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jenmcmaynes's review
3.0
3.5 stars. A mostly enjoyable collection of essays about the act of cooking for one or dining alone. While most of the pieces offered similar words of insight concerning taking care of oneself, cooking as an act of love, and the guilty pleasures of pleasing one's self, a few pieces did touch on other aspects ("Thanks, but No Thanks" by Courtney Eldridge delves into classism and poverty; "White-on-White Lunch for When No One is Looking" by Anneli Rufus deals with weight issues; and "Instant Noodles" by Rattawut Lacharoensap looks at the ex-pat's longing and inability to get the food from home). I appreciated these pieces more, if only because they offered a different perspective from the general tone of the book. Not that the typical essay was bad; it was just that, after awhile, they tended to blend together. Perhaps this book would be best savored in small bites, instead of a giant gulp? ;-)
ivanssister's review
4.0
I really enjoyed the fact that there was a wide range of stories here. Not everyone who eats or cooks alone has to do it gourmet.
sloatsj's review against another edition
2.0
Some of these essays were funny but overall I felt I was going to o.d. on navel-gazing. I guess I shouldn’t have expected otherwise. There was too much “I was poor,” “I was young,” “I was a struggling writer,” “My kitchen was the size of a placemat.” I would have been more receptive if I were a foodie myself but I definitely am not. (The book was a present.) Reading about food doesn’t stoke my appetite: “I ate eggs,” “I ate mushrooms,” “I ate my boogers,” can’t elicit much more than a patient yawn from me. If I’m home alone for dinner (hallelujah!), there’ll be no dinner. I am a poor, struggling writer with a small kitchen who likes her solitude straight up.
zosia1995's review against another edition
5.0
Reading this book was like eating the perfect solo meal; it was fabulous. The writing is inspiring, funny and comforting. I’ve loved dining out solo for years but find it a challenge to cook real plated sit down meals for just myself at home. I’m now both inspired to give it another try and to be comfortable eating cold leftovers standing over the sink. It’s all good as is this book.
mrsdragon's review against another edition
4.0
A collection of short essay centered around eating alone. How do people really feel about eating alone? Cooking alone? And what DO you cook when you cook for just yourself?
There is a tenderness that runs through the collection, a theme of taking care of yourself, when only you are there to do so. The idea of being a good steward of your emotional state. Of connecting with family, with loved ones, with fond memories. Of staking out space for yourself. Of deliberately eating alone.
There is a tenderness that runs through the collection, a theme of taking care of yourself, when only you are there to do so. The idea of being a good steward of your emotional state. Of connecting with family, with loved ones, with fond memories. Of staking out space for yourself. Of deliberately eating alone.
annaptobias's review against another edition
2.0
Was really looking forward to this when I first heard of it. Considering it took me many many months to finish, you're correct in assuming that it didn't meet my initial expectations. Instead of celebrating food and solitude and what's great about both, some of the essays in this collection felt too whiny. There were some gems, but overall, it was merely okay.
katiez624's review against another edition
4.0
I loved how brief and honest these essays were about eating alone, like tiny morsels of a chewy, homemade cookie - sweet, buttery, and such a treat.
The stories were reflective, revealing, and humorous. I thoroughly enjoyed listening to these short vignettes of various writers' experiences with cooking and dining alone.
Some of the stories are a bit disjointed and scattered, but for the most part, the stories were quirky and showcased a snippet of their personality and writing style.
The stories were reflective, revealing, and humorous. I thoroughly enjoyed listening to these short vignettes of various writers' experiences with cooking and dining alone.
Some of the stories are a bit disjointed and scattered, but for the most part, the stories were quirky and showcased a snippet of their personality and writing style.
lisalibrarian's review against another edition
4.0
This book makes me hungry. I loved the chapter on asparagus.
emsemsems's review against another edition
4.0
Excellent book for some casual reading with some substance – was more ‘filling’ than I had expected it to be. I read this alongside [b:Eat Joy: Stories & Comfort Food from 31 Celebrated Writers|43835491|Eat Joy Stories & Comfort Food from 31 Celebrated Writers|Natalie Eve Garrett|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1556345219l/43835491._SX50_.jpg|68216150] which is a fun read as well (not quite done with that one, but Alexander Chee’s essay was particularly memorable – with a warming recipe of spicy chicken stew). As for Ferrari Adler’s well-curated collection of essays, my favourites are the ones written by M. K. Fisher (of course), Nora Ephron (personally, surprising), Jami Attenberg (amazing in every way – bit trippy), Courtney Eldridge (who compares having an ‘omakase’ to a decadent, shameless, self-indulgent orgasm), and Rattawut Lapcharoensap (instant noodles, romanticised). Since I don’t know how to go about raving about this collection properly, I’ll simply drop a few quotes from the essays that I had highlighted while reading the book.
‘A is for Dining Alone’ by M. K. Fisher
‘There are few people alive with whom I care to pray, sleep, dance, sing, or share my bread and wine. Of course, there are times when this latter cannot be avoided if we are to exist socially, but it is endurable only because it need not be the only fashion of self-nourishment.’
‘And the kind people—they are the ones who have made me feel the loneliest. Wherever I have lived, they have indeed been kind—up to a certain point. They have poured cocktails for me and praised me generously for things I have written to their liking, and showed me their children. And I have seen the discreetly drawn curtains to their family dining rooms, so different from the uncluttered, spinsterish emptiness of my own one room. Behind the far door to the kitchen I have sensed, with the mystic materialism of a hungry woman, the presence of honest-to-God fried chops, peas and carrots, a jello salad, and lemon meringue pie—none of which I like and all of which I admire in theory and would give my eyeteeth to be offered. But the kind people always murmur, “We’d love to have you stay to supper sometime. We wouldn’t dare, of course, the simple way we eat and all.”…They close the door on me.’
‘Things tasted good, and it was a relief to be away from my job and from the curious disbelieving impertinence of the people in restaurants. I still wished, in what was almost a theoretical way, that I was not cut off from the world’s trenchermen by what I had written for and about them. But, and there was no cavil here, I felt firmly then, as I do this very minute, that snug misanthropic solitude is better than hit-or-miss congeniality.’
‘Potatoes and Love’ by Nora Ephron
‘Sometimes, when a loved one announces that he has decided to go on a low-carbohydrate, low-fat, low-salt diet (thus ruling out the possibility of potatoes, should you have been so inclined), he is signalling that the middle is ending, and the end is beginning.’
‘In the end, I always want potatoes. Mashed potatoes. Nothing like mashed potatoes when you’re feeling blue. Nothing like getting into bed with a bowl of hot mashed potatoes already loaded with butter, and methodically adding a thin cold slice of butter to every forkful. The problem with mashed potatoes, though, is that they require almost as much hard work as crisp potatoes, and when you’re feeling blue the last thing you feel like is hard work. Of course, you can always get someone to make the mashed potatoes for you, but let’s face it: the reason you’re blue is that there isn’t anyone to make them for you. As a result, most people do not have nearly enough mashed potatoes in their lives, and when they do, it’s almost always at the wrong time.’
‘Thanks, But No Thanks’ by Courtney Eldridge
‘All I’m saying is that we came from completely different worlds, and to be perfectly honest, there was a time that had no small appeal. I was fascinated. I mean, come on—when we started dating, I was working two or three part-time jobs, trying to write, subsisting on a steady diet of Uncle Ben’s, and he was a master sommelier with a degree in restaurant management who’d moved to New York to open his own restaurant. So of course we had very different views on the place and importance of food in our lives, that was a given. What I didn’t know was just how much food could unite or divide two people.’
‘And obviously the pleasure of sitting at the bar is watching those gentlemen prepare your sushi, which is genuine artistry, not to mention a complete turn-on. You know, I’ve often heard Anthony Bourdain bandy the word orgasmic about, and I’d always roll my eyes, thinking, Well, no shit, you’re a man: that’s a given. But still…the chef’s special at Sushi of Gari is a culinary multiple orgasm. That said, I must have had twelve courses—honestly, ten, easy—before I finally said no more, thank you. And the only reason, the only reason I quit was because my husband had, and I didn’t want to look like a complete pig, even though everyone behind the bar knew exactly what the score was. Even so, I could’ve gone all night.’
‘On par with any musical, sexual and/or pharmaceutical awakening…ugh, I cannot imagine skydiving could be more exhilarating. Then again, the bill will certainly bring you back to earth, but anyhow. Sushi was never the same after that. Actually, nothing was the same after that.’
‘Instant Noodles’ by Rattawut Lapcharoensap
‘It is a stock scenario, the abject child eating alone at school, lifeblood of so many sitcoms and young-adult novels. The image’s ubiquity must have something to do with the school canteen’s special status as a primal site of unchecked peer sociality. And so the maligned child fulfils, with each bitter mouthful, her circular, uninvited destiny: she eats alone because she is abject and she is abject because she eats alone. But the tragedy is not eating alone as such—it’s the transformation of the very meaning of eating itself, from a nourishing, comforting, and familial activity to one that is cold, pathological, and solipsistic.’
‘One afternoon, I came across a Chinese grocery on Route 13 that stocked a decent selection of Mama, Yumyum, and Waiwai instant noodles. I nearly wept at the sight of them in their bright and shiny packages, lined up neatly beside their Korean, Chinese, and Japanese counterparts. I had tried several American brands of instant noodles since arriving from Bangkok but found them all inadequate—the broth flavoring had always seemed rather too artificial, the noodles texturally suspicious. Here, then, were my madeleines—material links to a former life—and I remember gathering several packages into my arms as if they were children that I had lost.’
‘The gap between the memory of a good meal and the attempt to re-create it in a foreign country—to make oneself feel, in a sense, more at home—can reinforce rather than eradicate feelings of dislocation and homesickness. This would be the case, I suspect, even if one
managed to re-create a dish in all its subtle, “authentic” aspects, for there are things that one can never re-create on a stove. Because of this ambivalence, immigrants know—perhaps more than most—that though eating can make you full, it can also often feel like fasting.’
‘Protective Measures’ by Jami Attenberg
‘But I knew now that some kind of fullness could be attained by dining out alone. I’ll show you who I am, I thought. I’m the girl who knows how to take care of her own needs since no one else knows how. Or is willing. I returned to that sushi restaurant many times on Friday nights over the next few years. I read a lot of books. I stuffed my face until I couldn’t eat another bite. I was full. I was empty. I was learning how to survive.’
‘For the rest of the trip, I ordered room service and ate in my hotel room. I would wake up in the morning, pick up the phone, and order an omelette or a fresh fruit plate and lots of coffee, please. Then I would smoke a joint from the never-ending bag of pot until the food arrived. Eventually I grew to hate that bag of pot. I was never going to be able to smoke all of it. And strangely, it was making me feel emptier. Halfway through the trip I walked out onto the balcony of my room and emptied it. The green leaves flew into the sea air.’
‘Occasionally I busy myself with falling in and out of love. But nothing quite fills me up like taking care of myself, taking care of my desires. Often the fullness lasts only for a minute, and then like the pain that comes from a pinch of skin, it is gone. But it’s better than not having eaten at all.’
echo_finished_cake's review against another edition
3.0
This book was a nice little read for anyone wanting to gain perspective on eating alone. Every essay discusses the idea and act of eating alone in some perspective. To be honest, I found some essays more captivating than others, but I suppose that is to be expected when you compile several food writers in one book. Some essays were hard to follow. Some were humorous and delightful. I did enjoy reading the recipes that were included as well as reading about some of the stories behind the recipes. Overall a good book, mildly entertaining.