The Other Part of the Equation

At Preludio in Cortona, the tall young Egyptian waiter beams as he lights the candle on the table and pours our complimentary Italian sparkling wine. He grows stern and serious when I ask if I can keep the menu at the table for a moment. I need to remember what we're eating: "fonduta di fromaggi al tartufo nero di Norcia" and "medaglioni di anatra al miele e peperocino", duly noted in my little Florentine-paper notebook. "Why are you needing this?" he asks. "You will take our food and open your own restaurant?" "Oh, no," David says, "she's a writer."

As a present to myself, I took a great travel writing seminar on Saturday at The Writing Salon in Berkeley. Lisa Alpine led the workshop, which I thought would be only tangentially related to my long term goal of culinary writing. It turns out that travel publications are often looking for articles with a culinary focus. "Business travelers love to eat," she pointed out. "It's their only distraction." (I know this from personal experience, actually.) Most valuably, Lisa encouraged us who didn't want to be "half-time-sort-of-writers" to make an attitude adjustment: the definition of writer is NOT that you are making a living from it. "You need to start flexing this muscle now!" "This is your business!" "Rejection is GOOD! It proves that you are in business."

To facilitate the business of writing, I rearranged the books in my office - well, it's the guestroom when the boys are home but it's becoming my space. The desk is a drafting table, and high, so I can gaze out into the urban forest while I work. I moved all the cooking books and references and magazines to the shelves closest at hand -- all the Fine Cooking magazines, and the Oxford Companion to Food, and the Food Lover's Companion. I also moved a book that David gave me, called Becoming a Chef. It was a Christmas present. In 1995.