I am really looking forward to spending two weeks with our wonderful, delightful children. The problem is getting there.

I used to be terribly afraid to fly. It had been a problem I struggled with for years, and even led me to my doctor for medication—Valium, just a couple of little pills that became my “flying friends.”

More recently, however, with so much book-related travel, I found my fears gradually—and incredibly—subsiding. I came to see flying as just another method of transportation rather than a potential (and likely) death sentence. Over time, I was able to unclench my fists from the armrests, immerse myself in a novel so that I barely noticed when we touched down, even make small talk with my seatmate—without reaching over to claw his or her arm when the going got rough. I even managed to write a scene for my next book, while on a flight between Florida and Pennsylvania. Small things, to be sure. People do them all the time on airplanes, but for me it was a big deal. Best of all, I began to fly without the need for help from my flying friends.

The first time I flew un-medicated, I didn’t realize it until we were nearly there. I had simply forgotten to take it. Soon turbulence, bad weather, delayed flights, became just regular petty annoyances. On my last flight home from the West Coast I actually left the Valium at home.

Big mistake.

It was a crowded flight and I had a seat in the back of the plane. An official-looking older man with a big briefcase came and sat down next to me. Neatly dressed, clean shaven, the creases in his pants sharp enough to slice steak. I decided he was either an ex-military man or—even better—an off-duty pilot.

Turns out, I was pretty close. He was a retired commercial pilot.

Maybe it is karma, but that is at least the fourth time in my life I have sat next to an off-duty pilot. The prior three were from my old F-O-F days, some of my best flights were in the company of off-duty retired pilots. They were usually calming and once I’d confessed my fear of flying (usually within seconds of them doffing their captain’s hat), often even went out of their way to explain to me what was happening and to tell me how safe I was. Best yet, I could study them for signs of stress during take-offs, landings and unexpected in-flight turbulence—and they never show the least signs of stress.

This time, however, was different. This man proceeded to tell me that, since his retirement, he went into business developing safety measures for airplanes—but most of the airlines were not buying.

“It’s just a few thousand per plane, but so far they’ve been too cheap to cough it up,” he told me sipping his Jack and Coke somewhere over Arizona.

“That’s terrible,” I said, my grip tightening just a touch on the armrest.

“This gadget will help the pilots land safely by improving visibility in the event of a fire in the cockpit.”

“Well, why wouldn’t airlines want to do that?”

“Most of the time the passengers are dead, anyway. You think there is oxygen flowing through those puppies when there is a fire in the cockpit?” He gestured to the space overhead where the flight attendants assured us that the oxygen masks were kept. “No way. They just don’t think it’s worth it to install just to maximize the chances the crew might survive.” He stared morosely into the dregs of his drink.

“Okay,” I told him, reaching for the call button. “I should tell you that I’m a recovering fearful flyer. Can we please change the subject?”

He looked at me as if he couldn’t possibly understand what on earth that had to do with what we’d been talking about or why that should derail an otherwise cathartic conversation.

The flight attendant appeared and I ordered myself a gin and tonic—hold the tonic.

“It’s quick, you know. You shouldn’t be afraid,” he said a few minutes later as he watched me guzzle the gin that had barely touched the plastic glass into which I’d hurriedly poured it.

“Really,” I told him, “I don’t mean to be rude but I can’t talk about this now.”

“Okay, it’s just that…” His voice trailed off.

I knew I should just let it drop. End the conversation. Plug in my ipod and tune him out. But I couldn’t help myself. He might have been ready to impart some vital nugget of information that could help me survive the cockpit fire that surely was just beginning to kindle.

“Just what?”

“I was a pilot for years. My wife hated it. I always thought that I’d die in a plane crash.” He sighed as he drained his glass. “Do you have any idea the stress air traffic controllers are under? After a while a lot of them can’t take it anymore. Keel over right on the job. And then where does that leave us? Care to guess how many near misses there are each year?

And suddenly it was as if he’d reached over and pulled the lever on the emergency exit door. I swear I heard the whoosh—the sound of my triumph over years of fearful flying being sucked out the cabin door.

I have a pet theory, a left over-remnant from my days as a psychologist: If you took a poll of 10, 000 fearful flyers, I bet you would find an over-representation of writers among them. Why? Because a fear of flying is really about relinquishing control. Writers, more than normal people, have a hard time with that. And why shouldn’t we? We are used to being masters of our own carefully and lovingly constructed universes. We control who lives and dies, not some higher power—and certainly not some airline corporation bureaucrat too cheap to install extra fire extinguishers in the cockpit of the plane you happen to be strapped into.

Miraculously, we touched down a couple of hours later. Upon arriving home, I rummaged in my makeup drawer and found my old friends. Europe here we come!

Most of the time, people tell me how much they enjoyed the book, which, of course is lovely, but, frankly, the most interesting discussions have been over what troubled people about the book—namely Mira’s violent response to Jake’s infidelity.

I’ve heard variations on the theme of: “No woman would do that!” which invariably kicks off a spirited discussion, often dividing the room between those long married and those who have been divorced.  I’ve heard several self-disclosures, my favorite from a woman who freely admitted to trying to run her husband over with her car. No names (or judgments) here.

The inevitable conclusion to these discussions is that love, thwarted or unrequited, can cause us do to all sorts of strange and out-of-character things.  Most of the women who confessed to violent actions or thoughts were shocked by their own impulses.

When my agent was first shopping Aftertaste, the criticism I received early on from publishers was that they couldn’t get behind Mira. They didn’t understand her anger.  She wasn’t a “regular” enough girl.  How could they expect regular women readers to cheer for her?  When my agent asked me if I was willing to soften her for a second round of submissions, I was torn.  In the end, I did, but only a very little bit.  I like Mira’s fire and, besides, I’m not such a regular girl myself.

Enter Steig Larsson’s Lisbeth Salander.  In the Millennium Trilogy Larsson has single-handedly elevated the female protagonist.  Suddenly, we seem willing to tolerate much more from our women heroines.

For that reason, Rooney Mara as Lisbeth Salander has my vote for Best Actress for her wonderful performance, which managed to be both raw and nuanced, and the late Steig Larsson my tribute, for creating such a strong protagonist in Lisbeth Salander!

The real answer to who the winner is?  It’s women.  The chief virtue of a woman protagonist used to be that she had to be likable. I can think of scores of male heroes that I don’t particularly like, but I respect.  Kudos to Steig Larsson, whose life and career were far too short, for giving us a very modern heroine who, may not be everywoman, but is a character we can both appreciate and respect.

I found so much to inspire me!  Beautiful beluga lentils, petit French white beans, and merguez sausage from The Crested Duck Charcuterie; earthy shitake mushrooms, and the last-of-the-season fresh cranberries from Wild Purveyors; sweet pumpkins and fresh garlic from Clarion River Organics; tender crimini mushrooms from Mushrooms for Life; goldenrod honey from Tupelo Honey Teas; Frantoio olive oil imported by Olio Fresco; and an assortment of the most delicious fresh-fruit jams, hot, sweet and spicy, from my good friend Scotty at The Berry Patch.

Here’s what I came up with:

Crostini Three Ways-

               -Fresh ricotta topped with Beluga Lentil and Roasted Pumpkin Chow Chow    

              -Goat cheese topped with Cranberry Mostarda

              -Wild Mushrooms with Taleggio

Moroccan Inspired Minestrone

Thanks to everyone who stopped by to sample my menu and chat with me!  As promised, here are the recipes:

Beluga Lentil and Pumpkin Chow Chow Crostini 

Dice a sweet pie pumpkin or butternut squash into a fine brunoise.  Toss with olive oil, salt, pepper and smoked paprika.  Bake at 425 for about ten minutes, or until tender.

Rinse the beluga lentils in cool water.  Remove any stones or grit.  Cover the lentils with cool water, bring to a boil and simmer until tender.  Drain and reserve.

Mix 2 teas habanero pepper jelly (from The Berry Patch) with ¼ cup good quality apple cider vinegar.  Whisk in 1 teas Dijon mustard.  Chop 2 cloves of garlic with ½ teas kosher salt.  Make a paste.  Add the chopped garlic paste to the mustard mixture.  Stream in ½ cup olive oil (I used Fratoio, a wonderful grassy, peppery olive oil from Italy)

Combine the lentils and the roasted pumpkin.  Toss with the dressing.

Spread a piece of toasted baguette with fresh ricotta. Top the crostino with the chow chow and enjoy! (The sweet milky cheese is a nice compliment to the bite of the chow chow)

Cranberry Mustard Crostini with Goat Cheese

I love cranberries and every year at the holidays I buy a few extra bags for the freezer to use throughout the year in sauces, muffins and cakes.  This year, however, a flirtation with cranberry scones exhausted my stash before we’d even rung in the New Year.  Needless to say, I was delighted to find some beautiful ruby red berries at Wild Purveyors!

For the cranberry sauce:  Put 2 cups of berries in a saucepan and add 2/3 cup good honey, the zest of an orange and the juice of an orange.  (Make sure you zest the orange before you juice it—it’s so much easier!)  Add a teas vanilla and cook over medium heat until the sauce begins to boil, at which point the berries will begin to burst. Reduce the heat and simmer over low heat for about 10 minutes until thickened.  It will continue to thicken as it cools.

Mix the cooled cranberry sauce with one teas mustard and one teas raspberry habanero jelly.  This stuff is hot, so watch out!

Spread a crostino with a goat cheese, or a wonderful camembert from Crested Duck or a simple mascarpone cheese.  You want something heavy and milky to balance the acidity of the cranberry.  It’s also great on a turkey sandwich!

Wild Mushroom and Taleggio Crostini

Sauté some mushrooms in a little butter and olive oil. (I used a combination of shitake and crimini, but you can use whatever appeals to you.) Add a clove of minced garlic, some freshly ground pepper and a little chopped thyme.  Don’t add salt until your mushrooms give up some of their juice.  Once they do, add salt to taste. Add some taleggio cheese.  Stir until cheese melts.  Top your toasted bread with the mushroom and cheese mixture and enjoy.  Delicious!

Moroccan Inspired Minestrone

I had originally planned on making a traditional Italian minestrone, but I was inspired by the absolutely delicious merguez sausages available at Crested Duck.  (Merguez is a lovely North African lamb sausage, spiced with pepper and garlic.) This is my Italian riff on harira, the wonderful soup of Morocco.

Ingredients:

2 cups each diced carrot, celery and onion

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 chopped leeks

1 lb merguez sausage, casings removed.

2 Tbs harissa paste (There are many excellent prepared harissas on the market, but it’s so easy I make my own.  To make: take 2 Tbs tomato paste, add 1 Tbs roasted cumin, 1 Tbs smoked paprika, ½ teas cayenne pepper, and salt and pepper to taste.  Mix well. Stir in the juice of one lemon.)

1 quart chicken stock

1 quart beef stock

2 cups dried French white beans, (soaked overnight).  You can also use canned white beans.

several handfuls of kale (you may substitute spinach, if you like)

First, prepare the beans:  Cover the dried beans with several inches of cold water and soak overnight.  Drain and rinse.  Fill a pot with fresh cold water.  (Make sure the beans are covered by at least 2 -3 inches of water.) Add 1 bay leaf and 2 cloves garlic.  Bring the beans to a boil.  Cover and lower the heat.  Simmer until tender, about an hour.  Drain the beans, reserving at least a cup of the cooking water.

In a large stockpot sauté the carrots, celery, onion and leek in olive oil over medium heat until softened.  Add chopped garlic and cook a minute or two longer.  Season with salt and pepper.

Remove the sausage from its casing and add to vegetables, breaking it up into small pieces as it cooks.  Cook until it’s no longer pink.  Add 2 Tbs harissa paste and cook until the harissa starts to brown, but be careful not to burn it.  Make sure the lamb and vegetables are completely coated with the harissa paste.

Add the chicken and beef stock.  Puree one cup of the cooked white beans with a ladle of the cooking water in a food processor to form a paste.  Add the paste to the soup and stir to combine.  Add the remaining beans to the soup.  Bring to a boil and simmer for 20 minutes.

While the soup is simmering, cook one half pound of pasta in boiling salted water.  (I used orichette, but you can use any bite-sized pasta you like.)  Cook until al dente, (about 8 minutes) drain and set aside.

Add the chopped kale to the soup and cook until tender.

This soup tastes even better the second day, which is why you’ve cooked the pasta separately.  If you were to add it to the soup now, it would absorb too much of the liquid and become soggy.  If you are planning on devouring the entire batch in one sitting, by all means go ahead and stir the pasta into the soup and enjoy.  However, if you think there might be leftovers, keep the pasta separate and simply add a half cup to each bowl before covering with the hot soup.

Buon Appetito!

I’ve been reading recipes since I could read. The first recipe I can recall following was off the box of my Easy Bake Oven cake mix and, while I don’t recall the recipe exactly, it had to have been simple enough for a six-year-old. Probably something like: Add water. Stir until blended. Certainly not too taxing for the young reader.

A bit older now, I subscribe to several cooking magazines, which I read cover to cover every month. And I usually have a stack of cookbooks next to my bed for bedtime and middle of the night reading. I like to plan my meals, or dinner parties before I go to sleep. I find it relaxing, kind of like counting sheep, I suppose. There is something simple, elegant and satisfying about a well–constructed and well-written recipe. I like reading them. The point is, for over forty years, I’ve logged a fair chunk of time reading and studying recipes. Yet, I hadn’t really understood what makes a good one, until recently when I had to write some. And what I learned not only taught me something about writing generally, it also taught me something about myself.

A few weeks into the editing phase of my debut novel, my publisher asked me to include some recipes. The story, about an Italian-trained female chef, named Mirabella Rinaldi, is entitled Aftertaste: A Novel in Five Courses. So, of course, I was encouraged to include a recipe from each course of a traditional Italian meal. I had several problems with that request, none of which I was willing to admit to my editor. First, the food I described in the book comes largely from my imagination and wasn’t based on my own—or anybody else’s—recipes. And while I hope the food descriptions have a certain literary panache, translating them into pinches and dashes, and directing when to sauté, as opposed to braise, was something I’d never given much thought. To further complicate matters, I’m a ‘seat of the pants’ cook, meaning that when I cook, I don’t measure things. In addition, I often have trouble making the same dish twice, because each particular version is heavily influenced by what is in my refrigerator, the last meal I ate and enjoyed, and, whether on that particular day, I feel like adding thyme or basil.

I also used to consider myself a ‘seat of the pants’ writer, (or a ‘panser’ as they are affectionately known in literary circles). I wrote the first chapter of Aftertaste because Mira wouldn’t leave me alone. She interrupted me one day as I was eating lunch and wouldn’t loosen her grip on me until I told her story. (If you’ve read even the first chapter of Aftertaste, you know the girl’s got quite a grip!) Pansers are notorious for saying things like, “I just never know what she’ll do next.” They are surprised by their characters and often by the things they say and do. We do not govern our creations; they are our willing collaborators. For the panser, writing feels a tad more intuitive than intellectual. When I began Aftertaste, I hadn’t really given much thought to what the story was or where it was going. Suffice it to say that my first draft of the novel was the literary equivalent of a hefty, patchwork quilt—one with no discernable pattern, filled with blind alleys, intricate patterns and far too many characters.

Aftertaste was my first novel and I began it without knowing how to write one. Sure, I’d read plenty of them and had even studied literature in college, so I knew, at least intellectually, how good stories are put together. But, like writing recipes, I didn’t really learn how to do it until I actually did it. Since that time, I’ve learned that I’m not really a natural panser and I think that is why recipes both fascinate and soothe me. I need a structure, a scaffold, to hold me, to reign me in when I’m tempted to wander too far afield. Recognizing that need has helped me become a better writer. Creating a scaffold also requires discipline, a useful and necessary quality for any writer. The scaffold frees me to do, what for me at least, is the real work of writing—editing. Writing a book or developing a recipe is a work in progress and to perfect it you must be willing to make changes, small and large. Sometimes, I think both writing and cooking are as much about what to leave out as they are about what to put in.

Here is what Mira taught me: “There is an art to the written recipe. Assume your reader only knows so much. Deliver the information clearly and in small doses. Leave just enough ambiguity to allow for interpretation. Each cook needs to find the holes, the tiny gaps that allow her to improvise, to make the dish her own.”

The same could be said of readers—and writers. We all need to find the holes – the gaps that allow us to internalize the story and make it a part of us. As a reader it’s what makes me stay with the characters long after I’ve turned the last page of a wonderful book. As a writer it is what makes me want to write the next page, the next book. And it also epitomizes so much of what I love about cooking. For me, cooking and writing are both avenues, in equal measure intellectual, intuitive and spiritual. The intersection of those avenues is where I live, a wonderful place to nestle in and take hold.

The protagonist of Aftertaste is a high-powered and ambitious New York City chef. I had to do a fair amount of research to write about a professional chef and the world of high-end restaurants, but the food descriptions came easily to me.  I love to cook.  And eat.  In fact, I spend an obscene amount of time thinking about food.  If I told you exactly how much time, you’d be shocked.

A few weeks ago I got an email from the dining critic at the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.  She wanted to interview me about Aftertaste and my interest in food.  I’ve long been an admirer of hers, and in truth had often fantasized about having dinner with her, so of course, I jumped right on it.   Not to mention what wonderful publicity it would be!  “Absolutely, I’d love it,” I wrote back. She responded that she hoped I might be persuaded to invite her to dinner. Oh, and would I mind if she brought a photographer along to snap a few photos of me in my kitchen as I prepared the food?

Now, my unusually competent protagonist may be a professional chef, amazingly successful and lauded in food magazines from Gourmet to Bon Appetit, but the real-life me is just an incredibly enthusiastic eater and home cook

What had I done?  I’d just invited the notoriously tough dining critic into my home, and I’d agreed to cook her dinner?  What was I thinking?

I marshaled all the resources I had, armed myself with a stack of cookbooks, and made copious notes as I set out to construct the perfect meal.  It had to be five courses.  Why?  Because I’d just written a novel called Aftertaste:  A Novel in Five Courses.  How could I serve her anything less??  Why couldn’t I have written a novel entitled Aftertaste: Local Take-out Favorites?  Not to mention that at least a couple of the dishes had to be from the book. (I’d included one recipe from each course.) And I couldn’t even cheat and prepare everything in advance because she wanted to watch me do it, so I had the added pressure of needing to cook while being interviewed and photographed! Oy vey.

For the record.  I am not a multi-tasker.  In fact, I am a consummate uni-tasker.  Also, as a former Girl Scout, I believe in being prepared, so I made the entire menu the day before –the culinary equivalent of a dress rehearsal.  The day arrived.  All systems were go.  The table was set, the loaf of homemade bread cooling on the rack.

The critic arrived with the photographer.  I smiled and cooked and came up with what I hoped were reasonably coherent responses to her questions whilst managing not to overcook either the pasta or the swordfish.  I was in the home stretch.  Everything had gone perfectly and according to plan. The photographer had packed up her camera and we were sitting around my dining room table, enjoying the last of the desert (a warm polenta cake with homemade lemon mascarpone gelato and fresh blackberry sauce) and chatting about my journey as a writer and a cook while waiting for the espresso to brew.

Suddenly, right in the middle of my recounting what I hoped was an amusing anecdote about my foray into recipe testing for the book, I sensed that I’d lost their attention. I saw them exchange a stricken look. Was it something I said?  Confirmation that perhaps I really am as uninteresting as I suspect?

“Ah,” the critic said, gesturing behind me into the kitchen.  “Are those flames coming from the coffee pot?”

Yes, in fact they were. Flames shot up from the handle, blackening the hood.

We rushed in.  The kitchen quickly filled with smoke and the noxious fumes from the melting plastic of the handle.  I shut off the gas and was attempting to remove the still blazing pot when my husband doused the entire mess with the pot of pasta water I’d left cooling on the stove.

There was no espresso.  In fact, there will be no espresso in my house until I replace the coffeemaker AND have the stove repaired.

Both the critic and the photographer were extremely good-natured and charming about the whole mess.  Still, it didn’t keep me from several sleepless nights as I waited for the article to be published.   To my immense relief, the article omitted all mention of my espresso flambé. Now, no one need ever know.

Peach, pecorino and prosciutto

These recipes below aren’t really recipes—they are more like methods. Once you learn the method, feel free to improvise. Try different cheeses and even different fruits to suit the season and your taste. The possibilities are endless!

Prosciutto-Wrapped Figs

Cut little matchstick-sized pieces of any mild and mellow cheese you like. (You don’t want to overwhelm the lovely, delicate flavor of the fig with a strong cheese.  I consulted Carol, (aka “The Dearheart Lady”) at Penn Mac who recommended Piave, a mild Italian cow’s milk cheese.)  Take a ribbon thin piece of basil and wrap it around the cheese.  Cut the fig in half.  Spear the cheese stick into the flesh of the cut fig and, and wrap it all in a piece of prosciutto.
Variation 1: In the cooler months, omit the basil and completely encase the fig and cheese in the prosciutto. Bake at 375 for a few minutes—just long enough for the cheese to soften.
Variation 2: You can also gently embed a bit of gorgonzola dolce into the cut fig and top with a walnut half.  Serve either warm or at room temperature.

Crostini with Cheese and Fig Mostarda

Mustard is used very sparingly in Italy, but Marcella Hazan has a wonderful recipe for fruit preserves and mustard. (And you don’t get more Italian than Marcella Hazan!) Combine equal parts fig preserves* and good-quality Dijon mustard to create a “mostarda.” Feel free to adjust the quantities according to your taste. If you want it sweeter, use less mustard, if you want it to have more of a kick, use a little more mustard.
Toast up some thinly sliced baguette slices (whole wheat or multigrain baguette works nicely). Spread crostini with goat cheese (I used wonderful local goat cheese from Paradise Gardens) and top with a dollop of the fig mostarda.
Variation 1: If you don’t like goat cheese, feel free to substitute mascarpone.
Variation 2: Prepare the mostarda and use it to top a small wheel of brie. Bake at 375 for just a few minutes until the cheese just begins to soften– watch it carefully because it goes from wonderfully oozy to a melted mess in the blink of an eye! Serve with a crusty baguette for dipping.
*There are several wonderful fig preserves on the market, (I particularly like the Organic Adriatic Fig Spread available at Whole Foods), but it’s also quite easy to make your own. The recipe I used for Fig and Thyme Jam comes from this month’s issue of Bon Appetit magazine.
Buon Appetito!

Yes, we know that the cost of eating beef is a large carbon footprint, but did you know that:

1. Eating beef generates twice the emissions of pork, 4 times that of chicken and 13 times that of vegetable matter;
2. Most emissions from animal products are generated in the production phase;
3. Cheese wheys in with the third highest emission rate.  (This was a tough one for me, folks.  I love cheese.  In fact, if I could eat only one food for the rest of my life, it would be cheese.  Wine and bread would be the condiments.)

Further calculations revealed that if, over the course of one year, everyone in the US stopped eating animal products just one day a week, the effect on emissions would be the equivalent of taking 7.6 million cars off the road.

According to Mario, it’s not gonna happen.  I have to agree that it unrealistic to expect the country that has been known to classify ketchup as a vegetable to adopt the vegan lifestyle for even one day per week. Additional measures to encourage more environmentally sensitive eating behaviors can and, in fact are being explored: higher taxes on environmentally harmful products, reducing or eliminating subsidies for such products, and increased public education.  But it’s a complicated problem requiring a multi-pronged approach, and not susceptible to a quick fix.

Yes, it will take a village, a country, and the rest of the meat eating world to help solve this problem. But all journeys begin with a single step.  Meatless Mondays can help make us mindful eaters by providing a weekly reminder that we have a responsibility to our community, the animals we raise, and the earth. Join King Mario (and me) by take the pledge to eliminate animal products from your diet on Mondays. In my house, Meatless (and, alas, Cheese-less) Mondays will be joining Farmstand Wednesdays in our weekly meal lineup. You can read the EWG’s report and take the pledge to go Meatless on Monday here: http://breakingnews.ewg.org/meateatersguide/

And Mario, if you are listening, I’m hoping your next cookbook will be a vegetarian one.

(Until then, here’s our Meatless Monday menu.)

Beluga lentil and pumpkin stew with pearl couscous

Roasted vegetable hummus with garlic-rubbed six grain bread

Last month I returned from my dream trip to Italy. As a birthday gift my husband and some of our closest  friends rented a beautiful villa in a quiet little town at the base of the Dolomites. The villa included beautiful grounds, a swimming pool, 8 bedrooms, 8 bathrooms and a huge, fully-stocked kitchen. (It was a really big birthday.)

David knows that I love to cook, so the big kitchen was key. Cooking for 14 is not everyone’s idea of relaxation, but for me it was the perfect La Pausa.

La Pausa refers to the Italian notion of taking things slowly, savoring the food, the company, the moment. It also refers to the afternoon period between 12-3, when most every bookstore, boutique, restaurant and museum in Italy is closed for an extended lunch break. The Italians know how to savor the slow life, and it is absolutely narcotic.

Our vacation completed, I returned from Italy to a full schedule. My first novel, Aftertaste, will be released on August 30. My publisher, Kensington, has assigned me about 3 months of work to complete in the next 30 days — mostly related to the book launch and surrounding publicity and events. I really need some La Pausa!

So Wednesday afternoon I took a break from my work to visit the farm stand and then host dinner. The food was simple, the courses few. We ate slowly and enjoyed every bite, the smooth-flowing conversation, and the easy company of good friends.

There is plenty of work left to do, but none more important than the opportunity to pause and appreciate the wonderful chance I’ve been given to be a writer, a cook, a mother, a wife, and a friend.