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Those readers and sponsors have been clamoring for book two ever since my first, Smokin’ In the Girls’ Room (named after my blog) hit a bestseller list last year. I can’t disappoint them. Just like I can’t lose the awesome momentum Smokin’ In the Girls’ Room gave my career. The longer I go between releases, the more likely it is that that might happen.
So I made a promise to myself—and to my readers—that book two would go above and beyond book one, and that I’d release it “sooner rather than later”.
The pressure to get this cookbook written is real.
So is my anxiety that I won’t be able to make it happen in time.
I try my best to shove the thought from my head as I climb the front steps. I work hard. I’ve overcome challenges in my career before. I’ll do it again.
Opening the front door, I’m hit by a familiar, homey smell. Savory, a little sweet. Freshly fried corn tortillas.
“Don’t tell me you’re making Pastel Azteca,” I say, my smile returning.
Mom, who is Mexican, made the tortilla casserole all the time when we were growing up. It’s an old family recipe, one that was passed down to her by my abuela. It’s a dish she makes with alternating layers of tortillas, tomato and sour cream sauce, corn, and cheese.
Mom glances at me over her shoulder. As usual, she’s bustling around the kitchen, the countertop covered in Pyrex dishes, cutting boards, and bowls full of fresh ingredients. She smiles, too.
“Of course I am, mija,” she replies, giving me a hug. “I had a feeling you needed some comfort food. How’s the writing going?”
I settle on a stool at the counter with a heavy sigh. “Horribly. I finally gave up and started reading a romance novel instead. I don’t know what my deal is. I just can’t seem to figure out what I’m trying to say with this book, you know? Like, who am I beyond the brisket? The ribs?”
My dad owns Lacy’s Barbecue, an old school joint out on Sullivan’s Island. It’s no frills, the kind of barbecue place where pulled pork sandwiches are served up in plastic baskets and napkins are offered in the form of rolls of paper towels at picnic tables. He opened Lacy’s almost thirty years ago. Over the decades, Dad worked his ass off to build his reputation as one of the southeast’s best pit masters.
After college, I followed in his footsteps and became a pit master myself. But instead of opening a restaurant, I decided to combine my two great loves—literature and smoked meat—and started a blog that was a mix of recipes, photography, and snippets of my daily life.
Luckily this was back in 2007, which happened to be a bit of a golden age for bloggers. My following exploded, and I was eventually able to fulfill my dream of making a full time career out of it. Two years ago, I landed a major book deal for my first cookbook. It did so well that my publisher contracted me for two more books.
Which was awesome, until I realized I was fresh out of ideas. Inspiration, too.
Mom’s smile gets wistful. Knowing. “You’ll figure it out, mija. You’ve always had a lot to say.”
“That is true,” I say.
I look up at the chirp of the alarm system, and Dad walks through the front door. He looks rumpled, like always, in his day old stubble, blue LACY’S BBQ hat, and scuffed up sneakers.
“Hey, Dad.” I get up from the stool to meet him in the hallway. “I didn’t know you were coming home for dinner.”
My dad works long hours, especially on the weekends, and he’s not home all that much for meals.
“Wouldn’t miss it with you and Alex being here.” Giving me a tired smile, he wraps me in a hug. The scent of hickory chips and fried dough—Lacy’s famous hushpuppies—wafts off his shirt. “Good to see you, sweetheart. I’m so glad you’re back in town. How’s the cookbook goin’?”
Dad’s always been my biggest cheerleader. When I graduated with a fancy degree and a bunch of corporate job offers, he was the one who encouraged me to choose my passion over a steady paycheck.
The path I chose hasn’t always been easy, but it’s been insanely rewarding. It’s me. And I’m not sure I would’ve had the guts to follow that path if it hadn’t been for dad’s encouragement.
“I was just telling Mom that I can’t get it started for the life of me. I’m hoping to find some inspiration while I’m home.”
“I think we can help with that. Let me get changed.”
Without saying a word to my mother, he disappears into the master bedroom.
Beside me Mom swallows audibly, eyes glued to the frying tortillas in front of her. I notice her shoulders have slumped. The corners of her mouth turned down in a small frown.
