In this ongoing series, we ask SF/F authors to describe a specialty in their lives that has nothing (or very little) to do with writing. Join us as we discover what draws authors to their various hobbies, how they fit into their daily lives, and how and they inform the author’s literary identity!
I blame my mother.
On a cold Sunday afternoon in Westport, Connecticut, ice crusting my pink striped one-piece snow suit, I walked into the house after hours of building igloos with my three older brothers, desperate for a cup of hot chocolate to thaw me out. As I walked in the house I smelled something I had never smelled before. It was complex, meaty, and rich and pricked my senses alive. I padded into the kitchen and watched as my mother pulled out a huge red oval pot from the oven. She didn’t notice me watching her intently as she lifted the lid, letting even more of the delicious aroma into the kitchen. My mouth was watering. She slowly took something brown out of the pot that I recognized as meat. She blew it to cool it then tasted it; the expression on her face was one of pure radiant joy.
“I wanna try, Momma”
