Book Rec
"Here," she said (she being sanguine_piskie, irrepressible lover of books and friend extraordinaire), "you have to read this."
I picked it up and tried to judge it by its cover: green, with an engaging picture on the front of a blackbird. I like blackbirds. This one is dead.
"Now I now you're not crazy about books for adults with kid narrators--"
"Overly precocious motherfuckers," I muttered.
"--but this book is utterly delightful."
And so I took it with promises to give it a try. Because how could I resist the sparkle in her eye while she said those words? "Utterly delightful," like "Charming," and such others, were words we reserved for books that had enchanted us in spite of whatever misgivings we had previously held about the tome in question. They were descriptors we were fond of using whenever possible.
Today I should have been reading about Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. But the slow, lonely Sunday beckoned me into such a laziness that calls for me to curl up in my reading chair and not move for 8 or so hours. Which is exactly what I did as I read The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie in one sitting. Perhaps it's the setting. There is something cozy to me about reading novels set in England anytime before 1960. Unlike I Capture the Castle (a longtime favorite), though, the de Luces are no Mortmains. Sisters, left to their own devices, terrorize each other. The youngest, Flavia, budding chemistry genius, plots revenge through poisons. And yet, despite the acrimony and lack of comfort at the heart of this estranged family of motherless daughters with a distant father, I was charmed by the complete warmth of Flavia's faith and trust in her own abilities and intelligence. There is a mystery to solve: a dead man in the cucumber patch, some missing valuable stamps, and an old suicide for which Flavia's father feels responsible.
Yes, Flavia is an overly precocious motherfucker. But she's not precocious in the way that annoy me in books for adults with kid narrators. Those precocious motherfuckers have an unnatural ability to understand way too well the motivations and emotions of the adults around them. Flavia is intelligent and curious and quite possibly a budding sociopath, but the meaning behind why the adults around her do the things they do many times remains a mystery, something to be observed, but not ever entirely comprehended.
Then there's the setting: pastoral England, 1950, large estate, small village, old money, the after-affects of World War II, a bicycle originally named l'Hirondelle, renamed Gladys. Only Flavia would rechristen a bike Gladys. Oh, the absent mother? A mystery I am certain will be visited in future books. For there is a mystery there as well.
A definite recommend for the mystery fans on the list (a work of twisty-turny brilliance? possibly not, but fun and interesting nonetheless), those who enjoy books set in period England, books that are charming, though not really sweet, but still utterly delightful.
I picked it up and tried to judge it by its cover: green, with an engaging picture on the front of a blackbird. I like blackbirds. This one is dead.
"Now I now you're not crazy about books for adults with kid narrators--"
"Overly precocious motherfuckers," I muttered.
"--but this book is utterly delightful."
And so I took it with promises to give it a try. Because how could I resist the sparkle in her eye while she said those words? "Utterly delightful," like "Charming," and such others, were words we reserved for books that had enchanted us in spite of whatever misgivings we had previously held about the tome in question. They were descriptors we were fond of using whenever possible.
Today I should have been reading about Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. But the slow, lonely Sunday beckoned me into such a laziness that calls for me to curl up in my reading chair and not move for 8 or so hours. Which is exactly what I did as I read The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie in one sitting. Perhaps it's the setting. There is something cozy to me about reading novels set in England anytime before 1960. Unlike I Capture the Castle (a longtime favorite), though, the de Luces are no Mortmains. Sisters, left to their own devices, terrorize each other. The youngest, Flavia, budding chemistry genius, plots revenge through poisons. And yet, despite the acrimony and lack of comfort at the heart of this estranged family of motherless daughters with a distant father, I was charmed by the complete warmth of Flavia's faith and trust in her own abilities and intelligence. There is a mystery to solve: a dead man in the cucumber patch, some missing valuable stamps, and an old suicide for which Flavia's father feels responsible.
Yes, Flavia is an overly precocious motherfucker. But she's not precocious in the way that annoy me in books for adults with kid narrators. Those precocious motherfuckers have an unnatural ability to understand way too well the motivations and emotions of the adults around them. Flavia is intelligent and curious and quite possibly a budding sociopath, but the meaning behind why the adults around her do the things they do many times remains a mystery, something to be observed, but not ever entirely comprehended.
Then there's the setting: pastoral England, 1950, large estate, small village, old money, the after-affects of World War II, a bicycle originally named l'Hirondelle, renamed Gladys. Only Flavia would rechristen a bike Gladys. Oh, the absent mother? A mystery I am certain will be visited in future books. For there is a mystery there as well.
A definite recommend for the mystery fans on the list (a work of twisty-turny brilliance? possibly not, but fun and interesting nonetheless), those who enjoy books set in period England, books that are charming, though not really sweet, but still utterly delightful.