I have become so closely identified with Baltimore that the fact of my Southern roots often gets lost in the shuffle. I was born in Atlanta, Ga., and raised by true Southerners, polite, soft-spoken people who taught me that you must always ?
always ? eat what your host or hostess offers you.
Two weeks ago, that lesson was tested when I went to the home of my friend and neighbor, Linda Perlstein. In addition to being a terrific writer, Linda is an extraordinary cook and she asked me over for homemade ravioli, stuffed with wild mushrooms. And, Linda announced with obvious joy, we would be having roasted kale. I could not have been more dubious. I'm pretty sure that I've never voluntarily eaten a piece of kale in my life. But, mindful of my manners, I tried the roasted kale ? and fell in love. It almost eclipsed the ravioli. Roasted kale goes down like popcorn and it’s incredibly easy to make: Set the oven at 400-425 degrees. Separate a head of kale into individual leaves, then toss with olive oil, salt and pepper. Place the leaves on a baking sheet and put in the oven for 16-20 minutes, turning once.
Clearly, I never would have tried kale if I hadn't been at a guest in someone's home. So today, I urge you to consider some literary kale. Try something you can’t imagine liking. Choose judiciously, using a trusted friend or reviewer as a guide, but get outside your comfort zone. Never read so-called chick lit? (I say so-called, because when a term exists primarily so people can scoff at it, the term isn’t of much use.) I recommend Jennifer Weiner, or Mary Kay Andrews, especially Little Bitty Lies, which has a great chicken salad recipe as a bonus. Disdainful of crime novels? Consider Denise Mina's Field of Blood, set in 1980s Glasgow, and the first book in a series that has been nominated for the Edgar®. Intimidated by literary fiction? Try Tom Franklin's Smonk or Daniel Woodrell's Winter's Bone; both have a sneaky, accessible brilliance. Or read Jack Pendarvis. In fact, you can read one of his short stories, "Sex Devil," simply by clicking here. I've never met Jack face-to-face, but he sometimes chimes in on my sort-of blog, where I recently compared novel-writing to Owen Wilson battling the title character in Anaconda. Jack instantly got the reference. But then ? Jack has taught me that writers should never be ashamed of anything we love.
Meanwhile, Pauline Kael has been on my mind a lot this year, as I’m writing a novel that centers on a bunch of movie-mad types, and their moth-to-flame attraction to a television show filming in Baltimore. (No, the show bears no resemblance to The Wire or even Homicide, although I have had cameos in both.) I am a huge admirer of Kael's work, even when I disagree with her ? and I disagree with her frequently. But it’s hard to imagine Kael judging a film by its genre. She could be idiosyncratic and dogmatic, but she never rejected a film by category. Except, perhaps, the male weepie.
Too much to do to write more today. We always invite people over for the 4th of July as we have an excellent view of the fireworks, and it seems piggish not to share. The Thai beef salad is prepared, as is the blueberry pie, but I still have to make carnitas and guacamole. Our 4th of July tradition is a melting pot menu, with the biggest hodgepodge of cuisines we can concoct. (We had hoped for Maryland steamed crabs, but the rains in Texas made that impossible, an interesting fact to contemplate.) This year, I'm also hoping for a hodgepodge of musical styles. We have three female saxophone players on the guest list, shades of Some Like It Hot, and one of them tells me she mastered trumpet at band camp last month. Another one of our young guests plays the harp. No, I'm not getting bluesy on you, he plays the harp-harp, the big thing with strings. We also have a couple of guitarists and, last but never least, my stepson, who is only 13 but can do a pretty good Professor Longhair imitation on keyboards. Let the wild rumpus start!
(If you don't know that reference, you should.)
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Laura Lippman, author of What the Dead Know, was a Baltimore Sun reporter for twelve years. Her novels have been awarded every major prize in crime fiction. The first-ever recipient of the Mayor's Prize for Literary Excellence, she lives in Baltimore, Maryland.