Spicy Summer Supper

Okay, I haven't made a lot of progress on my new novel yet, but I'm making progress on getting into the right mindset for it. My ever-supportive spouse suggested one possible way to make time to focus on my work would be to "make less interesting food" for dinner. I've taken him up on that offer for the most part, although in the summer time what more do you need than some steamed fresh vegetables, a fruit salad and bread and cheese (and wine)? But now and then I get the itch to cook something just a little bit special and I gave into the urge yesterday.

I'll share my recipe for almond cake tomorrow, a favorite of child and adult alike, but before you have dessert, you have to eat your good food! And my Spicy Thai Tofu is pretty darn good for a home-cooked meal--and gets high marks from Herr Doktor, who's been to Thailand many times. You won't mistake it for a Thai restaurant dish, but it's also far less oily and has a lightness that makes you feel healthy as well as satisfied. The original recipe came from Bon Appetit magazine, but I don't exactly follow the recipe. For example, they say use "3 green onions," but what do you do with the other three? So I just toss the whole bunch in. Same with basil, although I try to buy some Thai basil, which comes in a smaller quantity than your typical California basil which is usually enough for a whole batch of pesto. But why use 1/3 cup when a big old handful tastes much better? So, I'll be giving you the recipe just as I make it, a peek into my kitchen, if you will. And if you're up for a little spice to keep you going until our next Spicy Sunday at Jeremy's, this might be your ticket!



Spicy Summer Thai Tofu ala DGS

Mix together in a medium bowl:

2 large red bell peppers, sliced or cubed 3 Tablespoons peeled and minced fresh ginger (I use a big knob that probably made 1 1/2 Tablespoons and that was plenty) 3 large garlic cloves, finely chopped

Mix together in another bowl:

1 14-16 oz. package extra firm tofu, cut into 1/2-inch cubes 1 bunch green onions, thinly sliced on the diagonal

Mix together in a small bowl:

3 Tablespoons soy sauce 2 Tablespoons lime juice 1/2 to 3/4 teaspoon dried crushed red pepper

Place 2 Tablespoons of peanut oil in a wok and heat to high. Add bell pepper mix and saute about 2 minutes. Add tofu mixture and saute another 2 minutes. Add the sauce and toss to blend about one minute.

Add:

1 6-0z. bag baby spinach leaves in two or three batches

Toss until wilted about one minute for each addition.

Mix in:

1/3 cup chopped fresh basil (I do one bunch Thai basil or maybe 1/3 bunch California basil)

Season with salt and pepper.

Top with:

1/3 cup lightly salted or unsalted roasted peanuts

Serve with rice, preferably brown jasmine rice. Enjoy the compliments!

Bastille Day Memories (aka "The Butt Grab")

I've been trying to psych myself up to tell the tale of the French firefighter (see fact #3) for a few weeks now. It's just not that easy because it's a very different project than my usual erotic story. I have to deal with the fact that my sexual adventures of my early years were less about erotic joy than a poignant attempt to affirm my desirability. Young women are the main focus of society's lustful eye, and yet they seem the least equipped to enjoy their sexuality in a subjective way. But I do want to tackle this eventually.

Today is Bastille Day (although it's almost over in France) and that brought back another interesting memory of my summer in Avignon, not related to the firefighter directly, but all part of the same box of souvenirs.

A group of students from my French language program and I decided to go into Avignon for the fireworks on Bastille Day. I did a lot of things with the gang that I might not otherwise have done, because I tend to avoid crowds, but this seemed almost a necessary event for an American. The crowds were assembled around the famous Pont d'Avignon where the fireworks display would appear (speaking of fireworks displays, if you haven't read Emerald's fabulous story, go do it right now) and as the start time approached more and more people arrived until the crowd was pretty dense.

I remember standing there gazing up into the starry sky and probably humming "Sur le pont d'Avignon" to myself when suddenly wham! A body slammed into me from behind and a hand grabbed my buttock and squeezed roughly. The butt grabber was clearly experienced. He managed to get a handful, his fingers jammed fairly deep in my crack, so that the total effect was one of violation rather than just a casual pat on the rear. I heard a deep voice muttering something in French and then my molester evaporated into the crowd.

That was it, although the mildly painful sensation of his fingers pressing into my tender flesh lingered.

This had never happened to me in the US. Verbal assaults, yes, but I'd been fortunate enough to have escaped physical violation. Later that month, on the way to Italy, our Rome-bound train was stopped in a Marseilles train yard and my friends and I were gazing out the window at an apparently empty car next to us. Suddenly a male figure stepped out of the shadows . He dropped his trousers and started masturbating. We let out a collective "euw" and fortunately the train began to move on. Again I was in college and it was hardly traumatic, but what was the guy doing there anyway? Perhaps he greeted each train as it arrived? "Welcome to Marseilles, here's my penis"?

Now I have plenty of other memories of my first trip to Europe--the breakfasts of cafe au lait and tartines, a concert in the Pope's Palace, the oddly haunting hill towns of Provence that made me believe in reincarnation--but the storming of my Bastille will always be the first thing that comes to mind when July 14 rolls around.

How do you celebrate liberty, equality and fraternity?

Sex and Satisfaction, Too!

Fruit and vegetable markets are just so sexy. I went wild at Monterey Market on Friday, filling my cart with fresh local corn, orange bell peppers, blushing Blenheim apricots, an orange-flesh honeydew melon, a local cantaloupe that had an irresistibly lovely fragrance, plump cherries that are still under $2 a pound and very tasty (I tried one), Kika's Farms plump, red strawberries at ninety-eight cents a pint (the lower the price, the higher the season). Who can resist all of that perfect sun-ripened sweetness of July fruit? Add to that organic peaches and figs in my organic farm box and our house was overflowing with juicy bounty. My mouth was already watering when the mail arrived to deliver the best treat of all: my contributor's copy of Xcite's Sex and Satisfaction 2, edited by Miranda Forbes.

Not only is the male cover boy juicy in himself--and obviously ready to get wet--the stories inside are positively delicious. I'm sandwiched between Carmel Lockyer, who writes a very sexy tale involving "The Pirates," and Jeremy Edwards, whose "Moistened by Mercer" puts a whole new spin on the usually boring task of copying documents at the office. To finish up the anthology, Sommer Marsden serves up a very sweet three-way dessert with her "Girl Crush."

My story "Saint Valentine," celebrates the sensual appeal of a Green Party, Buddhist vegan. I confess I find left-leaning, spiritually-minded men very intriguing. Fortunately they grow wild in my part of the world, including my very own backyard! The story also includes an aphrodisiac dinner, the menu of which I will include for your food porn pleasure. "I expected seitan and sprouts, but Justin serves me a lavish salad of organic greens, porcini risotto, and a subtly earthy Barbera. Dessert is almost decadent: four different bars of fair-trade dark chocolate that Justin suggests we taste in a flight like wine." The "tasting" also involves lots of kissing, so don't think vegans don't have a sensual side.

In the mood for more? Well, I always want my visitors to have their sex and their satisfaction, too.

An excerpt from "Saint Valentine":

The problem is that I’ve fallen in love with a vegan.

To be honest, it’s more ‘in lust.’ I met Justin two months ago when he joined our theatre troupe as the lighting director. I flirt with him outrageously, but that is my specialty. On stage I play the vamps, the lusty barmaids, the whorehouse madams in crimson bustiers. All the roles a full-figured temptress plays to perfection. Justin flirts back, but I sense a reserve, as if he means to stay above life’s coarser urges. After rehearsal, when we all go off to the pub to polish off pitchers of beer and potato skins with bacon and sour cream, Justin takes a seat at the end of the table and sips a single glass of red wine.

Though I chug and gobble with the rest of them, I secretly admire my vegan saint. I find his willingness to deny himself carnal gratification for a higher principle unbearably sexy. But, because I really am a bad girl at heart, I also want to defile his purity, pull him down onto my hot, rumpled sheets for a fleshly feast that lasts for nights on end.

Which is probably why I couldn’t get up the nerve to ask him out—good, old-fashioned Catholic-girl guilt.

Fortunately, Justin is a Buddhist.

‘Would you like to come to my place for dinner Thursday night?’ He pops the question as I’m lounging backstage, waiting for my next scene.

‘That’s Valentine’s Day,’ I say, without thinking.

‘Yes. Do you have other plans?’

Nothing I couldn’t cancel to get a mouthful of you. That’s what I think, what I say is, ‘I was just planning to hang out at home hoping a prince would ride by with some chocolate and roses.’

‘You’re not going to let candy corporations and florists brainwash you with their profit-making fantasies, are you?’ He smiles, but I sense he’s not really kidding.

‘It just so happens I like chocolate and flowers. I even buy them for myself now and then,’ I say, looking him straight in the eye. ‘Of course, you probably think I’m a dupe of consumer capitalism with my silly dreams.’

He holds my gaze steadily for what seems like forever. His eyes flicker with a tiny golden flame, warming me, melting me. I realise I haven’t breathed in quite some time.

‘Well,’ he says finally, ‘I hope a wholesome, organic meal with a nice wine will be an acceptable alternative to that propaganda.’

I swallow and nod, strangely at a loss for words. But although I’m acting like a love-sick female, in one tiny corner of my mind, I’m still as clear and calculating as ever. Why not accept his invitation? There’s a risk Justin might spend the night lecturing me on organic farming techniques and corporate manipulation of consumers, but there’s an upside, too. It’s also my golden chance to slither my way inside his monk’s cell--and hopefully his bed. With temptations of the flesh so near, even he might find it impossible to resist my generous charms.

Instead temptation comes to visit me in my bed. That night I dream I’m lying on my back on some kind of stone slab, my thighs spread wide like a virgin sacrifice. Justin stands before me, wearing priestly black and a serene smile. Then his gaze falls to my pussy, swollen and exposed, and suddenly the smile stretches into satyr’s leer. I try to sit up or at least pull my gauzy shift down to cover myself, but I discover I’m bound to the slab, totally at his mercy.

My pussy tingles and throbs and a warm wetness trickles under my thighs. I know I’m shamefully aroused down there, and Justin knows it, too. He’s staring at me with glowing eyes and licking his lips with a moist red tongue. Just then liquid dribbles from the corner of his mouth, not drool but something opalescent and viscous like jism. He bends to taste my offering, grinning and slobbering, and in spite of myself my hips arch up to meet him. I know his terrible transformation from saint to sinner is my fault. Though my body is twitching and trembling in anticipation of that nimble tongue on my secret lips, a scream rises in my chest—Stop! You don’t eat meat!—but no sound comes.

I wake up drenched in sweat, troubled, but undeniably horny. Dipping my hand between my legs to masturbate, I pretend my finger is Justin’s greedy tongue, lapping and licking with devotion. I imagine him kneeling down there between my legs, his head bobbing slightly as he works me over. I hear the click of my wet flesh as he feasts, savor the vision of him pausing to smile up at me to whisper—delicious--his lips and chin shimmering with my juices in the moonlight. When I climax, I make plenty of noise, partly because it’s hot jilling off to the thought of Justin’s mouth on my pussy, partly to reassure myself dreams don’t always come true.

Then again, sometimes they do.

Is Pepper the Secret to a Happy Marriage?

And I'm not talking a threesome involving Sgt. "Pepper" Anderson from "Police Woman," although that might help, too. If you want to find out more about the power of pepper, get a peek into a shocking Idaho scandal, feast on a few nostalgic pics of Angie Dickinson, and get all drooly over a summer barbecue feast of pepper steak, baked potatoes, grilled corn on the cob and a Diet Dr. Pepper (can I have this for breakfast?), then head over to Craig Sorensen's summer spice party for some fine food and excellent peppery prose.

It'll be good for your marriage, too!

I'm a Top Princeton Blogger

Google Alerts. I clearly don't understand how to sign up for them. I faithfully receive an alert every time I post something on my own blog. This is extremely useful to me...not. Otherwise I occasionally get a notice about someone else's post from two months ago mentioning me that a savvier friend told me about when it actually happened. What am I doing wrong?

Anyway, I did get an interesting alert this morning and since it's my first ever marginally entertaining bit of info, I just had to celebrate by blogging about it. (I'll also open a bottle of hearty Italian wine from Kermit Lynch tonight as well. Okay, I was going to do that anyway, but it's nice to have a reason).

Apparently, "Sex, Food and Writing" ranks #29 on the list of Top 50 Blogs in Princeton. I'm ranked alongside intriguing blogs with such titles as "Things to Be Miserable About," "Mommy CEO," "NY Injury Blog," and "Trees of Buenos Aires."

Got to go do some blog reading!

Honouring Ashley Lister

It may seem a leap from an ode to "I Dream of Jeannie" to the graduation ceremony at Lancaster University (John of Gaunt's Lancaster in the UK, not the pale copy I'll be visiting in Pennsylvania in a month), but you can't deny master erotica writer Ashley Lister has much in common with the Barbara Eden character when you're talking amazing talents and feats of wonder.

Most of us are familiar with Ashley's witty and wild erotic short stories and his nonfiction books, Swingers: True Confessions from Today's Swinging Scene and Swingers: Female Confidential, but just this week, he's added another accomplishment to the impressive list by receiving his Bachelor's Degree with first-class Honors in English Language, Literature and Creative Writing from the aforementioned Lancaster University. Ashley ranked first in his class and thus was invited to give a speech--he'd be called valedictorian in the US, but such a designation doesn't exist in the UK.

I can't think of any speaker I'd rather have on the roster at a graduation ceremony, but when I asked Ashley if he used the opportunity to bestow much-needed tips on writing effectively about sex to his listeners, he said he saves that advice for the creative writing classes he's teaching and will continue to teach at the university. (Lucky students!) He reported that since his talk concluded the ceremony he thought "it was mainly a signal to the graduates that the boring graduation ceremony was finished and everyone could rush out to binge on free coffee and cakes." (Mmm, cakes... Maids of Honor? Currant scones with fresh strawberry jam and clotted cream?) The following eloquent quote, however, got high praise from the audience: "In the last three years I’ve been introduced to an array of mind-blowing theories; a wealth of ways to explore my creativity; and a class of great and innovative thinkers who I shall always treasure as friends."

I'm getting a little sniffly, too, actually.

In conclusion, I'd like to extend my congratulations to Ashley for his impressive accomplishment. I wish I could have been in the audience clapping, but trust all of my good wishes will sail smoothly across an ocean.

What Are Your TV Turn On's?

Summer is the season of bounty and it just so happens I have an exceptional harvest of erotica anthologies headed my way this month. The first sweet treat just arrived--my contributor's copies of Pleasure Bound: True Bondage Stories, edited by Alison Tyler, and including juicy stories by some of my favorite eroticists, Shanna Germain, Kristina Lloyd, Nikki Magennis, Sommer Marsden, and Kristina Wright, along with some very enticing newcomers.I have a special fondness for my story in this anthology, "Yes, Master," which is inspired by the TV show "I Dream of Jeannie." It's not exactly about bondage in the handcuffs-and-tethers kind of way, but wasn't poor Jeannie bound to her master in a very provocative way? Although Barbara Eden was not allowed to show her belly button, I am positive the characters in this silly sit-com starred in many a very naughty scenario in the steamy fantasies of male and female viewers alike. What follows below is all true. And it makes me wonder--which TV shows sparked your erotic imagination? Come on, tell us your true story!

The opener from "Yes, Master":

My obsession with Major Anthony Nelson was probably the only thing that kept me going that summer. I’d scored a supposedly prestigious internship at the State Department (okay, in real life it was the IRS but they beat the State Department in offering me a job)—I dreamed of joining the Foreign Service in college—but my only apparent diplomatic function was to make copies and file documents. That and act as a sort of office decoration, because every time I turned around I caught my fifty-year-old supervisor, Mr. Lemon, staring at my ass.
A career in the civil service was quickly losing its appeal.

After the long, sweaty commute home, I was ready for some serious relaxation. So I went up to my room, stripped down to my underwear and switched on “I Dream of Jeannie” reruns until Mom called me downstairs for dinner. I’d do a little belly dance to the opening credits, then settle back on my bed to float along with the zany hi-jinks and comic misunderstandings. After a while, I wasn’t even really paying attention to the story. I was just giving old Major Nelson the eye and wondering what the hell was wrong with him. Didn’t he have a dick? Here he had this beautiful blonde female ready to do whatever he wished, and all he asked her to do was make dinner when he got home from astronaut training.

By the commercial break, I was still staring at the TV, but I was long lost in my own much hotter show about what those two would really do if Major Nelson had a functioning heterosexual libido. It was all pretty filthy. The Master was always in control, of course, and he’d tell her, “No more blinking and nodding, we’re doing this my way.” Then he’d take scissors and snip holes in her costume to expose her nipples and blonde thatch so he could caress her naughty parts as she served him dinner.

Next it was off to the bedroom where he’d make her dance and rub her breasts and finger her pussy right in front of him, while he asked her dirty questions—Is this making you wet, Jeannie? Have you been dreaming of fucking me all day when you were cooped up in your little bottle? And she’d have to say “Yes, Master,” because it was true. Sometimes he’d even make her masturbate with her bottle before he’d give her what she really wanted—his big, heat-seeking missile thrusting inside her. Once they were fucking he’d let her use her powers again to do it in all kinds of kinky genie-only positions. My favorite variation was the “magic carpet” where she’d be impaled on his cock, but levitated with her legs crossed in front of her. With a blink and a nod, she’d twirl round and round on him like a corkscrew until he shot his wad into her with a deep groan.

Of course, all the while I was doing everything the Master commanded, too, palming my tits and strumming my clit, then kneeling on my bed, as if I were straddling him, and wiggling my ass like an exotic dancer. I got so hot imagining his smoldering gaze stroking me like a wet tongue, his soft, but stern voice urging me on to greater depravities, that I came with a muffled groan of my own, just in time for Mom’s dulcet “Dinner’s ready” floating up from the kitchen.
Yes, Major Nelson--or rather my Major Nelson, the sexually insatiable dom--sure helped me get through a long, hot summer.

It turned out he was a tough act to follow....