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I caught up with Connie Brockway at Portia’s Bar in Fawn Creek, Minnesota where a group in the parking lot were burning her in effigy—not that she didn’t deserve it. Have you read HOT DISH? ‘Nuff said. Anyway, she was barricaded inside, drowning her sorrows (“I don’t understand why they’re all mad at me!”) in a vat of Leinies.

I got Kleypas to transcribe the tape because I’ll be damned if I can make out Brockway’s mumbling and figured Kleypas was used to it.

KITTY: Okay. Just tell straight up. Why’d ya do it?

CONNIE: I dunno. Peer pressure, I guess.

KITTY: Yeah, I guess I can understand that. You see other people doing it and you think, “(Expletive,) why not me? I can do this.”

CONNIE: Exactly. But, you know, you’re young, you experiment a little…

sound of snorting KITTY: Young? Yeah, I guess. For dirt, maybe.

CONNIE: Now, I kinda wish I hadn’t.

KITTY: I just bet you do. Don’t beat yourself up too bad.  I mean, hell, you gotta have said to yourself, “Dodd, Medeiros, Kleypas, they’re all trying it. Why not me?”

CONNIE: Kley--? Huh?

KITTY: (Expletive),) before you know it, James’ll be doing it, too. And I know Bevarly is licking her chops to do a medieval.

CONNIE: Wait. You’re not talking about… What are you talking about?

Long pause. KITTY: What are you talking about?

CONNIE: You first.

KITTY: Your new direction. The contemporary? HOT DISH? You were saying you wished you’d been a klinder, gentler Connie.

CONNIE: My book?! Hell, no. I love that book. I’m very proud of that book. What a crappy thing to say!

KITTY: Ooo. Color her “indignant.” Almost as indignant as your Fawn Creekians, eh, Brockway?

CONNIE: What?

KITTY: Regrets, I’ve had a few...

CONNIE: I said I love that book Get the limes out of your ears, Kitty.

KITTY: Is that where I put those? You’re ballsy, Brockway, I’ll give you that. Have you seen the people out there? You are not well loved in this little burg.

CONNIE: What? What the hell are you talking about, Kitty? Just where do you think we are?

KITTY: Portia’s Bar, looking out at a parking lot full of men –at least, I think their men. Hard to say in the snowmobile suits- waving pitchforks and shouting for your head. Where do you think we are?

CONNIE: I know where we are. We’re in my porch overlooking the backyard while David –not in a snowmobile suit, by the way—is blowing leaves off the lawn.

Pause. KITTY: You’re kidding.

CONNIE: Nope.

KITTY: Really? Wow. He looks like a bunch of guys—

CONNIE: You’ve finally done it. You’ve completely pickled your brain. You are totally delusional.

Longer pause. KITTY: Yeah? So. That doesn’t mean I’m still not the best damn interviewer you have. So, let’s get down to it, Brockway.

Sound of a heavy sigh. CONNIE: Crap. Will you promise to leave if I answer a couple of your stupid questions?

KITTY: Promise.

Oops. Wow. Look at this thing! It’s hugely long. And Brockway’s answers weren’t all that inspired anyway. So, I think I’ll just cut it short there. Maybe I’ll post a few of her less stupid answers later today. If I’m awake...

You can visit Brockway’s website at www.conniebrockway.com to read an excerpt.

While we’re at it: Have any of you read HOT DISH?