Sometimes your writer self (the vegetarian kind) might need a bit of a pick-me-up after a long night of channeling Hemingway or any of the other dead authors of the 1900s or living authors of the 1980s.
Here is our offering, tweaked and twisted from a really good recipe (see the notes) and super yummy.
Hungover Writer Burritos
Man Verdict: YOU do NOT have to be hungover to eat this. Or a writer.
My Verdict: All vegetarian burritos are good burritos.
Dog Verdict: They'd only let us eat the plain rice and the tortillas. No fun at all.
1. Toss the rice and cilantro. Do it in a microwave-safe bowl. Don’t just toss it. You aren’t still drunk are you? NYE was two days ago, writer! Get a grip!
2. Drizzle lime juice on it. Think about how the word drizzle is a cool word.
4. Put it in the microwave for 45 seconds or so.
5. Take it out of the microwave.
6. Stir it, but not super enthusiastically. More like a last revision pass where you’re just putting in the time and trying to find out how many times you’ve made your characters nod. 87? That’s too many.
7. Back to cooking. In a big skillet, saute garlic and onion in oil for ttwo minutes. The onion wants to be soft like the protagonist’s skin in a romantic thriller featuring damsels and pirates. The damsel is the protagonist.
8. Lower the heat (medium-low). Add beans. Put the cumin, hot sauce, and chili powder on there. Roll with salt if you’re into that. Let it cook for five minutes.
9. Put rice into tortillas. Put bean mixture in tortillas. Realize you did not warm up the tortillas.
10. Warm up those tortillas in the microwave (under paper towel that’s damp for 15 seconds) if that’s how you roll or in an oiled-pan on the stovetop (low heat) if you’re like that. It really depends on your level of lazy. If you’re still hung-over, I’m guessing that lazy level is high.
12. Watch Hulu or Netflix or something while you eat. Claim it’s book research. Realize that in 2020 writers lie like that to themselves. That’s why they do fiction. Be glad you write fiction
13. Eat more.
14. Go get a beer to go with it. Actually get the whole case so you don’t have to get up off the couch too many times.
15. Realize you’ll have to make this again tomorrow. Decide you’re okay with that.
This is adapted from a much better recipe on the amazing website of awesome called Spruce Eats. You can find it here.
Cut those potatoes into 12 slices, but don't cut all the way through like a critic's opinion of your new book.
Put those potatoes on a plate and cheat. Think of it as giving yourself a little boost. Drink some wine. Put the potato plate in the microwave and nuke them for five minutes.
Think that your next book should feature potatoes, microwaves, and wine.
Celebrate yourself and your idea.
Get aluminum foil and tear it into four big pieces of awesome. Think of each piece as a happy section of your book. Vow to write your next book in sections as you put a potato on the center of each piece of aluminum foil.
Brush the garlic and butter in between the potato slices. DO NOT THINK OF THESE HOLES AS PLOT HOLES! Do not realize suddenly that there are plot holes in your book that just came out today. There aren't. You are just being neurotic, writer!
Step away from your cell phone. Do not call anyone. Big breaths. Focus on potatoes.
Encase those potatoes in the foil so they are all tightly closed in. Look at that! It's a nicely tight plot. No holes! See? Aren't you glad you didn't call or email or panic or anything?
Cook 30 minutes.
Take the potatoes off the grill. Be careful. Open up the packages and put pieces of cheese in between the slices. Your potato will not adhere to itself like a beautiful book narrative.
Wrap them back up.
Put them back on the grill for another five minutes or so.
Celebrate. You've created something great! Season that greatness if you feel like it.
You can get exclusive content, early podcasts, videos, art and listen (or read) never-to-be-officially published writings of Carrie on her Patreon. Levels go from $1 to $100 (That one includes writing coaching and editing for you wealthy peeps).
A lot of you might be new to Patreon and not get how it works. That’s totally cool. New things can be scary, but there’s a cool primer HERE that explains how it works. The short of it is this: You give Patreon your paypal or credit card # and they charge you whatever you level you choose at the end of each month. That money supports me sharing my writing and art and podcasts and weirdness with you.
The Horror Writer's Peanut Butter and Jelly on Fire
Heat a skillet or griddle to 350-degrees Fahrenheit. Don't use a grill even if you're camping. Really. DO NOT USE A GRILL!
Take bread. Put butter on one slide of each slice. Butter is a kind of lard, isn't it? Does this remind you of SILENCE OF THE LAMBS? Don't let it remind you.
On the side the butter isn't on, spread the peanut butter. On the other slice's naked side, put the jelly. If your jelly is red, do not let that remind you of human blood. Don't let it make you even hungrier if you think of this. BE HUMAN! YOU ARE HUMAN, right?
Promise this writer that you are using a griddle or a skillet because I am imagining terrifying things with peanut butter and jelly dripping on open flames. If you can promise this then go ahead and put a buttered slice on the skillet. Put the other slice on top.
Look, humans. The peanut butter and jelly should be in the middle of the bread slices. Okay? NO MISTAKES HERE!
Cook for about four minutes and flip that bad boy over, spank it with the spatula, and cook it four more minutes.
Think about Brene Brown and how she is telling you that you always have to take risks. Making this damn pie is taking a risk because raspberries are so damn expensive.
Feel powerful for taking a risk.
Oh damn. Honey is expensive too. Pretend you are not a starving writer, but a bad-a** woman with a six-figure book deal, a Brene Brown of writers selling your ideas about courage to other writers and you can totally afford honey and raspberries, damn it.
Put the expensive honey, flour, and cream all in a bowl and beat them there until your dreams come true and you are this writer. No, actually just beat it until there are no lumps.
Now, be gentle writers. Pretend the expensive raspberries are your creations, your book babies, and you want to gentle stir them into this mixture, which represents the book buying public aka readers.
Pour it all into the pie crust.
Pray that it will be good and not a sad, little mess. Channel your inner Brene Brown and repeat for 40 minutes, "Courage starts with showing up and letting ourselves be seen."
Once 40 minutes is over , take the pie out. It looks good, doesn't it? Look at you, brave one! Taking the risks. Leaving courage via story and honey and raspberries and other expensive ingredients.
Refrigerate it for 2 hours and go watch TED Talks by B. Brown.
You need to find a knife. Do not think about suicidal confessional poets from the 1960s. Just find a knife.
Use the knife to cut the potatoes into bite-sized pieces. Don’t ponder about what ‘bite-sized’ means. Don’t riff on how different people have different mouth sizes and therefore different bite sizes. Just cut the potatoes. Cut them on a cutting board!
Get a large pot. Put the cut-up potatoes in the pot. Fill the pot with water. Think about this. Are these the characters in your story, perculating under your subconscious? Ready to make something happen in your plot? Yes. Yes. They are.
Boil those characters for 15-20 minutes. They should be fork tender. What does that even mean fork tender? Aren’t we all fork tender, us humans? So easily hurt.
Drain the potatoes, those poor tender potatoes. Pause to write a poem. Make sure when you come back that those little sweet potatoes are pretty dry.
Cast aside your feelings. It’s time to get serious. Find a skillet. Do not comtemplate the last time you used a skillet as a prop device in your murder-mystery staring your ex boss. Instead, turn the stove burner on to medium heat. Put that skillet on the burner. Yes, the same burner that you’ve turned on.
In the skillet, put olive oil, potatoes, and spices. Double up the spices if you aren’t afraid. You want depth to your story. I mean recipe.
Stir it up like it’s a good plot.
Cook it for 3-5 minutes. Flip it. Cook it on that side for 3-5 more minutes. You want it crisp, but not burnt. Use your own judgement about what constitutes crisp. You can do it! I believe in you!
Find the corn tortillas. Put potatoes in them. Put the other toppings in them. Hope for good reviews on Amazon and GoodReads. I mean, hope your family likes them.
Think about how horror is having a renaissance and decide to make all your works in progress about horror somehow. You can do this. Let's start now.
Find a bowl, look at your reflection is that you or shadow you? Is it the demon inside? Ignore this possibility and instead add cheese and corn starch. Combine it until all reflective surfaces are gone.
Put that mixture and evaporated milk into a pan. DO NOT LOOK AT REFLECTIVE SURFACES!
Put it on low heat. Watch the gauge turn it to medium heat. Turn it back to low.
What was that behind you? Nothing. No. Just the cat. Ha! Jump scare.
It was a jump scare, wasn't it?
Realize you might not be cut out to write horror. Stir until cheese has melted like a bad guy's face in an Indiana Jones movie. The sauce should be thick, smooth like blood.
If it's too thick (like maybe your plot?) add more milk.
Use salt and pepper. Don't think you heard the shower turn on.
Did someone whisper, "Too much salt is bad for the heart?"
No. No of course they didn't. Turn off the stove burner. Unplug the stove for good measure. Poor the cheese over the broccoli.
Lock the doors.