Eating leftovers and buckling down

 

An Easter family portrait
of the Fort Worth branch of the family

Easter, holy as it is to some of us, is one of those days that leave you with a hangover the next day. Not from too much bubbly or wine, not even from too much food, but simply from the exhilaration of the day—the often grand, overwhelming Easter story and the accompanying church services (ours was, with magnificent music and a thought-provoking sermon on the resurrection), the fellowship of family and friends, even just the big break from routine. So here I am this Monday, eating leftovers and trying to get back to work.

First the leftovers: who can complain about a devilled egg for breakfast, a sandwich of sourdough bread and salmon rillettes for lunch with a bit of black bean soup, and a scrambled egg with ranchero sauce and some spinach casserole for supper. Plus a bit of matzo crack, though I have cut off small pieces and avoided being piggsh about it. My leftover meals meant little cooking but lots of dish washing—worth every minute of it.

On my writing circle listserv this morning, we all posted our plans for the week—we do that every Monday, and I find it’s a great way to keep me focused. If I commit to something in the group, then I feel honor-bound to follow through. This morning, I noticed there was a strong sense of getting back to routine, starting something new, buckling down. The renewal of Easter carries over into so many areas of our lives.

For me, I committed to work once more on all the material I’ve found about Helen Corbitt, doyenne of the kitchens at Neiman Marcus, she who made dramatic changes in Texas food and nationally. As some may remember, I’ve been struggling with this project for more than a couple of years. I finally wrote a draft of a nonfiction book but came up way short of the suggested 75 K words the editor suggested. So I backed off, wrote an Irene mystery, and then went back to it. Rewriting got me another 10K words, still not anywhere enough.

For the last two or three weeks, with the forthcoming Irene pretty much in hand, I’ve been dodging Helen simply because I am not sure what to do with her story fascinating as I find it. Today I decided I have procrastinated long enough and there’s an idea I’ll never put to rest unless I try it: turn the story into a novel. So today I’ve been trying to think about that, trying to get her voice into my mind. My latest trick is to tell myself I may write a novella instead of a novel.

So tomorrow I hope to make notes on her character, developing a personality sketch. I already know she was a fiery read-head with a temper (she claimed gazpacho calmed her in temperamental moments and always kept a jug in the fridge), she was a devoted Roman Catholic all her life, she never married but, supposedly, was engaged three times, and she sometimes showed a wicked sense of humor. I know a sketchy bit about her childhood so I will have to decide between inventing it or working around it with allusions, which would make a shorter book.

See, by sharing this with you all, I have publicly committed to working on this, though I don’t promise that something publishable will come out of it.

And Easter the day may be over but Easter the celebration is not. My friend @Katie Sherrod points out that the Christian liturgical calendar calls the fifty days between Easter and Pentecost (May 28 this year) the Paschal period, a period of peace and hope and joy and acknowledgement that God loves each and everyone one of us. (Sometimes I think he must struggle to love a few who have turned from him, but that is  neither here nor there nor my business.) Katie reminds that we do not have to suffer, abstain or sacrifice to earn God’s love—it is all encompassing.

May you have dreams of joy tonight, and may I dream something significant about Helen Corbitt.

With the Easter boys, Christian and Lee Manzke, at brunch
See the corner of Jordans pretty place setting