My father-in-law got into a solo car accident the other night; he’s fine (“just a bruised ego”) but he obliterated the passenger window and the right side mirror. He is a 30-year-old trapped in an 83-year-old body and fiercely independent, despite the fact that he should not be driving anymore. Period. Yeah, I know, not my business, I will be there someday myself (probably tomorrow, the way it’s going), bleah, bleah, bleah. Here was his answer (partial – I won’t go into the longer explanation) when I asked what had happened: “…and when I put my brights back on I guess I had swerved into that power pole. It’s very close to the road. I’ve hit it before.”
This brings me to the most recently completed book: Blood, Bones and Butter, by Gabrielle Hamilton. I was not going to hoist yet another precious, my-hardscrabble-life-memoir onto my night table but it was mocking me from the “In Demand” shelf at the library, so I grabbed it and…it was fantastic. The writing is luscious and gritty, honest (sometimes uncomfortably) and provocative. You will want to boil orchiette, bite into a smoked meat sandwich (lavished with butter) and reconsider your family all at the same time. Sometimes self-examination is not a good thing; here you’re fine. The only drawback is Hamilton is not there to sit across the table from you, pour you a hearty glass of wine and join in.