This being rural New England in September, I fetched all the produce for this soup from farm stands within miles of where I’m perched. Now it’s simmering on the stove, hopefully to take the edge off this cold, foggy Sunday as I write through feeding the birds with my Daddy in 1978. As of today I’ve written about a quarter of this book, which feels both daunting and impressive. I’ve never run a marathon but I imagine it’s as exhilarating and impossible as this. Thanks goodness everything I’ve foraged, stewed, baked, broiled and simmered here has produced such immediate pleasures. Cooking and writing are such happily codependent activities.
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This Is Not Uncle
This week i’m writing a super-scary section of my book and am plagued with anxious questions and baroque self-doubt. Is this too dark? Too seamy? Too implausible (though it really happened)? And (worst fear of all) will anyone give a fuck? It occurs to me that we all constantly feel this way even when we’re not writing books or undertaking some other scary venture so I send solidarity if the sensation is especially acute. Feel free to send magic carpets and unicorn carrier pigeons if you’re so inclined. Golden parachutes also welcome, though in my heart of hearts I know there ain’t no way out but to write it.
