A few days ago, at an event at the incredibly wonderful Reading Public Library (in Reading Massachusetts) one of the librarians bought my book for her mother. For Mother’s Day. Using a large amount of not-usually-available-to-me control, I didn’t say any of the following:
“Nothing says Mother’s Day like cheating, anger, and hating-being–a-mother for Mother’s Day!”
In fact, that’s true. Who the heck wants to get Little Women on Mother’s Day? Not me. Does anyone want to psychically compete with Marmee?
No. I. Don’t.
I want to be feted with a pile of books that say:
Re-remembering Mothers
I never met a book by Ruth Reichl I haven’t loved, and my adoration continued with this book.
Where others were hearty meals, Not Becoming My Mother was a deceptively simple snack. (I’m certain that Ms. Reichl, former editor of Gourmet Magazine, would find a more elegant food analogy, but I, alas, am but a quick and dirty cook, though one who loves reading the work of educated ones—like Ruth Reichl)
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