Had an incredibly special event on Saturday: a reading with my dear friends James Cañón and Jennifer Cody Epstein at Hudson Opera House. James' novel, Tales from the Town of Widows and Chronicles from the Land of Men, debuted in January 2007 (it's now out in paperback) and Jenn's novel, The Painter from Shanghai, came out this year a few weeks after Mudbound. The three of us met eight years ago, in our first workshop at Columbia, and wrote our novels simultaneously. James and Jenn were my primary readers, a lame term for two people who read and critiqued so many drafts of Mudbound that they could probably recite it from memory. And of course we all had many doubts along the way that we would ever finish our books and find agents and publishers and become real live authors. So it was really wonderful to read with them and celebrate our mutual success. We were joined by a great crowd of Hudsonians, including friends Tom Swope, Val Shaff, Tom Froese, Maureen Cummins, Sarah Sterling, Carol Derfner, and Marc and Christine Heller. A big merci to Gary Schiro, Joe Herwick and E. Fout for hosting us and beating the drums.
Massachussetts
Completed the final lap of my official book tour last week/weekend, beginning with a stop in South Hadley, home of Mt. Holyoke and the excellent Odyssey Bookshop. I'm in Odyssey's signed first editions program, so I spent a wrist-wilting hour signing 250 copies of Mudbound before the reading. (I did the math just now and I estimate I've autographed somewhere around 2,500 copies. You'd think I'd be heartily sick of it, but I'm not. There's something profoundly satisfying about the act of signing one's own book that defies description. I suppose that's my narcissism showing...) Afterward, I joined Odyssey's gracious owner Joan Grenier, events coordinator Emily Russo and some friends of theirs for an outstanding meal at Food 101 Bar & Bistro. Many thanks to them both for their hospitality and their enthusiastic embrace of Mudbound. Friday I drove to Wellesley for a few bucolic — if cold and rainy — days at the home of my old college pal Phyllis Spinale. It was an eye-opening glimpse into the life of a full-time mom. She has three kids age 9, 11, and 13, a recently-adopted dog, and a husband, all lovely, and all of whom she looks after and makes nutritious meals for and folds shirts for and drives to lacrosse practice and takes for walks and counsels and consoles with a serenity I found awe-inspiring, while also running five miles a day and, in her spare time, being a one-woman band for Mudbound — which, if every adult in greater Wellesley isn't already reading it, they soon will be or they'll have to answer to Phyllis. You amaze me, Phyl. Vive la différence.
Friday night I read at the First Church of Jamaica Plain, an event set up by my buddy Chuck Collins and hosted by the Jamaica Plain Forum. Chuck and I met last fall at the Blue Mountain Center, along with the indefatigable Susan Freireich, who also attended the reading. Both are excellent writers: Susan fiction, Chuck non. He's a liberal activist who has spent his adult life battling economic inequality (at BMC, Chuck taught us all to sing the union song "Solidarity Forever" to the tune of "Battle Hymn of the Republic" — which we all did, passionately if somewhat bemusedly, because it was Chuck leading the choir). We had a crowd of 25+ people at the church, and they actually asked me to read extra passages, which almost never happens. Doesn't get much better than that for an author on book tour. Thanks to Chuck and to Daniel Moss for setting up the event.
The final event of the weekend was a reading at Porter Square Books in Cambridge. Another unusually large crowd, swelled by lots of friends and friends of friends: Phyl, her sis-in-law Sue, Chuck, Susan, my friends Tom Alpern and birthday girl Charlotte Dixon. You'd think with all this support (and after being on book tour for two solid months) I would have felt completely at ease, but in fact I gave one of my worst readings of the tour, at least initially. Stammering, blushing, uh-ing — I could have been running for junior high school treasurer. I pulled out of my nose-dive eventually, but man, what a humbling and excruciating couple of minutes. Thanks to all those who didn't get up and leave, and to Nathan Hasson for coordinating the event.
Southern Reading Challenge
I've joined Maggie Moran's "Southern Reading Challenge" for summer 2008. Maggie's a librarian from Mississippi whose mission is to get more noses in books, specifically Southern books. All you have to do is pledge to read three books set in the South and written by Southerners over the summer, and then blog about them. Join the challenge at http://maggiereads.blogspot.com/ My three books, in no particular order, will be:
The Hamlet by Wm. Faulkner
Smonk by Tom Franklin
Thirteen Stories by Eudora Welty ( a reread)
Chicago
Drove from Indianapolis to the Windy City for a long weekend with my aunt & uncle, Gay and John Stanek, and my mom, who joined us from Dallas. Chicago is a dangerous place to go for a stroll when the weather's nice due to all the fabulous (and fabulously expensive) stores clustered together along Michigan Avenue: Max Mara, Stuart Weitzman, Chanel, Saks, Vuitton, etc. etc. etc. Safer to go to Millenium Park and enjoy the art and architecture, as Gay, Mother and I did on Sunday. Sunday afternoon I did a signing at yet another wonderful indie bookstore, The Book Stall at Chestnut Court in Winnetka, then had dinner that night with dear friend and playwright Lisa Dillman. We put our literary talents to dubious use, composing bawdy limericks using the words "Kaczynski" and "Lewinski." (Don't ask.)
Monday I gave a luncheon talk at Chicago's famed Arts Club, which has hosted everyone from Marc Chagall and Jackson Pollack to Martha Graham and William Butler Yeats. Talk about being in good company! That night Gay and John had a splendid soirée for me at the club, attended by about 70 of their friends and family. My friend, artist Sherri Wood, who among other things makes the most gorgeous quilts you've ever seen, happened to be in town and was able to stop by. A marvelous time was had by all.
Chicago really is one of my favorite cities in the world. I would seriously consider living there if it weren't for the cold and the wind — and the accents, which are almost as dreadful. Oh, you betcha.
Indiana - Earthquake!!!
Spoke to my largest audience ever — 950 ladies who lunch — at the annual Christamore House Author Luncheon and Benefit in Indianapolis. Christamore House is an agency that supports needy families in the community. We were given a tour of the facility the day before the benefit, and they do marvelous work there. They provide preschool, counseling, food, emergency clothing, senior activities, dental care, you name it, to people in need. A worthy place to send a few extra bucks, if you have them. Every city could use a half-dozen centers just like it. One of the main ways Christamore House raises money is the annual Author Luncheon, which is organized by a Guild of volunteers. This year the Guild hosted me and four other authors, all way more distinguished than myself: Peter Carey, Australia's most celebrated novelist, author of Booker Prize winners Oscar and Lucinda and The True History of the Kelly Gang and, most recently, His Illegal Self; Sue Miller, author of ten acclaimed books including the recent bestseller The Senator's Wife; T. Jefferson Parker, two-time Edgar award winning mystery writer; and journalist Cokie Roberts, author of Founding Mothers and Ladies of Liberty, about the undersung women who shaped the birth of our nation. The night before the benefit, all of us authors (with the exception of Cokie, who hadn't yet arrived) hung out late at the hotel over a couple of bottles of wine, swapping tour stories and talking about this crazy, solitary, maddening, wonderful thing that we all feel compelled to do. They were a lovely, funny and generous bunch, and it was truly an honor for me, as a first-time novelist, to be in their company.
At around 5:30 the next morning, I was awakened by a mighty rumbling and shaking, the hotel swaying and groaning around me. It felt a lot like the earthquakes I'd experienced when I used to live in LA. Nah, I thought, they don't have earthquakes in Indiana. Must be a train. Or a dream. Or the wine. And I promptly rolled over and went back to sleep. Turns out they do have earthquakes in Indiana. This one was a 5.4 on the Richter scale. Jeff Parker took credit for bringing it from San Diego. Said it made him feel right at home.
After that, speaking to 950 people was pretty anti-climactic. I was seated with the other authors and the event chairwomen on a dais on a stage overlooking this gigantic room full of ladies. It was odd, eating in front of so many people; I was grateful they hadn't served ribs or spaghetti Bolognese. The best part was that I got to sit next to Cokie Roberts and chat with her a bit. She is exactly as you'd expect: smart, witty, kind, and down-to-earth to boot. A class act in every sense.
Many thanks to the Christamore House Guild for inviting me to participate and to Kim Hardin, my minder, for shepherding me around Indianapolis.
The Mississippi Delta Literary Tour
A very belated blog about my wonderful time in Mississippi. The MDLT, whose mission is to "experience the place, the people, the food, and the music that inspired Mississippi writers," hosted me and fellow writers Marion Barnwell, Dorothy Shawhan, W. Kenneth Holditch, and native artist Bill Dunlap for a lovely few days of outstanding food, company and literary talk. They put us up at the luxurious Alluvian Hotel in Greenville (a vast improvement over the grimy airport Radisson at which I stayed the night before, when I missed my connection in Memphis). Gracious staff, lovely accommodations and, as an added bonus, Harry Belafonte was at breakfast my first morning. Still looking impossibly handsome by the way, and — it must be said — going straight for the cheese grits, just like I was. The two young women working the breakfast room didn't seem to recognize him, and I wondered whether that was a relief to him or a sadness. Impossible to know. Monday were readings by Dorothy and me at Turnrow Book Company in Greenwood. Turnrow is that rare thing, a NEW independent bookstore (so many of the indies have been put out of the business by amazon and the big chains). Opened two years ago by owners Jamie & Kelly Kornegay, it's a beautiful space, reminiscent of old European libraries. A terrific place to read and browse. And yet another reminder to us all to buy books from our local independent bookstores! If we don't, we won't have any, and that would be a real tragedy.
The following day we traveled to Greenville for a series of talks and readings at McCormick Book Inn. Owners High and Mary Dale McCormick are self-described "deltalogists" who specialize in all things Deltan. That night, we feasted on gigantic bloody porterhouse steaks and hot tamales at Doe's Eat Place, one of the most famous restaurants in the South. Doe's began as a strictly black honky-tonk in 1941. The food was so good that whites began coming to the back door for take-out, in an ironic reversal of segregation. Before long there was a white restaurant in back as well. Eventually the honky tonk was closed and Big Doe concentrated on the eat place — to the benefit of everyone. What a meal! We were all groaning when we left the table. I ended the evening playing cutthroat till 1:30 in the morning at the bar next door with charming tour coordinators Jimmy Thomas and Odie Lindsey. An extremely fun night, well worth the ensuing sore head.
Muskogee
I think there's probably nothing on a book tour that beats reading in the town(s) where you grew up — in my case, Dallas and Muskogee, OK, where my father and stepmonster live, as well as my great-aunt Wanda, a passel of cousins and my mother's partner's family. Muskogee is more affectionately known among my family as Damnright, OK, because nearly any question you ask about it— "Jeez, does everybody in this town have a gunrack in their pickup truck?" — can be answered with the reply, "Damn right!" I did a fun signing at Hastings. My dad stood in front of the table beaming, greeting everyone who came in and bragging shamelessly about His Daughter, The Author. All sorts of people turned up: old friends, family, old friends of my mom's, parents of people I went to school with. We had such a good crowd we ran out of books.
Afterwards Dad and Jaque threw a bash for me at their house. My three best friends from elementary school came: Jeff Payton, Kathy Rogers Keeling (with adorable son Kaleb) and Karen Milam Flusche. Jeff, who is a judge, is actually my oldest friend on the planet. We were born the same day of the same year, and have known each other since we were about a year old. We sledded, caught lightning bugs, wrassled, made snow angels, played doctor — all the fun stuff.
Others in attendance were: my brother Jared; the Turner clan, led by my step-grandfather Tom; Robert Gaddy and Jennifer McCutcheon; Tom and Martha Alford; Robin and Alice Adair; Jimmy and Jean Kay; Norman and Cheryl Thuygeson; and Paula Sexton. A wonderful time was had by all. And did some of us have headaches the next day? Damn right!
The Church of Barbecue - Epistle III
(reprinted from powells.com) Thou shalt not overcook thy meat. This is, as I was saying in my last epistle, one of the most fundamental commandments of the Barbecue God, and probably the one that man in his ignorance and imperfection has broken most often. When you're a guest at a barbecue, and your host asks you how you would like your steak cooked, do not answer, "Medium," "Medium well," or, God forbid, "Well done." This is blasphemy, pure and simple. The meet and right response is: "Medium rare, of course," or, "Bloody, please." And if you are the host and one of your guests asks you to overcook his steak, do not compound blasphemy with heresy by acceding to his request. Simply follow the time-honored example of master chefs the world over and serve the steak medium rare.
The question of how long to cook other meats is a thornier one, particularly with respect to poultry. It saddens me to think how much of the chicken I've eaten in my life has been overcooked. The desire to avoid hospitalization for salmonella poisoning, while understandable, is no excuse for heresy. Get an electronic meat thermometer with a transmitter that allows you to monitor the chicken's progress. Stick the thermometer in the meaty part of the thigh, making sure it's not touching the bone. A whole chicken will need to cook between two and three hours, depending on the temperature inside and outside the cooker; pieces vary and will need to be closely watched. Which brings me to another commandment: Thou shalt remove the chicken 5 degrees before it reaches its indicated doneness. Have faith and resist the temptation to cook it longer — it will keep cooking after you take it off the grill, and it will be perfectly done when you serve it. This commandment applies not just to chicken, but to all meats.
Think of the meat as the sacrament. This will guide you in many ways, beginning with your trip to the grocery store or butcher. Whenever possible, buy all-natural or organic meats. The difference in quality, and the absence of mystery hormones and antibiotics floating around in the temple of your body, is well worth the higher price. One of the blessings of barbecue is that you can make cheaper cuts — e.g., beef brisket — taste ambrosial by slow-cooking and smoking them.
There are a multitude of different sacraments in the Church of Barbecue and infinite ways to prepare them. Here, I will briefly touch on the holy trinity of smoked brisket, pork ribs and chicken.
Let us begin with brisket, which is surely one of the greatest gifts the Barbecue God has seen fit to bestow on us. You will know it by its fattiness, by the way the meat seems to dissolve in your mouth and by the ecstatic cries it produces in your guests. When purchasing it, ask your butcher for a packer's brisket, untrimmed. It will weigh on average about 13 pounds. Trim it yourself at home, removing only the very hard fat and any shiny connective tissue. Be warned: if you cut off too much of the fat, your brisket will be dry and tasteless. Rub it generously with kosher salt and coarse pepper and leave it in the fridge for 24 hours. Smoke fat side down for 8 hours with pecan wood, at the lowest possible temperature, making sure the meat is shielded from the heat source. Then put it in a tightly sealed aluminum roasting pan and bake at 170 degrees overnight. Chop with a cleaver and serve on white bread or, as I like to do, fresh tortillas. Do not desecrate the sacrament with sauce of any kind; it is perfect as it is. If someone asks for sauce, forgive them, for they know not what they do.
Pork ribs are the second of our church's great wonders. Some people prefer baby backs, but I like spare ribs; they're juicier and have more meat on them. Whichever you choose, always buy ribs in racks. Get thee away from pre-cut "country style" ribs and especially boneless ribs, those mutilated remnants of their former glory. Gnawing on the bone is an act of worship, pleasing in the Barbecue God's sight. Like brisket, ribs should be smoked slowly at low temperatures. I rub mine with Lawry's Season Salt and pepper, then smoke them for three hours in pecan or apple wood, meat side up. I then baste them with a mixture of 2 parts honey and 1 part soy sauce, wait 15 minutes, then baste again and cook 15 more minutes, for a total cooking time of 3 1/2 hours.
Finally we come to whole smoked chicken, otherwise known as the Rapture. I prepare for it by peppering the cavity and the exterior. From there, there are many paths to glory. The cavity can be stuffed with onion or fruit. Pears are especially tasty, and if you have pear wood for smoking, all the better. The exterior can be rubbed with kosher salt, Lawry's, Tony Cachere's, or other spice mixtures. The chicken can be glazed at the end with everything from mango sauce to maple syrup, or left unadorned. Our God delights in many forms of worship.
May His blessings be upon you, and His divine light shine always upon your patio. And now I say unto thee: Go forth and barbecue! Do I hear a hallelujah?
Monroe, LA
Had a fairly exhausting but lovely two days here, beginning yesterday afternoon with a radio interview by Elisabeth Grant-Gibson and Pat Grant, co-hosts of "The Book Report" and co-owners of Windows a Bookshop. What a pleasure, to be interviewed by smart, thoughtful people who have actually read my book, and who did not begin the interview with, "So, Mudbound — huh, what's that about?" Afterwards I checked into my hotel (where I had more fried catfish, I confess) and woke this morning at the ungodly hour of 4:30 am to prepare for a 5:45 am interview on a local news program. Since it was TV not radio, I actually had to look presentable as well as sound articulate, while totally uncaffeinated. Ha! Afterwards, at the scarcely-more-civilized hour of 6:30 or so, I had a couple of radio interviews with charming local DJs "Big Jim" Elliott (who is seriously considering quitting smoking) of KLIP and LA-105, and John Reynolds & Toby Otero of KJLO + K-104. Great guys all.
Then, at 5:00 pm, I did a reading/signing at Windows a Bookshop. This is another writer's paradise: one of those places where you know you're in the presence of serious book-lovers. Not only did they organize a wonderful event, but they and employee Betty Jo Harris cheerfully chauffered me around the whole time I was in Monroe.
I have a 6:35 am flight tomorrow to Lexington, KY, the very thought of which makes me just want to end it all now, so I won't have to hear that alarm beeping at 4:30. Did I mention I'm not a morning person...?
The Church of Barbecue - Epistle II
(reprinted from powells.com) The Church of Barbecue celebrates diversity, and there are many different kinds of cookers it sanctions, from simple kettle grills to mighty smokers capable of cooking a feast for dozens of worshippers. There is just one commandment with respect to cookers, and it is absolute: Thou shalt not use a gas grill. Only charcoal imparts the proper flavor to barbecue. Grilling with gas is an act of heresy, punishable, if not by eternal damnation, then by blandly flavored meat, which is almost as bad.
Think of your cooker as your altar, and yourself as the celebrant. Cleanliness is next to godliness: keep the inside and outside well-scrubbed, using only all-natural cleaning products (such as Simple Green). When conducting services, stay calm and focused. Avoid distracting conversations. If others insist on talking to you, stick to the weather or Britney Spears' latest breakup; avoid interesting, potentially diverting topics like whether President Bush is drinking again. And while we're on the subject of alcohol, it must be said that immoderate beer-drinking during services, however natural or "right" it may feel in the moment, can result in fatal inattention to the meat. Dry brisket, undercooked chicken, overly charred burgers — far too many sacrileges have been committed by tipsy cooks.
Your choice of what to barbecue must be guided by what type of cooker you have. The most common type is the Weber kettle. This is the Budweiser of cookers — humble and inexpensive, the perfect grill for the barbecue novice. Weber makes them in all sizes, but shun the really small ones; the coals are too close to the meat. Kettles are best for simple grilling: burgers, hot dogs, steaks, chicken, vegetables. When grilling steak, leave the lid off for the entire cooking time. For most other meats and veggies, do an initial sear, then put the lid on, turning every five minutes or so to ensure even cooking. For veggies and delicate varieties of fish, use a nonstick grill basket. Be sure to leave the air vent open, or you'll kill your fire.
Once you've fully committed to the Church and are well-versed in its tenets and practices, you may find yourself longing for a deeper, more meaningful communion with our God. At that point, I would urge you to take the next step and invest in a smoker. There are many kinds of smokers, but nothing can touch the almighty Hasty-Bake. Don't be fooled by the name: this marvelous (and expensive, I'll warn you) contraption, invented in 1948 by Grant Hastings of Tulsa, Oklahoma, is best for slow cooking at low temperatures, though you can also grill and bake on it. It has an ingenious fire pan, which can be raised or lowered to control the temperature, and a heat shield to protect the meat while smoking.
Smoke is produced by placing wet wood onto hot coals. The wood should be soaked overnight, at minimum; wood that's not wet through will burn rather than smoke, making the fire too hot and putting your meat at risk of overcooking. The two types of commercially available wood are mesquite and hickory. I'm not a disciple of either, frankly. Both have intense, bordering on pungent, flavors that tend to overpower whatever you're smoking. I do like an occasional hickory-smoked burger, but for most everything else I prefer to use more subtly flavored woods, like pecan, apple, and when I can get it, cherry and pear. Pecan is hard to find outside the South, but there are stores that will ship it to you for a small fortune in postage (worth every cent). Orchards are good places to inquire after fruit woods. You want nice-sized chunks or small logs, as opposed to puny little chips, which burn too fast and too hot. If you've never tasted pork ribs smoked in pecan wood and basted in the last half-hour with soy sauce and honey, or whole apple-wood-smoked chickens stuffed with onion and glazed with black pepper and maple syrup — well, all I can tell you is, heaven awaits you, and it's more glorious than you ever imagined.
A quick word about one other type of cooker, the Big Green Egg. I don't own one myself (though I plan to acquire one the instant I have a covered porch), but my father, the High Priest of Barbecue, does. The Big Green Egg is both a grill and a smoker, and its design is based on an ancient Japanese clay cooker called a kamado. The modern version is made from the same ceramic material used on the nose of the Space Shuttle, so you can cook on it even when it's ten degrees outside, and it won't shatter. The BGE's primary virtue is extremely fast cooking at extremely high temperatures (up to 1,800 degrees). You can barbecue a whole turkey in a mere hour and a half. The steaks my father produces on it, cooking them three minutes per side, are absolutely sublime — charred on the outside, dark red and bloody on the inside (which is of course how all true believers like their steaks cooked).
Which would bring me to a discussion of another of the Barbecue God's commandments — Thou shalt not overcook thy meat — followed by some recipes and barbecuing precepts, but once again I find myself out of space. My zeal has overpowered my self-restraint, and my sermon has gone overlong. Forgive me.
Let us close with a short prayer: Dear God, May our rubs be dry and our meat juicy. Amen.
Wordsmiths Books, Decatur
Spent an awesome & memorable evening at Wordsmiths Books in Decatur, GA (a suburb of Atlanta). They've moved to a new location on Decatur Square, and this was their last hoorah at the old one. A fine crowd welcomed me and two outstanding musical groups: The Wayne Fishell Experiment, which Wayne describes as "Decatur's only gay indie accoustic folk duo," and the spellbinding Hope for Agoldensummer. These ladies from Athens, led by sisters Claire and Page Campbell, gave one of the best live musical performances I've ever seen, bar none. Their music is hard to describe: a mix of front porch bluegrass (they have a saw and they know how to play it) and folk, sung with haunting simplicity and childlike whimsy. The gorgeous harmonics gave me gooseflesh. The band members obviously revel in every second they're onstage, and do does every member of the audience. After the show, Charles McNair, the literary editor of Paste Magazine (yes, Charles, my review of Ethan Canin's book is coming soon - I promise!) took me out for a drink and a nosh. Charles is the author of Land O'Goshen, set in a fundamentalist near-future America. So is my own next book — how weird is that? Guess I'd better read it.
Oxford & Jackson
Had a restful few days in Oxford, MS, one of the most charming towns in the South. My grandfather, James William Kirkwood, was born on a farm near there, then the family moved to a house somewhere in town (alas, I could never learn the name of the street). It was fun to imagine myself treading the same paths he walked as a young man. He was a contemporary of Faulkner, who lived his life in Oxford and was in love with my grandfather's sister Wortley at one time (she spurned him for a wealthier man, to her later chagrin). I spent the first couple of days holed up in my hotel, sleeping off the flu. Felt halfway human again by Monday, the day of my signing at Square Books. This is one of the most famous bookstores in the country; every author who is anybody has read there. I didn't have much of a crowd, but the staff made me feel very welcome. I spent a pleasurable hour signing books for them and chatting with the locals who wandered in. Afterwards I went for a drink with manager Cody Morrison and local writer/teacher Tom Franklin, author of Poachers and Smonk, his favorite of his books, which is now at the top of my to-read pile, along with his wife Beth Ann Fennelly's poetry collection Open House.
Tuesday night I attended Richard Price's considerably-more-popular (ah, well) reading at the bookstore. Afterwards we all went out for drinks at City Grocery, the local writerly watering hole, and sat on the balcony overlooking the square, talking about books and swapping tour stories. This was followed by excellent fried catfish at Ajax. A perfect Mississippi night.
Wednesday I drove down to Jackson via Philadelphia, MS, where I made an annoying bookstore stop that was attended by absolutely no one. Philadelphia has a creepy history: it's where civil rights workers James Chaney, Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner were killed in 1964 by Edgar Ray Killen. Mississippi Burning, which was about the murders, was shot there. I was very glad to be on my way to Jackson.
Jackson is home to Lemuria, which may be the coolest bookstore I've ever been to in my life. I wish I'd had half a day to kill in there; I would no doubt have left with an armload of books. I had a fun reading, attended by many of the wonderful staff, who'd all read Mudbound and were raving about it. Afterwards I went to Hal and Mal's, a local comfort food restaurant (there are a lot of those in the South) with Betty Lawson, a sales rep from Penguin who was dismayed to learn that the paperback rights to Mudbound were not for sale. We worked up a good appetite driving around in circles trying to find the restaurant. More fried catfish, I couldn't resist. Hey, when in Mississippi...
The Church of Barbecue, Epistle I
(reprinted from powells.com) Like my father before me, I worship at the Church of Barbecue. I live in a place with long, serious winters, so I don't get to practice my faith year-round, but I try to make up for it with frequent, sometimes nightly, services during the more temperate months of the year. The instant the temperature creeps above 50 degrees, or even remotely feels like it's warmish, out comes the Hasty-Bake or the Weber (more about these two essential pillars of my faith, and the differences between them, later) from the garage, and on go the ribs or the steaks or the chickens or the game hens or the ducks or the pork loins or the sausages or what have you.
Though I consider myself to be an observant and devout practitioner of my faith, my father is the undisputed High Priest. Daddy's brisket has been known to make grown men and women fall to their knees, their eyes rolling in their heads, incoherent groans of ecstasy issuing from their mouths. And that's nothing compared to the fervor elicited by his whole smoked chickens or his bone-in pork loin with mango sauce. It was my father who introduced me to the mysteries of our faith, and who continues to inspire me by his righteous example.
Barbecue is a messy, complex religion, with various branches and offshoots. My family and I are members of the Dry Rub Communion. Think of us as the Protestants of barbecue — the protest being against all that needless drowning of innocent meat in goopy, over-spiced tomato sauce. Surely no beast deserves such an ignominious end to its existence, and no diner (with the possible exception of a few members of our current Administration) deserves to have such heresy practiced upon them.
For the purist, kosher salt and coarse, fresh-ground pepper make the essential dry rub. Depending on the meat and the desired flavor, I substitute Lawry's Seasoned Salt or Tony Cachère's Cajun seasoning for regular salt. Whatever you use, be generous with it; the God of Barbecue abhors parsimony in all its forms. Leave the seasoned meat at room temperature, covered loosely in plastic wrap, for an hour or two before cooking.
While we're speaking of my God's like and dislikes, I should say a few words about charcoal. Don't even think of using those pressed, reconstituted, chemical-soaked briquettes you see at the supermarket. They are, simply, tools of the devil meant to tempt the unwary with promises of "easier lighting" and "longer burn time." Turn away from them! Better yet, cast off your old grill and go get a new, virginal one that has never been contaminated by them. And from that moment forward, use only real, natural, hardwood charcoal. Real charcoal is not uniformly squarish in shape; it resembles charred wood, which is exactly what is it is. Real charcoal does not impart a chemical taste to food, because it is not made of chemicals and additives. True, it does burn a little faster than Satan's Briquettes, but that is a small price to pay for barbecue that causes people to moan aloud in ecstasy. Some grocery stores carry it, and many hardware stores. Seek it out. Two brands I like are Cowboy Charcoal (easier to find) and Royal Oak (bigger pieces, longer burning).
Once you have the proper charcoal, don't even think of dousing it in lighter fluid. This is like helping an elderly woman across the street and then running over her in your car. Lighter fluid can contain butane, propane, naptha and benzene and all sorts of other nasty chemicals you don't want ending up (even in tiny amounts) in your food. I use an electric firestarter, a metal loop I lay under the charcoal until it's caught fire. It's a little bit of a hassle — you have to use an extension cord and plug it into an electrical outlet — but when was true faith ever daunted by a little hassle? Some people prefer those cones you fill with charcoal and light underneath with newspaper, but I don't like them. The sparks have an alarming tendency to fly up very high, and I figure even the world's tastiest barbecue isn't worth burning down my house for.
704 words, and I haven't even touched on the holy trinity of barbecue, the Weber, the Hasty Bake and the Big Green Egg! Much less the various woods that should and should not be used for smoking, the glazes for glazing, the cooking strategies required for various meats (which are as unique in their needs as souls), and the all-important inspirational music that should be played during services. How time flies when one is sermonizing...
Until next time then. Keep the faith. Rub dry or die.
Dallas, Memphis & Blytheville
I know—I've gotten way behind on my blogging. I've been battling a particularly nasty cold/flu all week, the details of which I will spare you. I haven't left the bed except to do events and get food. Currently I'm holed up in Oxford, MS, where rumor has it it's spring outside... Backing up a bit: Had my biggest crowd yet at the Barnes & Noble Preston Royal in Dallas on Tuesday night, thanks to my mom & her partner Michael, cousin Marie Fisher and old friends Chris and Kaari Molsen, who beat the drums and brought out everyone they know. My old friend Julie Brinker from sixth grade (!) put in a surprise appearance, along with Jim Cox and Gus & Evelyn Katsigris. Afterwards Marie had a lovely soirée at her house. A wonderful return to my old home town.
Flew to Memphis on Thursday, where my publisher was kind enough to put me up for two nights at the Peabody (location of a key scene in Mudbound). Historian David Cohn once wrote, "The Mississippi Delta begins in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel... If you stand near its fountain in the middle of the lobby...ultimately you will see everybody who is anybody in the Delta." Alas, I saw mostly the inside of my room this trip, sipping chicken soup and ginger ale from room service in lieu of hitting the bars on Beale St. I did a quick signing at David-Kidd Booksellers Thursday night and two interviews Friday morning, one for "Live at 9," a local TV talk show and the other for "Book Talk," a radio program. Friday night we had a big, scary thunderstorm — part of the same front that hit Atlanta.
The next morning I drove up to Mary Gay Shipley's excellent bookstore in Blytheville, Arkansas, aptly named That Bookstore in Blytheville. Had a lovely, warm crowd and was treated to lunch and Mississippi Mud Cake for dessert. It's nice to be back in the South — everyone is so gracious. I fear I've learned Yankee manners over the years. I have to constantly remind myself to slow down and make small talk ("How are you today?" "Just fine, how are you?" "Sposed to be a beautiful spring day today, that's if you believe the weatherman." "Well, I hope he's right.") before getting to the point ("What aisle is the Nyquil on?").
Austin
It's marvelous to be back in Austin, where I lived for five years. The first two days were beautiful, 60s and mostly sunny, a welcome change from the seemingly endless 30s and gloomy we've had in Tivoli. I had a lovely family dinner with my cousins, Maria and Quentin, and their spouses and rambunctious offspring — all boys — at the home of honorary family member Edward Dreslinski. Pillow and tickle fights inevitably ensued, with me on the losing side.
The reading was yesterday at BookPeople, one of my favorite bookstores on the planet. Afterwards my dear friends Gene Brenek and Michael Helferich had a shindig at their gorgeously renovated house. Wonderful to catch up with them and all my old friends, many of whom have been busy reproducing since I last saw them. Such beautiful babies! Thanks to everyone who came: Katy Rees & David Carr; Doug, Michelle & Ian Irving; Michael Coffin & unbelievably grown-up daughter Tyler; Lesley Boucher & boyfriend Mike; Scotty, Kathryn & Amelia McAfee; Susan Clark; and Raif Harik, who brought some of his favorite Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand CDs to play at the party.
Keep Austin weird!
Oblong Books, Rhinebeck
Had my second official reading at my local bookstore on Friday night. Another large, adoring crowd made up mostly of friends. (Fellow authors have warned me not to get too used to that and to prepare myself for readings when only 3 people show up and not one of them buys a book, but in the meantime, I'm basking in the glow of appearing before people I know.) Before the reading I had a celebratory dinner with a few friends — Kathryn Windley, Gary DiMauro, E. Fout, Emily Majer, Sheri Sceroler, and fellow authors & Columbia alums Owen King & Kelly Braffet. A terrific evening overall. Thanks to Dick and Suzanna Hermans of Oblong for hosting the event, and to Noelle for making those delicious cookies.
Book Party!
The official pub date of Mudbound was March 4, and the night of the 5th, my friends Denise Benou Stires, Alice Yurke and Kristin Jones threw me a party to celebrate. What a magical evening! So many people I adore were there. Much bubbly was drunk and many hugs & kisses exchanged. As I said in my little speech, it felt a lot like my wedding, only without the future ex-husband.
Family was represented by my sweet coz Robert Lewis, whose amazing photography I encourage you all to check out on his website. Elizabeth Molsen, who has known me since we were 13 (I won't say how many years ago that was) drove up from Pennsylvania. There was a big contingent of Wellesley gals — Denise, Alice, Anna Bulkot, Leslie McCall, Phyllis Spinale, Eileen Luby — and a lone male, my favorite college professor and former thesis advisor, Craig Murphy. The Columbia crew included James Cañón, with his partner José Manuel Villanueva, Jenn Epstein, Mishka Schubaly, Suzanne Dottino and Binnie Kirshenbaum. Tanya Selvaratnam snuck out of rehearsal to be there. Michael Caporusso, Rick Rudik and Marie Greener all came. Kathryn Windley (an immensely talented painter, as you will see for yourself if you click on her name) and her husband Gary DiMauro (the guy to talk to if you're looking for a house in the Hudson Valley) drove up from Red Hook. Author Tayari Jones dropped by, as did Michelle Green, who wrote that terrific 4-star review of Mudbound in People. Denise's husband Todd was the unofficial photographer for the event, and their son Hunter thoughtfully provided tractors, tanks, half-tracks and a B-17 bomber as thematic decorations.
Algonquin's publisher, Elisabeth Scharlatt, honored me with a lovely speech. She brought a number of other people from Algonquin & Workman, including Michael Rockcliff and Michael Taeckens. And my editor, Kathy Pories, flew in from Chapel Hill for the occasion. It was wonderful to finally meet her, after a year and a half of working together on Mudbound via phone and e-mail. I think we both felt a bit like Internet daters meeting for the first time after a hot and heavy 18-month exchange. And of course, my agent extraordinaire, Chris-Parris-Lamb, and his wife Whitney came.
I know, I'm gushing. But it really was one of the happiest nights of my entire life. Thanks to all who participated and made it so special.
KGB Bar
Had my very first official reading on Sunday and felt every inch the Real Author. The crowd was wildly enthusiastic (but then, most of them were very dear friends). My publisher, Elisabeth Scharlatt, whom I'd never met, made a stealth visit and introduced herself to me after the reading, at which point I was VERY glad it had gone well. After me, Rachel Cline injected some much-needed humor and read from her wickedly funny book, My Liar. Thanks to everyone who came and to Suzanne Dottino for setting up the event. It was a wonderful kick-off to the tour.
Titlewave
Received another warm welcome from booksellers at Titlewave in Hartford. Bookstream, which hosted the event, invited me, Richard Price and fellow debut novelist Steve Toltz to speak to a group of 35 or so indie booksellers. Steve read from his book, A Fraction of the Whole, and it sounds amazing. I did a presentation on the family stories that led me to write Mudbound. Everyone seemed very enthusiastic about selling the book in their stores. Did I mention how much I adore booksellers???
The ABA Midwinter Institute
I’m still feelin’ the love from this amazing gathering of 500+ independent booksellers from all over the U.S. They held a big reception on Friday night for a few dozen of us authors, including heavyweights like Tobias Wolff, Augusten Burroughs, Andre Dubus III and Ethan Canin. We sat at tables lining the walls, madly signing galleys for the booksellers. I was at the Algonquin table with Jack O’Connell, author of The Resurrectionist and four other novels. Jack and I had a steady line of people for two hours. What a rush! They were all buzzing about Mudbound, which apparently got some strong recommendations from respected booksellers (thanks again, Joe Drabyak) during the seminars they attended earlier that day. I got to meet a number of the booksellers I’ll be seeing during my tour in March and April, including Mary Gay Shipley of That Bookstore in Blytheville and Betty Jo Harris from Windows a Bookshop. And my local bookseller, Suzanna Hermans from Oblong Books in Rhinebeck, was there — a nice surprise, to see a familiar face. The highlight of the event for me was getting to meet Ethan Canin, one of my favorite writers. He gave me a signed galley of his new novel, America, America, inscribed with his address (!) so I can send him a copy of Mudbound. I would have traded him a galley on the spot but we were completely out.
After the reception Algonquin hosted another splendid dinner for Jack and me and two dozen booksellers. What a wonderful bunch of people: intelligent, curious, funny, passionate, Mudbound-loving. Move over, librarians — I think booksellers may just be my new favorite sub-species of humanity.