Friday Food Rant and a Recipe

I'm currently acting as a consultant on a cookbook for diabetics. The research has been fun and in going through my own files of recipes, I've been reminded of old favorites I haven't made in awhile. (Keema!  I love keema!) But what it's also brought home to me is just how many recipes still use highly processed ingredients. (Let's not even talk about my mother's cook books from the 60s, which were full of recipes that required "Accent" and were either filled with mayonnaise, which I despise, or bacon, which I adore but don't eat.)
Seriously, who eats "whipped topping" when they can have luscious real whipped cream? And yet, every other pie recipe I've run across requires a tub of Cool Whip.
And speaking of whipped cream--here's a recipe my mother called "Corsetiere's Despair." It could not be simpler or more decadent.

Mickey Tomlinson's Corsetiere's Despair

1 pound red and white striped peppermint candy (My mother used Brach's starlight mints)

1 quart unsweetened whipped cream 

1/2 tsp. salt

3 drops red food coloring

Pulverize the candy in a blender or food processor, leaving about half the pieces coarsely chopped and reducing the rest to powder.

Fold the powdered candy, the salt and about half the coarser pieces into the whipped cream.

Place the mixture in a serving bowl.

Drop the food coloring on top of the mixture and using a knife, slash through the whipped cream to create swirls of red.

Sprinkle the rest of the coarser pieces of peppermint over the mixture.

Cover and freeze until firm. 

My mother served this with dark chocolate wafers.

Sample the National Book Award Winners and Nominees

The votes are in and the 2012 National Book Award winners have been announced.
Louise Erdrich has won for her novel The Round House; Katherine Boo has won for her book about the "undercity" of Mumbai. Poet David Ferry won for his collection, Bewilderment; and William Alexander won the Young People's Literature award for Goblin Secrets, published under the late, great Margaret K. McElderry's imprint.
You can read all the details here, where you'll also find links to everyone's work.

Is it too late to get a fake ID?

As I was reading a college comedy this a.m. that featured hijinks involving a fake ID, I had a pang of regret. I never had a fake ID. Never really needed one. I never developed a taste for beer (although Dos Equis' Buena Nocha seasonal brew is pretty damn tasty and unfortunately no longer imported to the US) and if I had a taste for the favorite cocktail of Duke undergrads (Southern Comfort and 7-Up) the ingredients were readily available in the dorm pantry. Even with a fake ID I'm not sure I could have carried "over 21" off. (The last time I was carded, I was out with my brother having Mexican food. I was 33.  It was a bright moment and now a faded memory.) I wish I'd gotten a fake ID now. It feels like a rite of passage I missed out on.  If I'd known I would end up writing dark fiction for fun and  profit, I would definitely have bought one.
Which reminds me.
My mother was one of the most strait-laced people I've ever known. She could be a little school-marmy about it, but she was raised to be a proper Southern woman and despite some strenuous efforts at achieving escape velocity from the remnants of her upbringing, she remained ladylike to her dying day. (She would have been horrified when I chased an orderly out of her room the night before she died, telling him if he came back I would kill him.  Seriously, it was two in the morning and he was there to take her vital signs, even though she was already in a coma and would die two hours later. I am not a polite Southern lady despite my mother's best efforts.)
But the point is... my mother probably never did a dishonest thing in her life, much less a criminal thing.
The last year I lived at home, my sister was in college and my brother was in his last year of law school. Our mother's best friend had been diagnosed with a really nasty, fast-moving kind of cancer. She was on heavy-duty pain meds and they weren't helping the nausea from the chemo.  My mother came up with the idea of buying marijuana and sending it to her but wondered aloud at the dinner table where she might find such a product. Without hesitation we all spoke up with suggestions about where marijuana could be bought and then stopped as she gave us the evil eye.
"So I've heard," I added, which was true. I've never smoked pot in my life.
"Mailing marijuana is a felony," my brother added, which I thought was a nice bit of deflection.
My sister got up to get more iced tea.
In the end, she didn't buy the weed.
And in the end--and this is true--her friend went into remission and was ultimately declared cancer free after joining a church run by a charismatic young preacher.
My mother died two years later of lung cancer; her friend is still alive.
Life is funny and unpredictable.
Next time I'll get the fake ID.

Nightfalls anthology

The Nightfalls anthology is in its final editing cycle and it's a terrific group of stories. The anthology will be priced at $3.99 (a bargain for 29 stories), with all proceeds going to Para Los Ninos, an organization that helps at-risk kids and their parents succeed in education and in life.
The cover design is by Joy Sillesen of Indie Author Services, who donated her work to the project, She will also be designing both the ebook and the print version.  The stories range from speculative fiction to horror to humor with side trips to science fiction and noir-flavored lit fic.

Everybody I asked to participate in this anthology said yes, and then they gave me wonderful stories (and one poem). It's been a pleasure to work with everyone and I hope to do it again soon. More details to come, but just to whet your appetite--here's the TOC:

Acapulcolypse

            Thomas Pluck

Some Say the World Will End in Fire

            Sidney Anne Harrison

Forward is Where the Croissantwich Is

            Chris Rhatigan

Somebody Brave

            Kat Laurange

Our Lady

            Dale Phillips

Greene Day

            Nigel Bird

Isabel

            Megan McCord

The Memory Keeper

            Sandra Seamans

Bon Appétit

            Barb Goffman

Déjà vu

            Christopher Grant

It's Not the End of the World

            Matthew C. Funk

A Sound as of Trumpets

            Berkeley Hunt

Supper Time

            Col Bury

Blackened

            Dellani Oakes

The End of Everything

            AJ Hayes

Last Shift

            Steven Luna

Into the Night

            Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw

Blackout

            Richard Godwin

Amidst Encircling Gloom

            Scott J Laurange

Devotee

            G. Wells Taylor

Princess Soda and the Bubblegum Knight

            R. C. Barnes

The Last Wave

            Kaye George

The Dogs on Main Street Howl

            Allen Leverone

Call the Folks

             Alex Keir

The Knitted Gaol Born Sow Monkey

            Peter Mark May 

Crossfade

            Christian Dabnor

The Tasting

            Jesse James Freeman

The Annas

            Patricia Abbott

Night Train to Mundo Fine

            Jimmy Callaway

Children's Book Relief

If you're like me, you have a whole bookcase full of books you've read and will probably never read again.  Maybe you cull them every once in awhile, sending them to live at your local library, or donating them to your nearest thrift store, or just leaving them on buses and on benches like a friend of mine does. Maybe all you really need is a good reason for cleaning off those shelves.
Now you have one.
Urban Librarians Unite is hosting a fund drive to benefit children affected by Hurricane Sandy. They're looking for donations of used and new children's books and new activity books and coloring books (with crayons) for children.

Europe's Top Cop is ... a woman!

Mirielle Balestrazzi

It's been a good week for women here in the U.S. and now comes the news that Interpol has elected its first female president, Mirielle Balestrazzi. According to news reports, she's been a police commissioner in France since 1975 (when she would have been 31) and she's been the particular bane of organized crime in Bordeaux and Corsica.
I love that the number of "first" females is rapidly dwindling and believe that soon the whole notion of some jobs being beyond the reach of women will seem as quaint and old fashioned as sarsaparilla.

What's the story here?

Photo by Patrizio Martorana

Our brains are wired to make sense of the events we observe. When it cannot put together the puzzle pieces from our observations, our brains will simply fill in the blanks. That's the point behind those tests of how well we can read sentences that are missing vowels or have such a hard time spotting extra letters. Based on previous experience, our brain sees what it wants to see.
I think another way we're all wired is that we all share a need to turn our experiences into a narrative. If you've ever heard the phrase, "It is what it is" and disagreed, I think you're tapping into this impulse, or this imperative, or whatever it is that provides the perspective and the point of view to turn situations into story.
"Bad life, good anecdote," Carrie Fisher used to say, and I embraced that phrase as my mantra.
But it's not just writers who do this.
When I worked for Los Angeles Magazine, I car-pooled with two women who could not have been more different from each other and from me. One was an elegant ex-model whose husband was a handsome, successful executive. The other was a careworn mom whose life had been full of sorrows--an ex-husband who supported the family (or not) as a gambler, a first-born child who died from a reaction to the polio vaccine.
We were locked together in a small space for at least 90 minutes a day and sometimes longer and as women do when they're together, we talked.
Often the talk was trivial--about work, about movies, about people we knew. Sometimes the conversation was heavier, about an abortion one had had, about seemingly insurmountable in-law problems that were wreaking havoc in a marriage, about hopes and dreams and aspirations.
And one day we saw the piles of rubber bands at an intersection.
M saw them first and remarked upon them and J and I looked and thought, Huh. That's odd.
And that would probably have been it except that not long after, we saw another pile of the rubber bands--the skinny little ones--at another intersection.
Before long, we were seeing the piles of rubber bands all over the place, as if droppings from some big rubber dog that would pass by unnoticed, leaving its scat behind.
It almost drove us crazy trying to figure out the significance of those piles of little rubber bands.
and then one morning we came in to work very early, for reasons that escape me, and the mystery of the rubber bands was solved when we saw a paperboy on a corner putting them around his newspapers before loading up his bike.
The best advice my father ever gave me was, "Never let the truth get in the way of a good story."
We were disappointed when we found out what was really going on.
Because we wanted there to be a "story" there.