M.J. Pullen's Blog, page 10

Bittersweet Visit to the Family Farm

I imagine it’s always emotional going back to a place where you spent a healthy portion of your childhood. Especially when you have been away for a long time, and more especially when you have a long, hard history there. That’s how I feel about our family’s (former) farm in rural South Georgia between Pelham and Cotton. And, no, I didn’t just steal that from a bad country song: the town really is called Cotton, Georgia. Guess what they grew there?

The farm was in the Pullen family from 1896 until 2012, when a number of circumstances put me in the position of having to sell it, against my father’s expressed and only dying wish.

Thanks, Dad. I won’t be living with that guilt for the rest of my life.

So anyway. We don’t get down to Pelham or the farm anymore. Both my parents grew up there, but since they are both gone and my grandparents are gone, we don’t have any family connections left in the area. And, honestly, being there is still hard for me because every pleasant memory (catfishing with my grandmother who sang to the turtles, playing house in deer stands with my cousin Elizabeth, driving tractors long before I could drive a car, picking up pecans that would find their way into a pie just hours later) is laced with loss and wistfulness and hardships both real and imagined. Those are for another day. Unless they aren’t, and that’s okay too.

Showing the boys where pecans come from.

Last weekend, we attended the very lovely wedding of a good friend of mine in Thomasville, a bigger town just a few miles south of Pelham. I’ll be honest, when she first told me she was getting married on a beautiful plantation in the part of the world that holds so much of my history, I flinched a little. But she’s a dear friend and her wedding was spectacular, and I never seriously considered giving it a miss. And once we decided to make the trek to that little corner of the world, I knew we’d have to take the kids (with many, endless thanks to my generous mother-in-law for watching the boys during the wedding) so we could take advantage of a rare opportunity to show them an important piece of their heritage.

So we stopped by and took some pictures and I tried to tell the happy stories I remember. Many of them are lost in my vanishing memory — even the ones I got so tired of hearing over and over as a kid. Another family lives in the house where my family spent so many decades telling stories around the smoky kitchen table over endless pots of coffee, watching the wildlife at the pond down the hill. The new owners have made a few changes, and I couldn’t help but filter those changes through my grandmother’s ghostly opinion — naturally she does not approve of most of them.

My boys in front of Mammy’s fig tree. She made the best fig preserves on the planet and no one has ever been able to recreate them.

It’s strange that a place can be so utterly, deeply familiar — that farm is in my bones, for better or worse — and yet so strange and distant at once. I’m glad we went, glad for the opportunity to share a bit of history with my boys. But I can honestly say that the regret and sadness tied in with my love for that piece of land make it hard to consider going back again soon.

I am sure I’m not alone in these mixed feelings and emotional ramblings. Do you keep going home again, even when there are only ghosts to greet you? Or do you simply focus on the life in front of you and hope to make happier memories going forward? Maybe there comes a point in each person’s life when “home” can never have just one meaning, and never be entirely free of regret.

 

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HB2: Why I’m (Still) Signing in North Carolina Next Week

To sign or not to sign?

This is a tough one.

As you may have noticed, I don’t do much in the way of politics or even social activism on my blog. This isn’t because I’m not passionate about such issues or because I don’t hold opinions (oh, the opinions…). But when it comes to public discourse, I’d generally* prefer to let my characters ask the questions and my readers seek out their own answers; rather than distract myself (and alienate you) with constant blog or social media rants about stuff we’ll never agree on anyway.

There are some exceptions to this, however. And when it comes to things I will rant about, the stuff I will risk my reputation on, the rights of and respect for LGBT individuals are near the top of the list.

So my disappointment over the passage of HB2 in North Carolina was almost as great as the fact that a similar bill (which would have permitted Jim Crow-esque discrimination against LGBT individuals and families under the gross euphemism of “religious freedom”) had to be vetoed by our governor in Georgia.

I don’t know what I would have done to fight such a despicable law in my home state if it had passed; but since one has passed in North Carolina, I am faced with a choice regarding my signing at Malaprop’s in Asheville April 30th.

Many businesses, authors and artists are — rightfully — expressing their protests and providing financial incentive for repeal of this horrible law by pulling conferences, tours and other events out of North Carolina. Often these entities are simultaneously hoping to engage the population, non-profits and influencers of the state for positive change. Since they have tremendous combined economic and social influence, I certainly hope they will succeed.

I don’t even begin to pretend that my little signing event compares to a Pearl Jam or Springsteen concert or even to authors like Sherman Alexie (who chose to boycott) or Christina Baker Kline (who chose not, and articulates it way better than I am).

But you can make the argument that when it comes to morality, scale doesn’t matter. If it’s right for Pearl Jam, the same principle should hold for a mid-list romantic comedy writer, right?

Well… yes. And no.

The economic impact of my pulling out of an event in North Carolina would be too minuscule to be noticed in the state legislature. But it could matter enormously — especially if combined with other authors — for independent bookstores like Malaprop’s, who not only oppose HB2 and are fighting hard against it, but have long been sanctuaries for free speech, community connection and tolerance.

Everything you need to battle hate.

So while I respect and support the decisions of businesses, musicians and non-profits who are choosing to spend their money elsewhere until North Carolina pulls its act together; I’m making the choice to show up and engage in my own small way — for whatever it’s worth. I’ll also be making a small donation to Equality North Carolina for each sale of THE MARRIAGE PACT or REGRETS ONLY on April 30th.

And, hopefully we’ll even have a little fun in the process.

If you’re a fan or friend in North Carolina: Whether you attend my particular signing or not, I hope you’ll lend extra support to Malaprop’s (and stores like it) during this confusing and scary time. I also hope you’ll do your part to help repeal HB2 and help NC earn back its reputation as a progressive, welcoming state.

See you on April 30th!

*To my friends rolling their eyes because they frequently get an earful of my opinions after the third glass of Pinot Noir: that’s why I said “generally.”

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Questions Too Large for a Chaotic Friday Morning

The Muffin of Earendil

You know those days?

The ones where you are late for everything and your better half is massively helping but he’s late for everything too, and your energy is pulled in a thousand different directions and you’re questioning your sanity for trying to have two jobs and raise two kids and, incidentally, wondering who the hell was in charge of your calendar when you ended up with 5 out of town trips in 4 weeks (3 of which involve piling your kids into the van for hours of whiny insanity), and you’re staring right past all the blessings in your life (which you realize on some level and the guilt of that gets added to the pile) because you can only seem to focus on the messages telling you that you’re not enough?

And then one of your two favorite kids is having that same day, and he feels like he’s not enough, and that just wrenches your heart from your chest because he’s more than everything but you can’t make him understand that while you’re also trying to get him out the door with his falling-apart backpack, while not exploding about how hard things are for first graders today. And you know that you thinking you’re not enough is a contributing reason to him feeling like he’s not enough, and if that’s not the start to a damn fine negative feedback spiral, I don’t know what is.

And suddenly, acutely, you wish your parents were around. Nearby to pitch in would be great. Maybe to take the kid who’s not having a bad day but still desperately needs attention to school so you can focus on the kid who is having a bad day and needs you a little more. Maybe to drop off the dry cleaning that’s been sitting in a pile for three weeks or finish loading the dishwasher from where you collapsed in exhaustion last night. Nearby would be great. Or just alive would do. That simple, taken-for-granted voice on the other end of the line, not in the middle of the mess with you, but 100% and unequivocally on your side and empathetic because they remember a time when you were more than everything and if they were here they’d be as desperate to make things better for you as you are for your own kid.

Maybe.

But you can’t question that now, because if you start pulling at that thread you’ll never make it past the tardy slip and on to the rest of your day. You’ll just collapse in tears over the imperfections of yourself and your dead parents, while the traffic cop by the elementary school decides if you need a hug or some kind of crying ticket. And as you drive past him for real, holding it together and trying to sound like Reassuring Mom to the backseat gallery, you’re wondering if your own Reassuring Mom was right and she’s still with you somehow in her version of heaven, laughing at you with a gentle, gnarled hand on your shoulder. Or if your dad was right and he’s not with you at all, because he’s not anywhere, because we die and that’s it.

And it’s like he’s reading your thoughts, because the kid having the worst morning ever says, “Mom? Is God real?”

And your first reaction is, “Dude. You are asking the wrong person.”

But you don’t say that, because that’s not what Reassuring Mom does. Reassuring Mom whispers (and she sounds like Cate Blanchett as Galadriel, but she’s handing you a blueberry muffin instead of the Light of Earendil), “Yes. There is light and love and purpose in the universe, and our lives have meaning beyond anything we can know on Earth.”

But the Voice of Hopeless Negativity isn’t far behind, like the guy who follows you around at a party talking about impending economic collapse and zombie apocalypse no matter how politely you try to dodge him. “Are you kidding me? God? Weren’t you paying attention at the Planetarium? None of this means anything. You might as well tell everyone to fuck off and go live at the beach, sister, because we are all just running around like beheaded chickens living our meaningless lives on an inescapably warming planet orbiting a dying star.”

I hate that guy.

In the end, the one who speaks is Honest Mom. “I don’t know, sweetie. What do you think?”

The kid having the worst morning ever shrugs. “Did you just cross the double yellow line? Are you supposed to do that?”

“It’s okay if you’re turning.”

“Oh. Okay.”

And I guess we’re done. Time for coffee – extra strength, please.

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Spring Break in Washington DC

It’s my blog and I can post vacation pictures if I want to… (You’ll look at them, and you’ll like it, dammit.)

So Hubs and I lost our freaking MINDS this year and decided that rather than a beach vacation, a Disney cruise, or some other simple getaway for spring break, we were going to take our four and six year old boys (by way of a 9-hour drive in Vanischewitz) to tour our nation’s capital.

Mostly on foot. Sometimes in the rain. Without backup.

And… it actually turned out okay. We got to hang out with some friends in Richmond we haven’t seen in a long time and some friends in Maryland we haven’t seen in even longer, and grab a quick dinner with another friend we actually see all the time here in Atlanta but seeing him in D.C. was its own novelty.

We took in several of the amazing Smithsonian museums. The Air and Space Museum was a special favorite — both because the kids love it and because Hubs and I got to geek out a bit with our own memories. My dad (who was a physicist) actually helped create one of the small antennae on the Hubble Telescope, so whenever we get a chance to see some of Hubble’s handiwork first hand, it’s a cool way to connect the boys with their Granddad, who can’t be here to connect with them directly. We also hiked a looooong way around most of the National Mall monuments (“Daddy pick me up, I’m tired…”) and rode the subway several times, which the guys thought was super cool and grown up.

Being a family of baseball nerds, we also enjoyed checking Major League Baseball Stadium #3 off our family bucket list, catching the first couple innings of the Nationals’ home opener before the rain sent us heading for the hills. And the subway.

Nationals Park (the sunglasses were a giveaway, because we are SO not that coordinated!)

As a bonus, on the way up to D.C., we took the boys by the University of Georgia in Athens (my alma mater along with at least half of Hubs’ family). We watched the NCAA gymnastics regional final, rang the famous chapel bell (YES, the same one from THE MARRIAGE PACT!) and I posed with my little guys in front of the iconic UGA Arch.

So, all in all, even though there may have been more whining and complaining about tired feet than on a typical beach vacation, I’m glad we went the enrichment route this spring break. The boys are still talking about stars and supernovas and the Washington monument, and I wouldn’t trade that for the world.

PS – We also just booked our next big vacation. A Disney cruise. Can’t win ’em all…

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Dahlonega Literary Festival

Thanks to Julie the DLF volunteer photographer for this lovely shot.

Just posting a few shots from a super fun weekend in at the Dahlonega Literary festival in the North Georgia Mountains!

If you’ve never been to this book festival, I can assure you it’s worth a drive from just about anywhere in the Southeast. DLF offers a great mix of regional and nationally known authors in a beautiful, intimate mountain setting. Everyone at DLF is friendly and approachable, and you even get to have lunch with your favorite author and other readers (that was a highlight for me – such a blast!)

I always love visiting Dahlonega, and I especially enjoyed getting to participate on panels and hang out with writers I’ve admired for years.

Hope to attend this one again in the future!

Lunch with an author… Imagine my surprise when the author was ME!
The “Talk with Your Hands” Panel
These world class writers are all totally my new BFFs. They just can’t confirm that right now because they are all SUPER busy…

 

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By Request: All the Oscar Food Puns

In addition to the mildly inappropriate Baked Brie Larson recipe I posted earlier in the week, I’ve had a couple of requests for the full complement of Oscar food puns from Sunday night. So here they are!

Hubs did what passes for a high school engineering project on the Bridge of Fries, which included three flavors of Martian ketchup:

Bridge of Fries (with Martian ketchup)

Our dip-centric friend Tiffany made this amazing Mark Ruffalo Chicken Dip. I could literally eat this stuff with a spoon.

Spotlight: Mark Ruffalo Chicken Dip

And of course you’ve met Brie…

Baked Brie Larson in a Croissant “Room”

For The Revenant, my friend Ryan was going to bring Bear Claws (cringe with me if you saw the movie) but since apparently there was a bear claw shortage in Atlanta on Sunday, he artfully created this replica of a winter forest with the best brownies I’ve ever tasted and broccoli dusted with powdered sugar snow. He even baked in a Luke Skywalker figurine to represent Leo coming up from the dirt:

You can’t see it very well, but ladies, if the idea of Leo DiCaprio covered in warm chocolate doesn’t do it for you, I can’t help you.

Not pictured: We also had three kinds of BROOKLYN beer, rocky road ice cream (MAD MAX) with MARTIAN-O cherries, a crazy cocktail called Gasoline from Gas Town (MAD MAX), and THE BIG SHORT ribs.

Also, I am something of a Domnhall Gleeson fan, and since he was in four movies nominated for something this year (two for Best Picture), we created these lovely Irish shots to throw back whenever one of his movies won anything.

Domnhall Gleeson yummy Irish shots

In retrospect, we should have tied the shots game to Mad Max, because it took a while for that first one, but they were delicious anyway. As is Domnhall, and I look forward to seeing him win lots of awards in the future…

I can’t wait to see what amazing movies and fun food puns we get to experience next year!

——–

Want more from M.J.? Sign up for my newsletter and download a free romantic short story. You can also find THE MARRIAGE PACT and REGRETS ONLY at bookstores near you.

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Recipe: Baked Brie (Larson) in a Croissant “Room”

My Oscar Buddy

So. The Oscars. Loved them. Loved Chris Rock and Leo and the whole sha-bang. I probably have more to say on this at some point, but for now, let’s talk cheese!

If you follow me on Facebook, Instagram or Twitter, you already know that my friend Rob and I have been watching the Oscars together for eleven years. It’s basically our own little pop culture Superbowl. You also know that we’ve evolved a tradition of making food based on terrible puns for that year’s nominated films.

Bridge of Fries, Mark Ruffalo Chicken Dip, The Big Short Ribs, and a delicious Mad Max Gasoline cocktail were all on the menu this year. But I got the most recipe requests for this terrible pun of the movie Room, so I thought I’d share:

Baked Brie (Larson) in a Croissant “Room” (with Berry Compote)

1 cup mixed berries

1 stick butter

1 cup sugar

1/2 cup triple sec or brandy

2 cans refrigerated croissant dough

1 small (about 6″) round of brie

Preheat oven to 350 F. Melt the butter and sugar in a saucepan. Add the triple sec and stir until smooth. Add berries and simmer on medium until berries are soft. Spray an 8-inch pie pan with cooking spray, roll out one can of croissants across the bottom of pan. Place brie in the center of the pan on top of croissant dough. Pour berries over top of brie and cover with second can of croissants. Bake for 25 minutes or until golden brown.

Enjoy!

(And don’t forget to get your copy of Regrets Only to read while you’re snacking on this gooey treat).

 

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This weekend: Win a REGRETS ONLY Tote Bag and Autographed Copy

I can’t believe it’s already here! REGRETS ONLY, the popular and highly rated sequel to THE MARRIAGE PACT is coming out on Tuesday, March 1st. For those of you who’ve read TMP, REGRETS ONLY is the story of Marci’s commitment-phobe event planner best friend Suzanne Hamilton, and the crazy circumstances that throw her in the path of a younger man (the wild and stubborn country star Dylan Burke).

Romantic Times reports that Dylan and Suzanne are “incredibly likable, though flawed, and together their friendship-fueled chemistry sizzles.”

The RT reviewer obviously loved Dylan almost as much as I do: “Dylan himself evokes smiles nearly every time he appears on the page, thanks to his wry amusement and, frankly, his sheer dreaminess.”

During the last few days of February, I’m celebrating the release by offering a chance for you to win not only an autographed copy of REGRETS ONLY for yourself or a friend, but also a sweet RO tote bag to carry all your book swag around in!

Instead of the typical Rafflecopter giveaway, I’ve decided to do two simple, fun ways to win:

Post a comment on this blog to let everyone know how excited you are for REGRETS ONLY next week (be sure to enter a valid email address – it won’t be published – because that’s how I will contact the winner).
Post a selfie on Facebook and tag “M.J. Pullen” (it’s easier if you like facebook.com/mjpullenbooks/ first) or Instagram and tag @MJPullenAuthor. The picture should be you holding up your copy of THE MARRIAGE PACT if you have one, the MARRIAGE PACT cover on your Kindle/iPad, or a sign that says “I want to win REGRETS ONLY!”

You can do both versions for two entries, and if you use both platforms you can have up to 4! Make that 5 if you also comment on the blog.

If you’d rather not wait for your autographed copy, you can order REGRETS ONLY here.

The contest ends Monday, February 29 at 6:00 p.m. EST. (Leap Day!) (BTW, did anyone else see Leap Year, that underrated romantic comedy with Amy Adams and the cute Irish guy whose name escapes me? Ooh! Or The Matchmaker with Janeane Garofalo?)

Speaking of cute Irish guys, don’t forget to follow me on Facebook and Twitter during the 2016 Oscars Sunday night – I’ll be posting updates, rooting for Leo DiCaprio, and drinking Irish whiskey every time a movie with Domnhall Gleeson in it wins anything (he’s in FOUR films up for awards).

I apologize in advance for whatever happens after 9:30.

For more chances to win more prizes, and possibly dish about whatever happened on Oscar night, remember to RSVP for the REGRETS ONLY Virtual Launch Party on Facebook Tuesday night.

See you then. Good luck!

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Little League Baseball: A Love Story (Part 1)

Last Saturday Skywalker participated in his first tryouts for 8 and under little league baseball. He really, really wants to play, and we actually sort of made him talk us into it because of the rigorous schedule (nothing worse than signing on for 3 months, 3 times a week to have your kid whining that he doesn’t want to go by Week 2).

I have to admit, sports are one of those dangerous murky areas for me as a parent: in which my own history and opinions, hopes and fears are so much in play, it’s easy to take my eye off the ball. So to speak.

I don’t think I’m alone in this. Whenever you bring kids together in what is (or will eventually be) a competitive environment, it’s natural to start comparing your kid to other kids, and by extension, your parenting choices to other parents. Are we doing this right? Are we pushing him too hard? Letting him off easy? Should we have started him sooner? Those parents over there are crazy, right?

Aside from all the usual parenting neurosis, for me this comes down to a single, fundamental question: How much can we teach our kids about hard work, discipline and teamwork — and how much is up to them to learn for themselves?

In our house, baseball has special emotional import. Hubs only played little league for a short while as a kid, but he is a dyed in the wool baseball NERD. His knowledge is encyclopedic, his fandom unrelenting. Somewhere we have boxes on boxes of baseball cards he collected as a kid, and he knows almost all the stats and history of, not just the current and former Atlanta Braves rosters, but most of the minor league system as well. I love baseball too, partly because my beloved grandfather (whom Skywalker is named after) was a die-hard Braves fan and we used to watch the games together.

This common love was an early bond in our relationship, but Hubs can talk about it for hours longer than I can even pretend to listen. (It’s a good thing our friend Ryan shares his passion. I can put the two of them together with a couple of beers and walk away for an hour, knowing they will be exactly where I left them when I return.)

Hubs grew up in a family that didn’t push on athletics. They supported what he wanted to do, and when he felt done, he was done. In retrospect, he sometimes wishes he had stuck with things longer, but he had/has a great relationship with his parents. Hubs is an amazing dad in every respect, but his patience and intentionality in playing ball with the boys is a beautiful thing to watch.

As for me, I played softball from the time I was about Skywalker’s age through my junior year in high school, and I’ve played recreational ball off and on ever since (mostly “off” the last 8 years). I enjoyed softball, but I always had a love-hate relationship with it. Partly because I wasn’t allowed to quit. My dad pushed, he was strict, and while we had a good relationship by the end of his life, it was always a little wrinkled by his criticism and my fear of disapproval.

From the moment I volunteered him to coach at the first team meeting, Dad embraced the whole enterprise with gusto. He coached my teams for several years and made intricate systems for rosters, scorekeeping and batting orders. There were magnets, as I recall, with each girl’s name, and a board he’d made himself hanging in the dugout showing the batting order and our positions on the field.

Dad wasn’t the “Dairy Queen after you win” coach (though as a chubby kid, I always wished he was). He pushed me to work harder, and criticized my laziness and inattention when my mind wandered in right field or I didn’t run it out to first. Every morning one summer, before I could go play with friends, I had to go out in the backyard alone and pitch ball after ball through Dad’s complicated practice system: over a ladder, under the tree branch and into the bucket.

He remembered years of working on the family farm, only to spend his free time throwing a tennis ball against the house and catching it because no one had time to play with him. He wasn’t just available to throw the ball with me, he insisted on it. Even when I just wanted to sit in the air conditioning and send Ken and Barbie on ill-fated dates in the Malibu dream car; or later, to go out with my friends whose parents didn’t force them to stay involved in sports.

As the years went on, softball grew more competitive. Sometimes I loved it. Sometimes I resented it. I was never terribly good at it, but I improved, I had small triumphs. I was proud of my high school team bag and letter jacket, and even the crutches I hobbled on for a few days after getting creamed in the shin by a line drive that knocked me off the pitcher’s mound. I wasn’t exactly passionate: I worked hard because that was what was expected of me. I didn’t want to let anyone down.

Later in life, however, I found that I loved watching baseball because my familiarity with the basic rules allowed me to connect in a way I couldn’t with any other sport. In college and for years after, even my mediocre softball skills were useful on co-ed rec league teams looking to fill out their roster with women. It was exercise and a point of connection with others. I knew how to be part of a team — to be part of something bigger than myself, to cheer on a teammates and back them up, even if we had nothing in common off the field. That has been useful in countless situations from grad school to the workplace.

And I’d be lying if I said I weren’t grateful for the discipline my dad and softball taught me, even if I sometimes question his methods and how he sometimes made me feel in the process. I’m not sure I could’ve finished a novel as a busy mom if I hadn’t stood in the backyard that summer, pitching balls over the ladder, under the tree, into the bucket.

_______

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My Dirty Valentine

Nothing says love like compost – Hubs and Fozzie

When I said “let’s do something dirty for Valentine’s Day,” this isn’t exactly what I meant…

If you have been following me for any length of time (at least a year), then you know that my sweet Hubs is NOT a Valentine’s guy. It’s a holiday made up by Hallmark to make people spend money, blah, blah, blah. I don’t mind (as much) (anymore) because Hubs is amazing in all the ways that count and he remembers all the other important days in our marriage. Plus, he concedes that since we got engaged 10 YEARS AGO on February 11th, we can celebrate our engagement anniversary. So that works. BUT…

This year, for the FIRST TIME EVER, I’m getting a real Valentine’s gift… a compost bin!

My day job at a sustainability-focused company has me nerding out about all the damage done to our planet by organics in landfills. So Hubs decided to get me something I’ve REALLY wanted, and send a not-too-subtle message about what he thinks about February 14th at the same time. Sort of weirdly, snarkily perfect. Just like us.

The kids have already enjoyed putting some food scraps, leaves and pine straw in the bin; and I have been able to spend some time enjoying the man who knows me better than anyone else — even when he insists on acknowledging it on his own terms. I wouldn’t have it any other way!

I hope your Valentine’s Day brought you love, renewal, and a little something dirty!

 

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