to write our review ... not because I was out of the room (well, maybe that had something to do with it) but because, like the author:
- I absolutely love thinking about food and the nature of cooking (it is like giving the best of me to friends, in a totally different way than I used to feel about playing, say, Debussy's "Syrinx" or the slow movements of the Bach sonatas, or countless other unctuous (a word that appears a lot in Beard on Food) works for the flute),
- I went to the University of Michigan -- about ten years after Ruth Reichl, when the best restaurant we knew about was "The Gandy Dancer," which was located in a renovated train station and terribly pricey for college students. I was particularly drawn to a dish of shellfish served, steamed, in a thick metal bucket ...
- After a decade and a half of solo travels and cross-country drives that started in the early nineties, for the past several years I've suffered the kind of driving phobias Reichl describes toward the end of the book (surprise, all, except Tina who knows she has me as a passenger to any book group beyond 3100 South ... or I lumber along, solo, taking surface streets),
- I have a great story about page 98,
- And, really, have you not heard enough about me yet?
Who cares? I'll continue. This was my second read of Tender at the Bone. I read it shortly after it came out in paperback, and also read Reichl's Comfort Me with Apples at one point or another. I think I enjoyed Tender at the Bone more this time than the first, but would probably not want to pick up Comfort Me with Apples again. Not because Reichl doesn't write well about food and cooking, but because there is a bit too much information about the author, when all is said and done. I have enjoyed works by Laurie Colwin, M.F.K. Fisher, Elizabeth David, and James Beard more -- their works generally focus more on the food (and opinionated comments about food and cooking, not the people in their lives). It's a little bit like the current celebrity chef phenomenon where the focus is on the person in front of the camera, not on the food itself or the gift of preparing food for the pleasure of oneself (which is a rather lonely affair) or others (far more fun!) is both examined and celebrated. As an aside, I'd like to see a Food Network show that focuses on some of the behind the scenes: the gnashing (and re-purposing of ingredients) detailed in Michael Ruhlman's books ... or a show that focuses on the kind of perfection one sees in Thomas Keller's works ... which like the dishes presented within, are works of art.
Tender at the Bone is a great coming-of-age story, in many ways -- perhaps especially because the author was living in interesting places during interesting times: the college towns of Ann Arbor and Berkeley in the sixties. Growing up in New York -- in Greenwich Village, no less. Coping (or not) with complicated family and personal relationships. Dealing with family moves to the country. Naive travels to Tunisia. I'd like to meet Marion Cunningham. And Reichl's coming-of-age lasted well into her twenties, if not beyond, which is really the case with all of us, isn't it? But without further ado here's the story about page 98, which is, of course, all about me:
Our week of vacation in late May, which at one point we thought might be a walking trip in France, ended up being time spent doing things around the house (nothing major), culminating in a two-day, one-night camping trip to Topaz Mountain in the Utah desert -- where, I discovered, you can rock hound for topaz ... particularly if you're with a geologist who gets down on his hands and knees to look at anthills, because the ants have brought up topaz from underground, of course. Ended up with new appreciation for how anthropologists and geologists look for subtle differences in the soil ... which can only be done when the light is just ... so.
There, in the hilly, juniper studded Utah desert, we set up a basic car-camping site, in what was the second or third most remote place I've ever been ... elephant research camp in Kenya being the most ... planning to sleep under the stars and cook in relative comfort, having packed gourmet ingredients -- with nice wine, great cheeses and salami as appetizers. Five o'clock rolled around, and the air, which was not yet desert summer warm, was starting to cool off. We had been reading for awhile but decided it was time for cheese and crackers and a robust red wine (elegantly served in stainless steel thermal mugs). I'd been reading Tender at the Bone and paused at the top of page 98 while we fished stuff out of the cooler in the back of the red Geologymobile (a 1990 Toyota 4Runner that has seen too many such field trips ...) and I sat back in my folding chair while we were both exclaiming, with sexual overtones ("Ohh!"), about the richness of the cheese we'd just tasted. I continued reading ...
Their name was Devau and when they discovered I was American they lost all intereste in me. "The Americans," said Madame firmly, "do not know how to eat." But when Danielle said she was from Reims they gasped happily. "Oh, la belle Champagne," breathed Madame, peppering Danielle with questions about this restaurant and that winery.
"My family does not go to restaurants," Danielle said simply.
The Devaus looked sad, as if she were missing out on a great life experience. "Have you been to Troyes?" Madame ventured.
"Bien sur," she said, "my aunt and uncle live near there. Just outside, in the village of Chaource."
"Ah, Chaource," she said reverently, "one of the greatest cheeses in the world. Have you tasted it?"
"My uncle makes it," Danielle replied.
At that, Monsieur Devau turned to look at her, swiveling so completely that I was happy the road was empty. He ignored the swerve of the car and stared worshipfully at her, as if he had just discovered a movie star in his backseat. "Do you know it has been made since the fourteenth century?" he said, in a tone of voice people reserve for great works of art.
"Yes," said Danielle. "It is a venerable cheese." As he returned his eyes to the road, she whispered, "I can't stand it. Disgusting. So rich!"
And yes, the Chaource was, indeed, rich, slathered on crackers in the second or third most remote place I've been in my life. Decidedly not disgusting. Just amazingly, amazingly rich.
Like my life, just at that moment.
I am having a difficult time reconciling my thoughts and feelings about Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. I should start by saying that I love this book. I was told once by someone I respect that I couldn’t consider myself well-read without having committed to Rand’s 1100+ page magnum opus. I possessed what turned out to be a faulty preconceived notion of Rand and her agenda. It isn’t the writing, which is not beautiful like Marquez, or poetic like Stegner that keeps the reader traveling. Rand’s mission is transparent. But put her philosophical beliefs aside, and you might be surprised by how much you like these characters and their story. 
