Dear food, I don't live there any more

Part 1 of Wait, Annabelle Got a Book Deal?

Transitions are awkward.

My current one — from food writer/journalist of 18 years to … What? Author? Slash/ freelancer? Slash/ Substack-Advice-Columnist? — is no different.

I keep trying to tie this newsletter back to food. Food was my first love. My first joy. But food is no longer where I live.

I live in this book world. A weird and wonderful place where time moves ever. so. slowly. andthensoveryfastallatonce. Where deadlines aren’t measured in minutes and hours but weeks and months. Where words and titles and covers aren’t merely considered by you and maybe a section editor, but by you, an editor, their assistant, the marketing team, the publicity team, and perhaps the sales rep from Barnes & Noble, too.

They say to write about what you know, what you’re obsessed with, what seizes you. Right now, that’s this book.

“The Mango Tree: A Memoir of Fruit, Florida & Felony” is off to copy edits. That means my amazing editor, Vivian Lee, and I have sorted through all the big-picture book stuff. We’ve strengthened the threads and themes. We’ve solidified my journey through the pages and created something with which readers will connect. (I had the word “hopefully” in that last sentence, but why not thrust this into the universe full force, eh?)

This book (Mark your calendars for its April 2024 release!) occupies a sprawling chunk of real estate in my brain. It brings me happiness, anxiety, confidence, worry, pride, fear — all the things. I want to talk about it constantly but also never. Always and not at all.

So, I figured why not write about it? Is that not what a personal newsletter is for? (if your answer is: Nope, just take me to the food — keep scrolling :))

Welcome to Part 1 of Wait, Annabelle Got a Book Deal?

In this ongoing series, I’ll walk you through this process. What worked for me and what didn’t. What I would do differently and what I swear by. I’ll also shed some light on how this whole publishing thing works and some of the brilliant folks whose work and advice helped me get here; people who have done this far longer than I have and, thus, have far better insight.

Let’s start at the beginning:

How I decided to write a book

I didn’t.

The end. Thanks for coming!

OK, at some point I did. Or, at some point, I accepted the fact I would, that I needed to. Coming from the world of journalism, a book should feel like a natural next step. But I was happy with my job. I liked my work. Until I didn’t.

Where the magic (of writing, laundry and beverage fridges) happens; welcome to my office.

One day in spring 2019 I realized that, for better or worse, I lived and would continue living in my hometown of Fort Myers. In order for me to accept this fate, I had to change something. I had to do something that wasn’t for anyone else. Something that was mine. The idea that came to me wasn’t a book, exactly, and it certainly wasn’t a *memoir*.

It was a cookbook.

A cookbook felt like a natural extension of my 15-some years in food writing. It felt conceivable and doable. My cookbook would be Filipino-ish. It would nod to my time slinging guacamole in a Tex-Mex kitchen and to my catering work and to the recipes my kids love. Amid those recipes, I would sprinkle in quirky essays about my mango-loving, squirrel-hating Filipina mother and the BB gun she kept to deal with said issue. About my long-dead white father and how he showed me to make pancakes, a lesson I took into my own hands early one morning when I was 3, almost burning down the house in the process. About the day my mother turned her BB gun away from her squirrels and at a person (well, his car) and got in real trouble. The felony kind.

The best advice I received on those early pages came from a close friend I’ve known since middle school. Artis Henderson, who wrote “Unremarried Widow” in 2014 and whose second book is slated for release in the coming year, told me this wasn’t a cookbook. She said it just like that — This is not a cookbook. — as she rode in the passenger seat of my minivan to a restaurant I had to review. She told me to drop the recipes, strengthen the stories and find a way to connect them.

“You’re writing a memoir,” I remember her saying.

My response was something along the lines of “Lolooollloollllllllllll.”

But I listened to Artis’ advice and accepted this fate. I wanted to write about food and funny family stories. I needed to write about the complicated relationship I’ve had with my widowed mother and how her felony arrest for shooting at a man over a mango forever changed its trajectory.

Most of the pages of that essay-filled cookbook will never see the light of day. They rambled, lacked cohesion, made no sense. I don’t see this as a waste or a failure. It’s what had to happen. I had to clear my throat and my mind of what I thought I wanted to write to get to what I needed to write.

We all have stories we like to tell. I think the key is identifying those you NEED to tell and then being brutally, painfully and beautifully honest about them.

Restaurants of the Week

You’ve stayed with me for this long, so I’ll keep this tasteful but quick.

***

In Naples, I had the pleasure of revisiting an old favorite: Fernandez The Bull. Born in 1985, back when this area didn’t know picadillo from pastelitos, The Bull taught us how to relish Cuban cuisine.

What was once a simple café has grown into a small chain with locations in Naples and Key Largo; a place to listen to live music while drinking stiffly minty mojitos, to savor a serious medianoche pressed on the richest eggiest bread, to sip a simple cafecito con or sin sucre. And then there’s the flan, creamy, wobbly and thick as fudge. And the chocolate tres leches. And the paella. And the — everything else.

Fernandez’s 38 years in business aren’t a fluke. They prove the staying power of good food.

***

Moving north a county brings us to the outstanding Next Door in Cape Coral. Aptly located next door to Gather at Tarpon Point Marina, this place is Chef John Hill’s baby. A chic and sleek opportunity to delight customers with his hand-crafted pastas and boundless creativity.

I went to Next Door with my former editor, Robyn George, who has so kindly and brilliantly taken over my role as The News-Press’s restaurant critic. I hoped for bucatini in silken sous-vide egg yolk, for gnocchi infused with verdant asparagus and sauteed till crisp. I got that and then some, thanks to being spotted by Chef Hill and awarded with almost the entirety of his offerings.

Were I still the legendarily secretive “Jean Le Boeuf,” I’d have freaked out and insisted I get the dishes as served. As I am now simply a Substack-Advice-Columnist slash/ Freelance-Whatever-This-Is, I forwent the freak out and accepted my delicious fate.