," and it can drive a man to murder--or tear a country apart.

#3 - It's been over ten years since the Man Eaters first appeared in San Francisco, and for half that time Llewelyn Brix has been making her living as a bounty hunter, gunning them down. But when she finds a murder scene in the rocky Sierra foothills, she finds her past isn't as dead and buried as she thought. It takes a sharp eye to put a bullet in just the right part of a Man Eater's skull; it takes an even sharper eye to spot a conspiracy that could cross the country faster than the Transcontinental Railroad. How much gold does it take to keep a country together--or tear it apart?

Ta daaa! Whaddya think?


*Fortunately, as my friends and family can attest, I can make being stubborn look like a fine freaking art.

**She writes thrillers and horrors. I like to hang out with her at Halloween.

***Because nothing makes the holidays memorable like the stress of awaiting rejections from agents. Dear God, I must be an idiot.

      It's been a week of ups and downs. The most striking of these was an email I received on Tuesday from the agency which had expressed interest in my manuscript, saying that after careful consideration they had decided it wasn't for them. They gave me a bit of very good feedback, and they were kind enough to tell me that I am a talented writer. All in all they were gracious and professional, and I am grateful they were willing to give me a chance.
      Of course, on Tuesday I wasn't able to articulate that very clearly: I was too busy crying and eating molten chocolate cake. But that's just how I deal with things.
      It would have been against all odds for them to actually take me on as a client, a new writer with no previous published work, on my first attempt, so it wasn't a surprise that I was ultimately rejected--but it was a strong disappointment. While I haven't heard back from a little over half of the agencies I contacted, chances grow ever slimmer that any of the remainders will be interested. Alas, Sweet Dream, farewell to thee! My heart aches with surrendering your comforting illusion, and my mind is heavy with the weight of reality, sinking me back to cold, practical earth. I weep...and I bake...and I use overly flowery language to ease my sorrow. *sigh*
      So then what was the up? That would be today: National Ice Cream Day! Yes, this really is a real thing here in the U.S.A. I have no idea where it came from, but more's to the point I have no idea why this isn't more widely recognized! There are parades all over the place to celebrate the anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and that's a dusty old document--you can't eat that! So where's my ice cream parade?
      Clearly, there was no way I was letting this important date pass without indulgence. I decided on a Malted Chocolate Ice Cream, and I made the custard mixture yesterday. The recipe, you may notice, calls for 12 egg yolks. If I was a chicken, I would wince just reading it. I abhor kitchen waste, so I decided to make an Angel Food Cake as well, because that uses 12 egg whites. Last night I stuck the whites & the custard in the fridge & the ice cream making bowl in the freezer and went to bed, ready for a morning of baking and churning to be followed by an afternoon of deliciousness!
      Then I woke up this morning and found that my ice cream maker had sprung a leak, and dribbled neon blue toxin all over the bottom shelf of my freezer.

      CURSED, CRUEL FATE! AGAIN YOU SMITE ME WITH YOUR LEFT HAND, CAST ME INTO THE LOWEST PIT OF YOUR DISDAIN AND MOCK ME IN MY ANGUISH!!!

      Alright, maybe it wasn't as bad as all that. The leak was on the outside, from a pinpoint hole so tiny I couldn't even see it, I only knew it was there because of the tell-tale azure droplets. After careful consideration, my husband and I determined we could probably go ahead and make the ice cream if we were careful, but then any further use of the apparatus was out of the question. The whole thing was really quite surprising to me, because this was a Kitchen Aid brand ice cream maker, and attachment for my Kitchen Aid Stand Mixer. And frankly, Kitchen Aid is the last word when it comes to stand mixers, and I just expected everything they made to go with would be of similar quality. I only had this ice cream maker for a little under a year and a half, and I think I only made about a half-dozen batches of ice cream. I took really good care of it...I even stored it in the original packaging when I put it away! After the fact, my husband did a little research and discovered this is not an uncommon equipment failure. NOW we find out--and I literally recommended this contraption to my mother only the day before!
      So there was another down. But the ice cream is made, the cake is made, and I'm going to indulge here in about an hour. While I wait, I will work more on my current project--I believe I have a plot twist waiting to be penned.

P.S. - the votes are in regarding the Pie for July. (Whee, more rhyming!) Since my mother chose to vote by phone, the Plum Pie wins! I will be baking it later this week (probably after the ice cream and cake have been fully devoured).

      I like to take my stroll in the mornings, before the heat and humidity get too absurd. True to form, today after breakfast (eggs scrambled in home-made schmaltz, farmer's market berries, and leftover home-made cheesecake with tea) I wandered down to the grocery store to grab some mushrooms for tonight's pizza. I'm really quite fortunate that I live in a neighborhood that is very safe, and full of houses over a century old; I get to wander down cobblestone alleyways full of personality and history, where a thousand-and-one little untold stories are waiting to be discovered.
      Today I saw...

      ...a bicycle locked to a chain link fence, with both tires and the handlebar covers missing. The remaining skeleton - all rust and faded blue - is nearly invisible under a twining growth of Morning Glory, rich purple and vibrant green.
      ...a pot of basil on the front step of a little white house, so expertly grown I barely recognized the herb: it was tall, and downright bushy! I looked at it and started drooling with the thought of pesto.
      ...two Victorian brick houses next to one another, clearly of the same blueprint, with identical doors and porches and windows. The main differences were the colors of paint adorning the gingerbread trim, and the yards: one boisterous with leafy overgrowth, the other velveted with impeccably groomed lawn. And there was a little brown bunny, small enough to fit in my hand, sitting just on the tidy side of the fence, munching a stray bit of clover. Its fuzzy little munching face invited speculation as to how many relatives it had enjoying their breakfast hidden under the careless canopy provided by the sloppier neighbor. I watched it chew for a few minutes, brown ears twitching, and then it hopped between the wrought iron fence posts and disappeared into the tall weeds.

     Then I got home and discovered my AC is on the fritz AGAIN! Serious mood killer. It took some fiddling, but we got the expletive expletive thing working again. And thank heavens, because I have to crank that oven up to 450º to make pizza tonight.

     This is the last day to vote on pie! Check out my entry from last weekend and weigh in on Plum vs. Caramelized Grape! Your voice matters!

    ...by which I mean blueberries and zucchini. One we love, and one many approach with caution. And here is where the two meet in tasty harmony.
    I'm not a gardener. I wish I was, I really, TRULY wish I was--but lack of education, experience, and appropriate space has rendered me a rank amateur. Some day I hope to change that, but for now I can only gaze with frank admiration at the cultivated culinary crucibles that are other people's gardens, like that of my friend Addi, who - along with her charming mother - have two of the truest of green thumbs I have ever encountered. Until I can join their ranks, I can only listen to their tales and indulge in the next best thing: farmer's markets.
     I could wax loquacious about farmer's markets literally every day they're open. I love them with a passion that puts World Cup fans to shame.* And what do they have in common with home gardeners throughout the summer months? They are practically giving away zucchini! (Once I actually did find a farmer's market stand that was giving away a free zucchini with every purchase--I think the other stalls gave him a stern talking-to and that was the end of that.) There seems to be two reasons for this: a) zucchini populates like a tribble, and b) Americans seem to be sadly unimaginative when it comes to cooking them. Zucchini, that is...not tribbles. The thing is, zucchini lose flavor and texture after a few days of being in the fridge, so the challenge is in sufficiently rapid consumption. And the answer is widely known: bake those suckers into some kind of bread.
     Shred it and put it in a muffin! This can be done after the zucchini has lost some of its luster, so come Wednesday it's a good way to use up what you bought at last Friday's market. I'm acquainted with a number of tasty zucchini recipes, including a really nice fudgy chocolate muffin, but the other marvelous thing about summer is berries, and good blueberries are a particular weakness of mine. This last weekend at the North Market Farmer's Market in Columbus, I was especially inspired by the plump, sweet berries being offered up by Martin Stelhi's farm.

In salute to their fruit** I created the following breakfast treat, which I have been thoroughly enjoying this week! You want to taste summer first thing in the morning? This is the way to do it, my friend...and use up some of that excess zucchini in the process.

Z.D.'s Marvelously Moist, Lightly Lemony, Blueberry Muffins (with Zucchini)

1 Cup all-purpose flour
1/2 Cup spelt flour (Ok, you can just use more AP flour if you have to)
1 & 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
one fresh lemon (I recommend washing it with soap and water to get the wax off--I always do)
2/3 Cup olive oil (go ahead and use a nice fruity one!)
1 Cup (packed) golden brown sugar
3 eggs
1/2 teaspoon almond extract (yes, almond!)
1 & 1/3 Cup coarsely grated zucchini
1 Cup fresh blueberries

- Preheat your oven to 350º F, and line muffin tins with enough papers for about 16 muffins (I say "about," because in my experience whenever I make muffins or cupcakes the batter NEVER makes the same amount the recipes says, so even though I got 16 muffins out of this recipe I won't pretend for a moment you'll get the same).

- Toss all dry ingredients in a medium bowl. Using your finest grater (I <3 my microplane) zest the lemon directly into your flour mixture (this allows all the nummy citrus oil to spray in as well). Toss to combine.

- In a large bowl, whisk together the sugar, eggs, oil and extract until thoroughly combined. Add the flour mixture, and stir with a rubber spatula until mostly combined. Fold in the zucchini and blueberries until batter is just incorporated.

- Fill muffin papers no more than 3/4's full. Bake 27 - 30 minutes, or until golden brown around the edges and a toothpick comes out clean. Cool in the pan. These muffins are so splendidly moist you can just leave them in the muffin tin loosely covered with foil and they'll stay scrumptious for a few days. Now you may have noticed this recipe left you with a denuded lemon--once the zest is removed, these poor sour delights can dry out, so either wrap it in plastic wrap and stick it in the fridge for future use, or juice that sucker and get crackin' on some lemonade! Summer's a wastin'!



*Ok, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but only in the sense that I don't think I'd ever trample people to death storming the field.

**Woohoo, that rhymed!

I promised something inspired by this article on contemporary reactions to 1950's American cuisine (if you can call it that). This is the vignette that came to mind as I was contemplating the fare on an early morning stroll.

      Harvey Todd unconsciously strained his back against the gentle slope of the chaise lounge. "I think my wife is planning to kill me." One fingernail flicked against the cuticle of another as he said this.
      His therapist took a note, the tip of his pen making a patronizing scraping sound against his pad of paper. "You think your wife is trying to kill you?"
      "Yes," came Harvey's reply, both irritated and irritating.
      "Tell me more." The therapist looked down at his pen, poised expectantly in the air, as though this action, too, made a distinctive sound.
      A sigh. "I can tell. She's sending me signs. They're subtle - just hints - but I know the way her mind works."
      Paranoia, the therapist thought, almost sympathetically. He saw it a lot in his patients who had fought in the war. Harvey Todd had been discharged almost ten years ago, so he hadn't gone on to Korea, but time fighting the Germans left its mark. The Cold War wasn't helping. The therapist looked over his patient's face, still youthful in appearance despite a new beard. He had already determined the beard was an unconscious rebellion against the controlling father-figure that had been his commanding officer in the army, where they had demanded all soldiers be clean-shaven.
      Harvey was used to his therapist not saying much, so he kept going. "It's the food, it's always through the food. When I forgot our anniversary two years ago? She made all my least favorite dishes for a week, and then forgot to put the salt in the meatloaf and made me sandwiches out of it. When she wants to communicate something, she does it with cooking."
      Afraid of poisoning, the therapist guessed.
      "And now she keeps making all these foods that are covered in toothpicks. Toothpicks! She made a cheese ball on Tuesday for bridge club, and then covered it with olives pinned into place with toothpicks. And then she made fruit kabobs on wooden skewers and stuck those into a pineapple. As if a pineapple wasn't already spiny enough!"
      The therapist had to hold himself back from making an "ah ha" noise. Sputnik, he jotted in his notes. The Russians had sent up the distinctive-looking satellite only a month ago, and it had taken root in people's minds as a source of fear. It had become a contemporary archetype: the symbol of technological terror. But of course, a man couldn't admit to being afraid of a few pounds of space metal beyond the atmosphere, so it was manifesting in unconscious associations. He wrote some of this down, his pen now making smug twists and turns in his cursive script.
      "It's only a matter of time before she skins me," Harvey whimpered.
      The pen stopped. Skin him? Well that was new. Some kind of symbolism? "You think your wife is going to skin you?"
      "Yes."
      "You think your wife is going to skin you, because she's putting toothpicks in a cheese ball?" The therapist said this gently to make it sound like a clarifying question instead of a vote of incredulity.
      "Yes!" Harvey shifted on the chaise lounge, flopping a little. "It's like that fairy tale, Hans, My Hedgehog!"
      H-E-D-G-E-H-O-G, the therapist wrote slowly.
      "Hans looks like a hedgehog from the waist up. He does a service for the king, who promises Hans can marry his daughter. On their wedding night, Hans takes off his skin, and looks like a normal man underneath, but at dawn he has to put the skin back on."
      Normal underneath, the therapist carefully noted.
      "You should see the way she plucks out those toothpicks," Harvey went on, his voice now trembling. "One...by one...she pulls them out...and then she eats whatever's on them...."
      For some reason, the therapists mind suddenly went to a recent meal his own wife had prepared. For a vegetable, she'd served something she called "Real French Cauliflower Supreme." It had been cauliflower, boiled, slathered in mayonnaise, and covered with canned olives, pinned in place with toothpicks. He had vomited openly after attempting to choke some down. "Food presentation with wooden skewers is in fashion," he heard himself repeat his wife's defense of her creation.
      Harvey actually sat up on the chaise lounge and turned to stare at his therapist; it was the longest sentence the psychoanalyst had ever spoken that wasn't word for word repetition of something Harvey had said.
      Now the therapist was thinking of another meal, one where his wife had put canned asparagus and sardines in lemon Jell-O, molded in the shape of a fish. She had painstakingly ringed it with parsley. The therapist tried to think of a fairy tale that had something to do with fish, and could only remember the one where the fisherman caught a golden flounder, which kept granting wishes from an increasingly stormy sea until the fisherman's wife got too greedy.
     "She's going to kill me," Harvey Todd insisted quietly. "Why else would she ask me to take her knives in for sharpening?"
      Symbolism, the therapist starting thinking furiously. A real man underneath. "She wants you to shave," he announced confidently. He started the wonder what his own wife would be making for dinner tonight. His palms began to sweat, and his pen became slippery in his grasp.


That's what I got. This may get re-worked and transformed into a short story, but for now this little scene is the sum total of my efforts. It was very amusing to create, I hope you find it amusing to read.

      Some may find the main topics of my blog to be somewhat random: food and writing? Unless I was composing a cookbook* why would these subjects regularly co-mingle? I could answer that I rarely sit down to work on a story without a snack at hand. I could also answer that while engaging in the less cerebral aspects of cooking (risotto takes so much stirring!) my mind is often engaged in working out plot points. Both would be true. But for me, the primary conjoining factor is how easily and elegantly a simple mention of food can enhance a scene or a character.
     Need an example of character development? Consider Sherlock Holmes: when the famous fictional detective (yes, sorry to break it to you Baker Street fans, he was/is fictional) was engaged in a particularly trying puzzle, he would refuse to eat, claiming he needed all the blood in his brain rather than his digestive track (reference: "The Adventure of the Norwood Builder" 1903--among others). Everyone knows what it's like to be hungry; most of us find the sensation quite distracting. So with this small, simple detail, Conan Doyle was able to highlight his character's eccentricity, underscore his priorities, and set him apart from ordinary people in a manner so basic that literally any reader would instantly understand. That's the power of food - or absence thereof - in literature.
      Let me walk you through an example of scene development. Consider, if you will, two characters meeting for the first time in a friendly crowd. That's pretty vague could be anywhere, anything, right? Now if I tell you that expensive champagne being handed out to everyone in attendance, things begin to come into focus: with that one detail we know this crowd is a party, and not a casual one. Now I tell you the champagne is being served at one minute to midnight--what does that tell you? Exactly, our party is a New Year's Eve get together. And now I tell you the bubbly is being poured into those shallow champagne glasses instead of tall, slender flutes. This little detail shifts away from the contemporary, opens the door to a different era. If I throw in a casual comment from the host that he had to bribe the chief of police to smuggle in the beverage...odds are your imagination just revealed a Prohibition-era soirée.
    And all of that detail came from focusing around a beverage. I'm betting you already have a vision in your mind's eye, complete with outfits and laughter and music, none of which I've described.
     So why am I talking about food as literary enhancement? Because of this random article about 1950's popular American cuisine from The Columbus Dispatch. (Go on, give it a read--it's short and funny!) I was just browsing the headlines this morning and this one caught my eye. My reaction to the foods described herein was...um...strong. Strong and vivid! I wasn't even alive in the 1950's, but just reading about these three dishes were enough to create this detailed picture in my head of a kitchen, a housewife, cookbooks, appliances, and a pervasive mood of modern efficiency in everything, including food.** This article made me want to write! A vignette at least--maybe a short story. Yes, this random article about how common eatables change with the times was enough to inspire me, and I promise you will get to read the results.

      IN THE MEANTIME...faithful reader, if you have gotten this far in this post, you must be interested in pie. So here's my dilemma: while I am by no means limited to baking one pie a month, it seems to be my modus operandi for the time being. Therefore, in this pinnacle of summer, I want to optimize my pie options. Currently I'm debating two things, neither of which I've tried before. One is a Plum Pie, like this one. Believe it or not, I've never made (and now that I think about it, I'm not sure I've ever tasted) a plum pie...maybe it's time to branch out. The second option is only a pie by marriage, so to speak, and that's Alton Brown's Caramelized Grape Pie. Sound unusual? That's because it is. But I trust AB with my kitchen (which is second only to trusting someone with my cat, and that's second only to trusting someone with my life), and this is on my list. Either way, the process will be documented and blogged upon.
      SO...comment below, and let me know: which pie should I make next?


*Which I'm not. Sorry. I write fiction, and fictional recipes run a very serious risk of inducing food poisoning.

**So many sad, sad packaged foods came out of this era....as far as I'm concerned, the only redeeming feature of SPAM is that it will probably save me from starvation when the Zombie Apocalypse hits.

      In keeping with the holiday, I intended to write something with notes of patriotism. I though about saluting great American authors (Mark Twain comes to mind as being appropriately quotable: "Loyalty to the country always; loyalty to the government when it deserves it"--I'm looking at YOU, Congress!). But then I went outside to get something out of my car, and discovered the weather to be, at that moment, so utterly idyllic that there was nothing to be done but to take a spontaneous stroll. I wended my way around the neighborhood, and as I went these lines drifted through my head:

As the sun shines something like perfect, I let the breeze fill my mouth and return the sentiment with a sigh.
It is a day best experienced through ones skin: the subtle temperature tango of sunbeam and shade; the moody carpet of untended grass beneath the feet; the summer rough texture of leaves on fingertips, indiscriminate between welcome bloom and weed.
The bashful chuckles of the early cicadas (bashful only since they're new in town) banishes any doubt of summer.
On such a day the love affair between butterflies and the flowers becomes comprehensible in every sense.

Possessed by the perfection of the hour, I soaked in its beauty for several blockss. And consequently completely forgot about getting stuff out of my car, which necessitated a return trip once I'd gone back inside. Nothing like human nature to force Mother Nature to resume her usual place in the back of one's mind, alas. But it did remind me that there is an on-going movement to have "America the Beautiful" replace the "Star-Spangled Banner" as the U.S. national anthem, and it is one that I whole-heartedly support. There, that's my patriotic statement of the day. Now I'm going to go make lemonade and sip it in the shade of the maple tree over the lawn.

      I swear I really can cook a lot of things, I'm not just a baker. But you have my permission to doubt that statement until I offer hard evidence to the contrary, because today I intend to share my recipe for Ginger Spice Biscotti.
      Typically, I only bake biscotti in the cooler seasons--since it takes a double baking time, that means the oven stays on for a considerable while, it's great for helping keep the house warm and rather an insult to an active AC. I owe a friend some tea and pastry*, however, and she stands by her firm belief that "everything can use more ginger." And my most ginger laden recipe? Biscotti. Which is fine, since biscotti is really the ultimate gift food: it stays good for weeks, so if your gift cannot be promptly consumed then the recipient doesn't need to worry about it spoiling. (If you are certain your gift will be eaten immediately, then obviously you should give a pie. Obviously.) Biscotti is also nice because it is very versatile, served a breakfast addition, a coffee break snack, a dessert by itself or even added as a garnish to desserts, such as crumbled on top of a sundae or served alongside pudding. One can even make savory or experimental flavors of biscotti and serve as cocktail nibbles! The only time biscotti isn't appropriate is for gluten intolerant crowds--I have yet to meet a gluten-free biscotti that I really liked (please please please, feel free to prove me wrong!).
     There are two methods of biscotti preparation: American-style, which is like a crisp cookie, and traditional Italian, which is twice-baked and frankly too hard to eat dry, it is necessary to dip it into something, preferably a straight shot of excellent espresso. (Also, if you're going for the classic Italian, you should know it's pronounced bis-COE-tee, not bih-SKAW-tee. Why no, I'm not anal--why do you ask?) I vastly prefer the traditional style, simply because if I want a cookie I'm going to make a cookie, and if I want biscotti I'm going to make biscotti. It's that simple. So this recipe necessitates dunking for full enjoyment, and I recommend black coffee or a formidable black tea such as Keemun or Assam.

Z.D.'s Ginger Spice Biscotti

1/2 Cup unsalted butter, room temperature
1/2 Cup vanilla sugar**
1/2 Cup brown sugar, packed
1 Tablespoon ground ginger
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
hefty pinch of ground cloves
2 eggs, lightly beaten
3 Tablespoons molasses
2 & 1/2 Cups flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
2/3 Cup crystalized ginger, chopped to 1/8th inch bits

- Pre-heat your oven to 350º F, and line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper (or a silpat, or just grease it lightly).

- In the large bowl of an electric mixer, combine the butter, sugars and spices. Beat at medium speed until well mixed - about 3 minutes - scraping bowl often. Add in eggs and molasses, and beat for an additional 3 minutes.

- While mixer is running, combine flour, baking powder and salt in a small bowl. Adjust mixer speed to low and slowly add the flour mixture, scraping bowl if necessary, until well mixed. Turn off mixer and stir in crystalized ginger by hand. You should have a nice, stiff cookie batter--like that for chocolate chip cookies. If it's too loose to keep its shape, stir in more flour by heaping Tablespoonfuls.

- Turn out the dough onto a lightly floured surface (for reals lightly floured--you don't want to turn your dough into paste!). Divide the dough in half, and shape each into a log 12 inches long (they will be fairly narrow). Place the logs onto your prepared baking sheet about 3 - 4 inches apart. Flatten logs to 1/2 inch in height, and try to square off the ends.

- Bake for 22 - 25 minutes, or until tops are cracked and logs are golden brown. Remove from the oven, and cool 15 minutes on a cookie sheet.

- Reduce the oven temperature to 325º F. Place the logs on a cutting surface, and use a serrated knife to cut crosswise into 1/2 inch slices. Place these slices cut-side down onto a fresh, ungreased cookie sheet, then return to the oven.

- Bake for 10 minutes, then turn the slices so the other cut side is up. Bake an additional 8 to 10 minutes, until cookies are dry and crisp. Cool completely before eating. Serve with a nice hot cuppa, and dunk, nibble, repeat.




* What is it about the words "tea and pastry?" Put them together, read them aloud, and the world feels just one iota more civilized!

**Not sure what to do with vanilla beans after you've scraped the pods, or ones that have gone dry? Chop into half inch pieces and dump 'em in a big jar of white sugar. The sugar will absorb the lovely vanilla aroma and give just a lovely edge of num to all you sweeten! But if you don't have any on hand for this recipe, never fear: regular old granulated sugar works, too.