Salt and Sentences
Dispatches from a writer's kitchen
Chopped onions and chouriço had begun to caramelize in my soup pot when my husband called with word that a suspicious alarm was coming from the rustic structure behind our house where I do my writing.
Power outage tripped up the system, I told him, as if he didn’t know these blips are as frequent as the wind gusts that batter our Cape Cod home. Surely this was just another false alarm.
My confidence sprung from the knowledge that I hadn’t been in my office for four weeks, maybe more. There were no forgotten candles or incense, no tea kettle left bouncing empty on a burner, no frayed electric cords or devices hot with overuse. Just my desk and chair, a new notebook with scratchings of a first draft, and lots and lots of books.
But my husband, out running errands, had been notified by the alarm company. They insisted I check. Just in case.
Heavy sigh.
I turned off the stove, washed my hands, and applied a lilac hand cream I’d received for Christmas before changing out of woolen clogs into low rubber boots to trek across the muddy lawn. I stopped to appreciate a huddle of purple crocuses poking through a remnant of snow.
Despite the sun and a hint of spring in the air, I did not want to leave my kitchen and enter a world I’d ignored for so long. Besides the fact that I was in the middle of cooking Caldo Verde, I didn’t want to face the place where I’d abandoned a brand spanking new story in a brand spanking new notebook.
This break was intentional. For the last two years, I’d neglected social events and household chores in the pursuit of completing my debut novel. An author friend once told me that I wouldn’t get published until I got selfish. At first, I rejected this negative advice. In the end, I embraced it.
When my publisher deemed The Healer of Corky Row, “good to go,” I attempted to jump into another novel. But my writing muscles were tired and I was distracted by how much I missed my people, my things, and doing mundane tasks. One day, I gave into the lethargy and closed the door to my writing shed and turned my attention to my messy closets, disorganized photographs, and recipes I’d gleaned from the socials. I caught up with friends and visited many coffee shops.
It was great until it wasn’t. I didn’t like the lack of structure to my day and completing chores wasn’t nearly as fulfilling as I anticipated. But the thought of diving into another novel scared the bejesus out of me. Those first pages I had written earlier in the winter came slowly. Too slowly. So, I pushed away the urge to resume my writing practice. I ordered an embroidery kit. Baked a lot of bread. Tried to learn Irish Gaelic. Made soup.
As I walked out to check on the alarm, I wondered how it would feel to see my pristine desk devoid of reference books, index cards, and sticky notes, its only inhabitant the new notebook containing the first pages of my next novel.
The shrill alarm forced me out of self-reflection long before I got to the building.
Perhaps you, like me, remember learning that one should always feel the door before going into a room where there’s a suspected fire. I forgot that advice as I pushed open the door and entered a room dense with smoke. Not seeing any flames, I rushed forward and opened windows to clear the air. Another bad idea. As fresh oxygen entered the room, glowing embers grew into a full-blown blaze. But the fire was contained mostly to some photographs and that beautiful new notebook that had been perfectly aligned on my desk to catch an intensified sunbeam through a large, red magnifying glass in front of a west-facing window.
I threw the magnifier across the room, a meaningless gesture given that the fire had already ignited, shoved the burning mass into an empty metal wastebasket, and ran it all outside.
As I watched the fire burn, I coughed and cried, grieving the words on the pages, words written so long ago I could not remember them.
There’s a blackened crater on the edge of my wooden desk, papers and pictures now tucked neatly away or in frames, the magnifying glass stored safely in a drawer. My writing respite is over, the muscles desperate for rest revived and restored. I’ve stopped grieving the novel lost in the fire and am writing something new, something that seems to be coming quite naturally.
I’m also writing on Substack, starting with this inaugural piece. My plan is to post something every other Tuesday, which is helping me work through the idea of selfishness. I’m teaching myself that writing doesn’t have to be an all or nothing proposition, that I can be social, do hobbies and even some chores and still have time to write. As much as I love my office and am so grateful it didn’t burn to the ground, I can also write in an overstuffed chair in my bedroom, or at the kitchen table in between stirring a pot of soup.
On that note, if you’re so inspired, this is the Caldo Verde soup, otherwise known as Portuguese Kale Soup, almost like my grandma made.
Caldo Verde
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
10 ounces Portuguese chourico or linguicia, cut in ¼ slices then cut in half again
1 medium yellow onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 large russet potato, peeled and cut into 1-inch pieces
1 large sweet potato, peeled and cut into 1-inch pieces
6 cups good chicken stock
1 bunch kale, stems removed and leaves thinly sliced
Salt, to taste
Pinch of red pepper flakes (optional, to taste)
Can of red kidney beans, drained and rinsed (optional)
Heat the oil in a heavy pot or Dutch oven and add chopped onions and garlic. Cook over a low heat until caramelized, then add the sausage and cook until the meat is just slightly crispy.
Add the diced potatoes and sauté about five minutes, then add the chicken stock. Simmer over medium heat until the potatoes are tender, about 10-15 minutes.
Remove half of the potatoes and transfer to a bowl. Mash roughly with the back of a fork, then add back to the pot.
If using beans, add them now along with the kale. Simmer until just tender and season with salt, pepper, and crushed pepper as you like.
Note: There are many different kinds of Portuguese sausage, mainly linguicia and chourico, each with subvarieties. Any kind will do. Spanish chorizo has a strong smokey paprika flavor that is quite different from its Portuguese cousins. That said, it may be easier to find.