Dorothy's Lord Peter*

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I've always been a Dorothy Sayers fan girl, but a recent reading of Barbara Reynolds' biography sent me scurrying back to Sayers' Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries. After a delightful re-read of Busman's Honeymoon, I now plan to back up and start with the first one, Whose Body?, already loaded onto my Kindle. Following the development of Lord Peter's character from effete aristocrat to multi-layered man feels a bit like looking over Sayers' shoulder as she worked. Once Harriet Vane is introduced in Strong Poison, we follow the Vane/Wimsey courtship, with all its trials (literal and otherwise) to its thoroughly satisfying conclusion in Busman's Honeymoon.

Many Sayers' critics and biographers maintain that the Harriet Vane character is a stand-in for Sayers herself. Vane, like Harriet, is among the first group of women who take degrees from Oxford; she is a writer of complex mysteries featuring a suave detective, Robert Templeton, who shares many characteristics with Wimsey. Even Vane's physical description, with her dark bobbed hair and striking eyes, is a match for the young Sayers. And while most critics are accepting of the idea that Sayers might use a doppelganger for herself in her novels, a few (males, natch), sneer at the idea, claiming that Sayers actually fell in love with her own creation.

To that I say: why the hell not? Even if Sayers had a weakness for her own hero, that certainly doesn't detract from the brilliance of her work. Personally, I find the "Harriet novels" the most compelling of the bunch, but that's probably because I like a good love story threaded into my mysteries, a practice Sayers actually disdained until, at the suggestion of her publisher, she did it herself with great success. And while she may have identified with Harriet Vane, I suspect that Sayers had more than a bit of Wimsey in her as well--pun intended, by the way. Here's what she had to say about the creation of her wealthy, aristocratic detective:

At that time, I was particularly hard up and it gave me pleasure to spend his fortune for him. When I was dissatisfied with my single unfurnished room, I took a luxurious flat for him in Piccadilly. When my cheap rug got a hole in it, I ordered him an Aubusson carpet. When I had no money to pay my bus fare I presented him with a Daimler double-six, upholstered in a style of sober significance, and when I felt dull, I let him drive it.

If Wimsey became so real to his creator that she lived through him vicariously, and then let her alter ego fall in love with him, so be it. It's just one of the many beauties of writing fiction.

♥ ♥ ♥

*A version of this post first appeared on Red Room.

Authors in the Kitchen: Sarah Pinneo

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Welcome to a new feature here on the blog, Authors in the Kitchen. We're kicking off this occasional Friday fun with Sarah Pinneo, author of the recently released Julia's Child. Sarah is a food writer, a cookbook author, and now a debut novelist. (Full disclosure: she's also my bud and one helluva critique partner.)

Take it away, Sarah!

Popeye’s Spinach

I’m not as neurotic as the mom in my new comic novel Julia’s Child. At least that’s what I tell people. There are (ahem) a few similarities between us. Like Julia, my kids don’t watch TV. We don’t own one, so it isn’t as if I don’t share. But things like YouTube were unknown in this house until recently.

Enter my father. He entertains my children after school once a week, bless him. He is also more freewheeling with technology where the children are concerned, and I try hard not to mind. When in Rome, I say with a flip of my wrist. (I have to practice the wrist flip in front of the mirror, though, if my disinclination toward improvisation weren’t already apparent.)

My father has introduced the kids to the joys of YouTube, as a sort of cultural encyclopedia.  What? You don’t know about Miss Piggy? Here let me show you…

So last year they discovered Popeye cartoons. At first I was irritated. I never liked that cartoon as a child. I remember only the tattoos and the punching. But shortly after they began their infatuation with popeye, my younger child, then five, began to ask me for spinach.

At first, I forgot to honor his request. Except for the odd spanakopita, spinach wasn’t a frequent visitor on the family table. But he persisted.

I’m no fool. His first taste of wilted spinach came drowning in butter and gently sautéed garlic. He ate it all. Then he got up from the table, pushed up his sleeves, and began to flex. He told us, with a straight face, that he felt “skrong.”

And reader, his ardor for spinach has not diminished. I still use the gently sautéed garlic, but I’ve switched to olive oil. He still loves it. At our local Italian restaurant, he’s known as “that kid who wants extra spinach on his.” Now I throw it raw into salads, too. The kid even grew some in our garden this spring.

He’s asked me to buy it in cans, so he can be that much more like Popeye. But there I draw the line. “Popeye would eat it fresh, sweetie, but he’s always in a hurry.” He believes me.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I already apologized to my father for carping about the kids watching Popeye.

Popeye’s 21st Century Wilted Organic Spinach

2 to 3 tablespoons of butter and / or olive oil

2 to 3 large garlic cloves, minced

5 to 8 ounces fresh baby spinach leaves, washed and spun

“The first time I wrote this recipe, I put organic in front of every ingredient. But it looked overzealous and uptight. (Don’t say it—kind of like me.)” —Julia’s Child p. 97.

Over medium/low heat add the butter and/or oil to a 12” skillet. (Butter and olive oil blend well together, and olive oil increases the smoke point of butter.) When the butter is melted, add the garlic and sauté gently on a low temperature, taking care not to let the garlic brown.

Begin adding handfuls of spinach, turning the spinach over with tongs as you add it. This will distribute the garlic among the leaves and prevent it from overcooking. Don’t worry if your great mounds of fluffy spinach don’t fit into the skillet right away. After the first batch wilts, add more leaves on top of it and then gently turn. Eventually the spinach will all fit, and reduce in size dramatically.  When the leaves are thoroughly wilted and a deep green color, the spinach is done.

Salt and pepper to taste, serve hot.

Serves 4 normal people as a side dish, or one very ambitious kindergartener as a meal.

Sarah Pinneo’s debut novel Julia’s Child (Plume 2012) hits bookstores this week. She writes about food, family and fiction from Hanover, NH.

Author Spotlight: Yours Truly

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As a debut author, my budget does yet not allow for a publicist. So in the interest of economy, I have decided to interview myself to impart my latest news:

Yours truly: Well, you've finally gone and done it. What was it like to sign your first book contract?

Rosemary: The font is very, very tiny, so I needed my reading glasses. Then I couldn't decide which pen to use. And the thing is pages long, filled with words like "whereas" and "herein" and "exclusive." They really like "exclusive."

YT: Um, I meant that figuratively.

R: Oh. It was amazing. One might even say momentous.

YT: You've contracted with Penguin's New American Library division to write the first three books in a mystery series. Tell us a bit about it.

R: The mysteries are set at an Italian restaurant at the Jersey shore called the Casa Lido. My main character, Victoria, is a mystery writer who goes back home to research her family history, but instead stumbles into murder, mayhem, and romance. Each book will also feature a family recipe.

YT: Is there a character you're particularly fond of?

R: Vic's Nonna. She runs the restaurant with a steel spine and an iron hand. She's formidable and intimidating, but has a soft spot for her family. (Any resemblance to my own grandmothers is, of course, entirely coincidental.)

YT: For this series, you'll be writing as Rosie Genova. Catchy name. You knew I was born with it, right?

R: I'd heard that, yeah.

YT: So you've been at this writing thing a while. How'd you finally luck out?

R: Hmm. I've always liked this quote from Hemingway: "It is better to be lucky, but I would rather be exact. Then when luck comes you are ready." For the last seven years, I've tried hard to be "exact," to hone my skills as a writer.

YT: So besides the sweat of your brow, to what do you attribute this success? I hear you have a fabulous agent.

R: Absolutely. Many thanks to Kimberly Lionetti at Bookends, aka K-Lion, who pushed persuaded me to try my hand at a mystery. And I would be remiss if I didn't mention my awesome critique partners, Loretta Marion and Sarah Pinneo, author of the upcoming  Julia's Child.

YT: Anything else you'd like to add?

R: Yes--why are you wasting time on a self-indulgent blog post? Don't you have a book to write?

YT: Good point.

♥ ♥ ♥

Murder Marinara, the first in the Casa Lido mystery series, is slated for publication by  Penguin/NAL in December 2013.

What I Learned from Jo March*

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Jo March made me want to be a writer. When Jo March escaped to her attic to eat apples and write stories, I did the same. And when she announced to her sisters and her friend Laurie that her greatest wish was to "write out of a magic inkstand," to become famous and independent, I recognized a true sister. In fact, for years I imagined myself walking into a dusty office with a manuscript tied up in brown paper and ribbon, where some cigar-chomping editor would offer for it on the spot. If only.                                                      It didn't take long to outgrow that fantasy or the book, for that matter, and Little Women was relegated to my pre-feminist Era of Ignorance, and languished there for years. But a couple of summers ago I caught the Katherine Hepburn version of the movie late one night on TCM, and I was thoroughly charmed. I dug out my old hardcover and stayed up three nights solid reading it. And when a colleague gave birth to a baby girl not long after, I impulsively bought her a copy of the book. As I thought about what to inscribe in it, however, I had a twinge of post-feminist guilt. Wasn't Little Women merely a sentimental novel that Alcott had cranked out to support her family since her father, Bronson Alcott, had driven them into poverty? Doesn't the story trumpet the virtues of female submission and the repression of anger?  And let's face it, aren't the Beth scenes just a little over the top? Well, yes. But that doesn't keep me from loving the book, and even now my eyes still get moist every time  Beth drops those mittens out the window. In the end though, it is of course Jo who is the heart of the book. And it is Jo, despite her mother's admonishments, her sentimental pronouncements and Victorian trappings, who taught me that obedience is difficult and anger is necessary. --That you don't have to say yes to the first guy who asks. --That hair is overrated, and sisterhood is more than powerful--it's a veritable life force. --That it's possible to love a man who doesn't look like your Ken doll, and that even if your dress is patched, you can still dance at the party. Most importantly, Jo March showed me that even back in the 19th century there were girls like me: bookworms who found the stuff of novels more real than the lives we lived every day, and who dreamed of creating such worlds ourselves. The little girl to whom I gave Little Women is still too young for it, but I wonder if she too will cry over Beth and root for Jo as she works on her stories. I like to imagine her in about fourteen or fifteen years, walking up a set of creaky attic stairs with apples in her pockets, ready to write some Gothic tales of her own.

♥ ♥ ♥

*An earlier version of this post first appeared on Red Room

Best. Gift. Ever. (2011)

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It's no coincidence that this year's Best Gift Ever is a book. (As was last year's.) This Christmas, my dear friend and colleague Marie presented me with the following:

P.D. James, widely considered the greatest living mystery author, is second only to Dorothy Sayers in my personal pantheon of mystery greats. Best known for her series featuring Adam Dalgliesh, James' work is literate and complex, but she still tells a darn good story. The same can be said of Jane Austen, whom James calls "overwhelmingly my favorite writer" in an October interview. James, who has made allusions to Persuasion in two of the recent Dalgliesh novels, had long wanted to create a work that incorporates her two passions: Jane Austen and the classic detective novel.

As someone who reveres both writers, the combination of James and Austen is irresistible. What is even better is that I had somehow missed all the press around this book, so when I opened my friend's gift, I let out a giant shriek of surprise and joy. (Even in my geekiest fantasies, I couldn't have come up with P.D. James writing a mystery sequel to Pride and Prejudice.)

I have already sped through the book once, but plan a second read for savoring. Though James' Elizabeth lacks the original character's archness (and most of her wit, sad to say) her Darcy is thoughtful, brooding, and self-aware. James provides him with a rich inner life that accurately reflects Austen's version of her most enigmatic hero, and it makes the reader long for a Lizzie that is worthy of him.

But where James really shines is in her portrayal of the secondary characters, in particular Mr. Bennett, who shows up unannounced at Pemberley just to read in its magnificent library, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who says of herself, "If I went to all the people who would benefit from my advice I would never be at home." Lots of Austen favorites make cameo appearances, and there are sly references to both Persuasion and Emma.

It's a truth universally acknowledged that there can never be enough Jane Austen; what a pleasure to read a sequel from the hands of one who is worthy of her.

♥ ♥ ♥

Christmas Countdown

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No, not shopping days (trying hard not to think about that one) but my favorite Christmas songs: 10. "Please Come Home for Christmas," Harry Connick, Jr. You bet I will, Harry. 9. "Santa Baby," Eartha Kitt. Move over, Madonna, cuz this girl got it right the first time. 8. "Christmas Wrapping," The Waitresses. How can you not love this infectious little classic? 7. "Ode to Joy," Beethoven. The title says it all. 6. "River," Joni Mitchell. For those melancholy moments that we wish we had a river to skate away on.                         5. "Merry Christmas, Baby," Bruce Springsteen. Can a Christmas song be sexy? It can if it's sung in a husky rasp by my favorite Jersey guy. 4. "Baby, It's Cold Outside," Rosemary Clooney and Bing Crosby. Though I'm usually no fan of Bing, he and Rosie kill this one. Hands down, the best version of this chestnut. 3. "The Waltz of the Flowers," Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite. This just makes me want to dust off my old pointe shoes and pirouette around the kitchen. 2. "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring," Bach. The first few strains of this piece epitomize the joy of the season. 1. "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," Frank Sinatra. Hundreds of singers have recorded this lovely song, but few have conveyed its notes of both regret and hope the way Sinatra has. (Did I mention he was from Jersey?) May you hang a shining star on the highest bough this holiday season. See you in the new year!

♦ ♦ ♦

Sometimes Spaghetti Likes to Be Alone*

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Stanley Tucci's love letter to food, family, and the American Dream is Big Night, a small 1996 film about two Italian brothers who own a restaurant at the Jersey shore. Set in the fifties, the movie has terrific period details, from Isabella Rossellini's chic haircut to the giant-finned cars that cruise the main street of the shore town that is home to the guys' restaurant, Paradise. (Parts of the movie were filmed in Keyport, right here in NJ.)

The  brothers Primo (Tony Shalhoub, who plays one of the most convincing Italians I've seen on screen) and Secondo (Tucci) are struggling to make a go of Paradise. Primo is the consummate chef, whose focus is on serving authentic dishes from their native Abruzzi. Secondo is the businessman, who knows that their American clientele are expecting a different kind of fare from the delicate risottos and seafood dishes that Primo lovingly prepares.

As the brothers lose customers to their competition, Pascal (Ian Holm, in a hilarious turn) it looks as though the Paradise will close. When Secondo hears that musician Louis Prima is in town, the brothers risk everything for that one big night, putting every bit of their resources into planning a grand feast for the famous band leader. And here is the real joy of this film--the food. Each course that comes out is more gorgeous than the last, culminating in a timpano, a complicated dish of pasta, eggs, meat and cheese baked in  pastry. I won't tell you if Prima ever does show up, but it sure is fun waiting for him to arrive, as the restaurant's guests eat, drink, dance, and smoke the night away.

To me this movie feels like home--it's got great food, Italian accents, fifties music and the Jersey shore. Paradise, no?

♥ ♥ ♥

*Secondo's answer to a restaurant patron who asks why there aren't meatballs with her spaghetti.

The Fashion Commandments*

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Commandment I: Thou shalt dress for thy shape. Smart pears know that a nicely cut Empire waistline falls flatteringly over those womanly hips. Wise apples might choose a wrap dress to emphasize upper curves and create a smaller waistline. Work your assets! Commandment II: Thou shalt not dress mutton as lamb. Ladies of Certain Age should not only act it, but dress it. Let’s step away from that Junior department, and stick to even-numbered sizes, shall we? Commandment III: Thou shalt expose skin in inverse proportion to the number of decades thou has spent on earth. Repeat after me: No one wants to see old décolletage. (Unless you are Helen Mirren, in which case you do not need advice from the likes of me.)

Commandment IV: Thou shalt acquire a few good basics. My great-grandma used to say that only rich people could afford to buy cheap clothes. (Think about it.) One great piece—a well-cut skirt, a black trench coat, or a go-to LBD that goes from office to party—more than pays for itself. Commandment V: Thou shalt have a signature piece. Whether it is your scent, your grandma’s antique watch, or that scuffed pair of Doc Martens, you should have one fashion facet that is all your own. Commandment VI: Thou shalt not don thy exercise clothes in vain.Yoga pants belong on your bod only in the studio. Save the sweats for your daily run or a night on the couch with popcorn and an old movie. And unless you are warming up for the Olympics, never, under any circumstances put on a two-piece track suit. Because I will find you. Commandment VII: Thou shalt not covet thy daughter’s goods, nor raid her closet. See Commandment II.

Commandment VIII: Thou shalt learn how to coordinate thy pieces. A coordinated look is not synonymous with what Michael Kors bitchily refers to as “matchy-matchy.” Even bridesmaids have stopped dying their shoes.

Commandment IX: Thou shalt not display initials that are not thine own. Does any girl really need a crystal-encrusted DG the size of a dinner plate hanging from her purse? I think not. Commandment X: Honor thy body and treat it with love. Now go out and buy yourself something nice!

♥ ♥ ♥

*The format for this post was shamelessly lifted from my son, a regular blogger at the BU Culture Shock blog. I implore you not to link to his post, which is far funnier than my own.

Literate Girls

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Recently my sweet and lovely niece Eva sent me a blog post from Thought Catalogue by Charles Warnke with the (hopefully) ironic title, "You Should Date an Illiterate Girl." It reads like a prose poem and it's been making the internet rounds among the young. Here is one of my favorite passages:

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

As a girl who reads, I recognize the woman Warnke describes. The year I turned 19, my then-and-now boyfriend (reader, I married him) bought me a box of poetry books for my birthday. It was a giant gift box filled with Nikki Giovanni, Alan Ginsburg, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, e.e. cummings, Anne Sexton--a 70s hipster girl's dream roster--with some good old-fashioned Yeats for good measure. That gift made me the envy of every literate girl in my dorm. In the years since, I have gotten some other boxes of books, usually when I least expect them. One year, in my pre-Kindle days,  it was 38 Penguin pocket books, scaled down to fit in a purse or a back pocket. "So you'll always have something to read," was the inscription on the card. The last such gift was two shopping bags that I could barely lift, as they were filled with a hardcover set of Barnes and Noble classics, from Alcott and Austen right through Wharton and Wilde. It occurs to me that it is a brave man who's willing to date--or marry--a literate girl. Near the end of Warnke's post is this warning:

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. . . .The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold.

So here's to all the literate girls, the storytellers, the crafters of narratives. The girls who read.  (And the men who love them.)

♥ ♥ ♥