How, What and Why I Read

 

Not being endowed with a reliable memory, in recent years I’ve started to keep a running list of all the books I “read” (this includes books on CD, iPod and/or digital downloads) each year. This helps remind me that I actually did do something vaguely worthwhile with my time on earth as the calendar year comes to its inevitable and often dispiriting close. If all else has been folly—the family dramas, the endless domestic drudgery, the squeaky-tight budget, the painfully flawed human temperament—at least I can look back and think, Well, I broadened my mind’s horizon in some way through these books, that’s something.

But another legitimate purpose, for me, of reading, is to remind myself on a daily basis that there is an entire, huge, enticing universe of thought, art, history, personality, science and literature out there, mine simply for the taking. I can think of few better reasons for getting up in the morning, no less slogging on and on decade after decade in this mortal coil. Well, there’s love, yes. And nature, surely. But let’s face it, life’s a pain and then you die. Geez, I’m sounding like Woody Allen or Nietzsche: “the food is terrible and the portions too small.” (I’m paraphrasing Woody; Nietzsche wasn’t nearly as cheerful.) Most of all, reading makes me feel good.

I’m fairly random in terms of how I select books: New York Times Book Review, Amazon recommendations, friends’ picks and often, just browsing the library shelves in search of an appealing title. At any given point, I’m working on at least six books, often more. This is not as confusing as it might sound, because odds are those six books will be completely different genres, subjects and styles, each so distinct that one could not possibly confuse one with another if one tried. Lately I’ve made a concerted effort to read recently published books, rather than the classics or some old favorites that I tend to return to over and over.

For instance, right now I’m reading Why Does the World Exist? by Jim Holt, “an existential detective story,” that explores the timeless and vexing philosophical question of why there is something instead of nothing; listening to (and reading along with the companion book) Jacqueline Kennedy’s interviews with Arthur Schlesinger, which took place in 1964 just months after JFK’s assassination; The Wild Blue Yonder and Beyond, The 95^th Bomb Group in War and Peace, by Rob Morris with Ian Hawkins, the “first book to cover a WWII bomb group from its inception through the present day” (my father was a B-17 tail gunner in the 95^th bomb group, the only reason I have any interest in combat warfare, to understand what he and others who flew in WWII experienced); Radical Homemakers, Reclaiming Domesticity from a Consumer Culture, by Shannon Hayes, a scholarly but practical look at how our culture views and approaches the domestic side of life, and what we can do about it (given to me by a writer friend); and, in my one nod to fiction, I’m about to start The Uninvited Guests, a novel by Sadie Jones that is described by Ann Patchett on the back cover as “a shimmering comedy of manners and a disturbing commentary on class.” Sounds great!

I often choose biography or autobiography simply because it encourages me. This year there was Yes, Chef, by Marcus Samuelsson, the remarkable memoir from this innovative Swedish-American chef born (and nearly died) in Africa. His uplifting story will cure anyone of feeling sorry for themselves or making excuses about their life’s disappointments. And by anyone, I mean me.

And also this year, A Family Farm in Tuscany, Recipes and Stories from Fattoria Poggio Alloro, by Sarah Fioroni, chef, cooking instructor, sommelier, and manager of her family's organic farm near historic San Gimignano, Italy, is a delectable potpourri of family stories and traditions, along with over 50 recipes and month-by-month accounts of daily farm life. This book (winner of the 2012 Living Now Book Award for Cooking/Ethnic/Holiday category) transported me on endless flights of imagined travel to that magical region, Tuscany, and this special family farm where the Fioroni family has worked the land for over 50 years. Sheer pleasure.

A highly recommended new family memoir, When We Were the Kennedys, by Monica Wood, is in turns hilarious, heartbreaking and deliciously written, the story of a New England family that lost its father (and breadwinner) during the early 1960s in Mexico, Maine, in a time when, in this town, the paper mill reigned supreme and the young first Catholic president and his lovely wife held the nation in thrall. Someone said that Monica Wood is a “stunning” writer. That she is. Ken Burns called the book “breathtaking.” That it is.

The year is not over yet, but also read and recommended this year are:

My Side of the Mountain, Jean Craighead George, a children’s classic novel that tells Sam Sibley’s saga of living alone in the woods of NY State for one season.

Dearie, by Bob Spitz, the fascinating life of Julia Child by the author of The Beatles

(Although engrossing, comprehensive and entertaining, Dearie contained an uncomfortable amount of grammatical and factual errors, reflecting sloppy editing, making you wonder what else in the book was incorrect). Julia would be horrified at the lack of quality control!

Betsy-Tacy & Tib, by Maud Hart Lovelace, darling book in beloved children’s series set at the turn of the 20^th century. Adorable and a window into a time long gone by.

The Place I Call Home, by Maria Mazziotti Gillan, the most recent book of poems by this important figure in American poetry, released in conjunction with the documentary about her life and work, All That Lies Between, which I saw on October 6 at Passaic Community College with my dear friends Eileen and Charlie Moeller. Any of Maria’s poetry books, and certainly this new documentary, are not to be missed, whether you think you like poetry or not. Trust me, you’ll see.

97 Orchard, by Jane Zielegman, the engrossing, true story of several immigrant families on the lower east side of NYC in the 1920s - 40s, via their food customs and recipes.

Father Joe, by British writer/actor/comedian Tony Hendra, a spiritual memoir, wonderfully touching and in parts hilariously funny.

These gifts are free (if you haunt your public library as I do), bounteous and proof positive that life is good, despite all the hardships and challenges that most of us face each year. There for the taking. Give thanks.

Labor pains

Labor Day weekend. How does it happen that it comes so fast each year? That one, last, glorious long weekend of summer. Never mind that, technically, summer doesn't end here, and practically speaking, with the ever-warming climate, we here in the northeast are able to stretch summer well into October, it always feels somewhat final, this weekend, meaning "back to school" or "back to reality" for those of us well past school age. I'm relaxing more than most people this weekend, keeping with my foot up, nursing a painful condition that, sadly, has not responded to anti-inflammatory meds (which I hate to take unless desperate, which I was two weeks ago when I consulted an orthopedic surgeon), taping and elevating/icing. Eventually, the foot will heal (thank you, miraculous healing body!), but for now, I'm enjoying iced coffees, more than my usual share of dark chocolate (the best medicine) and old movies. Today it was Julie and Julia, which I've seen several times and never failed to cry at the scenes of triumph for these two writers, especially when Julia Child learns that Knopf wants to, at long last, publish Mastering the Art of French Cooking. For a writer, there are no sweeter words, after all the hard labor of writing, inspiration and despair. That someone actually values your creative work, and, even better, wants to publish it, well, I have no words for that level of joy.

Once I sold my stake in my business to my partner back in '98 and undertook a half-hearted second (or was it third?) career of freelancing, I knew the fate of the racehorse put out to pasture or the athlete well beyond her glory days. Truthfully, I was ecstatic for a long time, being freed of the daily crushing grind of running a business and dealing with clients, employees and partners. I wasn't really cut out for business, being essentially a creative writer and light on the money-making talents that are crucial for a small business owner. But year after year, reality (and wrist tendonitis requiring not one but two surgeries) set in and I've never really adjusted to being unemployed, or worse, ignored in my former field. The plus side is that I've penned (or keyboarded) three novels, two for children and one for adults, all with botanical themes. This work has given me more pleasure than I deserve, and yet, and yet...I feel like that proverbial zen tree falling in the forest, with no one (except my nearest and dearest readers, who know who that are and are forever thanked for paying attention to my writing) listening, making the softest possible "plunk" as I hit the ground.

I'm a very slow learner, but it's slowly dawning on me that most things in life, be they escaping a grinding work routine, finding the ideal mate, or achieving "success" in any given field, come with a price tag. You want leisure? You got it, with boredom and loneliness as bonus tracks. You want success? You'll never have privacy again or feel the same way about that work of art you've created, before its held up to the harsh light of public scrutiny. Of course, I'm surmising about that last one, being successful in a public way, as I haven't experienced it firsthand. I'm really, really not sure I want to, either, but it sure would be glorious to have a stranger, someone without a stake in your life, tell you you've created something of marvel. That your labor pains have all been worthwhile. If I had to choose, I'd take what I've got, an internal, stubborn belief that my creative efforts are of worth, but once in awhile, like around Labor Day, I wonder about what it would be like to have that external validation. What do you think, internal satisfaction or external validation? I'm curious.

Summer "dog days" reading

During these dog days of August, what are you reading? Summer to me always feels a bit lighter in terms of what I'd like to read, not Danielle Steel light, just lighter than Proust. This summer my big read (or should I say listen, as I've "read" it by listening to a recorded version of the book) so far is The Help by Kathryn Stockett. I didn't like it at first but at a certain point it dawned on me that this was a wonderfully conceived, constructed and written story, a consummate work of literature, a To Kill a Mockingbird for our time (even though the book is set in the early '60s and references Harper Lee's masterpiece, John Kennedy's and Medgar Evers' assassinations. Not being from the south and never having had "help" of any kind growing up (as an adult I've had occasional hired cleaning and pet sitting help), the situations were fairly foreign to me, but being a human, I know a thing or two about prejudice, hatred and stupidity, and I'm sure I've had my moments of being a less than evolved person myself. Unlike Mockingbird, there is no saintly Atticus Finch to lead Skeeter, the narrator of The Help, out of her own specific upbringing and to enlightenment; she has to get there on her own, and she does, gradually and beautifully. The African-American women who reluctantly agree to share their stories of working for white families with Skeeter are so strongly drawn and vivid, that I felt as if I knew Minnie and the others personally, as if I shared their sorrows and scant joys. And as a writer, I always tear up when there's a scene involving a recalcitrant publisher finally accepting a book for publication. In the movie, Julia and Julie, I bawl every time Julia gets that package in the mail, her published Mastering the Art of French Cooking. And I've seen that movie about a dozen times.

Speaking of bawling, To Kill a Mockingbird just happens to be on television as I write this, and I'm avoiding the courtroom scene, which is wrenching and always ends up with me bursting into tears (or my WASP version of such) when the "colored" folks in the gallery tell Scout and Jem to stand up, "Your father is passing." And is there a more glorious movie soundtrack than Elmer Bernstein's for that film? If there is, I've yet to hear it.

Anyway, running late as usual and need to get back to see the Halloween scene, which I adore. Hoping I won't cry too much. August is a teary month: my late father's birthday, my grandparents' birthdays, a month when I lost too many people I loved. I have to remind myself that it's also my oldest grandson's birthday on August 26, and how lucky I am to have had people to love and be loved by. Not everyone is that fortunate. For some, life is a bitter journey that doesn't end well. If we've been blessed with good friends and family, it behooves (yes, I wrote behooves, and I use it in my everyday speech) us to honor them by spreading happiness whenever we can. And so for the authors who have created so many memorable books that have enriched my life, I will buck up during the "dog days" of summer - remembering the constellation Sirius shines brighter this time of year.

On the horns of many dilemmas

Here's what I'm wondering: why can't I watch cooking shows (especially Julia, Jacques or Lydia) without an uncontrollable urge to whip up some dish, which I can watch exercise shows with total immunity, lolling about while watching others sweat, stretch, groan and tone. Well, no matter, the damage is done, and while I'm nursing top-of-foot tendonitis, which requires frequent elevation and icing, I'm prone to watching the Julia Child 100th anniversary marathon more than anything else. Only good thing about tendonitis, it keeps me from jumping up and creating a quick English custard. I tell myself Julia ate butter, sugar, animal fat and smoked, still living to a ripe old age and seemingly enjoying every minute. Life is short, eat chocolate, frequently. Michael Pollen and his ilk are righteous and no doubt healthier than I, but are they happier than Julia? I think not!

Here's what else I'm wondering: why would one go to a 45th H.S. reunion, even if one loved one's H.S. years and had many good friends (of which, I'm happy to say, a few are still dear friends), enjoyed school, yadda, yadda...why go? I've gone to two reunions before and each time emerged with a case of over-socialization resulting in at least two days of troubled sleep. Not to mention the stress of trying to lose 20 pounds before the reunion date, which for me usually means gaining five. And what about dress, nails and hair? It's just too much, I tell you! If I were a real extrovert instead of the painfully shy child who learned relatively late in life how to fake being sociable, perhaps reunions, weddings, large parties, etc. wouldn't be so debilitating. It's not that I don't want to see everyone (well, almost everyone). I do, but preferably one-on-one, which with the 400-ish graduates of Paramus High School Class of '67, would take me several lifetimes to schedule and fulfill.

I know, you're going to say, Facebook is the solution. Well, I do, and some of my former classmates are my FB "friends", which is lovely, but a mere drop in the proverbial bucket. And really, what is the purpose of seeing classmates after a 45-year hiatus except to either congratulate oneself at being a) alive and relatively healthy (check), b) thinner than you were in H.S. (that ship has sailed for me long ago) or c) to showcase your brilliant career (again, ship has sailed). Ah, I think I've hit on a valid, if dishonorable, reason to go. My darling hubby is also the good sport of the world (and he owes me, as I've schlepped to at least two of his H.S. reunions and other such affairs in which he is canonized as the basketball and music hero he was in H.S., and I am regarded as an appendage of dubious provenance, having grown up in leafy Bergen County while he and his minions braved the rough streets of Paterson and rigors of Catholic schools. I can sort of see their point.). I hadn't even met him at the time of the last reunion, when I was a business owner and divorced woman with no children, hardly a poster child for "most likely to succeed". But am I really that cowardly? (Yes.) Can't I go alone? (No.) Can't I simply say, No thank you and get on with my life? (Maybe, but these things tend to haunt me, whichever decision I make.) Well, what would you do?

Born with a plastic spoon in my mouth

OK, this is my debut blog, taken from thoughts written down this morning in my "morning pages," a handwritten journal I've kept for the past year since my husband's niece and my friend Susan gave me "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron, highly recommended for artists at any stage of their development. Writing is the easy part for me. Figuring out how to share my writing has always been the challenge, so we'll see how I can push this out to the hungry hordes of voracious readers, clamoring for my bon mots. Here we go:

Reading Pierre Franey's autobiography ("A Chef's Tale: a memoir of food, France and America", 1994, which caught my eye on the library shelf), candid and startlingly lovely, his unrestrained embrace of life. Before Julia, Jacques and Mario, there was Pierre, a master chef who devoted his life to food and cooking, making delicious dishes for the joy of doing so. There were no celebrity chefs in Pierre's day, but he was as close as it got, having created the "60-Minute Gourmet" column in The New York Times and presiding over two of the greatest French restaurants – Le Pavillon and La Cote Basque –ever to be opened in America. Pierre's long gone now, having grown up before WWII in what he calls the halcyon days of France, in Burgundy, in a large, complicated family. I am struck by the intricate descriptions of the plants, woods, animals, fish that provided sustenance for his family, and how intimately people (country people throughout time) were involved in what we now so righteously call the "farm-to-table" process, or HOW food gets into our greedy mouths. For all my research, experimentation, foraging and cooking, I'm still a post-WWII Baby Boomer, born with a plastic spoon and processed formula in my mouth. Nothing "natural" about that heritage. I still eat and enjoy synthetic "food" like Cheez Its and Dairy Queen "ice cream", and am clueless about where much of the groceries I buy came from or how they got onto the store's shelves. Shockingly clueless,.

For all my good intentions and worthy actions, I'm still a person very much of my time, with my plastic (BPA-free!) water bottles and grocery list. The only farmer I know is Jim Abma, who I greet merrily when I run into him during my frequent forays to Abma's Farm for eggs, meat, produce, illusion. Sometimes I visit their petting zoo. This spring, months ago, they had a pen of the most adorable pink and white with black-spotted piglets. Next time I went they were gone, and the freezer shelves at Abma's were full of pork chops. I bought many. They were wonderful. Oh piggies, forgive me for I knew not what I did, or now I so claim. In my next life, or in a more evolved state in this one, I shall be a vegetarian, if not a vegan (but that's another blog, my thoughts on veganism).