Having it All

As this new year is undoubtedly the one in which I shall take the literary world by storm, I have taken the opportunity presented by this final vacation to feed my family. I say "final vacation" because it is obviously the last one I will have time to enjoy before I become overwhelmed by slavering agents, editors, and publicity personnel seeking my illustrious presence at book-signings, library ribbon-cuttings, and, of course, they will need my counsel and advice at all those tedious-yet-thrilling meetings to oversee the adaptation of No Matter What to the big screen. I'll also have to squeeze in some time to pick up those two Honorary Doctorate of Letters my Alma Maters will be begging me to take off their hands. Damn good thing I love public speaking.
It's going to be a busy year.
Anyway, I have to make sure the home-folks get fattened up before I begin the talk show circuit. Mike is a good cook when we're here together, but if I'm out of town for any length of time, it's a living testimony to Supersize Me around this place. When I went to that differentiated instruction conference in Scottsdale last month, (my "sleep number" is 35, by the way. Nice hotel!) I had to unearth my daughter from a landslide of Dominoes boxes in the kitchen when I got home. Poor baby. God only knows how long she was under there. The therapist says she should start speaking again any day now.
One thing I will say about me: I am a damned good cook. Ask my thighs. When I have the time, budget, and inclination, there is little I enjoy more than puttering around with all my gorgeous gadgets (All hail Cuisinart! God bless KitchenAid!* ) and concocting the kind of food most people only see in magazines. My future bestsellers will include at least one cookbook, according to Michele, who has hired herself as my business manager. (As long as we can keep her at her current salary, I'll keep her on staff. ** ) Amazing as my culinary masterpieces have always been, over the past couple of weeks I have surpassed even myself.
In the "Books" section on my page, I pay homage to my living literary idol, Pat Conroy, author of many hysterical and heart-wrenchingly beautiful novels. Sir Pat*** has a cookbook available that includes stories as wonderful as any of his other work. (These keep you occupied while you whisk that fascinating roux for fifteen minutes wondering if it will ever really reach a "deep caramel color and/or smell of toasted almonds." Trust me. It will do both. It was like a science lab!) It also has recipes that, albeit time-consuming, will have your taste buds standing at full attention, and you gathering fragrant roses from the kitchen floor.****
So in addition to my own secret recipes, I have used part of my vacation whipping out Conroy-inspired dishes. We received a package of gigantic Gulf shrimp from my dad, so yesterday Mike and I followed every one of the two-thousand steps (Mike pulled out the shrimp poo while I whisked that magical 15-minute roux.) required to make the Gumbo on pages 90,91, and 92 of The Pat Conroy Cookbook.
Oh. My. God.
Never let it be said that good things aren't worth waiting for. Never let it be said that you can't be a literary superstar and a five-star chef simultaneously. Never let it be said that I- like my hero Sir Pat- can't have it all.
I'm due.
(footnotes)
*Seriously. Not only do they make all those fabulous appliances in RED, but I blew out three, count them: three hand mixers in the year before I got my Artisan. Cream Cheese frosting for "Anoka Minnesota Lutheran Ladies' Carrot Cake" did in the first two, mortar icing for a fabulous gingerbread house brought on the third smoky demise. It was grim.
**Yes, it's still $0.00, Dan. Stop sniffing around.
***Dubbed him myself, thank you. If this were Britain, it would have been done long ago.
****The ones your family has flung in their wild ovation over your gastronomic prowess, silly! Whaddaya mean, "Huh? What roses?"