Yes, Chef by Marcus Samuelsson

	This memoir by chef Marcus Samuelsson, who was born to a poor, TB-stricken woman in Ethiopia and who grew up with adoptive white parents in Sweden, is not a typical food memoir. Samuelsson speaks of his love, even obsession with food, but he also opens his life to readers -- good, bad, failures, successes. In part because of his honesty, I found myself at times disliking him as a person. But ultimately, his honesty and willingness to change won me over. While people interested in food and celebri...more This memoir by chef Marcus Samuelsson, who was born to a poor, tuberculosis-stricken woman in Ethiopia and who grew up with adoptive white parents in Sweden, is anything but a typical food memoir. Samuelsson speaks of his love, even obsession with food, but he also opens his life to readers -- good, bad, failures, successes  -- and tells us how his love of food became an obsession. In part because of his honesty, I found myself at times disliking him as a person. But ultimately, his honesty and willingness to change won me over. While people interested in food and celebrity chefs are probably among those most likely to read this book, they should know that its appeal goes far beyond food -- whether Swedish, African or American. All of those food cultures play a part in this book and in Samuelsson's life. But what's more important are his relationships -- a black child being adopted and growing up in a white Sweden after his Ethiopian mother died on her journey to take her son, his sister and herself to a faraway clinic for treatment of TB. This book is about a man who for years put self and ambition over far more important responsibilities -- his daughter and other family. It is also a book about a man who gradually realizes that he must make amends, even as he rises to the top of the fine-dining world in New York. The book bogs down about midway but then picks up again. It is a good read -- and not just for so-called "foodies," who do get plenty of tasty details on some of the dishes Samuelsson creates.  Samuelsson also doesn't shy away from controversy. He writes of the culinary world's lack of black chefs, the discrimination he felt in various restaurants (not just in this country). The only culinary figure who's a household name and who I suspect is not happy about this book is Gordon Ramsay, whom Samuelsson depicts as, well, someone we would not like to know. Samuelsson's candor ultimately renewed my respect for him and also helped me understand the ingredients that made him such a successful chef. The next time I see him on the Food Network or other channel, I'll pay more attention to him. That's for sure.
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Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 was first published in 1951 as McCarthyism was taking hold in Washington, America was moving into a period of uniformity, and television sets with "I Love Lucy" and "Father Knows Best" soon would be in living rooms nationwide. J.D. Salinger's not-so-happy The Catcher in the Rye featuring a young man who's anything but uniform was published that same year and, to this day, remains the target of censors.

In 1951, two world wars were behind us; a cold war hovered over us. Between cartoons, TV stations soon began interrupting programs  for civil-defense preparedness sirens -- aka, nuclear- war preparedness. Blacks did not sit at the front of buses and did not dare to use the same bathrooms as whites in the South. Despite the cheerful family-oriented comedies so many nostalgic Baby Boomers fondly remember from the '50s, those years were not always happy ones and often were frightening and full of unfettered hate, naive apathy and  intentional ignorance. Sometimes, often, we close our eyes to the truth; it's easier not to know some things.

That's what happens in Bradbury's classic book. Technology has grown to the point that people's homes are fireproof and television families are brought to them in the walls of their homes. It's easier not to read. For one thing, it's less work. For another, books can be a tad too awakening to reality -- the bad things we'd prefer not to know about and not have to confront. So, in Bradbury's dystopian future, people have chosen to quit reading, followed by the government's decree that no one is to own books. No one. Of course, some exceptions exist: tintillating sexual magazines are OK as are some trade publications. Nothing political, philosophical, literary or realistic, though. No Shakespeare, no Socrates, no Bible. Because firefighters no longer are needed to extinguish house fires, they now start them -- at the homes of people, subversives, who are found to possess books.

Most people are fine with this decree; after all, they weren't reading anyway.  Even Guy Montag, a fireman, is fine with the idea until he meets a young woman who tells him about a time when people read books openly and without fear. Montag later meets a former teacher and begins to hide books, even the Bible. And when he cannot any longer hide them, he learns the way to save literature for what he and others hope is a different future. That way involves one thing the government cannot totally control -- people's minds and specifically their memories.

As a journalist, I've often heard the plea from readers for "good news." And I've nothing against that. I enjoy a light-hearted feature as much as almost anyone. But if we don't also report -- and read -- the "bad news," we will be closing our eyes to a big part of our world and, worse yet, letting wrongdoing fester.

Bradbury's novel is as relevant today as it was in 1951, maybe more so as we see bookstores closing and libraries changing their focus from books to multimedia events, parties and such. Socrates is still relevant today. So are the Bible and The Catcher in the Rye. We cannot, or rather should not, fight to save only those books that teach what we believe, but even those whose subject matter we detest. For what is it worth to stand up for what we believe, if there is only one thing we can believe?