Tag Archives: book review

The Moosewood Cookbook: How I Broke My Oven and Learned to Cook Again

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Remember a while back when I tried to write a cookbook review and ended up breaking the oven? (and coining the new cuss word FOCACCIT!)  Well, I’m proud to report that just 6 months and $1200 later, we have a new oven! And I STILL haven’t made that focaccia.  But I am ready to write a review of the The Moosewood Cookbook: 40th Anniversary Edition.

Short Review: Buy yourself one today! Or get one for the mama in your life for Mothers Day! If you use that Amazon link, it will be here in time for Sunday. Probably. Wedding gift, graduation gift, Treat Yoself gift…this book belongs in every kitchen.

Being without an oven meant I had to do some re-engineering in the kitchen. Loooots of Crock Pot cooking. Also more salads and stir frys. I feel like this beautiful book helped me fall back in love with the basics of cooking–the sensual, spiritual creation of concoctions that nourish us.

(Does that sound sufficiently Hippie enough for ya? Good, let’s continue.)


I was unfamiliar with the story of the Moosewood Cookbook. It’s one of the best-selling cookbooks of all time, a classic of vegetarian cooking. Mollie Katzen, one of the founders of the Moosewood Restaurant in Ithaca, New York, compiled and illustrated this collection of recipes 40 years ago. The cookbook started as a binder of recipes used by the cooks at Moosewood–none of them professional chefs. The collection includes recipes from grandmothers, restaurant diners, international adventures. A little of this, a little of that.

Yes, it’s packed with exotic flavors from around the world, but what I loved most about this book was that it helped me get back to the basics. Over the past couple of years, I’ve fallen into the trap of the working mother–convenience foods and a boring routine of proven, easy recipes. Seriously, we are one taco salad from oblivion up in here.

When I prepared the Moosewood recipe for French Onion Soup, I remembered the simple pleasure of caramelizing onions on a Sunday afternoon (and G even ate it too!). Just below the recipe for onion soup are instructions for making croutons. I didn’t need a recipe for croutons–I just needed a reminder that I COULD make my own croutons. And I did.

This book reminded me that I can make my own vinaigrette instead of relying on Paul Newman’s. As I mixed the ingredients, I remembered how my sister taught me to smash the salt and garlic together with a fork to release the flavors. I shook my dressing in a cruet that reminded me of Big Gay and the homemade salad dressing she keeps on hand. I got back in touch with the act of cooking.

Instead of cracking a bottle of LaChoy, I cracked open the Moosewood Cookbook and taught myself how to make stir-fry sauces from scratch. Again–not complicated things to do, but a return to the basic joy of making foods with my whole brain instead of a jar.

moosewoodIt’s not only an interesting and varied cookbook–it’s beautiful and playful. Katzen hand-lettered and illustrated each page. It’s a completely different feeling from the Pinteresty, food stylist, soft focus filter world of today. The simplicity of the pages reminds me of the Flint River Favorites cookbook that my school put together in the 1970s (except there are a lot fewer recipes that call for cream of mushroom soup). I remember my mother helping to collect and type all those recipes. The cookbook fell open to the page with the brownie recipe, which was smearing and smudged with so many drips that it smelled like brownies.

I’m looking forward to working my way around to the jicama salads and spanakopita and Ukranian poppy seed cake, but for right now, I’m so glad I have this rich book to explore, one taste at a time.

It’s a marvel!

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I received a review copy of this book in exchange for an honest review. Check out Blogging for Books if you’d like to know more about the program!

940 Saturdays

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9780804185424Between your child’s birth and his or her 18th birthday, you’ll have 940 Saturdays to share together. That’s the premise behind a new family activities guide and keepsake journal by Dr. Harley Rotbart.

I’m a big fan of keeping a journal for my children. My friend, Andrea, gave me a pink suede journal with a flower clasp before I even knew whether my first child was a boy or girl. I started writing letters to Vivi when we still called her/him “Pollywog.” One day, she’ll get the journal and read all those letters G and I wrote to her along the journey. Carlos has one too. I’m realistic that I won’t do scrapbooks and such for my kids, but journals? Right up my alley.

That’s why I got a copy of this book for review. Great concept! Making journaling easy for busy families. I’m sorry to report that the difference between concept and execution in “940 Saturdays” is much like the difference between what we dream parenting will be like and what it’s actually like. Great plan in theory, but NOT going to happen in real life.

I was expecting a thick book of family activity suggestions, with a small keepsake journal in the souvenir pocket in the back. The actual book is the opposite–300 pages of empty journal and a slim book of family activity suggestions included in the pocket.

What bugs me about the design of the journal is that it’s arranged numerically, with a heading for “Saturday #249” or “Saturday #632” next to a place for you to enter the date and a brief description of what your family did on that day. Honestly, I can see a new parent keeping up for the first few weeks, then getting off track for a few weeks and not bothering with the math to figure out where they are in the journal. A free-form journal with a simple space for the date would be more forgiving.

This past Saturday, G and I took the littles to a pumpkin patch for all kinds of photogenic autumnal activities. We played hide and seek in a sunflower field. Carlos picked out a pumpkin so big that he couldn’t lift it, so he rolled it to G and declared, “Pick if up, Daddy.” We went on a hay ride and named the tractor “Otis” just like in the books. Vivi buried herself in dried corn. Carlos patted a rabbit.

That’s the kind of Saturday I want to write down in their journals, but I don’t want to have to calculate that it was the 322nd Saturday of our life together!

The Saturday before that? It was just as magical. We cleaned out the garage…as a family.

The one before that? I’ve already forgotten.

So yes, these memories should be captured, but most families are going to need a little more wiggle room. If you’ve got a baby shower coming up for a super-organized, left brain type of parent, “940 Saturdays” might be the right gift. For everyone else, buy a pretty journal and wish them well!

I received this book from Blogging for Books for this review.

Passing For a Boy

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kabulHave you ever had to pretend to be something you’re not in order to have the freedoms others take for granted? Had to “butch it up” or “don’t ask, don’t tell?” Had to “talk white?” Had to “go along to get along?”

I’ve been reading a book called “The Underground Girls of Kabul” about an open secret in Afghanistan: girls who are dressed by their families as boys so that they may enjoy the freedoms denied to women in that gender-segregated culture. Women’s lives in Afghanistan are strictly limited because of their gender. So the question becomes, “Who would not walk out the door in disguise if the only alternative was living as a prisoner or a slave?”

While Jenny Nordberg was in Kabul to investigate the changes in women’s right in Afghanistan after the fall of the Taliban, she discovered the undiscussed but not invisible tradition of “bacha posh” which means “dressed up like a boy.” In a society where girls can’t move freely outside the home, a bacha posh sometimes provides an economic benefit–another pair of hands that can work to feed the family. In some cases, a third or fourth daughter might be dressed as a boy to fool the world into thinking that the family has produced a boy in order to meet societal expectations. Once the girl child nears puberty, she is switched back to presenting as a girl and re-enters the constrained life of being an Afghan woman. But what freedom has she experienced while living on the other side? She could look people in the eye, play in the sun, raise her hand in school.

Nordberg’s story of her search for bacha posh, current and former, engaged me and got me thinking about other forms of “passing.” Like Jewish chidren who were hidden in German families. Or gay soldiers in the age of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” Light-skinned black Americans who passed over to the other side of Jim Crow laws.

In those cases, discovery led to serious repercussions. Death and dishonor. When you are in a life or death situation, “passing” may be the only way to save yourself. But if it’s that easy to blur the line that has been used to divide people, how valid is the line? What struck me about the bacha posh in Afghanistan is that the practice seemed much less dangerous and in some cases was a manner of honor. Everyone knows that’s not really a boy, so why continue to value boys over girls if it’s that easy to fake it?

Here’s how the author puts it:  “Disguising oneself as a member of the recognized and approved group is at the same time a subversive act of infiltration and a concession to an impossible racist, sexist, or otherwise segregating system.” It’s subversive to say, “Fine. If only boys are worth anything, I’ll be a boy. There. I’m a boy.” Will that subversion of the system eventually lead people to scrap the bias against women? I doubt it. Bacha posh tradition predates Islam in Afghanistan.

What do you think? Does “passing” reinforce the culture by playing along by its rules? Or does it erode the bias by showing that the rule was arbitrary from the start?

Join From Left to Write on September 16th as we discuss The Underground Girls of Kabul. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

The Socialized Sociopath

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9780307956651Short Review of Confessions of a Sociopath by M.E. Thomas: Read It. It’s a fascinating and cogently written look inside the machinations of a certified non-violent sociopath. You’ll learn and you’ll be intrigued, but don’t expect to get any emotional satisfaction out of the relationship. It will leave you with the feeling that you know more, but you still can’t fix it. Your only hope is to protect yourself.

Why did I choose this book? After reading the blurb on the back I was pretty sure that my former boss is a sociopath:

“We are your neighbors, your coworkers, and quite possibly the people closest to you: lovers, family, friends. Our risk-seeking behavior and general fearlessness are thrilling, our glibness and charm alluring. Our often quick wit and outside-the-box thinking make us appear intelligent—even brilliant. We climb the corporate ladder faster than the rest, and appear to have limitless self-confidence.  Who are we? We are highly successful, noncriminal sociopaths and we comprise 4 percent of the American population.”

My boss wasn’t just grumpy or calculating or a bitch. And it wasn’t like it was personal–people in her control were merely resources to be manipulated. So many times I heard her described as a robot with no capacity for feelings. She looked perfect on the surface, but dead behind the eyes. The laugh always a half step behind. No small talk.

There are a hundred examples of The Crazy, but here’s the one that left me utterly stunned. One of our team had to leave town suddenly because his child was facing the loss of a child. Even the Army cuts you some slack in a tragedy like that. Our boss’ reaction? She wanted him written up for not getting the time off approved first.

The glib charm–check. The risk-taking gamesmanship–check. A “seek and destroy” attitude toward anyone who opposed her–check. Walking away after her hubris left the place in a clustercuss of massive proportions–check.

After it was over, we all kind of looked at each other like, “What the hell? How did we get sucked up in this storm of crazy?” We were played.

Confessions of a Sociopath isn’t an apology–it’s an inventory. The author explains what it’s like to be a sociopath at work, in school, in church, in relationships. I agree with her–being born a sociopath is another natural variation, like being born deaf, autistic. The same variation that gives us sauvants and empaths gives us people with an incapacity for feelings.

Reading this book gave me some measure of clarity about that boss and now I can move on from it. But there’s no redress. There’s no grievance filed. She’s moved on to her next game and we’re left to clean up and rebuild the damage she left in her wake.  Part of that work is rebuilding our own belief in ourselves.

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I received this book from Blogging for Books for this review.

Holding Hands

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A few weeks ago, in the flurry of prom snapshots on Facebook, I saw an image that took me right back to being young and aflutter.  In the photo, my friend’s daughter posed with her date.  Smiles and smiles and smiles.  Poses with their friends and with just the two of them.  They weren’t a “couple” couple, but not “just friends” either.  It was a date date.  And they were young and so so sparkly.

The picture that got to me was a candid snap of the crowd of kids.  The boy had taken the girl’s hand as they turned to cut a path through the crowd.  The look on her face, and the look on his face, even though they weren’t looking at each other–it was clear that holding hands was a big deal.  They both looked a secret kind of  happy, like maybe it was the first time they had held hands right there in front of everyone.  The energy that flowed through their hands made them one as they moved through the group.  The touching was something new, but the way it marked them apart as a pair was something new too.

When’s the last time you felt a secret kind of happy because you were holding someone’s hand?

Really.  Think about it.

Now that we’re Adults, most of us have moved on to more…expressive forms of touch.  Sure, G and I still hold hands when we’re out on a date, but most days we are holding the hands of those tiny people that we created (via the previously referenced “more expressive forms of touch”).  At this stage of life, we hold hands to keep people from darting into traffic, not to declare our coupledom to the wider world.

Richard and I used to joke about “who got to be on top” when we held hands.  I liked to be the hand on the bottom.  I liked the protected feel of my hand tucked into his.  Besides, I already had a good five inches on him in the height department, so I didn’t want it to look like I was dragging him down the street to a dentist appointment.  He liked being the bottom hand because he believed that it gave him more steering control–he swore this was a lesson he learned as a ski instructor.  So we joked for years about who got to be on top.

Anywho.  Where was I?  Oh yeah, high school….

Right in the middle of all this thinking about hand holding, I read a book that I cannot recommend highly enough–“Eleanor and Park” by Rainbow Rowell.  I give it five stars then I would color in two more stars with a Sharpie.  That Good.

If you lived in the 80’s, read this book.  If you ever felt like a misfit in high school, read this book.  If you ever got swept up in first love, read this book.  If you lived an absolute perfect life through your teen years, shut up because you’re lying then read this book.  If you know how to read, read this book.  As John Green, author of “The Fault In Our Stars,” (the other book that knocked me to my knees this year) said in his NYT review:  “Eleanor & Park” reminded me not just what it’s like to be young and in love with a girl, but also what it’s like to be young and in love with a book.

Eleanor and Park begin their courtship on the school bus.  It is a slow and furtive reel of comic books, mix tapes, snark, and sentiment.  It is sensuous in the truest sense of the word.  Rowell’s characters revel in the touch, smell, sight, and sound of each other.  And eventually, the taste–but there is so much that comes before that.  Remember the days before kissing and all that comes after kissing?  Remember leaning in to read something together just for the excuse of being that close?  Remember when it took weeks to work your way up to hand holding, and then only if no one was watching?  Remember?


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