Beth M. Howard's Blog, page 12

It's National Pi Day (3.14)! Let's celebrate the infinite...

It's National Pi Day (3.14)! Let's celebrate the infinite ways that pie can make the world a better place.

For starters, WIN A COPY OF "MS. AMERICAN PIE." My new cookbook will be in stores April 15, but you can get it sooner and for free by entering to win! Also included is a copy of the new movie "Veronica Mars" on Blu-Ray DVD and a bag of marshmallows. The marshmallows may be a Veronica Mars thing, but you can use them for the S'more Pie recipe in my book. a Rafflecopter giveaway
If you don't win...well, you can always buy the book.
Click here to order.

Happy Author, Happy FedEx Guy

When I made that strawberry crumble pie on Friday, I had the idea to share a slice of it with the FedEx guy when he delivered my cookbook. On Monday morning at 10 a.m. I just happened to open the door  and saw the FedEx truck parked. I summed up the situation: FedEx Driver. Check. Package in hand. Check. Package that looks like it could be a hardcover book (er, my cookbook). Check. "Is that for me?" I asked. When he confirmed the apartment number I practically snatched the large envelope out of his hand and started ripping it open as I turned back toward the door. Realizing I was caught up in my excitement and being rude to the delivery man, I spun around on my heel and said, "Wait. Would you like a piece of pie?" He raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Sure," he said.
Look at that cute blue & white gingham book spine!I handed the book to my boyfriend, Dave, and went back inside to get the pie (I served it on a gingham paper plate I had handy but had to rummage around for a plastic fork.) Dave, stayed outside with Mr. FedEx and the book. Dave was as excited as me about seeing the cookbook in print for the first time. After all, he had seen me through and supported me during the last stages of editing, not only providing a beautiful place to work but he brought me breakfast and lunch so I could stay on task. 
I love the artistic touches like the gingham on the inside cover of the book.
Plus, the photos are so beautiful. It makes me miss my house! (But I'll be home soon.) Chapters are organized by my essays about the ways pies can affect you.
I like this one: "Pies to Keep an Open Mind."
But I also like the chapter "Pies to Seduce."When I came back outside Dave had flipped through the pages and was showing the FedEx guy the picture of Daisy (posted in Friday's blog). "Here's proof this really is her cookbook, he said pointing at the picture, then pointing to my curly-haired white dog in real life who was sitting on the sidewalk next to him.

The FedEx guy eagerly accepted the pie and then agreed to pose for a photo. "I need to commemorate the occasion," I said. "Especially since I already blogged about giving you a piece of pie."

"This is a first for me," he said. "No one has ever given me pie before."

Ha! I love it when I hear that. I love that now whenever he comes to deliver packages to this building -- and since it's a big complex he's probably here every day -- he will have a happy memory of a sunny day, a slice of homemade fresh strawberry pie, and an excited author who was the very appreciative recipient of his special delivery.


"MS. AMERICAN PIE" will be in bookstores on April 15.
TO PRE-ORDER "MS. AMERICAN PIE" CLICK HERE.

Isn’t It Ironic?

Daisy. Posing on the front porch of the American Gothic House.
This photo appears in my new cookbook, "Ms. American Pie."
I bought myself a bottle of my favorite white wine, La Crema Chardonnay, in anticipation of celebrating the end of a long, productive week.  But as they day wore on and cocktail hour approached, I felt less and less in a celebratory mood.

I took one of my two terrier-mixes to the vet this morning. My sweet little Mexican rescue, Daisy, grew up on the streets of Mexico and due to poor nutrition in her early years her bones and teeth are in bad shape. She was desperately in need of dental work so I made the appointment, dropped her off, and felt good about getting something done that is so helpful and important to her health.

Not so fast. No sooner did I get home, the vet called and said her blood tests showed that there might be something wrong with her kidneys or liver and that giving her anesthesia for the dental work could be risky. The blood will be sent to another lab for further analysis, but the results won’t be in until tomorrow. Oh, and Daisy may require further diagnosis before her decayed teeth can even be addressed. Instead of having relief over resolving her dental issues, I picked her up and spent the rest of the day fighting back my concerns (and tears) over the what-ifs and doomsday scenarios.

Yesterday my publisher said my cookbook was being sent to me via FedEx. She was sending an advance copy and it would be the first time I would see my new cookbook, Ms. American Pie, in print.  I spent the day in anticipation. Yes, this would definitely be a reason to crack open that bottle of wine. I’ve worked for a solid year on this one project. To see it in print for the first time would be a thrill. I assumed FedEx meant “overnight delivery.” I kept looking out the window all day. I saw not one, not two, but three FedEx trucks parked on the street at various times. I waited for the doorbell to ring. Nothing. I finally emailed the East coast office and learned that the book was sent via 2-day service—that’s 2 business days—so I won’t see the book until Monday. Fine. I’ve waited this long. What’s another 3 days.

I had surgery in December. Relatively minor. I won’t go into it. But it was something that has helped me tremendously by alleviating some ongoing pain. I was told my insurance policy wouldn’t cover it. But I found out just this week that, in fact, they paid a good portion of my medical bill. Pour me a glass of that wine now! This afternoon I opened a letter from them. “We are raising your premium.” Gee, thanks.

What a difference a roadside strawberry stand can make.It’s 2 hours past the official start of cocktail hour and I still haven’t opened the bottle of wine. I’ve been too busy making pie. On the way home from the vet I saw a strawberry stand on the side of the road. It’s strawberry season in California. I practically slammed on the brakes to have a look—and a taste. I bought an entire flat of them and spent the afternoon baking—2 large strawberry crumble and 6 mini pies.
This photo is not to scale. It does not show the
 ENORMITY of both the strawberries and the pies.I always preach—and I know from experience—that doing something nice for others can make you feel better. I made the pie to share with some friends, neighbors, and the local handyman. And maybe the FedEx guy on Monday. Yes, thanks to that pie—the soothing task of making and rolling dough, slicing all those strawberries, crimping the crust edges—and making it with the goal of sharing it, I've forgotten all about the disappointments of the day. Yeah, well, sort of.

I’m going to get out the corkscrew now, pour myself a glass of that chardonnay, and go snuggle with Daisy on the couch. And because I know the lyrics of Alanis Morrisette’s song all too well and know how this day has already gone, I will bring the fly swatter with me.

Sneak Preview: The Intro to my Cookbook "Ms. American Pie" (In stores April 2014)

My second book, "Ms. American Pie," will be in stores in another month. Giving birth to a book for the second time is just as scary as it was the first. It involves all the same labor pains and anticipation I felt before. You would think it would be easier knowing how well "Making Piece" was received. But this is a different kind of book for me, a cookbook, filled with recipes and essays, and pictures of pie, of my famous little house, and...gulp...of me.

My hope for this book is simply that it helps people get past their fear of making their own pie. And that once they do, they will make it and share it with others. Sharing something that you made yourself, with your own two hands, taking the time to put your heart and soul into it, well, I'm convinced that this gesture of generosity, care, and love can make the world a better place.

With permission from my publisher, I'm sharing a sneak preview of the introduction from the book. If it's too small to read, just click on the pictures to make them larger. Better yet, just buy the book. You can pre-order it now for arrival in April. The book has 10 essays and 80 recipes, all simple, easy to make. And no food processor required.




To pre-order "Ms. American Pie" please click here, where you can choose from several booksellers.

A Letter to my Housesitter

Dear K,                                           March 2, 2014

I’m so grateful you are taking care of my house while I’m away, but I’m sorry you are having to deal with my [insert your own adjective here] neighbors. It was bad enough this fall when you first started house sitting. I remember your story about how your sweet little poodle ran out to greet your husband when he drove up and in her excitement ran a lap around the car and thus inadvertently touched one, maybe two paws down on the neighbors’ grass in what must have been a millisecond while circling around in a sprinting state of unbridled joy. This display of love is the precise reason we have dogs, is it not? You told me how the woman next door, whom we call Mrs. Binoculars (the name is self-explanatory), came outside shrieking at you. Oh, I know that shrill voice too well. She acted like your dog had committed some heinous crime, even though your sweet pet wouldn’t have even been on the grass long enough to leave behind one drop of pee.

The fact is, your poodle was probably still on city property as there is an easement between the gravel road and their actual property line. The other curious fact is, Old Binoculars used to have a dog herself so why this would upset her is difficult to compute. Nonetheless, I was so sorry to hear that Mrs. Binocular’s shouting, screaming reprimand to you about needing to keep your dog on a leash and off her lawn left you so upset. I know the subsequent shock and soul-crushing aftermath of such an unexpected and unwarranted tirade as I have endured the same type of treatment from her many times.

It doesn’t surprise me that she called the sheriff about the matter—she’s got him on speed-dial—but it disturbed me to hear that the sheriff knocked on your back door (er, my back door) at 11 pm. You said your husband drove to the house around 2pm, which would have been the time the dog ran her lap around the car, so it seems both unnecessary and inappropriate that the sheriff would come at such a late hour. I would have been scared no matter who knocked on the door that late! But then to first have to open the door to a stranger in uniform, only to get questioned over something so harmless, so mind-bogglingly miniscule, well, it makes you wonder how our tax-payer dollars are getting used! Why the sheriff bothers to show up, let alone listen to these neighbors’ unfounded complaints at all, is a mystery.

I had hoped you were still enjoying your time staying at the house. I love how you are using it as a weekend getaway and how you brought your art supplies and sewing machine. There is something magical about that house, about the creative energy it inspires. Everyone asks me if it’s haunted. But I tell them well, if it is, it’s inhabited by some very nice, very helpful ghosts who act as my muses. I wrote two books in that house. I hope to write a third—in fact, a story about the misadventures of living in a tourist attraction. I feel like that house has a soul, like it’s a living being in its own right. There have been times I’ve thought about moving, but then I will spend some time meditating on my dilemma and I swear I hear the house telling me, “No, please stay. I need you to take care of me.” I wonder if anyone has ever taken such good care of the house or loved it as much as I do—except for maybe you! I know from when I came back for a week in December that you are keeping the place spotless. I cannot thank you enough for being there, for keeping an eye on the place, for continuing to breathe warmth and positive life into the 130-year-old space.

I thought I was only going to be away for a month, maybe two. I just needed a break after an overly busy summer. I was burnt out from trying to run the pie stand while simultaneously finishing my cookbook. (Can you believe it will finally be published in a month?!) And then on top of the exhaustion that vegetarian boyfriend I had been dating all summer broke up with me, leaving my heart bleeding like beet juice. So it seemed like a good idea to take some time away, go visit my parents in California (I really miss them), hit the re-set button, and eat some red meat. That I’ve been away for more than 5 months now is a complete surprise. When I return the first of May, I will have been away 7 months. That’s more than half the year!

These months in California have been good for me. I’m so grateful for the time with my parents. Besides my mom’s home cooking, I’m loving all the restaurants, and eating so many good meals—Thai, Japanese, Korean, Greek, Mexican. The variety here is endless and so much better than my boring sandwiches, bland soups, and take-out pizza from the BP gas station. I also love the elegance of city life. Even the breakfast diner down the street has chandeliers, fine art on the walls, and you can eat pancakes while listening to classical music. I wish Eldon had a café like this. Hell, I wish Eldon had a café period. What are you doing for meals, by the way? Feel free to use my crockpot. It’s on the back porch, though it’s probably cracked now from the bitter cold, like what you told me happened to the glass on the front storm door window last month.

Chandeliers, artwork, classical music and pancakes!
At Russell's Cafe in Pasadena
The other thing I’m so grateful for here in California is, obviously, the weather. Last year I got cabin fever pretty badly—so badly I wrote two blog posts about it, about my envy for India Hicks and her seemingly charmed life in the Bahamas. (Here's the 2nd one.) I had vowed I wouldn’t spend another winter in Iowa. Don’t get me wrong; the house is so cozy in the winter. That Vermont Castings stove heats the house so well it almost gets too hot. (Well, when it works. Sorry it hasn’t been repaired yet.) And there is so much beauty in the quiet season. I love watching it snow—even though I am terrified of driving in it. My Mini Cooper, even after outfitting it with snow tires, is not the best winter car.


I was planning on coming back to Iowa right after New Year’s, driving the RV (aka: my Eldon privacy fence ), and using the remainder of the winter to write my next book. But this year has been an example of how life doesn’t go as planned. First, as I said, I never planned on being here this long. And second, as much as I have missed my house and wanted to spend at least part of the winter there writing, I wake up every morning in California thanking God for holding me here, for delaying my return until the snow melts and the ground thaws. What a harsh winter you’ve had! And what a warm, dry winter here. I don’t mean to rub it in, but my flip flops are getting a lot of use, while my boots are still in the back of the closet.

I keep a close watch on the Eldon forecast and saw you got another 6 inches or more. But I was still surprised to get your message about needing a shovel. I’ve never needed more than a broom to clear the snow off my steps, so it must have been a big storm. But then I got your next message about not being able to park in the little parking spot behind my house, that the snowdrifts were too high. It made me miss my old neighbor, Don, who used to come over with his snow blower and clear my parking space, my sidewalk, and my whole back patio. The first time he did this I woke up in the morning and saw the path was already cleared and wondered what magic elf had come by during the night. He didn’t even want to tell me it was him, and he always did it without asking. He also towed me out of the mud in spring and tilled my garden in summer. His kindness was so touching and I felt so loved and protected. But he lived right next door to The Binoculars and they had had their share of feuds (so you see, it isn’t just me—or you—that they harass.) Don had had a family picnic in his backyard and they were having a good time, laughing and enjoying their afternoon together, and The Binoculars raised hell, treating it as if Don was having a keg party or a rock concert at 2am. Lawyers were called in to mediate, charges were filed, counter-charges were filed, then a fence was erected between the two houses—er, between the two double wide trailers--then Don finally moved.

That is what The Binoculars are hoping I will do. It’s like that old movie “Pacific Heights” starring Michael Keaton who plays a psychopath trying to scare the apartment building owners into moving out so he can have the place. I have already talked to someone about filing harassment charges and I am told I have enough of a case to move forward, but I don’t have the desire to treat a negative situation with more negativity.

And yes, of COURSE, I have tried to talk to them, I tried to bring them a homemade pie (more than once), I’ve tried to be NICE. I went over to talk to Mrs. Binoculars when I first moved in and she shut the door in my face. I tried again later and she refused to answer the door at all. I’ve tried other things—someone suggested hanging a mirror in a window that faces their house, turning the mirror outward to deflect their energy. Someone else suggested I bury a St. Joseph statue in the yard. Another person told me to imagine my body engulfed in white light to protect myself whenever I walk past. I’ve tried a lot of things, but as you have learned, there is not enough armor in the world to protect oneself from the verbal attacks by these people. Their mentality is harsher than this Iowa winter.

What happened in their lives that makes them so unhappy? I used to ponder this question for hours, until I realized I was using up precious energy trying to figure out something that probably has no concrete answer. All I know about them is that they are not originally from Eldon, and that Don used to own their property. I’m sure he wishes he had never sold it.

If Don still lived next door he would have plowed the parking spot and sidewalk for you. You would have arrived this morning to an already-cleared, welcoming place to park and easy access to the backdoor.

I got your last message about seeing the man driving down the gravel road with his snowplow. You are from a small town in Iowa so you know that people are generally friendly and almost always willing to lend a hand to someone in need. Almost always. Unless it’s The Binoculars. When you wrote that you asked Mr. Binoculars if you could pay him to clear that one small spot so you could at least get your car off the road, you did the right thing, because surely he and his wife would have reported you for parking illegally (and you might have been awakened by the sheriff’s late-night knock again.) But for him to answer, “Oh, hell no! There is not enough money anywhere to pay me to come close to THAT house for her or her house sitter.” Well, that just makes me so sad. I’m also sad to hear that you are so rattled. I’m pretty sure you have a thicker skin than me so to learn that, once again, you butted up against this unkindness and were so upset by it makes me feel upset too. Even from 2,000 miles away.

What are they hoping to accomplish by treating people this way? I don’t know what they have against me. (Or you by association). I also don’t know why their behavior is tolerated by the town. Has my pie stand, its publicity, and subsequent increase in tourism not been an asset to the area? Isn’t that something the town would want to protect? Why are the complaints even allowed to be filed? Oh, I already know the answer to that because I was told by someone in a position of authority: “It’s because we live in a free country, which gives people the right to be a**holes.”

I just called another neighbor, Bob, and he said you could borrow his shovel.

Please do not think you are being a bother. I’m so sorry you had to go through this—again. I’m sorry these people are living there and giving our nice town a less favorable reputation.

I don't plan to stop commenting on the happenings there—good or bad—as writing non-fiction is my career. I am a journalist and I am merely reporting the neighborhood news. The pen is mightier than the sword. I also don’t plan to move. I love my house and it loves me. It has been a very good place for me to live, to work through the grief over my late husband, and to rebuild my life into one that is thriving by publishing books, making new friends, and being open to new possibilities.

This fall/winter break has indeed been restorative and I’ll be coming back in spring with renewed strength and energy. I will once again be doing the thing that I know is guaranteed to make the world a better place—I will be making pie. Maybe this will be the year The Binoculars will finally relent and accept a slice. I know you will be one of my first and best customers. But this year you are not allowed to pay. It’s the least I can do for all you’ve done—and put up with. Come by for pie whenever you feel like it. I know the house will be happy to see you again. And so will I.

Love,
Beth

PS: Thanks for sending the pictures of your adorable and WELL-BEHAVED dog and for a glimpse of the snow that I'm missing--or NOT missing as the case may be.

My TEDx Des Moines Women Talk is Now Online

In December I had the privilege of giving a TEDx talk in Des Moines, Iowa. I've given many speeches over the past few years, but this one was special to me. If you're familiar with TED and its independently organized TEDx events, then you know what I mean. TED stands for technology, entertainment and design, though it has expanded beyond those categories. The format of these talks is short -- limited to 15 minutes -- so you have to be succinct and organized in your presentation to tell your story, to make your point.

My point is to help make the world a better place by encouraging people to give of themselves. My vehicle for this -- my metaphor -- is pie. I learned after my husband died 4 years ago that by making pie (by hand) and sharing it with others I could make people feel happy and in turn make myself feel better. It's a simple concept using a simple dessert, but has a surprisingly powerful impact.

The idea behind these TEDx talks is for them to be accessible (for free) online so that they can be shared (like pie!) and even go viral so no one is excluded from getting a slice of inspiration. So feel free to share this -- and hopefully you will also be inspired to make and share a pie. Thanks for watching!

Hip Hop Pie Bakers and LA Lakers

I’ve been away from Eldon for a few months now. I’m making good on my word that I would not spend another winter in Iowa. I have to remind myself of that promise every so often because in spite of enjoying the record-breaking summer-like weather of Southern California (what a luxury to wear flip flops and sundresses in January!)—and appreciating every moment I get to spend with my parents here—I miss being home in my famous little farmhouse.

Apparently I am missed there too. Namely, by the high school boys who came to my house for a special pie class this time last year. Their English/reading teacher, Ms. D, who is my BFF in Eldon, was giving me regular reports from home that the hip-hop loving trio—Terrance, Osha, and Isaiah—had been asking about me. I was so surprised, and so touched, that I wanted to not just tell them, but show them, that I was thinking about them too.


To put thought into action, I determined that I would send them some LA souvenirs. Athletic high school boys are easy to shop for. It was a no-brainer. I would get them LA Lakers’ T-shirts.

The trouble was, I was busy. Too busy to go traipsing around looking for affordable sportswear. Besides, shopping is one of my least favorite pastimes. (It would have been easy if my budget was higher, since a logoed T-shirt can cost upwards from $35.) My mom, who actually enjoys shopping and often shops for clothes for me, offered to take on the job. Yes, she’s a great mom. She also happens to be a huge Lakers fan.

She first drove to TJ Maxx and called me from the parking lot. No, nothing here, she said. She went to Marshall’s next. Nothing here either. She drove to another Marshall’s. She called me, quite excited, and said she found shirts. She bought them in the sizes I instructed. Unfortunately, as it turned out, she bought them in YOUTH sizes. “Oh, mom, those won’t work. These guys are like men. They are athletes.” So she got back in the car and drove 10 miles to another TJ Maxx location. Still no Lakers shirts. Not even a hat. She called, exasperated. “Don’t worry about it, Mom,” I insisted. “You don’t have to do this.” When she went back to Marshall’s to return the youth sizes she found a whole new shipment of T-shirts had arrived. They had the right sizes. They were good quality. And they were affordable. Success!

Success meant my mom had driven all over LA in heavy traffic to five different stores to make this happen. In spite of achieving the goal and feeling victorious, my mom sounded tired. I made a point to thank her profusely. “It means a lot to me, Mom,” I told her. “And it will mean a lot to the boys.” She doesn’t know these boys, or of their circumstances, so she wouldn’t know just how much the shirts would be appreciated. Not even close.


I wrapped up the T-shirts and wrote a card with each that said, “Thinking of you from here in California. I hope you’re still making pie. PS: Be nice to Ms. D!” and sent the package to Iowa. What I got in return was something that reminds me of what’s really important in life. I got thank you cards from each of them. Ms. D remarked at what an accomplishment this was. After all, they are in her class because of their need to improve their writing skills. “I’ve never seen them write this much. Or this well,” she said, clearly proud of their efforts. It was also a bonus that because the T-shirts were a result of Ms. D’s communication with me, her “rock star teacher” status would be further elevated. The boys’ own status was elevated when all three of them wore their T-shirts to school on the same day. It wasn’t just their fellow students who noticed. The coach asked Ms. D, “What’s the story behind those shirts?” He must have been surprised by the answer when she explained. 


But the goodness of this effort reaches even farther than that. What means as much to me as any of this is what my mom wrote after I forwarded the photos taken by Ms. D. When my mom saw the boys posing like NBA stars in their new shirts, she got it.  “Oh, Beth. Looking at these photos gives me a lump in my throat," she said in her email. Which gave me a lump in my throat.

It’s been sometimes hard and confusing to be gone from home for so long, to live between two places and miss the people who are in the place you are not. But I take heart in seeing how relationships can continue grow across the miles, and now, with my mom’s new connection to the boys, how those relationships can expand to include more people. My home in Iowa will still be there when I return, after the snow melts. Until then, as I move around LA and see Lakers logos everywhere, or watch Lakers games on TV with my parents—laughing as my mom yells at the screen when they miss a basket or lose the ball—I will be thinking about Terrance, Osha, Isaiah, and Ms. D, and realize that the warmth I feel isn’t just from the California sun.

Hi guys. I look forward to seeing you in spring.
PS: I'm planning on hiring you to work at my pie stand this summer.
Love, BethSee the original post about these guys from last year: Wuz Up Wit Dat Hip Hop Pie Class

Author Sarah Turnbull Resurfaces At Last

In June 2003, I moved to Stuttgart, Germany to marry a smart and sexy automotive engineer, Marcus. It was the year Europe had record-breaking triple-digit temperatures. One of the first German words I learned, a word that still sticks with me the way the layers of sweat did that summer, was Hitzewelle. Heat wave. I spent my first three sweltering months in Germany sitting in steamy classroom enduring a five-hour-a day language immersion course with students from Turkey, Greece, Romania, Russia, and Ecuador. I learned—or tried to learn but never really quite grasped—grammatical rules like compound nouns, which are several words strung together to make one word longer than the alphabet. Even more mind numbing was the assignment of articles to nouns, having to memorize genders that never made sense. In German, there are approximately six ways to say “the,” but you have to know which version goes with which word. Why was a little girl given a neutral article (das), a loaf of bread male (der) and a fork feminine (die)?  It was worse than Sister Mary’s high school algebra class. Way worse. Marcus and me at a German beer garden. Note the pretzels.That was just the beginning of what became a frustrating first year in Deutschland. The tales—or misadventures or, er, nightmares—began mounting faster than the numbers on our outdoor terrace thermometer. I got yelled at by the dry cleaner for having champagne stains on my wedding dress when I brought it in to be cleaned. “But it was my wedding!” I stuttered in my beginner’s German. At the grocery store I got reprimanded—more like publicly humiliated—for not laying my wine bottles down on the conveyor belt. I didn’t fight back; I went home in tears. And when we got a puppy, I was told in no uncertain terms by an elderly neighbor woman that I was not to let my dog pee there. “If one hunde pees, the rest will also pee there.” On top of it, my husband worked until 9 o’clock most nights, leaving me to feel isolated and angry. Not long after I arrived I discovered a newly published book. I don’t remember who told me about it, but I do remember that when I began reading it I was enthralled. It was called “Almost French,” by Sarah Turnbull. Turnbull, an Australian, had married a Frenchman and moved to Paris. With each page I turned I felt I was reading my own story, taking place in the country just west across an unmanned border from where I was sitting. I laughed as I read of Turnbull’s mishaps and madness, not with Schadenfreude, but with familiarity, solidarity, sympathy. It was helpful to know I was not alone. Yet in spite of her identical run-ins and reprimands in her newly adopted country, I couldn’t help feel envious. She was in France! The language was prettier. The clothes were more fashionable. The croissants were flakier.  Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with a Frenchman?

I asked Marcus about the harshness I observed daily in German life, about the constant reproach doled out by shopkeepers, neighbors, random passersby, and the like. “How can you stand living in a place where people are so rude to each other?” I wanted to know.
“I never really noticed it before you pointed it out,” he said. “I guess I’m just used to it.”
“Well, I don’t want to get used to it,” I snapped.

Still, I loved my husband. Even if I did not love his country.

A writer myself, I had my own version of “Almost French” in the making. I was filling the pages with my personal saga, calling it “HausfrauHoneymoon.” In my search for a publisher I contacted Turnbull’s editor in New York City, Lauren Marino. When I got Lauren on the phone (international calls are very cheap from Germany), I explained that I was in Europe and asked how I might get in touch with Sarah. “Oh, she’s not in Paris anymore,” Lauren said. “She and Fred moved to Tahiti.”
TAHITI?! I was floored. I came up with my own interpretation of this news. Maybe Turnbull got so fed up with France that she persuaded her husband to move. Tahiti, I surmised, might have been a good compromise given it was relatively closer to Turnbull’s native Australia, and as they speak French it would be a likelier place her lawyer husband could work.

Marcus had promised me when I moved to Germany that we would only stay two years. The clock was ticking and I was ready to go. That evening, I pounced on him the moment he walked in the door, waving Sarah Turnbull’s book wildly. “They. Moved. To. Tahiti!” I screeched. What I didn’t say but what I’m sure he heard was: “I want to go with them.” I had been to Tahiti and I remembered the vivid greens, blues, oranges, yellows, and reds that made the tropical paradise feel so alive; I loved that so many buildings had thatched roofs; and my favorite was the special mailboxes designated for home-delivered baguettes. All this made the contrast of Germany’s cold glass and steel architecture and uninspiring shades of grey seem even colder and greyer. Where would we move when the time came?

As it turned out, we moved to Portland, Oregon. Lush, yes. Warm and tropical, no. During that time I completed my manuscript for “HausfrauHoneymoon” and even had interest in it from Sarah Turnbull’s literary agent. I wasn’t stalking Sarah; I simply had a similar tale and believed there was a market for a romance set in Germany. The agent’s interest wasn’t enough to sell the book, though. The agent said, “Germany just isn’t romantic enough.”

“Yes! That’s exactly the point of my story!” I tried to explain.

After Portland we moved to Saltillo, Mexico. Not the tropical part of a country popular for its white sandy beaches, rather a high desert mountain town known for its burgeoning growth of industry. While Marcus spent his days building a truck factory, I spent mine trying to learn Spanish, the words often coming out in a confused jumble mixed with German. There were no baguettes delivered to our door, only the weekly propane truck, which stopped by to fill the tank that fueled our stove and wall heater.When Marcus’s assignment in Mexico was up he was transferred back to Stuttgart. By that time the frequent moves—and increasing arguments about why his job had to dictate where we lived and why we couldn’t just pick a place where we could both be happy—had taken a toll on our marriage. I asked for a divorce. He agreed to it. And seven hours before he was to sign the papers he died suddenly and unexpectedly of a ruptured aorta. He was 43.
I did end up getting a book published, called “Making Piece.” But it wasn’t the story I wanted to write. It wasn’t the fish-out-of-water tale about falling in love and coping with life in a new country and adapting to a foreign culture. It was about how I survived the first year of my grief. About how I would have sold my soul to go back in time. How I would have even agreed to move back to Germany and promise never to complain about the difficult language or the brusque shopkeepers or Marcus’s late work hours.

All the while, throughout the 10 years since I first read “Almost French,” I have never stopped searching the Internet for news of Sarah Turnbull, hungry to learn what happened since she moved to Tahiti. I wanted to know if her story had a happy ending. I was convinced it did. I never found a thing, other than the Amazon order link for her first book. Until yesterday.
I was wandering through Vroman’s Bookstore in Pasadena, California. After browsing the biographies, I moved to the travel writing section to show a friend one of my all-time favorite books, Bill Bryson’s “AWalk in the Woods.” I ventured to the next shelf on the right and picked up another favorite, “Holy Cow: An Indian Adventure” by Australian Sarah Macdonald. And then, further still to the right, the name Sarah Turnbull caught my eye. It wasn’t “Almost French.” It was something else. A hardcover titled “All GoodThings.” I squealed and leaped the way my Jack Russell terrier does when his excitement is uncontainable. “Oh my god! I had no idea she wrote another book!” I snatched a copy off the shelf and searched for the publish date. It had only been out for a few months. How did I not know about this? Its subtitle was “From Paris to Tahiti: Life and Longing.” I began explaining the story to my friend, telling her how much I had loved “Almost French” and how I had been waiting and hoping—and waiting and hoping and waiting and hoping—for her sequel. And here it was. I wanted to sprint to the cash register to buy it. I was talking so loud and enthusiastically that another customer came over and asked me to fill her in. After my little Sarah Turnbull rain dance, she too picked up a copy to purchase.

I stayed up until 3 a.m. last night reading “All Good Things.” I’m not done yet and I wish I could be reading right now as I am anxious to devour her story. The story picks up where “Almost French” left off and even describes the heat wave I lived through that summer of 2003. And yet, it appears that during these past years while I was dealing with my own woes and life-altering tragedy, Turnbull wasn't exactly living a dream life in tropical paradise either. Our stories are no longer parallel. We both left Europe, but our paths diverge from there. I lost the man I loved while she added new life to her world. She has a son. And from reading her bio I see that she no longer lives in Tahiti, but is now living in Sydney, Australia. And yes, she is still with her French husband, Frederic.
I always wanted to believe in the happily ever after, but I’ve learned that life is too imperfect and unpredictable for that. I no longer read stories expecting—demanding—to have happy, neatly tied up endings. I am content to settle for stories that leave me with a feeling of hope. I know from Turnbull’s writing—her gorgeous descriptions, her elegant style, her ability to tell just enough without oversharing, her patience, her wisdom, her grace—that “All Good Things” is that hopeful kind of story. I can’t wait to get back to her pages.

I just wish I could wave the book in front of Marcus and give him the update and Die gute Nachtricht. It's always nice to share good news.

Pie Discussion on MSNBC's Melissa Harris-Perry Show

Did you miss the pie episode of the Melissa Harris Perry Show on MSNBC? No worries. The videos can be seen online. It was a fun experience to part of the panel discussion, even if I was joining in remotely from a studio in Chicago.

Besides the host, Melissa Harris Perry, the panel was made up of Rose Levy Beranbaum, author of The Pie and Pastry Bible; Kelly Choi, former host of Bravo TV's "Top Chef Masters"; Sunny Anderson of the Food Network's "In the Kitchen"; and Jelani Cobb, a professor at the University of Connecticut.

I was grateful to be included because I always love talking about pie and its healing powers.


SEGMENT ONE


SEGMENT TWO


As a bonus, here are a few recipes from the panelists:
http://www.msnbc.com/melissa-harris-p...

The World Needs More...Meat?!

Empanadas are pie too.
Note the caipirinha cocktail to the upper left.
And note the "Yes Please" card lower right. That means
you want more meat.What do you do when you’ve been dating a vegetarian who has conditioned you to live without meat in your diet and a dear friend you haven’t seen in over a year invites you out for a Brazilian steak dinner? At a newly renovated, upscale restaurant in Los Angeles? A place with exotic caipirinha cocktails and grilled filet mignon sliced off of skewers right onto your plate?

You say YES, that’s what.

I left Iowa and came to LA several weeks ago (driving my RV and bringing along Team Terrier) to visit my parents and reconnect with old friends. Kim is one of those friends, a former boss actually, who runs her ownpublic relations agency. I had been trying to arrange a time to see her and between her busy travel schedule and the fact we were on opposite geographical ends of the vast metropolis, it was nearly impossible to make a date. Until she suggested I join her at a press dinner she was hosting at the M Grill in Koreatown—strategically located at the halfway point for us.

Now admittedly, as long as I’m in LA and not rural Iowa I jump at any chance to go out for a nice dinner—meat or no meat—because after spending the past three years wearing nothing but bib overalls and gingham aprons, I love, love, love putting on a designer dress and high heels. And after three years of Crockpot cooking and take-out pizza from either one of Eldon’s two gas stations, I appreciate to no end candlelit ambiance, crystal and china table settings, and black tie service.

But saying yes to this dinner was not some opportunistic leap at a freebie. It was special. First, it was with Kim, a smart and savvy Energizer bunny who I’ve always looked up to like a big sister and mentor. Second, it represented one of the things I value most about LA: cultural diversity. Though in this case it almost seemed more like a cultural clash. I mean, what is a Brazilian churrascaria (Portuguese for steakhouse) doing in Koreatown?

The answer, Kim told me, is that the owner of the swanky, cavernous steakhouse is Manny Kim, who was born in Korea but raised in Brazil. And yet from the look of the restaurant’s wine collection—entire walls lined floor to ceiling with bottles—he may as well have come straight from Napa Valley.

Which brings me to a downside of LA: driving. As much as I longed for a glass or three of some fine South American malbec or some rich cabernet, I had to drive home after dinner. One drink was my limit and I had already used that up on a passion fruit caipirinha. That one drink was so tangy, so icy, and so #*%$@ delicious I didn’t miss the wine. I sipped it slowly while waiting for Kim to arrive. It felt so decadent, so “Sex in the City,” to sit at the bar with my big girl drink, listening to lounge music and basking in the warm glow of romantic lighting. If Frank Lloyd Wright had designed night clubs, M Grill would have his signature all over it.
If the ex-boyfriend could see me now! Ha!But let’s get back to the controversy—I mean, the meat. It’s served rodizio style, which means waiters (well dressed and good looking ones who are probably models in their day jobs) come around with skewers, shaving off slices of various types of sizzling meat, still hot from the grill. Lamb chops. Leg of lamb. Top sirloin. Bottom sirloin. Pork spare ribs. Smoked sausage. Parmesan beef. Rib eye. Chicken hearts. Garlic chicken. Bacon wrapped chicken. They keep bringing you meat—juicy, tender morsels of warm sustenance (and this is after you’ve already pigged out at the meat-filled salad bar) until you flip a card over that signals the waiters that you’re done, i.e.: your belly is about to explode. The green side of the card means “more please” and the red side means “STOP OR ELSE.”
This is my dear friend Kim hogging the berries and ice cream.
All that was missing was pie crust. But this dessert was
so good I didn't miss it.Luckily I had worn a dress with a loose waistline and was able to squeeze in a few bites of the cinnamon-sprinkled grilled pineapple (sliced off the skewer tableside) and some of the coconut flan and the mixed berries over ice cream for dessert.
Grilled pineapple sprinkled with cinnamon.
Mmmm. Green side of the card up for "Yes please."Also—and god knows I could not possibly publish a blog post without at least some mention of pie—I had made room for a few empanadas. Yes, an empanada is considered pie—anytime you have crust encasing a filling it is defined as pie. This little Portuguese fried meat-filled finger food was served as an appetizer. I had two but given my affinity for pie, I could have eaten a whole meal of just these.

After the evening’s big feast, I can say this: it was so fun to dress up and have an elegant night out. It was so great to see Kim. And really, it was good to give my body a much-needed overdue dose of iron. As for the vegetarian boyfriend, he’s out of the picture and I have already met someone new, someone perfect for me, someone who accepts me for who I am. Even if I am a carnivore.
The new meat-eating man in my life also came for dinner at the M Grill.
Talk about delicious.M Grill is located at 3832 Wilshire Blvd #202, Los Angeles, CA 90010. PHONE:  (213) 389-2770