27 February 2011

 Untitled, watercolor and pencil 

Amanda Millay Hughes

I am worried about Judith Jones. 

Starting with The Tenth Muse and arriving home from Borders today - my Border's is closing and all books were on sale 20 - 40 % off - with The Pleasures of Cooking for One, I have become a fan.  How can you resist a woman writer and editor and a home chef extraordinaire even on the first beautiful Sunday of the year?  I know that I could be, perhaps should be out in the sun, sweeping the front porch or walking the dog.  Instead, I am inside reading.  

Judith Jones was born in 1924 and started working at Knopf in 1957 - yes, the year I was born.  She has been the editor of so many I admire, annotating their manuscripts and sending thoughtful commentary. From John Updike to Julia Child, Anne Tyler to William Maxwell (although I know Maxwell only from his fame as fiction editor at The New Yorker during the golden years) - she has been the last reader before all the others line up to purchase a book. And yes, she saved The Diary of Anne Frank from the reject pile and she is singlehandedly responsible for the publication of Mastering the Art of French Cooking.   It must be a grace and a charm to have this intimate role with great manuscripts and their authors. When I imagine her, I place her in a tiny apartment in New York City or in an old house in Vermont and I see a life that makes so much imaginary sense to me that I could simply cry with delight: oh, to be a reader and writer, an editor and a serious-minded home cook.

But, I am worried about her. 

Her last blog post on judithjonescooks.com is dated months ago.  There are no touring dates on her Random House/Knopf page (publisher of The Pleasures of...). At 87, perhaps she has finally, truly retired. 

I hope not. 

The world needs good, strong women making their mark in publishing and in the kitchen, living well and living long enough to have time to tell us about it. I think Jones is right when she says that "the food industry has for more than a century been selling the idea that it is demeaning for women to cook and a waste of time when they can buy ready made products instead" (Introduction, The Pleasures of Cooking for One). I never really gave this much thought until I found myself buying the steam-in-bag pre-seasoned microwavable vegetables (you know the kind, the butter and salt are added because, why?  Because that would be hard and a waste of my time?).  They are tasty and convenient, but they are also a bit of an insult to the part of me that knows - or at least knew, once upon a time - how to cook peas on the stove top. Knowing how to cook is not a waste of time.  Knowing how to cook is an investment in life. And living is the thing that matters.  Living well and openly, with curiosity, intellectual rigor, and commitment.  This is what I see in Judith Jones.  It is what I want to see in myself. 

I suspect that my old friend and teacher, Andre Dubus was right when he told me not to worry too much about writing for a while - he said, "You write well, Amanda, and you always will.  For now, you must live. Your best work will come a little later in the day." 

Andre is gone, and Dad, and so many others that I have admired and learned from - both close and far away, in person and through books.  So many who offered such unbridled enthusiasm for their craft and their creed, such generosity to me - student, daughter, reader.  In Judith Jones, I thought perhaps I had found a new teacher, but just when I recognize her, I fear she has stopped writing.  And with that fear, another feeling...or at least another kind of knowing emerges.

It is a little later in the day.  It is time to think about dinner, a Sunday supper of chicken salad and warm slices of pumpernickel bread, a little glass of wine and an evening watching the Oscars and snippets of Carolina Basketball.  But, it is also "a little later in the day."  Just as Andre said it would be. 

I wonder.  If Andre were here, would he tell me that now is the time?  Would he caution me that yes, sure enough, it is later in the day and time to write?

Wish you were here. 
All love,
Amanda

PS  It is well over 70 degrees outside today - spring is entirely here. 

4 February 2011

Image Courtesy of Will Hughes Haddad Photography

I am watching the news reports of this endless winter.  The constant swirling of white and pink on enhanced Dopplar Radar maps.  Pictures on William's Facebook page and postings of waiting in airports and delayed flights.  It is cold here today - but not the bitter cold of New England or Michigan, New York or Ohio. 

I am thinking of you in the bitter cold.

Every year in the South we hope and pray for a few snow days - knowing full well that it will take next to nothing to make everything stop.  I was in the grocery store a few weeks ago and said something to the checkout girl about snow coming over the next week.  She frowned, pursed her lips, pointed her finger at me and said with a sneer, "Don't use that word in a grocery store."  "Snow," I asked.  "You did it again," she said.  "Don't do that." And she meant it with a little grin.  I know what she means.  I have been at my Kroger on the evening before a storm.  It is like watching preparation for Armageddon!   People have more bread than they could eat in a month and strange non-perishables (Beenie-Weenies????) that no one really wants when heated on the electric stove, let alone ice cold from the can! What are they thinking? 

They are thinking ICE.  Because here, it is rarely snow that causes real problems or damange.  It is ice.  There is something about our geography - where we are in the middle of the Piedmont wedged between the Sandhills and Foothills of North Carolina - that makes us particularly susceptible to ice. Ice on powerlines never intended to support ice.  Ice on roadways. Ice on bridges and sidewalks.  Ice is the real concern. 

But for us, this concern is almost over for another year.  In a few weeks the first crocuses and daffodils will appear.  The warmer, longer days will begin and before you know it we will be in the first heat wave and worrying about a long hot summer.  Complaining about the weather may be pointless - complaining about the obvious is never a good idea - but it is a healthy pastime.  I spoke with three people in New York City today - and every one of them talked about the weather!  Who can blame them? 

I will let you know on the first day we hit 70 degrees.  You should keep me posted on when you hit 50! I remember those magical first "warm" days in New England, opening every window in the house on one such day...after all, it was 52! 

Thinking of you - with only warm thoughts. 
Amanda