Season to taste

My grandfather appears to me in ice cream sundaes. Growing up, I occasionally accompanied him while he ran errands. As a reward for patience and staid hands among drawers of gleaming nuts and bolts at the local hardware store, he would take me to the nearby Friendly’s. I can’t remember if he got anything – if I had to guess, it involved peanut butter (Reese’s Pieces, or “Ree-sees Pee-sees”) – but for me, it was the same every time: Monster Mash. Mint-chip ice cream, dyed a lurid green, and hairy with whipped cream. Its maraschino cherry nose went first, then its peanut butter cup ears. And when he didn’t have anything to do or buy, I’d still get ice cream – a bland New England company’s Neapolitan or chocolate chip, it too under whipped cream and always, always, rainbow sprinkles. The final course for me, my cousins, and brothers. We sat cross-legged on a waxed picnic sheet in the living room, and were served with coffee mugs and thin silver spoons.

There are some foods and meals I’ll never forget: those sundaes, the deep bowl of mussels and salty tomato-garlic broth for my first dinner in Ireland, the eggy yellow cake with chocolate frosting and dense crumb I ask for every birthday. I navigate my surroundings using scent and taste, readily allowing food to sustain my identity, to feed my memory. (Seriously, ask any English professor of mine in the last four semesters.) So, as you may guess, I hungrily (har-har) anticipated the next memoir on my list, The Gastronomical Me by M. F. K. Fisher. The cherished American food writer, and good friend of Julia Child tells of her life in early childhood through her mid-thirties, when she settled in Europe during both World Wars. I gravitated towards this book for our like-minded gluttony. Fisher and I learn through our senses and unabashedly participate in food rituals, honoring ourselves and others. We remember using sound and sight, yes, but also scent and taste.

Mind the gap

Warning: this post has nothing to do with London. Sorry.

For years, I never found the chance to pick up anything written by David Sedaris, but after reading one of his essay collections, Naked, I don’t want the chance to arise again any time soon. Honestly, “I never found the chance” reads like a euphemism: I never had enough interest in Sedaris and his scathing humor to want to read his work. Perhaps this was a poor first selection. Perhaps Sedaris has evolved, finally stepping down from his self-assembled pedestal, but I doubt it. While Naked is absolutely not the best book I’ve read, Sedaris’ method and form are bold, so jarring that I have a precise image of the person who wrote this: the guy who, pissed when his name is misspelt on his grande caramel macchiato with skim milk, extra foam, is too insecure to cause a scene, and sulks off to channel this melodrama into tens of thousands of words, passively heckling the barista who was (rightfully) more preoccupied with his term paper than said person’s Starbucks Gold Card loyalty.

I think 290 pages gave Sedaris enough time to seize my tongue.

This book is billed as a compilation of essays, not a memoir, though some book reviews argue this categorization. As an unfortunate result, the life within Naked is fragmented, broken into vignettes without a wisp of connection. The stories of the collection, however, seem to be broken even further, as mere shards of a life. I have no idea if Sedaris did more than loathe his father or pick-and-scratch at the hoards of people he saw during the holiday shopping rush. I can’t say if Sedaris values appearance or a quick high more, and I’ll never know if he sincerely felt fear, anxiety, or pride at an accomplishment of his or of a family member. Part of this, I recognize, is the price of comedy: in the text, Sedaris appears a cynical, yet fearful young adult, feebly attempting to arrive at a satisfying location post-graduation, but who wants to laugh at a truly sad person? This book received scores of praise – people were amazed at the tragic comedies of the American Midwest, and appalled, like Sedaris, that such ‘lunatics’ exist – but, because action and plot outweigh reaction and reflection, this is not a memoir.