Fiction

The blind man had found a jar of batter in the refrigerator and was pressing waffles into shape between the hinged metal pans of a waffle iron. Luka could see the batter sizzling and darkening as it spilled over the circumference of the pan.

-The Brief History of the Dead by Kevin Brockmeier

When I was growing up my favorite breakfast was buttermilk waffles with just butter. Syrup was sometimes applied, but I often felt it wasn't needed. Now my tastes have changed somewhat, and my husband prefers savory more than sweet breakfasts, so I rarely make myself waffles any longer. The Brief History of the Dead gave me a good excuse to have them this past weekend.

As you can see though, I wound up with pancakes instead.

"We love you, man," the postman said, and held out a glass like you'd hold out a bag of something made by the sea. We all want what's in the bag. You'd have to be crazy not to take some. Have you ever had a mango lassi? Thick down the throat, crazy orange, delicious and happy if you like that sort of thing? What else can a fellow do, in the grip of mango and yogurt and fruit, spun up into a substance just like love? It is love. It's a part of it.

-Adverbs by Daniel Handler

I feel as if I am giving you this post a week in advance. I also feel that since I am giving you a recipe inspired by love that I should probably give you another one next week on (or near) the 14th.

I'm spoiled by novels. They are easy, seamless, and satisfying. You start it knowing that the characters you have come to know and love (ah love) are going to have their issues resolved. But this book was completely different. I started off by learning about Andrea and "I" and Peter, then I went to chapter two, and I was learning about someone else. It was as if the book was both a collection of short stories about completely unrelated people and a book about the same people. So I am not sure what to tell you. It was completely illogical as a novel, but that may have been part of the point. It was a book about love, and love is not always considered to be logical.

"Here you are, Messere!" The host's voice took his mind off his worries. The man placed a wooden platter in front of him, containing slices of dark bread soaked in a reddish slop. On top were two slabs of cheese with a thick, moldy rind. "And here is some wine, true nectar of Saint Dennis!" he exclaimed, setting down a moist earthenware jug.
"Dionysus," Dante muttered.
"Saint Dionysus?"
"No, Dionysus the god."
"By God, Messere, you are right; the other was Saint Damian."
The prior dismissed him with a nod and looked around for a spoon. He resigned himself to using his fingers, and after having rolled up his sleeves, scooped up and swallowed a dripping mouthful. Not so bad, aside from the mold on the cheese, and not too different from what the kitchens of the Priors' Palazzo dished out, he thought as he fell upon the wine.

-The Mosaic Crimes by Giulio Leoni, Anne Milano Appel

There are some books which sound good in the description, but wind up being disappointing to me. Sad to say, this is one of those. I typically enjoy reading books that are along the lines of The Last Cato, The Da Vinci Code, or Labyrinth. They are not exactly what I would call fine literature, but they are entertaining and keep me on the edge of my seat.

This book, centered around Dante Alighieri and his quest to solve a handful of mysterious crimes, never swept me into the story. Dante was portrayed not as a hero, but more as a self-centered jerk and in the end did little that was impressive. The only real impressive thing was how often he managed to be in a tavern and seem to only subsist on wine. The above quote is the only mention of food in the entire book (at least that I recall).

They looked at each other now, husband and wife, with such a depth of feeling that the eight feet separating them shrank to nothing. Then, slowly, with a darkling gleam in her eye, Mrs. Marquis raised her plate above her head...and let it drop. A canvasback bone flopped free, the stewed apples few straight up, and the plate blew into a dozen pieces scattered across the red linen tablecloth.

-The Pale Blue Eye by Louis Bayard

Edgar Allan Poe has always been one of my favorite poets. His poems, while dark and often morbid, have a certain draw to them. I guess I am not much for flowery poems - anyone can write that sort of thing - but Poe's poems are other-worldly and mysterious. So when I saw that there was a novel out there to be consumed that had Poe as one of its main characters, I had to grab it. I'm glad I did. This fiction of crime was written in a style that is more reminiscent of authors who wrote novels decades ago, and it had very unexpected twists. Poe was an interesting fixture; he seemed like one of those guys in high school or college that just doesn't fit in, but goes on to amaze people later in life. He was not the main character, however. That was left to an older, charming man (Gus Landor), who, sadly, probably never existed in real life. This murder mystery was an easy read, and hopefully we'll see Poe and/or Landor again. Good job, Mr. Bayard. I'm sure to read more of your novels.

At home, Ushman makes rice and lentils. As he and Farak did when they had many people for dinner, he sits on the rug in the living room, with his bowl in his lap. There is a soccer match on TV. The game keeps him company. He accepts his loneliness with resolve. It is familiar to him. There are no surprises in it.

-The Rug Merchant by Meg Mullins

Aside from living vicariously through other people's sadness, it has been a while since I have experienced my own permeating melancholy. So when I sit here wondering what food it is that I prefer to have when I am swimming in the blues, I come up empty-handed. There was a time when I'd go out and buy myself chocolate chip cookies, ice cream, and a good amount of string cheese - but these days I'd like to think that I'd choose a healthier fare like Ushman did.

"This is the way in Iran," he says, placing a cube between Stella's own teeth for her. His finger brushes against her bottom lip. She puts the cup to her lips and drinks. Then she holds the cube between her thumb and forefinger.
"It's good," she says, "but what about conversation?"
Ushman smiles, displaying his own sugar cube.
"Yeth, ith ith juth thumthing you learn to do. A wight of passagth."

-The Rug Merchant by Meg Mullins

I usually don't mind reading sad books, but I'll admit that I was relieved when I closed The Rug Merchant and switched my focus to what I would prepare. It reminded me of when I was dating, when cultural differences and lack of authenticity were part of whatever relationship I was in at the time. Thankfully I'm no longer dating, and thankfully there were a few happy moments in the book, including a moment with tea.

The van's doors were open, and several bags of contraband were heaped in the back, all taped up in clear plastic bags. A few of them had already been transferred to a waiting wheelbarrow. Tarquin was looking around furtively as another bear wearing faded Levi's and a BEARZONE T-shirt cut open a packet of the contraband and carefully drew out a spoonful. He sniffed it suspiciously, mixed it with milk and heated it over a lighter before adding some brown sugar and salt, then sipping the result.
"This is good," he said at last in a deep voice, making a few lip-smacky noises. "How much you got?"

-The Fourth Bear by Jasper Fforde

Reading Jasper Fforde's novels is like watching Monty Python or a Leslie Nielsen film (Naked Gun movies come to mind) - the comedy is cheesy and completely funny, but mostly the language and dialog are clearly representative of a writer who loves wordsmithing.