A friend gave me this book in 2001, according to the inscription, but I don’t believe I ever read it. I am not sure why. I absolutely loved the first several chapters and felt my tummy growling and mouth watering throughout the entire memoir.
It is difficult to describe, for me. I love food and travel and could certainly relate to this author’s “colorful” mother. But I don’t have many fond memories of being in the kitchen as a child. In my childhood, the kitchen was rarely the warm gathering place so many adults remember with relish. I generally avoided that section of the house and therefore, did not learn to cook until I was an adult experimenting in my own kitchen. I did not enjoy trying new foods until I was traveling Europe on my own and didn’t develop many fond gastronomic memories until that time. I do relate certain foods and drinks with the various places I have traveled, but very, very few dear memories of such as a child.
I certainly appreciated the author’s emotional memories and was proud of her for relating eras in her life that were probably extremely painful with humor and tenderness.
The book started on the highest peak of emotions with me laughing out loud and slowly, slowly took me on a downward spiral until I simply closed the book and walked away. I was a little disappointed with that, but would still recommend the book, especially to those who love the fine details of food and travel and a glorious glass of wine.