by Carolyn J. Rose
My characters eat better than I do. A whole lot better.
It’s not just because their fictional finances are in better shape than mine or because I have the power to fill their wallets with cash or raise their credit limits. Barbara Reed, the amateur sleuth in
No Substitute for Murder and
No Substitute for Money, is on a budget that makes my monthly allotment look expansive and she chows down on foods I love but haven’t tasted for years.
The reason for that is not that I hate to cook (although I do). Nor is it that creating a fictional feast takes only a few hundred keystrokes instead of hours slicing, dicing, mixing and mashing.
And, no, it’s not because I’m currently incarcerated and don’t have a choice about what’s for dinner.
When I wrote my first mystery (
Consulted to Death, now out of print), my protagonist, Casey Brandt, shared my tastes in food. At the time I wrote that book and the two that followed (in the 90s) those tastes were fairly far-ranging and I enjoyed experimenting in the kitchen. But not long afterward, I was hit with a triple whammy.
First, my digestive system declined to handle red meat as it had when I was younger. Then my stress level as a TV news producer contributed to an acid reflux problem that forced me to cut out coffee, chocolate, and mint. A few months later my doctor pointed out that my cholesterol level was creeping up and I should adjust my diet to bring it down.
And so, I ended my long love affair with macaroni and cheese. Eggs Benedict and I were through. And butter—lovely creamy salty butter—was banished from my refrigerator. No more would I spread it on dinner rolls in a coating so thick I’d leave bite marks deep and distinct enough to warm the heart of a crime scene investigator.
Facing years of careful and conscientious meal-planning and limited choices at my favorite restaurants, I was downright testy and more than a little depressed. Then I discovered the joys of vicarious dining. Even if I can’t gorge myself on shrimp cocktail or fried clams or bacon, my characters can stuff themselves with whatever they want.
Steak? Bring it on. Baked potatoes buried under butter, sour cream, and chives with a blizzard of cheddar cheese on top? You bet. Chocolate mousse with whipped cream? Make a double order. The sky’s the limit—as long as those dishes appear only in the fictional realm and not on my table.
Am I jealous? Do I resent it when Dan Stone orders onion rings and beer, when Kate Dalton gobbles an ice cream cone, when Barbara Reed munches on pizza? Darn right I am.
That’s why I sometimes exact revenge for their dietary freedom by having them dig into dishes I would bypass at a fast jog. (Anything involving liver, for example, or squid or lima beans.) Aston Marsden from the
No Substitute for Murder series chows down on jerky and hardtack and moldy cheese when he’s “eating in character” as an historical re-enactor. Brenda Waring from the same books is famous for her eel Alfredo and for beets and fennel in aspic.
Are you eating vicariously through your characters? Or have you read a book that made you wish you had a seat at a fictional table? Leave a comment and tell me about it. And be sure to register for a copy of
No Substitute for Money.
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