The Big Easy
FROM JINX'S DIARY
We should have known that any Doubleday respresentative whose nickname was Wild Bill would have to be fun. What we didn't know was that he would lead us astray.
We'd arrived in New Orleans just weeks after Hurricane Betsy lashed the city, but to our eyes everything seemed to be getting back to normal. After picking us up at the airport for our tour of local bookstores and colleges, Wild Bill asked us where Doubleday had arranged for us to stay. When we mentioned the name of the hotel listed on our itinerary, he made a face and changed directions. Pulling up in front of the elegant Hotel Ponchartrain, he ushered us out of the car and up to the front desk where he said to the clerk "These two ladies will be checking in. And charge it to Nelson Doubleday."
"And that," he said, "is how you handle your trip from now on. Find the best hotel in the city and, like Eloise at the Plaza, say 'Thank you very much and charge it please."
And so we did.
And we devoutly hope the statute of limitations has run out...
If It Can Go Wrong...
November 14, 1965 Dallas
We sign and we sign and we sign. It's a Good Sign! The book is being well accepted and we're delighted.
This afternoon we're guesting on a cooking show that has no power to the cooktop, making it more than challenging to have our Humbleburger Soup appear to be steaming comfort food. This is indeed a low budget station; we have to pass the microphone back and forth in conversation, a juggling act that surely warrants more practice than we have.
Last event of the day: a radio interview with a guy named Guy Fairly (I kid you not) who clearly has no idea who we are, what the book is about or why we're cluttering up his studio. Bravely trying to fill painfully long silences, we keep stepping on each other's lines which prompts more silence followed by "No, go ahead."
"No, that's okay."
"No, you."
Smothered laughter is frowned upon by G.F. He'll just have to get over it.
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DEAR DIARY - |
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NOTES FROM OUR 1965 BOOK TOUR
BRIGHT LIGHTS, BIG CITY, BECOMES FRIGHT NIGHT
FROM JUDY'S DIARY
Fast Forward Update: Between the inception of the book and its publication Jinx and I each were married. After Saucepans' debut. Doubleday generously sent us on a three week frenetic tour of major cities to promote our baby. The only drawback for me is that I am now great with child, a state that is riddled with emotions swinging from joyful Lady Madonna to despair over the loss of my lap.
Nov 9 1965 Manhattan As dusk falls, we trudge up Park Avenue on our way to a well-earned cocktail with friend, mentor and agent, Carl Brandt. We've spent the afternoon at our first book signing. We signed and we signed, smiling a lot at strangers who were graciously buying our books for daughters, nieces, and pals and even for themselves. Flush with our success, puffed with pride, we are enthralled by the charming streetlights that flicker so prettily. Flicker and die. And stay dead. The beginning of a long night and an even longer next day. But more of that later.
Fumbling through throngs of bemused and often confused pedestrians, we bolt across thoroughfares, sidestepping cabs. We manage to find Carl, imbibe some of Scotland's finest while waiting "for the power to go back on." Hah! So, well, have another. (Thankfully, in 1965, expectant mothers were not admonished to abstain from the grain. ) History reminds us that those devilish lights stayed in the wings for a long intermission. After a lope through Central Park with Carl, a climb of 20 flights of stairs to Carl and Clare's apartment, we are pampered with scrambled eggs and brandy. Then back to our creaky, ancient hotel to climb another 22 flights of stairs. Judy is sure that her son will be born in a dark stairwell. Ah, room 2372, here you are! Exhausted and still very much in the dark, we try the TV, the light switches. Nothing. Around 5 a.m. a Chinese fire drill commences relentlessly in our room. TV blasts, overhead lights show no mercy, bells ring, toilets flush.
A baleful glance at our feet reveals shapeless things that are supposed to fit in shoes. They're swollen and blistered, but we bind them up as best we can and head off to our first assignment of the second day of the tour. Gristede's and guacamole.??
So Who Are These Girls Anyway?
Nov.10, 1965 Manhattan
Where do two California girls go to find a bag brimming with luscious avocados? In November? In New York? Our mantra for the day is "Only the strong are tested." Truth told, we're already feeling tested and testy, with sore feet and a hangover attitude of some magnitude. Gristede's does yield up some of those dark green beauties and off we sail to Macy's basement where we're going to anoint the uninformed on the topic of what is, in New York in 1965, a strange and suspicious creation - guacamole.
Fortunately for us, New York is imbued with a grand spirit of camaraderie this chilly morning. We've all lived through the Great BlackOut together, haven't we? So, imagine our little party in Macy's basement Housewares department: a gaggle of housewives are gathered around a listing utility table that some well-meaning soul has draped with a Winnie the Pooh bedsheet. (Definitely not our idea.)
Doubt reigns supreme on the faces of these wool-hatted, plaid mufflered old dears as they wait for these two alien blonds to make something they call - whaaat? Gwuack-a-moley?
We peel, we mash, we smile wildly, reassuringly. We season that green squishy, mess with lots of garlic, tiny minced jalapenos and leafy cilantro. Even the words sound like Greek or well, Spanish, to our waiting audience. When we put the avocado pits back in temporarily to keep the guacamole from turning brown, these mavens of the kitchen finally know that we've simply lost it. The night has been too much for these West Coast girls.
Shrugging, they're turning away! Ah, but here come the chips! Circling, nudging in slowly, one by one, they scoop up that silken bit of Mexican paradise and savor it. And then another and another. Now we're all smiles, sisters together in this mysterious world of food. One particularly game old girl unwinds her muffler, sheds her gloves, and asks slyly if we have a blender.
Seems she feels that she can make a mean Margarita to accompany the guacamole and she'd like to try.
Sounds like a fine idea about now. Pass that salt.
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The Path to Publication
FROM JINX'S DIARY
Since we weren't entirely sure how to write a cookbook, it should come as no surprise that we were clueless about how to get one published. But we were blessed by the confidence that comes with total ignorance.
Just after we finished testing the final recipes, we stacked up the pages and RETYPED them (it's no wonder we adore our computers now). I was going to New York on other business and suggested I take the manuscript with me so I could personally deliver it to what I assumed would be a number of breathless publishers. First stop was Random House where I asked to see Mr. Cerf (Bennett Cerf, the legendary head of this legendary pubishing company). Appointment? Of course not.
Alas, Mr. Cerf was busy.
On to Doubleday where I reluctantly left my precious cargo with the receptionist, and swallowed hard when I saw her add it to a teeteringly tall stack of manuscripts on her desk. I later learned that this is appropriately referred to as "The Slush File." I had consigned our baby to oblivion. Or so I thought.
In my innocence I believed that five days was plenty long enough for any publisher to decide on the fate of a book, so I called Doubleday when a week had gone by. I was a little taken aback when the receptionist said "I suppose you want to speak with your editor."
It had worked! Somehow, someone had plowed through that huge stack of paper and found our baby and was about to breathe life into it. And so the fun began...
Braving the Bully
Back in California after our whirlwind trip, we were booked for an interview on the Joe Pyne show. Why, we could not imagine. Mr. Pyne was one of the first of the radio talk show hosts who made his reputation by arguing with his guests, uncovering their weaknesses and insulting them.
One of his favorite suggestions to his victims was "Go Gargle with Razor Blades."
Dreading this confrontation, we tried to figure out from which flank he would attack. Would he subtly suggest that Humbleburger Soup showed Commie leanings? Would our mention of Irish Coffee indicate a dangerous sympathy for the IRA? Did our recipe for Senate Bean Soup reveal important government secrets?
Knees quaking, we sat at the microphone and waited for the barrage. Apparently baffled by the fact that we were even on the show, Mr. Pyne was at a loss. He spent the next 15 minutes lobbing softball questions at us.
It was surely the most boring show he ever did.
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