Adventures in Catering.

Ethnic differences?
Religious tension?
Nothing will test your tolerance of alternative lifestyles like catering for a film crew of 30 that includes one militant vegan, one lactose-intolerant eater who thinks that "it" is absorbed through the skin, two self-described vegetarians who also eat turkey but only if it's organic, five coffee drinkers who refuse to use artificial sweeteners like Equal but have no problem pouring three containers of creamy chemicals into every cup they drink.
And then there are the ominivores who just want people to fuss over them.
"Are these egg noodles?"
"No."
"Are there milk solids in this soup?"
"It's homemade tomato rice soup."
"So there's no milk in it?"
"No milk in it."
"Can we have bleu cheese dressing?"
"No."
"I don't like vanilla soy milk, can we have chocolate?"
"Not on this budget."
"How about rice milk?"
"Ditto."
A week into the shoot, the crew was beginning to turn on the vegan because in addition to the entrees for the carnivores and the vegetarians, we had to provide an entree just for her. She was fired Sunday night and I'm convinced it was because the crew couldn't take one more day of steamed veggies with tofu and fried rice without the little pieces of egg. And now there's a slot on the menu for another entree for the majority.
Of course we want to accommodate people's food preferences, but it was getting silly.
"Can we get some Blue Mountain coffee?"
"No."
"Could we have sushi one day?"
"No."
Both my partner and I understand picky eating. He is allergic to mushrooms, allergic to fish, hates eggplant and lima beans and loathes coconut. I'm with him on the eggplant, although I make a decent baba ghanouj, and while he slathers his sandwiches with mayonnaise, I gag at the smell of it. But when you're working a low-budget film, there's not a lot of financial wiggle room to please everyone. If you're allergic to everything under the sun then, with respect, consider packing a lunch.
To be fair, most of the crew members are really appreciative and complimentary. (The bread pudding we served for dessert today was a huge hit and everybody liked the chicken pot pies.) We offer doggie bags for people who want to take leftovers home. And the only time we ever ran out of scrambled eggs at breakfast was the morning one of the crew members took (I'm not kidding) a quadruple portion and then came back for seconds.
The fact is, I'm having a good time, because I love cooking for people, but it gives me real insight into what it must be like dealing with A-list actors and their diets.

Feminist Fiction Friday: The Romance Novelist Edition

One summer, when I was visiting my Great-Aunt Jinsey (is that not the greatest name ever?) I discovered her stash of Harlequin romance novels. She belonged to a the publisher's book club and they sent her, I think, 12 books a month. She devoured them like chocolates. Aunt Jinsey had had a very hard life. My Uncle Bill had been a hard-rock miner in Appalachia and things haven't really changed much in mining since the 19th century. It's still men hacking coal out of the living earth, back-breaking labor that leaves you old before your time. My Uncle died of black lung (or "the black lung," which is how everyone always refers to it).  Black lung is the common name for a nasty disease known medically as "Coal workers pneumoconiosis."   It's not a pretty way to die.
Aunt Jinsey was not one to complain--her generation didn't--but that summer she sat in her rocking chair and rubbed her arthritic hands together and told me, "Honey, I'm just plumb wore out." She was living in sunny Pleasanton, California by then, where she never had to face another harsh winter ever again. And she had time to read.  And what she wanted to read were ... romance novels.
I was already reading crime fiction by then--devouring Ellery Queen and Nero Wolfe and Agatha Christie's Miss Marple mysteries (although, I have to be honest, I didn't really love her). I wasn't really interested in romance novels.
Then one afternoon as my great-aunt napped, I picked up one of the books with their distinctive white covers and read it. It was all right--an easy, undemanding read. I picked up another and read it too.  It was okay.
And then I picked up a book by a writer named Sara Craven. I read the book in something like two hours. And I LOVED it.  I went through the shelves picking out all the other books by Sara Craven (there were quite a few). I read them too and loved them. 
What was different about Sara Craven's books was that she had interesting and exotic backdrops for her stories and the characters seemed more real and less ... wimpy...than the usual romance heroines.  I probably read 40 or 50 romance novels during my visit (seriously, they're short with big margins) and the only writer's name I remember is Sara Craven.
Romance novels have changed a lot since Sara Craven (real name Anne Ashurst) began writing them back in 1975. I spent a year reviewing books for Rachel Smith's wonderful bittenbybooks site, and I was shocked (SHOCKED!!) at how clinical a lot of romance novels had gotten.
And I am not easily shocked. And the thing that's weird is that I have a number of romance writers and romance readers among my friends and not a one will cop to enjoying the more ... anatomical books. And I wonder, who's reading them?
But I digress.
Sara Craven began publishing her novels when she was 37. She has written dozens of different series, both her own and those with multi-authors.  She has written more than 61 stand-alones (the latest, Wife in the Shadows, was published this year). She has two new books coming out in January and February.
Her books always have Happy Endings and here's an interview where she explains why.
If you read only one romance novel, read one by Sara Craven.

Holiday Gift Guide Guide

It used to be that the Neiman-Marcus Christmas Catalogue was the ultimate listing of fantasy presents for the holidays. Now though, every specialized blog out there has its own gift list and there's nothing more entertaining than browsing them in search of the perfect gift for all the characters in your life. Here are some gift guides we really like:
FEARnet:  Skull cupcake molds for your favorite Goth foodies; zombie bon bons stuffed with cherry filling; shark oven mitts; snake skin packing tape; a crime scene muffler; Vampire condoms. There's something here for everyone, especially Dexter and True Blood fans.
Ain't It Cool News has one of the most extensive gift guides out there, arranged by category and price.  Need recommendations for DVDs and books, AICN's writer Quint has them for you. He'll also hook you up with Portal-themed cookie cutters; a Gran Torino lunch box and light-saber shaped chopsticks.
Think Geek has their "Holiday Station" section on their site offering items like an electronic butterfly in a jar; a Han Solo in Carbonite ice cube tray (our favorite, $9.99); and unicorn chopsticks.

Coolmompicks has holiday gifts for kids ranging from some aleph be blocks to a "paint your own yoyo set."
Tree Hugger has its "Green Gift Guide 2011" divided into sections (DIY, Foodie, Kid, Fashion Buff, Geek,etc.).  Suggestions include reclaimed cheeseboards and hand-cranked espresso machines to sushi cat toys and jewelry made out of Viet Nam war scrap metal. You can even buy a wine rack made from recycled railroad track. 
Huffington Post has a guide to gifts specially tailored to people obsessed with Chicago. This one is also organized by categories both ordinary (kids, crafts, etc) and unusual (piercing and tattoos) and features items from a wide range of local stores.
Good Morning America has a gift guide for dogs, which is getting a little silly for our tastes, but since it's in a dog's nature to be nothing but good, maybe they deserve a little something for the holidays.
And finally, what holiday would be complete without taking a look at Oprah Winfrey's gift guide from O Magazine? There are chocolate polar bears (not cheap at $12 each); Cupcake Bath Bombs; Dogeared Karma Mantra silver necklaces (complete with discount code); and Jo Malone's Orange Blossom Body Creme ($75).

Preview of Twelve Nights of Christmas

My new collection of stories--Twelve Nights of Christmas--will be available next week.  I'm still tweaking the last two stories. Five stories in the collection have been posted before, but I wrote seven new ones to round out the collection.
Here's a sample:

NINE LADIES DANCING

There were four little cubicles crammed into the basement of Jake Mirzoyan’s club, each with a mirror, a tiny shelf for makeup, a couple of hooks for costumes, and two chairs. On Saturday nights, when all the girls were working, things got a little crowded in the basement. There was only one bathroom down there—the girls weren’t allowed to use the one upstairs, the one the customers used—so if someone ate a bad taco for lunch, everybody knew it.

They all knew about a lot of things—about Reva’s abortion, about Lanelle’s problem with her ex, about Kim’s relapse with the vikes. You get eight women in close quarters and they’re going to be all up in each other’s business. It was kind of like a family that way, a big dysfunctional family with an abusive daddy. The girls knew all about abusive daddies.

Jake was greedy but he wasn’t ambitious and he was bone lazy. He made a lot of money from the club—almost all of it cash, almost all of it untraceable. Girls came and went at the club but there were never more than eight dancers at one time. Eight was enough. Eight was a number he could handle.

And then Suki showed up. Suki with her pale, pale skin and her dark, dark eyes. Suki with the red hair right out of a shampoo commercial. Her real name was probably Susan or something but as far as Jake was concerned, she could call herself Angelina Jolie if she wanted to. She was tall—taller than him—and big-breasted, just the way his customers liked them. And they weren’t fake tits like Jude’s or Kitta’s either.

Even though Jake had a rule about not mixing business with pleasure, he would have chopped off his own dick to dip into Suki’s honey-pot. He wasn’t the only one. Brianna, who’d been dancing at the club since she was an underage runaway, took one look at Suki and fell in love.

Suki was too good for Jake’s little place, but didn’t seem to know it. The girls all knew it, though. They knew Suki could have been working the gentlemen’s clubs in L.A., somewhere she could maybe find a sugar daddy to take care of her. A lot of celebrities go to those clubs for kicks. A lot of money gets thrown around. The girls wondered why Suki would come to a rat-hole like Jake’s club when she had other options. None of the girls who worked for Jake had options. At least, not any more.

Kristine's Grandmother's Hungarian Cookie Recipe

Over at the Food Network it's "12 Days of Cookie" time again and they're already four cookies in with Paula's Loaded Oatmeal Cookies and Alton's Ginger Snaps. I'm not nearly that ambitious. Over the years I've focused my holiday baking to one or two crowd-pleasing desserts and that's it. (Pillsbury Peanut Blossoms and Oatmeal Cookies, in case you're interested.) Every once in awhile, though, I come across a cookie that just begs to be added to the repertoire.
Kristine's Grandmother's Hungarian Cookies have just made the cut.
These unbelievably rich cookies are called Kifli (Key-flea) and bear a passing resemblance to rugelach with their cream cheese pastry base. If you're looking for something different to contribute to a holiday cookie exchange, try these. Be sure to bake enough to enjoy yourself.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

3 cups flour
1/2 pound butter (unsalted)
1/2 pound cream cheese
1 jar Lekvar (Hungarian) Prune Butter
Powdered sugar

If you can't find the prune butter, substitute apricot or raspberry preserves.

Mix flour, margarine and cream cheese thoroughly.  Pinch off dough and mold into 50 little balls about the diameter of a 50-cent piece.  Refrigerate overnight. 

Roll balls out on powered sugared board.  Put a small dollop of Lekvar or preserves on each.  Fold each over to make a crescent and pinch closed.  Bake at 350 degrees for 20-25 minutes. 

Kristine's grandmother uses margarine instead of butter but I go for the full monty,

Enjoy.

Feminist Fiction Friday--Shirley Jackson

The story I've always heard is that Shirley Jackson wrote "The Lottery" because her refrigerator had broken down and she needed money to fix it. I loved that idea, not just because the anecdote epitomizes a professionalism I very much admire--there is no writer's block in freelancing--but also because I love the idea that she was paid more than a pittance for her work.
"The Lottery" is probably my favorite short story EVER.  I first read it for a middle school English class along with Jack London's "To Build a Fire," and W.W. Jacobs' "The Monkey's Paw" and Saki's "The Open Window." The story led me to other writers of short fiction, particularly Harlan Ellison, whose "I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream" is my second favorite short story.
I'm pretty sure after reading Jackson's biography on Wikkipedia that the story about the refrigerator is just that, a story. Jackson was vehement about not explaining her work or her process or herself. She famously refused to be interviewed. There are photographs of her, though, and those pictures send a chill through me.
Shirley Jackson and my mother could have been twin sisters. That picture in the upper left?  Substitute cats eye glasses and you have my mother.  Same eyes, same arched brows, same full lower lip.  The hairdo is the same one my mother wore most of her life, a faux tortoise shell comb holding her hair away from her pale brow.
Like Shirley Jackson, my mother was a heavy smoker but she managed to eke out an extra decade on the writer, who died at 48, of a heart attack in her sleep.
I wish Jackson hadn't left the party so early. I loved her novel The Haunting of Hill House so much that I can quote whole chunks of it.  The book is one of the best haunted house novels ever written (much stronger than James' Turn of the Screw), and Jackson's portrait of Eleanor, a woman slipping into madness, is profound. Julie Harris played Eleanor in the 1963 movie adaptation (called The Haunting, and not to be confused with the dreadful remake of 1999), and her delicate portrait of a woman whose life has passed her by is haunting indeed. (If you've seen the movie, all I need to say is ... that scene with Julie Harris and Claire Bloom and the door!  If you haven't seen the movie, you're in for a treat and if you haven't read the book, go get it now.) You can buy Jackson's novels and collected stories here.

Nine Ladies Dancing

Cover design by Joanne Renaud

I will be releasing a new collection of stories in the next few weeks, a group of Christmas stories loosely based on "The Twelve Days of Christmas." Joanne Renaud has created the cover for the collection, and I am very pleased with it. You may know Joanne as a writer; or an illustrator; but she is also now designing book covers. Check out her graphic design work here.

Here's a sample story...Nine Ladies Dancing, which originally ran as part of the Dark Valentine "Twelve Days of Christmas" fiction fest last year. 

Nine Ladies Dancing

There were four little cubicles crammed into the basement of Jake Mirzoyan’s club, each with a mirror, a tiny shelf for makeup, a couple of hooks for costumes, and two chairs. On Saturday nights, when all the girls were working, things got a little crowded in the basement. There was only one bathroom down there—the girls weren’t allowed to use the one upstairs, the one the customers used—so if someone ate a bad taco for lunch, everybody knew it.

They all knew about a lot of things—about Reva’s abortion, about Lanelle’s problem with her ex, about Kim’s relapse with the vikes. You get eight women in close quarters and they’re going to be all up in each other’s business. It was kind of like a family that way, a big dysfunctional family with an abusive daddy. The girls knew all about abusive daddies.

Jake was greedy but he wasn’t ambitious and he was bone lazy. He made a lot of money from the club—almost all of it cash, almost all of it untraceable. Girls came and went at the club but there were never more than eight dancers at one time. Eight was enough. Eight was a number he could handle.

And then Suki showed up. Suki with her pale, pale skin and her dark, dark eyes. Suki with the red hair right out of a shampoo commercial. Her real name was probably Susan or something but as far as Jake was concerned, she could call herself Angelina Jolie if she wanted to. She was tall—taller than him—and big-breasted, just the way his customers liked them. And they weren’t fake tits like Jude’s or Kitta’s either.

Even though Jake had a rule about not mixing business with pleasure, he would have chopped off his own dick to dip into Suki’s honey-pot. He wasn’t the only one. Brianna, who’d been dancing at the club since she was an underage runaway, took one look at Suki and fell in love.

Suki was too good for Jake’s little place, but didn’t seem to know it. The girls all knew it, though. They knew Suki could have been working the gentlemen’s clubs in L.A., somewhere she could maybe find a sugar daddy to take care of her. A lot of celebrities go to those clubs for kicks. A lot of money gets thrown around. The girls wondered why Suki would come to a rat-hole like Jake’s club when she had other options. None of the girls who worked for Jake had options. At least, not any more.

Jake let it be known that he would be firing one of the girls to make room for Suki but he didn’t tell them which one and suggested if anyone wanted to discuss the matter privately with him, then he’d be available in his office any time. Jude was the first to climb the stairs to Jake’s office. She had a little one at home that her mother took care of. She supported both of them. She needed the job.