Blood, Bones & Butter by Gabrielle Hamilton

Blood, Bones & Butter is not just another book for foodies. Gourmands will enjoy it, but so will almost any reader who likes a good story with offbeat characters. There's not a single recipe in this book whose cover depicts a chicken's head turned upside down -- perhaps reflecting the way life has at times been for author/chef Gabrielle Hamilton, neither predictable nor conventional.

I cannot recall a single paragraph where Hamilton, owner of Manhattan's popular Prune restaurant, waxes eloquently about the taste of green vs. white asparagus, oysters on the half shell or a mirepoix.

What Hamilton does is wax, usually with eloquent writing and often with earthy language, about a life spent learning to survive and even thrive in the kitchen and, more importantly, with her own family and her husband's -- with food somehow almost always at center stage. Her work in the food industry has not always been a pretty job. She writes of almost being arrested once in her low-wage waitress days. She recalls later cleaning up "legions of cockroaches," human excrement, rotten apples and the remains of a dead rat.

Clearly, a chef who will clean up a stranger's excrement rather than delegate that chore to a subordinate is likely not prone to food snobbery. Indeed, Hamilton, who's more akin to Anthony Bourdain than Daniel Boulud, once even mentions how unimpressed she was by a meal at one of New York's most upscale restaurants. Still, food is a big part of Hamilton's story -- her memories of it as child at family meals, her dependence on it to make a living as a young adult and finally her adventure with and love of good food and those around her who also celebrate it and, like her, want to learn more about it.

Hamilton is also nothing but candid about herself. She writes of her strengths; she writes of her weaknesses. She writes of her own indecisiveness. She writes of her lesbian lovers followed by her Italian husband and never fully explains the change in lifestyles, sounding a bit baffled by it herself. The couple have two children but have never lived together.

Hamilton tells her life story almost as if she were talking, without dressing up her language or her actions over the years. The same goes for those who have played major roles, good or bad, in her life. Her parents, who divorced when she was a child, come across as more than a little negligent. Her in-laws, whom she sees once a year in Italy, fare much better despite the lack of demonstrative love between Gabrielle and her husband. I say "demonstrative" because it's clear that Hamilton wants more from her husband, that she wants him to suggest a romantic evening or such even though he is more concerned with getting the latest iPhone.

Because of the first-person narration, the reader sees all of the characters in Hamilton's life through her point of view, an unflinchingly opinionated one at that.

Hamilton is not only a gifted chef but also holds a master of fine arts degree in fiction writing. She is a visual artist as well. Just look at the picture of the bloody asparagus at the front of her book.

Hamilton's memoir is interesting and, for the most part, well-done. At times, though, I found her writing rough and hard to follow -- a bit uneven just as Hamilton's own life has been.

The Cat's Table by Michael Ondaatje

At 269 pages, Michael Ondaatje's newest novel, The Cat's Table, is reasonably short. As a result, Ondaatje leaves the reader wanting to know more about different characters and plotlines. Isn't that what a good book should do?

So many authors today write what they apparently perceive to be epics and leave no room for a reader's imagination. In 500, 700, 950 pages and more, they share every detail -- past, present and future -- with the reader, leaving little, if anything, to the imagination.

The imagination is what allows intelligent people to disagree at times about parts of a book's plot, to wonder what happens to the characters after the work's final page, to have differing interpretations of an ending.

The imagination is what allows a child to read C.S. Lewis' The Chronicles of Narnia solely as fantasy. It is what allows that same person, once an adult, to read the same series for biblical themes as well as fantasy. Imagination is what left me grasping for more information, searching the Internet for clues to the meaning of the ending of Audrey Niffenegger's wonderful novel, Her Fearful Symmetry, and to wonder even more about the symbolism, if any, in her adult graphic novel, The Night Bookmobile.

A long book is not necessarily bad anymore than a short one is necessarily good. I've read excellent long books. But I've also read some that could and should have been shorter. I liked Stephen King's 11/22/63, for instance. But I also thought it was excessively long and repetitious. Just as a good reporter is not necessarily a good writer, an author who excels at plot is not necessarily a good writer.

The Cat's Table is not a book I expected to like but ended up thoroughly enjoying. A man named Michael and nicknamed Mynah narrates the story. He recalls a three-week voyage from Sri Lanka to London that he took as an 11-year-old boy along with two other young boys. Aboard the ship, the youngsters were relegated to eat, not at the captain's table, but at the less-desirable "cat's table." While at sea, the youngsters did as many unsupervised little boys might do -- they snooped around, got into trouble and played in places that were off-limits to them -- the ship's upper-class swimming pool, for example.

Along the way, the boys encountered a bizarre group of passengers: a woman who stashed pigeons in her pockets; a botanist; a prisoner escorted in chains; a pretty cousin who sparked Mynah's sexual desires at a time when he likely was entering puberty; a murder at sea; a savvy thief who uses the little boy to crawl through small spaces to steal expensive items from the rooms of first-class guests.

Ondaatje, who also wrote The English Patient, has said he took a similar voyage when he was a lad. Yet, his book includes a disclaimer saying it is not autobiographical. With his own memories for inspiration and his talent for story-telling and writing, Ondaatje has created a book that is believable yet incredible and also restrained. With the last, he has allowed the reader to wonder about his story's unanswered questions and to wish the novel had not ended.

Coming Up & What I'm Reading Now.....

Now reading: Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake, essays by Anna Quindlen, one of my favorite authors.

Coming soon will be thoughts on:

Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader by Anne Fadiman.

Messenger of Truth, a Maisie Dobbs mystery.

Leave Me Alone, I'm Reading by NPR's Maureen Corrigan.
Writers on Writing, essays first published in The New York Times.

Soon to read: Room.


And more.

A Note to Readers

Books I discuss on this blog often have already been reviewed by many others. So, I tend to offer more personal thoughts about the books I read than traditional reviews. While I generally say whether I like a book and why I feel that way, I often write about what the book meant to me or aspects of writing and life that it brought to mind. I hope you enjoy the entries and offer your own comments as well.

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo & Sequels by Stieg Larsson

After an almost all-night reading session and with a bit of sadness, I wrapped up the final novel in Stieg Larsson's Millennium Trilogy, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest. The book is, of course, a sequel to The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and The Girl Who Played With Fire, all set in Sweden and all dealing with corruption and crimes against women, especially one tattooed, anti-social computer hacker named Lisbeth Salander.

I say I concluded the series with some sadness because I know there will be no other sequel -- at least not one by the Swedish author. He suffered a fatal heart attack after climbing seven flights of stairs shortly after he turned the trilogy into a publisher and never got to see his books hit the bestseller lists and stay there. Already, the first novel has been made into two movies, one Swedish and one American. Another movie is planned.

While the third novel's ending is such that I doubt Larsson planned another sequel, he clearly could have written another one if he had wanted. It would be nice, after all, to know how Sander -- aka the girl with the dragon tattoo, the one who could defend herself quite well with a gun, a golf club or a carpenter's nail gun -- adapted to society among other things. It would also have been nice to know the whereabouts of her twin sister -- a major detail Larsson never addressed. It seems odd he would have repeatedly mentioned the sister if he never meant to let the reader meet her or even know if she is alive or dead.

I immensely enjoyed all three books, and I don't usually read crime fiction. I am fully aware of the criticism that Larsson's books are packed with graphic violence, especially sexual violence mainly against women but also the reverse in a couple cases. Yet the novels never condone or glamorize the sexual violence. The rape scenes comes across as twisted violence, not sex. And that is to Larsson's credit.

Larsson also includes statistical information on violence against women in Sweden and refers to other gender discrimination, albeit less violent. Near the end of the final novel, the lead male character, investigative journalist Mikael Blomkvist, tells his sister, "When it comes down to it, this story is not primarily about spies and secret government agencies; it's about violence against women, and the men who enable it." Indeed, that theme seems to permeate all three books.

The trilogy also abounds with consensual sex -- of various flavors. Blomkvist is a bit of a 21st Century James Bond. Perhaps not coincidentally, Daniel Craig, who portrays Blomkvist in the American movie version of Dragon Tattoo, is also Hollywood's latest Bond.

The books depict Salander as far more than a sexual victim. Though seriously lacking in social skills, she is a survivor not to mention a genius. The daughter of a not-so-nice Russian defector, Salander is prone to violence herself when she's provoked. She's also equipped with a photographic memory, computer skills that would make Microsoft and Apple look like newbies, and an ability to plot her every word and action, even in a crisis.

Larsson's books reflect significant research and a talent for creating intricate plot lines with countless subplots. While his occasional plot summaries are at times helpful, they more often are annoying and unnecessarily repetitive. The first and third books also take more than a few pages to gain the reader's interest. Larsson could have written more concisely, and his editor should have done more editing.

Still, anyone with the talent, the drive and the ability to write three novels that have captivated so many diverse readers around the world deserves applause. I just wish Larsson could have lived to hear it.

Turn of Mind by Alice LaPlante

Imagine a murder mystery narrated by the chief suspect. Imagine the suspect is a Dr. Jennifer White, once an expert hand surgeon in Chicago, now a retired surgeon suffering from Alzheimer's. There lies the basic plot of Alice LaPlante's first novel, Turn of Mind.

White, the main character, has good days and bad ones. She cannot remember from one day to the next, though, that her longtime friend and neighbor Amanda is dead. Nor can she remember if she killed Anna.

The book is appropriately not divided into chapters but into four distinct parts of White's life after the killing in an upscale neighborhood near Lake Michigan. After, all Jennifer White's life is no longer clearly divided. At times, she thinks she is a teenager; at other times, a new mother eager to give up breastfeeding and return to her surgical work.

At one point, she vividly recalls her late husband James' shady financial dealings as a lawyer for the richest white-collar criminals. At other times, she believes her 30ish son Mark to be James. And there are the many times she believes James is once again late, a no-show. She must grieve her husband's death over and over -- each time she is told anew that he has died.

LaPlante takes care not to paint any of the characters -- the key suspect or the victim -- as all good or all bad. The same goes for the supporting cast -- the less-than-successful Mark and his younger sister Fiona (the one who so often covers for others' misdeeds).

Could one of White's adult children have been the killer? Might Fiona have covered for her mother? Might Mark have killed for the money he's always needing? Or did the chief suspect, Dr. Jennifer White, commit the crime but face no fate worse than the one she already faces in the few remaining years of her life?

The book is far more than a murder mystery. It also is a virtual diary of a brilliant surgeon's deteriorating mind as well as the story of a woman who learned early on to adapt, whether to a marriage gone awry, to a lavish lifestyle unjustly earned, to a friend's betrayal and finally to the betrayal of her own mind.

Oldies But Goodies -- Alice, Let's Eat & Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Only recently did I get around to reading Calvin Trillin's Alice, Let's Eat and Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. The book by Trillin, who still writes for The New Yorker, was published in 1978, four years after Dillard's collection of nature essays came out.

Both authors were ahead of their time. The TV Food Network didn't exist. And except for the likes of Julia Child, food writing wasn't the big seller it is now when Trillin wrote of his adventures as a "Happy Eater" -- adventures that took him from Paris to Kansas City.

When Dillard's book was published, DDT was fortunately a thing of the past, albeit only recently, and global warming wasn't even a part of our vocabulary yet. It would be a long time before Americans once again focused on nature, from tiny insects to tall mountains. But Dillard was already there with the essays in her Pulitzer Prize-winning book -- works that explores such oddities as the sex life of a praying mantis, the eating habits of a honey-loving wasp and the art of a snowflake.

I liked Dillard's book but found it tedious at times.

Trillin's writing, however, is a fast and light read. His humor is self-effacing. And while he loves a good soupe de poissons de roche, rouille et croutons dores and knows what all that boils down to (fish soup), he also appreciates good barbecue, scrapple, country ham and my personal favorite: red-eye gravy. But what most shines through in this pre-Food Network book is the one thing that clearly supercedes Trillin's love of a good meal -- his wife Alice. ... But then again, she never made him choose.

11/22/63 by Stephen King

Some events are so important that we never forget where we were when we learned about them. The night Richard Nixon resigned from the presidency, I was working alone at the Little Rock AP and proceeded to get reaction for the national desk. When my Nana died, I had just arrived at Sunday evening church services. When John Kennedy was assassinated, I was sitting in Mr. Fawcett's math class. Our superintendent announced that the president had been shot. We said a silent prayer, and moments later Mr. Key told us the president had died.

So, when I read Stephen King's 11/22/63, a novel in which a time traveler sets out to prevent the Kennedy assassination outside the Texas Book Depository in Dallas on Nov. 22, 1963, I also did a bit of time traveling. As King mentioned things only a time traveler would notice -- no cell phones in 1963, for instance -- I, too, was transported back to that Cold War era and to my own memories of the assassination and my life then.

The book is long (849 pages), but it is an easy if at times frustrating read. King repeats sentences and even offers occasional plot summaries so to speak. "The past is obdurate," he wrote how many times? I lost count. I'm sure he did that intentionally, for effect. But the only effect it had on me was irritation.

Still, I enjoyed the book, especially fter a few hundred pages into it when King finally deals with the main plot -- you know, the part about how Lee Harvey Oswald, a Marxist and proud of it, came back to the United States after defecting to Russia. Along with Oswald, came his Russian wife Marina, their baby daughter and a death wish for Kennedy and the president's anti-Castro ways.

While the book is a novel with fantasy and fiction, King included much historical fact along the way -- so much that I found myself days later in my garage looking for the canvas-blue, three-ring notebook in which, as a child, I had cut and stored newspaper clippings from the now-defunct Memphis Press-Scimitar about the assassination. (I think such notebooks also have become part of the "obdurate" past.)

After reading the book and looking through the now-fragile clippings, I began noticing names and facts that as a 13-year-old girl I had not noticed. There was Ruth Paine, who in the book and in life had allowed allowed Marina to live with her during Marina's separation from Lee. There was Maj. Gen. Edwin Walker, who had barely missed a rifle bullet in April 1963 -- an assassination attempt Oswald reportedly boasted about to Marina that night. And I had forgotten the point to which King repeatedly alludes -- how Kennedy had begun a withdrawal from Vietnam. Of course, that all changed after his death, and Vietnam became its own nightmare in U.S. history.

But the part of the book I was most curious about was not so much a question of fact as one of portrayal. Had King accurately depicted the 24-year-old Oswald's widowed mother, Marguerite Oswald, as a self-absorbed, controlling woman who most anybody would have been better off not to have had as a parent, especially Lee -- whose first name, by the way, was given to him in honor of Robert E. Lee?

It appears King was on target. According to an old Associated Press article I found, Oswald had been diagnosed at age 13 as having schizophrenic tendencies and being potentially dangerous. Yet his mother, who had little money, had "balked at aid from welfare agencies, ignored a court order that Lee receive psychiatric treatment" and refused to consider him "anything more than a truant," the AP reported, attributing the information to Lee's probation officer in the early 1950s.

The article also related how, in the days after the assassination, reporters and three Secret Service agents were at Marguerite Oswald's home when she called to the agents and said, "You all want to see me on television? ... I'm just exhausted. I haven't even had time to read the papers."

This book was the first I have ever read by King. I'm glad I read it despite a couple problems I had with plot inconsistencies. King seemed, for example, to change the rules on traveling back and forth in time near the novel's end for convenience sake. But when an author manages to hold my interest for more than 800 pages, prompts me to rummage through my cluttered garage for an old notebook and then causes me to reread almost 50-year-old newspaper articles, he must have done something right.

Blue Nights by Joan Didion

Joan Didion's bestselling The Year of Magical Thinking focused on the unexpected death of her husband, John Gregory Dunne, also a successful writer and brother-in-law of Dominick Dunne. The book was published in 2005, just weeks before another tragedy struck Didion -- the death after a lingering illness of her daughter, Quintana Roo, at age 39.

Didion quickly updated the book with her daughter's death, but now she has written another memoir, this time focusing almost entirely on the daughter she adopted as an infant, the one who died, slowly, in a New York hospital. The book is Blue Nights and is written in typical Didion style -- short sentences and terse, obvious repetition for emphasis yet still concise.

The book is more about Didion's response to Quintana Roo's death than it is about Quintana Roo. It also is a mirror of the aging author's own frailties and vanities. She was 75 when she wrote this book in 2009.

Didion writes, for example, of realizing only late in life that she would not again be wearing the red suede sandals with 4-inch heels she once adored. Or the gold hoop earrings. Or the black cashmere leggings. Or the enameled beads. And she realizes that even the mention of such concerns in a book about her daughter's death "will be construed by many as a manifestation of misplaced vanity."

And yet ... those realizations do not seem a reflection so much of vanity as a reflection of growing old -- and doing so alone, without spouse, without child, without some of the longtime friends Didion writes of having died as well.

As an aging woman myself, I know it's a lie to say I'm middle-aged unless I plan to live well past a century. When I broke my ankle and had to have surgery, I refused a walker despite the doctor's advice. I prefer not to tell my age, but my resume with the college graduation date is a dead-giveaway. I refuse to wear old women's shoes -- if you're under 50, you know the kind of shoes I mean. I toss all mail from the AARP. I'm not retired, so I surely cannot be that old, I tell myself. I do not request senior discounts at restaurants even when I qualify. I do not worry much about makeup and hairstyles. (I tell myself I am bohemian, not just too tired to fret over such things anymore.) But I do wish I could better conceal the increasingly visible veins in my hands, the scarred ankle that still hurts and becomes suddenly and dangerously stiff; the back teeth I am missing but cannot afford to replace.

So, vanity, you see, is not a quality limited to the Joan Didions and other rich and famous. Didion is just honest, candid about hers.

As an adoptive mother, I also identify with Didion's recollections of the fears regarding her daughter, adopted when Didion was 31, much younger than I was when I adopted my daughter from China.

"All adopted children, I am told, fear that they will be abandoned by their adoptive parents as they believe themselves to be abandoned by their natural," Didion writes. "All adoptive parents, I do not need to be told, fear that they do not deserve the child they were given, that the child will be taken from them."

Yes, I have feared such loss to the point that I borrowed money from someone I did not want to ask but did so because I felt my daughter's father and I needed to re-adopt her in this country and to do so very quickly -- just to be safe. My daughter has said don't leave me alone. -- Where are you? I can't find you, she has said. -- I was only in the other room or the back yard.

Didion recalls her daughter, as a child, speaking of her "other mommy," the biological mother. The same words have come from my daughter, who's even spoken of her four sets of grandparents -- if you count the ones in China, that is.

Ultimately, of course, Didion did lose her daughter, not to the biological mother, not to a court or to a foster parent, but to death -- at a far too young age.

If a memoir can be judged by believability, by truth, by remembrances of all things -- even the embarrassing -- Blue Nights certainly qualifies. It is not a depressing book, but it is a work that at times is so realistic it hurts, especially if the reader's life bears even small resemblances to Didion's.

Coming Up & What I'm Reading Now.....

will be reviews or commentary on:
by Annie Dillard.

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and The Girl Who Played With Fire by Stieg Larrson. I will follow up later with an item on The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest, the final book in Larrson's posthumously published and bestselling series.

Messenger of Truth, a Maisie Dobbs mystery novel set in the aftermath of World War I and the fourth in a series of Jacqueline Winspear.

And a mention of a couple books, both novels, I started but just couldn't make myself want to finish them. ... Oh, and I am now reading Alice, Let's Eat, a 1970s book by Calvin Trillin, whose name many will recognize from his articles over the decades in The New Yorker. And I just checked out Alice LaPlante's Turn of Mind.