Recipes for Trouble

Farzana meets and greets, and folks schmooze

It was one of those snappish, cold nights on Church Street, in the heart of gay town, in the middle of February, which, defying logic, can feel like the longest month of the year. Nonetheless, a crowd of literature-lovers showed up to hang out in the funky loft above the This Ain’t the Rosedale Library bookstore (named one of the world’s ten top bookshops by The Guardian!) for the launch of this blog, and food-themed readings by myself and novelist Farzana Doctor.

Marusya, between stories

Deliveryboy described the evening in a post last week: “It could not have been a more perfect evening…Charlie from This Ain’t the Rosedale Library bookstore was a wonderful host, offering not only a beautiful salon space but also, in his author introductions, a lively summary of the history and current state of affairs for independent publishers, writers and bookstores.

Farzana Doctor read from her first novel, Stealing Nazreen - (Inanna Press, Spring 2007), a wonderful food-themed scene…lunch with her father at their regular spot, Everyone who listened to this first public reading from the book is excited to get their hands on it in a few months.Marusya read “Eggs” from her upcoming memoir, also a tale of an inter-generational family exchange, talking and eating with her aunt, who she meets for the first time while visiting family in western Ukraine…Sitting in the audience, you could feel that wonderful sensation when listeners are drawn together by the words shared in common. Like a meal a loved one has prepared for us all to sit and enjoy together”.

Food samples were available, just like at the grocery store…Terri and Judith took their jobs verrry seriously.

Book samples, too!

Photos by Laurie Bell and Kristyn Wong-Tam

It’s taken me weeks to make this phonecall.

I’ve got a Scotch on the rocks beside me, for courage. I’m ready to hang up at any moment, should the need arise.

My mother’s voice, deep and unworldly (she’s had her larynx removed) comes on the line.

We chat about this and that. The weather. The grandchildren. The news. I gently bring the conversation to my food memoir (well what else is there to talk about these days?). I tell her about the funny little interview on CBC, and the lovely, long one with the food columnist from the Toronto Star. The free lunch. The deep, dark conversation. My mother gasps and tsks appropriately. We’re both foodies. We both read Gourmet Magazine like it’s a thriller, turning the pages hurriedly, impatiently. When I’m visiting, we cook for each other, (her: chicken stew with perogies; me: friend breaded oysters with mashed root vegetables), each dish a wordless declaration of love.

I finally get to the point.

“So, ah, I’ve dedicated my book to you.” Somehow it ends up coming out so furtively, like I’m admitting I stole from her purse when I was kid. (Which I did).

“Really?”

“Yeah. I just wanted to make sure it’s OK with you. I mean, I can change it.

“Oh.”

“I can take out your name. Nothing’s final.”

She’s a bit confused now, not sure what to say.

“Well…. that’s great. I’m honoured.”

Now I’m not sure what to say. This is my fourth book. I’m part of a new generation of postmodern diasporic writers, bending and rewriting tradition. My writing is irreverent, sex-positive, feminist, and queer. It’s also, paradoxically, deeply embedded in the memories and histories of my family and ancestors. For my eighty-year-old Catholic mother, born in a small village in western Ukraine, it’s been a stretch. She’s always wondered why I’m so sarcastic. Why don’t I write something nice? She’s been alternately ashamed and diffident about my writing. We’ve struggled with this for years. I was prepared for reluctance, disapproval, maybe even anger. Not this.

“But,” she says, and her voice gets all dutiful, the good Catholic girl: “Maybe you should dedicate it to Baba (grandmother).”

“Uh, no. I already did, once. And anyways, she’s dead and you’re alive.”

“Oh, OK.” She’s relieved.

“So,” I say, “You’re gonna love some stuff in the book, and then there’s stuff you won’t love as much.” I sound like a high school student. You’d never imagine I had three degrees.

“Well of course,” she says. “That’s how it is. Every book’s like that.”

My mom has a Bachelor’s degree in French literature. She got it when she was in her forties. She’s finally getting to use it.

“But also,” I say, still the high school student, eager to please: “There’s a lot of Tato (father) in it. I think you’ll like that.”

“Well what does he have to do with anything?” she says, her voice swelling a little bit in indignation.

I can’t help but burst out laughing.

She’s taken ownership. The book’s hers now.

Or, perhaps more to the point: it’s ours.

Hello February! C’mon right in!

Bring on the valentines, and the oscars! Let’s honour Black History Month; celebrate Crepe Day (February 2nd); and the launch of Recipes for Trouble (Feb. 8, see below)!

Send chocolates; buy flowers! Cook something with asparagus, or blood oranges! We’re that much closer to spring!

Some months take on their own, shadowy cast: for myself and some of my friends and family, January was a hell of a month. Here are just some of the things I and my loved ones went through in January: the horror of Bush’s call for an escalation of war in Iraq; colds and flus; a friend’s death; a dying cat; an almost-breakup; and a hospital stay. Sheesh!

There are some months that you want to snip out of the calendar and gingerly put away. You want to learn from it, but you don’t want it around. Some months can be way too full of long, thick, sleepless nights and bruised-blue mornings with only a coffee and a Montreal bagel with cream cheese to remind you of tastier things to come.

Does the week begin or end on Sunday? Does a new month help you to take a breath and start anew?

It was last Sunday that my friend Judith invited me for Jamaican red peas soup. I suspect it’s comfort food for her and that she wanted to pass some of that comfort on. The soup was spicy and smooth and had the plump surprise of dumplings. It was served up with a generous helping of conversation, intellectual, trivial and otherwise, and a good slice of publishing chat and author rant with Farzana, a fellow author (and Judith’s partner) whose new book, Stealing Nazreen, comes out soon.

At that dinner we figured out some details to do with….

BLOG-A-LICIOUS!

But really, this post is about Jamaican red peas soup.

Feeling like crap? Hating the rain or tired of the snow? Breaking up, falling apart or stuck in one place?

Have some of this soup.

And come to the Recipes for Trouble launch!

Jamaican Red Peas Soup

Adapted from Traditional Jamaican Cookery (1985) by Norma Benghiat and A Hamper of Recipes from Jamaica (1987) by Jill Roberts

Makes 4 – 5 servings.