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.
kami5's review against another edition
3.0
hit and miss, with the former being strong and the latter not quite so bad; fairly interesting vignettes to read a chunk at a time
ndfan19's review against another edition
Essays on eating alone by authors, chefs, etc. Some better than others
mjsteimle's review against another edition
1.0
It wasn't that this book was poorly written; most of the writing was high quality. However, with a few exceptions, I don't think I'd like many of the writers. With all of the books on my To Read list, I wish I'd have skipped this one or put it aside instead of spending time pushing through it.
audreybt's review against another edition
5.0
This was a nice little collection of stories by famous writers or chefs recalling their favorite stories or ways to eat alone. Since I'm not married and I do a lot of cooking for one, it was nice to read about other people who enjoy eating alone as much as I do. And it was nice to read other people's stories about only eating one thing for months, since I also have a tendency to do that! I really liked the entire collection.
booksaremysuperpower's review against another edition
3.0
If you are like me and find cooking shows relaxing and comforting and enjoy books about the joys of food and eating, this is definitely one to add to your roster. I was intrigued by the title and concept because I spent nearly 5 years living on my own in a studio apartment and was always baffled by the lack of cookbooks devoted to solo eating. Trying to cook for myself was always a pleasure, but adapting a recipe intended for four people down to just moi usually garnered mixed results (as a side note: I eat everything I cook, good or bad. Even my most disastrous overcooked pasta dish gets lovingly wolfed down because I took the time to make it).
But "Alone in the Kitchen with an Egglplant" is not a book simply about cooking. There are plenty of recipes included by the writers who contributed to the novel, but the book also deals with the idea of eating alone. Many writers hate it; a few relish in it. As another reviewer pointed out, I was also very surprised to read that the bulk of the contributors equate eating alone with loneliness. I was also shocked, actually, to discover that several writers, food writers and chefs I might add, keep such low stocked cupboards and generally eat bad food when they are alone with no one else to cook for. Refried beans straight out of the can is a picture of sadness, in my book.
It is an enjoyable book, if not terribly deep or insightful. The editor recommends reading the essays out of order and I concur, as many of the pieces are very similar in tone, so to read out of order gives you a nice variety of humor and revelation. I found some of the essays more intriguing than others, and I could have done with a few less pieces about starving writers living in NYC apartments the size of a large walk-in closet and how can they possibly cook a decent meal with such limited resources, blah blah blah. Hey, you won't get any sympathy from me- I once went two years without a fridge and then a year and a half with a fridge that didn't work and an only slightly working freezer that would eventually freeze the milk after three days. Somehow, I managed to eat well!
One writer has a piece about cooking for herself solely with goods from Trader Joes. TJ's is a single person/solo eater's mecca, and this essay completely took me back to my own studio apartment days when I basically lived at Trader Joes.
Although I disagree in part with their argument, the two essays that struck me the most were the ones where the authors baldly declared that they hated dining and eating alone and refused to do it. I appreciated the candor because I absolutely love eating and cooking just for myself. I don't want to do it all the time- sometimes it's wonderful to get out there and dine with friends- but night after night of dinner parties and social eating intimidates me. I love cooking a new recipe and sharing it with a group of friends at a pot luck, but I'm positively frightened of cooking full meals solely to entertain.
I do understand the need to eat with others, I mean it is practically in our DNA as hunters and gatherers. Food was scarce, enemies and wild animals lurked close at hand, and so the entire family gathered round the fire to nosh on a freshly killed buffalo, not only for nourishment but for companionship and protection too. I still have friends that will never, ever be seen eating alone, afraid of judgment I suppose, or perhaps it is a dormant fear and vulnerability stemming from caveman days that they will be attacked or shunned by dining alone.
But I swear there is nothing like treating yourself as well as you would treat a guest in your home with a delicious meal. My solitary meals are elaborate affairs, and although the food itself doesn't always turn out the way I intended, I spent the time and effort to make sure I ate something that was good for me. Not a bag of cashews for dinner, not refried beans out of a can, not a box of saltines for days on end, no, an actual MEAL. I think this is important.
A warning, though, about this book: You will constantly be hungry while reading it, especially during the specific pieces where writers talk about their go-to solitary meals. So what would be my go-to eat alone standby? The answer would have to be Risotto. I've been making it for me, myself, and I since high school and it only gets better. Needless to say, inspired by the writers in the book, I spent many a lunch slowly simmering a batch of risotto and taking my delicious bowl (or two. Let's be honest, I ate the entire pan full) out into the garden to read and savor each bite. This is my idea of solitary eating heaven.
But "Alone in the Kitchen with an Egglplant" is not a book simply about cooking. There are plenty of recipes included by the writers who contributed to the novel, but the book also deals with the idea of eating alone. Many writers hate it; a few relish in it. As another reviewer pointed out, I was also very surprised to read that the bulk of the contributors equate eating alone with loneliness. I was also shocked, actually, to discover that several writers, food writers and chefs I might add, keep such low stocked cupboards and generally eat bad food when they are alone with no one else to cook for. Refried beans straight out of the can is a picture of sadness, in my book.
It is an enjoyable book, if not terribly deep or insightful. The editor recommends reading the essays out of order and I concur, as many of the pieces are very similar in tone, so to read out of order gives you a nice variety of humor and revelation. I found some of the essays more intriguing than others, and I could have done with a few less pieces about starving writers living in NYC apartments the size of a large walk-in closet and how can they possibly cook a decent meal with such limited resources, blah blah blah. Hey, you won't get any sympathy from me- I once went two years without a fridge and then a year and a half with a fridge that didn't work and an only slightly working freezer that would eventually freeze the milk after three days. Somehow, I managed to eat well!
One writer has a piece about cooking for herself solely with goods from Trader Joes. TJ's is a single person/solo eater's mecca, and this essay completely took me back to my own studio apartment days when I basically lived at Trader Joes.
Although I disagree in part with their argument, the two essays that struck me the most were the ones where the authors baldly declared that they hated dining and eating alone and refused to do it. I appreciated the candor because I absolutely love eating and cooking just for myself. I don't want to do it all the time- sometimes it's wonderful to get out there and dine with friends- but night after night of dinner parties and social eating intimidates me. I love cooking a new recipe and sharing it with a group of friends at a pot luck, but I'm positively frightened of cooking full meals solely to entertain.
I do understand the need to eat with others, I mean it is practically in our DNA as hunters and gatherers. Food was scarce, enemies and wild animals lurked close at hand, and so the entire family gathered round the fire to nosh on a freshly killed buffalo, not only for nourishment but for companionship and protection too. I still have friends that will never, ever be seen eating alone, afraid of judgment I suppose, or perhaps it is a dormant fear and vulnerability stemming from caveman days that they will be attacked or shunned by dining alone.
But I swear there is nothing like treating yourself as well as you would treat a guest in your home with a delicious meal. My solitary meals are elaborate affairs, and although the food itself doesn't always turn out the way I intended, I spent the time and effort to make sure I ate something that was good for me. Not a bag of cashews for dinner, not refried beans out of a can, not a box of saltines for days on end, no, an actual MEAL. I think this is important.
A warning, though, about this book: You will constantly be hungry while reading it, especially during the specific pieces where writers talk about their go-to solitary meals. So what would be my go-to eat alone standby? The answer would have to be Risotto. I've been making it for me, myself, and I since high school and it only gets better. Needless to say, inspired by the writers in the book, I spent many a lunch slowly simmering a batch of risotto and taking my delicious bowl (or two. Let's be honest, I ate the entire pan full) out into the garden to read and savor each bite. This is my idea of solitary eating heaven.
courthompson's review against another edition
3.0
These essays were hit or miss for me. I love the concept, but it was the weirdly not voyeuristic enough for me.