Cooking and Writing

That’s the way my world goes in these quarantine days—cooking and writing, and I’m not sure which comes first. But this week I wrote six thousand words on a new mystery. There’s a backstory. Over a year ago, in one of my fits of “what shall I write about,” I started a mystery. I wanted to do something in the culinary tradition. For some unknown reason, I, who love to cook, had created in Kelly O’Connell a protagonist who didn’t know a frying pan from a toaster. Kate Chambers, of the Blue Plate Café Mysteries, was a bit better—a gourmet cook in her private life, but a short order one in the small-town café she inherited. And food was really secondary in the stories. So I wanted to do something with food front and center.

I wrote nineteen thousand words about a young woman who was assistant to a TV chef but whose ambition was to manage the food segments on the TODAY show. She lived in Chicago, in the neighborhood I grew up in. As soon as she met her neighbor, she decided he was a great guy but gay. No romance there. And someone was threatening the chef she worked for. There's the story.

I’m not sure but I think I put it aside when other projects called—principally nonfiction for the publisher who did my book, The Second Battle of the Alamo. I got involved and forgot about Henry Smith—yep, that was her name, short for Henrietta.

Now, with the pandemic and quarantine, I find myself again without a project. My publisher is on furlough, which means the editor hasn’t looked at the manuscript I sent that was due May 1. I have no clue if she’ll be back working May 1 or not. And I’ve had no word on the proposal for a third title I submitted. So here I am again—aimless.

On an impulse, I pulled up that unfinished mystery, read it, and thought, “This is isn’t half bad.” I liked the voice, and I found several plot threads. That discovery has energized me and propelled me through  days of quarantine. This week I wrote six thousand words on the novel, blogged every day but one, and produced a twenty-four page newsletter. I think that novel energized me. And I’m having fun. (Sorry, Elaine, it's not another Kelly mystery.)

On the cooking front, Christian and I collaborated on a terrific dinner tonight. Grilled salmon with an herb sauce, and tossed salad with a creamy blue cheese dressing. The herb sauce was a bit of a pain—chopping all those herbs—and next time, I would cut back on the oil and vinegar. It was a bit too runny, I thought. But oh so good. Picture is above.

Last night I dined in solitary splendor and resisted Jordan’s suggestion that I have my last salmon cake. I’ve been enjoying those with mayo on rye bread for lunch. So I baked an egg on top of layers of torn sourdough bread, chopped spinach, and grated sharp cheddar. After I cracked the egg on all that, I covered it with a thin layer of buttermilk to keep it from drying out, and baked it about twelve minutes at 350. I like my eggs runny--you may want to do it longer. It doesn’t show all that well, either fresh out of the oven or all mushed up, as I like it. But trust me, it was good.

Baked egg after smushing

Now I need to go doze, so I can figure out what happens to Henry in tomorrow’s installment.

Sweet dreams. Take care and stay quarantined. It’s too soon to open up the world, in my opinion. And don’t fall for false and crazy cure suggestions. We’re in this for the long haul, but we can stay safe if we self-isolate and wear masks and gloves. I’m appalled at the people who don’t take those simple precautiions.To say nothing of protestors.
Oops. Just discovered three gnats in my wine. It's that season again.