Julie and Julia by: Julie Powell

I’m going to let you in on a dirty little secret, I feel quite ashamed really as if what I’m about to reveal might erase that little-bitty amount of feminine savoir faire hidden deep within me…Take a deep breath, here goes… I hate cooking. There, I said it. I also hate ironing. Each time I try to use the damn thing, the batteries are dead but let’s squirrel away the topic of ironing for another day.

I’m not quite sure why I dislike cooking so much,my Body Mass Index would surely suggest otherwise but the truth is, I gain no pleasure from it and have no interest in being in the kitchen unless I absolutely have to. This might therefore be the reason why I had never heard of Julia Child until this novel. Another possible alibi could be that the poor lady got lost somewhere in my British upbringing of bangers and mash but the most likely explanation must be that everyone else knew who she was except for me which is not so exceptional. I still don’t know how many states the US of A actually has! So, by picking up this book, not only was I introduced to the fabulous author; Julie Powell, I also got a crash course on Julia Child, the woman responsible for bringing French cooking to America.

I actually know a thing or two about French cooking as my mother has been living there for nearly 31 escargot farci years and the thing or two I know is firmly stuck around my butt area. French cooking is my absolute favorite, Italian definitely is an out of breath runner up but there is nothing that gives me more pleasure than either the simplicity or extravagance of French cuisine. Both seem effortless and are always orgasmic, yes orgasmic. I do not get the same vaginal shout outs when I eat Greek food or even a Friday favorite curry. Moreover, I certainly could not eat either of these two types of cooking each and every day of the year but French food what can I say…I think I’ve said enough.

So, although I am not from the USA, we all need to gather round for a big ol’ group hug and give Julia Child a heartfelt round of applause for crossing the continent with her bag of goodies and sharing French cooking with America. I must also thank Julie, the author of this novel for bringing this woman back to life to be recognized and rediscovered once more. I absolutely loved the author. Her humor was spot on, her writing a riot and her story, an inspiration to us all.

Julie Powell, a bored and frustrated government secretary picks up an old copy of “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” by Julia Child one day at her mum’s, and for some crazy reason decides to cook every single recipe, 524 to be precise, in one calendar year and document this painstaking endeavor in a blog. Sounds simple really but was it?. It wasn’t the recipes that made me turn the next page but how and if Julie would get through them. Would she end up in tears, delighted, drunk as a fart, neurotic, jubilant or divorced? All of these were possibilities at one time or another and each and every scenario was sumptuously narrated.We go through the Kiri killings of live lobsters, the laborious lancings of marrow bone, the crestfallen cremations of thousands of crepes and the mind fuck makings of Mayonnaise not to mention cakes, fish, poultry and much much more.

Through all these wonderful recipes we meet many of Julie’s family members, friends and fans that sprinkle color and life into Julie’s kitchen but the one that shines the brightest, is her husband Eric. One could suggest that this story is an unintentional modern day love story. A story of friendship, partners in crime, marriage. The pair of them, although probably traumatized by their Julia Child experience, gives the reader a glimpse into something more meaningful than cooking and Julie’s project. They exemplify a good kind of loving. Love in the 21st Century is no longer personified as a man in tights singing under your window,  (come to think of it, have I ever mentioned my husband?). In our busy world, love seems to be squeezed in…”date nights” and all yet throughout this novel I felt Julie and Eric’s commitment to each other. It was the little things that stood out. Those little things that enabled them to team up and finish this insane project. Their love was the kind that can be understood and appreciated by all of us couples who drink gimlets, fix the plumbing, massacre maggots, wash the dishes, cuss, and cuddle together.

Julie and Julia is like a slice of bread. It starts of plain and simple. Then you grill it and before you know it you’ve added the eggs, milk, cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla extract and voila you have French Toast. By the end of her project, Julie was cooking up a storm, she was invincible. Her taste buds had blossomed and her cooking skills, I’m sure, were nothing short of formidable.

I will now let you in on another dirty little secret, having read and enjoyed Julie Powell’s novel so much, I… Yes me….Yours truly, bought “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” it’s in my kitchen, albeit at the bottom of a very dark drawer.

Julia you are a hoot, I can’t wait to find out what you cook up next.

Note to Julie: … I experienced Al Pacino’s Salome as well…what can I say?…lots of spitting from Mr Tony Montana, let’s leave it at that.

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RATING:

Eat Pray and Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert

Liz , the author of this wonderful and warm read, is a woman who, after an emotionally crippling divorce, decides to travel. I haven’t read a book yet that really captures that state called Divorce; that dark cave of failure, guilt, loss and neglect. In short, Divorce deserves a capital D and is not as clean cut as you see on Dallas: lip gloss, shoulder pads, Patrick Duffy’s hairy chest and all. Divorce is messy and beats you up. Liz describes these moments in her life so well that we, her readers, are ready to take this journey through the 3 I’s - Italy, India and Indonesia with her. Each place will feed and comfort her, opening her spirit, and eventually touching her and our senses, soul, and heart respectively. Although this is Liz’s journey, we can’t help but feel a shift in our own world. I felt very at peace reading this. I had sincere empathy for Liz’s story and enjoyed her approach to life.

Her first stop is Italy. Why? Because Liz wants to learn the language and eat as much delicious Italian food as she can. This simple idea is such a luxury and one that should be done by all, if money and time permits it. How wonderful to go to a country of choice to simply be in that country awhile. I have done a fair bit of traveling and have lived in several different countries and there is knowledge gained that is unique to the time and effort you put into your stay. You cannot learn about another country and its’ spirit through books, night school or comfortably sitting in front of your TV, watching the travel channel in your underwear. You need to live it on a generous time span so you can open up and melt into it. Liz’s luxurious Italian stay was indeed perfect, filled with thought, food, and the beginning of her transformation. Bravissimo.

Next is India, and instead of sunrise raves in Goa or stories about Mother Theresa swindling the locals, Liz stays put in an Ashram for 3 months to master meditation. In that time, I could hear her fidgeting and could taste the silence. God, we all fidget. My 7 year old is one big wormy squirmy fidget. How can you possibly stay put for longer than; hey let’s be generous and say 15 minutes…without…FIDGETING? AGH… my worst nightmare … but I must confess that lately, I really am curious to find that quiet place so I can say a quick hello to myself… Liz, what a gift you got. It is at this ashram that Liz’s dedication to finding herself begins. She writes very personally about her experience, with a faith that makes any skeptic (ie. yours truly) feel like we’re on the same page. instead of feeling put off, I was compelled. I know, old faithfuls, that I sound like a tree eating solstice nudist, but I feel that in our neon, beeping, multi-sensory world, we have rendered silence unimportant and altogether forgotten the art of listening. However, in the silence, truth is found. Namaste.

Liz’s last destination is Indonesia … Bali to be precise. A healthier stronger woman lands at this airport for sure. Here she discovers her heart again … not only in the form of a Brazilian God, but also in a family. In this world, one thing is universal: wherever you go, if you are appreciated, you will appreciate in return. Some like to think that color, socio-economics, and beliefs divide us (and of course they do) but we are all united emotionally. Every unhappy person breathing in this world is unhappy for the same reasons. Our core emotional structures are fundamentally all the same. In Indonesia, Liz meets a kindred divorcee healer/doctor Wayan and her daughter Tutti. Liz falls in delightedly with them and helps Wayan and her daughter get a new home. In this case, love is not necessarily a romantic adventure, it is a desire to enjoy other people’s happiness. Liz, perhaps unaware at the time, made a lot of people happy in Indonesia. Smile and the whole world smiles with you. The woman in Indonesia is no longer the woman who went to Italy … she is finally content.
Damai.

When you are broken, it is hard to figure out how to put yourself back together again. All you get when you ring all the kings horses and all the kings men is a busy tone or an automated answering machine saying, “Press #1 if your head has fallen off… press #2 if your heart was ripped out… press #3 to become a volunteer.” At the end of the day, we only have ourselves and our own courage. And let’s face it, life requires everyone to have a lot of courage.

Eat Pray and Love is brimming with hot frothy courage like a hot whole milk cappuccino. It’s exotic, and because of it’s antioxidants it helps to cleanse the mind and makes you feel more vigorous, but drunk in excess there’s a risk of heart disease. Before Liz’s journey, she had OD’d on coffee and her heart was in an agitated state of dis-ease. By the end, she knows exactly the right amount of coffee she needs to get the perfect result. Also, coffee might be a very cheap way to attain some of Liz’s near euphoric states without needing to purchase a ticket to India and sit alone in silence for 8 hrs a day! I hear heroin does the trick as well! Your choice.

A favorite album/visual documentary of mine is One Giant Leap. In it, someone says, “I spent some time interviewing dying patients and not one of them regretted not having made more money or worked harder. They regretted not having spent more time with the people they loved, not having traveled enough or connected to the world more.” This I can truly believe. It’s a thought we should all bring into our lives. I’m not telling you to go out and recycle snail shells or save your used chewing gum so you can make your own shoes if ever that time should come, but to take some time for yourself and the ones you love. Show them your love, be thankful, and pursue happiness because time is all we really have. Liz will keep this personal journey with her eternally I am sure. When she is old and gray shuffling along on her zimmer frame, her travels will still be part of her. One thing is sure: her journey through the three I’s has changed her forever… and for the better.

Elizabeth, I loved your pilgrimage. Well done. You should be so proud of yourself. Next time though take me with you!

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RATING:

The Last Days of Dogtown by: Anita Diamant

Curiosity creates motivation. Motivation creates movement. Movement enlightens you… or at least makes you shed a few pounds and go to the bathroom regularly. Diamant’s motivation for The Last Days of Dogtown came from a pamphlet about a once named community called Dogtown in Massachusetts. Although the information from the pamphlet was minimal, she got a sense that this community had a story to tell and just like her fabulous novel The Red Tent, Diamant went on to create a completely fictional story about a place, despite uninhabited, is still today called Dogtown. Diamant is very good at persuading the reader into believing that what she has created really did happen. Her imagery, tone, and characters always manage to convince you of their deserved place at that time. Her stories are consistently so wonderfully compelling, she definitely has got a knack for the art of the written word.

However, unlike The Red Tent, which was thick with drama and suspense, Dogtown is read in the same way a dog might go about his day. You start up, read a bit. lay down again, have a snooze, wake up, read a little more, your ears perk up, you wag your tail, then maybe take a walk with it. Stop to lap up some water, scratch the back of your head, suddenly you get excited, your tongue pops out and you start panting and drooling, you pounce on it like a dog would pounce on a possum that has unexpectedly fallen from a tree, chase it a while only to get tired once more. Have a nap, eyes half open, yawn, stretch, take a moment to lick your privates, then finally snuggle up to it.

I know my above analogy must sound like I’ve popped a dozen pills and that the voices are speaking to me again…unfortunately, not today. But this was kind of the pace of the novel… please don’t get me wrong here…this is not a criticism, on the contrary, it felt good to be part of her characters unglamorous, hard, and somewhat tiresome existence. After all, this novel is set in the 1800’s, the human race had not yet created Game Boy, the Internet or cell phones…and how did we ever manage without them I ask you!

When I lived on the Island of FuvahMullah in The Maldives, I lived with barely anything. I had no TV, newspapers, refrigerator, beepers, gadgets, vibrators and most importantly I did not have my electronic nose hair trimmer … Nothing…Okay, I lied, my vibrator came with me (I have short fingers..what can I say!). My point is; that when you strip all the noise and interference out of your lifestyle, you finally get to hear the natural humdrum pitter-patter of living. What your neighbor does becomes very important.. Gossip is what Fatima’s mum said to Khadija’s mum…not who got the Oscar for the best performance in the female genre. It’s a day to day existence that really matters yet it is unhurried and unfolds slowly…Just as with Dogtown.

Dogtown was once a hopeful place that quickly turned into a haven for the despondent and rejected. The small population was made up of widows, drunks, prostitutes, homeless African Americans, abused kids, abandoned dogs even (some said) witches. This community was sneered at and repudiated by more affluent communities and maybe this reputation wasn’t altogether unsubstantiated. We come across some very odious characters that seem to taint all the inhabitants of Dogtown reputations. Among some of the putrid characters are a couple of gems who’s hardships you deeply sympathize with. Nevertheless, their socio/economic situation makes it almost impossible for them to be truly content. Their small glimpses of happiness moved me so, because they stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the realities of their situations and surroundings.

Dogtown recreates a time and place where misery seemed inevitable. Very few opportunities ever presented themselves to those who, from the start, were already doomed. If we take a moment to think about today, we know very well that we have communities like Dogtown scattered all around us. But because our communities have grown so big and prosperous we tend not to notice the people of Dogtown who walk among us. I live very close to Venice Beach in California now and I am appalled that such a rich community has so many vagrants. It breaks my heart when I stop my 8 seater SUV to let the lady with one shoe on her foot, screaming at the sky, cross the road. When I walk home from filling my belly at the local Mexican restaurant and see the aged old man, huddled in the refuge of a shop door, surrounded by cardboard and his own piss. I feel sick inside, when I step outside my dentist’s office and pass the prostitute with meth stained teeth in a carcass of a body. When I worked in the schools of Compton, South Central, I was humbled and very worried at the conditions of the schools. I worked in 5 different Middle schools, and I never came across a white student. Have we really moved on from the days of Dogtown…or is this all an illusion?

The Last Days of Dogtown depicts a grueling way of life. Most of the characters are gruesome in some shape or form and I can only imagine that gruel was a staple diet for almost all at that time. Gruel, otherwise known as porridge, is a thin watery cooked cereal that is now mostly consumed for breakfast but was once served out as an economic necessity, often used to nurse the sick back to health. It has been used as a metaphor for cruelty, as seen in Charles Dicken’s Oliver Twist and has carried a bad reputation ever since. For me, The Last Days of Dogtown, conjures up the image of a big bowl of cruel gruel yet there is beauty in this baron tasteless town. It comes from the endurance of Diamant’s castaway characters. and their battle against their respective lives.

Once again, Diamant has written a poignantly real tale of human behaviors that have direct links to their time and place…Diamant, you must know by now that I think you’re the bee’s knees and all I ask is “please ma’am, may I have some more!”

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RATING:

Whistling In The Dark by: Lesley Kagen

I’m always impressed when a writer captures the feel of a person far away from them. By that I mean a male author writing using a female voice as with Midwives or a British native perfectly capturing the characteristics of a Ukrainian as with A short history of Tractors in Ukrainian or an adult telling a story through the eyes of a child as with Whistling in the Dark. It’s quite something to go back to that childhood voice or thought process that has long since grown up and recapture all those mannerisms. Not too hard for me though as I am still a child at heart. My stretch marks, floppy breasts and hairy chin are a cover up… I love the Power Puff girls… Rock on Hannah Montana!

Whistling in the Dark’s biggest triumph is Sally O’Mally’s voice. Kagen captures this 10 year old’s spirit beautifully. It is through her eyes that the events of 1959 unfold. Although the events surround the abductions and killings of young girls, a subject anyone would find hard to dive into, Sally O’Mally takes us through this uncomfortable journey in an inoffensive way. Sally thinks she knows who the killer is and also believes that she is next…She however finds it very hard to convince anyone else. Through her willful need to unearth the truth, many other truths are exhumed, making this story not so much about the horrific killings but about a child who discovers herself.

This was not a “I won’t sleep until the last page is turned novel”. In fact, once read, I did not feel like reviewing it straight away. Screaming messages did not come to me, the ouija board did not spell anything out. But now, rested a while, I appreciate it a lot more. A 10 year old’s perspective will only ever be a ten year old’s perspective so if you welcome that you will welcome Whistling in the Dark. Because of this, Kagen has written a wonderful novel.

Sally O’Mally is like an ice cream sandwich. She is innocent and delicious yet stuck in the middle of an adult world that she has not yet seeped out of. Lick by lick you devour the novel until all that remains is a sticky sweet substance gummed to your fingers, that you can’t help but lick off as well. This was Kagen’s first novel and with sticky hands I applaud her. Kagen found a voice, a good voice and stuck to it without fault. Whistling in the Dark’s success really depends if the reader is willing to listen to this voice as a mother would listen to her child, because If you enter on a high horse you may get bucked up the rear end. Kagen good luck to all the other writings you will bring us, this was a strong debut.

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RATING:

The Attack By: Yasmina Khadra

Although I feel that I am politically active mentally, my days of marching, lobbying, and flipping the bird to the powers that be have slowly dissipated with age and acquired wisdom. Yet, on November the 11th 2004, my cage was rattled so I thumped my chest and roared. Here’s why: Yassir Arafat had died. Very concerned, I turned on the television to find out what was going on in the Middle East. It wasn’t until 3 news bulletins in that the story was finally covered. I couldn’t believe it…Lacey Peterson took first place (gold goes to the USA), A panda took second (silver goes to China) and Arafat came in third (bronze goes to… What’s that country’s name again?). I called and e-mailed as many News Stations as possible and left dumbfounded messages about their priorities and the responsibility they have to the public, needless to say I didn’t hear back from any of them.

The situation between Palestine and Israel has always confused me. It seems to be a story so entrenched in a far away timeworn past that the beginning is a blur. Yet one thing is clear, reports appear to be a tad biased and the country smelling of roses (as far as the Western World is concerned) is Israel. To be honest, I have no idea who is right or wrong here but Yasmina Khadra’s “The Attack” did reopen my eyes into a dismal situation.

Suicide bombers have a bad reputation…this is an understatement. They are always written off as fundamentalists or as brain washed nutters. Yet to some they are hailed as heroes and martyrs. Why is that? I suppose they must be nuts too. There must be something in the water. Have they still GOT running water? I think it is incredibly naive and dangerous for people to palm these suicide bombers off like this. To brush them under the carpet using the excuse of insanity. The idea of a human being packing themselves with explosives and blowing themselves, along with people they have no connection to, into smithereens is nothing short of despicable, desperate. Should we go along with the idea that these souls are groomed from a very young age, that the key to the pearly white gate is their payoff? Maybe we could for those who have not personally had a chance to develop their own conscience but what about the masterminds behind these hand picked human missiles? I have a feeling that they know exactly what they are doing and our responsibility is to understand their rationale.

Khadra’s novel submerges the reader into the mindset of the Palestinian people and those that sacrifice their lives and the lives of others for the possibility of a better future for their country. The main character Dr. Amin Jaafari , a nationalized Israeli surgeon, has spent his whole life walking further and further away from his Muslim family and their plights in order to practice his prestigious profession, provide his wife Sihem and himself with a solid wealthy future and get the recognition from his Israeli colleagues. All of this until one day, after a terrible terrorist attack that kills many children and maims dozens, he discovers that his wife was the bomber. Jaafari’s whole past is thrown into question and the reaction from his colleagues, neighbors, the police force and all of his unanswered whys leads him on a journey that makes him rediscover himself, his family and above all his country once again.

The Attack is a great debate between two schools of thought. One school is located in let’s say; Beverly hills the other in Compton; South Central. One comes from the intellectually privileged mouth the other the experienced. Both have weight. Sometimes, when you are in the thick of things you can’t see the forest for the tree and sometimes you can only see the tree and not the forest. Khadra does a wonderful job at giving balanced, understandable points of views. Enabling the reader to comprehend and sincerely sympathize with the decisions and actions taken by the characters in this story from both schools. My recipe selection for The Attack is Mourning Dove sauteed. Yes, I am using symbolism to describe a deeply tragic conflict that seems to have no end in sight. My question is: Will the Dove be able to finally find his olive branch? Will Homeland and peace ever be restored? Or will it all just continue to go up in flames?

Khadra, I really enjoyed your characters perspectives. It allowed me to become emotionally attached to the ideologies of others who are often negatively portrayed by the government and media. There is so much that needs to be understood here and whilst we try, remember that people’s homes, lives and their children’s futures are hanging on a very frayed delicate thread. Let’s not ignore this. Just because we do not live on a battlefield does not mean that we should forget about those who do. The definition of Fundamental is: Forming a necessary base of central importance. Is not the future of our children our most important consideration? Would we not fight for them if what lies ahead was hopelessly unstable? Of course we would. - Insya Allah - Yirtzeh Hashem - God willing

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RATING: