What's the Story, Morning Glory?

Pitching books and articles in pursuit of an audience

Each time I let a little more time elapse between posts, I have plenty of go-to excuses: I was on deadline for something else (I was), or I had to prepare for multiple classes (I did), or life got in the way (it always does). But more often than not, it’s because I haven’t quite figured out what I want to say—or, more importantly, why what I want to say needs to be said. I’ve always admired writers who move forward with an idea simply because they care about it—who can conceptualize, draft, and publish with total conviction in their ideas. However, I usually stall out not when I have an idea (those come easily and often, and I’m lucky for it), but rather when I can’t quite imagine its audience.

During the last few weeks of my cookbook writing class, I’ve asked students to start crafting proposals for original cookbooks—to take their ideas and figure out where they exist in the current culinary marketplace and how their cookbooks will speak to readers’ problems and interests. They have to do this to a well-defined imaginary readership, and so the pitching part of the class is often the hardest, because it requires students to recognize that what they think is inherently interesting may not capture an audience. This is especially hard when students’ ideas are motivated by personal experiences, histories, and narratives. “Yes,” I end up saying, “family recipes matter and should be celebrated. But how do you get a reader to care about your book if they don’t know you?” Even though I sometimes feel like I’m being unnecessarily harsh, I share this message so students—future authors all, I hope—get used to presenting their ideas both passionately and pragmatically. They have to learn how to pull readers in with the promise of a culinary takeaway—a new technique or cuisine to master—and keep them there with the persuasion of their prose. Because even if you (the author) know that your story needs telling, it’s up to you to convince others to stick around for the tale.

It’s hard to hold onto a story until you know how to tell it. As the writer Margaret Atwood once said, “There's the story, then there's the real story, then there's the story of how the story came to be told. Then there's what you leave out of the story. Which is part of the story too.” But sometimes sitting on it is the best way to do it justice. Two weeks ago, SAVEUR published a story that took me more than four years to bring to life. I’d lived with my family’s copy of Chocolate Decadence my whole life, and it held a place in my imagination like almost no other title. But it was only midway through my PhD that I thought about writing about it—in part because I started wondering about its backstory, and started mentally musing on its implications. I knew it was a radical cookbook from an early age, but figuring out why required more life experience, and at least a little background in the theoretical framings of food and gender, food and the senses, counterculture cuisine, and what some might call “food porn.” I assumed it needed a scholarly treatment, one that would put the book in both literary and historical context.

I first reached out to the book’s author, Janice Feuer Haugen, in December 2019, then dropped the thread during the pandemic and didn’t actually connect until summer 2021. She generously gave me almost two hours of her Zoom time, and I immediately went down a rabbit hole of scholarly research to support the piece. Though it fell to the side of my priorities—dissertation came first—I never lost interest in the piece, and the more I thought about it, the more I felt it deserved a broader, more narrative treatment than what I might offer to a scholarly journal. The storytelling of the book was what drew me in, and I wanted to celebrate it in accessible, evocative prose. (I also wanted to ensure that images from the book could be reproduced in its print celebration, no easy feat for an independently published volume from the 1970s. Thankfully I connected with the illustrator’s estate, and her son kindly granted us the right to reproduce the book’s gorgeous images.) By the time I pitched it again to SAVEUR, it was January 2025, and I presented it as a story ideal for Valentine’s Day. I shared the story of its creation, and of course the recipe, but framed it as a story of cooking for self-care, one that transformed the making of a cake—rather than the cake itself—into the ultimate sensual experience. Janice was endlessly patient with me throughout the research process, and I hope the final article does her work justice—not only highlighting everything I love about the book, but also doing so in a space that will garner it the readership it deserves.

I hope my next post, or article, doesn’t take nearly as long to go from inception to reception; I have a few irons in the fire for book and article ideas, and I’m trying to pitch them out whenever the passion seizes me. There’s at least 27 volumes waiting for my attention, and hopefully they won’t have a chance to gather too much dust. Yet I know myself well, and know that I can’t share my ideas until I do two things: first, to read them cover to cover, and listen to the story they’re telling, and second: to figure out what story others are clamoring to hear.

Recommended Reading: I’m renewing my commitment to reading cookbooks in bed—hey, Adam Gopnik does it—in part to actually read all the books I receive and to relish their prose a bit more intentionally. At the top of my stack right now is Tamar Adler’s The Everlasting Meal Cookbook, which has plenty of original recipes, but is mostly innovative in how it frames leftovers as the primary ingredients of great meals. Adler’s first book, An Everlasting Feast, made a huge impression on me early in my culinary career, in part because of the close, loving attention she gives to every element of cooking, and I’ve loved having her in my head during so many cooking adventures. (She also hosted the single greatest food party I’ve ever attended, where the menu was bread, butter, champagne, and pounds and pounds of oysters for the DIY shucking.) So it’s a joy to have Tamar in cookbook form once again.

The Perfect Bite: This past week I was lucky to participate in the FIT Symposium at Johnson & Wales at their Harborside Campus in Providence, and met some truly inspiring educators, chefs, and food systems practitioners in the process. It also meant getting to sample the exceptionally delicious offerings prepared by the JWU students; never has someone else’s homework been so appetizing. But I was especially thrilled to sample some goodies from the JWU bake sale, which happens every Thursday and features at-cost pastries and baked goods made by JWU students. (New England/Boston publications, I would LOVE to write about this, if only to get another chance to try out the baked goods, so #HMU.)

Cooked & Consumed: I’m not always vulnerable to food trends first spotted on TikTok and Instagram, and I’d hardly call myself vulnerable to #fitspo. However, I’ve recently fallen in love with pasta sauces made with silken tofu, both because of its extra creamy finish (without any dairy or even much fat required) and because of the extra protein it so easily delivers. Here’s the shorthand for my latest recipe attempt:

Red Pepper Pasta Sauce
Makes about 2 cups sauce

• 1 cup cherry tomatoes

• 2 large garlic cloves, peeled

• 1 tsp. stemmed winter herbs (like rosemary, thyme, or oregano)

• 1/2 cup olive oil (or more as needed)

• Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

• 2 roasted red peppers

• 1/4 cup tomato sauce or tomato paste

• One 16 oz. package silken tofu

• 1 lb. cooked pasta

• Parmesan or Pecorino, for serving (optional)

1. Preheat the oven to 300 degrees F.

2. In a small roasting pan, combine the cherry tomatoes, garlic, and herbs, and cover with the olive oil; season with plenty of salt and pepper. (The tomatoes should be nearly submerged in the oil, so add more if necessary.) Crimp a sheet of tinfoil over the pan and roast until the tomatoes are blistered all over and starting to burst, about 30 minutes. Remove and let cool until just warm.

3. In a food processor, combine the roasted tomatoes with the peppers, tomato sauce or paste, and silken tofu. Puree until smooth, then season to taste with additional salt, pepper, and chile flakes. Serve over your hot pasta of choice, with cheese on the side for your non-vegan friends.