The entire narrative unfurls from the magnificent summer lamb roasts her parents would host annually for more than 100 of their friends. So really, this book is no way limited to those who are interested in food. (She also happens to have an MFA in Fiction.) It’s almost maddening that she can be both a talented chef and such a phenomenal writer.
Like really, really write, not just chronicle her life, or be self-aware enough to bring poignancy to her experiences. Here’s the thing about this book: Hamilton can write. Butter would really be more aptly described as “Olive Oil” as it focuses on her summer sojourns in Puglia with her husband’s Italian family. Hamilton writes about moving to the dirty New York of the 1980s, waitressing, drug abuse, and a crisis crossroads, which ultimately sent her traveling the world.īlood is the story of Prune, her much-celebrated restaurant in the East Village that is as tiny and perfect as it was when she opened 10 years ago on impulsive instinct. She was mostly left to fend for herself at the too-tender age of 12 and began lying about her age in order to work, which is how she was introduced to the restaurant world. Bones details her idyllic childhood in rural Pennsylvania and its sudden crash and burn when her parents divorced. That unto itself should merit some special book award. Chef Gabrielle Hamilton’s memoir was so engrossing that I was crawling into bed early to read and long, subway rides from Washington Heights suddenly seemed too short. A whisper more than zilch.I’m like a lost soul now that I have finished Blood, Bones & Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef. If you do the math of that, in pure forty-minute increments, factoring that an infant needs to be fed every couple of hours … well, an eight-hour day can really fly by, and what I used to accomplish in that time gets reduced to a maddening fraction. But I imagine the total sensory pleasure for the kid-to pass out at the tap, belly full of that rich, sweet good stuff, and then he is in a little incomparable sleep coma with his cheeks still smashed up against the warm boob firmly and securely held in the arms of his mother-and so I tend to give my kids their twenty minutes of nursing and then their twenty minutes of post-hookup nap, undisturbed, in the very position they fell into it in, regardless of my own discomfort, arm cramps or list of shit to do that day. When you are all and solely what they eat in the beginning of their lives, which I am in the habit of being for about the first year-Marco a little longer, Leone a little less-it could be, if you were a less driven and energetic person than myself, about the only thing you accomplished in a day. I never get over and am always totally taken aback by the amount of time in a day it takes to nurse a baby. “Nursing an infant, in the first few months, really sucks up the day.
0 kommentar(er)
