Amelia Kahaney’s Pandemic Vegetarian Broth Recipe
“Add more broth until it tastes bewitching.”
I wanted to try being someone who sipped broth luxuriously from a mug. When I confided this desire to my friend, the hilarious writer Amelia Kahaney, I was delighted to find that she is something of a broth maven. She sent the below, the most charming recipe I’ve ever read, and is kindly allowing me to share. Perhaps you too will find joy in it? That’s between you and your god.
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broth with a jammy egg
In honor of your broth journey, Marie, here is how I’ve been making veggie seaweed broth lately. Hope you enjoy! I make chicken soup from scratch at least once a month in the winter but this is every bit as satisfying, especially if you deck it out afterward with miso, vegetables and other fun add-ons. You can bulk it up with noodles, rice or quinoa, of course. Or use crusty bread and butter as your spoon. That’s all between you and your god.
This broth is loosely based on a detox broth from a nutritionist I’m seeing plus a few veggie broth/miso soup internet recipes, but I’ve kind of made it into my own thing at this point. My caveat is that I have a pressure cooker (instant pot) so I don’t know how long anything takes to cook the normal way anymore. Probably between 45 minutes and an hour and a half? (Note to future you: You can keep scraps of veggies in the freezer for a while until you have enough for your broth, stuff like kale stems and herb stems and celery ends, or you can get even crazier and keep sweet potato peels or carrot peels for this purpose. I never put peels in because I like to eat the mushy veggies after they cook, but you can toss them after if that’s not appealing. There are no rules here!)
What you ought to have for a basic broth is at least some of the following:
Celery, onion and carrot—say 2-3 carrots, 2-3 celery stalks and 1-2 onions. The holy trinity of soup making, always a must. If you add a parsnip or two and/or or a turnip or rutabaga, your broth will be sweeter. If not, no biggie. No need to peel any of this including your onion, assuming your onion is clean. You can use peels here too, see my note above about a peels-in-freezer lifestyle. By the way, if you shop at “normal” NYC grocery stores, you can buy a “soup vegetable mix” where most of this stuff is sold together in one plastic-wrapped package that costs under $5. They never run out of these because most people are fucking pussies and don’t make soup. Sometimes the only place you will even see a turnip or rutabaga is in one of these “soup mix” packages.
Kombu–one 2-3 inch wide strip per broth batch is good. This is sold in a bag wherever you’d buy seaweed, and you can probably get 4-5 broth batches out of one bag. Check for it at a health food store, food coop, maybe even a well-stocked “normal” grocery store. Don’t be skeeved by the fact that it’s covered in white dried sea salt, that’s the good stuff. If you can’t find kombu, maybe you have a parmesan rind in your fridge and you can throw that in for some salty depth. If you go the parm route, you could try skipping the ginger and soy sauce and veer into a more tomato-y direction.
Dried or fresh mushrooms—I use dried shiitake because I have a huge bag of them from Chinatown. You could use fresh, but dried will give you more intense flavor. I’ve thrown in some fresh and some dried, it’s all very cool and very legal. A handful or two is good. Go with your gut on quantity
Fresh herbs—if you have them are nice—parsley, cilantro, dill, whatever you need to use up. Never tried basil but I did try tarragon once and lived to tell the tale. Definitely throw the stems in too; this is a great way to use the parts of things you’d normally toss.
Something dark, leafy green and tough—kale or collards are good but anything not too bitter would be great. A quarter of a bunch or half a bunch or even a big handful is fine. Don’t you dare toss the stems in the garbage the way you normally would. This is the stems’ time to shine. They’re very happy to be appreciated in your food for once. Spinach is too delicate for the broth treatment in my opinion, so if you need to use up spinach, throw it in at the end.
Ginger—peel 2-3 inches of ginger and throw it in.
Garlic—a few cloves left whole or halved, or not! I’ve done it both ways. Every broth is a unique snowflake (and will not be triggered!).
Peppercorns—throw a couple in or not, whatever, the broth will be happy either way. A grind or two of pepper is fine too, or leave it out. Salt is crucial, pepper less so.
Salt—this will depend on how much broth you are making. Maybe start with a heaping teaspoon or so and up it accordingly? You can always add a pinch or a gallon more salt later as your broth develops, or use some other crazy stuff we’ll get to in a minute. Remember, your kombu is also salty.
Wild card veggie assortment—perhaps a daikon radish if that seems interesting, maybe a quarter of a green cabbage or half a bulb of fennel you want to get rid of, just kind of whatever veggies really, but maybe not broccoli or cauliflower or peppers or green beans (why? I don’t know! You could try them!). I like adding squash because I like the flavor, texture and color it gives me. Kobocha squash is my squash of choice but any kind would work, or a sweet potato, or not. Can’t go wrong here. Just a heap of veggies you like or that you need to use up or scraps you froze specifically for this moment.
the stems’ time to shine
If you use tomato you’ll have a more tomato-y broth, etc.
Soy sauce—you have this in your fridge, obviously. Optional, for later.
Miso paste—white or red. This is also for later and is optional but highly recommended.
So cut up all your veggies but your greens, mushrooms, herbs and aromatics (all these are already in your soup pot, I hope, including that sweet sweet kombu but not including your two “falayta” ingredients, the miso and the soy sauce) into halves or quarters (or into chunks if it’s a big squash) until it all fits in your soup pot, then cover it with water. The water might just cover the veggies or go an inch or two above them at most. Too much water will yield a blander broth. Bring to a boil and then simmer for a good while until the whole apartment smells like broth. I wish I knew how long it would take, but it’s definitely way faster than bone broth. Taste. When all your veggies are soft but not mushy, assuming your broth has a nice rich taste, you are done cooking it. Maybe an hour, an hour and a half, two hours? You’ll know. If you cook veggie broth for too long it can turn bitter, so just keep tasting and perhaps salting as you go.
When you have deemed it done, add a few splashes of soy sauce (the crazy stuff we were getting to) to the pot. Is it tasting good? Is it almost as salty as you’d want it? If so, perfect, because you might add miso later and that’s also salty. When you are satisfied with your flavors, drain the veggies by pouring the whole mess over a colander set upon a second pot. or not! The veggie draining police aren’t going to show up. Your call about how rustic you want to be! Some haters say that once you’ve separated the broth from the veggies, you should throw away your veggies. I say maybe some or all of them can be cut up and added back to the soup later, so save them. Maybe they’re delicious with a little sesame oil and soy sauce. Anything’s possible. Definitely save the kombu at the very least. I mean, this is a fucking pandemic. all nutrients are welcome. Except the ginger. Don’t eat the ginger.
At this point, you can sip your broth and think “no animals were harmed and this extremely tasty broth is full of vitamins!”
Or, you can ask yourself, do I want rustic miso soup? If the answer is yes, take out the miso paste you bought when you bought the kombu. Put a teaspoon or more of it into a bowl and add half a ladle of hot broth to it. Coax the paste into dissolving fully in the broth. Once you have dissolved your miso, add more broth until it tastes bewitching.
Find your kombu that you wisely didn’t throw away and see if you enjoy what it has become. Its new size may astonish you. If you like it, cut it up and add it to your bowl. Add scallions, soft tofu, mushrooms, some of your broth veggies, whatever, maybe a dash of sesame oil. If you are a person who keeps nutritional yeast around, throw in a tablespoon of that. You could add rice noodles, a jammy egg. Leftover pork loin, hot sauce, what have you. Alternatively, don’t add anything at all. Either way, your soup is good as hell and your efforts were definitely worth it.
When you get tired of miso veggie soup or sipping your delicate non-miso veggie broth (as if!), you can freeze it or use it as a base for a bean or lentil soup or whatever broth-based food your heart desires.
(You can also simply boil kombu in water and then follow these steps to make miso soup, but where is the fun in that?)
Yours in simmering,
A
Amelia Kahaney‘s novels for teens, The Brokenhearted and The Invisible, were published by HarperTeen in 2013 and 2014. Amelia lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband, their son, a cat, two aquatic frogs, and a semi-enchanted fire-bellied newt.
When art must wait
Loved ones,
When you publish a book, you think, What’s the worst that can happen? Even my overactive mind couldn’t have guessed: Pandemic! Due to the threat of Coronavirus, my events for Parakeet (publication June 2nd) have been canceled or postponed. It’s okay, what we need right now are medical professionals. My friend Adam is an ER doctor in Oakland, Yael is at Johns Hopkins, Laura at Einstein, Nicole at Jefferson, Natasa at Bronx Medical, Lea, Ricardo, Meghan, Jennifer, Sara–every medical professional working to heal and comfort is my hero. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
People are dying. Art can wait. Art knows when to wait. Art is allowed to wait. As artists, though I know (oh how I know) art bestows a kind of breath, we must never mistake a novel, a painting, a poem, a song, a film, for a ventilator.
A book represents years of an author’s life. Please consider pre-ordering a book from one of the Covid Cohort of authors whose book tours are being canceled, a few listed below.
And and! Lovely people are putting together virtual online readings which means I get to meet more of you where you live, so to speak. I’ll keep my Happenings page mercilessly up to date.
I hope you’ll join me in the distance that is not really a distance.
Until we’re all back in the sunshine,
Marie-Helene
A few authors affected by Covid-19
Adam Wilson, Sensation Machines, novel
Aimee Nezhukumatathil, World of Wonders, creative non-fiction
Alex Cuff, I Try Out a Sentence to See Whether I Believe, poetry
Alli Warren, Little Hill, poetry
Amber Sparks, And I Do Not Forgive You, stories
Andrew Altschul, The Gringa, novel
Catherine Lacey, Pew, novel
Copper Canyon’s Entire 2020 List of New Books
Courtney Maum, Costalegre, novel, and Before and After The Book Deal, writers guide
Clare Beams, The Illness Lesson, novel
Deb Olin Unferth, Barn 8, novel
Ed Skoog, Travelers Leaving for the City, poetry
Elizabeth Wetmore, Valentine, novel
Emily Temple, The Lightness, debut novel
Gabriella Burnham, It is Wood, It is Stone, debut novel
Hilary Leichter, Temporary, debut novel
Jessica Anthony, Enter the Aardvark, novel
Jessica Gross, Hysteria, debut novel
Justin Taylor, Riding With The Ghost, memoir
Kelli Jo Ford, Crooked Hallelujah, debut novel
Kit Schluter, Pierrot’s Fingernails, poetry
Lily King, Writers & Lovers, novel
Lucie Britsch, Sad Janet, debut novel
Lisa Fay Coutley, Tether, poetry
Laura van den Berg, I Hold a Wolf by The Ears, stories
Leah Hampton, F**kface: And Other Stories, stories
Maisy Card, These Ghosts are Family, debut novel
Mary South, You Will Never Be Forgotten, stories
Megha Majumdar, A Burning, debut novel
Megan Giddings, Lakewood, novel
Natalie Diaz, Postcolonial Love Poem, poetry
Paul Lisicky, Later: My Life at the Edge of the World, memoir
Paul Yoon, Run Me to Ground, novel
Prageeta Sharma, Grief Sequence, poems
Rebecca Dinerstein Knight, Hex, novel
Sabrina Orah Mark, Wild Milk, stories (?)
Sarah Gerard, True Love, novel
Teddy Wayne, Apartment, novel
Toni Jensen, Carry: A Memoir of Survival on Stolen Land, memoir
Tracy O’Neill, Quotients, novel
For a more complete list, “Cancelled” Covid Authors
Sometimes You Break Their Hearts, Sometimes They Break Yours
by Marie-Helene Bertino
originally published: Indiana Review (2009) & Safe as Houses (2012)
To listen to the author read the story: PART ONE:
To listen to the author read the story: PART TWO:
I am like everyone else: good at some things, bad at others. I am good at eating clementines. I am bad at drawing straight lines. I am good at drinking coffee. I would be bad at building a house. If someone asked me to build them a house, I would have to say no. Or, I would say yes and worry they would not like the house I built. Why is the kitchen made of coffee filters, they’d say? Why are there no floors? And I’d say: I wish you hadn’t asked me to build you a house.
I am bad at telling stories. For example, this one is about Christmas lights and here is the first time I’m mentioning them. A person who knew how to tell a story would start with: this is a story about Christmas lights I finally got around to putting up last night and the miracle that happened afterward. You know at a party when someone tells an absolute gripper that juggles different characters and lands on a memorable line and everyone holds their stomachs and looks at each other in shocked amazement, a line people repeat on car rides home so they can laugh again? I am not that person. I am the one asking the host what kind of cheese it is I’m eating.
The name of the planet I’m from does not have an English equivalent. Roughly, it sounds like a cricket hopping onto a plate of rice. I am here to take notes on human beings. I fax them back to my superiors. We have fax machines on Planet Cricket Rice. They are quaint, retro things, like vintage ice cube trays.
Human beings, I fax, produce water in their eyes when they are sad, happy, or sometimes just frustrated. Water!
My father left my mother because the baby thing was not his jam. How could she ever again be expected to see me but not also the leaving, too?
I work as a receptionist for Landry Business Solutions. I have no idea what we do. When people ask I say: when businesses have problems, we have solutions. If they press me I say it involves outsourcing. A monkey could do my job better, and with more hilarious results. I answer the phone, keep the candy jar filled, and monitor the bathroom key. Ten minutes out of my twenty-minute training was candy jar related. The other ten consisted of bathroom key shake down tactics. People are always losing the bathroom key and the receptionist before me must have gotten frustrated, because she hot glued it to a 12-inch ruler. I have no friends at Landry Business Solutions. I assume they are too busy outsourcing and thinking of solutions. They don’t bother me and, unless they receive a Fed-Ex package, I don’t bother them.
Human beings, I fax, fetishize no organ more than the heart. When they like someone they say: there’s a girl after my own heart. They will stand or sit very close to the person they love with their heart. When they are sad they say: my heart is broken. They will tell large groups of people things they don’t believe. But, the heart is just a muscle with an important job. Just an area in the body.
I am bad at asking for help. When you ask a human being for help, there is a chance they will say later: remember when you asked for help, can I have five dollars? That goes for medicine, too. I don’t like asking help from pills in a bottle. I don’t want to be woken up at night by a tab of aspirin asking to borrow five dollars.
There’s a reason it’s called alien-ated. Because I am an alien, I am alone. When you are alone, there is no one to tell: there is a bird whose call sounds like hoo where la hoo! Or, there’s a spider landing on your head. So you tell yourself. There’s a spider landing on my head. I should move.
Of course there are good days. Days when the clementine skin pulls off whole, days when every Karen I meet is wonderful.
A week ago, my mother and I were chopping peppers and she said: let them be big enough so each one is its own mouthful. I don’t like when she says words like mouthful, words that cannot be divorced from sex. Other words like that are suck, fingerhole, and cock. I asked her not to say mouthful anymore. She hopped up and down with the knife in her hand singing: Mouthful! When I got home the Christmas lights snarled at me from their ball on the couch. I ate a mouthful of ice cream and wondered how appliances can be programmed to turn themselves on. If a coffee maker can turn itself on, doesn’t that mean it is never truly off?
Human beings, I fax, spend their lives pretending their parents are people with no needs. They do not want their moms to talk about sex, or die.
On Planet Cricket Rice, we’ve evolved past the body. A trillion years of widdling the parts that were unnecessary revealed everything to be an appendix, the body itself a husk. I know it’s hard for you to understand.
On earth, my body feels lumbering, cumbersome, a boxy suit several sizes too big. I giggle watching humans walk down the street using their legs. Implementing their hands to hold things. Negotiating with themselves to get to where they need to go using such outdated tools. Like trying to remove a bean at the bottom of a vase with a steamroller. I don’t mean to laugh.
Imagine not being constrained by gravity. Movement is a thought or wish. You are barely finished desiring it and you’re already there, above the tree line, pumping into the incalculable banks of what you’d call clouds. Just as quickly back onto the ground.
In certain human churches I’ve heard it called heaven.
On Planet Cricket Rice, we’ve evolved past the idea of individual. We are a pulsing, in-tune, multi-souled, singular thought. There are no what you would call decisions. The closest I’ve seen to it on Earth is the movement of birds that, without consult, bend and fray across vast expanses. People on Planet Cricket Rice know without consult how to align ourselves onto the common wire. Iterations listening only to themselves, flinching at split-second to pound into or feather out of a gust. A family of feeling, able to detect a clear space through fog and soar into it, made from thousands, thousands into one, beating faultlessly into certain, perfect air. Lift of stomach, catch in throat. You’re there before the mind catches up.
The distance that is not. A quantum distance.
When I wake from dreams about my home, I yearn for the feeling of a planet of people in myself. On earth, we stumble about in our crudely made, badly engineered husks. Alone and separated by our skin casing. We look out only for ourselves. We don’t even have the right eyes to see.
Of course I am a “they.” So are all of you.
Human beings, I fax, did not think their lives were challenging enough so they invented roller coasters. A roller coaster is a series of problems on a steel track. Upon encountering real problems, human beings compare their lives to riding a roller coaster, even though they invented roller coasters to be fun things to do on their days off.
As a child on Planet Cricket Rice, I lie in bed trying to figure out a way I could know everyone on Planet Earth. America was easy, I could drive through it. Then I would send a letter to one person in every country and they could tell their friends and I could know everyone by association. But, language was a problem and I didn’t know every country’s name and I used to get panicky and red-eyed about it.
I have other responsibilities at my job. I seat clients who have problems and are waiting for solutions. Sometimes the person with solutions is late. When people are late to meet me, I assume it’s because they lost track of time while planning my surprise birthday party. I worry: will they remember I like chocolate on chocolate? But most human beings don’t like when other people are late. They get frowny-faced and huffy. So I entertain the clients who wait for solutions. I make the candy jar talk or I tell them I have a friend who has vintage ice cube trays. You pull a silver crank to release the cubes. I say: would they like to own vintage ice cube trays? Normally they say yes because when they are waiting human beings can be very participatory. Then I say: not me! I don’t need getting ice to be a charming experience! I pretend to be very anti-vintage ice cube tray. In this way I yank the tablecloth out from under the bottle of wine and candle of the conversation.
If you met me, you’d wonder why I do not look like aliens you’ve seen on TV. Why aren’t you green? You’d say. Why isn’t your head overlarge? To answer that I offer this: Landry Business Solutions had a Halloween costume party and Tammy came dressed for a regular day at work. She said: I am a serial killer. We look just like everyone else.
When you’re alone, you are in the right place to watch sadness approach like storm clouds over an open field. You can sit in a chair and get ready for it. As it moves through you, you can reach out your hands and feel all the edges. When it passes and you can drink coffee again you even miss it because it has been loyal to you like a boyfriend.
If you need it to be about a boy, I’ll give you a boy. In a gas station at the end of the day, the owner or the skinny teenager he pays counts the drawer, fills the cigarette machine and flips the closed sign. My ex was the closed sign. On that gas station, or any store that closes. He used to make fun of me for answering questions with metaphors. He’d say: how was your day? And, I’d say: if my day were a bug, I would crush it. He wanted me to say: my day was fine. He’s dead now and by dead I mean dating a stripper. Strippers are girls who can say: my day was fine. Also, they’re very good with money. My exes do well after me. I’m like a lucky penny.
Cars, I fax, are not attached to anything. They are free to collide with other bodies whenever they want and wreck each other. This would not happen with my bumper car system. Cars would be attached to poles linked to an overarching mechanism, as they are in bumper cars. The worst that can happen in a bumper car is you make a strange face when you smash someone. A strange face that makes the other person think you are uglier than they thought and that maybe there are other ugly things they don’t know about you. But they forget in the next second when they are smashed by someone else. It doesn’t hurt, though, as much as real cars. It doesn’t hurt as much.
Here’s the thing about human beings: sometimes you smash their cars, sometimes they smash yours.
One time I got my nails done and the girl held my hands so softly I wondered if she knew me. She commented on the loveliness of my cuticles, and she didn’t have to. She went out of her way, and human beings don’t like to go out of their ways. I said: I hope nothing bad ever happens to you.
Five days ago, the bathroom key went missing. Landry Business Solutions has a PA and I made an announcement over it. Why we have a PA is beyond me since only twelve people work here and they sit in one room. I could have easily walked into that room and made a medium-volumed inquiry but I don’t like to leave my desk. My announcement over the PA was: WILL WHOEVER HAS THE BATHROOM KEY PLEASE RETURN IT! Three hours later Delilah slammed the key on my desk. The door had gotten stuck, and she had been trapped in the bathroom for hours. No one heard her yelling. She missed a meeting, and still no one thought to look for her. She heard my announcement in the bathroom where she sat, hating me. Someone from another office finally heard her and climbed through a heating duct to free her. Delilah, disoriented, left early. It’s a bad day when you realize how unimportant you are.
Human beings who are squeaky wheels, I fax, get everything they want. Quiet humans who don’t complain get nothing. A squeaky wheel will complain when they have an obstructed view of a movie screen until they get a better seat. In the better seat, they will find something else to complain about. The floor is sticky. The cup holder isn’t big enough for my deluxe soda. I have to believe quiet humans who don’t complain see half the screen but are happier. But, maybe they’re not. Maybe they spend their lives sad they can’t participate in conversations about movies. Harrison Ford was in that movie? They say. I had no idea.
It would be easier if it were a boy. Then I could say to Tammy or Grace at work: I feel lonely because of a boy. And they could say: men are like trains, there’s one every five minutes. But, if I say: I am an alien taking notes on human beings to fax to my superiors, they would have no arsenal of information from which to draw. They would not know what to say at all.
Two days ago they passed around a newspaper article at Landry Business Solutions and I realized I do everything wrong. I tie my shoes wrong and they are the wrong shoes. I breathe wrong. I walk wrong. The article was about a place far away whose inhabitants are so poor they have to eat dirt. There was a picture of a dirt-eating girl standing with a bicycle. The right thing to say was what everyone was saying: what a shame, where’s my checkbook? But what I said was: how did she get her arms to look like that? Is it from the constant bike riding?
It’s not a boy or a job or a family or a house. It’s the world. There are so many people in it.
This is the part with the Christmas lights and the miracle.
Yesterday, I stopped to collect a heads-up penny and was late for the train to work. I walked fast to catch it. People who walk fast look weird and every time I’m walking fast I think how weird I must look. I still missed the train. The doors laughed at me. But, trains are like men, there’s one every five minutes. So I got the next one. I wasn’t that late and no one noticed anyway. But the candy jar was empty and I couldn’t get to the store until noon and I smiled at Delilah and she did not smile back. The day was a slippery rock I couldn’t climb. Walking home I heard a couple arguing and even though he was insisting I knew it was the end.
I remembered that morning I had collected a heads-up penny, and nothing lucky had happened to me. I felt swindled. Behind in the count. It was one of those days.
I got home and there were still the Christmas lights to hang. And it was time. It was not time to check how much sugar I had. It was not time to say the word rose over and over until I forgot what it meant. It was no time other than the time it was to hang the lights. So I got a ladder and a staple gun and climbed to the roof of the house I could not be trusted to build. And I hadn’t asked anyone the proper way to hang lights so I crawled around stapling haphazardly to the shingles, not a line but words. Two words to let my superiors know I was finished taking notes and to come and get me in their glorious space ships. When I was done I climbed down and checked my work. In lights I had stapled: HELP ME.
I figured it was best to err on the side of honesty. I didn’t learn that on Earth dear god, but I learned it.
I ate a forkful of cold noodles and went to bed. At 3am a commotion on my front lawn woke me. It sounded like an army of washing machines in their final cycles had congregated outside my window. My bed hummed. I looked out. Beams of ambitious light jackknifed through the yard. Aggressive, angel light. Light that somersaulted and looked like sound. Red lights and white lights.
They were cars.
More cars than I could count. The first ones pulled onto my lawn so the others would have room to pull behind them. They held human beings who disembarked holding baskets with cloth over them. I recognized my mother, the manicurist, my ex and the stripper he dates, Delilah… People filled my street and the street next to it and the cars were still coming. I could see headlights for miles. They were still coming.
I was down on my knees. One human being cannot withstand the force of that much kindness.
Do you know what I mean?
Un petit mot de Marie-Helene
Dearest Internet,
Parakeet (June 2020) is now available for pre-order and has a cover that serves so much avian-Hitchcockian-Criterion-Collection realness that the author is so happy she sings, tries on dresses:
This fierce bird makes her even happier than listing “no upcoming public events” on her Events page. Sadly, the autumnal respite will soon be coming to an end. Happily, this means she will be visiting a town near you. Please take her out for bread and chocolate somewhere with a jukebox that contains narrative. A dance? She’d be honored.
If you are on Instagram, so are we! Find us here.
NYU grad students who attended last week’s lecture on Magic and Time will be receiving a follow-up email with further instructions that will disintegrate upon reading.
For those of you who asked if Marcello could be any cuter he’d like you to know that no, he sure couldn’t. There. He just tried, and–nope.
#adoptdontshop,
MHB
Some happy news
Friends, the folks at FSG will be publishing my next two novels, PARAKEET (Spring 2020) and BEAUTYLAND (Winter 2022). I am so excited to share these stories about strong, odd women with you. This amazing early Christmas present was made possible by my wise and true agent Claudia Ballard and the unfailing support of my family, friends, and community who I thank from the bottom of my feathery heart. I'm a very lucky bunny.
Ciao, Marcello
On Father's Day, we adopted a 4 pound papillon flirt. Marcello Fox has black whiskers on one side, white on the other, and is between 3 and 5 years old (film icons never say).
#adoptdontshop
Fantastic Mr. Fox
One week ago, my gentleman hero Fantastic Mr. Fox went to sleep after a night of dancing, treats, and movie watching, and did not wake up. His passing was sudden, peaceful.
Almost six years ago I walked into Sean Casey Animal Rescue to buy cat food. I was supposed to be out of town for a conference which for the first time in many years I decided to skip. In a small cage under a stack of boxes, a tiny orange and white dog with important ears sat with his paws crossed. Just brought in. He was a four-and-a-half year old papillon, the French word for butterfly, and had my French grandmother's liquid brown eyes. I knew him immediately.
You don't get to choose when you meet your soulmate. You either upend your life to make room for them or you don't. Yes, I said, and ran around Brooklyn buying the softest things I could find to make a space for him in my life, to make a bed.
I took Fox to snowy mountains, hiking in the woods to gorgeous vistas, to winter and summer beaches. He hated all of it. I admired that his unofficial motto regarding outdoorsy activities and other dogs was, "I would prefer not to." I loved his furry dome, his happy dance. Everything about him seemed engineered to bring joy. He liked promenading down 4th Street in Brooklyn being adored by the members of our wonderful neighborhood, his stuffed bunnies, bacon, his Carl, his Virginia family, his grandmother, saying hi to the ducks in Prospect Park, and (if you can believe it) me, most of all.
As a little writer girl who hated dolls and girly things, it felt like one of my beloved stuffed animals had come to life after I made a wish. He was for me. I never got over that, and I never stopped telling him.
Mr. Fox owned countless sweaters, a pair of reindeer antlers, a Bastille Day beret, one tuxedo, and three bowties. Once he full out Bambi-ed on a frozen ice puddle which was so cute I confess I made him do it again.
It's true I preferred a night with him to any party, have been happiest around animals. Human rules have always baffled me, how it's always been a hard go for the smallest, softest things.
The day after we lost Fox, we found out that we also lost our beautiful friend Adina. She always referred to him as "that dapper gentleman," and I can only hope he left because he wanted to help her to the next part of the journey.
If I could return to any time in history and visit anyone, living or dead, I'd take any dullsville afternoon during the six short years he was with us, hearing then seeing him come around the corner to make sure of me. It filled me with an almost unbearable amount of joy. Cheek to furry cheek. How lucky I was.
I'd say, Don't you worry about a thing, buddy. I'm here.
ADINA TALVE-GOODMAN
Last week, the world lost the gentle-and-giant-hearted Adina Talve-Goodman; whimsical razor, peerlessly funny, super hot and soft and magic writer girl and genius. Talented laugher, artist of being alive. In her hometown of St. Louis, her family and friends gathered to share some of the most important words I’ll ever hear or read or know about love. Her father spoke of the act of being filled by someone so much you can at once be expanded and diminished by their living.
Adina, your own wild, brilliant, and unexpected voice brings me the closest I can get to comfort. Your singular, otherworldly voice. I’ve culled the below from years of our emails. I will love and miss and talk to you forever.
SUBJECT HEADING:
Girl, I’ve Been Watching You Like A Hawk
I Hope You Are Being So Happy
Iowa is a Strange Place With No Subways
Pie Club
Hadestown!
Walk Across The Brooklyn Bridge With Me?
I Won Something
One Step Closer to Circus
Would You Like To Go To Prom With Me?
Hello Wonderful Workshop Leaders!
Dear Pie Club,
Hi Friendlies!
Hello! Happy Monday! Is it ever?
HELLO, BEAUTIFUL NEW YORK FRIENDS!
Hi Lady,
Marie,
My dearest Mariesy,
Dearest mariesy love girl,
Tinydancer,
Thank you for calling my nose a tulip.
I never mix metaphors with dancing. There will be dancing.
Please RSVP and let me know what kind of liquor you’re bringing so we don’t just have 30 bottles of Old Grand-Dad.
A boy once called me a squid and the texts that followed were the most insightful comments on my being that I have ever received.
This week’s pie is inspired by Prince. That’s all I know.
We can wear our heart earrings and say things like, “Oh I just love art, don’t you?”
Enjoy Santa Fe. I expect you to be able to do the angry cowboy dance from Newsies by the time you get back.
Can we day-time cozy bar with fireplace this shit?
Yip yip! Those are happy yips.
Nothing would make my little Midwestern heart happier than a ho-down.
Let’s walk your dog in a park and laugh at the things he laughs at like we get it.
The world is a very nice place.
I have found that if you wear the right dress, everything can be understood.*
I have considered that maybe I am a non-fiction writer but I’m not yet ready to say it aloud. Non-fiction writers are such dicks, right?
I love you so much.
Nothing makes me happier than closing down restaurants with you, lady, anytime.
I also wrote you a poem. It’s about your hair. I’ll show it to you if you go to prom with me.
Apart from missing you, things are pretty good. My house is the sweetest house there ever was and I have a pink couch because I am a goddamn lady.
The plastic island trees at Coney Island depress me.
I had my second chemo treatment yesterday. Chemo is really something–they fill you with poison and then send you home.
I can very clearly see you as a fox.
I have nothing much to say except I exist in solidarity with those protesting and I would be there with my feet if my feet could hold me and march right now.
As with all things, your mother is right.
It’s so lovely to be loved by all of you. It’s just the best when wonderful people love you. Thank you. The point is you’re all unique and wonderful and dear to me and I thank you from the bottom of my “gorgeous, perfect ovaries.”
Who invented the bagel? What brave soul said, “I would like to take 8 slices of my bread and make it into one with a hole in the middle for twirling?” Whomever it was, I love them.
Constantly Mistaken for an Elf,
I Can’t Stop Listening to Nelly,
Your Cruise Director,
This Is What Happens When Your Parents Never Ask About Your Future,
I Can Also Wiggle My Ears,
Met Santa in Jamaica Once,
“Adina, I’m allergic to nuts,” I DON’T CARE–EVOLVE.,
I really like all of you. Really, really,
Love and basketball,
Love and donuts,
(gif of Cher kicking can down street in Moonstruck, gif of whale, gif of hearts beating, gif of Cher half-smiling, gif of Rihanna waving her long nails, gif of Gonzo with caption “in case you forgot what I looked like,” gif of Mary Berry winking, gif of Cher drinking a soda, gif of hamster eating a carrot slice)
atg
Adina Banina Badoo
The squid
Tim Riggins
Adina Talve-Goodman, PhD, (Phunk Doctor)
Adina “cracked egg” Talve-Goodman
Adina “yes, that’s glitter” Talve-Goodman
Adina “nah I think I’ll go home and make tea” Talve-Goodman
P.S. I apologize that this email got progressively more aggressive but ain’t it the truth.
P.S. I’m serious about that poem
P.S. Bonus pie kisses (this is when you get to kiss the pie before we all eat it) for whoever can guess which Jon Travolta movie that sign-off is from
P.S. Please let me know if you would like off of this mailing list. I’ll tell management. Management wears fabulous dresses and is not hurt by people’s disinterest in the more ridiculous parts of her nature.
P.S. Everyone in Iowa is 23.
P.S. Please feel free to wear socks that you feel comfortable showing. Eunice (downstairs neighbor) is very sensitive and also hostile with her broom handles.
P.S. Despite the voracity of this email, I will be quiet as a mouse.
*Please note: this is a lie.
Reading List for International Womens Day
Hi.
Here are some of my favorite short story and poetry collections (and one graphic memoir). They are all written by women. Like me, this list is subject to change and imperfect. Teachers, this list can fix your non-diverse syllabuses if you let it.
Happy International Women’s Day, which is every day.
Yours truly,
Marie-Helene
MY RICE TASTES LIKE THE LAKE, Tsering Wangmo Dhompa
GOOD TALK, Mira Jacob
REVENGE, Yoko Ogawa
BLACKGIRL MANSION, Angel Nafis
CIRCLING THE DRAIN, Amanda Davis
TODDLER HUNTING AND OTHER STORIES, Kono Taeko
GUIDE TO BEING BORN, Ramona Ausubel
I’M SO FINE, Khadijah Queen
THE GREEN RAY, Corina Copp
FROM THE HILLTOP, Toni Jensen
A MANUAL FOR CLEANING WOMEN, Lucia Berlin
WHAT IS NOT YOURS IS NOT YOURS, Helen Oyemi
THERE ARE MORE BEAUTIFUL THINGS THAN BEYONCE, Morgan Parker
BATTLEBORN, Claire Vaye Watkins
WHEREAS, Layli Longsoldier
AND YET THEY WERE HAPPY, Helen Phillips
REASONS TO LIVE, Amy Hempel
FLORIDA, Lauren Groff
MAGIC FOR BEGINNERS, Kelly Link
THE CARRYING, Ada Limon
THE RED CONVERTIBLE, Louise Erdrich
THE UNFINISHED WORLD, Amber Sparks
NOT ME, Eileen Myles
WHEN MY BROTHER WAS AN AZTEC, Natalie Diaz
THE GIRL IN THE FLAMMABLE SKIRT, Aimee Bender
SHE HAD SOME HORSES, Joy Harjo
WHAT THE WORLD WILL LOOK LIKE WHEN ALL THE WATER LEAVES US, Laura van den Berg
THE THING AROUND YOUR NECK, Chimimanda Ngozi Adichi
OF BEING DISPERSED, Simone White
STUCK & INTIMIDATED
A friend posted a question on my Facebook wall and, thinking other people might be experiencing the same problem, I decided to answer it in a public post.
Dear Marie-Helene Bertino (pretend this is a hand written letter on dancing dog stationery penned to you at your advice column for writers),
I have written 2 versions of a novel. I realized the novel needed an overhaul and I wrote a detailed and I think – pretty tight – outline for the next revision. Now I’m stuck. I don’t know how to attempt to integrate the text I have with the future text I have in mind, with the new outline. Do you have any recommended next steps? How do I cull the usable from the useless? How do I move forward.
Yours truly,
Stuck & Intimidated
Dear Stuck & Intimidated,
Thank you for your “letter.” I especially liked the dancing dog stationery (#adoptdontshop).
I appreciate the precarious position you are in, teetering between revisions in that liminal space called OHMYGODWRITINGANOVELISBONKERS. I spent a good deal of last night telling a friend that only insane people attempt to write novels.
One of the millions of reasons writing a novel is ill-advised is because it is impossible to “hold” an entire novel in one’s head. Unlike a short story, which can sometimes emerge as simply and beautifully as an orchid blooms, a novel has many false starts, crash landings, days of euphoria followed by days of panicked regret. Is there an animal that eats half of itself, I just wondered aloud? (No, my husband says. What the hell are you writing?) If there was an animal that did, and then regurgitated itself in a better form, it would be a good metaphor for the process of writing a novel.
Writing a novel is like picnicking in a windstorm. Every time you batten one corner of your blanket down, another flies up. Battening that one down, another comes loose. Eventually you must give up and eat macaroni salad off your lap in the car. The novel is what you see out the windshield.
All musing aside, I fear the outline may have paralyzed you. That can happen with outlines. We think they are helping, but really they are tricking us into thinking the work is already done. It’s one of those strange magic tricks of writing fiction. We must always be careful of where we put our minds. You must resist the urge to run around battening corners down. My practical advice to you is surrender: take a long look at the outline, internalize it, and then throw it away. If you are feeling dramatic, eat it. Or witchy, burn it.
Then, find a passage that you’re really excited about. It doesn’t matter if it’s one that is narratively important or not. Open it up and take a look at it. Add to it, or write the scene that would directly follow it. Don’t worry about whether you’ll use it or not, don’t worry if it’s good, don’t even worry if everything is correctly spelled. Just write the scene. Write it in good faith, having as much fun as you can.
Did anything surprise you in doing that? Follow it.
Then, move to another scene that feels fun to you. Noodle around in it. Is there a moment or character or line that feels creatively fertile? Follow it.
The front door of your practice is locked, and you’ve forgotten your key. What you are doing is circling around the back of your practice, trying to find an open window or forgotten door you can shimmy through.
Once you’ve found one, go to the chronological beginning of the novel and take it scene by scene. Stop every time you’re bored, and fix the language until you’re not bored–even if (and perhaps especially if) it means detouring from the outline you’ve eaten. There’s no way around it—the day you do this is going to be a hard day. But at the end of that day the feeling will be better than sex, better than steady money, better than a smile on a dog, better than…
Revising can be just as discovery-producing as writing if you know how to trick yourself into being more creative and intelligent than you are, when to abandon the rules you’ve set up for yourself, and when to go easy on yourself.
This is as much as I can say without having knowledge of your specific project. Remember: Rome wasn’t built in a day. Rome is still being built. And it’s been sacked and rebuilt several times. So, you know, at least you’re not trying to do that. All you’re trying to do is create characters who behave as effortlessly and as counterintuitively as real people do. And write an ending that is inevitable and surprising. See what I mean about insanity? Yet, if we think about the end goal every time we sit down (actors call this “playing the obstacle”), we paralyze ourselves. So just go to the scene or the character that feels most fun and follow it/ them.
If all else fails, put it down. Go outside. Play with your boy. Catch a glass of wine with a friend. Tell that friend only an insane person would ever try to write a novel. Do all the things that make you a participatory human in the world. They are also what make you a good writer. Wait for new eyes to grow and don’t fret if it takes months.
Go easy on yourself. You’re on the right wrong track and the company is unparalleled. Hope this helps.
Signed,
MHB
(your amie)
Portrait of the Writer as a Young Girl
I post this (oddly eerie) photo not only to emphasize the importance of hair products or the silliness of 90s sweaters, but because it’s proof of how one librarian can change someone’s life. In 1990, Nancy Hensler arrived as the children’s librarian at a small library outside Philadelphia and began the “Write and Illustrate Your Own Book Contest.” Stoked out of my mind, I entered “The Dream Crystal,” the fantastical opus I had written over summer vacation about a fairy world I named after our local mall. I remember when Nancy called that day to tell me I won. It was my first acceptance.
Time Out New York
After debating for ten minutes I leaned over to the girl sitting next to me on the subway and said, "Do you see this story? I wrote that." "I'm so happy for you," she said. She told me her name is Maria and she's finishing her PHD in Spirituality and Leadership. We chatted through downtown and into Brooklyn. I told her having a story in a New York magazine is a surprisingly big deal to me and she told me about a book she's reading on healers and angels. She suggested I talk about how I made my dreams come true when I do readings so other people know they can do it, too. When my stop neared, I asked if she would take a selfie with me and the magazine and she said no. "But let me take a picture of you." She stood to get a better angle and I apologized for bothering her."You're not bothering me," she said. "I'm celebrating with you."
People Magazine Style Watch, September 2014
This might be my favorite issue of People Magazine ever. Not only did I learn how to do a "smoky cat eye," but that 2 a.m. at The Cat's Pajamas is IN STYLE for the fall. 
Cat's PJs excerpt in Guernica
This morning, Guernica published an excerpt of 2 A.M. AT THE CAT'S PAJAMAS. This is what I like to call "the dinner party scene," presented in its entirety, where our heroes Sarina Greene and Ben Allen see one another for the first time in years.
Poets & Writers, "How I Found My Writer"
In the July/August issue of Poets & Writers, Claudia Ballard--my peerless, unparalleled agent--tells our meet cute story.
Writing Process Blog Tour: How Do You Write?
Many thanks to Elliott Holt for inviting me to participate in the MY WRITING PROCESS BLOG TOUR, a path linking writers’ blogs in a discussion about approaches to fiction and non-fiction. Holt's first novel YOU ARE ONE OF THEM was published by The Penguin Press in 2013. Her writing has also appeared in the New York Times, Virginia Quarterly Review, Guernica, The Millions, and the 2011 Pushcart Prize anthology. You can find her answers to the MY WRITING PROCESS BLOG TOUR questions here.Here are my answers:1. What are you working on?Another novel and stories. Also, it's June, so I am working on taking the F train to Coney Island as many times as I can to lay on the beach and work on a tan.2. How does your work differ from other writers of your genre?Holy gravy. I suppose I first have to define what my genre is, once and for all. Enhanced or magic realism, I suppose, under the umbrella of literary fiction? A dash of surrealism. A dash of gritty realism. A dash of humor. That's a loose horse ring at best. Who would I then corral into it with me? And how does my work differ from theirs? I'm relatively certain I eat more baby carrots while revising than Etgar Keret does (come at me, Keret). The title of my novel contains fewer exclamation points than Karen Russell's. I cannot grow a mustache anywhere near as glorious as Jim Shepard's. Not one person in any of my short stories grows an extra arm like in Ramona Ausubel's story "Tributaries," and my work is undoubtedly the poorer for it.3. Why do you write what you do?I write the way I do because I've always thought the world was surreal and terrible and weird and great, and there is loneliness and depravity in it but there is also joy, and because I don't think it's fair to express life without employing every single one of these things.4. How does your writing process work?Like glazing pottery: you don't know how the colors are going to look until you fire it. No, like my car (works best in the morning). No, like a breeze that has no starting point and no end. No, like the manual pencil sharpener I keep near my desk. Like all of these things.Next week you'll hear from the super cool Amelia Kahaney, author of the novel for teens THE BROKENHEARTED, whose sequel THE INVISIBLE, will be out in October. Check out her blog for her answers.
10 Great Ways To Kill Time
10 GREAT WAYS TO KILL TIME after you've entered the OMG ALL THE BOOKS GIVEAWAY to win a signed, first-edition of 2 A.M. at The Cat's PajamasENTER HERE!
- 1. Decide to send someone you love cupcakes.
- 2. Realize YOU are someone you love who loves cupcakes.
- 3. Send cupcakes to yourself. Splurge on the big box because you really love you.
- 4. Take the latest trendy quiz: What kind of shell fish are you? Pray for mantis shrimp. Those crazies can see like a billion colors.
- 5. Fucking cray fish?!
- 6. Eat cupcakes while perusing classes on your gym's website and laughing at their ridiculous names. BODY MUNCH. DANCE DECIMATION. PULVERIZING AB-SPLOSION. BUN GRINDER. Sign up for something called EXTERMINATION (Butt and legs) TRX you will eventually blow off.
- 7. What even is a crayfish? Google crayfish. Find out that they are also called crawdads, mudbugs and yabbies. Say the word yabbie until you crack yourself up.
- 8. Get ridiculously upset about something some yabbie said on NPR then immediately forget what it was by the time you go to tweet about it.
- 9. Consider, while you finish the last cupcake, that perhaps the mantis shrimp flaunts his considerable talents ostentatiously in front of the other shell fish who are not as visually inclined. Maybe while the crayfish is innocently going about its business feeding on dead animals and plants, the mantis shrimp sends them long emails with links to blog posts they've written about being able to see, like, everything, ending with a color wheel with this question like a threat: How many colors can you see? What a puffed up, self-important blowhard! Decide you hate the mantis shrimp. You're glad you're a crayfish.
- 10. Yabbie, yabbie, yabbie, yabbie, yabbie. Ha!