Cicadas in My Pantyhose: Tales from the New Jersey Apocolypse

In last week's NY Times Magazine, cicadas landed on the so-called "Meh" list. "Meh" as in, no longer trending, and we don't really care anymore.

Easy for you to say, you black-clad hipster toiling away in a treeless Manhattan. Sure, you can be as "meh" as you want about it. You don't have to look down into their beady little red eyes.They're not stuck on your purse and riding with you to work. They're not dive-bombing your head when you try to take your walk.

You don't open your dresser drawer at 6:30 in the morning and find THIS:

 When they first hit, I was pretty sanguine about it. Bugs don't really bother me (unless they sting) and I was fascinated by their weird, otherworldly singing, which sounded like something from a fifties sci-fi film.I got used to them in my trees, on my deck and all over my car tires.

But I draw the line at my fine washables. After making this gruesome discovery, I called out to my husband with a request I can safely say he'd never heard before: Honey, can you come get the cicada out of my underwear drawer?

Of course, it could have been worse. At least I saw it before I got dressed. . .

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The Food of Love

As I was working on the draft of Marinara (the book, not the sauce) my editor advised me to keep the focus of the series, Italian food, prominent at all times. (Which was a bit like telling me to put my lipstick on before I leave the house.) Let's just say I need reminding about a number of things, but the importance of food isn't one of them.

It wasn't hard to keep food front and center of the story, since food happens to be front and center of my life. I never understand those people who rush through a meal, or those alien beings who say things like, "I only eat because I have to," or "Food isn't that important to me"--words that cause me to gasp and clutch my Italian heart.

What's more important than a meal lovingly prepared? Than sitting across the table from the people who mean the most to you in the whole world? Than that first taste of your grandmother's Sunday sauce?

Much as I love Shakespeare, he was wrong when he said "Music is the food of love."

Food is the food of love.

Sunday Sonnet: Robert Frost

Here's one that everybody loves, perfect for a spring day when everything is in bloom:

Nature's first green is gold,  

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

I Confess--

 That I stole my tagline, “Cozy mysteries with romantic interruptions,” from Dorothy L. Sayers. Sayers was the author of the Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries; published primarily in the 30s, the Wimsey mysteries are prime examples of the “Golden Age” of British detective fiction.

Wimsey is an aristocratic sleuth who takes up detecting as a hobby after he returns to England after World War I. While I love all the books, in the early ones Wimsey is a bit of a flat character. It isn’t until the series introduces Harriet Vane, a mystery writer wrongfully accused of murder, that he becomes fully dimensional. Though Sayers swore she’d never have her sleuth involved in a romance, she spins out a wonderful one over several books that culminate in the marriage of Harriet and Peter. In fact, Sayers got so enthusiastic about the love story that she was accused of having a crush on her own character, a topic I addressed in my Rosemary D blog.

The last book in Sayers’ series, Busman’s Honeymoon, carries this subtitle: “A Love Story with Detective Interruptions.” So with a little tweaking, it became a way for me to define my stories. But let’s call it an homage, shall we?

I don’t know about you, but I really need some romance in my mysteries. (I need some mystery in my romance, too, but that’s a post for another day.) Giving your detective a love interest humanizes him or her, and it gives readers something else to wonder about—will they get together or not?—besides the murder. And it keeps us turning pages. As much as I respect Sayers’ formidable skills with a mystery, it was the love story that kept me coming back to the books.

My own “saucy sleuth,” Victoria Rienzi, has not one, but two love interests. There’s her old love, now working as a chef in her parents’ restaurant, and a new guy, a rough-around-the-edges woodworker from New Orleans who may not be what he seems. Each one is a likely suitor for my character; each guy has his own brand of appeal. But which will Victoria end up with?

Well now, that’s a mystery isn’t it? And you’ll have to stay tuned to find out. . .

If I'm Gonna Kill 'Em. . .

I figure I might as well feed them first. So before any victims bite the dust in my books, at least they get a good meal.

 The idea for the Italian Kitchen Mysteries originally came from my agent, who thought an Italian restaurant would make a great setting for a cozy series. I thought if that restaurant were on the boardwalk at the Jersey shore, it could open up all sorts of fun possibilities.

My fictional restaurant, the Casa Lido, is a vintage classic. It’s got a great old bar, wood paneling, and of course, red-checked tablecloths. (I like to think it’s the kind of place Bruce might stop in to on the way home from a gig.) In keeping with the series’ theme, each book will feature a couple of family recipes that figure into the story.

 And since the Casa Lido is across from the boardwalk, there are plenty of other food options: great Jersey pizza, sausage and peppers, fresh seafood and homemade lemonade. Not to mention our own Kohr’s custard and salt water taffy. You can just smell it all, can’t you?

So I hope you'll join me as my mysterious journey begins. Murder and Marinara debuts this October, but if you'd like a taste, be sure to check out the excerpt here on the site. 

I’m so pleased to be kicking off my Rosie G website today. This gorgeous site was created by Waxcreative Design, Inc. Molte grazie to the fabulous Emily Cotler and Maxamaris Hoppe for bringing my vision to life.

Adriana, My Paesana

I open Adriana Trigiani's books with trembling hands--not because I can't wait to read, though that's true--but because her work is so familiar and terrific and I wish I'd written it myself. Her city settings and Italian-American characters resonate so deeply with me that I wish I could just call her up and chat. (Also, her book covers are to die for.)

This month, appropriately enough, I'm reading the first two books of her Valentine trilogy. I started with Very Valentine, which introduces us to Valentine and her hilarious family, all of whom are instantly recognizable to me. There's a crazy family wedding, a sexy Italian chef, and even sexier Italian shoes.

Now I'm on to Brava, Valentine, in which Valentine takes over the family shoe business and takes up with a hunky Italian tanner. (Not the Jersey Shore variety. He works with leather.)

Trigiani hits the sweet spot in women's fiction: her stories are funny, heartfelt, and smart. Beyond that, she markets herself wisely and takes great care of her fans.

So brava, Adriana. You're an inspiration to the rest of us.

Say It Ain't Snow. . .

Okay, it's pretty. Winter wonderland and all that.  And it's sort of sweet to watch my elderly terrier tap into her inner puppy when she goes outside. (See below) But I. Have. Had. It. I want sunshine. Daffodils. And some Easter bunnies, please. And make it snappy, will ya?

♥ ♥ ♥

Mary Stewart at Midnight

Or any other time, as far as I'm concerned. One of  my all-time favorite comfort reads have to be Mary Stewart's classic romantic suspense novels of the 50s and 60s. (I make one allowance for the 70s for Touch Not the Cat. Best love story ever.) I discovered her as a teenager, and fell in love with her romantic locales, feisty, independent heroines, and swoon-worthy heroes--many of the cerebral variety. Over the last couple of years I've been collecting early editions  published by Morrow.

None of them is particularly valuable; a couple are old library editions, but I think they're gorgeous. And there's nothing like curling up with one on a rainy night. For other Stewart fans out there, please see this terrific site by Jennie and Julie, who also have a companion blog for all things Lady Mary.

♥ ♥ ♥

Hail the Humble Frittata

No matter how fancy I try to get in the kitchen, in the end I am what used to be called "a good plain cook." But I must admit, I'm pretty adept at whipping up comfort food, particularly at this time of year. Roasted sausage with peppers and polenta, pasta with pancetta, greens and white beans, and a recent meal I served up: a lovely frittata rounded out with a green salad and homemade bread.

This one came about at the end of a long day. I was tired, and nothing was defrosted, but I didn't particularly feel like pizza or Chinese take-out. In the refrigerator were some leftover roasted potatoes with carmelized onions and a package of fresh mozzerella. Since I have a serious breakfast habit, I always have eggs on hand; ditto Progresso bread crumbs, a staple no Italian kitchen is ever without. I sliced the potatoes thin, estimated how much cheese to slice (then added six more slices) and scrambled up some eggs with freshly ground pepper, salt, grated Parm, and the flavored crumbs, making sure to get every last piece of sweet browned onions in there. I started it on the stove in the cast iron pan you see above, and finished it off in the oven. While it set up, I threw together a salad and warmed up half a loaf of bread. With a glass of strong red wine, that meal was nirvana. And I put it together in just about the time it would have taken me to get to the pizza place and back. Brava, buona frittata!

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My Life in Cook Books

My obsession with cook books started with this little volume:

I guess it caught my eye because it looked like fun. And it was. The Betty Crocker Party Book was a 60s classic, filled with recipes for party foods and ideas for favors and games. I remember my mom using it for holidays and for our birthday parties. I can't say I ever made anything from it, but just looking it gave me lots of pleasure. By the time I had a place of my own, this iconic volume became my culinary bible:

While I only played around with Betty Crocker, I got serious with Irma Rombauer. But she was a serious cook who took a nearly scientific approach to food. For basics--a perfect hard-boiled egg, a smooth white sauce, or flaky pie crust--she has few peers. And she taught me a whole lot about the craft of cooking. By the 80s and 90s, however, a new kitchen bible emerged:

Every young married I knew owned one of these. We were moving away from our mothers' cook books and embracing a new, yuppie-inspired cuisine that started with fresh, seasonal foods and put together with unusual ingredients, courtesy of Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukens. Which of us hasn't made the Chicken Marbella from this book, which pairs chicken with green olives and prunes? Exotic stuff at the time! I followed this one up with Silver Palette's New Basics Cook Book, and then both of Jane Brody's books. And while I had some favorite recipes out of both of them, those meals just didn't feed my soul the way Italian dishes did. My Sunday Sauce was my mom's recipe, handed down from her own mother. I made a lemon and garlic chicken based upon the memory of my Sicilian grandmother's version, but mostly I winged it. And then I came across this book in the bargain bin at Borders:

This oversized, nearly 800-page sucker fundamentally changed the way I cook. It's authentic, clearly written, and contains recipes for everything from antipasto to zuppa. (The recipe for Bolognese sauce alone is worth the cover price.) Most significantly though, it teaches me the process behind the great foods that are my heritage, like how to make a real ragu or the steps involved in a great risotto. And every time I open it, I learn something new about Italian cuisine. So what about you? Which cook books hold a revered place in your kitchen or a warm spot in your heart?

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