The Signature of All Things

I took a Flowering Plants class when I was in college. It was one of those science courses you sign up for because it looks easier than Analytical Chemistry and slightly less boring than The History and Philosophy of Science. I was asked to splice open plants and look at them under the microscope and I learned how to correctly dry, press, and preserve them. I was also required to collect and correctly identify fifty different flowers. My friends and I spent a lot of time that quarter pulling up random weed-like flowers from the side of the road and going on long hikes in the quest for ever more impressive specimens. I learned Latin names and can still remember some: Rosaceae, Ranunculaceae, Juglandaceae. I found a sort of ridiculous thrill in being able to use the Latin name for a flower or tree. Why call a Buttercup a Buttercup when it is so much more impressive and informative to call it Ranunculaceae? And the mystery of why I didn’t have more friends in college continues to deepen…

My experience in that class was a bit like my experience reading The Signature of All Things: tedious and sometimes boring, yet intellectually stimulating with its own brand of fun.

This novel tells the story of Alma Whittaker. Alma is born in 1800 and is the daughter of a botanical explorer turned botanical magnate, and a staunch Dutch mother with sharp intellectual abilities who teaches her daughter how to be rational, scientific, and a most tireless problem solver. Alma gains an adoptive sister who perplexes her and she falls in love with a man who simultaneously confounds and devastates her. The setting moves from England, various ships, America, Tahiti, and the Netherlands.

Science in the 1800's is fascinating: gas lamps and telescopes, balloonists and fearless botanical explorers - it was a regular carnival of discovery. Ever since reading The Age of Wonder, Richard Holmes’ magnificent treatise on science in the 18th and 19th centuries, I have had a special affinity for this time period and the beautiful sense of intellectual trailblazing that so many intrepid scientists and explorers experienced as they delved into science like never before. This is why, despite my incredible dislike for Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love (I believe I compared that reading experience to rolling around in sheets of fiberglass insulation), I astonished myself by purchasing this book and saying something along the lines of, “this actually looks good.” And it was good. Sort of.

One of the most satisfying things about this novel is that Gilbert centered it on a woman who defies all the stereotypes of a heroine. She is not beautiful. Men do not desire her. She does not live the conventional life of a wife and mother, nor does she gain fulfillment in the traditional sense. Yet she is successful, satisfied (more or less), and happy. Her sensual desires keep her from becoming stodgy, but there is very little romance in her character. Alma isn’t always likeable, but she is believable and well developed.

While I enjoyed reading this book, I imagine that many people will find it tiresome. Alma studies moss, which then becomes allegorical for her own life. Moss is resilient, moss is strong, moss is adaptable, moss isn’t sexy and it isn’t impressive or very interesting to most people, but it can be beautiful in its own way. Alma is moss and not everyone will have the patience for moss.

The Storm Sister

I was so excited to read this book that I actually ordered it from Amazon UK so I could read it months before the US release date in March. Perhaps the only logical conclusion to such feelings of excitement and anticipation is disappointment.

The Storm Sister is the second book in Lucinda Riley’s ambitious venture to write a seven book series that chronicles the adopted daughters of “Pa Salt.” After his death, each sister is given clues to go in search of her past. There is also a larger mystery as to what actually happened to Pa Salt, why he decided to adopt each of the sisters, and who he really was. Also, all clues point to the fact that Pa Salt isn't really dead...

I found Ally’s story interesting, but ultimately unfulfilling. The “mystery” of her birth was almost blatantly obvious to me. What Riley failed to do was to give any real clues as to why Ally was given up for adoption and why Pa Salt chose her. Also, large portions of this novel were very similar to Riley’s The Italian Girl, which I have found to be her least intriguing novel.

I honestly wonder if Riley hasn’t bitten off more than she can chew with this series. The first book was excellent, but by committing to publish a new book every year (I’m assuming that’s the plan), she may not be giving herself enough time to fully develop her stories and give them the polish that such books as The Lavender Garden and The Orchid House had.

Final verdict: the first book in this series was excellent, the second one is just OK. It is entertaining and I would still recommend it, but don’t expect too much from it.

The Lake House

Don’t read this novel if you have an overflowing “To Do” list, if you value your sleep, or if you need to clean your house from top to bottom for Thanksgiving company, because you will become an unproductive zombie with a dirty house. :) That’s pretty much what happened to me. By the time I got to the last quarter of the book I decided to just sit down and finish it, which was hard to do with a toddler. Luckily, I had some peanut butter cookies on hand for those “just a few more pages” or “just one more chapter” moments.

The Lake House is set in beautiful Cornwall and mainly bounces back and forth between the 1930s and 2003. It involves several family mysteries, a missing child, and a web of family relationships so complex you just might lay awake until 3 a.m. trying to untangle it all.

I have loved all of Morton’s novels, but The Lake House ranks up there with my other favorite, The Forgotten Garden. Morton is a master of atmosphere, suspense, and plot. I can tell she is well versed in Victorian Gothic literature. Some might say her endings are too “neat,” but I prefer to see them as fearlessly satisfying and refreshingly lacking in cynicism.

My recommendation is to immediately get yourself a copy of this novel. Then, grab a warm blanket, a cup of hot chocolate, curl up in your favorite chair and let those long autumn evenings become your friend.

Invictus

Before reading John Carlin’s, Invictus, Nelson Mandela, South African politics, and rugby were three subjects that took up about 0.05% of my brain space. I knew they existed and after that there was nothing but dead air. I love it when a book makes up a deficiency in my knowledge and reading Invictus was a tremendously eye-opening experience for me.

Invictus tells the story of how Nelson Mandala used rugby, in particular the Springboks team, to ease racial tension and unite South Africa. The Springboks were the embodiment of white supremacism and nearly every black person rooted against them, hoping for their demise, but through Mandala’s PR and encouragement, they went on to win the World Cup and their entire nation came together to support them. This might seem far-fetched to those who are not enamored by sports. I mean, really, how can a group of beefy men who hurl themselves on each other bring people together? In the end, I think Carlin made a convincing case that Mandala’s “human calculation” did help unify the fractured race relations, but I still find it hard to believe that one game and one victory could so completely change such ingrained tensions overnight.

I think Carlin’s story was at its best when he was writing about Mandela, whom he obviously admired. Your heart would have to be fashioned from a calcified tree stump to not be moved by the poem, Invictus, which Mandala often recited when he became discouraged during his 23 years of imprisonment.

A word on the movie. Matt Damon in little white rugby shorts would be enough of a reason to rent the movie, but I actually think the movie is a good companion for the book. The scope of this book was too large, at-least for someone who is completely unfamiliar with everyone except Mandela. There were too many tangential people to keep track of and the writing style wasn’t exactly captivating. Not bad, just a bit dry in that factual, journalistic way. The movie doesn’t ask you to know anyone beyond Mandala and the Springbok captain, Francois Pienaar. The movie boiled the story down to its feel good parts, but I’m certain I would not have been as engaged if I hadn’t read the book. The movie doesn't say enough about politics, the book says too much, but between the two you can find a balance of knowledge and enjoyment.

The Invention of Wings

The Invention of Wings

This story kept me up past midnight. I’m not a night person, so that should tell you how good it was. I’m sure I had heard of the Grimke sisters and Denmark Vesey before reading this book, but if you had asked me who they were, and what they did, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you. One of the reasons I love historical fiction is that it gets real people and events on my radar in a way that reading history by itself doesn't. I always want to learn more after reading a good historical novel.

The novel begins in Charleston, South Carolina in 1803. Sarah Grimke, who is eleven-years old at the time, narrates half of the story. Her large family owns a number of slaves, but due to a traumatic scene she witnessed as a child, she abhors slavery and wants nothing to do with it. The other part of this story is narrated by Handful, who was given to Sarah as her slave on her 11th birthday. It seems that most stories concerning slaves focus on plantation life, so it was interesting to read what life was like for slaves in town. That being said, the horrors of slavery were not a revelation. If it had only been Handful’s narrative, this novel would have been just OK. It is Sarah’s story, juxtaposed against Handful’s, that makes this book such a fantastic read.

Kidd’s writing is energetic and fluid. She moves the story along at a brisk pace and as the narrative goes back and forth between Handful and Sarah, the stories intertwine so well that you never feel like you’re losing the thread of one in favor of the other.

Sarah Grimke was a powerfully inspiring character. She was a woman with a lot going against her – she wanted learning and knowledge and to become a lawyer, only to have her dreams squashed by her conservative patriarchal family. She wasn’t beautiful. She struggled with an embarrassing speech impediment and with public speaking. Her sister, Angelina, who became her partner in the abolition and women’s rights cause, was dynamic, fearless, and supposedly beautiful, but she seemed less interesting because of it. I guess that is why Kidd chose to tell Sarah’s story, rather than Angelina’s. Isn’t it curious that the characters we find the most fascinating in novels are the ones who seem the least remarkable in real life?

Puritanically Good Apple Scones with Sinfully Delicious Salted Caramel Sauce

It’s a good thing I’m not a Puritan because I would have to sew a giant “S” over the Williams-Sonoma patch on my apron. Like Hester Prynne, I would wear my letter of shame proudly though - “S,” for scone. No good, self-denying Puritan would be able to indulge in these with a clear conscious; their lavishness would require a public confession and a trip to the stocks. These morsels of spicy apple goodness are made even more tantalizing when drizzled in a sinfully delicious salted caramel sauce.

I adapted this recipe a bit, mostly adding more spices.

Ingredients:

2 cups flour
2 ½ teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons cinnamon
½ teaspoon pumpkin pie spice
½ teaspoon nutmeg
½ teaspoon salt
½ cup unsalted butter, chilled
½ cup heavy cream
1 large egg
½ cup brown sugar, packed
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup peeled and chopped apple
caramel sauce (I like Trader Joe’s Fleur de Sal Salted Caramel Sauce)

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Grease a large baking sheet, or line with parchment.
2. In a large bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, spices, and salt. Cut butter into cubes and cut in with forks or a pastry cutter until it resembles course crumbs.
3. In a small bowl, whisk together cream, egg, brown sugar, and vanilla.
4. Combine liquid with dry ingredients. Use a spatula and try not to over-stir. Fold in the apples.
5. Form dough into a ball and pat out on floured surface so that it forms a disc. Cut like a pizza and transfer to baking pan. Sprinkle with sugar.
6. Bake 20-25 minutes or until golden brown.
7. Remove scones from oven, transfer to wire rack and drizzle with caramel sauce.
8. Eat warm caramelly scone while reading Hawthorne and reflecting on how good you have it.

Caleb's Crossing

Set in 17th century Martha’s Vineyard and Cambridge, Massachusetts, Caleb’s Crossing is Brooks’ imaginative portrayal of the life and experience of the first Native American graduate of Harvard College, Caleb Cheeshahteaumauk. This story is as much about Caleb though as it is about Bethia, the narrator. Bethia is 12-years-old when she befriends Caleb and is responsible, as she sees it, for his crossing from one culture to another. Bethia longs for knowledge and experience and her intelligence far outstrips many around her, yet she must struggle to satisfy her thirst for learning and find fulfillment in a culture that only values her for her morality. The Puritan culture wasn’t exactly known for taking a broad view of things. If you are an intelligent woman you better learn that unless you want to go the way of Anne Hutchinson, it is in your best interest to shut your trap and pretend nothing is more desirable than sitting on the porch churning butter, and that herding sheep is the height of your intellectual interest.

I’ll admit. I had a couple of false starts with this book. I have long admired Geraldine Brooks’ writing; March and People of the Book are two of my favorite novels, but I think the subject matter for this one wasn’t as compelling. In the beginning, I was annoyed by Bethia, whom I initially felt wasn’t quite believable as a narrator. Bethia seemed to be the mouthpiece for Brooks’ agenda to expose cultural wrongs. As a 12-year-old, Bethia grasped animal rights, cultural subtleties, and religious conflict in a completely (and unbelievably) 21st century way. This seemed to ebb about a third of the way through the book though. Or maybe I just got used to it.

Per usual, the linguistic cadence of the time period was masterfully captured by Brooks. An example:

“As the ripe summer turned to autumn, the sunlight cooled to a slantwise gleam, bronzing the beach grass and setting the beetle-bung trees afire. Caleb learned his letters faster than I could credit. Before the singing of the cider, he could read and speak a serviceable kind of English” (50).

The two prominent themes in this novel were a woman’s place in society and racism. I do not know how many intellectually inclined Puritan women there were, but I think Brooks deftly demonstrates the conflict one would experience if she desired learning. At one point, Bethia takes a job at Harvard just so she can listen to lectures through the wall. The image of her kneading dough while her ear is pressed against the buttery hatch, drinking in knowledge from which she is excluded, was a poignant one.

The cultural divide that must have engulfed early Native American scholars was also explored - the sad murmurings of racism and echoes of insensitive cruelties are all too familiar in our own society. These Native Americans were both despised and seen as curiosities. It is hard to imagine two cultures more ill-suited for co-existence than the Puritan and Native American ones.

Brooks is a masterful storyteller and a meticulous wordsmith - she didn't win the Pulitzer Prize for nothing! Her writing is organic, accurate, and abundant with the vivid hues of life ,and I always feel richly rewarded when I finish one of her novels.

Marvelous Orange Chocolate Scones

The Scone. My obsession with baking started with a scone. Seven years ago I was in a Williams-Sonoma in Southern California and I spotted a mini-scone pan. I thought it was cute, so I picked it up. On the cardboard packaging was printed the story of how the scone originated, which, according to this version, got its name from the Stone of Destiny, the site where the Kings of Scotland were crowned. I was reading Sir Walter Scott’s, Waverly at the time, so naturally I needed this scone pan. Naturally. My maxim is that the books I read are much better when accompanied with the appropriate food (and even better if I can be in the right setting or atmosphere that corresponds with the novel -(think reading Wuthering Heights on a stormy, wind-filled night or actually reading Anne of Green Gables on the shores of Prince Edward Island). So, I took my little scone pan home and promptly baked up these crumbling morsels of deliciousness. I have modified the original recipe a bit. I included cinnamon (because I love cinnamon in everything), orange zest, dark chocolate, and more orange juice to help the dough stick together. Make these. The scent of zesty, fragrant oranges and rich, dark chocolate melting together in your oven will fill your entire home and you will be a happier person because of it. Now, if only a Sir Walter Scott novel were as easy to devour as these scones...

Marvelous Orange Chocolate Scones

1 ¾ cup white flour
1/3 cup white sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon cinnamon
zest of one orange
5 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cubed
2 ounces 71% dark bittersweet Valhrona chocolate, chopped
6 tablespoons orange juice

Preheat oven to 400 degrees and grease your baking sheet with butter or spray. Whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, and orange zest. Cut in the cold butter using a fork or pastry blender. Your mixture will be lumpy. Mix in the orange juice to form the dough (use your hands for this - it's more effective). Turn out your dough on a floured surface and pat it into a circle. Proceed to cut the circle into wedges (it’s like cutting a pizza) and transfer to baking pan. Sprinkle each scone with a little sugar. Cook for 15 minutes or until golden brown on top. Immediately eat one while reading a good book.

The Marvels

I listened to my first Brian Selznick novel, The Invention of Hugo Cabret. That’s right, I listened to it. It was so well done I had no clue the novel contained almost 300 pages of illustrations until I happened upon it in Barnes and Noble a few months later. Pictures! Such amazing pictures! I was hooked.

Selznick has long been celebrated for pioneering a new genre of literature – one that includes elements of a storybook, graphic novel, and prose novel. Somehow, Selznick brings elegance and order to the chaos of this wild form and manages a complex interweaving of storylines. It is impressive, to say the least.

As I lugged The Marvels out of Costco last week, the weight in my hands (665 pages, to be exact) and excitement I felt could only be compared to the last time I brought home a newly released J.K. Rowling novel – I anticipated a world of wonder, assured by past experience that what I was about to encounter would leave me breathless.

Sadly, I was still breathing normally by the end of this book.

The Marvels contains two separate, but united stories. The 390 page illustrated section starts in 1766, where the reader is introduced to Billy Marvel, who is aboard an American whaling ship that is caught in a storm and wrecks. As the sole survivor, his story continues as he makes a life for himself in London and becomes the patriarch to a long line of actors in the Royal Theater.

The prose portion begins in 1990. Joseph, a boarding school runaway, makes his way to his eccentric Uncle’s house in London. He seeks sanctuary with this man he has never met, who lives in a house that is as fascinating as it is odd. Here, the two narratives begin to intersect in unexpected ways.

I enjoyed this novel, but it didn’t have the charm of Selznick’s previous works. As always, Selznick’s illustrations were magnificent. The heavy pencil drawings are vivid and intricate. It amazes me how well a story can be told without words. In The Marvels, Selznick’s genius definitely lies in his pictures, not his text though. The text portion started off sharp, but began to drag about halfway through. When the final mystery was revealed, it was satisfactory, but not compelling. Though full of detail, the overall narrative was too heavy, even a bit morose and depressing at times.

Finally, there is a bit of a controversy (one that I was blissfully unaware of before purchasing and reading) surrounding this book. You can easily discover it through a Google search or by reading reviews on Amazon or Goodreads. Or, just by reading the novel yourself. Yes, I have my opinions on this topic. No, I don’t feel like sharing them here. :)

My advice for Selznick readers is to take your time while “reading” the drawings. It’s easy to flip through these quickly because you really want to see what happens. But slow down. Look for the details. They are there and they are important to understanding the entire narrative.

The Marvels didn’t make me want to run out and buy an “I heart Selznick” t-shirt (do they make those?), but it did leave me pondering how the past, real or imagined, can bring beauty and wonder to the present. And that’s worth the pain of hauling a 665 page tome out of Costco.