But it's something that made me laugh, and it's too long for twitter.
Yesterday at the book store, a father came in with his two small boys (I can't gauge children's ages. They were stroller-sized.) After they spent some time looking for books, I heard the father to say to the older boy, Ok, now bring that one up to the nice lady so we can pay for it. And like some tiny, quiet Jerry Lewis, this little boy walked around the store, up to the front desk, book in hand, saying, Nice LAdy? Nice LAdy. . . Nice LAdy. . .
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Spoon Fed
by Kim Severson
I really enjoyed this book. One of the reasons I'm so drawn to food writing is that I love reading what people have to say about their passions. Severson's passion and reverence for food and the communities and families food creates is obvious, and really comes through in her writing.
My one complaint about this book is that it's only half the story. Severson continuously refers to her mess of a life in Alaska and her drug and alcohol addiction. She mentions several times about how her addictions would have killed her. But we never get that part of the story. Granted, this book is about food and food writing and Severson making her life and finding out what he likes. However, I feel like if she's going to keep bringing up how potentially devastating her way of life was, and how crucial it was for you to make the change to move to California, then she needed to give the reader a little more about that previous life. Maybe this is just me being a greedy reader, but I needed a little more.
It is in the last four chapters that I think this book really shines, where her strongest lessons are learned. I especially love the way Severson intertwines food and faith. Cooking, and particularly baking, in themselves require an act of faith. "And we believe because someone told us the recipes would work. And so, on faith, we tried them. And once we tried them, and we saw that they worked, we became believers even though we had no idea how they worked. We spread the word to others who then tried them on faith, too. They became believers. Entire culinary cultures have been built on this kind of faith and trust." This beautifully sums up the magic and mystery of food and why food and cooking are so important to people. It's easy to forget how many people are involved in a recipe, that recipes are invented, tried, and tested. They are in and of themselves a record of communication and collaboration, and increasingly so in a well-worn, sauce-stained cookbook.
While Severson's book is a memoir, it is just as much a record of those she encounters on her journey from childhood kitchen table to her desk at the New York Times. Severson's book is inviting and admirably honest (not "frighteningly true" as Julie Powell's blurb says. And while I'm on the subject, the book needs no endorsement from Powell. Also, WHY would you refer to the memoir of a former alcoholic as "gimlet-eyed?"). She holds her food icons in high regard, but does not paint them through rose-colored glasses. While her respect and love for them certainly comes through, she is not afraid to take them off their pedestals, which is one of her best lessons.
I really enjoyed this book. One of the reasons I'm so drawn to food writing is that I love reading what people have to say about their passions. Severson's passion and reverence for food and the communities and families food creates is obvious, and really comes through in her writing.
My one complaint about this book is that it's only half the story. Severson continuously refers to her mess of a life in Alaska and her drug and alcohol addiction. She mentions several times about how her addictions would have killed her. But we never get that part of the story. Granted, this book is about food and food writing and Severson making her life and finding out what he likes. However, I feel like if she's going to keep bringing up how potentially devastating her way of life was, and how crucial it was for you to make the change to move to California, then she needed to give the reader a little more about that previous life. Maybe this is just me being a greedy reader, but I needed a little more.
It is in the last four chapters that I think this book really shines, where her strongest lessons are learned. I especially love the way Severson intertwines food and faith. Cooking, and particularly baking, in themselves require an act of faith. "And we believe because someone told us the recipes would work. And so, on faith, we tried them. And once we tried them, and we saw that they worked, we became believers even though we had no idea how they worked. We spread the word to others who then tried them on faith, too. They became believers. Entire culinary cultures have been built on this kind of faith and trust." This beautifully sums up the magic and mystery of food and why food and cooking are so important to people. It's easy to forget how many people are involved in a recipe, that recipes are invented, tried, and tested. They are in and of themselves a record of communication and collaboration, and increasingly so in a well-worn, sauce-stained cookbook.
While Severson's book is a memoir, it is just as much a record of those she encounters on her journey from childhood kitchen table to her desk at the New York Times. Severson's book is inviting and admirably honest (not "frighteningly true" as Julie Powell's blurb says. And while I'm on the subject, the book needs no endorsement from Powell. Also, WHY would you refer to the memoir of a former alcoholic as "gimlet-eyed?"). She holds her food icons in high regard, but does not paint them through rose-colored glasses. While her respect and love for them certainly comes through, she is not afraid to take them off their pedestals, which is one of her best lessons.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Jesus' Son
By Denis Johnson
I don't often read collections of short stories, but this was chosen for a book club I wanted to attend, so I went for it.
Johnson's stories are a hazy account of a life on drugs and an attempt to get sober. I have mixed feelings about this book. If I want to read stories of addiction, I'll look for a memoir. However, as I've been told, Johnson's stories are grounded in the facts of his own struggles with addiction.
I have mixed feelings about these stories. The main character is cold and often unlikable. The narration jumps around chronologically and is somewhat vague. But what caught me about Johnson's writing are the poetic moments. Johnson describes the ordinary, like clouds, in extraordinary ways. And the best instances in each story are the narrator's epiphanies of self-reflection. "Work" is one of the better stories, with one of the best reflective statements: "Because, after all, in small ways, it was turning out to be one of the best days of my life, whether it was somebody else's dream or not." It's sentences like these that really stick with me. In "Emergency" (another one of the better stories), the narrator concludes that "nothing I could think up, no matter how dramatic or completely horrible, ever made her repent or love me the way she had at first, before she really knew me." These glimpses of self-awareness and honesty are what give the reader hope; that maybe the narrator could sincerely get clean and improve his life.
What's difficult about this book is that the narrator seems so disconnected from himself. The way he acts and reacts is drastically different from those instances when he steps outside himself to look back on them. On the whole, this is not one of my favorite books, and probably not one I will pick up again. But if you do feel so inclined to read it (and I don't want to discourage any one from doing so, because the book does stretch the limits of reader's expectations of what a story or narration should look like), it is the poetic, insightful moments that will compel you.
I don't often read collections of short stories, but this was chosen for a book club I wanted to attend, so I went for it.
Johnson's stories are a hazy account of a life on drugs and an attempt to get sober. I have mixed feelings about this book. If I want to read stories of addiction, I'll look for a memoir. However, as I've been told, Johnson's stories are grounded in the facts of his own struggles with addiction.
I have mixed feelings about these stories. The main character is cold and often unlikable. The narration jumps around chronologically and is somewhat vague. But what caught me about Johnson's writing are the poetic moments. Johnson describes the ordinary, like clouds, in extraordinary ways. And the best instances in each story are the narrator's epiphanies of self-reflection. "Work" is one of the better stories, with one of the best reflective statements: "Because, after all, in small ways, it was turning out to be one of the best days of my life, whether it was somebody else's dream or not." It's sentences like these that really stick with me. In "Emergency" (another one of the better stories), the narrator concludes that "nothing I could think up, no matter how dramatic or completely horrible, ever made her repent or love me the way she had at first, before she really knew me." These glimpses of self-awareness and honesty are what give the reader hope; that maybe the narrator could sincerely get clean and improve his life.
What's difficult about this book is that the narrator seems so disconnected from himself. The way he acts and reacts is drastically different from those instances when he steps outside himself to look back on them. On the whole, this is not one of my favorite books, and probably not one I will pick up again. But if you do feel so inclined to read it (and I don't want to discourage any one from doing so, because the book does stretch the limits of reader's expectations of what a story or narration should look like), it is the poetic, insightful moments that will compel you.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
New Staff Pick
I've already written about John Connolly's The Book of Lost Things, but now I've made my love for this book official by writing a staff pick for it.
Monday, June 24, 2013
The Lost Art of Mixing
by Erica Bauermeister
I read and enjoyed Bauermeister's The School of Essential Ingredients about a year ago, so I thought I'd read her next book. The Lost Art of Mixing is nice, but there is nothing that stands out about it. I wanted this book to be better.
I love food writing, and food writing isn't easy. There are only so many ways you can say "delicious." Bauermeister has to rely heavily on metaphor, some of which are lovely, while others are too forced and fall flat. Her writing reminds me of Joanne Harris (Chocolat, The Girl With No Shadow, Five Quarters of the Orange), but without the elements of mystery and magic. Also, Bauermeister's books aren't as good as Harris's.
That being said, the further you get into this book, the clearer it becomes that this book really isn't about food. The School of Essential Ingredients was, and there is occasional references to food in this book, but it feels like Bauermeister tried to force food into a story where it doesn't belong.
Bauermeister's characters are stereotypical: the troubled nearly twenty-year-old with boy problems; the successful restauranteur finding herself unexpectedly and inconveniently pregnant; the wife who assumes her husband is having an affair because she only has half of the facts; the woman slowly slipping into senility and her family and friends who have to cope. Everything in this book is connected; everything is a metaphor or a coincidence, each character trait or professional choice is indicative of things to come, and there is always some kind of lesson. It's heavy-handed.
The Lost Art of Mixing is a nice read. A nice summer read. It's a book that feels as familiar as a well-used cookbook: you follow the tried-and-true formula, and you know what you'll get. But the end result is pleasantly, reliably recognizable (and a little bland) (and cloying).
I read and enjoyed Bauermeister's The School of Essential Ingredients about a year ago, so I thought I'd read her next book. The Lost Art of Mixing is nice, but there is nothing that stands out about it. I wanted this book to be better.
I love food writing, and food writing isn't easy. There are only so many ways you can say "delicious." Bauermeister has to rely heavily on metaphor, some of which are lovely, while others are too forced and fall flat. Her writing reminds me of Joanne Harris (Chocolat, The Girl With No Shadow, Five Quarters of the Orange), but without the elements of mystery and magic. Also, Bauermeister's books aren't as good as Harris's.
That being said, the further you get into this book, the clearer it becomes that this book really isn't about food. The School of Essential Ingredients was, and there is occasional references to food in this book, but it feels like Bauermeister tried to force food into a story where it doesn't belong.
Bauermeister's characters are stereotypical: the troubled nearly twenty-year-old with boy problems; the successful restauranteur finding herself unexpectedly and inconveniently pregnant; the wife who assumes her husband is having an affair because she only has half of the facts; the woman slowly slipping into senility and her family and friends who have to cope. Everything in this book is connected; everything is a metaphor or a coincidence, each character trait or professional choice is indicative of things to come, and there is always some kind of lesson. It's heavy-handed.
The Lost Art of Mixing is a nice read. A nice summer read. It's a book that feels as familiar as a well-used cookbook: you follow the tried-and-true formula, and you know what you'll get. But the end result is pleasantly, reliably recognizable (and a little bland) (and cloying).
Thursday, June 13, 2013
We Learn Nothing
by Tim Kreider
I learned of this book from two podcasts, "Radiolab" and "Love, Sex, Death, and Books." After hearing Kreider talk about his essays, I put We Learn Nothing on the top of my list of books to read.
Kreider's essays are about love, friendship, loss, and a fear of being rejected. He expresses frustration and anxiety about not knowing; you can only know your friendships and relationships from your point of view. Kreider struggles with inexplicable, and explicable, losses of friendship. While Kreider claims, "I've demonstrated an impressive resilience in the face of valuable life lessons, and the main thing I seem to have learned from this one [being stabbed] is that I am capable of learning nothing from almost any experience, no matter how profound," ultimately, I think this is untrue. Kreider has learned something. It may seem like nothing, but, if nothing else, in each of his anecdotes, Kreider continues to learn about himself, and presents his evidence to the reader.
I don't want to describe this book with phrases like "universal truths" or "gems," but Kreider's book is full of them. Behind Kreider's humor and sarcasm are surprisingly poignant truisms. While Kreider's essays are his personal observations and anecdotes, they are relatable. He conveys feelings through his writing, not just circumstances. Reading "How They Tried to Fuck Me Over (But I Showed Them!)" was like looking into a mirror, at times. I may be an anger addict. Kreider writes, "If you're anything like me, you spend about 87 percent of your mental life winning imaginary arguments that are never actually going to take place." I'm still confronting high school bullies in my head, and it's surprisingly satisfying! Until I realize that I'm only confronting memories of people who aren't in the room.
Each of Kreider's essays contain halting moments. Moments where I needed to read the sentence again, and paused, with a reaction of "huh." In the opening "Reprieve," Kreider concludes saying, "I don't know why we take our worst moods so much more seriously than our best, crediting depression with more clarity than euphoria." Huh.
Not all of Kreider's essays are "gems.""Escape from Pony Island," for instance, tends to drag. But "The Czar's Daughter" and "Sister World" are beautifully thoughtful and touching, and aren't without their moments of cynicism and self-deprecation, which you being to expect and love of Kreider's writing. Kreider isn't afraid of portraying himself on the page as unlikable. And for that, he becomes increasingly likable.
We Learn Nothing is well worth reading. Kreider's writing balances humor (the essays are even punctuated by Kreider's cartoons), melancholia, and sarcasm with his truisms, without being preachy. In the end, Kreider isn't out to teach us anything. And why would he be if he hasn't been able to learn anything from his own life? But there is a lot to take away from Kreider's book. If nothing else, this book will make you stop and think, "huh."
I learned of this book from two podcasts, "Radiolab" and "Love, Sex, Death, and Books." After hearing Kreider talk about his essays, I put We Learn Nothing on the top of my list of books to read.
Kreider's essays are about love, friendship, loss, and a fear of being rejected. He expresses frustration and anxiety about not knowing; you can only know your friendships and relationships from your point of view. Kreider struggles with inexplicable, and explicable, losses of friendship. While Kreider claims, "I've demonstrated an impressive resilience in the face of valuable life lessons, and the main thing I seem to have learned from this one [being stabbed] is that I am capable of learning nothing from almost any experience, no matter how profound," ultimately, I think this is untrue. Kreider has learned something. It may seem like nothing, but, if nothing else, in each of his anecdotes, Kreider continues to learn about himself, and presents his evidence to the reader.
I don't want to describe this book with phrases like "universal truths" or "gems," but Kreider's book is full of them. Behind Kreider's humor and sarcasm are surprisingly poignant truisms. While Kreider's essays are his personal observations and anecdotes, they are relatable. He conveys feelings through his writing, not just circumstances. Reading "How They Tried to Fuck Me Over (But I Showed Them!)" was like looking into a mirror, at times. I may be an anger addict. Kreider writes, "If you're anything like me, you spend about 87 percent of your mental life winning imaginary arguments that are never actually going to take place." I'm still confronting high school bullies in my head, and it's surprisingly satisfying! Until I realize that I'm only confronting memories of people who aren't in the room.
Each of Kreider's essays contain halting moments. Moments where I needed to read the sentence again, and paused, with a reaction of "huh." In the opening "Reprieve," Kreider concludes saying, "I don't know why we take our worst moods so much more seriously than our best, crediting depression with more clarity than euphoria." Huh.
Not all of Kreider's essays are "gems.""Escape from Pony Island," for instance, tends to drag. But "The Czar's Daughter" and "Sister World" are beautifully thoughtful and touching, and aren't without their moments of cynicism and self-deprecation, which you being to expect and love of Kreider's writing. Kreider isn't afraid of portraying himself on the page as unlikable. And for that, he becomes increasingly likable.
We Learn Nothing is well worth reading. Kreider's writing balances humor (the essays are even punctuated by Kreider's cartoons), melancholia, and sarcasm with his truisms, without being preachy. In the end, Kreider isn't out to teach us anything. And why would he be if he hasn't been able to learn anything from his own life? But there is a lot to take away from Kreider's book. If nothing else, this book will make you stop and think, "huh."
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Let's Pretend This Never Happened
(A Mostly True Memoir)
by Jenny Lawon
This is my first staff pick at the bookstore!
I love love love this book. It's quirky, funny, heartbreaking, honest, and shameless. I am a big fan of Jenny Lawson and her blog. I think everyone should read this book (as long as you aren't offended by lots of profanity, inappropriate humor (of the highest caliber), and lots of awkward moments). It's not everyone's cup of tea, but it is so worth the read.
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