The Gourmet Girl’s Un-Gourmet Son

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Jessica Conant-Park lives in Manchester, NH with her chef/husband, Bill, and their son, Nicholas. Jessica writes the Gourmet Girl mysteries with her mother, Susan Conant. Their cozy, culinary, chick lit series is set in the Boston restaurant scene…recipes included!

I come from a food-oriented family, no question. My parents have been cooking up gastronomic treats for as long as I can remember, learning from Julia Child’s television show in the ‘70s and experimenting in the kitchen with their own recipes. I grew up on meals from across the globe and eagerly visited local ethnic shops with my parents, browsing through the Greek market for spanikopita and tabouhli. I was bitterly disappointed with the disgusting cafeteria fare offered by my college and spent vacations home devouring all the good food I could get my hands on. I even stayed true to my love of food by marrying a very talented chef, my husband Bill. He wooed me with culinary delights and I fell madly in love with him and his cooking. I even started writing the Gourmet Girl mystery series in honor of my food obsession.

When I found out I was pregnant, my husband and I immediately started planning how we would make our own baby food and raise a child who ate more than macaroni and cheese and hot dogs. I must say, we were full of smug superiority knowing that our child would be born with a genetically enhanced palate. We would take him to restaurants and order him honey-glazed chicken with olive risotto, Vietnamese noodle dishes covered in vegetables, or shrimp gumbo!

The first time I fed him that icky baby cereal was a monumental event for me and I distinctly remember feeling that, despite the blandness of the food item, this was the start of a lifetime of gourmet eating! When it was time for more advanced foods, I followed the pediatrician’s advice about starting him on vegetable purees before fruits so he wouldn’t get too interested in the sweet fruit and reject the vegetables. All went well and Nick loved the spinach, squash, and even the lentils! I just knew it! How many babies love lentils? I thought.

Ha! This is what you get for being so full of yourself: our son, Nicholas, couldn’t have cared less about our pre-natal predictions for his culinary enthusiasm. The post jarred-food days are when things started to go downhill. Aside from his love of Chinese dumplings, Nick refused to touch anything out of the ordinary. My pasta salads that were loaded with beans and finely diced veggies were hurled at the wall. The organic fruits were tossed at the dog and the scrambled eggs full of turkey and cheddar were simply mashed up on his highchair.

To make matters worse, he developed a milk allergy and I had to remove all dairy from his diet for a few years. I can’t say I was a big fan of many of the soy products, but despite my creativity in offering up interesting meals, my kid wanted nothing to do with my cooking. Even when the milk allergy resolved itself, Nick simply refused to eat what Bill and I ate; one taste of that orange mac and cheese and all hope was gone! (I’ll never forgive Bill for making that…)

Nick is seven-years-old now and continues to eat the tiniest variety of foods! I could probably list on one hand what he’ll eat and none of those things include anything vaguely resembling a vegetable; in fact, God forbid a fleck of parsley show up on his plate. “What’s that green thing????” he’ll scream in horror.

My husband even came up with a game he calls Food Fear Factor; he closes his eyes and lets Nick feed him mystery items and then they switch roles. Poor Bill has suffered through mouthfuls of black pepper followed by pickled beets. (Um, why we have pickled beets in the fridge, I have no idea…) When it’s Bill’s turn to feed Nick, he usually picks something mundane like plain, unseasoned chicken breast. No matter what boring item Nick gets in his mouth, his turn in the game is invariably marked by wails of disgust and a variety of gagging noises. So much for Food Fear Factor.

The pediatrician reassures me that he will, in fact, grow out of this. Apparently my chef husband was actually the same way as a child and was extremely picky about what he ate, so I do have hope for Nick. He is growing like a weed and his doctor estimates he’ll be about 6’ 2” so he is obviously getting what he needs from his limited diet. I refuse to get into food struggles with him and so continue to offer different things with the belief that one day a light will go off and he’ll discover the joys of fancy Italian pasta dishes, fresh seafood baked in foil packets with herbs and vegetables, and upscale delicacies like foie gras and lobster. How humiliating that the son of a culinary mystery writer and a chef has zero interest in consuming anything beyond peanut butter sandwiches and grilled cheese! For now, I have accepted that this Gourmet Girl has a son whose greatest culinary interest is suggesting new titles for my series. So far, his top choices are Eat That Chicken and Kill That Turkey. I think both of those come from seeing a copy of Nancy Fairbanks’ Turkey Flambe lying next to my bed….but, hey, it’s a start!

Jessica Conant-Park
http://conantparkmysteries.googlepages.com/

The Mother of All Blogs

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As you know if you’ve read either of my books and have seen the jacket copy, my father is a retired New York City police officer. Interestingly, this is the primary thing that most people who talk to me about my writing want to talk about. The few interviews I have had—some in print, one on a local cable station—have started out with the request to “tell us about your father.” This has become something of a family joke—hey, Maggie, how are the books doing and how are their sales affected by Dad? Do you have any upcoming interviews? Will the interviewer want Dad to be there?

Dad, of course, is extremely flattered.

But my mother, I fear, is starting to feel left out. During one of these joke-fests, my Mom finally blurted out, “What about the mother?! Doesn’t anyone want to know about the mother?!”

Indeed, what about the mother? Let me tell you a little bit about my mother.

My mother was the second of two children. Her brother, John, is without a doubt one of the kindest, nicest men you’ll ever meet. (One day I’ll write about his not-so-dangerous stint in the Air Force during the Korean War. It involves cooking, gymnastics, and R&R in Osaka.) His sister/my mother? The same. I don’t know what my grandmother did to raise two such wonderful people, but she did. And I thank her for it.

My mother raised four children on a shoe-string budget, sent them to Catholic school, and attempted—even though she will admit that cooking is not her forte—to provide a nourishing meal every night. She once told me that her goal was to serve a protein that cost no more than $3 a dinner. Now I know we’re going back thirty years or so, but $3? I don’t remember eating cat food, but this was a woman who could stretch a budget.

But this is not a woman who could sew. My father, the cop, needed new patches sewn on his NYPD shirts. She sewed them on—upside down. He was the laughing stock of the precinct. There was many a time when the hem on my plaid uniform skirt was hanging only to be repaired with a staple or two or a strip of Scotch tape. The nuns were not amused.

Nor could she sort laundry. My father—yep, the cop—was driving to work one day, wearing what he thought were his uniform socks. He had pulled them from his drawer one dark winter morning and donned them quickly, in a rush as he always was at four or five in the morning. He got about halfway to the George Washington Bridge when he realized that the circulation was completely cut off in his ankles and calves. The reason? He was wearing my uniform socks. And I was in the third grade.

But this is a woman who can love. She nursed me through two pregnancies, a life-altering surgery, a long and protracted illness. She held my hand when my grandmother—her mother—died. And she has listened to me cry about a myriad of woes concerning my various jobs, my childcare situation (or lack thereof), my children, my house, my friends, my dog…you name it. And she always had sage advice. She’ll cry with me, but always remind me that whatever I’m experiencing, I’m blessed. I could have it much, much worse.

So, you want to hear about my mother? This just scratches the surface. She’s all this and more and I don’t tell her enough how much I love her. Let this blog serve as a valentine, a belated Mother’s Day wish (I still owe her a card and a present!), and a happy birthday all rolled into one.

And to all of the Mom’s out there–happy belated Mother’s Day. One day isn’t enough but it will have to do.

The Public Safety Writers Associations Conference

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This was the book table at the PSWA conference. My husband is back there with the PSWA treasurer. If you look closely, you can see the “hunky firemen” on the table cloth.

We will be returning to Las Vegas in June of 2009. And we’re going to ask for people to suggest presentations or panels they’d like to do or be on. Because many of the people who come are involved with law enforcement, we’ve already had a forensic expert volunteer. But we also don’t have any requirements about publishers as far as who can be on panels and everyone can have their book(s) for sale.

I’ve been reminiscing about how much fun I had at the PSWA conference. Do hope some of my fellow mystery writers will join us next year.

Marilyn

Summer Jobs

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My daughter comes home from college on Wednesday. She’s got two internships this summer, but unfortunately only one pays even a small stipend. Usually my husband and I encourage her to take jobs where she can earn enough to cover her personal expenses during the school year. But she’s a film studies major and we agreed that these two summer opportunities in the entertainment industry were too good to pass up. In today’s job market, employers definitely check what kind of career-building internships an applicant has held. We see this summer as investment in her future. If we’re lucky, her stipend will at least cover her summer expenses.

I wish I could say that my summer jobs were career building. Frankly, I usually never gave jobs a thought until I’d been home a week or two from school. At that point, my exasperated parents would slam into my room one morning around eleven and yell something to the effect that (1) money didn’t grow on trees and (2)there was no way in hell I was spending the summer partying at night and sleeping in the day and I’d better haul myself out of bed and find some summer employment or else. Which could explain the boring, dead-end, ‘don’t bother to list them on the resume’ positions I held every summer.

My daughter and her friends started their job searches last Christmas. The competition for good internships is more intense than trying to get into Harvard on a full scholarship. For the unpaid internship she has, there were 1000 applicants, 200 students were interviewed, and 15 were chosen. I guess we’re lucky we didn’t have to pay for the privilege of no pay.

But sometimes dead end jobs teach you as much as these career builders. The summer after I graduated from high school, I got a job in the Baltimore City water department. I don’t want to tell you how old I am, but let’s just say that they were still totaling district water bills with electric adding machines. Summers in Baltimore are charitably described as hot and humid. Sweat, not perspiration, but sweat is a constant companion. Real men, apparently, didn’t need no stinkin’ air conditioning, stinkin’ being the operative word.

Anyway, the work was deathly boring. Whenever you had finally finished a huge mass of water bills, there was always a hundred more piles to do. But what I remember the most about that summer is the old man who’d been in the department for thirty years. He was as thin as a rail and literally bent in half. His body was permanently bowed at the waist, from what I assume was a severe spinal condition. His job was exactly the same as mine: To add up an endless pile of water bills. But while I would be leaving in the fall for college, this was his permanent position. He would be doing it until he retired.

Spending a long, hot, boring summer in the Baltimore City water department taught me more than almost any other job I’ve ever held. While I’d been able to effortlessly tune out all those parental lectures on the importance of an education, the image of the bent man adding up water bills was enough to send me off to school that fall with a new sense of urgency.

How about you? What were your summer jobs?

Evelyn David
www.evelyndavid.com

A Dad’s View of Mother’s Day

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Austin S. Camacho is the author of the fast-paced Hannibal Jones mystery series, starting with Blood and Bone (Echelon, 2006). His newest book, Successfully Marketing Your Novel in the 21st Century (Intrigue Publishing), was published in April. Visit Austin’s web site at www.ascamacho.com.

Considering the name of this blog site and the holiday coming up in a couple of days, I kind of knew what I had to write about today. That was a little intimidating. After all, what’s left to say about Mother’s Day? But then my lovely wife Denise bailed me out, as she so often does, with this comment about this weekend’s special day:

“I don’t mean to make it sound like I don’t appreciate it, it’s just that sometimes the kids make me feel pretty unimportant in their lives and on this particular day it would be nice if they made an effort. Sounds pretty selfish I guess, but I think all moms want to feel special on Mother’s Day. Do you feel the same about Father’s Day? Does it matter to you at all?”

Well, her question about Father’s Day got me thinking. After a while I realized that at one time Father’s Day was very important to me. I remember wanting so badly for my little girls to realize how hard I worked at raising them. Not just the canoe trips or Disney World tickets, but the skinned knee tending, tolerating the slumber parties, the days I turned a blind eye to small misdemeanors and the nights I chased the bad boys away.

Of course, they never did appreciate all I did, not until years after I was finished doing all I could for them. And why should they? After all, my love was never unconditional, the way my wife’s is. I criticized the goofy hair styles, crazy fashions and shady friends. She, God bless her, accepted them exactly as they were, and loved them for exactly who they were.

Today, I’m not really being a dad to those kids. They’re on their own, using the tools I gave them to build their own lives. The old dog has learned, and I no longer expect kids to appreciate the work I put into them. Besides, I’m not really a friend to them the way my wife is. I think maybe fathers can be friends or they can be teachers and caretakers. We men just don’t have the goods to be both at once. And I think that maybe, just maybe, that’s what makes mothers so special. You see, even the best of men can only be in one place at a time. Only your mother can lead you, stand beside you, and get behind you, all at the same time.

On the other hand, it seems to me that guys don’t care that much about getting gifts and such either. The only thing I’d really appreciate on a day like Father’s Day would be for the kids to just call or come by and say thank you for trying and for caring what happens to them. The rest is form and artifice, like Christmas wrap and tinsel, which also mean very little to me. And I know that makes me a Scrooge and ruins it for everyone else, so I try to keep it to myself.

By the same token, Mom will make every flower, every card, every little gift bought with your allowance seem like solid gold and just what she was praying for. She’ll make you feel good just by appreciating your effort and a little thought. And I can’t say how much of that reaction is for your benefit, how much of it is tradition, and how much is Christmas wrap and tinsel.

But, just in case, no matter what else we do, we should all be sure to go to Mom on Sunday and say thank you for trying and for caring.

It’s a small price, I think, for unconditional love.

Austin Camacho

Your Own Facts – I Don’t Think So!

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There’s spin and there’s lying. And there’s a difference between the two. You know it and I know it, but reporters and politicians don’t seem be acquainted with the difference. The worst thing is that the public has come to accept the lies as business as usual.

Well, I’m tired of liars not being confronted. Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, but not their own facts. Yes, I’m going to talk about the elephant (and the donkey) in the room – politics.

I was listening to the political pundits on CNN the other night – they had a panel of “experts” and a moderator who acted as more of a pundit than a moderator. The Obama side had a couple of talking heads and so did Clinton. And just to round out the group there were three or four experts who claimed to be neutral. One pundit would make a statement, claiming it was a fact. One from the other side would claim that statement was untrue. Then they began talking over each other – the goal being to drown out the other and win the sound bite. The moderator did very little to redirect or focus the discussion.

The pundits weren’t giving opinions so much as they were asserting “facts” – contradictory facts. Back and forth it went. The moderator never called either pundit out; never made either justify or prove the statement they’d just made. And all “facts” could not be correct. Someone was lying. Not spinning. Lying.

I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of being lied to. And I’m tired of the reporters, the politicians, and the pundits thinking that the American public is stupid. We’re not stupid, but sometimes we’ve got all we can handle just dealing with work, home, and family. We expect someone else to deal with the damn ringing phones. We expect our government to take care of the big problems, but more and more the government is the big problem: disaster responses, illegal immigration, the rationale(s) for the war in Iraq, airport security, the care of our wounded soldiers, voting machines, etc.

We know that just because someone – be it your child or the “would be” President – says something loudly and repeatedly doesn’t make it a fact. But often it’s just too much effort to do any research or object. It’s easier to just ignore the lie – and accept the liar. We’ve become complacent. We ignore the noise. At this point in America’s history, we’ve become used to lies; we don’t expect the truth, not from the government, and not from anyone running for office.

We need to wake up.. We need to write letters to the editor. We need to communicate our feelings to our legislators. We need to get involved. We need to answer that phone until we can get our government working the way it should be

And for heaven’s sake – don’t forget to vote in your local, state, and national elections. We need to elect smart, honest, hardworking men and women to start working on some of those big problems.

I know there have to be a few of those rare souls out there – somewhere.

Evelyn David

Guitar Zero

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My son got a Wii for Christmas this past year. It was the only thing he wanted and thank goodness for that, because a Wii is an investment. He’s been playing it nonstop since Christmas vacation and has practically worn out the nunchuck controllers.

He just had a birthday and announced prior to turning nine that he wanted Guitar Hero III. Not Guitar Hero I or II…it has to be III. I don’t know why, but it just did. Fortunately, my husband, who follows the world of electronics much more closely than I do, knew exactly what he was talking about, went out and bought it and had it wrapped before his actual birthday.

My son was elated when he opened it up and immediately went up to the playroom to set it up. Even my daughter went, too. And I haven’t seen either of them since. And that was over a month ago.

Because you know those goofy Wii commercials where the whole family is playing the Wii? Apparently, it’s pretty realistic. After watching the kids play “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns ‘n Roses for three hours straight, I had to see how this was done. They were dubious. My son asked me if I even knew who Guns n’ Roses were. I do. He then asked me if I knew who Slash was. Not only do I know who Slash is, I know his real name. (It’s Saul Hudson.) And I know that he plays on a Les Paul. I also know that Axl Rose, the lead singer, had a long and tumultuous relationship with Victoria’s Secret model Stephanie Seymour. (I have a head full of useless information like this; this is why I always forget to buy milk at the grocery store, even though it’s on the list. My brain is just too full.)

Then, in an attempt to really convince them of my electronic wizardry and hipness, I also informed them that we were the first family on our block to have Pong, the first video game in existence. I told them that it wasn’t easy trying to hit that giant circle with the square blocks on either end; it got faster as the game went along.

The kids looked at me as if to say, “who are you and what have you done with our mother?”

Why do kids think that their parents are one-dimensional figures whose main jobs including cooking, cleaning, and nagging? We are well-rounded people who have back stories, who were once (maybe) hip, who danced at Xenon and Danceteria before there was no longer a market for 80s-style dance clubs or shoulder pads.

They still didn’t think I had anything approaching street cred, let alone Guitar Hero III cred, but my daughter reluctantly gave up the controls and handed them to me. I strapped on the faux guitar, chose their favorite song, and attempted to play. It went something like this:

Me: I used to be pretty cool, you know. (I said, putting on my glasses so I could see the buttons on the guitar.)

Daughter: Yeah, right.

Son: You’re not cool, Mom. Sorry to break it to you.

Me: (ignoring their disdain and disbelief) How do you do this? (voice raised over the pulsing bass beat)

Daughter: You have to push the buttons and strum the strummer.

Son: Not like that! (pointing at the guitar strapped across my chest)

Daughter: Hit the red button!

Son: Strum!

Daughter: Now green!

Son: Strum!

Daughter: Hit green!

Son: Hit green and strum at the same time!

I was now worked up and had beads of sweat coming down my face. I looked like one of the senior citizens that I’ve seen on every news program talking about how the Wii is being used to get the elderly moving. And I still hadn’t made it through one song. The electronically-created crowd in Guitar Hero III started to boo vigorously.

I begged for another chance. The kids looked dubious.

Daughter/Son: Ok. One more chance. And then we get it back.

Son: Give her an easy one.

I asked them if they had “Tiny Bubbles” by Don Ho. They looked at me as if I had been taken over the body snatchers.

They put on a song that I didn’t know and chaos ensued once again.

Son: Strum!

Daughter: Hit the green button! The GREEN button! Not the red one…you’re not very good at this.

My son approached me and like Jack Nicholson in “A Few Good Men” put out his hand and said, “Hand it over. You can’t handle Guitar Hero III.”

I left the area, dejected. I went downstairs, put a roast in the oven, nagged them to pick their clothes up, and put a load of laundry in the washing machine. Just to remind myself of the old days, I jumped up on top of the washer and sang “Rio” by Duran Duran. Or at least the words I could remember.

Maybe they have a point.

Maggie

Frank Sinatra

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This post will definitely show my age. When I was asked to be part of the Stiletto Gang I was surprised–and pleased. Surprised because I haven’t worn shoes with high heels for two decades. Pleased because such an invitation was certainly flattering.

Our local newspaper had an article about the timelessness of Frank Sinatra’s music in the magazine section. My mind was flooded with memories. When I was a young teen and attending junior high, I belonged to a teen club called Calling All Girls (associated with a teen magazine by the same name) sponsored by a large department store in downtown L.A. Meetings were held once a month and new on the scene entertainers attended.

A very young and skinny Frank Sinatra, complete with bow tie, was one of these entertainers. Frankly, I don’t remember too much about it except that it was exciting and when he sang we all screamed just like the girls do today. My younger sister was with me and she remembers us as all being rather silly.

As the years passed, of course Frank and his songs became more and more popular. When I met my husband-to-be, a really cute sailor, he reminded me of Frank Sinatra. Besides being skinny, he had a lock of black hair that hung in a curl over his forehead, much like Frank. My hubby also played the piano, including some of Frank’s songs. Needless to say, I was smitten.

After we married, when hubby was overseas, I could look at Frank Sinatra’s picture and superimpose the image of my husband and also do the same with Frank’s movies. As Frank aged, and hubby did too, the resemblance faded.

To this day, though when I hear Frank sing, memories of those first feelings of love for my husband flood my memory. So, now you know how ancient I am.

Marilyn
http://www.fictionforyou.com

Batter Up!

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It’s spring! Besides my allergies kicking into high gear, this is also the time when Little Leaguers are swarming through town. Every Saturday, you see scads of kids with grass-stained knees, wearing brightly colored t-shirts marked with the name of their team’s sponsor.

Once in a while, the volunteer in charge of shirts doesn’t check carefully and a typo is immortalized for the season. For example, one year my son’s team was sponsored by Ray’s Cantina, which everyone thought was a Mexican restaurant. Unfortunately, Ray Catena is a high-end luxury car dealership who thought they were spreading goodwill, not nachos, through their sponsorship. But as they say, shirts happen.

I confess that I once got snookered into serving as Commissioner of the Kickball division of Little League. It’s not a job for the faint of heart. Even then, you had some parents trying to stack the team with ringers – you know, the kid who has a late birthday, is really 14, and can kick a ball through goalposts in the next state.

The scores at these games were always 100-100, since everyone gets up to bat, each team has at least 15 kids, and nobody can make an out, even when they are holding the ball and only have to step on the bag in front of them. The multi-part concept is too much for the kindergarten set.

You could always tell the one who was the younger sibling. He’d already spent the better half of his short life in the bleachers, watching his older brother or sister play some game. Finally it was his turn: he was the one on a team. He’d swagger up to home plate and with great flourish, pull on his older brother’s batting gloves. The fact that this was kickball was too subtle a point. He’d draw back and kick the ball with a ferocity envied by the New York Giants. Of course, sometimes, he’d hit nothing but air and it would take quick thinking on the part of the coach to avoid a full preschooler meltdown. Other times, the young athlete would barely touch the ball and it would dribble pathetically down the line to third base, while the entire assemblage of parents would cheer with enthusiasm rivaled only by the Dallas Cheerleaders. You could always tell the first-time parents by the decibel level they could reach if their offspring managed to connect foot to ball.

In any case, no matter where the ball was kicked, the entire opposing team would head, en masse, after it, while anyone on base would merrily circle the infield, sometimes multiple times, running up the score. Often coaches would mercifully call the game for darkness, which was the result of the adults putting on sunglasses and declaring, at 10 am, that it would soon be dinnertime.

I’ve been doing spring cleaning and recently focused on the stash of trophies my kids have been hoarding, proof of their hours on the field of battle. I’ve got four kids so the mantle in the family room is a mini-village of faux-brass miniature sports players. The math gets too complicated for me, but four kids, times three sports seasons, times countless years equals…? Since I don’t think there is much of a market for recycling these homages to youth athletics, I’m tossing the whole bunch into green garbage bags and praying the trash men can heave them into their trucks.

I’d tell you that I miss those days…and since I’m a fiction writer, I could probably make it stick. But this is a mystery blog, so instead I’m trying to fashion a suspense-filled storyline from my experiences in the bleachers. How’s this? It’s bottom of the sixth. Bases loaded. Score tied. Championship on the line. And then….

Evelyn David

The Old Desert Island Scenario

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Joanne Dobson is the author of the Professor Karen Pelletier mystery series, Quieter Than Sleep, The Northbury Papers, The Raven and the Nightingale, and Cold and Pure and Very Dead from Doubleday and Bantam, and The Maltese Manuscript from Poisoned Pen Press. Until recently she taught literature and creative writing at Fordham University. She is now at work on Death Without Tenure, available from Poisoned Pen Press in 2009.

If I were stranded on a desert island, what three books would I want with me? Okay, Evelyn David, I’ll take up the challenge. It’s a hoary topic, but if it’s good enough for a Malice Domestic panel, it’s good enough for me.
Just let me say—first of all, I wouldn’t be stranded on a desert island; the merciless sun can cause melanoma, sand in my shoes gets annoying, and I don’t particularly like coconut milk. I’d be blizzard-stranded in a cozy log cabin somewhere in New Hampshire, with a kerosene lamp, a month’s worth of kerosene, a winter’s stack of firewood, a wood-burning stove, and plenty of matches. I’d have a pantry full of cans and boxes and an outdoor cache of moose meat built high above the reach of wolves and coyotes, like Kate Shugak in Dana Stabenow’s Alaska mysteries. What am I forgetting? A cell phone charged sufficiently so that I could let the handsome local Forest Ranger know exactly where I am. That should do it.
That’s fantasy life. In real life, I truly was stranded in a blizzard, and I truly did have a stash of books. This was about fifteen years ago in early March. It was semester break and my husband and I were leaving for a week in Louisville, Kentucky from our home in Westchester County, New York. We were packed to go when I heard on a newscast some chilling (pun) words: Blizzard of the Century. You can imagine the marital disagreement for yourself, but when we got to the part where my husband said, “you are such a wimp,” I gave in—on two conditions. The first was that we stop at a local deli and buy a quart thermos of coffee, two huge roast-beef sandwiches and a stash of chocolate bars. The second, and more important, was that we also stop at the library. I took out six mystery novels, the maximum allowed. Praise all the gods of book-heaven for the latter, because we spent the next four days at a Holiday Inn in State College, Pennsylvania, eating (once we’d finished the roast-beef sandwiches) powdered eggs, instant mashed potatoes, packaged macaroni and cheese, tuna-noodle casserole—whatever the also-stranded hotel workers could come up with from the storage room.
And we read. When the power began cycling off and on, we read during the day and slept at night, woke up with the first sun and read some more. I’d chosen some favorites from familiar series, but the only title I remember for certain was Lindsay Davis’s The Silver Pigs. I remember that because it was the first in the Marcus Didius Falco historical series and it was so funny and the setting was so convincing, it transported me from a cold motel room in late-twentieth-century Pennsylvania with its closed-down Interstates directly to the Roman forum, first-century A.D. It was much warmer there.
So, going back to the desert-island, cabin-in-New-Hampshire scenario: how long would I have to be there? If it were to be forever, then there’s no question. Forget the three books, this is MY fantasy. I want every single one of Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin stories—both the novels and the short stories. I want them for the food, I want them for the orchids, I want them for the town house on Thirty-fifth Street, I want them for the familiar streets of New York City—and I want them, most of all, for Archie.

Joanne Dobson

Author of the Professor Karen Pelletier academic mysteries
Forthcoming: Death Without Tenure, Poisoned Pen Press, 2009