Food Ghostwriting

A couple of weeks ago Julia Moskin wrote a New York Times article exposing the fact that (gasp) not all chefs write their own cookbooks. Cookbook authors such as Rachael Ray and Gwyneth Paltrow were quick to point out that they did, in fact, compose their own material, and they felt maligned by the suggestion that they didn't. The controversy has led to plenty of earnest discussion about the role of ghostwriters in creating and producing cookbooks, with plenty of focus--as usual--on high profile celebrities with big names and big egos.

This past winter I've been doing a bit of cookbook ghostwriting myself. I'm finding I really enjoy the process of helping other people to channel their food knowledge into written form. I love writing but I can't really market my way out of a paper bag, so ghostwriting feels like a perfect fit: I get to focus on the part that I do well, and another person has the job of promoting the material. I started out as a fiction writer, and ghostwriting also enables me to go back to chameleon mode, learning and imitating someone else's voice.

I've been working for peanuts so far, thinking of the process as an internship of sorts. If I get some experience, then down the line I may be able to work on more lucrative projects because, after all, a girl's got to earn a living. But reading Moskin's account of the treatment she received from some of the big names she worked with has given me a new appreciation of the type of work I've been doing.

I've mostly been helping non-native speakers express their food knowledge in ways that will be accessible to an American audience. I edited a cookbook for a Russian guy with a thick accent who had been working with voice recognition software: this became clear when I came across the phrase "feel the pastry shells." I worked with a Greek food personality who wants to teach American cooks about the food lessons that he and his compatriots have learned as a result of their country's economic turmoil.

I'm finding this work fascinating. In addition to learning a lot about unfamiliar cuisines, it's gotten me thinking about the role of food writing in the digital age. We all want to promote who we are and what we know. We create platforms, project personalities, and build audiences. But the people with the deepest, broadest food knowledge aren't necessarily the ones who have the writing skills or the tech savvy to communicate what they know.

There's been a lot of talk lately about the ways that new information technologies have been lowering the qualty of food writing and diluting the brands of folks who immerse themselves in the craft and the business of creating food books and magazines. But digital media and the recent innovations in self-publishing have also created a field that is potentially quite egalitarian and food is, after all, a deeply egalitarian medium.

By the way, if you're ever looking for a ghostwriter, I hope you'll keep me in mind...

Roasted Sunchokes

I used to scoff at sunchokes. Walking around the winter markets, it always seemed like everybody was selling them but nobody was buying them. I once even asked a farmer whether there was actually a demand for them, or whether farmers just offered them for sale because they were easy to grow. I'm not much of a gardener, but I've heard that they are, in fact, very easy to grow.

Sunchokes used to be known as "Jerusalem artichokes" until a bunch of marketing folks got together and tried to figure out why nobody was buying them. Someone suggested rebranding them as "sunchokes", which wasn't as big of a stretch as it sounds because they are, in fact, part of the sunflower family.

Nobody knows why they came to be known as "Jerusalem artichokes" in the first place. They're definitely not part of the artichoke family, although they do have a distinctly artichoke-like flavor. They're indigenous to this hemisphere, and one theory is that whoever first came up with the name was referring to the New World's one-time reputation as the New Jerusalem. Another theory as that the "Jerusalem" in the name is a bastardization of "girasole", which is a flower that bends towards the sun, like its sunflower cousins.

In any case, they're quite good for you. They're reminiscent of potatoes, but have almost no starch and plenty of fiber. They're also bountiful at a time of year when there isn't much other local produce available.

Up until the past few weeks, I never had much luck cooking sunchokes. For some reason I thought that you absolutely had to peel them, and they're knobby and small, and it seemed like a lot of work for not very much food. I also didn't seem to digest them well.

I brought some home a few weeks ago because a farmer had a big box of them left over at the end of a market and offered them to me for free. I said I didn't have the patience to peel them, and she said she never bothered. It was a revelation.

So here's how I've been preparing them. It's so simple that it seems silly to use a recipe format. Slice them thinly. Aim for the thinness of potato chips, although--if you're anything like me-- most of them won't end up quite that thin. Toss the slices with olive oil. Use your hands, so you can actually coat them without using an insane amount of oil. Sprinkle them with salt and pepper, and roast them at 400 degrees Fahrenheit for about 20 minutes.

It's that simple. The thicker ones will be tender and satisfying. The thinner ones will be almost crispy, like artichokey potato chips. It makes me think of the amazing possibilities for someone with a big budget and plenty of marketing savvy: Sun choke chips!!