Saumensch and Saukerl

THE BOOK THIEF

Markus Zusak

How funny is it that the things we love the most are the ones we can't encapsulate in words? I think every language in the world has a term for lexical gaps between words and feelings. Nobody can avoid it though, it comes once in a while and that's exactly what I have for this book. Feelings--which one, I don't know. It was mostly a mixture of joy, sadness, hope, love, admiration etc etc. There are so many things I want to say about this book, about the characters of this book but I'm pretty sure I will not be able to articulate it very well. So, I've decided that I'm just going to be straight with everyone: I love it. Please, please, please read it. (But don't read it in the dark like I did because you are not dramatic like me. I wanted to read like Liesl did and so I read with my night light at 3 AM. It's very bad for your eyes and for your overall feeling throughout the day)

This is a lovely book and anybody who reads it is sure to love it. (Okay, that's a huge bias on my part but oh, how else can I sell this one special book?) I mean, I've been trying to write about for a whole month and I can't seem to get it right. It means so much to me in a big, big way and I am so afraid of messing it up for people who are yet to read it. It's a wonderful book about the power of words but it's also a book about love, death, and humanity. The plot is simple but very well-written, the sentences are so simple but powerful and many of them, the ones about relationships with people and life itself, are so spot-on, I wish I highlighted all of them. It has so many lessons, big and small and I'll be damned if I dissuade people from this book. I just love it so much and I hope one day, if you pick it up, you will too.

PS: My favorite part in the book is a little story called The Word Shaker. When I read it, I was just.. well, I was just.. can I just? Yes. Please. Read it.

"The BEST word shakers were the ones who understood the true power of words. They were the ones who could climb the highest. One such word shaker was a small, skinny girl. She was renowned as the best word shaker of her region because she knew how powerless a person could be WITHOUT words.

That's why she could climb higher than anyone else. She had desire. She was hungry for them."

When the Elephants Dance

"Papa explains the war like this: ‘When the elephants dance, the chickens must be careful.' The great beasts, as they circle one another, shaking the trees and trumpeting loudly, are the Amerikanos and the Japanese as they fight. And our Philippine Islands? We are the small chickens. I think of baby chicks I can hold in the palm of my hand, flapping wings that are not yet grown, and I am frightened"

The Javs of the East gave me this book as a gift on my 20th birthday. It's a wonderful book, really, and I wish I spent more time writing down my thoughts while I read it. It's that great. I just wish another great Filipiniana book rolls my way soon. I have to admit that I don't look for them (or at them) that much. Anyway, enough of my self-absorption, let's get on with the book!

Let me explain the title first. 'When elephants dance, the chickens must be careful' is a geo-political metaphor about the World War II. The elephants are the Japanese and the Americans, of course, with all their bombing and fighting. Great countries. Powerful ones. We, the Filipinos, are the chickens who are caught in the middle. We can either choose to get out of the way or get crushed. A small price to pay. A casualty of war. I found the title very moving in itself and if it was any indication of how the book will pan out later on, I braced myself for a wonderful ride. I was right.

When the Elephants Dance is the story of the Karangalan family and the rest of their neighbors during the war. We meet three narrators in the story, Alejandro Karangalan, a guerilla leader named Domingo Matapang and my favorite, Isabelle--Alejandro's older sister. As the fighting and the interrogating continues, the Karangalan family and their neighbors decide to hide in a cellar to be able to survive. This is exactly what I love about the book, its story centers around the struggle to survive during an extraordinary time where the very concept of hope seemed so bleak. And yet hope they had and fight they did to surpass very trying times amidst a vicious war.

Inside the cellar, the Karangalans and their neighbors exchange stories of Filipino myth, superstitions, fables, legends to pass time, spark hope, build courage and teach values. They are spellbound by ghosts, witches, people worth looking up to and even by simple anecdotes from somebody's childhood. I loved all of it. As a child who was kept awake at night by ghost stories swapped with cousins, I adored it all. My favorites, however, were the church that sank to the ground and the story of the fisherman and the bone. You'll just have to read the book to find out what they're all about.

I promise not to spoil the book for everyone so let me just tell you something I found so brilliant. Aside from giving us a glimpse into the Filipino culture through the stories the Karangalans and their neighbors tell, the book also makes us feel the uncertainty, the fear, the injustice and the gravity of the war that was taking place during that time. It is so easy to lose the premise of the book amidst the many beautiful stories of Filipino myth and legend but I never felt disconnected to the bombings, the bloodshed and the treacherous nature of everything--people, places, politics during that time. Truth be told, this novel was a pleasant surprise in that aspect. It came and went like a silent storm. It was powerful but not in an explosive way, it was powerful because the prose is just as great as its story--a generous gift that kept on giving and giving. It was amazing and thrilling and well, it was many other adjectives I have not used in a Filipiniana book for a very long time.

To say that I was floored would be a grave understatement. I wasn't just floored, I was very proud of how colorful our history is and how, underneath the maniacal influence of Western culture, we have stories and values that we can still uphold and call our own. This was a very good read and a very special one, too.

_________________________________________________________

¹When the Elephants Dance by Tess Uriza Holthe

Jasmin Field and Empress Orchid

More on books! I finished reading these a few weeks ago but laziness got in the way of writing about them. Pride, Prejudice and Jasmin Field is yet another author's take on Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice, except this time it's set in contemporary London, it's about Jasmin Field who got the starring role (of Lizzy Bennet, no less) in a one-night only play, directed by this hot shot actor/director who's so full of pomp and pride, he can give Darcy a run for his money, blah...blah...blah...let me drown you with my commas. Nothing you can't see or read in Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones' Diary but as someone who cannot get over Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet, I bit into it and read it from cover to cover. Will I recommend this book for someone else's perusal? Sure, if you can find it. If you can't, don't worry. You don't lose much.

Empress Orchid, on the other hand, was a delectable book. It took me quite a while before I got on with the plot. Empress Orchid is a (let me clarify my use of the article a, a because this isn't THE story of Ci Xi but a sort of half-fiction, half-biography thing) story of Ci Xi, the last Empress of China. It's about a concubine who later became a regent, about a mother who had to save not only herself but her son, a girl who had to play the game in order to survive. I like the fact that Tzu Hsi (Ci Xi's name in the book) isn't a submissive heroine. She's a fighter from the start, an intelligent one at that. Although the book started out and finished strong, it was a challenge to read because of all the East Asian jargon. I had to Google most of them except for palanquin, which I bet you'll look up right about now (or not since my vocabulary is weaker than most, admittedly). The book gets better later on and I love, love, love the cunning, tension (both political and sexual), customs and restraint in this book. I love the elaborate tradition, excessive wealth and esoteric nature practiced in the Forbidden City. I also love the intense power struggle, the superstition and the devotion of every character in this book (whether to their masters, to religion, to power, to their child etc etc). Those who love Asian Studies and Anthropology, in general, will like this book. I wish I could say more about its authenticity but my knowledge during Ci Xi and Pu Yin's time is very limited, I cannot comment on how much of it is fact or fiction. One day, I might be able to but for now, I'll stick to liking this book and its author.

I've always liked Anchee Min. One of her novels, Becoming Madame Mao, is a recurring figure in my nightstand (assuming that I have one, which I don't) despite it being about a woman touted as The White Boned Demon in China. There's something so magnetic about her prose that it just draws me in. I used to think my attachment to Min's writings was because of my predilection for Asian women and literature but I can't be certain. What I do know is that Anchee Min has taken a fancy for giving antagonized Asian women voices of their own, as in Becoming Madame Mao (which is, obviously, a book about Madame Mao, the leader of the cultural revolution in China) and in Empress Orchid (a book about Ci Xi, who is also heavily antagonized during and after her reign in real life), and she did it pretty well.

One Day: Twenty Years, Two People

Em and Dex. Dex and Em. Emma Morley and Dexter Mayhew have been keeping me company for a good two weeks and while I have read and loved other books in between finishing their story, I will write about them first. I will write about them just because the whole premise of our lives is that love is hard and it's a struggle to keep things together and not let it fall apart. I have to warn you, it isn't a love story with a happy ending. And I really like it that way. Now, this book might speak to someone else differently but to me, it is so spot-on in pointing out the struggles of lovers--of human fraility, of timing, of keeping love itself.

A lot can be said about this book's setting, which is catching up with two people every July 15th for twenty years. Smart, isn't it? I won't go around writing about that because I'm not smart enough to do so. I, however, can just go ahead and say that I loved the characters because I did. I do.

I love Dexter Mayhew despite his constant struggle to keep the people he loves in his life. The strain of doing so wears him, and the people around him, thin. He is flawed, completely flawed, but it is in this complexity that I find him charming and human. I love Emma Morley because while she isn't up-front pretty, she is intelligent and principled. I love how she struggled to find her footing at first but eventually became an accomplished woman. I love how she's so reflective and how she feels so strongly for many things that it's easy to misread her as angry and self-satisfied. I love her because she reminds me of myself, of my fears, of my worries, of the future I frequently think of (even if I should be focused on the rut I am currently in, a.k.a my ugly present). At 20, one of my biggest fears is waking up twenty years later as the person I hoped I would not be. Let me write the quote that I like the most:

"She sometimes wondered what her twenty-two-year-old self would think of today's Emma Mayhew. Would she consider her self-centered? Compromised? A bourgeois sell-out, with her appetite for home ownership and foreign travel, clothes from Paris and expensive haircuts? Would she find her conventional, with her new surname and hopes for a family life? Maybe, but then the twenty-two-year-old Emma Morley wasn't such a paragon either: pretentious, petulant, lazy, speechifying, judgemental, self-pitying, self-righteous, self-important, all the selfs except self-confident, the quality that she had always needed the most."

I can write many things about Emma Morley but I won't do that. I would like for others to discover Em and Dex in their own way. The last thing I can say about this book (without spoiling it, I've been told the way I write about my books kind of ruin things for other people) is that I loved the characters' chemistry, the almost tangible connection they share with each other and with the reader. I love Suki Meadows, Tilly Killick, Alison Mayhew and even cold, collected, calculated Sylvie. Most of all, I loved Em and Dex and how right they were for each other, loving and hating one another at the same time. I love their partnership. While reading the book, I felt like I was watching two of my old friends' lives unravel before me. I knew, just like everybody else, that they were bound to get together somehow, if not a little bit late. I love Em and Dex, Dex and Em. I love the people that they were and the people they've become. I loved every July 15th, the twenty years in their life that I was able to see.

_______________________________

PS: So much thanks to A for lending me this book. It was a good read. :)

We'll be old in a bit so let's make the most of it

Hello, it's been a while. I have a lot to say about the books I've been reading but first let me ease into a ~real-life related~ photo dump. Every Saturday, my friends and I (or The Crew! Hi, Cougar Town!) go out for some good 'ol feasting because life tends to wear us out by the end of the week. As I've said before, it is a way to re-charge whatever energy is left in our systems by the time weekend hits. It's also a way to re-group because if we are to vent, we should vent to long-time friends.

Our last escapade was two Saturdays ago. The break was a conscious effort on our part because to be power ladies (and a boss, because Carles is a guy) is to be financially smart. We can't indulge every Saturday so while we wait for our next "meeting", let me show you pictures of our last..uhm..escapade. We started with Lusso (GB 5, beside Balenciaga) and their really delicious foie gras burger. It's filling but it could be better. In what way, you ask? Well, for one, the foie gras could be at least five inches think and the burger reduced to a mere half-inch coating of the duck/goose liver. Now, that's a foie gras burger. ;) I think next time, I'll stick with foie gras croque monseiur. Then, it was sweetness overload for the three of us with wonderful macarons from Bizu and a selection of cakes (Carl's Amour, a Valrhona-orange chocolate concoction, A's Strawberry shortcake and my mango cheesecake with petals already falling off). What is hedonism? More importantly, what is friendship? This ♥

I can't wait for the next Saturdate. Hello to my Cul-de-sac crew. I miss you so.

One Day by David Nicholls

"Live each day as if it's our last', that was the conventional advice, but really who had the energy for that? What if it rained or you felt a bit glandy? It just wasn't practical. Better by far to simply try and be good and courageous and bold and to make a difference. Not change the world exactly, but the bit around you. Go out there with your passion and your electric typewriter and work hard at...something. Change lives through art maybe. Cherish your friends, stay true to your principles, live passionately and fully and well. Experience new things. Love and be loved, if you ever get the chance."

Hello, blog (and books). I've missed you.

We're out in the wild

Stamp your hind legs. Get behind me. Animale. Great job, Don Diablo! I really like this song and the video's kind of hot, too. It reminds me of my collegiate days. (We really thought we were invisible, no?) I'm glad I went through all of that but I'm a bit relieved that I've shaken the daredevil thing off my system. Still, one can't help but reminisce sometimes. I loved those days. Keishia uploaded an .mp3 of this track in her music blog, DLWUT. Get it and dance. Enjoy!

The Fairy Grandmothers

One day, I'm going to be as fabulous as these three.

Goodbye, New York. Thanks for Breaking My Heart.

By CHRISTOPHER SOLOMON

Two years ago, Christopher Solomon moved to New York City from the Pacific Northwest and wrote about it in the City Weekly section of The New York Times. Things didn’t quite work out as he had hoped.

Dear New York,

I left you today. I know you didn’t even pause long enough to notice; you’ve never had much use for the past tense, New York, or for those who use it. You’ve always been a forward-looker, a destroyer and reassembler, the Great What’s Next. That’s why I shouldn’t have been surprised when I cast a last backward glance at you from the doors of Grand Central on the way to catch my train, and you returned it with the F-sharp blat of a taxi’s horn, and you kept moving. And I knew again it was time to go.

Two years ago this week, another taxicab picked me up at La Guardia Airport and dropped me in the West Village to begin my life as one of yours: a New Yorker. It was 1:30 in the morning. West 11th Street was empty, the asphalt glazed with rain, the scene as still as a movie set. I groped my way up the dark stairway to my two-week sublet where a low bed sat beside a window grilled with bars that looked out on still more barred windows. The night was muggy, and I lay on the bed in my underwear with the window open and listened to the sounds of my new city — first the hydraulic wheeze and grumble of the 3 o’clock garbage trucks, then at dawn the unlikely wop! of tennis volleys from some millionaire’s rooftop court.

Everything about you was new then, New York, even your intrusions, and I was exhilarated and exhausted by you — just as I was by the red-haired girl I had chased East.

Within a year, the red-haired girl had said “I’m sorry” and left with another man. And you, fickle New York, where did you go after our nights lying awake together? Oh, I pursued you. We went to the opera, to plays, to gritty little restaurants in Queens. You — the city — were always my date. But you never belonged to me. Eventually you, too, moved on, taking your buzzing neon promise of fame to the next newcomer.

And now that I have finally found the willpower to leave, there are a few things I’ve long wanted to tell you.

New York, I won’t miss your fierce morning halitosis exhaled from your subway grates along Third Avenue.

I won’t miss you drooling on me from your high-rise air-conditioners in the burning heights of summer.

I won’t miss how you stood too late outside the bars and smoked until there was a blue nimbus around your head like some strange halo, and how to me you always smelled like spent Camel Lights, and warming urine, and the No. 14 bus — a perfume I never could quite embrace.

New York, I’ll never forget how dating you made me so poor that when I wanted to read I had to unscrew a bulb from the bedroom and carry it to the living room.

Most of all, I won’t miss how you daily reminded me of this: that once a red-haired girl has said “I’m sorry” and left with another man, there’s no more lonesome place on earth than your East Village on a warm summer’s night when the girls and boys cling to each other as if to keep the other from floating away.

But, Oh, New York! who am I kidding? You are that red-haired girl who welcomed me here and then did not want me. And like her, I still love you, and even now I miss you.

I miss seeing you slapping down dominoes with the Puertoriqueños on the card table you’d set up in the street on steamy August nights in Alphabet City (not gentrified yet!).

I miss you standing listlessly with the homosexuals in their tube tops outside dark-windowed clubs as they waited for rescue from their boredom.

I miss your neon running in the gutters like blood.

I miss the grudging, sweaty democracy of your subway cars, and your fragrant bodega arboretums at breakfast, and the harp strings of your Brooklyn Bridge when your summer evenings recline, stretching warm and pink across the East River.

What I love about you, New York, and what also breaks my heart is the same thing I loved and lamented about her: You are everything and yet you are slippery, standoffish, ungraspable. You will never need a me to be you. You are yourself, always.

The Pleasure of Leaving

Paper Towns¹ is a story about a high school senior named Quentin Jacobsen (nickname: Q) who has been entranced by his neighbor, Margo Roth Spiegelman, since time immemorial. Margo Roth Spiegelman is spunky, mysterious, strikingly beautiful and very adventurous. It is easy for someone like Q to confuse his attraction to Margo's enigmatic personality for love and this is precisely what he does.

A few weeks before their high school graduation, Margo shows up in Q's bedroom and takes him on a night filled with adventure (mostly of the mischievous, revenge prank kind). Their little night-out ends with Margo and Q slow-dancing in SeaWorld (which they broke into in the dead of the night) and her whispering the words "I. Will. Miss. Hanging. Out. With. You." in his ear before they part. Expectedly, Margo Roth Spiegelman doesn't show up in school the next day.

When Margo stops showing up to class altogether, Q realizes that it isn't just one of Margo's random disappearing acts. He, together with friends Ben, Radar and Lacey, searches for clues that might lead them to Margo's whereabouts, clues that Q thinks Margo left for him to find.

-

It took me an entire week to re-read this book that by Friday, it's beat-up and quite dirty. I'm a little bit sad about that but I'm extremely happy about the story and its pacing. I quite like it despite the fact that the characters in John Green's body of work are eerily similar to one another. One can easily find similarities in Quentin Jacobsen and Colin Singleton (An Abudance of Katherines) and in Margo Roth Spiegelman and Alaska Young (Looking for Alaska). Aside from that, the book is just great. It's very witty and spot on. I wasn't as articulate as Q or Ben or Radar when I was in high school and I sure as hell wasn't a Margo or a Lacey but I loved and understood the way they all connected.

I especially liked the fact that the book touched on the difference between the way we picture people and the way they really are. In page 282, John Green wrote, "What a treacherous thing to believe that a person is more than a person" and that's totally true. Q didn't really love Margo, he loved his own idea of who she is. We sometimes let ourselves build a castle out of what is essentially a straw house, not because of naïveté but because we all hope for the best, especially in affairs of the heart. Finding out that the person you've been pinning for is actually an asshole may be one of the worst feelings in the world. It's definitely not up there with civil war, nuclear holocaust and famine but heartbreak wise, it comes pretty close to complete spirit wreckage. We can always pick ourselves up from something like that but this book is a good reminder of saving one's self from self-destruction.

I also realized that John Green's novels are always about kids in search of an adventure or something, in general, whether it's to prove a relationship theorem, the Great Perhaps or Paper Towns. I don't know what other readers feel about that but I like it, it's a huge reason why I'm a fan of his writing. I like the hope that the search for something brings. I like the promise of the unknown. I like the pleasure of leaving.

"She'd told me: the pleasure isn't in doing the thing, the pleasure is in planning it...

...She reads the Whitman and highlights 'I tramp a perpetual journey,' because that's the kind of thing she likes to imagine herself doing. The kind of thing she likes to plan.

But is it the kind of thing she likes to actually do? No. Because Margo knows the secret of leaving. The secret I have only just now learned: leaving feels good and pure only when you leave something important, something that mattered to you. Ruling life out by the roots. But you can't do that until your life has grown roots.

And so when she left, she left for good."

_______________________________
¹Paper Towns are fictitious towns added in maps to serve as copyright traps.

Get with the program

It took an entire payday (and quite possibly, my first shot at inconveniencing my boss¹) to file everything that I need so I can take my GAT but thankfully, I have generous professors who were kind enough to squeeze my forms into their very busy schedules. It's a bit affirming, knowing that I was exchanging messages with somebody I really look up to, an exchange that started out with my plea for help and then later on became an invitation to chat about novels at the department (!!!). Hey, that counts as something no? School also counts as something I can look forward to in 2011 and hopefully, as a step towards New York (which is my original plan but it sort of fell apart when the world made me realize I'm not academically qualified for a foreign university just yet) within two years. I believe in the power of positive thinking. We will do this.

In any case, I already took my GAT (I took it today! It was fairly easy but we never know) and I've begun preparing for January by revisiting old lectures through my readings and my trusty podcasts (which I used to use as a studying shortcut whenever my readings pile up) from iTunes University².

God, I can't wait to go back. I'm obviously very happy about all of this and if the graduate school motivation graph³ is used as a point of reference, one will be able to tell that I haven't gone far ahead. Which is okay because the most important point of this entry is that I'm right on schedule. And that I haven't given up on my life's Masterplan and/or my dreams.

At least, not yet. (Okay, I hope and pray that I won't ever have to but again, we never know)

______________________________

¹Well, I'm not really sure. I think my boss is a genuinely nice person so I got off work easily, but I am speaking only from impression and the premise that I like to believe the best of people. I'm just assuming I got an easy pass because I'm new but I'm very unhappy about missing days from work this early. (The weather also made it impossible for me to go to work last tuesday, jsyk)

² I kind of favor lectures from Columbia University's SIPA program because that's my dream school and program (albeit I am underfunded). Sometimes when I feel like geeking out, I get stuff from the Humanities selection. Favorite: Marianne Talbot.

³ This graph. Get with the program!

Who are you to say I won't make it?

It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.

Theodore Roosevelt, 1910

Pour Un Garçon Français

I'm re-posting this entry from dancelikeweusedto, even if I've reblogged it on tumblr. What's the use of having so many social networking sites if I can't waste online space? I'm also re-posting because a.) it's my favorite music blog and b.) I have no time to write about the uneventful phenomena that is my life. Also, I really, really, really like this entry because it is dedicated to me and my (unrealistic love for) Yoann Gourcuff. I am as self-involved as self-involved goes but does it really matter? Of course not, as long as it amounts to good music between your ears. Thank you, Keishia. My week is made. (I can't wait for it to end. It's only a monday, go figure!)

dancelikeweusedto:

Album cover (L-R): Gaspard Ulliel, Louis Garrel and Yoann Gourcuff aka prominent Frenchmen whose intense stares got girls saying, "Oh mon dieu! Oui oui, prenez-moi!"

1. Moi Je Joue by Brigitte Bardot
2. Tout Doucement by Feist
3. Tu Es Beau by Yelle
4. You and I by Ingrid Michaelson
5. Tongue Tied by Charlie Winston
6. La Liste by Rose
7. Like A Star by Corinne Bailey Rae
8. Le Ciel Dans Une Chambre by Carla Bruni
9. Falling Slowly by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova
10. Little Bit by Lykke Li
11. La Vie En Rose by Edith Piaf

DOWNLOAD ZIP FILE HERE

'Pour Un Français Garçon' is a compilation of French love songs. I made a few exceptions by including some English songs to lengthen and complete this mix. This mix is for Reisha and her petit ami, Yoann Gourcuff. And to everyone who's hang up on a French guy. Pour moi, c'est Gaspard Ulliel.

Bisous,
Ton amie Keishia

P.S. I messed up with the grammar, it's supposed to be 'garçon français', but whatever, right? I don't want to redo everything.

Something Borrowed, Emily Giffin

Well, someone has to do it right? I have to read these things so I can tell you that this is just another chick lit and that if you, like me, have nothing better to do, then by all means...pick up this book. I really liked it though, it was a good way to pass time.

Something Borrowed is the story of a 30-year old lawyer named Rachel White and how she has always lived by the rules, under her best friend's shadow. It took her years (twenty-five, to be exact) before she realized that hey, she is only young once and she has to live a little. While I do not recommend sleeping with your best friend's fiancé (not to mention, boyfriend of seven years--the same one you introduced many years ago), I thought the book was a great reminder of the many instances we pass up on because we are too scared of bending the rules and living a little. Personally, I have had quite a share of misfortunes I can only chalk up to experience and surreal moments that I will never ever regret but if you do not count out the many times I have chickened out of, say for example, a chance at starting somewhere new and far away, an underfunded scholarship or a simple date with someone I hardly know, I am way too safe for the adventures that has come and gone my way. This kind of life is the same one Something Borrowed tells you NOT to have. I can't say I don't agree.

The trouble with reading chick lit, at least for me, is that I cannot really gush about it because it doesn't leave me feeling renewed or changed. It's like a little summer fling that only excites you for the first two weeks and then just gradually wears off once school is about to start again, you are thankful for the kissing, ultimately, but are only too happy to walk away. The book is just that, fun to read. And oh, okay, stimulating. Mostly because I like to behave like a lady and these fictional girls are the girls I like to live vicariously through--what with their careers (Rachel is a lawyer; Dexter Thaler, the person she is having an affair with, is a corporate lawyer), fantastic summer vacations (Hello, Hamptons!), access to hot bars and delicious cocktails (Gramercy, for me and you) and amazing sex lives (which has led me to believe that New York dating = only for the tough). Who doesn't love the drama?

The dialogue is sharp and witty, which is always comforting for this genre. I have to admit Rachel White (or Emily Giffin, by default) and I share a lot of common views about many things. A+ because it was fun reading this book within a day, as it is very exciting to see a girl get the guy she's always wanted, a.k.a. The One That (Almost) Got Away, even with a moral code as pretentious as mine. Oh, to be loved. Where I come from, this book can be summed up with one...uhm..cliché: Masarap ang bawal. And as a bastion of doing all things bawal, this book is worth it. Chasing happiness sometimes means no right or wrong. No moral absolutes. The world is not that black-and-white. It's either you want to be happy or you don't. Karma? What karma?

PS: Excuse the abysmal quality of my photo, I am feeling very lazy today. Plus, it's not one of those books. You know.

I got the world in my hand, the masterplan

Christian Dior Denim Flow - Kanye West, Kid Cudi, John Legend, Lloyd Banks, Pusha T, Ryan Leslie | Download via Kanye.com

I've been listening to (and loving!) this track the whole day. It's just really good and I believe we haven't had something like this in a while. Kanye West (YEEZY!), Kid Cudi, John Legend, Lloyd Banks, Pusha T and Ryan Leslie in one track! How awesome is that? I thought it was an homage to gorgeous models at first but when I listened to the song, I realized it was written for the homegirls! FINALLY, NO? *virtual high-fives all around!* Why Christian Dior when the megabrand is really spelled as Cristian? I don't know, I guess spelling it as such is just a lawsuit waiting to happen or a profit waiting to be divided. What I do know is that I really, really, really like this song. Drake and Swizz Beatz' Fancy might be my current favorite (I just love Fancy! Intelligent too/Ooh, you're my sweetheart/I've always liked my women book and street smart/) but this song comes a really close second. I uploaded them for kicks. Go get 'em! They're just sooooo good.

Some girls just walk in the light. Indeed.

Old Man Pablo

Hello! I'm going to blog a bit because I can't sleep. Just to state the obvious, I'm never going to run out of pictures from New York. I have a 4GB card full but to be honest, I might have had a few escapades I cannot talk about. Mostly because there are times when I can be unbelievably confident and for a small-town girl alone in a big city like New York, being forward is just very unbecoming.

One day, I decided to ride the bus to the MET (Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art). I was alone but a group of young tourists from a French public school offered to tag me along as they go around the museum. I declined, of course, because how can I flail over regency England set-ups in the presence of European boys? I figured they probably wanted me to come with because I am big enough to be their bodyguard. That or the simple fact that I translated a few sentences describing Byzantine art to these fine gentlemen. Regret only comes back to haunt you when you're already in Third World Philippines, wondering why nobody pings you on MSN e-v-e-r. Huhu. Haha. Just kidding. Anyway, moving along..

I roamed around the museum alone. The whole thing took me four hours. I found myself reveling at the items inside the American History wing the most.

I have a thing for chairs, so I took a picture of these old American chairs on display. I actually have a small list in my head of the chairs I want to buy when I earn big: Philippe Starck's Louis ghost chairs, the Heima couch, those Victorian lounge chairs I saw in Dimensione and Locsin International's onion couch in black. Aaah, I can't wait.

I got bored walking around so off I went to a secluded wing to buy a painting of my ancestors. CHOS! I'm just kidding. I'm not sure why there are a lot of paintings which are not on display anymore but storing them inside glass cases is the next best thing.

These girls are my favorite. The portrait on the right is actually reproduced as prints, greeting cards or postcards and is sold all over the museum gift shops. I should have bought one. Look at her, she's beautiful.

Being right in time for Picasso's exhibit made my trip worth it. It is easily the highlight of my Manhattan 2010, a feat since I have been shopping in stores I wouldn't even dare enter alone during my stay in NY (I have fairy GRANDmothers). Still, art > any material thing.

I have been a fan of Pablo Picasso ever since I read his autobiography in college. I've always looked at him as a tormented genius, someone so passionate about his art but really cold-blooded towards people. My favorite Picasso anecdote was when he cut his son and grandchildren in order to mix their blood into his paints. It was so twisted but it was the same detachment he showed towards his family that attracted me into learning more about him. I was so interested in his passion for his art that I didn't realize he's already become the artist I know most about. His life is just so colorful and so sexual. I am very pleased that politics and social issues found its way through his art, no matter how much his style has evolved throughout his creative years. It just shows how great an influence culture can be. As a matter of fact, it *is* the greatest influence an artist (or a person) can have.

I know Picasso has done a lot of commendable artwork and paintings, from Cubism to Surrealism to his infamous Blue and Rose Periods. However, my favorite is still and will always be his charcoal sketches and rubber prints. There is something about the simplicity of his art in these mediums that speaks so strongly to me. I actually dream of exploring places like Barcelona, Madrid, most of Spain and parts of France just to get a feel about his creative process. I'm a big fan of creative artists and troubled geniuses, I would love to learn more about Picasso through his culture.

Most of these sketches are nude, erotic or extremely objectifying. I. Just. Love. It.

An original announcement for one of Mr. P's shows.

I don't need to tell you something about the prominence of clowns in one of Picasso's series. The most famous of which is Le Clown et l'Harlequin and the White Clown. Some of his famous works like The Dreamer (the painting above) were also featured.

This print or partial sketch of three ladies bathing was imprinted into a big canvas bag that museum folks sold for $47 a piece. I love Pablo P and all, but I don't think I will ever pay for katsa that expensive. Even if I had the money. Which I don't, usually.

These rubber prints are my favorite. Picasso made these for the King and Queen of Spain at that time, in the hope of getting more funding in the future.

I spent some time looking at his sketches, mostly because they are my favorite set. I really think these works have been overlooked because they're just sketches. That or I'm really into school and I've been trying to make my mind work by connecting art and art history to psychology. Temperance Brennan and Meredith Grey will not approve.

Critics argue that these sketches are not only overtly sexual, they also objectify women. I just think they're sexy and gorgeous. It's a plus fact that Pablo Picasso was totally into gorditas for a time. Hey, it isn't everyday that we're objectified. It might be bad but we're all a little vain inside. It feels good. Kind of. (Don't mind me, I don't know what I'm talking about)

Lastly, my all-time favorite Picasso artwork:

La Douleur, painted in 1902 (0r 1903, no one is sure) using oil on canvas. People refer to it plainly as the erotic scene. He was very young when he painted this, he was only twenty-two but look at that painting of himself being fellated by a woman. It is the most sexually charged painting I have ever seen and even then, I think Pablo Picasso already had a carnal knowledge of both his personal pleasures and his art. He is a genius. Always.

Forever amazed.

Some days are meant for pasta

I'm not the biggest fan or patron of pasta. I'm actually very carnivorous and very asian, in that I like my rice as much as I like my meat. Fortunately, there are lazy days that really call for pasta. Like weekends or break-up months or Christmas time. It's not a secret that I like to putter around the kitchen whenever I have free time. I'm not exactly big on writing about my experiments with food because how redundant can I be? Like, seriously? A fat foodie? Heh. I have nothing to talk about so I'm making an exception. This recipe is as simple as it goes. I already wrote about this dish on my tumblr but I'm blogging about it again with the full recipe (my own tweakage of the standard tomato cream pasta).

Ingredients:

2 tbsps. truffle oil

2 tbsps. butter

1 small onion, diced

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 250g all-purpose cream

10 oz. tomato sauce (I used 3/4 of a can)

salt and pepper to taste

1 tbsp of brown sugar (to counter the acidity of the sauce)

about 200 grams of sausage, chopped

dried basil leaves (if you have fresh ones, go for it!)

grated Pecorino Romano cheese

450 g linguine¹, cooked to package directions

Preparation instructions:

Heat butter and oil over medium heat. Add onions and garlic and saute for a minute or so. Add chopped sausage and let it brown a bit (if you like salty and garlicky sausages, you can omit the garlic and just saute it with onions but I like my sausages sweet so, yeah). Pour in tomato sauce and add salt, pepper, and sugar to taste. Stir and cook over low heat for about 15 to 20 minutes, stirring occasionally (I turn off the heat when my sauce is thick and the color turns into a really deep red. I also add a dash of dried basil leaves just a few minutes before I turn off the heat. Adding it any time sooner is just overpowering). Remove from heat and stir in cream. Pour over drained pasta and toss to coat. Garnish with grated Pecorino Romano (or Parmesan cheese) and more dried basil leaves (if you want to!). Serve.

My sister likes this a lot but she wants it sausage-and-herb-free and really cheesy. My mother suggested I put mushrooms the next time I make one. A friend of mine puts red pepper flakes in his recipe. I would've used fresh basil and sun dried tomatoes (instead of tomato sauce) if I had the option. I think it's a matter of personal preference. Enjoy!

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¹You can use other kinds of pasta, I just prefer linguine because it's firm and it cooks well. :D I think this kind of recipe works well with fussili and penne too, because it's saucy and creamy but what the hell do I know? I just like to eat. Period.

Wherever you are is where you should be

It seems that the universe has been communicating with me through the final pages of the books I read because I've been finding them the most appealing. And as someone without much of a life, I am more than inclined to share these last pages to you. My unknown you. For this book, this statement is the most meaningful (as in applicable to all, at any time):

As for what is in store for me, I have not the smallest notion and I glory in that state of not knowing. There is no better place to be. For the past does not exist. There is only the present. Only the eternal beautiful ever-unfolding now.

And true enough, the past does not exist and the future is only a dream. The Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen addict is part two of Laura Viera Rigler's homage to every Janeite in the world. It will be hard to explain the concept of this book without mentioning its prequel, Confessions of a Jane Austen addict---in which 21st century California girl Courtney Stone discovers herself in the 18th century, living the life of one Jane Mansfield. Basically, the two books are a role reversal of sorts where two Jane Austen addicts find themselves living each other's lives. In Confessions, Courtney Stone was able to get a taste (and to be so bold, the smell) of England during Jane Austen's time, where dances are a big production, daily baths are unheard of, women stay in bed during their period, and family names are so easy to tarnish (just go to a park alone, if you're a girl). Oh, to live in the world of Miss Austen, in the fictional country lives of Elizabeth, Elinor, Emma, and Marianne. I have dreamt of it, often reveled on the thought of it, and wished I had the chance to live it. It is and will always be a true Janeite's dream and if you're a Janeite like me, you'd know what I'm talking about. We all wished (or still wish) for a chance to dance with Mr. Darcy (okay, maybe Mr. Willoughby for the masochists).

To be honest, I liked Confessions a bit more than this second book but since my copy of Confessions is still sitting in the suburbs of Illinois, waiting to be shipped out, I'll have to write about the second book first. What a very awkward sentence. Y/Y? Despite the alternate universe-y plot, the unexplainable switches (but of course, it is called "fiction" for a reason), and the concussions, the books are very entertaining if only for the confusion of our heroines.

As expected, Courtney Stone had an easier time adapting and settling into 18th century England, where chivalry wasn't dead and Bath was in its prime. She, after all, knew what to expect during that time. All thanks to history classes and her Austen fascination. Jane Mansfield didn't have a clue on what modern life is like and so it was very unnerving for her to find herself living in independent, individualistic America. In Rude Awakenings, Jane Mansfield finds herself in Courtney Stone's world, where people work for what they have (because stature is not determined by birth or rank), there are no servants to wait on her hand and foot, women sleep with men without the blessing of marriage, tampons are used (!!!) and long white gowns are only worn if you're a bride. Jane Mansfield is instantly thrown into a modern world she never knew existed that her insights and comparisons are often funny, amusing and very cringe-worthy. She was raised in regency England, when Jane Austen was still alive and has published only two of her future six books. Imagine Jane Mansfield's delight when she found out she can watch all of Miss Austen's works in a device called DVD, with music, moving pictures and kissing. I think I was a bit thrilled for her myself.

Rude Awakenings basically ties up the loose ends left in the first book, so I think it's best if you go ahead and purchase both. They're both light and easy reads, although I got the feeling that if you're not a big Austen fan, you won't really get most of the allusions in both books. Will this book be enjoyable if one has not read any Austen novel? Yes, it will still be but expect a lot of quotes from Austen novels like Persuasion, Emma and Northanger Abbey and a lot of 18th-century England references from our heroine(s). If you aren't a big Austen fan, reading this book might give you the urge to pick-up a copy of P&P (or all six of Jane Austen's novels, trust me it'll be better that way).

This was a good weekend read. Oh and if there is something I picked up out of reading these books, it is this: Wherever you are is where you should be. Don't fight it. Soon, all things will fall into place (or you know, any variation of my favorite "This too shall pass") ;)

We are indestructible but we are all going

"He was gone, and I did not have time to tell him what I had just now realized: that I forgave him, and that she forgave us, and that we had to forgive to survive in the labyrinth. There were so many of us who would have to live with things done and things left undone that day. Things that did not go right, things that seemed okay at the time because we could not see the future. If only we could see the endless string of consequences that result from our smallest actions. But we can’t know better until knowing better is useless"

John Green's Looking for Alaska moved me in the most unexpected way. I didn't feel strongly for the book in, say, the first half where I felt like I was simply reading about a bunch of gifted kids and their issues. I'll be quick to acknowledge that it is a fantastic book, yes, and that the characters were so well-explained, their quirks became very fascinating. But I thought it won't really be my book. I've had so many good reads in my reading life and some books end up just like that. Another good read. Very little books mean so much to me, I didn't realize Looking for Alaska will be one of them.

Things took a turn when I started reading the "after". I don't know how long it took me to finish reading but I did remember going over and over every page, trying my hardest to disconnect myself from the story. I couldn't. It spoke to me because I was also ridden with guilt, racked by what I should've done and what I didn't do. I'm nowhere near Alaska's self-destruction but like her, I don't speak of my pains or my regrets. Because when the person you could've saved is already dead, who is left to atone you? It isn't a secret that I'm still reeling from a death in my family but it's also a sort of open secret that I forced myself to carry on without much thought. I chose (and I still do) to get of the labyrinth of suffering the same way Alaska Young wanted to. Straight and fast. I thought building a wall between myself and my feelings and inevitably going after the next step made everything easier. I didn't leave any room for thinking, regret or blame. Unlike Pudge and the Colonel, I didn't want to look into the reason why my dad was POOF, gone. Because he already was and I know that what I will know about his last moments, his thoughts, his feelings will only hurt me more. I didn't want any pain. All I wanted was to get of the labyrinth. Straight and fast.

I can say many things about this book to explain just how poignant it is for people like me but this book will most likely be loved by anyone who reads it. Whether out of motivation from suddenly remembering that we are all going, the many Famous Last Words or the quintessential search for the Great Perhaps, I just know this book will be well-loved. I have faith in that. But in a nutshell, it was Pudge's final paper for Dr. Hyde's class that got me the most. And even though Pudge was writing about Alaska, I felt it was a letter from the universe, addressing questions I had but was too afraid to ask. This book was a godsend and I cannot be anymore pleased that I read it at the right time, this time.

" When she fucked up, all those years ago, just a little girl terrified into paralysis, she collapsed into the enigma of herself. And I could have done that, but I saw where it led for her. So I still believe in the Great Perhaps, and I can believe in it in spite of having lost her.

Because I will forget her, yes. That which came together will fall apart imperceptibly slowly, and I will forget, but she will forgive my forgetting, just as I forgive her for forgetting me and the Colonel and everyone but herself and her mom in those last moments she spent as a person. I know now that she forgives me for being dumb and scared and doing the dumb and scared thing. I know she forgives me, just as her mother forgives her. And here's how I know:

I thought at first that she was just dead. Just darkness. Just a body being eaten by bugs. I thought about her a lot like that, as something's meal. What was her--green eyes, half a smirk, the soft curves of her legs--would soon be nothing, just the bones I never saw. I thought about the slow process of becoming bone and then fossil and then coal, that will, in millions of years, be mined by humans of the future, and how they would heat their homes with her, and then she would be smoke billowing out of a smokestack, coating the atmosphere. I will think that, sometimes, think that maybe "the afterlife" is just something we made up to ease the pain of loss, to make our time in the labyrinth bearable. Maybe she was just matter and matter gets recycled.

But ultimately I do not believe that she was only matter. The rest of her must be recycled, too. I believe now that we are greater than the sum of our parts. If you take Alaska's genetic code and you add her life experiences and the relationships she had with people, and then you take the size and shape of her body, you do not get her. There is something else, entirely. There is a part of her greater than the sum of her knowable parts. And that part has to go somewhere because it cannot be destroyed.

Although no one will ever accuse me of being much of a science student, one thing I learned from science classes is that energy is never created and never destroyed. And if Alaska took her own life, that is the hope I wish I could have given her. Forgetting her mother, failing her mother and her friends and herself--those are awful things, but she did not need to fold into herself--those are awful things, but she did not need to fold into herself and self-destruct. Those awful things are survivable, because we are indestructible as we believe ourselves to be. When adults say, "Teenagers think they are invincible" with that sly, stupid smile on their faces, they don't know how right they are. We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken. We think that we are invincible because we are. We cannot be born, and we cannot die. Like all energy, we can only change shapes and sizes and manifestations. They forget that when they get old. They get scared of losing and failing. But that part of us greater than the sum of our parts cannot begin and cannot end, and so it cannot fail.

So I know she forgives me, just as I forgive her. Thomas Edison's last words were: "It's very beautiful over there." I don't know where there is, but I believe it's somewhere and I hope it's beautiful. "

I may not get out of the labyrinth soon but in bringing me atonement, giving me back the hope I once had and reminding me that I am still indestructible beyond my belief, this book has already helped me get halfway through. It brought me a few steps further into closure, this story that I felt was written after my heart. Definitely, most definitely, this book is one of mine.

Hello, father. It was like reading a note from you. I hope it's beautiful out there.

Fresh Meat

Homestead steakhouse. Arguably, the best (and oldest) steakhouse in Manhattan. New York, 2010

Mmm, maybe I should do a Manhattan photo dump? Y/Y?

The Lady is a Tramp

Liaisons with Lady Liberty, New York 2010

French Milk

French Milk is, in a nutshell, an illustrated journal about Lucy Knisley's five-week trip to the city of Paris. Reading it was like reading a friend's travel diary, in which she writes about the world based on what she sees, eats and feels. No BS, just the way she sees it. Standing at the crossroads of adulthood (the pressure of getting a job after graduation is weighing upon her) and the comfort of childhood (she is traveling with her mom, and that makes things a lot easier), Lucy's mood changes from happy to reflective to just plain grumpy in between bites of foie gras and visits to museums. It is a book filled with eats, book-buying (!), art, life questions, wine and little observations about la vie Parisienne. I like the book for its clarity. The writing is just so confident and unafraid to show personal vulnerability. I guess that's why this book is easy to like, it doesn't come off as snooty. In fact, it is totally enjoyable because of its simplicity. It doesn't have heavy learnings, just a lot of pretty pages. Very honest, light and in the moment, French Milk is the kind of book you read half out of envy, half out of having a story you can completely relate to. Cheers to Lucy Knisley for such a wonderful book.

I included scans of my favorite pages (you can click to enlarge). I found my copy of French Milk by chance, at a used bookstore for 145 pesos. I'm not sure if local bookstores carry copies of this wonderful comic book but if they do, get one. It's fantastic. :)

Although most of the pages have single panel sketches with a lot of detail, some pages had pictures from their trip. It came out beautifully (so beautiful that I'm a bit vexed about my inability to draw even the easiest lines and circles):

The apartment they rented (L) and its floor plan (plus food plan?) (R)

This one is a bit cheeky and cute... (may induce chocolate cravings too)

New Year's 2007:

This drawing about their trip to the Museum of Versailles made me laugh,

Lucy exploring Paris...

I think the literatis (Anais Nin, Ernest Hemingway, Oscar Wilde etc.) and their love affair with Paris makes the city all the more magical. This relationship is echoed in many travel diaries and Lucy's was not an exemption. The following set is my very favorite. It's about Lucy's 22nd birthday and how she spent it going to the grave of Oscar Wilde, leaving him a kiss in his tomb (just like hundreds of other visitors before her) and having drinks at the bar where Wilde had his last drink (before he killed himself in a hotel room upstairs). It's a fantastic way to celebrate a birthday, I must say.

Long weekends are for lounging around in your pyjamas

I believe long weekends are for mixing work and play so I snatched up a couple of very cheap books (To add to my book queue! I guess I can go ahead and read French Milk since it has very little text) and FP's special war issue (If there is a topic I really need to read up on, security studies would be it) just so I can have a productive¹ weekend. Balance is the key since next week will be a lot tricky. Decisions, decisions. Anyho, cheerio! A happy weekend to all. :)

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¹Productive differs from person to person. My definition of a productive weekend includes reading my books, fangirl flailing over the charmer that is John Lloyd Cruz, and hearing tidbits of gossip on local tv. Sometimes I do these one at a time, but there are weekends when I like to do them simultaneously. Yes, my zest for life is somewhat deceiving and kind of sad. Oh, such is the life. Hey, at least I make up for it through extensive reading. Heh. :D

Ça va? Ça va.

I tried to write something encouraging about this book but I cannot write something good. Maybe it's due to my lack of sleep, I've been fangirling as of late and the disparity between Western European time zones and GMT + 8:00 Asia has taken a toll on my brain cells. I like this book, I really do, but I cannot point out something poignant from my reading. I like it because I will always be infinitely jealous of girls who get to pursue art degrees in Western Europe without their parent's consternation. I like it because I want a French L'Amour of my own. I like it because Paris is a magnificent city everybody dreams about. I like it because the author gets to live every girl's dream. I like it because it's about these simple things, tied together with food, great company and a lot of learnings. I think it's better if I make a list of what I like and what I don't like about this book, just so you can get a gist (With my writing skills, there is no room for serious book reviewing here. Just what I hope is the very forgivable superficial stuff!).

What I like about this book:

• I like the description of Gwendal because his hazel green eyes, wavy brown hair and Brittany hometown reminds me of my favorite Frenchman. In my head, I pictured myself as Elizabeth Bard (WHAT IS SHAMELESS?) and he became Yoann Gourcuff. This mental picture made the book all the more enjoyable for me. It enabled me to relate to the author without any rationale because that's what gorgeous Frenchmen do, they take out every iota of intelligence in you. I was all "Go, Fight, Win! Move to France" in the first few pages, whereas if Gwendal formed a different image in my head, I would probably scoff at the idea of a girl throwing New York City away for uncertainty in Paris. By virtue of physical superiority, France wins. Again.
• While Elizabeth Bard didn't have misadventures of the unfortunate kind, much of her misery came from issues shaped by the society she grew up in. She was raised in a society that thrives on competition, where people are constantly molded and measured by success--think high-paying jobs, awards and recognition. That is not the case in France, where culture and personal satisfaction comes first. While I was reading the book, I am instantly reminded of myself, my fears, my expectations and that little place in the sun I am forever running after. It goes to show that everybody, wherever they may be, is chasing after one thing: happiness. This book made me realize that it is our expectations--the standards we set for ourselves--that fail us the most, not the world or any of the curveballs it throws our way. I also like the way I get to see the difference between the French way of living and the American dream. She can come off as whiny and disintegrated at times but one cannot help but sympathize. I have come to share her frustrations with the French system by the end of the book, and this is something I find refreshing because a memoir set in a city as beautiful as Paris often leaves the author little time to see faults and say, "C'est vrai la merde". This book gives us a glimpse of the real Paris, with its pessimism and its taste for a collective "non!" against anything and everything. Even the most magnificent of cities deal with social differences everyday. As an expatriate, one can either challenge it and fight a losing battle or learn how things work in that country and play their game. We will always have to confront our demons, whether we're teetering on cobblestone streets or sashaying through the asphalt pavement of the Lower East Side. We can never really run away.
• The small secrets of the French lifestyle. This book explains why French women never really get fat (Okay, let me spoil it for you: they hardly ever eat but drink enormous amounts of water. And based on this book, being heavy is just socially unacceptable in France *gulp*). Other truths answered in this book: why French people are hardly ever sociable, how tricky the French legal system is and how come money, religion & politics are not as important in France as it is in the United States. Note to self: Maybe it's better to live my late twenties in a friendlier city like Madrid or Barcelona, and just visit Paris on weekends. ;)
• The food. I always get excited about memoirs because of the family heirloom recipes. This book just drives home the point that relationships are strengthened over good food of any kind, from ramekins of dirty dark chocolate souffle to fish baked under a mountain of sea salt, south of France style. :) Most of the recipes are fairly easy to replicate too so that's a big plus.

What I did not like:

• Some parts of the book took a very passive-aggressive tone that left me confused. I guess it is quite alright to categorize the author's love affair with her countries as somewhat love-hate?
• Also, the fact that most stores carry thirty-sixes and not a lot of higher numbers. That is sample size 2, ten sizes away from the average American woman.
• Rabbit as a main course because I have a soft spot for bunnies (I used to keep them as pets until I grew up and started loving life forms a little less) but I can hardly blame anybody since this form of animal slaughter is prevalent in France. :|

Other things I like (that are in this book): The quote "I fight the small battles because I cannot win the big ones" which is what I do, most of the time--when I am lonely for my dead father and is scared shitless of the future, chocolate souffles, David Lynch, thick hot chocolate, flaky croissants, butchers that look like Matt Dillon, ladies who lunch, men who cook great meals (even on an electric hot plate), French words that roll off my tongue, no nonsense French loving, art, the decadence of Parisian architecture, daily market trips, fresh seafood and fruits on said market trips, cultural integration of the secular French and Jewish New Yorkers, bone marrow that is heaven spread on top of a baguette, juicy pave au poivre on a first date, choquettes, cream puff towers for wedding cakes, Frenchmen who know what they want and people who are so fucking happy all the time.

Francophiles, go ahead. It's beautiful way to spend the rest of your day.