298 [compulsively tracked] books read for the year. The only ones you have to bother with, in no particular order:
Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell: I think it was Mistah Paul who first suggested I read this/forced a copy on me. I didn't get to it for about a year, read it overnight, and then hauled the 1,700-pound hardback with me all through Ecuador (never once opened it, as I basically passed out upon hitting the nightly pillow). "Napoleonic-era British magician fantasy love story with entertaining footnotes" may not make you want to read it, but read it anyway. Even you, Mr. Dawson. I have a 1,700-pound copy you can borrow.
Heat: An Amateur's Adventures In A Pile of Crap Jobs: (yes, the title is my paraphrasing of the much longer real title). This is another book I resisted reading for longer than I should have. It's good to have a solid slap now and again, to remind me that while I may be a good enough home cook--even good enough to teach other people things--I would last about four seconds in a professional kitchen. There's a decided touch of chest-thumping manliness here, but it's good for all that. Especially the part where he learns about butchering.
The Language of Baklava: Considering I devoted two separate blog entries to this book earlier in the year, it's no surprise it gets a listing here. It's a cookbook-memoir; it's recipes are great and often quite simple; the stories and characters of the authors family are grand; it woke me up about the world of variations in Middle Eastern food that we are just barely starting to see here in Seattle. It makes me wish I had a giant family of 10,000 Jordanian uncles, too.
The Bullfighter Checks Her Makeup: I read several of Susan Orlean's books this year, and actually liked all of them. If you happen to like essay-interviews written by smart, funny women, go read her books. It doesn't hurt that she--or her editors--choose interesting people and topics. In a strange coincidence, the first review of her book listed on Powell's is written by the author of The Language of Baklava. In a less strange coincidence, they were checked out from the liberry by me on the same day in July.
The Year of Magical Thinking: Not everyone wants to read a book about a year of mourning, and only Joan Didion could write one I would think worth bothering with. I also just read that it's being turned into a monologue for Vanessa Redgrave. I expect it may be hard to hear over the loud sobs of the audience.
All of John Thorne's Books: Sweetie read about Serious Pig in Outside Magazine, of all the unexpected places to discover my new favorite author. Mr. Thorne is a delight, and he's--bit by bit--changing how I think, learn and write about food, not to mention how I cook. He indirectly led me to my newest idea for a book; he also got me finally figuring out how to cook rice. I have made more bad pots of rice than most people (it also took me years to be able to make Jello properly), and I had basically given it up. I also was not crazy about rice-cooker rice. We ate very little rice in this house, as a result. John Thorne eats a lot of rice, and unlike this paragraph, makes it seem interesting to think about. (Don't think he has written four books about rice, for god's sake...if I didn't limit this section to something banal, I would be blathering for the next six hours about his talents. He is concise, and funny, and many other things this paragraph is not.)
Stumbling and Raging: I have been doing plenty of stumbling and raging over politics myself since 2000. OK, actually since about 1986, but raging over a specific issue (the defense budget) or a senator (Mr. Gorton) is different than raging over a stolen election, a horrifying president, a congress run by madmen, and a country diving head first into a bucket of 21st century racism. Some of the pieces here made me angry; some made me laugh; there's a nice little graphic novella at the end.
Candyfreak: I like candy a LOT. So does this guy. Even though I wish I'd had the idea first, he did a fine job of writing about it, plus he introduced me to Five Star Bars, which are the best $3 tiny candy bars you'll ever eat.
The Big Year: I like the whole "a year on the competitive circuit of deeply nerdy behavior" genre (you probably have read Word Freak but there are plenty of others just waiting to appall and delight you). This one's about birding, which I am now bird-nerdy enough to call what used to be known as bird watching. I expect you will mock me for liking it, and all I can say in defense, in my best headgear-wearing lisp, is "Hey guys, give me back my binoculars".
Neverwhere: I would've liked this better if I'd read it before reading Tim Powers, but I will always love the "whole secret crazy mythological city that's right under your fucking nose, you jackass" genre. (I will now stop making up lengthy names for fake literary genres. For the moment.)
Fat Girl: A True Story: I loathe the publisher's comments at the link here; I do not have love-hate-hunger issues, although I did do a bit of a freaky stop-eating thing at the tail end of high school. There are some great bits about her Big Gay Uncle, and some funny-sad bits about pretending she doesn't smoke; basically, the whole thing makes me think about how messed up people are when they equate pleasurable habits with morality.
Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants: Certainly, it's my favorite actual title of the year. It makes me picture kind of a disco-drag Thumbelina. If I was pitching it to The Movies, I would say "chick lit memoir". This won't make most of you read it, I know. Still: Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants. I'm going to make a new Lord of the Rings, where the answer to "what has it got in its pocketses?" is "a tiny lady in shiny pants". The pitch for The Movies can be "chick lit memoir meets a hobbit", which totally makes all of you want to see it as much as just "chick lit memoir" by itself makes you want to throw up. (What has it gots in its mouthses?)
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