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Guest Post: Rachel Fellman Chews on Bad Food in Fiction

Look, I love to write about terrible food. Life contains so much more of it than good food, or at least my life does. (I have limited funds and poor judgement for risk.) But more than the realism, I’m drawn to bad food because it infuses a scene with context, with a messy pathos. Someone failed before this dish was even served.

I think about the scene in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy in which the spymaster George Smiley tells the story of his one meeting with his Soviet opposite number, Karla. Sitting in a greasy restaurant with his confidant, he takes a few bites of his chicken, murmuring, “There, that shouldn’t offend the cook.” By the end of the scene, he’s given up on the dish, “over which white flakes of fat had formed like seasonable frost.” I mean, the frost isn’t even unseasonable. It is correct that this is happening; it is meet. That chicken died for nothing and everyone knows it.

The cook may have made an unpalatable dish for a sad, unhungry man, but Le Carré prepares a nose-to-tail butcher’s feast of pathos and waste. One of the points of the scene is that Smiley tried and failed to pull a Not So Different Speech on Karla; he ruined it because he’s honest, and honestly lonely. The chicken fulfills its destiny in a way that’s perfect for the mood. It doesn’t symbolize Smiley’s feelings ““ nothing so cheap. Le Carré is a subtler chef than that. Each grim bite of Smiley’s chicken evokes a universe where no spymaster, no heroic fieldman, no great analyst, no chicken farmer or chicken or roadhouse chef, can catch a single break.

I come from a Patrick O’Brian family, and when I mentioned this post to my brother Aaron, he ran to find the bit in The Far Side of the World where Captain Jack Aubrey serves up a lobscouse on which “the liquid fat [stands] half an inch deep over the whole surface.” Later, a pie leaks “thin blood [thin blood!].” As Aaron points out, the pie is rich with social worldbuilding: “Jack has no cook and he’s had to rely on various sailors who don’t actually know how to provide dishes. He’s high class enough that he can’t cook, but he exists in a social setting where he can make one set of people cook for him and another pretend to enjoy the terrible results. […] I feel like a lot of bad meals in literature say stuff about power. One thinks also of the meals Charles’ dad attacks him with in Brideshead Revisited. First red dishes, then white dishes!”

I am myself, as I have said, a gleeful writer of tragic food. It’s true that my debut, The Breath of the Sun, doesn’t have the worst food I’ve ever written. This is because I cut a scene in which a character orders something called “chicken cogulare,” which beats out a scene from a previous manuscript in which a Potemkin village of breakfast pastries is served by an evil prince.

It’s also because The Breath of the Sun is a mountaineering novel, and the literature of survival has a very specific relationship with bad food: since these stories are about scarcity, they’re also about the miracle of having food at all. I remember a meal of spaghetti and fried garlic bread in Kim Stanley Robinson’s underrated Antarctica, which prompts a character to contemplate that Antarctic food, eaten in “extreme states of hunger,” “often tasted wildly delicious even if it was very plain fare.” By the same token, who could forget the “feast of hot water” with which Genly and Estraven celebrate their ice trek in The Left Hand of Darkness (or the hot beer, oddly pleasant in an ice age, over which they make the first moves of their complicated friendship)? Some of the food on Gethen is very fine, and some of it is bad, but it is always transmuted by the sharing at the hearth.

In The Breath of the Sun, when my characters eat dried chicken and biscuit (singular, because in Arctic narratives “biscuit” is a monolithic item), and when my narrator Lamat observes that this biscuit needs to be heavily hydrated with saliva before it can be swallowed, I want to evoke a purely practical un-food. Dehydrated and preserved, it doesn’t feel prepared by human hands. For my two cranky and embittered heroines, the solitude of climbing is both terrible and delicious, and so is the dried pap you eat from a tube. To climb is to leave the context of the earth, and I use food to stretch out that feeling as far as it will go.

Even a breakfast the characters eat when not on the mountain, served by Lamat’s velvety and brutal ex-husband, has this feeling of detachment. Served on “a dirty white table” in an empty courtyard, it is “an untidy heap of miscellaneous food “” rolls and dates and apples with an unpleasant touch of lemon-juice to them, boiled eggs.” The same preservation, the same detachment, but this time there’s nothing delicious or terrible about it, only a mess of context on a plate.

Lamat’s a bartender and innkeeper when not climbing, and I think the only food she really trusts anymore is what she makes herself. When she imagines the mountain from the city, she can only conjure “a morning like a clear glass cup of tea and an egg.” And when she comes home to her lover, she describes her as “a burning breath of coffee, a sense of solidity and strength […] a steady fierce look like some tame animals have.” Home is the right drink on the right breath, and privacy.

Good food is a joy of literature, of course, just as in life. But for subtle worldbuilding, for comedy, for the interplay of hospitality and power — give me the bad stuff. It is a dish of vertiginous depth. Plus, I don’t have to taste it.


Bio: Rachel Fellman is an archivist in Northern California. She writes sharp, painterly science fiction and fantasy about her various preoccupations: art history, extreme survival, toxic love, queer identity, and terrible moral choices. Most of her protagonists are great at exactly one thing and are continually prevented from doing it. Publishers Weekly called her debut novel, The Breath of the Sun, “an atmospheric, poetic, and occasionally wry and brutal story that moves with the gentle but unstoppable momentum of an iceberg.” She does not climb mountains.

Enjoy this writing advice and want more content like it? Check out the classes Cat gives via the Rambo Academy for Wayward Writers, which offers both on-demand and live online writing classes for fantasy and science fiction writers from Cat and other authors, including Ann Leckie, Seanan McGuire, Fran Wilde and other talents! All classes include three free slots.

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Assembling an itinerary for a blog tour? Promoting a book, game, or other creative effort that’s related to fantasy, horror, or science fiction and want to write a guest post for me?

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Guest posts are publicized on Twitter, several Facebook pages and groups, my newsletter, and in my weekly link round-ups; you are welcome to link to your site, social media, and other related material.

Send a 2-3 sentence description of the proposed piece along with relevant dates (if, for example, you want to time things with a book release) to cat AT kittywumpus.net. If it sounds good, I’ll let you know.

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2 Responses

  1. I loved the bad food in Karin Tidbeck’s Amatka, a visceral dystopia. Our protagonist gnaws on raw cubes of rutabaga and starts her day with mushroom porridge “” in a world of cold scarcity.

  2. I really enjoyed the descriptions of food in “Antarctica” too, to the point that I’ve always pictured those meals as being really tasty, regardless of the monotony of the food. But it’s one of my favourite books. I’m currently on my fourth copy as people keep “forgetting” to give it back to me. That scene in the pool under the ice makes me so jealous that I can’t be there!

    Now I’m going to go and explore The Breath of the Sun, because I love mountaineering stories (even though I don’t climb either!)

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Guest Post: Verity Player's Fiendish Bean-Dish by C L Spillard

Verity Player’s Fiendish Bean-Dish

“Oh, brilliant! What shall we bring?”

Verity and her husband Sacha””and any of their family friends””will never have a host cook all alone.

This is the dish they brought round to the Meiers’ for the first “˜do’ at theirs of that fateful new year: the year when she would twice travel to the USA””the “˜Evening Lands’. There she would risk her life for a simple letter written, as it turned out, during the head-splitting hangover after this particular soirée…


Arash and Farrukh had arrived in Britain, the day after New Year’s, without anywhere to stay. Within three days, they’d launched themselves into buying a house together.

Ruth said it might be fun for them all to meet up.

By nine in the evening noisy conversation criss-crossed the Meiers’ generous dining table. Dishes of gefiltefish, couscous salad and stuffed vine leaves passed from hand to hand, along with news and wine.

Verity sat next to the two new arrivals.

She picked up an open bottle of red to refill her glass, offering it to her neighbours first.

Each declined with a polite wave of the hand.

“Er”¦white, then?”

Neither said anything.

“Oh, right. Sorry. Of course.”

Sharia law.

Two blokes living together.

Sometimes people made even less sense than usual.

She poured herself a glass and took a swig.

“Ruth said you were house-hunting.”

She’d start with the easy question.

“Where’re you going to buy?”

“Bishopthorpe Road.”

“What, near the racecourse?”

Farrukh nodded.

“Would you go to the Races? Are you allowed to bet?”

“Gambling is haram. But for horses, one can make an arrangement with the organisers”””˜make a prediction’ and win, if one is correct. There are bureaux for this, in our country. We’ve not yet found a Predictions Bureau here, though.”

Arash smiled. “There’s a business opportunity for someone.”

He paused.

“My cousin would have been good at that.”

“Would have?” She picked up her glass. “Does he”¦do something else now?”

No! Her face burned””Heck, it must match the colour of the wine in her glass. Would have. That must mean he was dead, been killed somewhere.

“He disappeared.”

The whole table went quiet.

Everyone turned to her. Was she supposed to ask?

“Er”¦how?”

“He was arrested. In Rawalpindi, the night before he was due to fly to Europe. Terrorism. No one has heard from him since.”

“What’s”¦what’s his name?”

Perhaps Amnesty had taken up his case? Perhaps she’d see him in next month’s magazine when it arrived at the house. She should make sure to find it, and write. She’d already made that New Year’s resolution to write to the Director of the C.I.A. about those camps”¦

The formal name, elaborate and winding, soon left her consciousness. She didn’t dare ask, “˜what was that again?’

Ruth rescued her. “So, about the house?”

Arash explained the very thing she’d wanted to know to start with””how a Sharia mortgage worked. A mortgage without usury.

She hoped she hadn’t drunk too much to be able to remember the details in the morning.

***

Verity pressed the hot flannel against her forehead. If she pressed hard enough, perhaps the splinters of ice might melt””not dig into the joints in her skull. She tried not to groan. Sacha stirred. Damn, she’d not wanted to wake him.

“I made an idiot of myself at the Meiers’, love. Sorry”¦”

“I did tell you. I did pour some water out for you.”

“Sorry”¦”

“And you asked so many questions. I hope we haven’t upset the Meiers.”

He turned over, away from her, but the pain put her past the point of caring.

She had to write that letter in the morning.

It needn’t be a long one…


But to more practical matters. The dish, being Vegan, is (or at least, can be considered) also both kosher and halal. And you never know when that might come in useful.

 

The vegetables: 

  • 2 small potatoes
  • 3 carrots
  • 2 parsnips
  • Half a celeriac, or 4 sticks celery

The rest: 

  • 4 tablespoons sunflower oil
  • 5 cloves garlic
  • About 1/2 cubic inch ginger
  • 2 red onions
  • Fistful of fresh mint leaves
  • 1 level teaspoon crushed chillies (turmeric will also work, if people prefer a milder dish)
  • 1 tin (about 400g) tomatoes
  • 1 tin (about 250g once drained) cooked chick-peas or any white beans such as cannellini, pinto…
  • 1 mug (about 300g) of veggie stock
  • Pinch saffron threads

Kit: 

  • Large frying pan
  • Cooking spoons
  • Deep dish or similar, to set vegetables aside in
  • Only one cooking ring needed
  • About 50 minutes of time, of which 20 are actually busy

Method: 

  1. Dice the vegetables.
  2. Finely chop the onion, garlic and ginger (no need to peel the ginger).
  3. Finely chop the fresh mint.
  4. Make up the stock and drop the saffron threads in.
  5. Tip half the sunflower oil into the frying pan and gently fry the vegetables until they begin to soften. If the frying pan has a lid that’s great, but still make sure the veggies don’t stick to the bottom. I don’t know why but the potatoes are always the worst for this.
  6. Take the fried veggies out and set them aside.
  7. Top up the oil in the pan, and heat gently.
  8. Fry the garlic and ginger.
  9. Add the onions, mint and chilli, and fry on low heat until the onions are soft and translucent.
  10. Tip in the tin of tomatoes, stir them in, and simmer for 5 minutes.
  11. Add the drained beans, stir in, then add the fried veggies and the stock.
  12. Simmer for at least half an hour.

Seasonal variations: 

Fiendish bean-dish can be adapted for summer by changing to summer vegetables. Celery rather than celeriac, and red peppers instead of parsnips, for example. It can even be served cold, if the weather merits it.


BIO: C L Spillard is a complex interplay of matter and energy in a wave-pattern whose probability cloud is densest in York, United Kingdom.

The moon landings influenced the young pattern’s self-awareness mechanisms, igniting lifelong interest in Physics, and in humanity’s plight on Earth.

C L Spillard’s wave-pattern enjoys proximity to a second pattern originating in St Petersburg (Russia), and these two have since generated two younger ones who are now diffusing over the planet stuffing themselves with knowledge as if it were going out of fashion.

She claims responsibility for a raft of published short stories, the fantasy “˜The Price of Time’, and its newly-released sequel “˜The Evening Lands’.

Her website lurks at www.cspillardwriter.co.uk and she can be stalked on Twitter @candispillard.


If you’re an author or other fantasy and science fiction creative, and want to do a guest blog post, please check out the guest blog post guidelines. Or if you’re looking for community from other F&SF writers, sign up for the Rambo Academy for Wayward Writers Critclub!

...

Guest Post: Andrew Hiller Finds "˜S Wonderful at the Baltimore Faerie Faire

What fun! I really didn’t know what to expect when I accepted the Author of the Year recognition from the Baltimore Faerie Faire, but there was belly dancing, big bands, folk music, a hoard of really cool/fun people”¦

AND I was given a key to the Faerie Kingdom!

It all started when I received a random Facebook friendship invite. I checked out their stream before accepting (My sister taught me to do this.) Happily, the person passed the spam test so I clicked “approve.” Almost immediately I received an IM.

My newest friend started off by thanking me, and launched into how much she loved A Halo of Mushrooms. She’d picked up a copy at Mars Con in January, devoured it, read passages to her husband, and brought it to the attention of her reading group. I felt flattered and thanked her. Then, she added that she was one of the organizers of the Baltimore Faerie Faire and not only wanted me to come, but to be their author of the year.

Swim, small fish, swim!

I got the details, checked out the website, and said, “Yes.”

It turns out the Baltimore Faerie Faire is not only a warm community, but enough of a big deal to be included in the official state of Maryland’s tourism website. It took place over two days. On April 13th, they held the Masquerade Ball and on 14th was the Faire itself. My major duty was to step before the faerie court to ease the transition between the seasons and aid in the passing of the baton from the Winter Queen to the Spring. I also had a table for signings and some other authorly roles. Both Seelie and Unseelie.

The Ball was great. Spritely music played as professional burlesque dancers, belly dancers, and folk dancers twirled on the floor. In between, the attendees boogied”¦ or is that bogied.

When I was introduced during the Ball as the man of the hills and 2019 Author of the Year, they gave me a key to the Faerie City! Everything went as smooth as faerie dust. On the second day”¦ well, you know something always happens during live performance!

The second court began with the faerie queen of winter, the magpie, resisting her dethroning. This was planned and scripted. The crowd played along and tried to bribe her with shinies. After being mollified, I was introduced and began my speech. I glorified the magpie as someone who does not hoard, but protects and keeps safe our treasures from winter’s bite.Then, I pivoted to extol spring, that transition from gray and white, to green, red, purple, and new life. A time of blossom and seed. As I read, I spy the the organizer hurrying up to me. She stabs at my speech and whispers, “Don’t read that!” I look at her.

I’m not to introduce the Spring Queen?

It turns out that they couldn’t find their Queen. She got hung up in traffic or between dimensions or something. I finish, receive my applause, and recede back into the crowd, but after about ten minutes of music and funny schtick mainly about Winter not wanting to give up her crown, I return to my table.

Fifteen minutes later, they re-summon me to court. I sprint back and see the Queen of Spring waiting in the wings. I start thinking furiously. I’m not going to reread my speech. I don’t want to put the audience through that no matter how poetic and pretty it is. What can I say that I didn’t say the first time?

I decide that it would be fun to wink at the audience and talk about how sometimes Winter refuses to release its grip and Spring comes late.

It works. The crowd laughs. Spring smiles good-naturedly. I take a step back. Receive a gift from the Queen of Spring. Chapstick! Then, the organizer asks me to tell the Queen of Spring how wonderful she is.

What?

More?

Two things pop in my mind. I covered this already and the audience has already been asked to sit for far longer than anyone expected. What can I possibly say? And then it hits me”¦

Gershwin!

I belt out, “You’re wonderful!”

The crowd roars and the organizer says, “Yes! Like that! Tell her more!” So, I sing,

“You’re marvelous!”

Of the things I never expected to do as Author of the year, crooning old standards was probably high on the list, but as with all writing”¦ you go where the story takes you and do what the story demands!

Thank you to the organizers of the Baltimore Faerie Faire! I had such a great time. I am both humbled and honored that you embraced my work. I will remember this weekend for a long time.

Oh”¦ and for the record, I did eat faerie fare at the faire. Surprisingly, it tasted like chicken, Masala chicken to be specific.

Author Bio:

Andrew Hiller is the author of A Halo of Mushrooms, A Climbing Stock and the editor of Thursday Stories. Follow him on Twitter as @AndrewHiller.

If you’re an author or other fantasy and science fiction creative, and want to do a guest blog post, please check out the guest blog post guidelines

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