The Sedentarians

For some folks, mysteries are two-sided stories.  There's always the central puzzle to solve: usually who left a corpse (or corpses) laying around.  Then there's the motive behind the misdeed.  But what keeps a lot of mystery readers glued to the page is the thrill of the chase.  They stay awake for hours, mentally following a Sam Spade or Cormoran Strike from one risky scenario to the next, taking on all comers in a fight to the finish.  It's grand entertainment when it's done right.  But they're not on the menu today.

This is a salute to the mega-brains of detective fiction, those sleuths who never break a sweat.  Literature refers to them as "arm-chair detectives."  They're Sedentarians, to me.

I know a bit about Sedentarians from my father's side of the family.  I saw them in action, so to speak, as a kid.  Yes, my dad's folks were farmers originally, but whenever we went for a visit, the family got together and sat.  And sat. For hours on end. Until, if sitting was an Olympic Sport, my family would all have been medalists.  But, however stationary my 

relatives could be, none of them were a patch on Mycroft Holmes.

If you follow Arthur Conan Doyle's stories, Mycroft first shows up in "The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter", and has the dubious distinction of being the only person who can make Sherlock Holmes feel stupid.  (It would be a sibling, right?) In many ways Mycroft is Sherlock on steroids; if Sherlock is smart, Mycroft is brilliant.  Sherlock is difficult; Mycroft, impossible.  But when Sherlock is confused, his bigger (in every way) brother is the person he turns to.  Because, although he doesn't move, Mycroft thinks.  And his thoughts solve international mysteries without ever leaving his chair.

It's a great idea for a character right?  Rex Stout must have thought so because he created another great armchair detective, Nero Wolfe.  But, instead of being a supporting character, like Mycroft Holmes, Nero Wolfe carries 40 plus years of a detective series.  With a chef to cook his meals and Archie Goodwin for checking details, Mr. Wolfe spends his time eating, gardening and solving crimes.  And he's damn good at it.

But that brings up a fairly good point because few sedentarians work alone (Auguste Dupin may be the exception).  For all of their perception and intelligence, Mycroft and Nero both need someone to do occasional leg-work.  Another of the armchair detectives in contemporary fiction, Val McDermid's, Stacy Chen knows she lives in two universes.  In the asphalt-and-steel world, she doesn't (and can't) contribute much to her boss's investigations; among other things, Stacy lacks social skills.  But Stacy, in her chair, dances through a virtual world of information, where flesh-and-blood detectives have barely learned to crawl.

And, for that reason alone, the future of the Sedentarian detectives like Lincoln Rhyme have a wide-open future in fiction.  Armed with knowledge, technology, and first-class brains, a detective can investigate real crime in a virtual world.  Or virtual crime here.  Really, a socially-frustrated, hyper-intelligent, nosy-parker with wifi might be our next great detective hero. 

I'd sit down to read that!

The Wunderkinds.

The child is father of the man, at least that's what Wordsworth wrote (and wasn't he a loquacious so-&-so?) which means the things we love as kids often influence our tastes as adults.  I am (unfortunately) old enough now to acknowledge the truth in this observation, but I wonder if writers deliberately trade on this idea. After all, how do you create adult readers who'll love Fantasy/Science Fiction?  Do you wait until they're old enough to vote and then give them a copy of Dune?  No, you introduce them to the genre while they're young, with kid's stories written by great SF authors like Heinlein  and LeGuin.

But creating under-age Mystery readers is a slightly more difficult proposition.  After all, Mysteries almost always involve Violent Crime, and we don't want the Little Darlings to have nightmares.  (Well, we may, but we won't sell as many books if they do.)  So how do you create the next generation of Nero Wolfe and Alex Cross fans? By giving them mysteries with juvenile detectives, of course!

When I was first learning to read, there were three fictional superstars of kid-lit whodunits.  Well, it was actually seven characters but three detective teams, all of which ran their own brand: Nancy Drew, the Bobbsey Twins and (of course) the Hardy Boys. On the page, they were the Wunderkinds.

On one level, they all looked like ordinary kids with affluent, middle-class lives. Kids that most adults overlook. But look at them again, and you'll see that Nancy Drew is independent and talented, Frank and Joe Hardy never lose their nerve, and as for the Bobbsey Twins, well only Freddie shows a mischevious streak.  Nan and Bert are noble mini-adults. To me, that's a flaw since no hero should be too good to identify with but the subtext was clear: in some circumstances, if kids do the right things, they can rule.  They're as smart and brave as the adults and, if they match wits with any bad guy or bully, they can come out on top, usually without too much help from a parent.  A sentiment guaranteed to make most kids cheer.


A whole raft of fictional juvenile detectives have followed these prototypes from Encyclopedia Brown through Flavia deLuce and the newer heroes have more of a real-life kid's feelings and  issues.  But the essence of the juvenile detective hasn't changed: youth's zeal and integrity, mixed with a world-class intelligence and the emotional maturity of an adult whenever the chips are down.  Come to think of it, that's winning combination at any age.  

The Subversives

Hang around book-nerds types long enough and you'll hear them mention the word "subversive."  Subversive themes, subversive protagonists, subversive...well, you get the picture.  Now, before you decide all English professors and book-club members need to be on some government watch list, what they're talking about are the aspects of a story that make you rethink your assumptions. Part of this rethinking is part of any mystery or detective story. But some literary detectives succeed because they subvert the assumptions other characters make about them.  Like that lovely old snoop, Miss Jane Marple.

In Agatha Christie's stories, Miss Jane appears to be the quintessential English Spinster.  She gardens, she bakes, she wears nothing but tweed (I think) and she lives in a small, English Village. The kind of lady most people expect is sweet and rather naive.  But beneath those fluffy curls and an abominable hat sits an observant and cynical brain. Not much gets past that shrewd, old dame. And when she comes up with some pithy, insightful observation, she subverts the other characters' expectations.  See what I mean?

But if Miss Jane set the standard of the unexpected detective, she's had lots of followers since. One of my favorites is a handicapped ex-jockey named Sid Halley who other characters initially underestimate because of his small stature and background. (Stupid move, by the way) But, most of the fictional subversive detectives I've seen are female, which, in a chauvinistic way, makes sense.  The heroes of the "hard-boiled" detective yarns, like Mike Hammer, Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe dominated the genre for years and these guys are so tough and male that testosterone almost drips from their pages.  The Hard-boiled stories are great and I have a well-worn collection of Dashiell Hammett prose to prove that I'm a fan, but those guys do set up certain assumptions.  Which the ladies then turn upside down.

After hours with the cool-under-pressure Sam Spade, it's a delight to see Janet Evanovich's klutz extraordinaire, Stephanie Plum, wrecking cars and falling over her own heels until she somehow catches the bad guy. And Sue Ann Jaffarian's Odelia Grey feels like my twin sister at times: she's a middle-aged, overweight, paralegal (like me) trying to get through life without too much mess.  Bless Odelia, corpses seem to find her like so many stray kittens.  But probably the best example of the Subversive Detective today is the inimitable Mma Precious Ramotswe, founder, and head of The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency.  Mma Precious upends all expectations her culture has of middle-aged, single women by opening and operating a successful business, and then proving herself a skilled practitioner of her chosen profession.

And that's the essential function of the subversive theme, to make people re-examine their assumptions. These entertaining stories have something profound to say: that intelligence, insight, and grit can be found in the most unlikely people and no one should be discounted because of their appearance.  That's a liberating idea.  Funny that it's still considered subversive.

The original Odd Couple: Holmes and Watson

There are all kinds of mystery stories, filled with all different types of detectives, but if you're going back to the roots of the mystery series types, the Granddaddies of them have got to be Holmes and Watson.  They're the original Adama-&-Eve, Mutt-&-Jeff, Odd Couple detective team and the template they set up is fierce.

An Early portrait of the Dynamic Duo
Thank you, Wikipedia!

But what makes it work?  What has kept people coming back to these two for more than a century?  I think it's a structure as stable and basic as, well, a three-legged stool.

Obviously, the most noticeable leg is Sherlock Holmes, the world's first and foremost consulting detective. Brilliant, acerbic, and emotionally detached almost to a pathological degree, he's the star of the series and he knows it.  But Holmes isn't chasing villains for glory or cash; he's in it for the fun and the science.  Arthur Conan Doyle introduced the world (and law enforcement agencies) to the world of criminal forensics through Holmes's obsession with crime scene details and deductive logic. But, if Sherlock Holmes is so great, why did the author need Watson?

Simple. Watson is who needs to tell the story because that's the last thing Holmes would do.  If "The Great Detective" decided to write up his adventures, what would he emphasize?  Would he capture the creepy atmosphere of the The Great Grimpen Mire or dwell on the terrible appearance of the Hound of the Baskervilles.  No!  Sherlock doesn't see these things as important.  A Holmes version of "The Hound of the Baskervilles" would consist of long narratives about newspaper fonts, the replication of certain facial features in familial descendants and (maybe) the application of phosphorus to flesh to create an unusual appearance.  None of the Gothic Setting or chilling story would survive because Sherlock Holmes rarely notices these things.  That's one reason we need Watson.

The other is, Watson's our Point-of-View, the guy we identify with, our average Man on the Street. We learn to trust him implicitly.  Sherlock Holmes is a master of subterfuge and in mystery stories, things are rarely what they seem but Watson always tells us just what he sees as soon as he sees it. Which makes the story all that much better when Holmes looks at the puzzles Watson just described and comes up with an insightful answer.

It's the team aspect of this mismatched pair that is the architecture of each story of the series and both characters bring out the best in each other.  It's my belief that the Holmes-&-Watson formula has been the basis of many a mystery series because it works so well.  What do you think?

Some favorite Holmes & Watson stories

• A Study in Scarlet
• The Hound of the Baskervilles
• The Complete Sherlock Holmes 

What Makes up a Great Mystery Series?

So, I've been thinking....

(Yes, I have!  If you wonder where I've been for weeks and weeks, I've been lost in the woods thinking.  And, despite the heat of the oncoming summer, I believe I've come up with a thought.)

Of all the fictional genres out there, one of the most-popular (if not the most) is the mystery novel.  I'm not sure what it says about humanity, but almost half of us who read for enjoyment, find nothing more relaxing than curling up with a story about murder and mayhem.  Maybe we like these stories because of the implicit drama involved, or we like the good guy/bad guy aspect.  Maybe it's the aspect of solving puzzles we favor.  For whatever reason, a lot of people like mysteries.   And some of the most successful mysteries are part of an ongoing series.

Go hang out with a book club or the mystery/thriller section any bookstore around, and you'll see what I mean.  Sooner or later you'll hear someone ask about "the latest Alex Cross" or "the next Kay Scarpetta," which can sound a little odd, to a newbie.  Fact is, both names belong to fictional sleuths who each star in their own best-selling series of mystery stories.  And I'm talking about enormous popularity here, characters who inspire movies, and web pages and reams of fan-fiction and debate.  So, I have to ask myself, Self, what keeps readers coming back?

So I'd like to look at some popular mystery series during June when people are out at the beach, or in their hammock, head first in another tale about crime.  But, instead of looking at an individual novel, let's break down some successful mystery series, past, and present, and figure out what made/makes each one work.    And I'd like to have your help.

Now I have my favorites, same as everyone else, but I'd like to hear which ones you like and why.  Do you favor a Mutt-&-Jeff team like Holmes and Watson?  An amateur busybody, like Miss Jane Marple?  A tortured justice professional, like Dr. Scarpetta?  Or an endearing accidental detective, like Odelia Grey or Stephanie Plum?  There's no judgment here, I just want your feedback to learn what characters have really grabbed your imagination.  And, yes, I'm always hoping to find another good book.

So, fire up those grills, unpack those swimsuits and let's get ready for some light summer reading.  Just remember not to trip over the corpse that usually appears by Chapter 3!

River of Life

I love rivers.

With all respect to ponds, pools, lakes, and oceans, I love being by a river the most.  Landlocked on two sides, it's still a continuum of water that chuckles as it moves and brings down the heat in summer.  My rivers are peaceful most of the time but the last thing they are is boring, not only because they hold so much life but they seem to be living creatures themselves.  I guess I see life as a river.

More than anything, all rivers are made up of water, great googolplexes of H2O molecules, all moving in the same direction. Some of the droplets came up from underground springs, some fell into place with a rainfall, but the source isn't what's important here.  What's important is that once those droplets meet up it's hard to tell one from another and they impact each other.  It may be on a scale too small for us to see but the molecules of water bump against each other on the way to their common destination.  And each encounter changes the path of each droplet, however minutely.

I think all life is like that.  Our lives are continually changed every day by the other life we encounter.  It could be the homeless person we cross the street to avoid or the new friend we make at the market.  It could even be the virus that keeps us out of work or school but our lives and fates are changed on a daily basis by who and what we encounter.  And our actions bounce off someone else, altering their path in unexpected ways.  This perpetual ricochet is as much a part of every molecule's journey as the forward momentum of the current, pulling it onward to its destination.

I felt that reaction that as I watched our new kitten, Steve this week.  We got Steve to be our Charlie-cat's companion, shortly before Charlie died. The sad morning after Charlie's burial, Stevie jumped in the bathtub to chase the water as it ran down the drain. When the tub was empty he turned to me and meowed, clearly curious about where the bath water went.  Up until that time, I had almost resented this new kitten's dynamic presence, because he wasn't Charlie and couldn't make Charlie well.  It was then I realized, as much as I'd always miss Charlie-Belle, Stevie had something of his own to offer.  Steve looks at the world with inexperienced eyes, marveling over things Charlie and I had long since taken for granted. And, seeing the world through Stevie's eyes makes it new again for me.

And now we have a second pet, Mollie-dog in the house.  As Charlie needed a four-legged friend, Stevie needs one too and Mollie-dog looks like a good match.  Bigger but gentler than Stevie-Cat, Mollie loves squeeky toys, my Jeep and jumping onto our bed.  For however long we have these two, I think they'll be fine companions.

That's what we all are: companions on our journeys through life, like waterdrops caught in the current. We go at different rates, encounter different things but we're still parts of the River of Life. And someday, we'll all reach the Sea.

The World Famous Author I didn't Quite Meet

This day should be remembered each and every year.
For the birth of an author, many of us still hold dear.
Though he's no longer with us, his books hold renown
When it comes to kid's lit, Old Doc Seuss holds the crown
But I must add, in a tone of defeat
He's the most famous author I didn't quite meet

When I was small, Dr. Seuss was the Man
and I read each of his stories, like a number 1 fan

The Great Writer

Like the Sneeches, my belly once had a small star
I recited his rhymes while we rode in the car.
I grew up and learned to love reading aloud
I'd choose Seuss to read to the younger kids crowd

That's what my job was one year, long ago
At the main library branch in old San Diego
That place hosted a party each Winter to cheer
Any locals who'd published books in the last year.
For the party, my off-day, I agreed to forsake
And serve the literati their coffee and cake

I don't want to brag, but I must confess,
I looked good that day! I wore my best dress.
I buffed up my nails and styled my hair.
My toes perched in the highest heels they could wear.
I practiced my small talk so it would be blameless
I'd be ready, I thought if I met someone famous.

Tell the truth? That party was a little bit bleak
Most writers, up close, don't look that unique
A few leaned like beanpoles, several looked squashed.
I can't say for certain each one of them washed!
But my boss, Lois, welcomed them all like guests in her home
and asked each to speak about his or her tome.

Now none of their books were on best-seller shelves
Most writers had published their books by themselves
Tales like "Granddad Lived his Life As a Bear"
and "Making a Million with Stray Body Hair"
Still, each author stood before us, head held high and proud,
and spoke on his or her story - too long and too loud.

The writers droned on, till I was ready to weep
For my wasted day off and my poor pinched up feet
When between the book stacks I happened to spy
A thick-browed old gent, in a suit and bow tie
Who he was, I wasn't sure that I knew.
He reminded me of someone...I just didn't know who.

As another writer described his obsession with warts
My boss leaned over and whispered, "At least that one didn't wear shorts."
"Having fun?" she asked. I lied and said "Yes."
"Well, you've worked really hard, in that lovely dress
And because you helped make this day such a treat,
"Come on," Lois said. "There's Someone I want you to meet."

The fan, at the end of the Day

Lois walked and I followed, away from the crowds
And into the stacks, toward the Gent with the Brows.
Lois and he acknowledged each other with smiles
Then she gave me a grin you could see for a mile!
And said with a chuckle that was soft, low and loose
"Ted, Leslie helps here.  Les, meet Dr. Seuss."

My mouth fell open. My toe-blisters al broke.
The small talk left my head without even a note.
I stared till the man nodded and then looked away
I was facing my hero and I had nothing to say?!
My stomach became lead; my brain turned to glue
I blurted, "IREALLYLOVEDSOLLASALLEW:

And that, dear friends, I am sorry to say
Is all I recall about that fateful day
The memory though can still make me wince
Still, I've kept what I learned from that day ever since:
That for my self-respect, and the good of my heart
I avoid the artist when I worship the art.

Yes, the last thing I learned from that wondrous Seuss-man
Is when it comes to writers, I'm just a big fan.

#ObeseNoMore

The one question I kept asking myself:
How in hell did I get this big?

We all live our lives by labels.  Those governed by birth are immovable.  Whether you're a baby-boom, Gen-X or millennial, you'll be one for the rest of your life, even if you lie about it.  Some birth labels, like nationality, look permanent but can be changed, and some we have even more say on, at least in theory.  I've lived with one label too long.

Obese.

If there is a word in the language I hate, that's the one.  Clinically, it means someone whose Body Mass Index is higher than 30; when the extra weight can really starts to compromise someone's health. But to the many non-medical people, obesity is a character flaw, not evidence of a health problem, a weakness in someone else that can be exploited.

60 lbs. down and
I'm still OMG obese

And that kind of thinking can be hell to live with when you're obese.

See, part of the pain of being really big is how that kind of treatment undercuts your confidence.  Graduate with honors? Yeah, but you're still obese.  Complete a 5K? Doesn't matter if you're big as a house. Lose more than a hundred of those extra pounds? Well, that's a really good effort darlin', keep up the good work, but don't think that you've earned my respect.  Only thin people qualify for that.

For the last 30 years or so, I've listened to that old song while I rode the roller coaster of weight gain.  And, as the scale numbers went up, my sense of self-worth plummeted. Like lots of other overweight people, I tried to compensate for my size by being smarter, funnier and nicer. Inside, I just got more tired, sadder, and fatter. So, instead of learning about getting healthy, I learned about the degrees of obesity.  I watched myself morph from an obese woman into severely obese one, then morbidly obese, and finally super obese.

Overweight, yes, but,
#ObeseNoMore

I also learned all my compensation efforts didn't work. Those who liked me liked me at any weight; everyone else turned away. Eventually, my fat almost became an invisibility cloak. See, many people don't like to look at fat ladies huffing and puffing along, so they turn a blind eye to us.  Even when we get into trouble. Part of me hated becoming invisible but, to tell the truth, by that point, I was working hard not to notice myself. Between that and turning a deaf ear to anything that sounded like negative criticism, I didn't realize how my health was deteriorating until I was in very bad shape.  When I couldn't look away any longer.

Funny thing was, my visibility as a person started returning (along with my physical strength) as I slowly descended the obesity ladder.  All of the sudden I could walk long distances again, run and cross my knees. But, for all of the improvement, I still was measured by that old label: obese. It felt like a death sentence.

Then, a few weeks ago, the scale numbers dropped again, and my Body Mass Index fell below the dreaded 30. If you looked at me, I doubt if you could tell the difference but a burden's been lifted.  I'm still too heavy but that label with dread connotations no longer applies to me.  After 30 years, it's the sun just rose and it feels like a whole new day.

#ObeseNoMore.

Being overweight never felt so good.

The Evolution of a Door: The Misadventures of a Would-be DIY'er

Madison Avenue thinks it knows what presents women wish for. They tell us through commercials all the time. What love token should you give a lady? Give her diamonds. Give her shoes. Give her a new car.  Well, Madison Avenue never heard of me.

I wanted a new front door.

Door, the First

In all fairness, I've wanted one for the past 27 years. Our little house came with a rather standard, wooden door; one that let in the weather, but kept out the light. Can't say I liked it much. Matter of fact, I hated the thing. But, with one thing and another, the door never got replaced when we were a double-income family.  Now that we're living on one, what were the chances my front door could change?

You'd be surprised.

Not that it was easy.  First off entry doors aren't cheap, at least entry doors that have lots of glass.  Go ahead, google "3/4 lite entry door". and you'll see what I'm talking about.  I'll wait.

Scary, isn't it?

Well, I started scouring.  Craig's List, LetGo, Facebook selling, you name it.  And I finally found this beauty at a price we could afford.  Only one small issue.  Can you guess what it was?

Yup.  We had to install it ourselves.

Now, you wouldn't call us natural DIY-ers.  Actually, we're probably closer to DDIY-ers (Don't Do It Yourself).  But if I wanted a new door, this was the only option.  So, after Googling, You-Tubeing and streaming all the home improvement video I could find, I figured we were ready.

See what happens when you leave a
wife alone with a hammer?

The first part, (obviously) was removing the old door's trim, molding, and frame, then the door, itself. That's when I discovered my husband's favorite DIY hack.  See, he doesn't like doing this stuff so, whenever we ran into a problem, he went to the store. Always. And while he was gone, I'd get so impatient waiting for him, I work out the solution myself.  By noon, he'd been to the hardware store 3 times, and I had the door out of the frame.

The next part was the doozy because, it turns out, doors are like Goldilocks. For them to open and close in their frames, their plumb, level, and balance must be j-u-u-u-ust right. Close is not good enough, as we learned. We got the framed door into the spot, shoved in skinny wedges of wood called shims to keep it straight, and nailed everything into place. It looked great from the outside, but the damn thing wouldn't open or close without a fight. And, once shut, it wouldn't sit flat in the frame. My sis called about that time, asking how the project was going.  I said, "It's not really functioning as a door right now, but the light is beautiful."  My husband swore and said he had to go back to the store. And I sat down to study the problem. 

Is it the house or 
the door that's tilted?

Turns out that doors function on reverse psychology.  If you need them to come up in the top left corner, you have to adjust the bottom, right part.  And vice versa.  I also learned there are two kinds of skims: some go between the door frame and walls and others go between the hinge and frame.  It's a tricky business.  So, by tightening and nudging, making tiny adjustments, adding and pulling out shims, the door eventually straightened itself into the frame.  Finally, I was ready for hardware, just as my husband pulled back into the driveway.

In order to save money, I planned to remove the old handle and lock and transfer them to the new door, but the hardware had other ideas.  A tiny screw went flying while I unloosened the old handle and I haven't seen it since.  One of those teensy, one-of-a-kind screws, of course.  Now I had to go to the hardware store, to buy a new handle and lock. These cost half as much as the new door but I must admit they look nice.

All told, it took almost a whole week to finish up (and the spray-on foam insulation made a mess) but the new door is magnificent.  It looks like it was made for the house.  And Sis, continuing in her role as Best Sibling Ever sent two flanking planters as an early Christmas gift, either for me or the Door, I'm not really sure which.  The sawdust is cleaned up, our pulled muscles have healed, and almost all the tools are back in place.  And the light shining through is magnificent.

So be careful what you wish for if you want a new door. Diamonds might be an easier, cheaper gift. But, then again, nothing in Zales's catalog has this way of saying, "Welcome Home."

A Sense of Taste, A Sense of Place,

With the arrival of the Holiday Season, everyone is focused on families, friends, and parties, which usually means food.  That's great because I love to eat; but awful because I'm a lousy cook.  I mean world-class lousy.  I'm the gal who confused teaspoons and tablespoons in Home Ec. class and braised radishes with too much oregano. (Who braises radishes anyway?) My newlywed cooking turned Meat Loaf into Meat Cake and made my husband a permanent fan of take-out.  I'm slowly getting better at the domestic arts but it's hard overcoming a kitchen philosophy I created years ago that states, "When it comes to cooking, I'd rather read."  Luckily, I live in the South, a region of great writers, as well as great cooks, and, at times, those two fields overlap.  When that happens, the results are cookbooks that feed the body as well as the soul.

I've written before about Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings and her great love-affair with central Florida.  One of the most remarkable chapters of her wonderful book, Cross Creek, recounts Marjorie's own development from lousy to gifted cook and her joy learning Southern cuisine. The only problem was the book was published during World War II and her rhapsodies on the Joys of Southern Food made an awful lot of American soldiers homesick.  One fellow, who loved food, wrote to her saying, "Lady, [after reading your book] I have never been through such agonies of frustration." In response, Marjorie published "Cross Creek Cookery", a collection of recipes and anecdotes that are equally enjoyable.  For example, there is the time she confused an electric ray with flounder and shocked herself trying to catch it.  There is also the tale of Godfrey, a Florida version of Downton Abbey's Mr. Carson who considers serving collard greens beneath his dignity. (Godfrey must have been out of his mind; collard greens are the first vegetable that made me fall in love with Southern Cooking.)  Cross Creek Cookery is the first cookbook that made me laugh out loud.

But literature is more than love and laughter, and so is cooking, as Pat Conroy makes clear.  His cookbook, Recipes of My Life describes not just the art of preparing food he came to adore, but how food can become a short-cut to memories of other times, places, and people.  I know that myself; a taste of grouper, garnished with almond slices and stuffed with grapes, takes me back to an Augustine restaurant and one of the best dinners and nights of my life.  Pat takes his readers through his memories of life and garnishes the experience with recipes that recreate the scenes.   Here are the soft-shell crabs and shrimp salad of Beaufort, South Carolina, the Scottiglia and Saltimbocca of Italy, and Eugene Walter's Pepper obsession. But more than anything, Conroy makes clear how close good writing is to good food.  Both are the results of creative thinking and memory, distilled to levels of clinical precision.  A recipe, Conroy says, is just a story that ends in a good meal.  That is a philosophy that could make me want to learn to cook.

Tell me about the cookbooks you love to read and re-read!