I have a special bookshelf reserved for the books I intend to read. Some I’ve bought, others I’ve borrowed—mostly from my mother or my neighbor Patricia. At the last count—let me get up and double-check—I had thirty-two books waiting. As you can tell, I’m a bit of an unread-book hoarder, and I don’t feel quite at ease unless that little stash is well tended.
One of my favorite rituals in the reading experience is kneeling in front of the low shelf, twisting my head to read the spines (English books tilt the neck to the right, French to the left; my shelf is not very tidy), checking my reader’s pulse to see what I feel like reading, pulling the chosen book by its spine (the others sigh in relief—more room), and moving my tattered old bookmark from the previous book to the promising new one.
Not all the books on my shelf are about food. There are a couple of Simenon novels, Zadie Smith’s latest, a biography by Jonathan Coe, a set of short novels about the Inuit, an essay on 18th-century Paris street life, and my father’s two recent translations of Le Guin. There are also food-related volumes—Hemingway’s Moveable Feast, a book on chocolate, Jeffrey Steingarten’s second collection of essays, and a history of French cakes and pastries, into which I’ve already peeked in flagrant violation of my own rule.
Some books languish in this temporary home for months—fortunately, my two favorite lenders don’t seem to mind—while others barely unpack before they’re read. The most recent arrival was Laurie Colwin’s first collection of food essays, Home Cooking: A Writer in the Kitchen.
Laurie Colwin was an American novelist who loved to cook and who wrote a column for Gourmet magazine for several years. She died suddenly in 1992 at forty-eight. This book gathers those Gourmet pieces and was followed by a second volume, More Home Cooking: A Writer Returns to the Kitchen. Interestingly, both collections have since outsold her novels.
Her work was recommended to me long ago by a reader named Luisa, who assured me I’d enjoy it. I’m sometimes slow to follow recommendations, so it took a couple of years and a few more nudges before I ordered the first book.
I devoured it in a couple of days—though I seem to have less time to read now that I no longer commute by metro—and I adored it. Colwin’s voice is warm and generous, her prose simple and elegant, and she tells little stories so intimately that you feel she wrote the book just for you. Most importantly, she is funny. Whether she’s laughing at herself or gently teasing others, her humor is clever and affectionate rather than cynical or mean.
Near the end of the book I found myself giggling uncontrollably through two chapters—“Kitchen Horrors” and “Repulsive Dinners: A Memoir”—and I was so fond of the author that tears suddenly sprang to my eyes. The thought that she no longer cooks or writes and that I’ll never meet her moved me deeply. Whether that speaks to her skill as a writer or to my emotional state (a book deadline looms), I’ll leave you to decide.
If you haven’t read this book, I honestly envy you—much like envying anyone who has yet to discover Twin Peaks—and encourage you to pick up a copy. It’s a genuine delight. I’ve already ordered her second collection and one of her novels; I have a feeling they won’t stay on the shelf long.
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As an aside, I wrote a brief piece in yesterday’s New York Times Style Magazine about resto-épiceries in Paris; it is available online (free registration required).