My Cheering Squad

Emilia and I sat in the big green chair a few days ago reading a great big stack of books before her nap.  One of the books we read was Olivia Goes to Venice by the marvelous, inimitable Ian Falconer.  The book is all about how Olivia and her family go to Venice for spring break, eat loads of gelato, see the sights, and then leave in a dash.  Anyway, there we were, reading away, and minding our own business, when we turn the page and see the pictures of Olivia and her family on a gondola.  Emilia points at the gondolier, who is huffing, puffing, and sweating profusely, and says, 'He's just like you, mama, pushing me in the jogger!'

We were out one day a while ago for a quick run, and I was huffing and puffing and pushing the jogger up a long hill.  At the top of the hill there stood a little old Chinese woman who was pushing her little grandchild in a stroller.  She kept taking a few steps and then stopping to rest, taking a few more, resting some more.  When she saw us on the move, she stopped and clapped and cheered us on.  It was fabulous.

Once we got up there, I said, '..huff...puff...big...hill...huff...puff...gasp...!'  She then said something I did not understand, but which I took to be lovely words of encouragement.  And we were on our merry way.  Repeat the whole scenario about five minutes later -- the nice little lady with baby in stroller going down a hill, stopping for a rest, and us running up said blasted hill, '..huff...puff...big...hill...huff...puff...gasp...!'  More clapping and cheering, Emilia chiming in with, 'Are they out for a quick run, too, mama?  That baby's a little guy!' and so on. 

It was one of my favorite things in a while.  Looking like the sweaty ol' gondolier from Olivia, on the other hand, is not. But it still made me laugh, because I suppose the girl did have a point.  Now, if I could just do something to keep up with that South African Guinea Hen, who also lives in the neighborhood, and who periodically joins us on our runs, then we'll be in business!  And that's all I have to say about that.

Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight

I have seen Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight countless times at our local bookstores over the past few years.  And it is the oddest thing, really, because every time I saw this book, I thought it was about a family in Newark, New Jersey, who happened to be in the restaurant business.  Odd, no?  And I've no idea where this assumption even came from.  Anyway, it doesn't take place in New Jersey (or anywhere near New Jersey, for that matter).  It takes place in Africa -- first Zimbabwe (formerly Rhodesia), then Malawi, and finally Zambia.

Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight is a memoir written by Alexandra Fuller.  In it she recounts both her childhood, and her family's story, during the war of independence (or the war of liberation, or just simply the war.  I'm never really sure what to call it.)  The Fullers (that would be Tim, Nicola, Vanessa, and Bobo [a.k.a. Alexandra]) are historically from Great Britain, but are very deeply rooted in Africa.  They are also a family of farmers.  Having just read Peter Godwin's When the Crocodile Eats the Sun, I was quite interested in reading a story of an actual farm that fell victim to Mugabe's government.  (I am so grateful that I read Godwin's book first, by the way.  It gave me the background necessary to understand the whys and hows of Fuller's amazing story.)

At any rate, the book begins like this:

Mum says, 'Don't come creeping into our room at night.'
They sleep with loaded guns beside them on the bedside rugs.  She says, 'Don't startle us when we are sleeping.'
'Why not?'
'We might shoot you.'
'Oh.'
'By mistake.'
'Okay.'  As it is, there seems a good enough chance of getting shot on purpose.  'Okay, I won't.'

When a Crocodile Eats the Sun

Suffice it to say that I've been on a bit of an African kick these days.  Sort of in the manner of a do-it-yourself African Lit. course, only from home.  I can't help myself though.  It is a whole new (and incredibly fascinating) world to me.  I've slowly been making my way down the continent -- first Eritrea, then Ethiopia, and I've just finished my first book on Zimbabwe: When a Crocodile Eats the Sun by Peter Godwin.

This book is superb.  And reading it was a complete eye-opening experience for me.  All at once it was educational, jaw-dropping, tragic, and, at moments, incredibly heartening. 

Peter Godwin (who now resides in NYC) is a white man of British and Polish descent, and he was raised in Zimbabwe.  His book is not only his family's story, but also the story of his country throughout Robert Mugabe's rule.  (Mugabe is obviously still in office today, but good grief -- when will that man kick the can?!)

A Mrs. Beeton-esque Beef & Barley Soup

Yes, well, I realize this is more suiting for the dead of winter and all that.  But, despite it being August and all,  it is cold and rainy in our blasted state.  And to be perfectly honest, I'm getting so sick and tired of it.  I've been threatening to go and put up a For Sale sign at the top of our driveway, but that would require me putting on a long coat, a hat, boots, and then tracking down the umbrella, in order to do so.  Besides, we don't really have one of those signs lying around the house.  Maybe as soon as Emilia is up from her nap we can do some 'cutting' and some 'art' and make our own.  (It's really the oddest thing, too, because it was so warm last week.)

Anyway, for some reason or another I've been craving beef and barley soup for about two years now.  My sister made some for us a handful of years ago after I'd gone in for a random surgery, and I remember feeling so grateful.  Beef and barley soup is so comforting and oh-so cozy.  But when I asked her for a recipe last week she said she usually just wings it.  Not helpful.

I searched high and low for a recipe, but I guess that beef and barley soup just isn't in high demand these days -- it's not very fashionable, I suspect.  In fact, in my entire library of cookbooks, the only one that had a recipe at all was good-old Mrs. Beeton.  I figure this is quite appropriate as it does make me want to sit in some thatched cottage in the Cotswolds.  Actually, Mrs. Beeton lived in London the majority of her very short life.  Nevertheless, I still think of pastoral England when I think of her.  Or I think of the grubby London that Dickens wrote so much about.  I can't help it.  What a fascinating woman though!  If you don't believe me then pick up a copy of Kathryn Hughes book: The Short Life and Long Times of Mrs. Beeton.  I've been slowly, slowly, slowly making my way through.  (Sorry, it's just not in my nature to plow through biographies, no matter how interesting.)

Cutting for Stone

Alright, here it is, the reason why I've been so incredibly lame and only managed two posts in two weeks: Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese.  It is a magnificent book.  Once I picked it up, I was essentially ruined for all other activities.  The book is well over 600 pages, so that is saying something, particularly since I am a very slow (and very thorough, I like to believe) reader.  In fact, the reason I picked it up to begin with was because I so enjoyed watching my dad read it last summer while we were in Maine.  He'd grab a bag of pretzels and a beer from the fridge, go sit on the deck and have this look about him, like 'Ahhh, ain't life great!'  Still makes me smile thinking about it.

Anyway, I am not going to say much about the plot of the book.  All I will say is that it takes place in Ethiopia (mostly, anyway) in a medical community.  I find it a complete marvel that a surgeon/professor of all things medical can double as a writer of fiction,  but there it is.  Abraham Verghese is an excellent writer, but I suppose this isn't such a rarity.  Wasn't William Carlos Williams a doctor by day and poet by night?  At least I think it was William Carlos Williams.  Blasted over-achievers.

Cutting for Stone is very unique, very eye-opening, and very refreshing.  It is incredibly researched but not weighed down with too much history, because it is woven into an engrossing narrative. It is also filled with surgery after surgery.  I tend to be of a rather squeamish nature, but even I plowed through it.  There were only two parts where I had to put the book down and declare 'yuck.'  And one of those parts involved a cow that was part of a celebration.  (Not bad since I was the rare one not to finish Life of Pi because it made me so sick.)

Falling Angels and a Rant, If you Please

If you've been paying attention at all, you will have noticed that we are rather fond of Mary Poppins in this household.  And why shouldn't we be?  The movie is marvelous and so well-done.  And the music is perfect, albeit a bit annoying seven or eight times in a row while driving in the car.  But that is just because our daughter happens to worship Mary Poppins so much.  Emilia likes to sit in front of the telly with her hat and gloves on, a teeny-tiny plastic umbrella next to her, and put on her 'make-up' with Mary Poppins.  (You know that scene in the beginning where Mary Poppins touches up her make-up while sitting on a cloud?)  Anyway, her current favorite song is Step In Time, but for the longest time she absolutely adored Sister Suffragette.  (If you don't believe me, click here.)

Personally, I find Mary Poppins to be rather educational -- you can learn an awful lot about British history just by singing along.  One of these 'things' in particular is the Women's Suffrage Movement.  Laugh as much as you'd like, but I'm dead serious.  Its all there: ... '1910, King Edward's on the throne, it's the age of men...  though we adore men individually, we agree that as a group they're rather stupid... Take heart for Mrs. Pankhurst's been clapped in irons again!'  See what I mean?  It's chock-full of information: the year it happened, who was on the throne, political tension between the sexes, and a shout-out to a major player within the movement: Emmeline Pankhurst.  It even acknowledges the struggles between husbands and wives during this time: 'You know how the cause infuriates Mr. Banks!'  In a truly spectacular way, it captures everything -- down to the colors worn by the suffragettes.  And it is so well done.

(Quick disclaimer: If you happen to be one of my family, you may want to avert your eyes now.  Goodness knows you're all sick to death of hearing me talk about this.)

A few days ago I finished reading Tracy Chevalier's book Falling Angels.  This book tells the story of a few women and their daughters (with a few other voices sprinkled throughout) during the Women's Suffrage Movement in England.  It is very readable (I finished it in two or three days), and this is what I enjoy about Chevalier's books.  They always put you in a historical period and tell you about something you've always wished to know more about.  (I loved Burning Bright, The Lady and the Unicorn and Girl with a Pearl Earring.)  That being said, I have no patience when an author's agenda eclipses the story they are trying to tell.  The story ends up losing something.

Maeve Binchy and the Perfect Woman

A few nights ago I was standing in the kitchen cooking dinner, when Michael walks in and says, 'Now this is my vision of the perfect woman!'  I had to laugh because I realized the scene must have looked rather absurd.  I stood, stirring something in the pan, sipping a glass of champagne, and reading a book.  And, for once, I had abandoned my jeans or sweatpants**, and was wearing a Boden dress.  We had all been out jumping around on the trampoline about ten minutes before, but I had to go in and give dinner a good stir.  Besides, I was parched.  As for the book?  Well, oh my goodness, I could not put it down.  Four nights in a row, as Michael was sound asleep next to me, I read and read until after one in the morning.  (Maybe that has something to do with Emilia walking around the backyard earlier saying, in her newfound lazy/intellectual voice, 'I'm exhausted today...'  The things she picks up sometimes.  (And I mean what she said, not the lazy-intellectual way in which she said it, thank you very much.  I've literally no idea where she got that.)

Anyway, back to the issue at hand.  I've never read anything by Maeve Binchy before.  In fact, it never occurred to me that I should.  But I was on the phone with my mom a few months ago when she tells me of this book that she just got in the mail.  All it took was describing the cover.  'Honey, the red polka-dot dress and red shoes on the cover are so pretty.'  (I don't care what anyone says, when it comes to books, you should in fact judge them by their cover.)  I suppose I should also tell you that when I had been complaining of having a hard time getting into any books for the past few months (seriously, it was awful) she immediately suggested Binchy.  My mom is a smart lady because it worked like a charm.  From the moment I picked up Echoes  my grumpy despondency vanished.

Now what I would like to know is this:  Why on earth is Maeve Binchy not categorized as a Catholic author?  This book is positively swimming in it.  Is she not considered fancy enough or something?  Because if that is the case, then that is a load of bollocks.  I was amazed and mesmerized from beginning to end.  I know that people typically save the word 'sweeping' for Gone With the Wind (and rightly so), but the word kept coming into my head as I read Echoes.  It is so visual.  And the cast of characters is phenomenal as Binchy traces them over a ten year span.  Anyway, I just finished the book yesterday and I can not shake it from my head.  Ever since I picked it up the story has been ever-present in my mind. 

Last night as I laid in bed trying to fall asleep, the oddest thing about the book struck me.  (I will try not to give too much away.)  Most of the mothers in Echoes are not likely to sip champagne while simultaneously cooking dinner and reading a book.  Rather they are nutters — or extremely not nice — or dealing with a loose screw, or something along those lines.  Whereas the fathers are, for the most part, rather decent.  The only place where this is not the case is with Clare and David.  Oh, and with Emer and Kevin.  But like Clare and David, they did not begin as mothers and fathers in the book — they just became them over time.  (I am currently in the process of trying to forgive David.  I wonder how long it took Clare to forgive him?)  Anyway, I can't help but wonder why Binchy chose to do that.  Or was it even intentional? 

In the meantime,  I've placed another of Binchy's books in my basket on Amazon — something to do with lighting a penny candle.  Let's just see how long I can go before I click 'proceed to check-out' and am on my merry way  My guess is not long.

**Yes, sweatpants, alright?

A Language Lesson from Martine à la Ferme

After Emilia was born, I had grand plans for her to be multi-lingual by the age of five.  (Laugh as much as you'd like, but I was actually quite serious about it.)  I bought language cds (in both French and Spanish) that I would put on for her all the time — in the car, while she was in her swing, in her bouncy seat, wherever.  In fact, her 'language lesson', as I referred to it, was an excellent way for me to be able to take a shower in the morning.

Anyway, I also found these fabulous (and quite sturdy) little flash cards (in both French and Spanish) that we would play with from time to time.  Well, that she would chew on, more like, from time to time...  (Although my Spanish vocabulary has grown exponentially since I first looked at them.)  Nowadays they can usually be found at the bottom of her toy bin.

Oh, and then the books — I also got her several books (in both French and Spanish), including, Buenos Dias, Baby and Martine à la Ferme.  I have read these books to Emilia over and over for the past two years, and she has always loved the 'Bonjour Médor!' part of Martine the best.  However, as we sat reading before her nap this afternoon, Emilia began to quote a good chunk of Martine right after we'd finished with it.  (I know I've said it before, but this girl is quite the mimic.)  Half of me was rather impressed, while the other half was mortified and wanted to rush out and bury the book in the backyard immediately.  Because despite my many years (ago) of studying French, I've always had a bit of a complex as far as my accent is concerned.  And rightly so — it is atrocious.

Have you ever seen that bit in the movie Je t'aime Paris?  You know, where the postal worker from Denver is reading her postcard aloud in her head while walking all throughout Paris?  Well, that is me.  Mortifyingly me.  Or, at least I think it is anyway — which amounts to the same thing.  And so, because of this, I am thinking it may be best if we stop with Martine altogether.  Or maybe, we should just skip the French and look at it for the pictures.  If Emilia is going to grow up mangling languages, I'd rather she do this in her own right, and not because her mama instilled an appalling accent into her little head before she is even out of diapers.  I mean, really. 

Instead it may be a better idea to just get really rich so we can send her (and me) to lessons (in both French and Spanish) where she can learn herself a right-proper accent.  Not now though because I've poked around a bit and the prices I've seen are almost as appalling as my accent.  Why is it always so expensive to be so fancy?** C'est incroyable!

**Speaking more than one language is not, in fact, fancy.  It's smart.  Besides that, we could really use Emilia to be our translator down the road when we go to buy our flat in Madrid.  Or Barcelona.  Or somewhere in the Andalusia.  Or France.  I'm not that picky, when it all comes down to it.

You Like That Pretty Dress!

For some reason my dear friend Jane has taken it into her mind that I am the crafty type.  And because of this, she brings box after box, filled with book after book, on such subjects as: how to decorate your vintage table; or, how to make a lovely dress from an old pillow case, etc., over to our house on a fairly regular basis.  And she does this despite my continuous pleas of: 'No more, please!  We've no where to put them!  And what do I know of ruffled pom-pom aprons anyway?'

And so when she was over a few weeks ago with her husband (so that they could look at our rather nasty popcorn ceiling in the living room and proffer advice as to the best way of removing said nastiness) she, being Jane, couldn't help herself and brought more books.  She then proceeded to sit down with Emilia and look at all the pictures of the 'pretty dresses'.  Emilia, without losing a beat, ran to show me — 'You like that pretty dress!'  ('You' is Emilia and 'Me' is mama, by the way.)  In fact, she carried this particular book around for a few days pointing it out whenever she could.

'Well, looks like I'm making a dress,' I told her.

But guess what?  I did just that.  I made a pretty dress.  And, not to brag or anything, but it even looks like a dress.  Well, la-di-da!

Now, let me make this perfectly clear.  The last time I sewed an article of clothing was when I was in junior high (or middle school, depending on where you are from).  I made, all by myself, the most spectacular pair of bright blue crop pants — nice elastic waistband and all.  And you may rest assured that they were hideous.  But, oh, how I loved them.  (Dare I tell you that I wore them with my highly coveted huarache shoes?  Yes, it's true.  And being the first person at Davis Middle School to sport such a style, making all the other girls jealous, I fancied myself a bit of a trend setter.)  But other than those pants, all I've made are drapes -- and those are just big squares, really. 

Poppies and A Picnic With Monet

I could be wrong, but I think we have two mentally unstable weirdos living in our neighborhood.  And no, I'm not just saying this because they actually said hello to us yesterday as we were out on a walk.  Well, maybe I am -- that inner New Jersey side can be a hard thing to fight sometimes.  But to tell you the truth, most of the people in our neighborhood are not the 'saying hello' sort.  (Myself included, unless I am out running, then I somehow feel compelled to say hello to everyone.  But that's what runners/bikers/et al do.  You know, Share the Road and all that crap.)

Anyway, there is a house a few blocks over that I absolutely (and inexplicably) love.  It is a small brick house, and I suppose it wouldn't be a stretch to call it a dump, but that might be a bit harsh.  (No, it's not too harsh, but it is rather rude to say it out loud.) 

I believe that a very old person once lived there -- and then maybe died not so long ago -- because after years of  utter neglect, the place was completely spiffied up.  We walked by once and saw a man loading up a huge truck to take things (presumably) to the dump.  Then another day the 8-inch moss and grass growing on the roof were removed, and even the lawn was mowed.  Nearly everything else remained the same though, including the old van parked in the driveway.  It is an absurdly old, green Grandma's Cookies van, and I love it.  Michael always says he wants to take it and turn it into a chipper van like that movie. 

One of the reasons I have liked this house so much is because it reminds me of Harry Potter.  It is completely in the manner Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, or even one of  the Wizarding tents at the Quiddith World Cup Tournament.  You know what I mean, a tiny dump on the outside, but on the inside it has spiral staircases and all that.  Anyway, they have No Trespassing signs hanging up all over, so I've not actually gotten any good looks through the windows or anything.  But one of these days...

The Weed that Strings the Hangman's Bag

I know I've said it before, but I absolutely adore Flavia de Luce.  And despite the morbidity of Alan Bradley's latest installment, I also adored The Weed that Strings the Hangman's Bag.  I suppose 'morbid' may not be the best word, but it does describe it accurately -- well, maybe just a bit, anyway.

When I read The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie a few months ago, I was smitten.  I thoroughly enjoyed every moment of that book, and have not been afraid to let everyone know.  So naturally expectations were rather high for this latest in Bradley's series.  Did it disappoint, you ask?  Not at all.  However, I don't think it was as good as the first.  But let me explain.  My dad still claims that the best Harry Potter book was the first one.  Period.  End of story.  (I totally disagree, I think the best was the fifth -- and that the seventh was complete rubbish, but that's just me.)  Anyway, he claims that this is because everything was so new and exciting when he sat down to read it the first time, and I guess I can appreciate that.  This must be what I am suffering from with The Weed that Strings the Hangman's Bag.   But I shouldn't be, because the book is marvelous, really.  And truthfully it is every bit as good as the first.

The story goes like this:  Porson's Puppets (a popular kids show on the BBC) rolls, quite literally as their van has broken down, into the village of Bishop's Lacey (somewhere outside of London) sometime during the summer of 1950.  They ultimately decide to set up shop for a few days, while hoping to get their van fixed.  On the night of their final performance, however, Rupert Porson dies in the middle of the show.  The question quickly becomes whether or not Rupert was murdered, and why on earth anybody would want to do such a ghastly thing to a virtual celebrity.

The Gospel According to Coco Chanel

I really don't know what's gotten into me lately.  For some reason or another I seem to have developed a mild obsession with Coco Chanel.  It's inexplicable, really.  My closet is far from overflowing with her dresses.  I've never been a real fan of Chanel No. 5 (way too heavy and old-lady, if you want my two cents), despite the fact that Marilyn Monroe once claimed that was all she wore to bed.  I could never afford an original 2.55 handbag, sigh.  But I do like the makeup.  Although really, was Coco even still alive when the makeup line hit the department stores?  I suspect the answer is non!

I am, on the other hand, an enormous fan of Audrey Tatou, and I would watch any movie that she happened to be in.  (Although I did draw the line with The Da Vinci Code.  It's a bit of a toss-up as to what was most offensive: the reprehensible and wildly anti-Catholic nature of the book (which I did read)/movie, or Tom Hanks's hair.  Tough call.)  Anyway, I do adore her.  So the instant I heard about Coco Before Chanel , I began to anxiously await its release on dvd.  (I don't think we've actually gone to see a movie in the theater since Emilia was born.)  Anyway, I know I've said it before, but the movie is marvelous.  Beautiful from beginning to end.  Although, if you have a preference for more of the action-flicks, it may not be your cup of tea. 

Immediately on the heels of the movie, my nearest and dearest Lizzie sent me an email saying something along the lines of this: 'I've taken the liberty of choosing our new selection for book club.  When shall we plan our champagne-filled discussion?'  Considering the fact that neither of us belong to any sort of book club, I found this rather funny.  And so, me being me, I knew I would be very grumpy and rather stressed if I did not procure a copy of the book immediately.  And there you go, after a quick ride in the car with Miss Milia, I had my own shiny new copy of The Gospel According to Coco Chanel, which I placed on our coffee table to patiently await Emilia's naptime.

Economics

When I get overly tired, stressed, or just generally down, I have a tendency to do one of two things: shop (as evidenced by nearly every post I've done for the past month or so) or, I read a whole lot of silly and mindless books. (Yes, unfortunately, I am referring to the genre so irksomely called 'chick-lit'. At least it isn't Star Trek.) It pains me greatly to admit this, but what can I say? I have a penchant for escapism, but not just any sort of escapism will do, mind you. I tend to be rather snobby when it comes to literature of the feminine nature (i.e. chic-lit). For instance, I only read books that take place in England, preferably London. (Everything seems smarter with a British accent, after all.) And I will not go near the mass-produced-pulp-fiction-y sort you can so easily find at your local supermarket. When I have exhausted the London front, I will sometimes move to Dublin or New York City, but this is typically met with some resistance.

Since Sophie Kinsella refuses to publish a new and original work every other week for my reading pleasure, I must sometimes resort to other British writers who are attempting to walk in her shoes (4-inch strappy stilettos, no doubt, which she also happens to own in lilac and clementine). And that is how I stumbled across Hester Browne's newest book, The Finishing Touches. Yes, I have read a few of her others, and yes, they were entertaining. But they have also managed to annoy me throughout. I very much dislike when the heroine/narrator suffers from low self-esteem and needs to be either coddled and/or have her ego stroked throughout. And that nearly sums up the entire Little Lady series that Browne authored. Anyway, I digress.

I quite liked The Finishing Touches and read nearly the whole thing in a flash. Which is why I now find myself wandering around the house listlessly look for other London-Lady-Lit books. So, the point I am trying to make, albeit not very well, is that if you expect to need a lot of this sort of book to get you through whatever is ailing you, then you may want to economize and read slowly. Because I'll be damned if I'm going anywhere near Star Trek or the like. I've still got my pride. (Can you hear that sound? It is the sound of my entire[ly nerdy] family disowning me.)

Anyway, here are two quotes from The Finishing Touches. Although, really, the whole affair is chock-full of good ones, in the form of a very handy etiquette manual. The first is actually very sound advice that we should all take quite seriously, while the second happens to sum me up to a T. (What? It's not like it makes me a bad person or anything.)

'"Kathleen used to tell me that money was an umbrella. That it couldn't stop a rainy day, but it kept your head dry", I said, swinging in my chair.'

'"...I had no idea electricity cost that much! I thought it just ... flowed. What am I going to do?
"Economize."
Liv looked at me as if I'd just suggested she levitate.'

**As a sidenote, if you happen to be rather enamored with the pink pig you see above, then you'll have to speak with Bampa David. He bought it for Emilia on their last visit. However, if he won't take your call then you can always google it. Mudpie is the manufacturer and they are sold in only the most fabulous children's boutiques.

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

Let me just say this, I adore Flavia de Luce. And The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie is impeccable. I had not even heard of this book before Christmas, when my lovely brother gave a copy of it to me. I quietly sat, taking off the wrapping paper, reading the back, and then, for some reason or another, I got all huffy. 'Why have I never heard of this? It makes no sense! It is completely down my alley!' Which is true. If I actually owned an alley, you can rest assured, this book would be smack on it.

And so, once I finished my other 'Alan' book (The Clothes They Stood Up In & The Lady in the Van, which was magnificent, by the way -- as was The Uncommon Reader), I picked it up. And right off, I began wondering. Must one actually be called Alan in order to be a brilliant writer? It begs to be asked. Because I was only a few pages in when, again, I got all huffy and began demanding to know why I cannot, in fact, write like that. It is very annoying! Anyway, I digress. Let's get back to Flavia, shall we?

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie takes place in a small village in England during the summer of 1950. Flavia de Luce is eleven years old. She is obsessed with chemistry (poisons in particular) and is shockingly bright. Flavia has two older sisters, Daphne and Ophelia, with whom she is consistently trying to 'get back', as it were. Nothing too terrible, just injecting Poison Ivy into her sister's tube of lipstick and then anxiously watching for the results, for example.

Anyway, without giving too much away, a death occurs late one night at Buckshaw, the old castle where the de Luce family lives, and has for centuries. Shortly thereafter, Flavia's father is taken in to custody. Flavia then sets off (quite literally, as she rides her bike Gladys practically throughout the whole of the English countryside) to get to the bottom of it. It's marvelous. And parts of the book will make you roar with laughter.

I suppose I could sit here all day recounting scene after scene in order to illustrate this point, but alas, this chair is too hard. Besides, I think you should just read the book. That being said, I cannot resist but two scenes in particular.

Mrs. Mullet is a terrible cook, which is unfortunate as that is her job with the de Luce family. She also drives Flavia batty. However, she has been with the family for so long, and so on and so forth... Anyway, while the Inspector interviews Flavia, Mrs. Mullet brings her some seed biscuits and milk. 'Seed biscuits and milk! I hated Mrs. Mullets seed biscuits the way Saint Paul hated sin. Perhaps even more so. I wanted to clamber up onto the table, and with a sausage on the end of my fork as my scepter, shout in my best Laurence Olivier voice, "Will no one rid me of this turbulent pastry cook?"'

And the scene in church (pages 114-115, if you are interested) is beyond perfect. Apparently the de Luce's have been Catholics 'since Chariot races were all the rage.' However, they go to St. Tancred's Anglican Church because it is so much more convenient. Oh, I can't do it justice. After all, my name isn't Alan, so what do you want? Just go and read it yourself. You will nearly cry with laughter. And if you don't then you have no sense of humor.

Anyway, the next Flavia de Luce installment is hot off the press. I very happily discovered my copy in the mailbox today. (The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag, with a picture of a 'cary 'keleton on the front, as Miss Milia pointed out.) And I simply cannot wait.

I Know How to Cook, by Ginette Mathiot

Look what just came in the mail today. I know, I know, it's already been out for months now. But to tell you the truth, it is a book that I was resisting. Don't get me wrong, I wanted it. It is a cookbook after all. But it is one of the new Phaidon Press publications. Let me explain.

For those of you who don't know, a few years ago Phaidon began publishing what are considered to be the quintessential (and best-selling) cookbooks from countries around the world. The first was The Silver Spoon, which has been Italy's best-selling cookbook for over 50 years (and one of the most popular wedding gifts in the country, if I remember correctly). And then there was 1080 Recipes from Spain, and Vefa's Kitchen from Greece; both best-sellers for over 30 years in their respective countries.

I have the Italian and Spanish books, and I actually really like them. I love the artwork in 1080 Recipes, in particular. However, neither is a book for which I continually reach. I have done a few pasta recipes from the The Silver Spoon and the tortilla española from 1080 Recipes, but I think that is it. Part of the problem may be that I have Italian cookbooks coming out my ears. And as for the Spanish, I seem to gravitate toward Penelope Casas.

When I think about it, each of the Phaidon cookbooks is essentially The Joy of Cooking done for the appropriate country. And please, do not bawk at this. The Joy of Cooking is actually an excellent cookbook with almost everything you need in it (within reason, of course), and it should not be dismissed. I suppose its biggest problem is that it is not hip or stylish ... by any means ... whatsoever. (I think Americans only really want cookbooks by celebrity chefs from the Food Network or something.) Admittedly, Mrs. Joy (as my beloved Ms. Child referred to it) is not a cookbook that I reach for on a regular basis (other than for pancakes and dutch babies, anyway), but it is an excellent publication. And this brings me back to today's mail.

I Know How to Cook by Ginette Mathiot (translated by the lovely Clotilde Dusoulier) looks marvelous. Yes, it is an overwhelming doorstop (like its sister publications), but it looks exceedingly well done. I may actually read quite a bit of it before delving into the recipes, and that is a good thing. It has section after section filled with glorious tidbits. They range from wine; seasonal food (this includes cheese and meat, which I find fascinating); entertaining; setting your table; a splendid section on herbal tea (yippee!); herbs and spices and souring agents; directions for making your own jam; menus by famous people I've generally never heard of; and several crêpe recipes. Not to mention the gorgeous artwork.

And so, with that in mind, I'm delighted with my new book. (Perversely, I also ordered it in French because, for some reason, I thought it would be fun. Seriously, what goes through my mind sometimes? That is a rhetorical question, by the way.)

'People who know how to eat are ten years younger than those to whom that science is a mystery.' —Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, Physiologie du goût, 1825 (Taken from the frontispiece in I Know How to Cook.)

Everybody Bonjours!

A couple of weeks ago I was in the kitchen making dinner, when I noticed that Emilia was really quiet for a few minutes. (Whenever she is quiet, it typically means that she has her little hands in something that they clearly should not be in.) So I yelled, 'Emilia? Whatcha doing?' and she yelled back, 'Ee-bodie Boe-jours!' And sure enough, I walked to her room and there she was —sitting in her big green chair with the book Everybody Bonjours! on her little lap. It was a lovely site to see.

My friend Jane gave me a copy of this book when it was hot off the press, and I tucked it away until I knew that Emilia wasn't going to try to eat and/or tear out the pages. (She's always been pretty good with her books, though. Not like some kids I've seen.) Anyway, over the past couple of months she has developed a huge love for this book, and we read it together several times a day. It amazes me how long she will just sit and look at the pictures (in her green chair while mama cooks dinner.)

Everybody Bonjours! was written by Leslie Kimmelman and illustrated by Sarah McMenemy. It follows the idea of the This Is... series (you know, This is Paris, This is London, This is New York, and so on) but is done, in my humble opinion, so much nicer. The story is about a little girl who goes to Paris with her parents and her little brother. While there, they see all the sites and do all sorts of French things — bonjouring all the while, naturally. The book is filled with images of all things French — not just the Eiffel Tower. (Although, thanks to Everybody Bonjours!, Madeline, and The Secret Circus, Emilia now recognizes the Eiffel Tower everywhere. I was wearing a Villanova tee-shirt a week or so ago and Emilia pointed to an 'A' and said, 'Eiffel Tower!')

We've read the book so many times that Emilia nearly has it memorized (as do her parents). And she now gives a running commentary on each page. While in the shoe store: 'I like those shoes!'; while at the Louvre: 'Hi, Mona Lisa!'; while sitting down at a café: 'Old man going sooooo slooow!' And my personal favorite is when they get crêpes. It is simply a picture of the little girl and her family at a crêpe stand, and it says 'Batter-pouring.' To which Emilia chimes in, 'Batter pouring down rain!'

Everybody Bonjours! is one of the only books that I do not mind reading over and over and over again. In fact, it has been a very welcome break from Frosty the Snowman and The Wheels on the Bus — both of which require singing throughout. And as an added bonus, it fills her little head with images of a place that I'm dying to take her. Some day. But not today.

Truman Capote's Christmas Stories

I am an avid reader; always have been. So that is why I get frustrated at times by the process of picking out a new book to read. It happens every so often, you know how it is, when nothing can really grab your attention. Or, if it does, you are annoyed the whole time and eventually put it down. That is exactly the state I have been in for the past month or so. I've been needing a page-turner, but everything I reach for turns out to be blah. (I read the first hundred pages of The Return by Victoria Hislop and had to put it down, despite the beautiful cover, and the same goes for Sima's Undergarments for Women by Ilana Stranger-Ross. And I know there was at least one more on this list...)

So feeling slightly disgruntled by my endeavors, I decided (what with it being Christmas and all) to pick up Truman Capote's Christmas Stories. Having read them a few years ago, I was well aware of what I was getting into, and therefore knew that they were exactly what I needed.

Truman Capote's Christmas Stories are comprised of three short stories: A Christmas Memory, One Christmas, and The Thanksgiving Visitor. And to be perfectly frank, one could probably read the whole of them in one sitting. However, I wouldn't recommend it. Besides, sometimes it seems a bit disrespectful to plow right through something so quickly and not give it another thought.

All three stories are autobiographical, so they are filled with same the 'characters' throughout. And they all take place when Capote was a child (6,7,8-ish), living in Alabama. The first story, A Christmas Memory, is my favorite. It is about making fruitcake with his 'friend'; his friend being his 60-something-year old cousin called Miss Sook. She is also his best friend and their relationship is truly beautiful.

The second story, One Christmas, is about going to stay with his father in New Orleans one particular Christmas, and the eye-opening experience it turns out to be. The last story, The Thanksgiving Visitor, is about Miss Sook inviting the kid who beats the tar out of Buddy on a regular basis over for Thanksgiving dinner. (Buddy is the name that Miss Sook affectionately gives to Capote.)

All three stories are magnificent. The writing is beautiful — simple, but jam-packed at the same time. They are also tinged with a certain sadness, but don't let that put you off. The humor in them is ever-present.

Anyway, after re-reading the stories I am left wondering, yet again, why these are not considered a 'must-read' at Christmas time. The only thing I can figure is that the book In Cold Blood created the image of Truman Capote that most people seem to have of him today, which is not very Christmas-y. You know, the whole 'Good Will Toward Man' stuff that we all appreciate so much during the Christmas season? A book about a couple of gruesome murders may not capture this spirit so much. Maybe it's just me.
If you must know, I have not actually read In Cold Blood. Every time I pick it up my sister says, 'Oh! Don't do it — you'll be sorry. I still can't get the images out of my head!' And strangely enough her copy made it into the pile of books not to be finished. She laughs about this now, more than a little aghast with herself, for putting it down well after the gruesome murders take place. Fine point, I say. My mom, on the other hand, claims it was a page-turner and could not put it down. As for me, I do want to read it someday. However, not until my husband stops going out of town for work, and my vivid imagination becomes a little less vivid. In the meantime, I'll stick with his lovely Christmas Stories and not lose any sleep over it.

The Magician's Elephant

Do you know that feeling when you pick up a book and your heart sinks before you even turn the first page? It's that feeling of realizing that you have picked up something beautiful — and before you know it, you will have plowed through it and it's over. Thus is The Magician's Elephant by Kate DiCamillo.

Each of Kate DiCamillo's books is amazing in its own right. I came to know her with Because of Winn Dixie (although her first was Tiger Rising). Since then I have read each of her books almost immediately upon publication. (I'm a big fan of Amazon's Pre-Order, what can I say?) DiCamillo is always a good writer, but her writing still seems to improve with each book. Her most recent book, The Magician's Elephant, published last month, takes her writing to a different level. It is almost like reading poetry, and I cannot even begin to tell you how beautiful it is. Gobsmackingly beautiful, really. Several times I found myself reading, and then re-reading, certain passages just trying to take it all in.

The story takes place in Baltese — a very cold and very dark European city. And it is about a little boy named Peter Augustus Duchene. Peter's father was killed during the war, and his mother died shortly thereafter while giving birth to Peter's little sister, who Peter believes to be dead. This is why we find Peter being raised by the old, sick, sometimes senile, military man Vilna Lutz, who wants Peter to grow up to be a soldier.

On his way to buy their meager dinner one night, Peter spots a stand belonging to a fortune-teller. After a great internal debate, he goes in and hands over the little money intended for dinner in exchange for the answer to his question: his sister is alive and he must follow the elephant. Peter is dumbfounded; not only because he was lied to all those years ago, but also because there is not, nor was there ever, an elephant in the city.

'Peter stepped out of the tent. The sky was gray and heavy with clouds,
but everywhere people talked and laughed. Vendors shouted and children
cried and a beggar with a black dog at his side stood in the center of it all
and sang a song about the darkness.'

Meanwhile, a magician has come to town. During his performance at the opera house he conjures an elephant, instead of the intended lilies, out of nowhere. The elephant falls into the lap of a noblewoman leaving her crippled. The magician then goes to jail — and so does the elephant. A day or so later, Peter hears this story of an elephant falling through the ceiling and everything begins to change.

The cast of characters that emerges in The Magician's Elephant is extraordinary. Beyond Peter and Vilna Lutz there are: Adele, Peter's sister who lives in an orphanage in the city; Leo Matienne, the police officer, and his wife Gloria; Sister Marie, from the Sisters of Perpetual Light Orphanage; Madame LaVaughn, the injured noblewoman, who can say almost nothing except: 'But perhaps you do not understand. I was crippled by an elephant! Crippled by an elephant that came through the roof!'; the beggar, who can turn anything he hears into a beautiful song, and the blind dog, who has befriended him; Bartok Whynn, the contorted and twisted man who only laughs and laughs after his terrible accident (while carving a gargoyle atop a building, he fell to what should have been his death), and now has the unfortunate job of standing behind the elephant, with a shovel, in order to keep things clean; and, last but not least, the elephant. These characters, as different as they may be, are all dependent upon each other — whether they realize it or not.

We are allowed into the thoughts of each of these characters, including the blind dog and the elephant. We are even allowed into their dreams. What the characters dream at night is immensely important (and very poignant) to the story as a whole, further illustrating how we are all so much more intertwined than we sometimes realize. And this is just one of the many messages of the book. The book is about much more than hope and dreams though. The Magician's Elephant is also about having a great deal of faith, even when the stars seem to be aligning against you. Its message is that you can achieve anything if you have enough faith. And perhaps a bit of kindness and love wouldn't hurt either.

(The Magician's Elephant by Kate DiCamillo, illustrated by Yoko Tanaka, Candlewick Press, 2009.)

The Art of Cooking Omelettes by Madame Romaine de Lyon

If you happen to find yourself wandering about in the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History, then you will undoubtedly stumble upon Julia Child's Kitchen. And yes, it is actually her kitchen — not a replica — which she donated, in whole, several years before her death.

As you stare through the plexi-glass at Julia's pegged walls, wooden counter-tops, bon appetit! plaque, and her bookcase filled with not much more than a copy of 'Miss Joy', her own cookbooks, and the local telephone directories; you begin to notice the more museum-like features in the room. Outside of the kitchen, photographs, quotes, and various memorabilia line the walls. A television screen plays either a perpetual biography/tribute to Julia Child or an episode of The French Chef. Incidentally, if you happen to sit and watch The French Chef for a minute, you see that it is her Omelette episode. And if you actually sit and watch this episode, you are struck by how effortless and easy it appears to make an omelette. (Shall we laugh now, or shall we laugh later?)

It requires skill to make an omelette. And I have never in my life seen anyone do it as beautifully as Julia Child. As she works, she is talking and yucking it up for the camera, and all the while the viewer (me) is astounded by how she was almost able to mask the level of her skill with her funny and down-to-earth personality. The whole experience is mesmerizing. You walk away from it thinking, 'Shooot, see if I don't give that a try!' (Meanwhile, even my dried beans were flying across the kitchen...)

Toward the end of this episode Julia recommends two books on omelette making. (See, it must be hard to make an omelette if you have to read books on the subject before actually attempting to make them in your own home.) One of those is The Art of Cooking Omelettes by Madame Romaine de Lyon, originally published in 1963. Let me be the first to tell you — this book is a gem. Shocking, perhaps. But truly — this book is fabulous, and here is why.

'No one comes into the world an instinctive maker of omelettes, and I would not
have you believe that as soon as I could walk, I toddled into the kitchen,
seized an egg and a frying pan, and began at once what was to be my life's
work.'

Thus begins The Art of Cooking Omelettes. It is an extraordinarily well-written book, and I found Madame Romaine's biography to be fascinating. And at times the book is hilarious. However, I don't think that is ever the intention. Rather, I have to remind myself how very important (and serious) omelette-making can be, for goodness' sake!

The Art of Cooking Omelettes is broken down into four sections: Madame Romaine's personal journey (becoming 'the Queen of the Omelette Makers, as they sometimes call me'); instructions on how to cook an omelette; over 500 recipes for making her omelettes; and what to serve with an omelette (salad and wine), and who she has served them to. Apparently she has served many a famous face and is not afraid to let you know this.

Madame Romaine was born in Lyon and grew up working in her parents' restaurant. She learned everything from her mother who was 'an instructive cuisinère, and saw to it that I learned in proper order: first principles; then recipes; and, finally, style.' Madame Romaine lived in Lyon until she married, at a very young age, and moved to New York City with her new husband. She spoke no English whatsoever when she arrived in the US and took a bit of time building up confidence to do so. While still very young, her husband tragically suffered a heart-attack and died. Madame Romaine was then left wondering what to do and eventually opened a Salon de Thé in Manhattan. Her eventual location was at 156 East 56th Street, and I have been very curious to see what is there today. (After looking around a bit, I discovered that Madame Romaine's restaurant is now closed. Switching locations a few times after her death, the new owners were forced to close in 2003 on account of not paying taxes...)

Anyway, the instructions for making an omelette, as per Madame Romaine, are very simple. However, she acknowledges right off the bat that the only way to learn it properly is to do it over and over and over again. According to Madame Romaine, it takes exactly 2 minutes to make an omelette — not including the 25-30 seconds required for beating the eggs. She uses nothing fancy at all in her preparation and claims that 'everyone who cooks should know how to do an omelette.' I daresay she is right. And I daresay that this book is marvelous — whether you use it for a cookbook or just a good read involving many useful tips. May God bless Madame Romaine de Lyon, and of course, Julia Child. (The Art of Cooking Omelettes by Madame Romain de Lyon, Doubleday Publishing, 1963.)

The Girls of Slender Means

If you have never read anything of Muriel Spark's before, then drop everything you are doing (including reading this lovely blog) and run to your local bookstore. Although, if your 'local bookstore' is anything like mine, it is Barnes & Noble and will most likely not have anything of Muriel Spark's whatsoever. Maybe you've noticed as well — Barnes & Noble is filled to the gills with the likes of Dan Brown and that other Sparks author, I think his name is Nicholas, but that is about it. So if you actually want to read something decent you may have to go elsewhere... I know we are all supposed to support our local 'Brick and Mortar Stores', as they are now called, but I do most of my book shopping from Amazon. But in my defense, what else am I to do? At any rate, this isn't really the issue at hand.

The Girls of Slender Means takes place in London in 1945 — just after World War II has ended. It follows the lives of several young women who live in the May of Teck Club, which is essentially a dormitory, or hostel, that existed for the 'Pecuniary Convenience and Social Protection of Ladies of Slender Means below the age of Thirty Years, who are obliged to reside apart from their Families in order to follow an Occupation in London.' (Although there are 3 'spinsters' who seemingly moved in while they were young and neglected to ever move out.)

The book begins, 'Long ago in 1945 all the nice people in England were poor, allowing for exceptions.' Food was rationed, soap was rationed, clothing could only be purchased with official 'clothing coupons', which were also rationed. Despite this, the occupants did their absolute best to carry on as though everything were normal: they counted calories (except for Jane, who needed to 'feed her brain' because she worked in the 'world of books'); they rubbed soap or butter on their limbs in order to slip through the tiny bathroom window that would lead to the roof; they bartered for the shared use of a single Schiaparelli gown (except for Jane, who could not fit into said gown).

Many suitors graced the doorway of the May of Teck Club and would almost always hear part of the Joanna's lessons on elocution that were being given to various ladies, including the cook. One of these suitors was Nicholas Farringdon, who was charmed (if not enraptured) by the whole club. It was Nicholas who claimed the ladies were 'a community held together by the graceful attributes of common poverty,' and that '[p]overty differs vastly from want.' If ever there was a book to romanticise feeling poor, this is it.

The beautiful Selena, who would often meet Nicholas on the roof, was enrolled in a 'Poise Course'. She was required to recite two sentences every morning and every night, and these sentences float through the pages of the book, along with the poetry from the elocution lessons. 'Poise is the perfect balance, an equanimity of body and mind, complete composure whatever the social scene. Elegant dress, immaculate grooming, and perfect deportment all contribute to the attainment of self-confidence.' The ladies of the May of Teck Club were somewhat in awe of this statement and once the book comes to an end, it becomes evident how much this recitation seems to sum a few of them up. In fact, it would seem that if one actually pays attention while reading The Girls of Slender Means, this recitation (along with Joanna's poetry) sets up the tragic ending of the novel quite beautifully.

The Girls of Slender Means, like the 4 or 5 other books of Spark's that I have read, is magnificent. Her writing is a true craft, and her novels are immaculately well-constructed. And by this, I do not mean that they are tidy, like a John Grisham or something. Rather, after reading one of her books, I always feel like I should read literary criticism to point out everything that I managed to miss. Because she is funny, it is easy to read over her true intent.

Muriel Spark was a convert to the Catholic Church (as am I) and her books are steeped in Catholicism. However, if you did not know this about her, you would probably not pick up on it. She handles her faith in the same beautiful and irreverent fashion as she handles everything else — whether it be soaping up in order to slide through the window to sleep with a man who is eventually martyred, or the same man discussing sex with the 3 'spinsters' who still reside in the May of Teck Club.

And this is just one of the many reasons why it is impossible for me not to adore Muriel Spark. Not to mention the fact that she always makes me want to move to London ... or Edinburgh ... I'm not that picky, really.