The Agent Search
Happy to report this morning that even if I can’t find an agent, I can get published writing about my agent search. Having fun replying to comments about this, too, at Brevity Blog. Thanks, Editor Dinty Moore, for publishing it.
When Your Ex-Husband Calls
Answering the phone used to be thrilling. It was your best friend, or Publisher’s Clearing House, for real. OK, yeah, occasionally it was bad news. But when you picked up, you knew someone wanted you, the actual you, not a number on a robo call list.
Some Thoughts on the Royals’ Underwear
When Princess Diana was alive, I read that the Royals threw away their underwear after one wearing. I was thinking of that this morning as I replaced the worn-out elastic in the waist of a skirt I bought in 1992. A skirt so old, the company that sold it, J. Crew, was sold off. Tossed off the stock exchange like yesterday’s panties. (It has returned now, online and in outlet malls.)
Running Through San Diego
Had my BEST run in the month we’ve been here in San Diego this morning … military police not withstanding. We headed toward the beach at Coronado. Stu was taking Satchel to the most excellent dog beach, while my plan was to run south on the beach, past the Del Coronado.
I was looking for a flat, hard-sand beach, and was I thrilled! Perfect! I ran past the hotel area, and then, boy, the crowds really thinned out! No one there! So on I ran, about 2.5 miles, then turned, and on my way back, I saw a military policewoman walking slowly toward me on the sand on my right, and she motioned me over, so I trotted toward her, pulled out my ear buds and said, “Yes, ma’am?” Read more
In Search of Āina in Hawaii
Honored to have Decolonial Passage publish this essay, and then nominate it for Best of the Net 2023.
We have crossed the Big Island of Hawaii to the western Kohala shore in search of a sandy beach and surf. It is raining hard on the eastern shore, in Hilo, where we are staying for two weeks. We haven’t come this way – over seventy miles of two-lane roads – because of the rain. No, the rain is agreeable to us: the rain is warm, the air is warm, the rain comes and goes like a Top Ten Hit every twenty minutes on the AM dial. Our condo on the eastern shore is on the third floor of an old concrete building and our generous lanai is perched over Carlsmith Park, where the flowering jungle is kept back by the pool wall. Beyond the wall, tiny clear, blue inlets weave in among the palms and acacias, and turtles break all the state’s laws about staying ten feet away from tourists. This is what I imagine when someone says “paradise.”
We have come this way, west over the saddle road, because paradise and all its rocky cliffs, all its turquoise and white water, waves humping unyielding lava flows, are not the best place to take a dip, boogeyboard or stroll along the sand. Hapuna Beach is one of the island’s few sandy beaches, over on the western, older shores of the island where time and water have tamed the lava. And so we have driven over in an old, faded, dirty Honda Civic rented from a local boy named Tony who surely knows his wrecks. We are standing under a shade tree with round shiny dark green leaves the size of lunch plates. Stu is holding a boogeyboard and scanning the sea. Read more
When the NYT declares, “Kathy Watson, 2020!”
One day you are sitting on the coach getting over hernia surgery, and the next day you’re in the pages of the New York Times, The New York Magazine, Mediaite, and David Green is saying your name on NPR’s Morning Edition.
Not because you cured polio or flew to the moon. No, it’s because you punked your husband in the New York Time’s comment section on a story about Facebook.
It started with an e-mail from the Times:
“My name is Michelle and I work in the New York Times newsroom on our Reader Center team. One of our comment moderators spotted the comment exchange between you and your husband yesterday and we were all delighted by it. As you may have seen, it made the rounds on Twitter, racking up thousands of likes. (As one of my colleagues said in our office chat room, “Kathy Watson 2020!”)
So not only did the Times do a story about it, but it was also picked up by Mediaite, New York magazine’s “The Cut” and finally, at the end of our 15 minutes of fame, NPR’s Morning Edition.
How did this happen? All comes from Stu and I sharing the same NYT digital account, which just so happens to be in my name. So when he comments on a story, I get an e-mail informing me that his comment has been approved. And when I saw that comment from him about FB, I just couldn’t help adding a few helpful little comments of my own.
Three days of fame, on the couch in Oregon, was a fun little idyll. Now I just need to hear Terry Gross say, “Kathy Watson, welcome to Fresh Air.”
Two passions: food, words. Some days, it’s a tug of war, some days, a peaceful coexistence.
Best day ever? Create it, cook it, eat it, write about it. I sold my restaurant, Nora’s Table, in 2015, and now I can be possessed by anything in the long day that I choose: writing 400 words, creating the next menu for the Chefs Collective at Ruby June Inn, teaching a cooking class at Jacob Williams Winery, or tromping through the fields with farmer Laurel Bouret.
A rainy afternoon with a foundational cookbook, such as Marlene Mater’s fabulous “Allepo Cookbook” or Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn’s “Charcuterie” can feed my spirit and spark my creative power. So can reading Maggie Shipstead, Michael Chabon or Alison Kraus.
I live in Hood River, Oregon, with Stuart, also known as the Happy Meal Man. In other words, all I can desire. And then there’s Satchel, our six-year old Idaho Shag who is simply the world’s best dog. We run together, and sometimes, we even let Stu join us.
Our oldest daughter Annie and grandson Levi live in Eugene, Oregon. Annie is cooking in restaurants, like her Mom. Son Max and his wife Hannah and our granddaughter Shiloh are in Portland, where he is a school principal. It’s a good tribe, all the way around.
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