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Jessica Conant-Park
(Notify me via e-mail when Jessica Conant-Park releases a new book.) I grew up in Newton, Massachusetts, a suburb of Boston, and spent most of my elementary school years explaining my unusual lunches to friends. While other children dined on peanut butter and fluff, I wolfed down spinach pie and oversize olives from the local Greek market, leftover pasta topped with my mother's homemade pesto, or slices of steak au poivre in crusty French bread. There, admittedly, times I tried to swap with a friend for a "normal" tuna fish sandwich, but I usually adored the yummy packets of food that appeared in my lunch bag. We were a food-oriented family. We traveled to France a number of times and fell in love with the phenomenal cuisine. My mother slaved over Julia Child's recipes and taught herself to make even the most complicated dishes. The highlight of trips to visit relatives in Kansas was always the chance to taste the best BBQ the state had to offer. We ate one meal and discussed where the next would be. I went to Macalester College in St. Paul, Minnesota. Although I loved the school and made lifelong friends, the food was a major disappointment. Campus dining hit me hard. Where was the selection of aged cheeses? Where were the beautifully roasted chickens with baby vegetables? What was a "potato bar"? And what sort of human being would pollute a baked potato with orange cheese sauce and ground beef scum? Just before every trip back home to safety of my parents' house and fully stocked kitchen, I would make a desperate call home to tell Mom and Dad. "That smoked salmon I love so much!" I'd plead. "And let's have bouillabaisse one night! With lobster and clams and mussels and shrimp and scallops!" I would greedily demand. "And goat cheese salad with mixed baby greens!" My father would inform that if I insisted on such high-priced ingredients, he and my mother would have to choose between paying my college tuition and feeding me because they couldn't afford to do both. I graduated from college with an "Individually Designed, Interdepartmental Major" that I called "Psychology of Women: Social Science and Literary Perspectives," a major that allowed me to take all the classes I found interesting and to avoid the others. After graduation, with a lot of psychology and English credits, I spent a few years living in my own apartment, cooking what I wanted, and working as a day-care teacher. I then went to graduate school, got my master's degree in social work, and worked for a number of years with young children and families in early intervention programs. I met my husband-to-be, Bill Park, while he was the executive chef at a now-defunct Boston restaurant called Cosmopolitan. The second I learned that he was a chef, I had a transcendent revelation: Why hadn't I been staking out restaurants my entire dating life? I should have been hanging around outside fine dining establishments at closing time and accosting unsuspecting chefs! The day after I met Bill, he took me to the restaurant, gave me a tour of the professional kitchen, and showed me his menu. The menu looked phenomenal. But could he really cook? A few days later he made dinner for me, and, yes, not only could he cook, but he was incredibly talented. And I was in love! In addition to regularly eating more upscale food than I ever had before, I was introduced to a whole new side of the restaurant world. Bill was full of information and stories about the chaos, competition, harshness, and beauty of the professional culinary world. I couldn't believe some of the tales I was hearing. Although I'd eaten in plenty of restaurants, I'd had no idea of what was going on behind the scenes. Now I knew. We eventually got married and had a beautiful son, Nicholas. Bill was working long, long hours at various Boston restaurants, and I was at home with our beautiful, happy baby. Everyone had tried to warn me about how tired I would be as a new mother, but it wasn't until most of my cognitive functions ceased to exist that I realized how right everyone had been. I put ice cream in the cupboard and sugar in the freezer, my hair sat in a knot on top of my head, and I had trouble remembering how to tie my shoes. The exhaustion had an upside: I was so punch-drunk that my sense of humor was in overdrive, and everything hit me as funny. Since I was spending so much time alone with Nicholas, I began talking to him about more than just Peter Rabbit and the Very Hungry Caterpillar; I narrated daily events, entertaining stories of my husband's culinary adventures, and make-believe tales. My mother was a well-established author, and after I'd shared the millionth wild culinary story with her, she suggested that we collaborate on a book. Write a book? Me? Huh. The prospect of writing a book felt oddly perfect. An avid reader, I especially loved chick lit and cozy mysteries. The idea for the Gourmet Girl series began to grow. I knew right away that I wanted our book to mix chick lit, mystery, food, and humor: Shopaholic meets Rachel Ray meets Janet Evanovich. We brainstormed mystery ideas, and my mother put together a twenty-five-page outline. When I had written three chapters, we submitted them, together with our outline, and my mother's publisher, Berkley, offered us a three-book contract. The day I heard the news, I was stunned and thrilled. Then I panicked. I had to write a book! Actually, three books! With incredible help and guidance from my mother and recipes from my husband, I finished the first book. And the second and the third. |
Books
Turn Up the Heat
Simmer Down
Turn Up the Heat
Simmer Down
Steamed
Steamed |
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