"Eleanor and Park" by Rainbow Rowell

You know you've hit on a good book when you go through mourning once it's over. That's precisely where I am right now. Eleanor and Park didn't end. It just stopped. The story is going on somewhere and I'm not there. And I miss them. I want to turn the page, but there is no page to turn. Yes, it's a little pathetic when you're invested so totally in a book that the characters have become so real to you, that once they're ripped out of your life you walk around feeling depressed and alone. Maybe there is something pathologically wrong with me. Maybe I need more human friends. 

Eleanor and Park is set in Omaha, Nebraska in the 1980s. I'm not sure exactly why the author chose this decade, but I have a feeling that she's is fictionalizing some of her own life. Either way, it is a story of teenage puppy love in the old days - the days of walkmans, cassette tapes, landline phones, and a host of other things I only vaguely remember. The story's narration alternates between Eleanor and Park. Thus, the reader got a sense of how each character felt about the other, and how disillusioned they were about their own shortcomings. 

The story is so peppered with sappy love scenes that I almost feel guilty about becoming so attached to it. Yet, what drew me in was not the romance, so much as the fact that it was a romance between two smart, dorky, somewhat naive, and very self-conscious kids. It also spoke a lot about attraction and it challenged our culture's stereotype of beauty. It gave me faith in humanity and it reaffirmed my belief that there really are good guys out there (besides my husband of course), guys who aren't attracted to Barbie dolls. 

The story opens with Eleanor getting on the bus. She's the new girl. She has big red hair, a stocky build, and atrocious clothing. She looks like a loser in every sense of the word. Nobody wants to offer her a seat, but when the bus driver yells at her, a grouchy Asian kid reluctantly moves over and lets her sit down. Before they even get to school the kids in the back of the bus have invented a litany of unflattering nicknames for her. It doesn't get much better during the school day. She's smart, so she does well in her classes and gains respect and sympathy from her teachers, but she doesn't exactly make any friends among her peers. It's gym class that turns out to be the bane of her high school existence. The school bus bullies are in her gym class and they make her life a living hell. To make matters worse, she's forced to wear a revealing and too-tight gym suit that does nothing to flatter her full figure. Eleanor is miserable. She is the butt of all the jokes and she just wishes she could be invisible. 

If school is bad, home is worse. The only time she can breathe easily is when her step-dad Richie is away at work or drinking his earnings at the local bar. She learns how to avoid him as much as possible; she also learns to sleep through the fights and the beatings going on in the next room. She tries, as best as a big redheaded teenager possibly can, to make herself invisible. 

As you can imagine, Eleanor is very insecure, very reluctant to trust, very slow to let anyone in. Thus, the relationship between her and her seatmate develops slowly. The grouchy Asian kid, Park, actually feels bad for treating her so rudely on the first day, yet not bad enough to talk to her. He's in several of her honors classes, and he watches her closely. He begins to see that she is truly unique. Their relationship begins as they read comics together. At first, she surreptitiously reads over Park's shoulder, but he soon catches on. He lets her borrow some. Then he shares his music with her. It is not long before she's coming over to his house, meeting his family, and officially recognized as "Park's girlfriend." 

Over the next few months their relationship grows from simple camaraderie to being "in love," to tentatively experimenting with physicality, and in the process dealing with their own insecurities. Eleanor thinks she fat. The bullies make fun of her for it and her step-dad makes rude comments about her appearance, but somehow Park sees none of this. He thinks her unruly hair and mismatched clothing makes her like "like art." Park however, thinks he's too effeminate, he believes that Asian men are not attractive to white girls. Both of them view themselves through the lens of what the cruelest voices in society have been telling them, yet both Eleanor and Park see the other as beautiful. Here's the best quote, this is the part where I absolutely came to adore Park: 

“I miss you, Eleanor. I want to be with you all the time. You’re the smartest girl I’ve ever met, and the funniest, and everything you do surprises me. And I wish I could say that those are the reasons I like you, because that would make me sound like a really evolved human being …‘But I think it’s got as much to do with your hair being red and your hands being soft … and the fact that you smell like homemade birthday cake” 

I love that these two off-beat kids are in love. I liked that the skinny, semi-emo Asian kid has the hots for a fat, sarcastic, redhead. They are an unconventional couple and that's why I appreciate them, which is also why I was so fond of this book. Eleanor's dysfunctional family added drama and a bit of suspense, and in the end led Park to make a very hard decision. I can't say I was always impressed with Eleanor's choices, but she was wholeheartedly endearing. I understood her and empathized with her. 

This book has made it onto many bestseller lists, including NPR's "Best Books of 2013" (my #1 source for reading material). Dreamworks is making Eleanor and Park into a movie because, as Holly Bario, president of production, told Entertainment Magazine, 

“Every girl who has read it says, ‘That was me in high school, or that was me in 7th grade...It reminded all of us of our own sort of awkwardness, or family dysfunction.”

When I read that quote I was incensed. That was ME in high school. It wasn't "every other girl;" every other girl was skinnier, prettier (or so I believed), and getting picked before me in gym class. I was always the last kid standing when other students chose teams, always the one without a partner, always the kid who got picked on or yelled at (or both) for doing the wrong thing with the ball.  In fact, this book revived bullying memories as far back as kindergarten. I remember getting on the bus and finding there were no seats. I remember the "big kids" picking on me, and I remember standing in the aisle during the bus ride to school (fortunately I lived close, so it was quick). But gym class was truly the worst. For thirteen years I spent at least three hours a week feeling like the most worthless person in the world. 

I'm thankful these experiences generally ended by 3:15. Unlike Eleanor, I don't know much about family dysfunction. I'm only an expert on social awkwardness. As a teacher, I totally gravitate toward the kids like Eleanor and Park. The clubs I sponsor all tend to attract the nerds. They are my people. I suppose the jocks  all feel a little bit insecure too. But to say that Eleanor represents every girl really denigrates the experience of those of us who were legitimately bullied, who were legitimately overweight...and are legitimately redheaded.  And no, I don't identify or empathize with Eleanor in every aspect.  I had absolutely no family dysfunction, but those who did have a valid claim on her too.  But please, Holly Bario, don't say that Eleanor represents every high school girl. She does not. Rainbow Rowell did not write this book to mirror the experiences of the popular kids. She wrote it for the outliers. 

When Dreamworks makes this movie, I sure hope they don't cast Eleanor as some average-sized girl. I do hope that the actress is noticeably overweight and yet still beautiful (also, she must be a redhead, a real redhead). First, I don't want an average-sized actress because all too often these regular girls (like Mindy Kaling) go around calling themselves fat. I guess, compared to most Hollywood actresses they are larger, but Mindy is a size 8. A size 8 is a perfectly reasonable size, and one that many of us average women work very hard to fit into. By branding themselves as "fat" these actresses belittle those of us who are healthy, fit, and moderately curvy. Secondly, I hope Eleanor is overweight because I want beauty to be represented on-screen in all its forms. There are many beautiful people who are larger than a size 8. I'm not trying to promote an unhealthy lifestyle, but I believe we need to re-brand attractiveness.  "Beauty" is not synonymous with "skinny." It is also not the only route to attraction. Oftentimes, one's intellect, humor, and personality makes them beautiful in the eyes of another, even if society doesn't see that. This is something that has taken me years to just begin to accept. It is a concept that Eleanor could not grasp, even as the book came to a close. However, I firmly believe that girls like Eleanor - and girls like me - need to see themselves as Park sees Eleanor. They need to see themselves as "art." 

Rotten Hot Dogs, The Sermon on the Mount and My Irrational Fear of Jogging Strollers

A couple of weeks ago my husband and I noticed a putrid stench emanating from our hall closet. We took everything out, looking for some sort of decomposing animal. We checked the bottom of our shoes and smelled our coats. Finally, we settled on the alleged culprit: my gym jacket (the jacket kept solely for wearing to the gym or while cooling down after my long runs). However, after washing the suspect and airing out the closet, we still could not get rid of the stench. Finally, my husband thought of the one place we hadn't checked: the pockets of our coats. There, in the pocket of my winter coat were Ziploc baggies containing rotten hot dogs.

Why, you may be wondering, would a person be carrying hot dogs in the pockets of her coat? Well, the answer is simple, especially for anyone who owns a slightly neurotic dog. The hot dogs are the key to positive behavioral training. You see, my little rescue dog Luna, is a bundle of worry. On our walks we try to use hot dogs enforce positive feelings whenever something "scary" arises - recycling bins, bikers, and most terrifying of all - other dogs. And yet, despite our continued efforts to socialize and practice positive reinforcement, Luna is still overcome with worry. 

Sometimes when I'm walking Luna I'm almost a little hurt by her fear. I know dogs don't think like people. I know I can't hold this against her, but after a year of walking every single day, doesn't she know that she can trust me to not let the other dogs hurt her? At this point I know which dogs are calm and friendly, which are a little too exuberant, and which ones we should probably stay away from. Whenever I try to get her to socialize with the nice ones it's like playing tug-of-war. We have made a couple of friends, but progress is slow. I wish she could understand that I would never let another dog hurt her. I would swoop in and take a bite before they got to her. I wish she could understand that all I want is her for to enjoy her walks without anxiety, to make some new friends, and not live in constant terror of getting beat up. She trusts me to give her food, water, and peanut butter sandwiches. I wish she would trust me with this. 

Then this morning I came to a passage of Matthew 6 that I've read many times. However, this time, a new thought struck me. I was reading the section of the Sermon on the Mount about worry. It is one of the brightly highlighted and oft-read passages of my Bible. It struck me that maybe, just maybe, God feels a bit like I do with Luna. Maybe He feels a little hurt, somewhat mildly offended that I don't trust Him with certain things. I hold on to worry and mull it over until I get depressed and overwhelmed with it. I probably do this because I know that getting over fears means confronting them. He wants to walk me through my fears, just like I want to walk Luna up to that nice pair of Boxers and let them become friends with her. (She wants nothing to do with them) Yet, handing our worries over to God and trusting them in His hands does not mean everything is always comfortable. That's part my issue. I know He'll make me uncomfortable, just like I'm going to make my little dog uncomfortable this summer. She is going to spend two whole weeks with her grandparents and her Crazy Aunt Daisy, an exuberant heifer of a Yellow Lab. 

So what exactly is MY worry? What irrational fear do I need to hand over to God? The answer: jogging strollers. Yep. Jogging strollers. They terrify me. 

It's not so much the stroller itself, or even what's in the stroller, but what the stroller represents. (Though the strollers' contents are pretty scary. Babies are a close second on my list of irrational fears: behind jogging strollers and above snakes...and of all the babies, the redheaded ones are the most terrifying. If you know my mother just ask her. She's had one of every breed and she'll tell you the redheads are the scariest.) You see, the jogging stroller represents an encumbered life. Jogging with a stroller just doesn't seem enjoyable. I know, I know, everyone says it's a GREAT workout. But here's the thing - I'm a distance runner, and running 10 miles is all the "great workout" that I need. I HATE feeling encumbered when I run. I don't even wear and iPod if I run anything under 6 miles. Also, let's be honest, I'm no Usain Bolt. I mean it takes me awhile to run a half marathon. What if the kid starts wailing at mile seven? What if I can't get it to stop? Will someone on the trail call Child Protective Services if I just turn up my iPod and let the kid scream all the way home? 

This doesn't even scratch the surface of all my worries that are associated with potentially having children. I'm usually able to keep them at bay, but something about strollers seems to unearth these anxieties so that whenever I see a mom with a jogging stroller I'm immediately overwhelmed by my laundry list of fears. (The other day I passed a woman with a double jogging stroller. I about died.) While I know that God promises He'll take care of me, and that He won't give me something I can't handle, I'm not entirely confident that He won't make me uncomfortable. What if he gives me a kid who is actually good at sports (necessitating my attendance at sporting events), or doesn't like to read, or doesn't like history - or worse - a kid who likes history so much that he or she decides to major in it! I could go on. If I were to list all of the things that scare me about children or life with children, this would achieve a Guinness World Record for the longest blog post in history. What's worse, I'm at the stage where everybody and their brother seems to be having babies. Facebook is full of all sorts of posts educating me on things I never even knew I should be worried about: Vaccines are a vast pharmaceutical conspiracy to cause autism!!! Cows milk will cause boys to grow breasts by age 4!!! Your child will probably be allergic to air and water!!! Your baby will poop all over your face several times a day!!! Nothing will ever be clean in your house ever again!!! Your kid is going to scream for three weeks straight and you won't get a wink of sleep!!! (And then in this same breath they say parenting is the most wonderful thing ever. I'll tell you this: Nothing is EVER wonderful when I have not slept. NOTHING.) 

So what's the moral of the story here? Basically, my dog and I are very similar. We both have people we need to learn to trust. We both have someone looking out for us, someone who has good things in store if only we can hand over our fear and go forth in faith. Just like Luna and Crazy Aunt Daisy would enjoy being friends, I also do want to be a parent. I think I would enjoy it; I might even be kind of good at it. I mean I like the idea of taking my kids hiking in the Grand Canyon, and baking Christmas cookies, and picking strawberries at our local CSA. I don't want to be a bitter, shriveled old woman. I want to have people I love coming home for Thanksgiving! I feel like kids must be worth it because I've never heard a parent say they regretted having kids. When God says children are a blessing that must be true. God doesn't lie.  But accepting that blessing means discomfort, it means learning to trust, it means perhaps learning to let go of some of my OCD tendencies. 

There is one very stark difference between my dog and I:  she's a dog and I'm a human. Which means I have rational capabilities. I have the ability to think through my worries in ways that she never will. This is a distinct advantage, but it also means that overcoming my fears it a lot harder than just eating hot dogs every time I'm confronted with a jogging stroller. Overcoming my fear of the jogging stroller lifestyle is going to take a lot more time and a lot more prayer. 

"Someday, Someday, Maybe" by Lauren Graham

Sometimes it's good to take a brief respite from being Type-A. Books provide me with that escape, allowing me to delve into someone else's life. Many times it's a life that I would never want for myself, but for a few fantastical hours I can experience something that is refreshingly antithetical to my own day-to-day monotony. While I certainly don't want to be an actress in New York City, there is something inexplicably enjoyable about sinking into that fictional existence for just a little while.

This is how I felt while reading Someday, Someday, Maybe. What drew me to the book initially was the author, Lauren Graham. You may know her from Gilmore Girls. Yes, this book was written by "Lorelei Gilmore." As you might expect from a book by the co-star of The-Best-TV-Show-Ever, this story was filled with the kind of witticisms that Gilmore fans will relish. Lorelei/Lauren transfers from the TV screen to the novel quite seamlessly. Her somewhat autobiographical first novel had me chuckling and grimacing in quick succession. The book had its share of awkward moments, sarcastic musings, and cynical humor. The characters were intelligent, but not pretentious. In short, Someday, Someday, Maybe contained all the ingredients that made Lauren Graham into a fantastic Lorelei Gilmore.

The main character, Franny, is a twenty-something actress living in Brooklyn, trying hard to "make it" in show business. In other words, Franny is a waitress. She has given herself a three-year deadline to achieve her dreams. The book opens with six months to go, and Franny has resolved to double-down on her efforts to land a real acting gig. The story takes us through a whirlwind of the common ups and downs that hopeful thespians face every day. To me, Franny's life seems chaotic and disorganized. She is constantly running out of money, short on time, and without a clue as to where her dream will take her next. Some of the people she meets along the way help her to have faith in herself; others pick away at the shreds of her self-esteem, leaving her dejected, yet never without her keen sense of humor. By her side throughout it all are her two lovable roommates and her delightfully amusing father, whose clever quips and guilt-inducing answer machine messages establish him as the book's most endearing character.

I'll have to admit, the novel is a little short on plot. In fact, it seems throughout much of the story that we're just going back and forth from one audition to another. Acting jobs are few and far between. Franny gets an agent, then loses him. She gets a boyfriend, then finds out he's a tool. She gets an acting job, then realizes she's supposed to be naked. Nothing ever seems to work out. I'll tell you right now that the book doesn't neatly wrap up with her becoming a famous movie star on Gilmore Girls. However, she doesn't go home to get married either. What kept me reading was not the plot, but the wit. Franny's sardonic take on everything from show business, to the men in her life, to her own shortcomings really charms the reader into turning the page. Franny is a girl that can laugh at herself. I like that.

"The Cuckoo's Calling" by Robert Galbraith (a.k.a J.K. Rowling)

If you're looking for a beach read or something to keep you occupied on a long flight - this is it. A Cuckoo's Calling takes readers on a jaunt through London in the springtime as private detective, Cormoran Strike, and his efficient young secretary solve a high-profile crime case. Galbraith (or rather, J.K. Rowling) introduces us to a host of quirky characters. While none are quite as endearing as Harry, Ron, and Hermione, they do reel us into the plot. I recommend the audio book. Listening to the story narrated in a British accent makes it all the more entertaining.

The story opens with Robin, a young transplant from the English countryside, recently engaged and working at a series of temp jobs while looking for something more permanent. She is rather excited about her next placement. The agency has sent her to temp for a private detective! Detective work has secretly been her lifelong ambition. However, when she arrives at the office building she is nearly taken trampled by an angry female and a lumbering, overweight man in hot pursuit. The two are clearly at the end of a massive fight (or "row" as the British call it). It turns out that the male pursuer is her new boss. Contrary to first impressions, Strike turns out to be a decent character. After an awkward introduction he tries to get her settled in to his dingy office, which doubles as his home since he was recently kicked out of the aforesaid angry female's flat. Soon, a wealthy lawyer named John Bristow shows up at the office with his somewhat frumpy, and seemingly reluctant girlfriend. Bristow is seeking a private detective to investigate the death of his sister, the famed model, Lula Landry. Though Lula's death was a major event in the press, it had been confirmed a suicide, a conclusion that most, including Bristow's girlfriend, accepted as fact. John Bristow, however is not convinced. Strike is even somewhat skeptical about Bristow's interpretation of the death. As a pretty decent fellow, Strike is reluctant to take Bristow's money for a case he feels will reveal few new details. However, Strike's financial circumstances are rather grim and the need for cash ultimately prevails.

What follows is, at the outset, a somewhat disorganized investigation into the various and sundry characters who wafted in and out of Lula's life in her final days. Strike, an oafish middle-aged Afghan war veteran and Robin, a smart and savvy budding detective herself, make a superb and somewhat comical team. The inauspicious beginning to Robin's stint with Detective Strike foreshadows many more awkward moments. As the two skirt in and out of the lives of the rich and famous and those who cater to their every whim, they find a complex network of drama lurking at every turn. The investigations even takes them to a couple individuals from the lower rungs of London society. Thus we get a diverse cast of characters that adds color and spark to the novel. We soon learn that this eclectic mix of individuals is not quite as random as they may seem. The investigation takes us through a web of intrigue, full of all the twists and turns that make for an engaging detective novel.

The Cuckoo's Calling was a legitimately amusing story. It wasn't anything earth-shattering, probably not very memorable, and certainly not the greatest book J.K. Rowling's ever written (she's at a distinct disadvantage here). However, if we take it for what it is: a London detective novel - and not a-London-detective-novel-by-the-author-of-Harry-Potter then it will most assuredly serve its purpose as a thoroughly enjoyable read.

"Oryx and Crake" by Margaret Atwood

Margaret Atwood refers to Oryx and Crake as a work of "speculative fiction." This first installment of the MadAddam Trilogy launches us into a futuristic dystopia where humans have genetically engineered solutions to every real or imagined problem. The novel opens with "Snowman" alone in a ghastly post-apocalyptic urban wilderness. The landscape contains remnants of human life, yet Snowman is likely last of his species. He is lives alone, scavenging on the outskirts of a "humanoid" colony - a people he calls the "Crakers." He stands in stark difference to the Crakers, avoiding the suns rays and clothing his body in a thin sheet. His nickname represents how poorly adjusted he is, unable to withstand the elements, frail and sickly, compared to this new species which epitomizes the results of unnatural selection. These beings have been altered to eradicate all of the complicating facets of human life. They are intelligent, yet innocent; they are vegetarians who live at harmony with their environment, and they have efficient mating rituals to ensure optimal levels of procreation. Their skin is designed to absorb the suns rays without harm, they see no need for clothing and are perplexed by Snowman's garment. They are animalistic, yet advanced - a paradox in their very essence.

Snowman relays the story of humanity's downfall through a series of engrossing flashbacks.  Snowman, once Jimmy, grew up as the child of scientists, living comfortably on biotech company compounds. These scientific microcosms contained homes, schools, shopping centers, bullet trains, genetically enhanced food and genetically engineered pets called Rakunks (a mixture of a raccoon and a skunk). Only rarely did the inhabitants have to venture out into the "pleebands" where human life seemed chaotic, messy, and yet secretly alluring. Jimmy befriends young Crake, a somewhat demented genius. Soon after, Jimmy is first exposed to Oryx while watching internet porn in Crake's bedroom. He is captivated by her face, a face that represents human suffering amidst innocence and beauty. Upon graduation from high school Crake is recruited by the nation's premier scientific university, while Jimmy finds himself on a lower rung of the academic ladder. It is not until they graduate from college that the paths of Oryx, Crake and Jimmy intertwine. By this time Crake has completed his crowning achievement: a perfected race of humans.

Atwood's bleak depiction of humanity's future is not altogether unrecognizable. I'm confronted by this every time I buy the unnaturally large and juicy chicken breasts from my local grocery store. I can't help by recall Atwood's "ChickieNobs" derived from genetically engineered "chickens":

""Those are chickens," said Crake. "Chicken parts. Just the breasts, on this one. They've got ones that specialize in drumsticks too, twelve to a growth unit.

"But there aren't any heads..."

"That's the head in the middle," said the woman. "There's a mouth opening at the top, they dump nutrients in there. No eyes or beak or anything, they don't need those."

Is this where we're headed? I ponder this as I take chicken breast out of its individually wrapped packet. It is the size of my whole hand. Atwood's work is a cautionary tale written in 2003 (the sequels have been released in recent years). I'm hopeful that in my lifetime that the burgeoning slow-food movement will effectively resist uncontrolled genetic engineering. It's really only been in the last 75 years that scientifically altered food has become a staple of the American diet. In the old days food was grown and often consumed seasonally. In the spring and summer people ate berries, in the fall there were peaches and apples. Sometimes women would can or preserve fruits and vegetables at home. The children would be sent out to pick the apples and they would assist in the peeling and coring process, watching as they were ground down into applesauce and perhaps savoring the smells of apple butter cooking over a fire pit. In the winter when mom opened that mason jar of applesauce, the children knew exactly where it came from and all the work that went into creating that nourishment. Similarly, meat came fresh from the butcher, or it was raised, slaughtered and preserved in one's backyard.

Fast-forward to WWII. The Industrial Revolution had only begun to change food production. The Great Depression was over and factories were producing in high gear. While some industries produce weapons and enriched uranium, others are canning applesauce and Spam. Additives and preservatives kept the food flavorful and prevented spoilage.  It kept our men and women alive and nourished to fight the Nazis.  However, when the war ended factories faced a dilemma. How would they sustain profits now that all the troops are home? The answer was easy. Food production companies marketed their wartime foodstuffs to the new American housewife. The baby boom was under way, women were back in the kitchen, but who said they needed to be a slave to a hot canner? Soon we got ads like this one:

This was just the beginning. Boxed cookies and cake mixes came next. They took a little longer to catch on because women felt like they were cheating the system if they could bake without cracking an egg. The mixtures were modified to take out the powdered egg product, allowing women to crack an egg and thus feel like they were fulfilling their role.  As America launched itself into the Cold War, we began to take pride in our neatly packaged  T.V. dinners, our Kraft Mac and Cheese and our Hamburger Helper. And it if all else fails there's always MacDonalds.

By the late '60s and '70s the women's rights movement was in full force. Betty Friedan wrote A Feminine Mystique, encouraging women to realize their full potential in the workplace, and Margaret Sanger and other feminists were gaining strides in the fight for birth control. I'm not knocking any of this. I love it! But working women also don't have time to can their own peaches or bake cakes from scratch. It became commonplace, even trendy to eat out of a box or a can. By the closure of the century agribusiness and biotech firms were getting involved in the growth of our produce and meats. Now even the fresh stuff is comprised of questionable genetic and chemical elements. Is it harmful? The jury is still out. According to all the mommy blogs and yoga pundits we're all going to get cancer or autism - or both. Actual science is far less conclusive on the potential health effects of bovine antibiotics or GMO strawberries (though conspiracy theorists like to point out that science gets kickbacks from Monsanto). Whatever the verdict, I believe that buying tennis-ball-sized strawberries in January is harmful to my soul. 

I grew up eating "slow food" before it was a "thing."  In fact, I thought it was normal. (I also thought mommies who bought their children cookies from a box were bad people.) I grew up shopping at our local farmer's market, even playing in the fields with the owners' daughter. Long before farmers' markets became the hip and somewhat pretentious Saturday morning ritual among professional suburbanites, we frequented our local one for fresh-picked corn on the cob and heaping bushels of peaches and apples. This would commence canning season. Those cans of peaches and applesauce were stocked on our basement shelves and enjoyed throughout winter. I knew where they came from. I knew that peaches did not naturally occur in January. The sweet juicy peaches were the product of long hours of labor on a hot August day.

Many children grow up with no knowledge of each season's produce. I'm thankful that I've grown up playing in the dirt and harvesting its gifts. I've known for as long as I can remember that strawberries grow in the spring, while blueberries show up in July-August. Blueberry picking is as much a summer ritual for me as fireworks on the Fourth of July. I also remember many a summer afternoon when I would pick beans from the backyard garden and Mom would cook them up for dinner. A few weeks later, on the first day of school we always had warm chocolate chip cookies made from scratch, baked fresh in time for our arrival home. Once winter came there would be blueberry pie and homemade blueberry muffins, baked with those same berries we'd picked and frozen so many months earlier. It would almost make that blustery January evening feel warmer, as if the berries contained some remnant of the summer sun.

Recently, I heard a story about a kid who was arguing with a farmer about where food came from. The child said that the fruits and vegetables he ate came from the grocery store. It is sad that so many children today do not understand how their food gets to their table. Why is this important? Well, like it or not, eating is fundamental to our lives. For millennia people's entire days were centered around acquiring food. Though we no longer have to work so hard for our food, eating is still the one thing we do several times a day (that and excreting it). It is an activity that brings family and friends together, that allows for the exchange of cultureand the transfer of ideas. Food also represents heritage; our food traditions reach back centuries. Some foods represent elements of our faith (i.e. Jewish matzo bread) or family traditions that bind generations of family who've never met (i.e. my Great-Grandma's sugar cookies). Food also represents labor. In a society where most of our day-to-day labor is disconnected from our actual survival, there is just something so wholesome about actually growing, picking,and preparing one's own food.

I know there are many other arguments in favor of the slow food movement. All of which have their merits. I do not profess to be a paragon of clean or slow eating. My freezer is stocked with the aforesaid GMO chicken breasts (they're cheap and convenient). I do enjoy bananas and pineapple far too much for any moral arguments over conserving fossil fuels to prevail upon me. However, for me, the slow food initiative is really about a daily quest to live intentionally. Since a significant percentage of my household budget goes toward food, I strive to support ethical companies and empower local farmers who are good stewards of the land. If I can get eggs from well-loved chickens, I'm happy to pay a little bit more. But perhaps even beyond that, I don't want to lose those traditions of my childhood and the lessons that sowing and reaping provide. In no other area of life does the value of hard work prove true in such tangible ways. The work we do in the spring will pay off at harvest. The work we do at harvest will pay off as we're enjoying warm blueberry muffins on cold winter nights. Labor and food are two elements fundamental to our existence, to our humanity. God created humans to labor in a garden. We have since reinvented and often perversely repackaged the gifts and responsibilities He's given us.  Slow food means slowing down, reconnecting with the Earth, with the seasons, and with our Creator. If we miss out on where our food comes from, we take one of God's most fundamental blessings for granted. If we don't know how to sow, reap, and prepare our food, we don't have a chance to reflect on the bounty and the diversity of the Earth, and the sheer creativity of its Designer.

Which brings me full circle. Reading Oryx and Crake reminded me that while humans are capable of amazing feats, none of us can recapture the perfection and beauty of the world that God created. Though sin has perverted much of it, human efforts at "fixing" nature's flaws often leave us worse off than we were before. And most importantly, we'll never be able to genetically select the perfect human. Only God can do that. In fact - He already did.

"Beautiful Day" by Elin Hilderbrand

Please do not judge me for reading this book. (It is a very judgement-worthy book). Beautiful Day is a story of "rich-people problems" all brought on vanity and selfishness. It is "light reading" if you dismiss the many dysfunctional relationships. To be fair, the main characters are still working through the loss their mother, but that doesn't really arouse a whole lot of sympathy on my part since most of the conflicts stem from poor decision making and lack of moral standards. I have little patience for "rich people problems."

The story is set over the course of one weekend as two families all come together on Nantucket to celebrate the wedding of Jenna Carmichael and Stuart Graham. The narrators of the story rotate. We get a new cynical perspective on love from every chapter. However, we never hear from the bride herself, Jenna Carmichael, an innocent hippie-wannabe who has lived a comfortable and spoiled lifestyle. We do hear from Jenna's father, still mourning the loss of his first wife, and struggling through a rebound marriage to an insecure divorcee named Pauline. Then there's the older sister Margot, a single mom with a penchant for making poor choices in men. She's successful in her career, but quite frankly a failure as a mother. We meet the two brothers: one a jock and a player who lives for casual sex and partying, and the other, the somewhat arrogant "perfect child" with the nice wife and two relatively normal kids. The soon-to-be in-laws also feature prominently. The Grahams are a divorced-and-remarried couple who were temporarily torn apart by marital infidelity and are still dealing the awkward circumstances brought on by the presence of an accidental "love child."

Featured most prominently throughout the story is "The Notebook." These are the dying words of Beth, the family matriarch, who used her last bit of energy to pen the blueprint of Jenna's future wedding. They are, ostensibly, suggestions, but Jenna has followed The Notebook rigidly, much the chagrin of her jealous stepmother. My first very judgmental thought was: "What kind of controlling person spends her dying days writing up a notebook about how to throw an extravagant wedding for a girl who doesn't even have a boyfriend!?!?" From there, my disdain for these characters went in every direction. Margot, the older sister, probably took the brunt of my judgement. Her lack of discipline is reflected at every turn, not only in her relationships but also in the way she raises (or doesn't raise) her children.  There wasn't one single character in the book that I liked. The characters were all the fraternity/sorority types, overly concerned with personal appearances, success, partying, and casual sex.

So why did I keep reading? Well, in part, because I never got around to finding another available audio-book from the library and I wanted something to listen to while walking my dog. Also, it was like a train wreck - you just couldn't look away. However, it wasn't a wholly wasted experience. I gleaned some important life-lessons from other people's shortcomings. For instance, Pauline (the stepmother) was a little overly-obsessed with her weight, to the point where she was constantly complaining to her husband and oftentimes deprived him of perfectly good meals because she had reached her caloric limit. She annoyed me, but I'll have to admit that there have been several times when I've reneged on Friday night dining plans after putting on my jeans.  The book also made me appreciate my own wedding so much more. While my wedding turned out far more extravagant than I ever expected, and even exceeded my own Yankee sensibilities, it was actually comparatively simple and drama-free by most standards. True, this book was a work of fiction, but I've heard countless real-life horror stories from brides and many more from bridesmaids. (I'm happy to admit that of all the ladies in my wedding party I was the one with the least bit of fashion-sense, thus my bridesmaids pretty much had free rein, as long as they wore green.) In the end, the book reaffirmed my original sentiments about weddings: it's all a little ridiculous.

I probably won't read any more of Elin Hilderbrand's books. I like to read books in which there is at least one person with whom I could befriend. The characters in Hilderbrand's book where all out of my league. And quite frankly, I'm pretty content in my own league.

"Lost in a River of Grass" by Ginny Rorby

There are only a few places in the world where I do not want to travel. The Everglades is one. (The Amazon and Clyde Peelings Reptile Land are others) Even reading a book about the Everglades was a bit of a stretch for me. The reason? I'm utterly terrified of snakes.

Or course, so was Sarah at the beginning of the book. As the book opens, fourteen year-old Sarah had just begun attending the Glades Academy, a private school where she'd been accepted on a swimming scholarship. However, she quickly realizes that she is the girl from the "other side of the tracks." When she finds herself miserably traipsing through the Everglades on a weekend field trip, it doesn't take much convincing for her to ditch her classmates and join a nice local boy named Andy on a rather sketchy airboat ride. He promises her they'll be back before lunch.

Well, if they had returned before lunch, there would not have been much to write about.  The sketchy airboat sinks in a very remote part of the Everglades. Sarah and Andy realize that they have to trudge back to civilization on their own, sharing a can of Spam and a bottle of Gatorade between them. However, to provide a bit of comic relief throughout the ordeal, the author causes the two teens to cross paths with an orphaned baby duck. This of course spurs a bit of tension between the two. Andy who wants to abandon the duck and let nature take its course, has no hope of prevailing against a determined Sarah who quickly adopts the duck and names her Teapot.

I have read survival books in the past, but this is the first one that I truly believe might give me nightmares. There were a lot of mosquitoes, alligators, and of course, SNAKES! Every shape, size, and color of snake was represented in this book. (At least it seemed that way to me.) There was even a particularly disturbing scene where a Burmese python consumed an alligator. If this is ever made into a movie I will not be able to watch it.

Now I don't want you to think that I hated the book or regretted reading it. Despite my terror, I felt like Rorby conveyed a valuable message to those of us who struggle with our own internal phobias and insecurities. Throughout the story Sarah's fear of nature slowly turns into respect and admiration. The two teens realize that they need to learn from one another. They begin to eschew personal pride in favor of mutual dependence. As Sarah overcomes her fear of snakes, and of nature in general, she develops into a confident and strong young lady.  No longer does she need to seek out the constant approval of classmates. Sarah realizes that the obstacles in her life have indeed made her unique - but she is proud of accomplishments, and she has learned to appreciate her own distinctiveness.

That being said, I'm happy to let my experience with the Everglades end there. I'm resigned to the fact that I'll always be afraid of snakes. Getting over a phobia often means being exposed to it. I'm quite content to keep my phobia and stay away from all snake habitats.