Lilith Saintcrow

G’morning, all. Since I’m bleary-eyed and pre-caffeinated (you would not believe how long I had to sit here thinking about how many ‘f’s does caffeinated make) I’ll offer a few random bits and go on my stumbling, shambling way.

* My buddy Jeff Davis got a shout-out in the weekly supplement paper ’round these parts last week. Jeff is the author of several ghost guides to the Pacific Northwest and a trove of information on weirdness, both historical and paranormal, in the area as well. (His most recent book is about Portland’s ghosts.) Plus, I got to see a copy of the pretty, pretty Weird Washington, which Jeff co-wrote and provided almost all the pics for. It’s AWESOME. And picking Jeff’s brains about the weirdness contained in the books while sitting on the patio at McMenamin’s, watching the sailboats go by…priceless.

* Speaking of good food, another shout out goes to the folks at La Bottega, who feed me damn near every weekend. If you’re ever in the area, I highly recommend stopping by. They’re slow food, and more European than Americans might be used to; so it might be a bit of a shock to people used to fast-food and indifferent service. They’ll ask you how you like the food–and REALLY LISTEN when you tell them what you think. Which is just one of the many reasons I like them. Plus Peter and Lisa, the owners, are just awesome people to talk food with.

All this food talk is making me hungry. It’s ridiculous, how much I love fooooooood.

* If you like Indian food and are in my neck of the woods, I’ve gone back to Chutney’s three times now, and each time I was impressed. I keep thinking I should try some of their Indian wines, but the house Cabernet is so good I get seduced into a couple of glasses each time. The naan bread is awesome, and their butter chicken is fast becoming my favorite. The UnSullen One digs their Chicken Chettinad, and we’ve just recently sampled the Chicken Korma too and found it to be delicious.

* Speaking of food, the Red Velvet Cupcakes? I made a double batch on Friday. And ZOMG awesome were they good. Next time I WILL make sure the eggs are room temperature, because there was almost an Incident when I dumped the eggs in and the butter decided it wanted to get cold again. But it all worked out. I think I’m going to be using disposable pastry bags instead of ziploc baggies with the end snipped off. The ziploc method just didn’t do it for me, I think because the topography of the bag was improper for a beginner. Yes, I realize I only have myself to blame.

For some reason, I cannot find a real pastry bag to save my life in the greater Vancouver area, and I don’t really want to go into Portland to check Sur La Table. Because that is a hit my bank account just won’t live with, going in there.

Even looking at the website…ohGod…please…stop…

…time passes…

* Okay, I’m back now. The ciabatta bread I was attempting on Friday did not turn out. Oh, it’s bread, and it’s beautiful bread at that, but I didn’t keep the dough wet enough, so it’s more like a nice tough white bread suitable for toasting and chewing than a ciabatta. It took me a little thinking to figure out where I’d gone wrong. You have to work a dough like that really wet, because the signature texture of it comes from the gluten being in long shiny strands instead of a packed mass. So I know what I did wrong and shall remedy it, along with putting together a buttermilk sourdough starter.

On the good side, though, I am learning about working with a banneton, and created a ZOMG-awesome-looking loaf with it.

* Tonight’s dinner is slow-cooked boneless ribs in barbecue sauce, roast mashed potatoes, and probably a Caprese salad since I have fresh mozz and some heirloom tomatoes for slicin’. We’ll see. I also have some fresh basil left over, so that will go in. Ah, for an herb mincer…

…manfully restrains self from revisiting Sur La Table site…

* In between all this I have paperwork to do and a lot of revisions to get done. I have shelved Weasel Boy for the time being, since all that’s left on that is the showdown and the denouement. (My, the French have such lovely words for things. No wonder it was a diplomatic language for a long time.) And there’s some Latin I need to get back to; I have sorely neglected it of late. I wonder if Rosetta Stone has a classical Greek program?

Anyway, off I go. Enjoy the lovely weather, everyone. I’ll be stuck with my head in a story, as usual, taking no notice of the big bright yellow ball in the sky. *grin*

A few random things, since I have been buried under an avalanche of stuff lately, some personal, some home-related. I’ll content myself with saying that as long as my kids are happy and healthy I still consider myself lucky. And as long as I can still write, all is well.

* Congratulations to Carla Demich and Sherry Williams, winners of signed Night Shift ARCs! Carla wrote a beautiful short-fiction piece dealing with Dante and Doreen, and Sherry–your blandishments have proved too much for me. Weak is a writer. Congrats also to Sarah Shelton, the runner-up, who shows us just what happened while Dante was on her slicboard ride in WFTD. Sarah, one more ARC has freed up. Winners, send your snail mail addresses to contest (at) lilithsaintcrow (dot) com. Also, Carla and Sarah, please enclose your permission for me to make the stories available to fans in a PDF, if you don’t mind? I have many packages to mail this week–Elise, I am sorry the Chihuahua of Real Life has been humping my ankle something fierce lately. I’m on it, I swear.

* Next, a small aside. This makes me think of Babette’s Feast. It makes me want to write a book. Lit-fic, no less. I’m sure I can go hold my head underwater and the urge will fade. Until then, though, I’ll work on Weasel Boy.

Hey, I know my place. I’m a hack.

* Speaking of which, I’ve been informed my advice on writing is, to put it kindly, utter crap. Since I am, yanno, a hack. To which I say, aw, shucks. My little heart’s allllll broke to pieces.

Heh. Not.

Seriously. I’m doing the best I can and sharing things I’ve found that work. Part of me bothering to make the Friday posts is demystifying a process that can pull a creative down if it’s loaded with hoohaw and naysaying. This is work and it’s hard work. The best I can do is tell you the signposts I’ve hacked out of the internal wilderness. They may not be your signposts, but they may help you find your own trail. If you don’t like what I have to say about writing, for heaven’s sake go read something else. The world’s full of writing books, you can certainly find one to your taste. Better yet, write your own goddamn books. But don’t email me with scurrilous ranting and expect me to be impressed. Especially when you can’t goddamn punctuate.

So my work is genre. So what? I don’t mind writing it and a couple people like to read it. That’s good enough for me.

* This baking blog is utter, complete evil. Now I can’t WAIT to bake Red Velvet cupcakes. I only wish I lived closer to the lovely, marvelous person who sent me the link–so I could bombard her with brownies. And cupcakes. Oooh, and the sesame bagels I have to make next.

* I’m 45K into a 75K book. The threads are coming together, the hero is On A Mission, the heroine is tied up and about to be visited by some very nasty characters, including her ex-husband. There will be much suffering and a Big Showdown.

It just doesn’t get any better than this.

But what would I know, eh? I’m a hack.

*snicker*

*snort*

The awesome Maggie Stiefvater made an interesting comment on my Spec vs. Organic post last Friday.

But you forgot the funny combination of those two — which is when you sell a two-book deal where only the first “organically written” book is completed. Then you find yourself in the funny position of having to write an organic novel almost to spec.

So I think that even organic writers need to acquire the discipline that romance writers practice all the time.

I’d actually not thought of that, because I rarely write stand-alone books. Most of my organic stuff is in the context of a series, and my to-spec stuff is mostly in series form too. I guess I’m just most-comfortable with the series-novel form–I find short stories very, very difficult; they take a lot of planning. So any organic novel I do is almost certainly meant to go in a series, and I have an idea of how long the series will go and what will happen at each stage.

As for the discipline, I consider it something any professional writer needs. You’re just not going to get better without the discipline to practice and to keep learning (and taking what one can from the critique of one’s editors, betas, readers, and self requires discipline too). Discipline is such a core component of art in general and writing in specific–but we all know how I feel about that. *grin* I won’t bore you with repeating myself.

Something new: I’ve got my serenity back after the weekend. It’s taking me less and less time to bounce back after something like that. It’s funny, but a while ago at the end of a long jag of insomnia, I heard birds singing as the sky began to lighten outside and suddenly this wave of calm broke over me. It was like someone tapping me on the head with a magic wand and saying, “Everything is going to be all right. Relax.”

Since then I’ve been possessed of an amazing sense of serenity about stuff. A few minutes of closed-eyes and deep breathing per day seems to run that serenity engine just fine, and recharge it.

The past weekend strained that serenity, but it’s back now. I don’t know from whence it came, but as long as deep breathing will keep it around, I’m not going to ask too many questions.

Oh, and another cool thing: chili! I finally found out how to make chili! It’s a two-day deal.

Day One: In the morning, put beans in water with a little bit of salt to soak. Around 10PM, turn your crock pot on low. Put the beans in, cover with water, add some seasoning (go easy on the salt), garlic, and a bay leaf–and (secret ingredient) drizzle some unsulphured molasses over ‘em. Go to bed and forget about it.

Day Two: Stir the beans in the morning, don’t worry about how they smell. It’s okay. Brown whatever meat you’re using (I use stew beef, myself) and toss it in with some onions. You can chop up some celery, too. Throw in some tomatoes and a can of tomato paste (I used about five Roma tomatoes for a pot o’chili) and some cumin (half a teaspoon, more to taste) and a little bullion base. (Beef. Chicken just doesn’t work well, I’ve found.) Turn it up to high at about noon and stir occasionally.)

Here’s something I’ve found out about chili: don’t add your cayenne until about a half-hour before serving. That way you can control the spiciness much better, since it will get spicier as it cooks down. Best to add your cumin, garlic, thyme, tarragon, etc., at the beginning of day two and wait on the spice, especially if you have picky eaters who like it bland (like my little, darling Sir Pewksalot.)

Turn it down to low at about three o’clock (make sure the beans are nice and soft) and season to taste. You can serve it at about six–and here’s another thing, grating up some smoked gouda and dumping it on the bowls for your less-picky eaters is a Good Thing.

I serve chili with cornbread and Cheez-Its. (Dude. Cheez-Its on chili is teh awesome.) I used to date a guy who chopped up Oreos and put them in at the last second, a la Martin Riggs. Plus, I usually put the cayenne and garlic powder on the table so everyone can fine-tune their Chili Experience. It’s also good over brown rice with a little butter and just a touch of brown sugar. The possibilities are damn near endless.

And there you go. I can’t believe it took me this long to come up with a workable chili, and it’s kind of time-intensive, but very Worth It.

Today I’m doing a pork tenderloin with some coconut milk and basil. If it turns out well, tomorrow we’ll have another recipe. If it doesn’t…well, at least I’ll have a good story.

There’s nothing quite like waking up out of a sound sleep at 7AM with your six-year-old announcing, “Mum, I’m gonna puke.”

He’s not sick and it’s not nervous stomach. I think it’s a touch of food poisoning–worrisome with a kid under 12. Apparently his dad took him to noodles last night after kendo, and the stuff he’s throwing up is noodle-y and fish-y. *sigh* We’ve talked about fish and the kid before. I guess we need to talk again.

Poor little Sir Pewksalot. He’s a little bit glassy-eyed. I guess re-tasting fish in the morning will do that to one. The UnSullen One got up and made me coffee. “When you wake up to puke,” he said, “you need something nice to counteract it. I’m going back to bed.”

What a nice kid. He’ll make someone a fine wife someday. *grin*

I am making chicken noodle soup today. Before you ask–the chicken yesterday was a SOOPER WIN. I added a little broth to the crock pot at the beginning, then halved some russet potatoes and put them in skin-down after a while. The potatoes were mashed later on, I steamed some peas, and pure deliciousness resulted. After dinner the skin and bones went back into the crock pot for stock, and I’ve got two whole crock-pots full of stock out of the deal. Soupmaking shall proceed apace, once I skim the stock that’s in the fridge. Chicken noodle is probably just the thing to soothe a troubled tummy.

I feel compelled to note that the chicken was free-range, cruelty-free, and fed organic. It was still very cost-effective to feed a family of five for a couple days (I have plenty left over for soup and sandwiches, even). I do try to buy organic when I can afford it, and the only reason I’ve gotten into cooking roasts is because that’s where the price break for cruelty-free meat becomes reasonable.

I feel like raising my fists and saluting the four winds while announcing “I AM THE CHICKEN MASTER!” But that would be hubris, for I know there are many, many ways of screwing up the chicken-cooking. One good dish does not a Chicken Master make. And since I had the discussion trying to define “hubris” with the Princess last night, I am determined to be humble about any Cluck Luck I have had. (The discussion was to prepare her for Prince Caspian. She’s going with me to the movies tonight, the little angel.)

All right. I’m kind of at an impasse with Weasel Boy, so I’m going to throw more vampires in. When in doubt, as Elizabeth Bear noted, send in the man with a gun. (She also says more roller derby, less girlfriend, but as this is a romance novel, I can’t have less girlfriend. I guess I’m just going to have to rework the girlfriend I’ve got.) I guess I’ll just throw more vampires at Weasel Boy and his Lady Fair and see what happens.

After, of course, I drain the crock pot and put the soup together. Wish me further Cluck Luck.

First things first, though: there’s an interview with me over at Jennifer Rardin’s place. Jennifer is the author of the Jaz Parks series, the first one of which I swallowed whole in less than a day last year. It’s so refreshing to see a human heroine save a vampire’s ass, you know?

Also, the crossword puzzle contest for UK folks is over and done with, but the contest to win an ARC of Night Shift through my website is still going.

It was a long busy weekend here at Casa Saintcrow (I now have a proper kettle and teapot to show for it, though), but I did get a lot of writing done while I was haring off all over hell and creation, including a respectable breaking-of-30K on Weasel Boy. Now I know what happens next, the only trouble is choosing how to tell it to come in under word count. GUH. And trying to do this while Tristan is shouting filthy Alternate-1600s-France slang in my head is a challenge, to say the least.

Now, for the chicken! I am, dear Readers, indulging in an Experiment.

I’m cooking a chicken.

The Selkie told me about something easy and fun to do with fowl. (Hee.) You buy yourself a whole chicken, dot its surface with butter and sprinkle with Mrs. Dash or something (I chose garlic, basil, and a sprig of rosemary from the bush out front) and cook it on high in your crock pot for an hour, then turn it down to low for about seven or eight hours. I’ll pick it apart for dinner (probably with rice and steamed veggies) and have leftover chicken plus stuff to boil in a stock pot for stock. It’s supposed to be ZOMG the best way to cook chicken!

Further bulletins as events warrant. I’m really nervous–this is the first time I’ve cooked a chicken. A virgin poultry voyage, you might say. Just buying the chicken and contemplating cooking it was interesting and terrifying, in equal measure. Not the least because Trader Joe’s was a complete zoo when I was there to buy the, ahem, sacrificial fowl.

What is it about people whose time is so much more important than mine? I mean those people who barge in front in a crowded grocery store, or yell from behind at a stop sign*, or–and here’s my big beef–pay no attention to their fricking kids and let them run wild while the parent (who doesn’t deserve that name, IMHO) is busy yapping on a cell phone to someone named Cathy. At the top of their lungs. While their kids knock things over, run out into the parking lot, scream Mommmymommymommy! at the top of their lungs, and almost get creamed by several shopping carts. My kids would never dream of acting that way, in public or in private–even the 18-year-old. What is WRONG with you people? Just because I’m polite and moving at a slow clip doesn’t mean you need to hit me from behind with your shopping cart, scream at me at a stop sign, OR assume that I’m going to watch out for your little hellspawn (that you haven’t bothered to raise properly) and keep them from being run over when they bolt out into the parking lot while you can’t be bothered to get off your bloody cell phone.

GAH. In other words, I’ve had about enough of mass humanity for a while. Maybe I’m a misanthrope, but that kind of behavior just irritates me to no end, and I’d rather work from home any day of the week so I don’t have to see it. The thing that boggles me is the parents not watching their children. I can’t count the number of times I’ve collared a kid about to run out in front of a vehicle because the parent is too busy yapping on a cell phone to pay any bloody attention. And the parents are invariably mildly thankful but mostly irritated that their call is interrupted. *headbonkety* Jeez. What am I supposed to do, let a six-year-old get hit by a car so you can continue yammering? Don’t you people understand that little ones don’t have the “look before you cross” reflex yet? Don’t you understand that they’re small and hard to see? Don’t you get that it just takes a split second for Something To Happen?

I hate that. I really, really hate it. The advent of the cell phone seemed to transform a lot of people from just mildly annoying to ZOMGWTFBBQLLAMA STOOOOPID and self-centred. *sigh* Or maybe it just made that human propensity easier to spot?

Enough. I’m going to go check on my immolated chicken. And then I’m going to write Weasel Boy and forget about the outside world.

* By the way, you jerkwad in your huge compensating-for-a-little-weewee-Chevy, I stopped because otherwise I would have gotten T-boned by those kids in the Camaro. I saved four or five lives by laying on the brakes, so don’t fricking yell at me from behind. I HOPE YOU GET PILES.