This recent spate of writing was triggered by what I was reading and a stir up of thought about inner life. The books seemed to talk to each other. It's been a long time since I've felt like I've been in an vigorous relationship with my inner life. That might seem odd since I spend so much time alone but I've been numb and zoned out. I always wonder when the outside world feels so connected and juicy if it's something that's always true and I don't notice. I almost always enjoy what I'm reading but it doesn't always connect the way it has been.
Blood, Bones and Butter is maintaining the trend although somewhat differently. She and have lots of similar experience. We both came to cooking because we needed a job. We both washed dishes, waited tables and worked in less than glamorous restaurants.
There are also differences. She had a French mother who raised a lot of what they ate and taught her how to forage and develop a palate. I had a mother who is afraid to try something because she might not like it. To this day she says she doesn't like curry despite the fact that a friend once served a "delicious" chicken salad, which turned out to be curried. My palate is limited despite my effort to grow it. I'm not fond of the more pungent end of the spectrum.
She struggled in her Masters in Writing Program with the theory, overwrought poetry and a general lack of humor. I struggle in my MFA program for sort of opposite reasons. No theory, a narrow band of style preference legitimatized by attitude.
She was sort of abandoned at a fairly young age. Dad was still there and an older brother but she was digging around in the kitchen trying to figure out how to eat. I was not abandoned but I was a latch key kid waiting for Mom to come home and make dinner. I wish I would have tried to cook more but Mom wasn't that open to it and the few times I did weren't well received.
The book is a good read and the things we have in common are making me smile. There is a way in which her story seems to have led her to be the famous chef and writer that she is and mine led me ... well.
Random and unrelated memories from my life are stirred up after I read. It's a bit of a tumble.
It's been an odd week.
I'm going to tuck in tonight.