"An Onion in My Pocket: My Life with Vegetables," by Deborah Madison

Readers of this blog will not be surprised that I am writing about yet another “food and restaurant” memoir. I find these so fascinating (if they are written at least reasonably well). “An Onion in My Pocket: My Life with Vegetables” (Knopf, 2020) is about Deborah Madison’s childhood in California, years as a member of San Francisco’s Zen Center, great success as a writer of cookbooks and other food-related books, speaker, teacher, and award-winner in all these areas. But she is still best-known as the chef who worked in the famous Chez Panisse restaurant in Berkeley, and then opened San Francisco’s Zen vegetable-centered restaurant, Greens, over four decades ago. At the time it was truly groundbreaking, as vegetarianism was generally considered very fringy and not particularly appealing back then. Although Madison was only there for a few years, her influence is still felt, as Greens continues to this day, with its delicious food, its stunning location on the Bay, and its gorgeous views. Although I am not a vegetarian (and many diners there are not), I have had the pleasure of eating there many times, and it is always a special experience. Madison also writes candidly but with appropriate reserve about her family, her travels, her high and low points, her challenges, and her times of doubt. But throughout she comes across as a very centered person (probably influenced by her twenty years as a Zen student), and one who has always taken great pleasure and pride in her work in the world of food. I like, too, the way she gives generous credit to the people she has worked for and with, and others she has interacted with over the years. As I have said about other San Francisco-based narratives, I take particular interest in, and pleasure in, the scenes related to the city and surroundings, but her descriptions of her times in Europe and other parts of the world, and her current home in New Mexico, are of great interest as well. An admirable and enjoyable memoir and life.

"The Archer," by Shruti Swamy

What a deep pleasure it is to “discover” a “new” (to me) author and her beautiful, lyrical novel! “The Archer” (Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, 2021), by Shruti Swamy, is painful and exalting in equal measure. It tells the story of Vidya, a child and then young woman in Bombay in the 1960s and 1970s. There is a deep sadness in her life: her mother’s mental illness that keeps her away for years at a time. Vidya’s life is hard, but her discovery of Kathak dancing allows her a way to transcend the sadness and difficulties in her life. This is one of the better depictions I have recently read of the power of art in a person’s life. During college, Vidya also discovers the power of love. The way the story is told, always through Vidya’s consciousness, is effective although at times almost claustrophobic. This is a powerful, expressive, insightful, and just plain gorgeous novel.

"Crossing to Safety," by Wallace Stegner

Although I was of course well aware of the towering reputation of Wallace Stegner, I hadn’t been successful in really engaging with any of his novels. Some years ago, I tried hard with “Angle of Repose,” his most famous book, but somehow – although admiring it on one level – couldn’t get drawn into it, and finally abandoned it. But a few months ago, I read a mention of Stegner’s last novel, “Crossing to Safety” (Modern Library, 2002; original publication Random House, 1987) that convinced me to read it. I admit it sat on my “to-read” pile for a while before I finally did read it. But I am so glad I did. It is a novel that is so rich, so humane, so wise, that I was immersed in it; I know it sounds strange to say, but I feel that the novel seeped into my pores. What it is “about” sounds simple. Two young male professors meet in 1937, and they and their wives become close friends and continue the friendship for about 40 years, until one of the four dies, and beyond. Various events happen in their lives, of course: different jobs, success in the world of literature, the birth and growth of children, regular stays at a summer place in Vermont (which represents the heart of their connection), and more. Each of the characters has her or his faults, yes; in other words, they are very human. Their friendship transcends those faults. The book is about true friendship and true love. Yes, many novels are about those topics, but this one is suffused with a sense of what those words can mean. The writing is quiet, even “simple,” and extraordinary. What a wonderful experience to read a novel one is only curious about, with not particularly high expectations (not because I was not aware of Stegner’s reputation, but because I somehow felt his work was not “my kind” of fiction)…and to find out how wrong I was!

"Lorna Mott Comes Home," by Diane Johnson

Diane Johnson is on my mental list of authors whose new novels I always seek out and read. I feel especially connected to them because they mostly take place in San Francisco, where I have lived (OK, now a few minutes north across the Golden Gate Bridge) and have worked for decades. She doesn’t just nominally set her books there; she immerses readers in details related to the city: streets, stores, weather, styles, trends, social distinctions, prices, and much more. She has also set some of her novels (the famous “Le Mariage” and “Le Divorce”) in France. She herself has lived in both San Francisco and Paris, and still divides her time between the two. Some of her plots seem to be semi-autobiographical, but of course we know we shouldn’t make assumptions about this. I just finished Johnson’s latest novel, “Lorna Mott Comes Home” (Knopf, 2021), which is set in both San Francisco and a small town in France. The title character, Lorna, comes from San Francisco but moved to France 18 years before the beginning of this novel, in order to marry and live with her charming second husband, a French man named Armand. But as the book begins, she leaves Armand (in a quite amicable split-up) because of his infidelity, and moves back to San Francisco. She is happy to be near her three adult children and their own families. But she finds living back in the U.S, especially in super-expensive San Francisco, harder than she remembered. She has money, but not a lot, and her former career as an art historian no longer brings her many speaking invitations and such. Her children each have problems of various sorts, and she wants to help them, but is not able to help them financially. Her first ex-husband is now married to a wealthy woman who has gained her fortune in the tech world (such a big part of the current San Francisco Bay Area’s wealth); the couple’s financial giving to his children with Lorna is erratic, and the cause of jealousy at times. The characters in this novel are realistic in that they are all very “human,” as we say about people who are a mixture of admirable and not-so-admirable, loving but complaining, supportive but jealous, predictable and unpredictable. In other words, although there is a strong note of comedy in this novel as in all of Johnson’s novels, the characters and situations are realistic and mostly believable, if unusual in some cases. My overall feeling about this novel is that I enjoyed it, as I knew I would, and I admire Johnson’s knowledge of human nature as well as her ability to create detailed and fascinating settings. She is clearly a literary writer but with a strong touch of not taking herself or her characters TOO seriously. I have to say, if I am being honest, that although I am glad I read this novel – and how could I NOT; as I said, she is on “the list” of authors I always read – I was a tiny bit disappointed in the novel. I can’t quite put my finger on why. Perhaps it is a little too “flip” at times? But overall, I can never regret reading one of Diane Johnson’s novels, with her unique blend of family drama, attractive settings, believable characters, comedy, and social commentary.

"Malibu Rising," by Taylor Jenkins Reid

As I have noted before, for various reasons I don’t post on this blog about every book I read. But I occasionally note some not particularly demanding but enjoyable books I have read (e.g., on 2/20/21). Today I write about a novel that I mostly enjoyed, and of which I mostly admired the craftwomanship involved. This book, like others I have read and sometimes written about here, exists somewhere between “literary” fiction and popular/bestseller fiction. Such novels are unlikely to be on “best books” lists in the New York Times or in literary magazines, but they are solidly written and they entertain and even move readers. “Malibu Rising” (Ballantine, 2021), is by Taylor Jenkins Reid, best known for her very popular previous novel “Daisy Jones and The Six,” which I also read and enjoyed (but did not post about here). As indicated in the title, the current novel takes place in Malibu, near Los Angeles; it involves a three-generation family that suffers and struggles but also, individually and together, becomes very successful and even famous. Fame and money, as we know, do not always bring happiness, especially if characters’ difficult childhoods undermine their seemingly ideal adulthoods. The main thread throughout, and the part I liked best about the novel, is the fierce family ties among four siblings, despite many obstacles and issues along the way. As with “Daisy Jones,” I started reading this novel with some resistance, but was drawn into the story. So no, it is not particularly demanding, but it provides an intriguing and even poignant world to share with the characters for a few hours. And that is a real and laudable accomplishment. (In case this post sounds condescending, I really don't mean it that way. I could not write such a novel, or any novel, myself. And I am grateful for every book that gives me and others pleasure.)

"Tastes Like War," by Grace Cho, and "Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning," by Cathy Park Hong

Without setting out to do so, I happened to have recently read three terrific and illuminating books by Korean American women writers, two of them memoirs and one a memoiristic collection of essays. On 7/10/21, I wrote here with praise about one of them, a memoir: “Crying in H Mart,” by Michelle Zauner. Today I will write about the second and third of these books by Korean American women writers. The second, Grace M. Cho’s memoir, “Tastes Like War” (The Feminist Press, 2021) is also about being the child of a Korean-American mother and a white father. Cho’s mother, like Zauner’s mother, had a difficult life in Korea, both being hostesses to American military men in Korea and meeting their white American husbands there. These two mothers also both later had severe mental illnesses, surely at least partly caused by their difficult backgrounds. In both cases, their daughters (the authors) tried to learn more about their lives and their illnesses, and to help their mothers as much as they could. They both found that one way to connect with their mothers was through Korean food: cooking, eating, talking about what the food symbolized, telling stories. There are many touching moments of bonding over food in each book. The two books have much in common. Cho’s book is framed a bit more in academic language and theory than Zauner’s book is, but not in any heavy or ponderous way; the stories and the human connections are predominant in both. The third book by a Korean American woman writer that I read recently is “Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning” (One World, 2020), by Cathy Park Hong. This is a powerful and thought-provoking blend of memoir and ideas about racial identity among Asian Americans, and about the pervasive reminders of one’s difference, as well as of stereotypes and misunderstandings constantly encountered by Asian Americans. The book is erudite, painful, personal – a compelling combination. This author, like the other two, writes often of her parents. One representative and heartbreaking passage speaks of the many times “I have seen my parents condescended to and mocked by white adults” (p. 77) and of the shame she as their daughter always felt when this happened. I turned down more corners of pages in this book than I usually do, by far, and have to restrain myself not to quote excessively here. These three books by Korean-American women are, separately and collectively, absolutely necessary and important to the American conversation about race and identity. They are also, each one, gripping and beautifully written. Highly recommended.

"My Broken Language: A Memoir," by Quiara Alegria Hudes

“My Broken Language: A Memoir” (One World, 2021), by Quiara Alegria Hudes, is a striking book, a beautiful book, an insightful and revealing book. The author writes of her Puerto Rican mother and family, and of growing up in Philadelphia, in a dizzyingly vivid, exuberant style. She writes about family (she has a huge, close family that spills in and out of each other’s homes), culture, language, food, dance, spirituality, ritual, and being a second generation American. The memoir bursts with life and a rich variety of stories, told in a candid tone. It is comic, tragic, and knowing. As Hudes gets older, she begins to write, and is now the author of several plays and musicals, including “In the Heights.” I highly recommend this wonderfully written book.