If Laurie Colwin were living and writing in today's food-obsessed culture, her food essay collections would likely be bestsellers. The woman with the cheerful face and the frizzy hair could write. Oh, how she could write!
In her first collection, Home Cooking: A Writer in the Kitchen, Colwin made eggplant not only interesting but sound like the tastiest thing aside from chocolate candy.
In these two collections of food essays, Colwin, who died in 1992, offers more than good recipes. She offers a few good recipes, cooking wisdom and large dashes of humor. In the essay "Feeding the Fussy," Colwin waxes wise on entertain fussy eaters, from those with food allergies to finicky eaters and others. "Vegetarians, for example, are enough to drive anyone crazy. Like Protestants, they come in a number of denominations," she writes, as she proceeds to distinguish between lactovegetarians and vegans. "And some people say they are vegetarians when they mean they do not eat red meat, leading you to realize that for some people chicken is a vegetable."
In her second collection, More Home Cooking: A Writer Returns to the Kitchen, Colwin's subjects range from the glories of tomatoes to the virtues and sins of butter to her obsession with raspberries.
"A world without tomatoes is like a string quartet without violins," she writes.
Colwin also writes that "God created raspberries in large part so that we would preserve them in glowing jars to stack smugly in the cupboard ... But raspberry picking is not invariably about jam making, any m ore than sex is invariably about procreation."
Colwin is the writer who first pointed me to the wonderful literary food writing of Elizabeth David. In the essay, "Why I Love Cookbooks" Colwin concludes, "And for those of you who are suffering from sadness or hangover, or are feeling blue or tired of life, if you're not going to read Persuasion, you may as well read Italian Food by Elizabeth David."
Colwin, by the way, also is the author of a few novels, among them Shine On, Bright and Dangerous Object and Goodbye Without Leaving.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
South Wind Through the Kitchen: The Best of Elizabeth David Edited by Jill Norman
This hefty book of "best" food-writing selections from Elizabeth David's cookbooks reflects a woman who could not only offer a good recipe but could write ever so appetizingly about it. Unlike most cookbook authors, David, who died in 1992, blended her recipes into her essays. She writes about the simplest and the most popular of Provencal dishes, aioli. She gives the concisest of recipes for such dishes as Piselli Al Prosciutto -- aka green peas and ham. She slso ventures into the likes of Rabbit Cooked in Marsala, Ratatouille Nicoise, Cinnamon Ice Cream and Cornish Saffron Cake. She was ahead of her time in many ways but also of a generation didn't shy from using lard as an ingredient.
The selections are chosen by the likes of Anne Willan, a celebrated cookbook author and teacher herself whom I've been honored to meet and interview; and cookbook author and TV personality Barbara Kafka. Of David, Kafka writes, "When I finally met her, I received another gift, the surprise of her physical beauty. She remained Mrs. David to me, not a friend but a respected and graceful mentor, as she was to much of my generation."
The book is far more than cookbook selections. It's a glimpse at some of David's best writing and food memoirs.
The selections are chosen by the likes of Anne Willan, a celebrated cookbook author and teacher herself whom I've been honored to meet and interview; and cookbook author and TV personality Barbara Kafka. Of David, Kafka writes, "When I finally met her, I received another gift, the surprise of her physical beauty. She remained Mrs. David to me, not a friend but a respected and graceful mentor, as she was to much of my generation."
The book is far more than cookbook selections. It's a glimpse at some of David's best writing and food memoirs.
Alone in the Kitchen With an Eggplant Edited by Jenni Ferrari-Adler
A John Grisham novel would not have kept me as spellbound as did this wonderful collection of essays about cooking and dining alone. Contributors include the Italian matriarch of good cooking, Marcella Hazan, who writes, "I have thought about the apparent contradiction that someone who has dedicated most of her working life to cooking should be so reluctant, when she eats alone, to cook for herself. The explanation is that I consider cooking an act of love. ... What I love is to cook for someone."
There's an essay by the much younger Amanda Hesser, best known for her food features in the New York Times and her books such as Cooking for Mr. Latte. Hesser shares a recipe for Truffled Egg Toast. It serves one and is easy to prepare as long as white truffle oil and creme fraiche are handy.
The book opens with an essay by the late food writer and novelist Laurie Colwin who advises, "People lie when you ask them what they eat when they are alone. A salad, they tell you. But when you persist, they confess to peanut butter and bacon
sandwiches deep fried and eaten with hot sauce, or spaghetti with butter and grape jam." The book appropriately ends with an essay by Colwin's daughter, Rosa Jurjevics.
In between are essays by the likes of Nora Ephron, M.F.K. Fisher, Paula Wolfert, Ann Patchett and others. Read this book when you're alone and hungry.
There's an essay by the much younger Amanda Hesser, best known for her food features in the New York Times and her books such as Cooking for Mr. Latte. Hesser shares a recipe for Truffled Egg Toast. It serves one and is easy to prepare as long as white truffle oil and creme fraiche are handy.
The book opens with an essay by the late food writer and novelist Laurie Colwin who advises, "People lie when you ask them what they eat when they are alone. A salad, they tell you. But when you persist, they confess to peanut butter and bacon
sandwiches deep fried and eaten with hot sauce, or spaghetti with butter and grape jam." The book appropriately ends with an essay by Colwin's daughter, Rosa Jurjevics.
In between are essays by the likes of Nora Ephron, M.F.K. Fisher, Paula Wolfert, Ann Patchett and others. Read this book when you're alone and hungry.
Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout
Olive Kitteridge is not only a glimpse into the writing of a Pulitzer Prize winner. It's also a glimpse into the life of a real woman -- a retired teacher, a wounded mother, a good friend, an opinionated Democrat, a caring but tired and often inattentive wife. Olive's imperfections are what make her depiction absolutely perfect.
Author Elizabeth Strout invites the reader into Olive's life in a series of short stories. In some, Olive is no more than a minor supporting player. In others, she is the leading woman -- the widow falling in love again, to her own dismay, with a wealthy Republican. Even her name is perfect. Olives come in pale green, dark green, purple, even black. Some olives are small, even skinny; others are big, downright plump. But they all have one thing in common: They're an ingredient that rarely goes unnoticed.
In one story, Olive tells two drug-crazed robbers holding her, her complaining husband Henry and a praying nurse hostage that her husband can't help his constant criticism. He's just like his mother, Olive says. Who hasn't heard our own parents or ourselves say that? And like Olive, who hasn't lived to regret saying something in anger, under stress -- the kind of statement that, while perhaps true, is best left unsaid? Olive is flawed but good, and that's what makes her perfectly real. So are the wonderful stories woven together by Strout.
Author Elizabeth Strout invites the reader into Olive's life in a series of short stories. In some, Olive is no more than a minor supporting player. In others, she is the leading woman -- the widow falling in love again, to her own dismay, with a wealthy Republican. Even her name is perfect. Olives come in pale green, dark green, purple, even black. Some olives are small, even skinny; others are big, downright plump. But they all have one thing in common: They're an ingredient that rarely goes unnoticed.
In one story, Olive tells two drug-crazed robbers holding her, her complaining husband Henry and a praying nurse hostage that her husband can't help his constant criticism. He's just like his mother, Olive says. Who hasn't heard our own parents or ourselves say that? And like Olive, who hasn't lived to regret saying something in anger, under stress -- the kind of statement that, while perhaps true, is best left unsaid? Olive is flawed but good, and that's what makes her perfectly real. So are the wonderful stories woven together by Strout.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Satisfied With Havoc by Jo McDougall
Former Arkansan Jo McDougall's Satisfied With Havoc, is a collection of simple yet elegant poems. All are about life; some are about death. "To My Daughter, Who Refuses To Meet Me Halfway" was inspired by her daughter, who died of cancer. In "On That Beautiful Shore," McDougall recalls her mother and wonders how the dead fare in "the sweet bye and bye." And there's the four-line poem titled "Watching A Grandson Play Little League Ball The Day Ted Williams Died."
McDougall does not waste words or images. She writes, says what others only think. In "Oaks," for example, she remembers the wake after her daughter's death and writes, "When friends came,/ bringing food and sympathy,/ I asked them to speak of my daughter/ in the present tense.' When I visited her grave,/ the oak trees,/ casting their ferny shadows,/ set me straight."
Enough said....
McDougall does not waste words or images. She writes, says what others only think. In "Oaks," for example, she remembers the wake after her daughter's death and writes, "When friends came,/ bringing food and sympathy,/ I asked them to speak of my daughter/ in the present tense.' When I visited her grave,/ the oak trees,/ casting their ferny shadows,/ set me straight."
Enough said....
Monday, February 1, 2010
Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay
I was working on a feature about gardens -- the kind that only time, wealth and attention can create -- when I saw a book lying on a woman’s bed. Sarah’s Key was the title. The cover depicted two children, a mansion and the Eiffel Tower in the background.
Something about the title intrigued me and, after finishing that interview, I went to a nearby bookstore to see what this novel was about. The topic was an all-too-familiar one: the Holocaust. But this book would focus on an all-too-unfamiliar topic: France’s role in the Holocaust.
The novel, by Tatiana de Rosnay, opens on July 16, 1942, in occupied France with a young girl and her parents being hauled away by the French police with Auschwitz intended to be their final destination. The child locks her 4-year-old brother in their favorite hiding place, a cupboard, takes the key with her and tells him she will get him out when she gets back home....
I tend to read slowly. I rarely scan. I read some passages more than once. But this book was so well-written that I found myself reading into the night when I should have been asleep. I loved the simple but hard-hitting style of the narrator telling the child’s story.
The book has a secondary plot and a second narrator -- a contemporary journalist who is researching the French police’s much-forgotten Velodrome d’Hiver roundup, which took place in Paris in 1942.
De Rosnay says the novel’s characters are fictitious, though several events are real -- the Velodrome d’Hiver raids, for instance. If you’ve not heard of this event, read this book, and you shall not soon forget it as much as you may wish you could.
Indeed, after I finished the book, I first thought, now it’s time for something light, something happy. But then I remembered some of de Rosnay’s elderly French characters who would say they did not want to remember, to talk about the events. And I thought, no, we -- I -- must think about these things, these parts of our history.
So, I looked at my living-room bookshelf and I noticed a slender book I’d bought but not yet read. Titled I Never Saw Another Butterfly, it consists of children’s drawings and poems from the Terezin Concentration Camp from 1942-44. It’s time for me to quit procrastinating and read that book.
Something about the title intrigued me and, after finishing that interview, I went to a nearby bookstore to see what this novel was about. The topic was an all-too-familiar one: the Holocaust. But this book would focus on an all-too-unfamiliar topic: France’s role in the Holocaust.
The novel, by Tatiana de Rosnay, opens on July 16, 1942, in occupied France with a young girl and her parents being hauled away by the French police with Auschwitz intended to be their final destination. The child locks her 4-year-old brother in their favorite hiding place, a cupboard, takes the key with her and tells him she will get him out when she gets back home....
I tend to read slowly. I rarely scan. I read some passages more than once. But this book was so well-written that I found myself reading into the night when I should have been asleep. I loved the simple but hard-hitting style of the narrator telling the child’s story.
The book has a secondary plot and a second narrator -- a contemporary journalist who is researching the French police’s much-forgotten Velodrome d’Hiver roundup, which took place in Paris in 1942.
De Rosnay says the novel’s characters are fictitious, though several events are real -- the Velodrome d’Hiver raids, for instance. If you’ve not heard of this event, read this book, and you shall not soon forget it as much as you may wish you could.
Indeed, after I finished the book, I first thought, now it’s time for something light, something happy. But then I remembered some of de Rosnay’s elderly French characters who would say they did not want to remember, to talk about the events. And I thought, no, we -- I -- must think about these things, these parts of our history.
So, I looked at my living-room bookshelf and I noticed a slender book I’d bought but not yet read. Titled I Never Saw Another Butterfly, it consists of children’s drawings and poems from the Terezin Concentration Camp from 1942-44. It’s time for me to quit procrastinating and read that book.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog
Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog is both a thought-provoking and moving book, one with a bittersweet ending. I confess that I found the first half or so of the novel, translated from the French, a bit tedious. But it's one of those books I've learned to stick with, for the reward lies just ahead. I also had some trouble at times following who the narrator was and more importantly keeping up with who's who among the supporting characters.
The book deals with two self-taught, closet intellectuals, one a middle-aged concierge and the other a 12-year-old girl who lives in the hotel where the concierge works and also lives. The concierge works hard to maintain the stereotype that concierges are boring non-intellectuals. The child, from the start of the book, reveals her intention to commit suicide on June 16. (James Joyce fans, is it a coincidence that's Bloomsbury Day?)
One passage in the book brought back memories, both fond and sad, of my own. Near the end of the novel, Renee, the concierge, is preparing to get dressed for the wonderful Japanese man whose own life has a profound impact on both her life and the child's. "I smeared my lips with 1 layer of 'Deep Carmine' lipstick that I had bought 20 years ago for a cousin's wedding," Renee says. "The longevity of such a useless item when valiant lives are lost every day, will never cease to confound me."
That passage reminded me of a small, inexpensive perfume stick my paternal grandmother, Mammaw, had. At some point, she either gave it to me, or I found it among her possessions after she died. I held on to it and its fading scent for years and years. I may even still have it somewhere. I don't recall discarding it. I know I couldn't seem to throw it away. It was a memory, a smell, of a loved one long gone, and I didn't want to give up that memory.
Read the book; it's not a cookie-cutter creation. It's just that, a creation and a thoughtful one.
The book deals with two self-taught, closet intellectuals, one a middle-aged concierge and the other a 12-year-old girl who lives in the hotel where the concierge works and also lives. The concierge works hard to maintain the stereotype that concierges are boring non-intellectuals. The child, from the start of the book, reveals her intention to commit suicide on June 16. (James Joyce fans, is it a coincidence that's Bloomsbury Day?)
One passage in the book brought back memories, both fond and sad, of my own. Near the end of the novel, Renee, the concierge, is preparing to get dressed for the wonderful Japanese man whose own life has a profound impact on both her life and the child's. "I smeared my lips with 1 layer of 'Deep Carmine' lipstick that I had bought 20 years ago for a cousin's wedding," Renee says. "The longevity of such a useless item when valiant lives are lost every day, will never cease to confound me."
That passage reminded me of a small, inexpensive perfume stick my paternal grandmother, Mammaw, had. At some point, she either gave it to me, or I found it among her possessions after she died. I held on to it and its fading scent for years and years. I may even still have it somewhere. I don't recall discarding it. I know I couldn't seem to throw it away. It was a memory, a smell, of a loved one long gone, and I didn't want to give up that memory.
Read the book; it's not a cookie-cutter creation. It's just that, a creation and a thoughtful one.
Loving Frank by Nancy Horan
Loving Frank is a simple yet complex and sometimes disturbing work of historical fiction by Nancy Horan. Horan brings more fact than fiction to her work about Frank Lloyd Wright, the Oak Park, Illinois, architect and the lesser-known, early 20th-century feminist he loved, Mamah Borthwick Cheney.
The book offers glimpses into the couple's private yet at times all-too-public lives. It also touches on early feminist philosophies of the time and raises ethical, even moral questions on whether the characters were right -- or wrong -- to leave not only their spouses but their children.
I found Mamah a likable yet sometimes infuriating not to mention perplexing woman. I found Wright most unlikable and infatuated with himself. Without giving away the ending, I found it so incredible that I could not believe I had never heard about this event. A bit of quick research verified it was all too real.
The book is an easy, fast read if you can keep from stopping to look up more detailed information about some of the supporting characters. The locations included places I've lived and visited -- Chicago, Oak Park, Paris, Germany and rural Wisconsin.
While we all bring our varied experiences into our reading and writing, I do believe that the reader's gender and especially her/his state of marital bliss -- or the total lack thereof -- will likely affect how much the reader empathizes with Mamah and Frank. But woman or man, happily married or not, readers can enjoy this book and learn some juicy architectural history along the way. And when was the last time you read "juicy architectural history," I ask.
The book offers glimpses into the couple's private yet at times all-too-public lives. It also touches on early feminist philosophies of the time and raises ethical, even moral questions on whether the characters were right -- or wrong -- to leave not only their spouses but their children.
I found Mamah a likable yet sometimes infuriating not to mention perplexing woman. I found Wright most unlikable and infatuated with himself. Without giving away the ending, I found it so incredible that I could not believe I had never heard about this event. A bit of quick research verified it was all too real.
The book is an easy, fast read if you can keep from stopping to look up more detailed information about some of the supporting characters. The locations included places I've lived and visited -- Chicago, Oak Park, Paris, Germany and rural Wisconsin.
While we all bring our varied experiences into our reading and writing, I do believe that the reader's gender and especially her/his state of marital bliss -- or the total lack thereof -- will likely affect how much the reader empathizes with Mamah and Frank. But woman or man, happily married or not, readers can enjoy this book and learn some juicy architectural history along the way. And when was the last time you read "juicy architectural history," I ask.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
House of Windows by Adina Hoffman
I read House of Windows: Portraits From a Jerusalem Neighborhood by Adina Hoffman for a review for Hadassah Magazine and an AP news-feature. I found Hoffman's work at times slow but overall refreshing. I was impressed by her own objectivity in relating the reasons behind the conflicts between the Israelis and the Arabs of Jerusalem. Her book did not dwell on politics, but on the people directly affected by the politics and by individuals' actions toward each other -- from shop owners to a Palestinian refugee with whom she and her husband take a cab ride one day. The book takes off on little details that can lead to insightful stories: Hoffman's quest for olive oil as the Sabbath begins and the Jewish shop owners shut down their businesses. This collection of essays offers exactly what its title promises: glimpses into the lives of the people who live in and near Hoffman's neighborhood. This is an excellent and different book -- one people would do well to read before rendering too many thoughts on the Middle Eastern conflict, especially if they've never been to Jerusalem.
Hoffman, by the way, is a daughter of author Rosellen Brown. I've had the privilege to talk with both women and found them to be humble, intelligent and most interesting.
Hoffman, by the way, is a daughter of author Rosellen Brown. I've had the privilege to talk with both women and found them to be humble, intelligent and most interesting.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Pat Conroy's South of Broad
Because I belong to a book club, I sometimes read books that I might not otherwise choose. This novel is one. I'd never read a Pat Conroy book before, though I remember enjoying the film, The Prince of Tides.
Reviews of Conroy's latest novel, South of Broad, have been mixed. Indeed, my own view of it is mixed. At first, I was turned off by Conroy's over-the-top, anything-but-concise description of scenery, people, just about anything. I don't frankly care if the tide is coming in or out, if the sky is blue or gray. I would, however, have liked to understand better how this unlikely group of characters became such close friends. Conroy never adequately explains that to my satisfaction. Further, I found the main character too good to be true (when he bathes and cleans up the ailing, elderly man, for instance) and too eloquent and witty for a teenager.
All that said, I thoroughly enjoyed this book and read it much faster than I do most novels. In short, it entertained me. Conroy can tell a good story; there's no doubt about that. Like the many writers, he just needs to tighten up his writing a tad. And that's just for starters.
Reviews of Conroy's latest novel, South of Broad, have been mixed. Indeed, my own view of it is mixed. At first, I was turned off by Conroy's over-the-top, anything-but-concise description of scenery, people, just about anything. I don't frankly care if the tide is coming in or out, if the sky is blue or gray. I would, however, have liked to understand better how this unlikely group of characters became such close friends. Conroy never adequately explains that to my satisfaction. Further, I found the main character too good to be true (when he bathes and cleans up the ailing, elderly man, for instance) and too eloquent and witty for a teenager.
All that said, I thoroughly enjoyed this book and read it much faster than I do most novels. In short, it entertained me. Conroy can tell a good story; there's no doubt about that. Like the many writers, he just needs to tighten up his writing a tad. And that's just for starters.
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