Unrequited Cardinal Love

This morning I was awakened by a clicking noise I couldn’t identify. It came about every three seconds, a sharp click like the sound of a piece of hail or an acorn hitting a window. But there was no wind or storm, so I tried to think of some electrical appliance that might be signaling an impending demise. The sound stopped for a few minutes, then started again, so I got up to investigate. Went room to room trying to track it down, and finally found it in my office.

It was a female cardinal, flying over and over again at the window and banging her beak on the glass. I’ve had other birds hurl themselves at windows because they saw their own reflection in the glass, but I think they were all males intending to drive away an intruder. Dismayed, I tried to put myself into the mind of this dogged female. When I did that, the mystery was solved. Wind chimes hang from the top of that window, and the wind chimes are topped by a carved red bird. Like a male cardinal. Apparently, the girl cardinal outside my window had become smitten by that bright red bird.

I called a neighbor, who climbed up to the mobile and took it down. The cardinal made a few more stabs at the glass, then withdrew to a branch of the bougainvillea outside the window and looked sad. After a while she flew away, probably feeling rejected. I understood how she felt. If I could speak cardinal language, I’d go outside and tell her, “Honey, it never would have worked. He was only a pretty face.”

Publications and Awards

RAINING CAT SITTERS AND DOGS, the fifth book in the Dixie Hemingway Mystery Series, hit bookstores January 19, and I sent out scads of emails to readers who wanted to be alerted when it came out. Along the way, however, weird things happened to my email list and to recipients’ email servers. Some mail came back as “no such person” and some came back as “no such address.” Some people got more than one email, some didn’t get any. If you didn’t get a notice, I apologize. If you got more than one, I apologize.

At any rate, the book is out, and I’m getting mail from readers saying they love it. Several people have found the ending sizzling and are already eager for the next book, which I’m working on.

In the midst of all this focus on the fifth book, my editor called to let me know the fourth book, CAT SITTER ON A HOT TIN ROOF is one of the nominees for a Mary Higgins Clark Award. The award was established by Mary Higgins Clark to honor books featuring a female protagonist who doesn’t go looking for trouble, but when it comes to her she takes it on and solves it. A strong woman, in other words, somewhat like Mary Higgins Clark herself.

Ms. Clark will present the award in April during this year’s Edgar Awards in New York. Other nominees are AWAKENING by S. J. Bolton (Minotaur Books), NEVER TELL A LIE by Hallie Ephron (HarperCollins – Wm. Morrow), LETHAL VINTAGE by Nadia Gordon (Chronicle Books), and DIAL H FOR HITCHCOCK by Susan Kandel (HarperCollins). My congratulations to them. I’m sure they feel, as I do, that being nominated is a great honor.

Flu Blessings

Man, have I been sick! This is day 13 of the witch of all vicious viruses. It’s like the worst morning sickness I ever had, or the time I drank 5 margaritas in a row. Except those toilet-hugging episodes only lasted a short time, and this seemed to have moved in to stay. The doctor’s office didn’t exactly tell me not to darken their door and spread it around, but they strongly encouraged me to stay in bed, drink lots of fluids, and tough it out. So I have slept like a hibernating bear, done a lot of moaning and groaning, and been profoundly grateful for good friends.

Suzanne and Bob were at my door within 20 minutes of my call for help, bringing Tylenol, hot water bottles, Sprites, saltines, and popsicles. Veterans of the bug, they assured me that I only felt as if I were dying, and they went way beyond what anybody has the right to expect from other people. Way beyond. Another friend, Jane, drove around looking for special foods I might be able to eat, stocking my refrigerator with enough jello to float the entire neighborhood. Linda called every day to see if I needed anything, and went to church and prayed for me. When the temperature dipped below freezing, Michael, who hates cold air more than anything in the world, came and shivered while he covered tender plants in my yard with sheets. Kim ran errands for me, and Edith gave up her own time with a quantum healer and asked her to direct the computerized energy to me instead. (By the way, the distance energy healing sort of lifted a mental fog I’d been in, and when I’m well I’m going to go see the practitioner for some more sessions.)

At one of my lowest points, when I dissolved into helpless, frustrated, angry sobs, Bob said, “This is how we learn humility.” He was right. This virus has imparted enough humility to last the rest of my life. But every problem comes with a gift in its hands, and the gift has been the outpouring of love and friendship. In time, all the pain and various indignities will fade from memory like childbirth, but the gift of friendship will stay with me forever. So as bad as it has been, and while I sure as heck never want it again, I’m thankful for this awful bug.

New Year’s Eve Supper

New Year’s Eve parties, especially the big ones, used to make me feel as if I’d blundered onto a Hollywood film set where everybody but me had been given a script to follow. There was always a coyly tipsy woman, a red-nosed guy playing the role of a drunken jerk, and a bunch of romantics mooning into their partners’ eyes waiting for the ball to drop so they could passionately kiss while the band played “Auld Lang Syne.” And then there was me, wishing I had stayed home.

I don’t torture myself with those big blow-outs any more. I’d rather sit in front of a fire, either alone or with someone special, and contemplate what I’ve learned over the past year. A little wine, a little laughter, some nice jazz playing in the background, and I don’t need anything else to feel that it’s a special evening. Well, that’s not totally true. I do like to have a special New Year’s Eve supper. Nothing elaborate, nothing to get tense about, but something a little bit extra-nice. If you feel that way too, and would like to try a new recipe, here’s my favorite New Year’s Eve dish.

Gorgonzola Shells and Pears

1 lb. shell pasta
2/3 cup toasted chopped walnuts
3 cup heavy cream
3 cloves minced garlic
1/2 tsp. dried red pepper flakes
3 large red pears, cut in 1/2 inch cubes
2/3 lb. gorgonzola cheese, cubed
1-1/2 tsp. chopped fresh thyme (or 1/2 tsp. dried)
1 tsp. chopped fresh rosemary (or 1/4 tsp. dried)

The trick to making this exceptional is to use really good gorgonzola. Not the awful stuff in the supermarket cheese section, but the kind cut to order from a big wheel in an  authentic Italian market. Trust me, it makes all the difference in the world.

In a deep, heavy-bottomed saucepan, bring the cream, garlic, and pepper flakes to a boil over high heat. Boil for seven minutes, stirring constantly. Reduce heat to medium, and cook another ten or fifteen minutes to thicken. It should coat the back of a spoon. When the sauce is thick, gently fold in the pears and gorgonzola. Remove from heat and set aside.

Cook the shells al dente, drain, and put in very large bowl. Put the gorgonzola cream mixture back on high heat and stir until cheese melts and the sauce is thick and bubbly. Add to the shells along with the toasted nuts, thyme, and rosemary.

Taste, add salt and pepper if you wish, and serve to four people. Or two with leftovers to freeze and heat up on some cold night when you feel like indulging yourself.

Happy New Year!!!!

Mahem and Magic

Since I’m not one of those multi-tasking people who can do two things at one time, I’ve neglected this blog while I prepared for the holidays, tried to finish the sixth Dixie Hemingway book before Christmas (I failed), and responded to all the other emergencies, dramas, and traumas of life. Belated though they are, I send my warmest wishes to all of you for a merry Christmas, a happy Hanukkah, a joyous Kwanzaa, and a peaceful Ashura.

And when you have a minute, please check out my guest blog gig at Mahem and Magic.

Roy Blount, Jr.

I may as well admit it. I’m in love with Roy Blount, Jr. I’ve never met the man, but I love him helplessly. When he speaks on “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me” in that rumbling gravelly voice, I get a grin on my face like little kids get when they hear the jingling music of an ice cream truck. Roy — I call him Roy as if we were old friends — is also the president of the Author’s Guild, which just goes to show how selfless he is in wanting to help other writers. And that’s not even including the fact that he’s a fantastic writer. His monthly columns in the Oxford American were so good I wanted to go out and buttonhole people and say, “You have to read this!” He has a way of summing up human beings like nobody since Mark Twain. He knows how to get the most out of words, playing with them but with a little bite that lets you know there’s a keen mind in the background that eats stupid people for breakfast.

Not to worry, Roy, you won’t see me outside your window stalking you. I’ll just be a virtual groupie, swooning over the way you tame wild words and make them purr. Right now I’m reading Alphabet Juice, which should be on every writer’s bedside table. Sometimes I read it for stretches of time, sometimes I dip into it during TV commercials. I learn something every time about words and how to use them. I am also reminded that some of the most brilliant minds live amongst us in very nice, humble people.

No Women on Publisher’s Weekly Top Ten

Publisher’s Weekly has announced its pick of the 10 best fiction and nonfiction books published in 2009. As in most “best of” literary lists, no female authors were included. I’m sure some of PW’s picks were outstanding by anybody’s standards, but the ones I’ve read are all at this moment in a bag of books to be donated to my local library’s book store. I found them too boring to pass along to friends.

I don’t know if it’s a general coarsening of sensitivity in the human psyche or simply a persistent androcentric approach to literature, but when a middle-aged male writer pens a novel in which a middle-aged man finds himself cast into a real-life version of  adolescent male fantasies, middle-aged male critics swoon in ecstatic awe at the story’s truthfulness, its edginess, its gritty courage. Sometimes that’s just plain funny, and a little pathetic, but it also glorifies hackneyed porn just because it’s written with big words.

One of the books PW named as a top 10 is a plodding, episodic tale of a man who finds great romantic pleasure when a woman he’s known a few hours urinates on his hand. But wait, his name is Atman, and the second half of the book takes place in India, and Atman is the Hindu name of the ultimate godhead, so this must really be a spiritual allegory, right? Not quite. If a woman had written that drek, it wouldn’t have even been considered. Nor should it have been.

For a long time I’ve suspected that a lot of literary critics read the first and last two chapters of a book and skip the middle. That’s the only explanation I can find for some of the rave reviews for books that begin and end with big bangs but have hollow insides.

And no, I’m not writing in a pique of jealousy. I don’t for one minute place myself in the company of the world’s greatest writers. But I know good writing when I read it, and a lot of it is done by women. I wish the reviewing world would stop thinking it’s always done by men.

Barbara Kingsolver’s The Lacuna

Once in a blue moon, I finish a book with such awed wonder that I feel compelled to contact the author and say, “My God, what a majestic work you’ve done!” That’s how I felt when I put down Barbara Kingsolver’s latest novel, The Lacuna. There were times, reading it, that I found the tension of the plot almost unbearable, not only because any one of the story’s multiple layers of meaning can break my heart, but because the surface story itself magnificently explores the many faces of love and loyalty. I’ve seen some reviews expressing disappointment in The Lacuna because it isn’t The Poisonwood Bible. If you read The Lacuna, you’ll see how ironic those reviews are. If she reads them, Kingsolver must have some grim laughs at the way life imitates art.

Happy Thanksgiving

Are you hysterical yet? Did you just realize you’ve invited thirteen people to Thanksgiving dinner and you only have eight chairs, and that’s only if you count your desk chair and a chair from the porch? Have you gone menu-browsing one time too many  for a creative dish to take as your contribution to somebody else’s dinner and bought ingredients for more casseroles than you have the time or energy to make? Like, say, a fresh butternut squash and a bag of frozen butternut squash, or fresh pearl onions and a package of frozen pearl onions, all of which are in my kitchen as we speak. That’s in addition to the two pounds of boiling onions that are at this minute caramelizing in the crock pot, and the package of frozen baby limas called for in some recipe I scanned and now have forgotten, and the package of frozen cauliflower that I bought during a mad moment at the supermarket when I got visions of mixing cauliflower with pearl onions and smothering them in a cream sauce. What was I thinking?

I’m only going to be a guest at a friend’s table, and in addition to haunting cooking sites on the internet, I’ve hauled out all my recipe files, Julia Child, James Beard, and an old party cookbook from Gourmet. It isn’t because my hostess friend is the author of an upcoming cookbook, I’d be this nutty even if she weren’t a great cook. It’s my over-thinking syndrome. If there’s a way to make a simple project complicated, I’ll find it. Some of the other guests will be vegetarian, so does that mean they can’t eat my caramelized onions if I use chicken broth in the cream sauce? I don’t have any vegetable broth, so what if I just don’t tell them? Would that be unethical, dishonest? Some of the guests don’t drink alcohol, so should I tell them the sauce also has a bit of wine in it? Could I inadvertently cause somebody who’s been sober for decades to fall off the wagon because there’s a fourth cup of vermouth in my cream sauce?

In my occasional moments of rationality, I tell myself to chill out, that the alcohol will cook out of the vermouth, that the vegetarians are grown ups who know how to navigate a dinner table. Thankfully, those moments are coming more often, and I’m beginning to simply look forward to being with friends and eating good food. I’ll make the cream sauce with a little chicken broth, a little wine, some heavy cream and sharp cheddar, and that’s that. And Wednesday night I’ll throw that package of butternut squash in the crock pot with some orange juice and let it cook all night. Thursday morning, I will calmly and leisurely add some maple syrup, nutmeg, and butter, and spoon it into a pyrex dish that can be reheated in my friend’s microwave. But I’ll save the fresh squash, the frozen onions, the froze limas, and frozen cauliflower for another time.

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

What Are You Doing For Thanksgiving?

What are you doing for Thanksgiving? That’s the question everybody starts asking around this time. We all have images of the “perfect” Thanksgiving dinner in our heads. You know, the traditional one with everybody in the family gathered around a bountiful table, with grandpa at the head carving the turkey. Some of us will duplicate that image, some of us will join friends at a church hall or a restaurant or a community center. No matter where we eat it or whom we eat it with, Thanksgiving dinners always seem special.

The first Thanksgiving I spent without a large family around me was when I was in graduate school, newly divorced, and living with my small son in a dinky apartment with a kitchen the size of a phone booth. I couldn’t stand the thought of how dismal the day would be without some other people around, so I called the university and asked the dean of student affairs to choose some students who were far from home and send them to me. Four people showed up, a young woman and three guys, all of them tentative and wary. I put them to work peeling potatoes and snapping green beans and figuring out how to get all of us seated at my teeny dining table. In no time, the guys were on the floor playing cars with my little boy and the girl and I were standing in clouds of steam and yakking as if we were  family. It was a great meal, they took leftovers back to their dorms, and my little boy and I had a happy Thanksgiving.

Several years later, when our housing situation had improved a lot, Bob and Cloy Shannon, my across-the-street neighbors, invited us every year to Thanksgiving dinner at their ranch outside Houston. No house, just a flat ranch with a few bobbing oil-pumps and a one-room mobile home for bathroom breaks and washing kids’ sticky hands. About a hundred people would turn up with insulated hampers holding turkeys and casseroles and desserts, and the whole thing got laid out on planks laid across bales of hay. Fires would be burning, some for warmth because it was danged cold out there, and some for grilling venison or boiling pots of gumbo. Pink-cheeked children ran around in gleeful freedom, and there was always a tractor-pulled hayride. We ate on paper plates, there wasn’t a thing traditional about any of it, and it was terrific.

I’ve shared a lot of other family’s Thanksgivings, every one with a different tradition, and enjoyed them all. This year I’ve been invited to share Thanksgiving dinner with a friend’s family. I think we’ll be around fourteen people, in all. My contribution will be roasted creamed onions and whole cranberry sauce flavored with a clove-studded tangerine and cinnamon sticks. The cranberry sauce is something I have to have every Thanksgiving, no matter what. Other people think of cranberry sauce as just a little dollop next to the turkey, but to me it’s the main event. I just eat the other stuff so I can have cranberry sauce. As for the creamed onions, they’re something I’ve never made before. I don’t even particularly like creamed onions, but I saw this recipe online and the woman who posted it claims that roasting the onions and putting a little wine in the sauce transports them to something out of the ordinary. We’ll see. If they bomb, there’ll be plenty of other good things. The main thing is that about a dozen nice people will gather around a Thanksgiving table and create a memory.

I hope your Thanksgiving dinner is enjoyable in every way.