When I first discovered the blog Orangette, I was charmed by the author and her 
writing style. I thought that her thought about food an life were insightful and poignant. So, I made a point to add her blog to my RSS reader and check in periodically to check out what was new with her blog and to get an occasional recipe.
Several months ago I saw that she was preparing a book. At the time I assumed that it was a cook book and stuck it in my wish list. As the release date came closer I realized that her photography would not be included in the book, this dampened my enthusiasm a bit. I love good food porn.
When I was at the store a few weeks ago I decided to check out A Homemade Life, and see if I would like it. After sitting down for a bit reading the first few pages, I realized that this was exactly the kind of book that I would enjoy (even with out the food porn).
I took it home and read it over 2 weeks, and really enjoyed it. This one will go in the shelf in my kitchen with my cookbooks, even though it’s more a memoir. I WILL master the Aunt Bill candy recipe, come hell or high water.
The book reads like a series of vignettes in the author’s life with a recipe associated to the memory. A lot of the memories are touching and the recipes look delicious.
If you like non-fiction food writing or the blog Orangette, I really recommend this book to you.
Things enjoyed: The memories and feelings that the author conveys while speaking of food are terrific. I thought that the writing was engaging and thoughtful.
Things I didn’t enjoy: When I finished the book, I felt that there should be a little more…maybe an afterword. It just needed something to tie up the book.
Reason for reading: I visit the author’s blog and was intrigued to hear about her book.
Rating: Recommend
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Publication Date: March 09
Format: Print
Genre: Non-Fiction, Memoir, Food
Series: No
Author Web Site: http://orangette.blogspot.com/
Description (Amazon)
When Molly Wizenberg’s father died of cancer, everyone told her to go easy on herself, to hold off on making any major decisions for a while. But when she tried going back to her apartment in Seattle and returning to graduate school, she knew it wasn’t possible to resume life as though nothing had happened. So she went to Paris, a city that held vivid memories of a childhood trip with her father, of early morning walks on the cobbled streets of the Latin Quarter and the taste of her first pain au chocolat. She was supposed to be doing research for her dissertation, but more often, she found herself peering through the windows of chocolate shops, trekking across town to try a new pâtisserie, or tasting cheeses at outdoor markets, until one evening when she sat in the Luxembourg Gardens reading cookbooks until it was too dark to see, she realized that her heart was not in her studies but in the kitchen.
At first, it wasn’t clear where this epiphany might lead. Like her long letters home describing the details of every meal and market, Molly’s blog Orangette started out merely as a pleasant pastime. But it wasn’t long before her writing and recipes developed an international following. Every week, devoted readers logged on to find out what Molly was cooking, eating, reading, and thinking, and it seemed she had finally found her passion. But the story wasn’t over: one reader in particular, a curly-haired, food-loving composer from New York, found himself enchanted by the redhead in Seattle, and their email correspondence blossomed into a long-distance romance.
In A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table, Molly Wizenberg recounts a life with the kitchen at its center. From her mother’s pound cake, a staple of summer picnics during her childhood in Oklahoma, to the eggs she cooked for her father during the weeks before his death, food and memories are intimately entwined. You won’t be able to decide whether to curl up and sink into the story or to head straight to the market to fill your basket with ingredients for Cider-Glazed Salmon and Pistachio Cake with Honeyed Apricots.
