Nonfiction

Since no work was permitted on the Sabbath, they prepared Saturday's meal in advance, assembling a stew, a cholent, with potatoes, barley, and sometimes a piece of meat. A sweet and savory pudding made from leftover bread simmered within the stew. Her mother removed the pot from the coal stove and covered it with brown paper, then tied it around several times with string. Sala wrote their name on the paper and carefully carried the large pot around the corner to Shimon the baker, who inserted it on a long paddle into the recesses of his giant oven. together with dozens of other pots from neighbors, each tied and identified, ready to be served hot for the next afternoon's meal.

-Sala's Gift by Ann Kirschner

Bread pudding is both good and weird at the same time. It tastes sweet and filling, yet I sit there thinking that it's a weird texture for bread - but yet again, it's not exactly bread anymore; then I think that it's a weird texture for pudding, but it's not exactly pudding either. It's almost like it is in this in between state of bread and pudding: not quite one or the other. A twilight zone of sorts.

That night, Alex cooked me my Last Supper. My last healthy meal for a month. I looked at that fresh tossed salad, the vegetable tart, the quinoa and red pepper salad, and bid fresh greens and veggies a fond adieu.

-Don't Eat This Book by Morgan Spurlock

I first saw Supersize Me, a documentary film by Morgan Spurlock, a couple of years ago or so. It was both comedic and disturbing at the same time. On the one hand you had a guy making fun of McDonald's and himself, but on the other his health was quickly going downhill - all because he was eating a very poor diet which consisted of 100% McDonald's.

This book picks up where the film left off. It filled in a lot of the blanks, and continued to make the case for not eating a diet of mostly or only (or really any) fast food. His humor still shines through, and I enjoyed his sarcasm. I don't feel like I truly learned anything new about the food industry, but I was reminded of the reasons why I very infrequently consume fast food.

Henry Montgomery wrote to his children from the deck of the Southern Cross. "Remember," he told them, "that your father visited all these islands, and that his heart went out to the dwellers among these lonely scenes, praying ever that they might be brought to know their Father in His son Jesus Christ." He reminded his children that they were special. "You have all been taught that we must be true and pure and upright because we are Christ's disciples; but next after that reason there is no incentive to live nobly which is so powerful as the possession of a great family tradition. You come from a family of 'gentlemen'; you know that word does not signify mere outward refinement: it tells of a refined and noble mind, to which anything dishonourable or mean or impure is abhorrent and unworthy."

-The Shark God by Charles Montgomery

When I choose a book to read it is usually based upon its description on some online store or in little catalogs that I get in the mail, so suffice it to say I did not really know what to expect when I chose The Shark God. I did expect ghosts and a bit of the paranormal, but it wasn't really about those things. It was more about running after the ghosts of the past. It was atheist Charles Montgomery's journey into Melanesia inspired by his missionary grandfather who had traveled there long ago to convert the locals to Christianity. Charles went looking for magic, but he mostly found religions jockeying for position and a steady supply of kava. Kastom, or local custom, was sometimes hard to come by and often the display of it was more for theatrics. He ran into so many varying levels of belief and Christianity that by the end he was frustrated and confused, yet trying to force meaning where none was to be found. To me it felt almost like reading an anthropologist's account of a personal spiritual journey - educational, but not quite what you want to read.

Stopping off for gas, I realized that I had not yet fulfilled part of rule #11: beef jerky, so I spent five bucks on a large bag of Oberto brand jerky. It looked like tree bark but smelled like a dead animal that had been left outside for a few weeks. I hadn't tried the stuff in years, actually, since it's expensive, and to be honest, I always associated beef jerky with the suburban/redneck element of my hometown, which was an element that I had spent most of my postsurburban New Yorker-subscribing life distancing myself from. Still, on this morning I was hungry, the sack of jerky was on the passenger side, and with Rush blaring on the car radio, I decided to try it. And Oh My Ever-Loving God. It went straight to my bloodstream. I was flying. This was the best thing I had ever tasted! If this was what conservatives ate, I was ready to sign up for the John Birch Society right then and there.

-Conservatize Me by John Moe

When a book has me visibly laughing or weeping while on the subway, you know that it has grabbed me. I try to maintain a normal composure since I am in public so as to not seem like I've lost my mind (at least for my own benefit), so laughing usually winds up being more like smirking. I smirked often throughout Conservatize Me. I tend to be more left-leaning myself, although I wouldn't consider myself a complete liberal, so I respected John Moe's self-inflicted month of immersion in the politically conservative culture.