And so, despite my responsible and vigilant ingestion of many vitamins and minerals (I smell like an herb garden right now, I think), I am now at home, buried under a pile of unwashed quilts, nursing a sore throat and feeling very sorry for myself indeed. The cats look askance at me, as if they are wondering why I am home in the middle of the day and not feeding them.
Life is hard.
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So. Book review time.
Two books, one author: Julie Powell, known in some uncharitable circles as "a soiled and narcissistic whore." I'll refrain from such judgments, mainly because A.) Hey, we've all been there, and B.) It just takes way too much energy at present. And plus, there's an absolutely adorable egg whisk on the cover--which I actually registered for! Heh.
Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen. If for some reason you've been living under a rock for the past few years (or, the other alternative that can explain a disconnect from pop culture, have been attending grad school), and haven't heard, it's a book based on the blog of a woman who, on the eve of turning 30, decided that she had done very little worthy in her life and so proceeded to spend the next year cooking up every recipe in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Powell documents her experiences in her blog, expands upon them in her book, eats a lot of butter, and drives her sainted husband crazy. Defying all odds, she gets noticed, her book gets published, and a movie is made out of it.
Both the book and the blog have a refreshingly honest--and caustic--tone and text, to say nothing of a supremely quirky wit. As well, Powell offers up a more than a few domestic details which I find utterly beguiling. As an almost-30 almost-wife, I understand career frustrations and the feeling of abject terror that comes when I realize that the only thing standing between me and middle age are ten tenuous, flimsy, easy-come-easy-go years. Julie Powell's been there, and her book is a good companion to light the way.
Her husband, Eric, is along for the ride, and he certainly benefits--and suffers--from the project. He practically gave her the idea for it, and he certainly provides her with a great deal of support (and manpower) as she cooks her way through the year. More than once, I found myself thinking, "That is a marriage I'd like to aspire to."
That is, until I read Cleaving.
Powell is taking a lot of flak for this book, perhaps not unjustly. It's a very different kind of book from J&J...it's more specialized (meathooks and butchery, anyone?), it's not as funny, and in fact, parts of it are pretty darned sad.
You see, Julie ends up cheating on her husband. Not just for a one-night stand, but for a long time. A couple of years' worth of time. And her husband knows. And they stay together, the whole time pretty much, and eventually Julie and her lover (who's a real toad of a guy, btw) part and Julie's devastated. And so she goes off and learns butchery.
Here's the real departure--butchery. Because once you get past the screamingly obvious metaphor (Helen Keller couldn't have missed it) of Powell butchering her marriage, the meat stuff is pretty boring. I actually skipped over most of that, because to me, the redeeming parts of the book were Powell's reflections on her marriage, her husband, her affair. She pondered Eric, the strange, secret language of their relationship, the past and the future of their marriage. She tried to come to terms with the sick nature of her obsession. I'm still not sure if she succeeds at any of it. The final lesson--in fact the only lesson--about marriage that I can take away from this book is that there is no happy ending, ever. Each marriage is a story in progress, without end until the ultimate end--death or separation. Each day the marriage evolves, and the only way to evolve with it is through vigilance.
And fidelity. I'm just sayin'.
Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen. If for some reason you've been living under a rock for the past few years (or, the other alternative that can explain a disconnect from pop culture, have been attending grad school), and haven't heard, it's a book based on the blog of a woman who, on the eve of turning 30, decided that she had done very little worthy in her life and so proceeded to spend the next year cooking up every recipe in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Powell documents her experiences in her blog, expands upon them in her book, eats a lot of butter, and drives her sainted husband crazy. Defying all odds, she gets noticed, her book gets published, and a movie is made out of it.
Both the book and the blog have a refreshingly honest--and caustic--tone and text, to say nothing of a supremely quirky wit. As well, Powell offers up a more than a few domestic details which I find utterly beguiling. As an almost-30 almost-wife, I understand career frustrations and the feeling of abject terror that comes when I realize that the only thing standing between me and middle age are ten tenuous, flimsy, easy-come-easy-go years. Julie Powell's been there, and her book is a good companion to light the way.
Her husband, Eric, is along for the ride, and he certainly benefits--and suffers--from the project. He practically gave her the idea for it, and he certainly provides her with a great deal of support (and manpower) as she cooks her way through the year. More than once, I found myself thinking, "That is a marriage I'd like to aspire to."
That is, until I read Cleaving.
Powell is taking a lot of flak for this book, perhaps not unjustly. It's a very different kind of book from J&J...it's more specialized (meathooks and butchery, anyone?), it's not as funny, and in fact, parts of it are pretty darned sad.
You see, Julie ends up cheating on her husband. Not just for a one-night stand, but for a long time. A couple of years' worth of time. And her husband knows. And they stay together, the whole time pretty much, and eventually Julie and her lover (who's a real toad of a guy, btw) part and Julie's devastated. And so she goes off and learns butchery.
Here's the real departure--butchery. Because once you get past the screamingly obvious metaphor (Helen Keller couldn't have missed it) of Powell butchering her marriage, the meat stuff is pretty boring. I actually skipped over most of that, because to me, the redeeming parts of the book were Powell's reflections on her marriage, her husband, her affair. She pondered Eric, the strange, secret language of their relationship, the past and the future of their marriage. She tried to come to terms with the sick nature of her obsession. I'm still not sure if she succeeds at any of it. The final lesson--in fact the only lesson--about marriage that I can take away from this book is that there is no happy ending, ever. Each marriage is a story in progress, without end until the ultimate end--death or separation. Each day the marriage evolves, and the only way to evolve with it is through vigilance.
And fidelity. I'm just sayin'.
