Writing in a Foreign Land

Note:    For the first time, Italian Intrigues features a guest blogger.  Please welcome Cassy Pickard, another Sister in Crime. My first post on Novel Adventurers appears December 1.

 

Cassy Pickard

As writers we invent. We create worlds that first exist only in our minds and then we figure out how to put that on a page so others are invited to join us. We want readers to see our characters as people who are advancing through their struggles. We also want them to see the streets our creations live on, smell the aromas from where they eat, hear the buzz of the motorcycles along the street and learn about the details of their lives.

My stories take place in Italy. It’s a country I have been visiting for forty years. We own a house there. I go many times a year. And, I have learned that I can’t “feel” the country on Google or on any website. Let me share with you an experience I had a few years ago.

My husband and I were traveling in Italy and he made the genius suggestion that I stay on to research a portion of the book I was writing. “Take a week,” he said. “I’m fine heading back. You have lots to do.” I hesitated, then grabbed the moment.

I spent five days doing just that. I walked Rome in ways I had not done before. Even with the many times I have been there, this was different. I was looking for the apartment house my heroine lived in. I took photographs not of classic sites but of where my gal lived and worked—memories for me to be sure to keep for my pages to be written.

In Rome, women don’t usually jog or run. I planned the path for my protagonist to flee in a moment of terror and then I ran it. So, I literally busted my buns to get from Point A to Point B, timing it. I had to make the scene for my book real. People stared. One man yelled to me, asking if I needed help. I ended up joining a huge protest group who were rallying about civil rights. I realized it was a good place to hide from the bad guy chasing me. I almost began to believe he was real. My heart was pounding. The protesters were chanting. I had to pull out my map to reorient. I was actually slightly nervous to leave the safety of the large anonymous crowd for my imaginary pursuer could miraculously appear.

Piazza Campo dei Fiori

Then as I moved on to Piazza Campo dei Fiori, I had forgotten that the large farmer’s market filled the square. It was rich with details that I could never have found on Google or any other site. Chickens hung in the makeshift stalls, huge bins of herbs and spices lined the front of a number of vendors, a full kitchen shop was set up on multiple tables, and of course the flowers. I could have bought one of everything. I’m a total lover of outdoor markets.

I decided to have lunch at the edge of the piazza and watch the parade of people. With a glass of wine in hand, it became clear that I had to be there. I had to feel it, smell it, watch it, and then hopefully know it. And my dear character was right by my side. She loved it too. That was until I had to make her life much more difficult with what I plotted for the next scene.

Cassy Pickard has invented herself a number of times. She is a registered nurse, holds two master's degrees and a PhD in research methodology. She has been a health care consultant, an entrepreneur, and an associate dean at Yale University. Now she lives vicariously through her characters. She splits her time between Connecticut and Italy. Visit her at http://www.cassypickard.com/ and http://www.mysteriesandmargaritasblogspot.com/ or email her at cassy@cassypickard.com 

On the Road

Chris Roerden, Sarah Glenn, Heidi Saunders, Karen Pullen, Patricia Winton

This has been a heady week.

Last Thursday morning I stepped onto a plane. Twelve hours later I stepped into a whirlwind. So far, I've driven 1200 miles (almost 2000 kilometers), and I have miles to go before I sleep in my own bed again.

Two days with my fellow Fish Tales authors Karen Pullen, Heidi Saunders and Sarah Glenn were a joy. Writing is a lonely profession, and it's odd to have your work in an anthology because yous share pages with strangers. This is my second one, and I don't think I ever met any of the writers from the first.

We four bonded on several levels: they critiqued the synopsis for my work-in-progress; we taught Heidi how to keep the seat belt from cutting into her neck. Karen hosted us in her remarkable Bed & Breakfast, Rosemary House, in Pittsboro, NC. (I can recommend this without reservations as a splendid holiday destination.) During down time, Sarah, Heidi and I gathered in the common room with our laptops, doing our own work and sharing tips on how to work easier with Twitter or how to avoid creeps on Facebook.

On the way to our first signing at McIntyre's, we were almost in an accident. The driver ahead was distracted and her car began drifting to left. We watched in horror as the car struck a bridge abutment. The collision startled the driver who jerked the wheel to the right, causing her car to strike the other side of the bridge, sending it into a spin. Very scary.

Chris Roerden,who wrote the Fish Tales introduction, joined us for the first reading. At both McIntyre's and Quail Ridge Books in Raleigh, we had audiences of true mystery fans who asked intelligent questions and displayed enthusiasm for the genre. We came away on a high. At Quail Ridge, they asked us to sign our photographs, which they will hang in their bathroom, a gallery with photos of Alexander Call Smith, Madeleine Albright, and other writers of greater or lesser renown. We are honored to be in that company on a bathroom wall.

The following day, Chris, Karen and I joined fifty other writers in Charlotte for a meet and greet and eat event. I got to see old friends, meet face-to-face people I've known via the internet for years, meet writers whose work I've long admired, and make contact with other people who will be at Killer Nashville this weekend.

There are too many names to mention, but I want to single out one: Ellis Vidler. We took an on-line course together a couple of years ago. She was very hard on me, demanding that I be a better writer. Then she became the first follower of ItalianIntrigues—before it was up on the web. I still don't know how she did that. It was nice to see her smiling face in person. And to talk.

I'm off to Killer Nashville on Thursday. I'll report in again as I continue this journey.

Pete Mock, Mystery Guru at McIntyre's

Do Vampires Drink Blood Orange Juice?

This question about vampires popped into my head as I was squeezing out my morning glass. Blood orange season is at its peak here, and these noble orbs from Sicily dominate every fruit stand in Italy. When the season begins just after Christmas, I start buying oranges for juice. At first, they look like any orange when you cut into them—they’re orange. But as the season progresses, a little tinge of red appears. It  resembles a drop of blood in a basin of water the way it appears to spread across the orange pulp.

At the beginning of the season, when the pulp is more orange than red, the juice acquires a rosy glow. As the season waxes, the red pulp overtakes the orange and the juice becomes redder and redder. It’s on the wane now, and the red is diminishing each day. At this point, a bag of oranges is like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolate: you never know what you’re going to get. This morning, for example, the first orange I cut into had barely any red at all. The second one was mahogany. But the juice was a rich rose, and the taste exquisite.

At this time of year, oranges dominate our menus, too. A couple of weeks ago, I unearthed a duck breast from my freezer (part of a duck I’d bought a few months ago and cut into individual portions). I sautéd it with a little garlic, adding blood orange juice to cook a sauce, and finally the orange sections at the last minute. Delicious!

But blood oranges are eaten fresh more often than cooked. One of my favorite ways of eating them is in a salad with fennel and black olives. It’s simple, tasty, and can be made with any type of oranges, but blood ones add a beautiful color.

BLOOD ORANGE, FENNEL, AND OLIVE SALAD

(serves 2)

1 large fennel bulb

2-3 blood oranges (or regular oranges)

½ cup oil cured black olives

Extra virgin olive oil (to taste)

Black pepper (to taste)

1.
   Wash the fennel and cut out the tough core. Slice very thinly. You can do this by hand or with your food processor blade. I use a little slicer available in markets here for around $8.

2. 
  Using a sharp knife, peel and cut out the orange sections from the pith.

3. 
    Arrange the fennel on a plate; place the oranges and olives evenly on top.

4. 
    Add a few grindings of black pepper. The olives are salty enough, so you won’t need salt.

5. 
    Drizzle on the olive oil.

Cultural note: The Italian translation of “to taste” is quanto basta which literally means “enough.” Italian recipes often have the abbreviation q.b. meaning “to taste.”

              

What Is in a Name?

     Google Alerts delivered this message two days after my first blog post: Patricia Winton Police Blotter. I read “blogger” instead of “blotter,” and a bubble of joy filled my chest. I thought my blog had made some list and I’d have readers beyond friends and family. I clicked and saw: Patricia Winton Arrest. The bubble burst and bile rose in my throat. I clicked again and saw: Patricia Z arrested in Winton, California.

     This is the second time in four months that Google Alerts has delivered news of Patricia Winton’s arrest. Back in December, on Rome’s coldest day this winter, I had two hours to kill between appointments. I wandered into a department store where I walked the aisles, fingering candles and pajamas and soup pots. Anything to pass the time in a warm place.

     Everywhere I went, I saw the same two guys. One looked like store security in his spiffy suit and shiny shoes. The other, a muscular guy in raggedy track suit and tattered sneakers, looked like he was there to rob the place. They were in house wares; they were in lingerie; they were in handbags. I lingered in handbags to buy a wallet.

     As I left the store, I noticed a little beep, but nothing alarming. Suddenly, the burly guy I had seen earlier leapt into my path and showed me ID. He was store security and the little beep I heard was in fact an alarm. “Signora,” he said. “Did you leave without paying?” As I began searching the two bags I was carrying to locate the wallet and receipt, he kept peppering me with questions. “Did you just forget to pay?” A crowd gathered. The questions continued. The crowd grew larger. The more questions he asked, the more agitated I became. I fumbled with zippers. I rattled paper. Just as he was reaching for my arm to take me who knows where, I found the wallet and receipt. He examined them both, glanced at me and said, “You’ll have to take these back to the cashier.” No smile and no apology.

     The very next day, Google Alerts delivered the news that Patricia Winton had been arrested for shoplifting. You can’t imagine the emotions that roiled in my chest that time, especially since the woman was my age and in my home state of Tennessee. The coincidence is uncanny. I come from a law enforcement family: my father was a sheriff and my sister worked for the FBI. It’s a weird feeling to have my name on the wrong side of the law.

     So I’m wondering, is it a good thing or bad for a mystery writer to share a name with jailbirds? I hope you’ll leave a comment with your thoughts on the question.

Does the World Need Another Blog?

Probably not. But here it is anyway. Welcome to the first edition of Italian Intrigues where I’ll be writing about my three passions: life in Italy, food and wine, mysteries and crime.

I’m an American who’s lived in Italy for more than 12 years, the past nine in Rome. For a long time, I’ve toyed with the notion of writing crime fiction. I’ve plotted and researched numerous ideas over the years, often as a non-lethal way of seeking revenge against people who irked me. I figured out how to kill a member of a certain state assembly in the members-only chamber, for example, and I discovered a way to knock off an annoying neighbor while I was out of town.

Here in Rome, I’ve merged my three passions to create a pair of characters who explore Italy’s culinary scene, which is littered with dead bodies. She’s a journalist who has moved to her mother’s native Italy to build a new career as a food writer. He’s a professor of Italian culinary history and traditions at a 700-year-old university. When their paths cross, sparks fly. She uses her nose for news and he uses his professorial curiosity to unmask killers.

My passion for Italy was kindled by college art history classes that opened up the Renaissance for me and made me long to visit Florence. Soon after graduation, I had an opportunity to live in Tuscany for three years—a short train-ride from the Florence of my dreams. While there I learned to make pasta with an Italian chef and lugged a pasta machine (about the same weight as an anvil) back to America when I returned. And my career as a cooking teacher was launched. Pasta 101 led to Heart Smart Italian Food which led to Delicious Desserts which led to…. You get the idea.

And all this led to a newspaper column called A Matter of Taste, where I wrote about food and culture. For five years that Wednesday deadline had to be met regardless of where I was or how I felt. So, I’ve decided that Italian Intrigues will be posted every Wednesday to satisfy my need for a deadline and to perhaps recapture the fun I had writing that column.

I hope you’ll drop by often. Or better yet, subscribe to the RSS feed by clicking the little orange square in the address line above. And please post a comment if the mood strikes you.

See you next week.