Reading | Delancey & A Homemade Life

I think my favorite new genre is the cookbook as memoir. I've been reading, simultaneously, Molly Wizenberg's A Homemade Life and Delancey. The other afternoon at the library, while picking up a book I'd put on reserve, I grabbed one of the cookbooks from the metal cart right next to the checkout desk, as has become my tradition. In weeks past, it was The Vegan Scoop and Jeni's Splendid Ice Cream at Home. This week it was Dinner: A Love Story. I haven't made anything from these cookbooks yet, but I've found myself wanting to spend more time in the kitchen. Rather than poring over Pinterest to find a new recipe, I've been using tried-and-true base recipes as jumping off points and getting creative.

I suspect I like these kinds of books for the same reasons I enjoy blogs (in fact, I'm reading Molly Wizenberg's books as a result of being a long-time reader of her blog, Orangette). They delve into the daily and the mundane in a way that makes it seem less humdrum and more of an art. In the way that Martha Stewart made meticulous planning seem necessary to entertain, this genre and its authors are stripping those airs away.

It's strange for me to read about people who come to cooking later in life. Growing up it felt like we were always cooking, always preparing for the next meal. Now that she's older, my mom is a fan of cooking all day so we can have food for the days that follow, but when we were younger, I remember her most clearly in front of the stove, all of us kids fluttering around her asking to help. So many of our pictures include my sister and I, elbows deep in flour and sugar, standing on our dining room chairs cutting out sugar cookies. One of our favorites is of me standing and staring in awe while my sister Bea operates the Easy Bake Oven, my NKOTB t-shirt reaching my knees. I'm grateful to be able to say that as far back as I can remember, there have always been home cooked meals, big messes, and piles of dishes.

These days, my mom and I spend the majority of our phone calls recounting our meals to one another, planning menus for my next visit home. These aren't fancy meals. Often, we're talking about how we buy bananas just so they can rot and we can make banana bread—the same recipe she's been making for us since I was a toddler. I bought two single slice packs of Spam on sale at Target the other day, and I can't wait to call and tell her about the musubi we plan to make with it. For Mother's Day, Bea and I went in on a charcoal grill and all the accoutrements so she could make her famous ribs and marinated chicken. She cried when they unveiled it to her.

When I read the first 20 or so pages of Dinner: A Love Story, I started to see these early days of Mike and me living together as I might 10 years from now—the start of tradition, of ritual. Our weekly meal planning and grocery trips, our monthly BJs hauls, our sporadic and often fruitless attempts at couponing, our little green card catalog on top of the fridge that holds our favorite recipes scribbled on index cards. These are the beginnings of what will be the backdrop of our family's daily lives; no matter where we live or work, these are the things we will always do, a sense of routine we can rely on no matter what life throws at us.

I'm so happy to see a celebration of the power of food. There have been a lot of books and documentaries about the harmful and destructive aspects of the food industry, and I think these stories—Molly's and otherwise—are a way to reclaim the nourishing and positive powers of gathering some friends, fresh ingredients, and eating.

Y'all | Another kind of story.

Here's one strange thing I do: I read birthing stories. They're everywhere, you must've seen them, too. The thing is, I tend to navigate toward blogs that read like journals. As a fan of Raymond Carver, Andre Dubus, Lorrie Moore, I am drawn to the inner lives of strangers. That's what I find so frustrating and liberating and terrifying about the Internet: we can know the mundane details of the life of a complete stranger. But, then, does that make them not a stranger anymore?

Cyndi and I joked about running into Nat the Fat Rat in New York last weekend, but what would I have done if I had seen her? Would I have whispered shyly, "I love your blog"? Would I have said hello, or—more likely—just smiled widely at her? Not to speak for the rest of the blogging world, but I think this whole experiment of ours is a way, sure, to catalog the places we're going and the people we know and the life we're creating as we go along, but it's also a way to reach out to other people who are just stumbling along. It's a way of knowing, and of saying, that there are others out there who don't have it all figured out, who bake way too many cookies for an apartment of two people, who wish they knew what to do with their life while simultaneously being glad there will always be something else to learn or know or do.

This is all meandering back to what I brought up in the first place, I promise. I don't remember the first birthing story I read, but I remember being unable to look away. It's like the hushed questions I ask my sister while she nurses my nephew about how much it hurts, how impossible it feels compared to how impossible it actually is, what's it like. All the questions without answers. There is something so incredible about being a woman, the things we're capable of, the things our bodies will take over and just do when we're still fighting our minds. These are the raw bits of us that can sometimes get lost in the worlds we create onscreen, so I'm always pleasantly surprised when I find stories of it there—here—too. If you're feeling brave, I encourage you to read some of these, my favorite birthing stories (that is a weird category of favorites to have): The Capener Caboodle, "Finn's Birth Story"; Documenting Delight, "Welcoming Theodore" (a video, actually); and Erstwhile dear, "the birthing of Joan Bea" (this one happened in my neighborhood!).

Books of 2013 | Mid-April through May

 

In this span of a month and a half, I've managed to read two books by the same author without entirely meaning to. I picked up The News from Spain by Joan Wickersham before heading home to Georgia for a wedding at the end of April. I read the first story while I put off packing the night before my flight, and read the rest on the plane. Wickersham weaves the simple phrase "the news from Spain" into these heartbreaking love stories set all throughout history and all over the world. What strikes me most about this collection is that she explores more than just romantic love—though that is a major theme as well—but the kind of love that blooms from the nipped bud of romantic love. There is deep friendship that seals itself in the hearts of two broken women, between a man and a woman who reach beyond their roles as boss and servant to relate as the bearers of spurned and ignored love. They give each other what they cannot find in their significant others, finally releasing the affection building up just under their skin, accepting one another with grace and forgiveness. These were the stories that completed this book for me; these are the details of life that make every day full with possibility.

I finished the book and jumped from one collection to the next, not finishing anything. I read as much as I could of Sam Lipsyte's The Fun Parts and Jamie Quatro's I Want to Show You More, but neither of them were doing it for me. I'll return to them some other time. Then at the beginning of May, after making a promise to myself not to buy anything unnecessary for the month, I found The Suicide Index on the remainders shelf at Harvard Bookstore. It was only six dollars, and I clutched it like the continuation of my life depended on that purchase, but I requested it from the library instead, trying to create a new kind of muscle memory when it comes to spending money. A week later, it was ready for me at the library, and I dove in head first.

I should say that this book is not for the light-hearted. It is a messy, self-conscious, in-depth look at the suicide of her father. It is a memoir, not fiction. After reading the first section of the book, which is organized like an index, I hoped that it was a work of fiction, but alas, it's not. It is heartbreaking at times, and beautifully written and honest at all times. I hesitate to recommend this to anyone who has known the loss of suicide, but I also know the healing that can come from hearing another voice telling a story not very different from your own. Wickersham explores all of the emotions that surface after her father commits suicide: there is anger, delayed and stunned sadness, the guttural need to protect the memory of someone you love. The book is not told in a linear manner because, as Wickersham herself asks, how could it be? After her father's death, everything he ever said or did comes into question, gains new significance in the harsh light. While she does not attempt to make sense of it all through the book, she comes out on the other end recognizing that no longer trying to do so is a healing in its own right.

Books of 2013 | March through mid-April

I feel like I spent the first half of this week recovering from last week. What better way to clear your mind and remember the tiny wonderful things than to read a good book?

The Secret History by Donna Tartt
This one was recommended to me by a coworker, which is a new one for me; most of my recommendations come from close friends who know me well and understand what I need from a book. This book couldn't have been more spot on for me though, and I am so grateful not only that she recommended it, but that she brought it to the office book swap in December. I picked it up at the beginning of March and finished it just as March was coming to a close.

The book follows a group of students at a small New England college. Tartt is adept at writing a room full of people, which serves the book so well as there are so many characters going in and out of rooms, making phone calls, joining the table in the dining hall. The story is like none I could ever have guessed, and though it is unique, it touches on subjects of humanity and friendship that make even the least relatable circumstances somehow relatable.

Perhaps it's because I read this one as Winter threw its final tantrum, but I'd recommend you read this book during the colder months. It pairs well with a hot tea, and I'm a sucker for daydreaming about a book when I'm not reading it, so matching weather always helps.

Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn
When a friend asked what I was reading, I explained this book as a "beat book." As in, I'm taking a beat after the intense love affair I had with the last book I read. I read Flynn's other novel, Gone Girl, and was pleasantly surprised at how much I loved it, so when I saw her first novel at Savers, I bought it without a second thought.

While Flynn has definitely grown as a writer since her debut, her gift for creating heart pumping and page turning stories has always been a given. The characters are unique and unpredictable, and they slowly reveal themselves to you and to each other. By the end, I couldn't stop reading and reacting aloud to the turns in the book. The very end felt a bit like an information dump, but by that point I was just glad to know the truth.

a visit from the goon squad by Jennifer Egan
This was one of those book's that I put on my to-read list back in 2011 when it was getting a lot of attention but never got around to. (Also on that list, for context: Freedom by Jonathan Franzen, which I've since read; Room by Emma Donaghue, which I bought at the same time as this one.) I kept seeing it at Savers and Goodwill but thinking I'd never read it, kept passing it up. Then one day I was just in the mood for buying books and scooped it up along with Room, Sharp Objects, Roald Dahl's Ghost Stories, I Was Told There'd Be Cake, and Eating Animals.

This book is marketed as a novel, but it felt more like a novel in stories to me. In fact, I remembered a couple of chapters because I'd read them as short stories somewhere before. Each chapter—or story—stands on its own; the stories and their characters intertwine toward the end, even if only peripherally. Someone's assistant is married to someone who used to know some other guy in college who is now married to a fan of that one guy's client. The main themes in the book are music and consumption (and consumption of music): the way "good" music is defined by what the consumer wants, to the chagrin of those whose tastes are no longer in style. My favorite look at music in the whole book is in Chapter 12 (which completely caught me off guard and pissed me off for about half a day; if you've read the book, you'll understand why), where Lincoln borders on obsession with the pauses in music. He makes looped tracks of the pauses from different songs, showing the different ways his family members react (endeared to his sister, pissing off his dad).

The book ends with a culmination of seemingly everything and everyone, not only in the book, but in New York City. It tells the story of a slice of a generation, the way they grew up to barely recognize the new world around them, let alone what they remember of their younger selves. That description sounds a little depressing, but it isn't. Egan does a great job of delicately pushing these characters through their lives, whether they like it or not—and who can't relate to that?

Up next on my to-read list: The News from Spain by Joan Wickersham, The Fun Parts by Sam Lipsyte, and A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore. Unrelated: the lady at our branch of the library recognizes me now.

Can't get enough of The Equals Record

I found the Equals Record through one of favorite bloggers, Samantha Shorey of ashore. She has quite a way with a camera, an even better way with words, and she's currently getting her master's in Northampton (a place I discovered only in the last two years, but holds such a special place in my memory of my first year with Mike).  She, and so many other great writers, contribute to the Equals Record. Here are some of my favorite articles of late:

With the snowstorm that came right before the first day of Spring, I needed this little reminder about the beauty of the season: Snow Fall(ing) by Samantha Shorey.

I never thought to credit empathy to the books we read, but now I do: On Reading Fiction & Ethics by Carrie Ann Tipton.

Another thought on empathy: Lessons of Loss by Renee Pepmiller.

And a sentiment that I'm sure is familiar to most of us, Making My Time Worthwhile by Cindy Baldwin.

What have you been reading lately?

Books of 2013: January & February

 

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

To be honest, I don't remember when I technically started and finished this book, but I couldn't not include it in this list because, you guys, it's so good. I actually recommended this book to Meg before I even read it. I had seen it at the library and added it to my mental to-read list (I always forget to update Goodreads). Meg went right out and bought the book, read it, then turned right around and recommended it to me. I borrowed her copy and after a month or so of dilly-dallying (I am prone to basking in the convenience of having a book that doesn't have a library due date [i.e., procrastinating]). When I finally picked it up, I had started and stopped several books that hadn't caught my attention. This was the perfect book to pick up at a moment like that. Flynn writes well; her characters are engaging and complex. Just when you think you have it all figured out, someone surprises you. Just when you think you know how you feel about a character, they go and get all human on you and you don't know anymore.

I loved this book so much, not only for its content and that rare I-can't-stop-reading feeling it gave me, but for its knocking me down a notch in my book snob ladder. This book was marketed to (and praised by) the masses, and I was happy to find myself plopped right down in the middle of them, wanting more. I was sad to see this book end, but I've added Sharp Objects to my mental to-read list. Now I just have to wait for Meg to buy/read/lend it to me.

The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenedes

I picked this up one day after work at the tiny library branch that's right across the street from us. We used to live about a seven minute walk from the main Cambridge Public Library, which is so beautiful and makes me never want to leave every time I go. So moving down Cambridge Street away from that place was a bit sad. I knew there was a small library super close to our new apartment, but I convinced myself that it was too small and would serve only as a place to get book requests delivered. Then one night, Mike wasn't coming home until later, and the bus let me off right in front of the library, and I thought I'd walk through. I was in another reading rut, and I wanted to see what they had. I was pleasantly surprised by the selection. The new books table was just as well-stocked and intriguing as the one at the main branch. I remembered seeing this book around, and thought I'd see if they had. They did! I read the first couple pages in a comfy chair to make sure I was into it, and that was all it took. I read this book in less than a week, finishing off the last third on my flight to Chicago to see Nabila. I've been recommending this one non-stop as well. Now I want to read his other books, but I'm afraid I'll be disappointed. 

Eugenedes kind of writes Madeleine, the main character, like a woman he used to love, memories colored with resentment. That is not to say she is not complex or sympathetic, but there is a bit of that why-are-all-the-male-characters-in-love-with-her reaction. Maybe that's just me. Either way, this book is one of my favorites.

 

Self-Help by Lorrie Moore

I read this one on the cruise, sitting by the pool and sipping a mango pina colada. There probably wasn't much that would make me not like this collection of short stories, but I really enjoyed it. Moore has definitely had some unsatisfying relationships with artistic types. That, or she has a great and specific imagination about what it would be like to date a playwright. Each of the stories is written as a how-to, each of the topics general and interesting, the stories themselves achingly specific and heartbreaking. My favorite was "How to Be An Other Woman." I mean, what a great title! 

I've started the third month of the year with a new book, and I hope to have three more under my belt pretty soon. What have you been reading lately?