Firstly: Many thanks to my wonderful roommate Ameni for lending me this book. Please do not take anything that follows as a lack of gratitude for your recommendation or a slam on your taste. This is definitely a well-written book, and I highly respect your taste in horror. Also, regardless of what follows, please do not feel bad. I assure you my current state of creepin' heebeejeebees will pass, and I will be right as rain tomorrow. :-)
That said, I want to start this review with a caveat: this will not be my most well-written review ever. I've just put the book down. While I could not bring myself to take a break from reading it, I needed copious amounts of wine to see myself through to the ending. That is because Sara Gran's Come Closer gives a fictional (yet hella convincing) first person account of the one thing guaranteed to scare me out of my brainpan: demon possession.
Hey, don't laugh! As I've mentioned elsewhere, ghosts are essentially harmless. Zombies are slow (unless they're RAGE infected, but I figure you'd get used to having to fight even those suckers off after a while), vampires can be dispatched of with garlic and pointy wood. Demon possession is another matter. It starts off subtley enough, its symptoms innocuous or vague enough to be explained away by a plethora of alternative causes. Once any connections are made to possession, the victim is pretty much screwed. Much like those obscure, almost-impossible-to-diagnose-yet-gruesomely-deadly diseases that are the reason I don't read science magazines anymore.
And it's not that you've been eaten or beaten or gnawed on or had "boo" whispered in your ear. Like the weeping angels in the Dr. Who episode "Blink," human-possessing demons rob you of your life and yourself without technically killing you. Once past the point of "aaaaaand now you're fucked," the victim is forced to share his/her body with an evil entity, watch all the hope and happiness of his/her old life slip irrevocably away, and accept the consequences of unspeakable actions commited by the entity that's decided to stake its claim on him/her.
Not that I actually, you know, believe in any of that stuff. Of course not. Heh-heh. How silly that would be...So what if I'm visiting a new church on Sunday? An agnostic can go to church if she wants to, right???
...right?
Okay, so needless to say, this book scared the crap out of me. So much so that I skipped the usual 24 hour period I usually give myself to mull a book over before writing about it. I want any and all thoughts I'm having about this book out of my head now, so I don't have to think about it ever again. You hear that, scary thoughts??? You're not welcome 'round these parts! Git! Scram! Shoo! You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here!
Sorry. Back to the book. I found the first-person aspect refreshing, and deeply moving. I face->palmed every time she rationalized or laughed off an odd occurance that clearly spelled D-E-M-O-N to the reader. At the same time, Gran makes these occurances banal and seemingly innocuous to make the reader question all the times they've acted out of character, shrugged off an unexplained noise in their home, spotted things out of the corner of their eye that seemed to vanish as soon as they were noticed.
Gran ratchets up the gut-wrenching factor of her story by adeptly juxtaposing the narrator's genuinely sweet nature, her good intentions and love for her husband, with the awful actions she commits under the demon's influence. As the story escalates, the narrator's sense of helplessness, that her body and soul are no longer her own, that perhaps nothing can help her, evokes a heartwrenching pathos to accompany the fear. As readers, we feel her life slip away from her with each chapter. Near the end, she lists many of the hopes and dreams she once carried that now seem irretrievably lost.
There's probably much more I should say, and what I have said could probably have stood to be much clearer and more coherent. But as I mentioned before, I'm in coping mode. I've had wine, and all I want is to get these thoughts out and to not have to revisit them anytime soon. This is why I like my horror campy. If you like to be genuinely disturbed, saddened, and haunted by your horror, this book should be right up your alley. For my part, Come Closer tops the list of Best Books I Never Ever Want To Read Again. (Really, Ameni--It was a really impressive book and I appreciate you lending it to me!) Never ever again.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Cannonball Read Book 7: Looking for Alaska
First, I want to extend my thanks to my work buddy Anna for A) recommending this book and B) lending me her copy. I tend not to read young adult fiction because honestly, it's been a while since I've been a member of the target audience. Even when I was, I was a bit of an oddnik who spent her time with fellow oddniks, so things designed to appeal to the masses in my age group generally did not appeal to me. It wasn't any kind of judgement against the genre or the people who dug it, I just didn't feel like I could really relate to the stories being sold. When Anna lent me John Green's Looking for Alaska, I wasn't entirely convinced that the book would speak to me on the same level it spoke to a friend several years my junior. I'm still not sure it did. I can say that I did enjoy it immensely, and became more involved and inspired by the story than I expected to.
Perhaps this is because the narrator is not a typical American teen. He is exceptionally bright, a little eccentric, and struggles with social awkwardness. Dissatisfied with being the token friendless nerd at his public high school, he requests to be sent to a boarding school, so he may seek out his "Great Perhaps." Once there, it is not long before he falls in with a tightly knit circle of exceptionally bright, mildly eccentric teens like himself.
The first half of the book sets up these characters and their relationships in a romanticized, almost sentimental light, but the worldliness and humor of the teens prevents it from becoming cloying. I was relieved that the author didn't talk down to an audience younger than himself, that he expected his readers to be familiar with his obscure literary/historical/philosophical references (or at least to look them up), and that he treated smoking, swearing, drinking, and teen sex with a respectful dose of non-judgemental realism.
Around the halfway mark, the story takes a sharp, unexpected turn as the students experience a heartbreaking tragedy. The book about an exceptional group of young friends becomes a tale that examines grief and loss with an emotional honesty and rawness that would give Six Feet Under a run for its money. As erudite as these kids are, they suddenly realize how green they are emotionally, and they struggle for a frame of reference to help them cope with a wholy unfamiliar form of pain.
In the course of their dealing with this tragedy, the narrator takes wisdom from his friends and from what he has learned through books and his teachers. He is far from an apple shiner (school pranks are more glorified in this book than the academic structure itself), and he is equipped with a healthy sense of irreverence. However, his intellectual curiosity, his philosophical leanings, and his ability to apply new knowledge to his day to day life help guide him into an emotional and spiritual maturity that would put scholars and poets twice his age to shame. Like many characters in the film Wings of Desire, he bears a realistic worldliness infused with the ability to ask the kind of questions that mostly children and angels ask, but forget about as they grow up and/or become assimilated into their surrounding culture. The narrator balances on a cusp of earthly concerns and desires and otherworldly ideas. This balance makes the book not just moving, but inspiring as well, for readers of any age.
Perhaps this is because the narrator is not a typical American teen. He is exceptionally bright, a little eccentric, and struggles with social awkwardness. Dissatisfied with being the token friendless nerd at his public high school, he requests to be sent to a boarding school, so he may seek out his "Great Perhaps." Once there, it is not long before he falls in with a tightly knit circle of exceptionally bright, mildly eccentric teens like himself.
The first half of the book sets up these characters and their relationships in a romanticized, almost sentimental light, but the worldliness and humor of the teens prevents it from becoming cloying. I was relieved that the author didn't talk down to an audience younger than himself, that he expected his readers to be familiar with his obscure literary/historical/philosophical references (or at least to look them up), and that he treated smoking, swearing, drinking, and teen sex with a respectful dose of non-judgemental realism.
Around the halfway mark, the story takes a sharp, unexpected turn as the students experience a heartbreaking tragedy. The book about an exceptional group of young friends becomes a tale that examines grief and loss with an emotional honesty and rawness that would give Six Feet Under a run for its money. As erudite as these kids are, they suddenly realize how green they are emotionally, and they struggle for a frame of reference to help them cope with a wholy unfamiliar form of pain.
In the course of their dealing with this tragedy, the narrator takes wisdom from his friends and from what he has learned through books and his teachers. He is far from an apple shiner (school pranks are more glorified in this book than the academic structure itself), and he is equipped with a healthy sense of irreverence. However, his intellectual curiosity, his philosophical leanings, and his ability to apply new knowledge to his day to day life help guide him into an emotional and spiritual maturity that would put scholars and poets twice his age to shame. Like many characters in the film Wings of Desire, he bears a realistic worldliness infused with the ability to ask the kind of questions that mostly children and angels ask, but forget about as they grow up and/or become assimilated into their surrounding culture. The narrator balances on a cusp of earthly concerns and desires and otherworldly ideas. This balance makes the book not just moving, but inspiring as well, for readers of any age.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Cannonball Read Book 6: Jane Eyre
If nothing else, the Cannonball Read is teaching me that the more I care about a book, the harder it is for me to write about it. In the light of recent personal events, I was having a hard time delving into Jane Eyre's love story without my own romantic baggage weighing my interpretation down. At the very least, I can still say that I bristle whenever someone compares the Twilight series to Charlotte Bronte's best known novel. However, I didn't want to spend the review going on and on about how one version of ideal love is better than another, mainly because I don't think Meyers' series deserves so much of my time and energy. There is one difference I can mark without hesitation, and something I don't think is discussed enough when Jane Eyre is brought up. Unlike Twilight or most other romantic novels, Jane Eyre is much more than the author's romantic fantasy transcribed onto paper. In fact, the title's subheading reads, "An Autobiography," not "A Love Story." While it's tempting to think mainly of the novel's love story (admittedly, it is pretty swoon-worthy), to focus only on that is to give short shrift to a complex and broad-scoped tale. In many ways, Jane Eyre is Bronte's autobiography. I wouldn't call it strictly factual, but the heroine's story touches on the variety of struggles, concerns, pet peeves, and wishes of an educated, imaginative, single woman without money in 19th Century England.
In the first few chapters, we focus on Jane's childhood as an orphan living first as a dependent with unsympathetic relatives, then at a religiously affiliated boarding school. Through Jane's relatives, the Reed family, Bronte makes her first attacks on an unfair social structure of her time, illustrating through her characters that money and a good family line do not necessarily make better individuals. This may seem pretty elementary to many 21st century readers, but linking money and status with personal worth was a surprisingly common mindset in Bronte's time (even more so than today). When Jane enters Lowood School, run by the cruel and hypocritical Brocklehurst, Bronte takes the opportunity to condemn those whose faith inspires false piety and heartlessness (Pat Robertson would do well to read those chapters). On the other side of the coin, Jane learns through a close friend that though some Christians behave monstrously in the name of their faith, it is not worth condemning the faith itself altogether. A belief in a benevolent, loving, supreme being can inspire serenity, compassion, forgiveness, and courage. This is the faith that Jane adopts. Combined with an almost pantheistic belief in Nature, whom she deems a spiritual "Mother," it guides her principles and actions throughout the story.
The narrative flashes forward several years, leading Jane to Mr. Rochester and their well-known love story. While it is undeniably moving, passionate, and charming (they really do make a wonderful couple), there are elements to their initial courtship that make even the heroine uneasy. He is secretive, domineering, possessive, and takes a disconcerting pride in being Jane's only loved one in the world. Loving him as intensely as she does, Jane worries that he is becoming an idol to her, and that she may fall under a sort of passionate bewitchment where her will is no longer quite her own. When circumstances make it clear to Jane that she can not stay true to both Rochester and herself, she chooses herself. (You hear that, Ms. Meyers?) The choice to leave him is excruciating, but she goes. The heartbreak, combined with the physical hardships she encounters, quite literally almost kills her.
It is only much later, when Jane has developed a life, a will, and loved ones of her own, that she is ready to love romantically again. When she does marry, it is as an "independent" woman with money to care for herself, and a position that frees her from personal obligation to others. She has discovered and bonded with distant relatives, creating a loving family life of her own, plus an intimate circle of friends. (Seriously Ms. Meyers, I hope you're taking notes.) When she finds love again, she is thus able to approach her partner on a more equal footing with him. In fact, circumstances make her husband dependent on her for a little while. This brief period evens the scales between them, making them lifelong equals and peers. As such, they become best friends "at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company." This bolsters their romantic relationship, making it richer and more fulfilling for both partners as the marriage progresses.
This last point may seem like common sense to many readers today. However, in the 19th century, taking such a stance on romantic love was quite unusual. Transcending the dichotomy of love and autonomy was a step very much ahead of the author's time. Throughout the book, Bronte also manages to reconcile reason with passion, Christianity with Paganism, and scathing social critique with a forgiving idealism. Though it is often written off as a girly, romantic novel, it is actually a highly fictionalized autobiography, written by an insightful, though lonely, female Transcendentalist. Through the heroine's life (especially through her romantic involvements) Bronte proposed ideas and confessed truths about individuality in regards to womanhood that had previously been ignored or unconsidered by her culture. With the widespread popularity of romances like Twilight and reality shows where individuals compete with one another for attention and affection, I'm concerned that such ideas are slipping out of our cultural mindset. I'm almost tempted to keep a stash of copies of Jane Eyre at the ready. Anytime a girl or young woman intimates that the Twilight romance is the ideal love story, or gives signs of wrapping up her self-worth in how much (particularly male) attention she gets, or lets her life revolve entirely around an individual or cultural mindset without taking the time to make up her mind for herself first, I'd really, really like to give them a copy of Bronte's novel.
In the first few chapters, we focus on Jane's childhood as an orphan living first as a dependent with unsympathetic relatives, then at a religiously affiliated boarding school. Through Jane's relatives, the Reed family, Bronte makes her first attacks on an unfair social structure of her time, illustrating through her characters that money and a good family line do not necessarily make better individuals. This may seem pretty elementary to many 21st century readers, but linking money and status with personal worth was a surprisingly common mindset in Bronte's time (even more so than today). When Jane enters Lowood School, run by the cruel and hypocritical Brocklehurst, Bronte takes the opportunity to condemn those whose faith inspires false piety and heartlessness (Pat Robertson would do well to read those chapters). On the other side of the coin, Jane learns through a close friend that though some Christians behave monstrously in the name of their faith, it is not worth condemning the faith itself altogether. A belief in a benevolent, loving, supreme being can inspire serenity, compassion, forgiveness, and courage. This is the faith that Jane adopts. Combined with an almost pantheistic belief in Nature, whom she deems a spiritual "Mother," it guides her principles and actions throughout the story.
The narrative flashes forward several years, leading Jane to Mr. Rochester and their well-known love story. While it is undeniably moving, passionate, and charming (they really do make a wonderful couple), there are elements to their initial courtship that make even the heroine uneasy. He is secretive, domineering, possessive, and takes a disconcerting pride in being Jane's only loved one in the world. Loving him as intensely as she does, Jane worries that he is becoming an idol to her, and that she may fall under a sort of passionate bewitchment where her will is no longer quite her own. When circumstances make it clear to Jane that she can not stay true to both Rochester and herself, she chooses herself. (You hear that, Ms. Meyers?) The choice to leave him is excruciating, but she goes. The heartbreak, combined with the physical hardships she encounters, quite literally almost kills her.
It is only much later, when Jane has developed a life, a will, and loved ones of her own, that she is ready to love romantically again. When she does marry, it is as an "independent" woman with money to care for herself, and a position that frees her from personal obligation to others. She has discovered and bonded with distant relatives, creating a loving family life of her own, plus an intimate circle of friends. (Seriously Ms. Meyers, I hope you're taking notes.) When she finds love again, she is thus able to approach her partner on a more equal footing with him. In fact, circumstances make her husband dependent on her for a little while. This brief period evens the scales between them, making them lifelong equals and peers. As such, they become best friends "at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company." This bolsters their romantic relationship, making it richer and more fulfilling for both partners as the marriage progresses.
This last point may seem like common sense to many readers today. However, in the 19th century, taking such a stance on romantic love was quite unusual. Transcending the dichotomy of love and autonomy was a step very much ahead of the author's time. Throughout the book, Bronte also manages to reconcile reason with passion, Christianity with Paganism, and scathing social critique with a forgiving idealism. Though it is often written off as a girly, romantic novel, it is actually a highly fictionalized autobiography, written by an insightful, though lonely, female Transcendentalist. Through the heroine's life (especially through her romantic involvements) Bronte proposed ideas and confessed truths about individuality in regards to womanhood that had previously been ignored or unconsidered by her culture. With the widespread popularity of romances like Twilight and reality shows where individuals compete with one another for attention and affection, I'm concerned that such ideas are slipping out of our cultural mindset. I'm almost tempted to keep a stash of copies of Jane Eyre at the ready. Anytime a girl or young woman intimates that the Twilight romance is the ideal love story, or gives signs of wrapping up her self-worth in how much (particularly male) attention she gets, or lets her life revolve entirely around an individual or cultural mindset without taking the time to make up her mind for herself first, I'd really, really like to give them a copy of Bronte's novel.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Unexpected Culinary Success Files: Chicken Andouille With Lentils and Tomatoes
Because I'm genuinely thrilled and pleased when a kitchen experiment turns out well:
Chicken Andouille and Lentils with Tomatoes
You will need:
2 tbs olive oil
2 bratwurst-sized links Chicken Andouille sausage, cut into 1/4" slices*
1 shallot, chopped
7 garlic cloves, chopped
1 large can diced tomatoes
2 tightly packed cups of cooked brown or black lentils
Crumbled goat cheese (optional)
*If you can't find Chicken Andouille, the regular kind should be fine. I think keilbasa would work too, but then I'd recommend adding a little crushed red pepper to compensate for the missing bite.
In a soup pot over medium heat, sautee the shallot, garlic, and sliced sausage in olive oil. When the shallots and garlic are tender, but not yet brown, stir in the diced tomatoes. Next, stir in the lentils. Reduce heat to low, cover, and simmer for about 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Serve over rice or on its own in a bowl. If you like, garnish with crumbled goat cheese. Enjoy!
Chicken Andouille and Lentils with Tomatoes
You will need:
2 tbs olive oil
2 bratwurst-sized links Chicken Andouille sausage, cut into 1/4" slices*
1 shallot, chopped
7 garlic cloves, chopped
1 large can diced tomatoes
2 tightly packed cups of cooked brown or black lentils
Crumbled goat cheese (optional)
*If you can't find Chicken Andouille, the regular kind should be fine. I think keilbasa would work too, but then I'd recommend adding a little crushed red pepper to compensate for the missing bite.
In a soup pot over medium heat, sautee the shallot, garlic, and sliced sausage in olive oil. When the shallots and garlic are tender, but not yet brown, stir in the diced tomatoes. Next, stir in the lentils. Reduce heat to low, cover, and simmer for about 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Serve over rice or on its own in a bowl. If you like, garnish with crumbled goat cheese. Enjoy!
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Cannonball Read Book 5: Pride and Prejudice and Zombies
Okay, this one is a bit tricky for me. I really wanted to love this one. Aside from the fact that the author is a friend of a friend (Ooooooh...), the book was basically a combination of two of my favorite things. It says so right in the title. Jane Austen + Zombies = Awesome. Right?
I think the first problem may have been that I psyched myself out. I mean it had been praised to the moon and back by people who share my taste. Given the concept, I was absolutely giddy with anticipation until I could get my hands on a copy. In that time, it's very possible that I worked out a certain set of preconceived notions regarding what the book would offer.
As many people have said before me though, the concept doesn't have that much horsepower. It's brilliant and funny, no doubt. In order for it to work, however, it must be carried with consistency throughout the story. As a result, the book's humor plays out like a long series of variations on the same musical theme. It may be interesting on a certain detached level, but it's not particularly moving. There were certain elements I enjoyed, such as the woman who marries for security over love becoming a zombie. Sure, it's a bit obvious, but it stays true to one of the original author's central themes. I'm sure even Ms. Austen would have been pleased.
Now that I think about it, my main problem with the book is probably my own damn fault. I'm not a purist to the extent that I can't see one of my favorite authors tinkered with, but it is important to me that the book stay true to the themes that were key elements in the author's work. Something I particularly love about Austen's books is the empathy you feel for characters trying to gracefully maneuver their way through a broken sociocultural system without sacrificing their integrity or individuality. When Zombies and Shao Lin training are added to the mix, this theme gets tossed out the window.
The Bennet sisters, Elizabeth in particular, are not just warriors, they're almost sadistically blood thirsty. Seriously, it's enough to make Beatrix Kiddo look like Little Bo Peep by comparison. Rest assured I do "get" the the joke, and the concept of black comedy as a whole. There was nothing offensive in the book's violence as far as I was concerned, but I just didn't find it all that satisfying. I relish seeing Austen's heroines rely on subtlety, resourcefulness and wit to resolve their conflicts. Elizabeth ripping out a still-beating heart and taking a bite just seems, well...dull by comparison.
Maybe it's because our culture is so chock full of violence and yet deficient in wit. The thing is, while I can enjoy a well choreographed fight scene (I really did enjoy the Kill Bill movies), and swords and guns and 'splosions and such, their use in entertainment is undeniably commonplace. Seeing young people deal with universally recognizable idiots, misogynists, and hypocrites with admirable intelligence and grace...not so much. I've seen it happen, but not as many times as I've seen an impressive martial arts showdown.
So when Austen's subtlety and innuendo was tossed aside in favor of gun blasts and beheadings, it just felt watered down to me. I wasn't offended or appalled, just...disappointed. I undersand the author has a Lincoln-related story in the works. That may appeal to me more, because I think more liberties can be taken with an iconic President of the United States than a specific piece of literature. Or maybe that's just me being a book whore. My God. Maybe I have turned into my freshman literature professor.
I think the first problem may have been that I psyched myself out. I mean it had been praised to the moon and back by people who share my taste. Given the concept, I was absolutely giddy with anticipation until I could get my hands on a copy. In that time, it's very possible that I worked out a certain set of preconceived notions regarding what the book would offer.
As many people have said before me though, the concept doesn't have that much horsepower. It's brilliant and funny, no doubt. In order for it to work, however, it must be carried with consistency throughout the story. As a result, the book's humor plays out like a long series of variations on the same musical theme. It may be interesting on a certain detached level, but it's not particularly moving. There were certain elements I enjoyed, such as the woman who marries for security over love becoming a zombie. Sure, it's a bit obvious, but it stays true to one of the original author's central themes. I'm sure even Ms. Austen would have been pleased.
Now that I think about it, my main problem with the book is probably my own damn fault. I'm not a purist to the extent that I can't see one of my favorite authors tinkered with, but it is important to me that the book stay true to the themes that were key elements in the author's work. Something I particularly love about Austen's books is the empathy you feel for characters trying to gracefully maneuver their way through a broken sociocultural system without sacrificing their integrity or individuality. When Zombies and Shao Lin training are added to the mix, this theme gets tossed out the window.
The Bennet sisters, Elizabeth in particular, are not just warriors, they're almost sadistically blood thirsty. Seriously, it's enough to make Beatrix Kiddo look like Little Bo Peep by comparison. Rest assured I do "get" the the joke, and the concept of black comedy as a whole. There was nothing offensive in the book's violence as far as I was concerned, but I just didn't find it all that satisfying. I relish seeing Austen's heroines rely on subtlety, resourcefulness and wit to resolve their conflicts. Elizabeth ripping out a still-beating heart and taking a bite just seems, well...dull by comparison.
Maybe it's because our culture is so chock full of violence and yet deficient in wit. The thing is, while I can enjoy a well choreographed fight scene (I really did enjoy the Kill Bill movies), and swords and guns and 'splosions and such, their use in entertainment is undeniably commonplace. Seeing young people deal with universally recognizable idiots, misogynists, and hypocrites with admirable intelligence and grace...not so much. I've seen it happen, but not as many times as I've seen an impressive martial arts showdown.
So when Austen's subtlety and innuendo was tossed aside in favor of gun blasts and beheadings, it just felt watered down to me. I wasn't offended or appalled, just...disappointed. I undersand the author has a Lincoln-related story in the works. That may appeal to me more, because I think more liberties can be taken with an iconic President of the United States than a specific piece of literature. Or maybe that's just me being a book whore. My God. Maybe I have turned into my freshman literature professor.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Successful Kitchen Experiments: Cranberry Compote
Holy crap, folks! My experimental cranberry compote turned out great! Sorry for lack of specific measurements...I'm more of a throw-stuff-in-until-it-works kind of cook. :-)
You will need:
1 bag of cranberries
1 cup (loosely packed) of dark brown sugar
powdered cinnamon
powdered cloves
1 whole orange
1 carton of orange juice
1 large apple, grated with its skin still on
-Empty bag of cranberries into a saucepan.
-Sprinkle dark brown sugar over them
-Dust heavily with powdered cinnamon
-Dust moderately with powdered cloves
-Add about a teaspoon of zest from the orange's peel (eat orange later for vitamin C)
-Add a splash of cognac or port, depending on whichever you happen to have on hand
-Pour in orange juice until berries start to float (think milk:cereal ratio) and stir everything up
-Cook over medium heat
-When the OJ bubbles and the cranberries start to pop, add grated apple
-Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer, stirring frequently
-When stirring, make sure you scrape the edges of the pan, as wayward apple bits will try to stick to it.
-Compote is done when the sauce soaking the berries takes on the consistency of runny apple butter.
-Especially good on white meat turkey and/or biscuits!
You will need:
1 bag of cranberries
1 cup (loosely packed) of dark brown sugar
powdered cinnamon
powdered cloves
1 whole orange
1 carton of orange juice
1 large apple, grated with its skin still on
-Empty bag of cranberries into a saucepan.
-Sprinkle dark brown sugar over them
-Dust heavily with powdered cinnamon
-Dust moderately with powdered cloves
-Add about a teaspoon of zest from the orange's peel (eat orange later for vitamin C)
-Add a splash of cognac or port, depending on whichever you happen to have on hand
-Pour in orange juice until berries start to float (think milk:cereal ratio) and stir everything up
-Cook over medium heat
-When the OJ bubbles and the cranberries start to pop, add grated apple
-Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer, stirring frequently
-When stirring, make sure you scrape the edges of the pan, as wayward apple bits will try to stick to it.
-Compote is done when the sauce soaking the berries takes on the consistency of runny apple butter.
-Especially good on white meat turkey and/or biscuits!
Cannonball Read Book 4: The Mist, by Stephen King
I know many people who love and adore Stephen King. I've tried twice now to see why, and twice I've come away thinking, "Well, he's all right..." The first time was Firestarter. Upon hearing this, many King fans insist that I simply started with the wrong book. I'm wondering if they would say the same for The Mist. It wasn't a bad book--- it was a quick, engaging read and spooky enough to make me put it down a couple of hours before bedtime. What I think spoiled it for me was having seen Darabont's film adaptation. It's usually the other way around, but this time--for me, anyway-- the book pailed in comparison to the movie.
I think one of the main reasons for this is the book's first person narrative. The story is told only through David Dreyton's point of view. The character is sympathetic enough, a touch grumpy and at times even crass, but ultimately caring, brave, and forgiving. The problem with getting only his point of view is that many characters who were well fleshed out in the film get short shrift. From seeing them through the eyes of another character, we only see and hear of them as he does, and any insight into their motives, hopes, and fears is limited to his speculation. This works for many stories, but in a novel about a diverse group of people sharing the same terrifying situation, each handling it in their own way, the choice of singular first person narrative feels like a great, big wasted opportunity.
There is also the repeated mention of the narrator's fear, dread, rage, etc. If done more sparingly, this device would have been much more effective. But the repeated mention of Dreyton's intuitive dread at the beginning, his terror at the crux, along with his hopelessness and rage, seems annoyingly heavy-handed. Like a manipulative film score, King seems to be trying too hard to tell us what to feel. It's as if he doesn't trust his own material to achieve the desired effect in his readers.
It's a shame too, because even with these problems The Mist is still frightening and engaging. I may have problems with some of his choices, but it's clear from this book that King knows how to tap into the darkest regions of his readers' collective unconscious. The vulnerability that comes with being trapped, knowing nothing of the threat one faces, watching helplessly as your would-be allies lose their senses and turn on you are all terrifying scenarios. For my part I've seen them rarely in recent horror, so to have those fears drawn up in my imagination felt like the summoning of a subconscious nightmare, dreamed before but long forgotten. If King's other work achieves this, I'd be more than happy to give him another chance. Given the choice however, I'd still be more likely to pop Darabont's adaptation of The Mist into my DVD player.
I think one of the main reasons for this is the book's first person narrative. The story is told only through David Dreyton's point of view. The character is sympathetic enough, a touch grumpy and at times even crass, but ultimately caring, brave, and forgiving. The problem with getting only his point of view is that many characters who were well fleshed out in the film get short shrift. From seeing them through the eyes of another character, we only see and hear of them as he does, and any insight into their motives, hopes, and fears is limited to his speculation. This works for many stories, but in a novel about a diverse group of people sharing the same terrifying situation, each handling it in their own way, the choice of singular first person narrative feels like a great, big wasted opportunity.
There is also the repeated mention of the narrator's fear, dread, rage, etc. If done more sparingly, this device would have been much more effective. But the repeated mention of Dreyton's intuitive dread at the beginning, his terror at the crux, along with his hopelessness and rage, seems annoyingly heavy-handed. Like a manipulative film score, King seems to be trying too hard to tell us what to feel. It's as if he doesn't trust his own material to achieve the desired effect in his readers.
It's a shame too, because even with these problems The Mist is still frightening and engaging. I may have problems with some of his choices, but it's clear from this book that King knows how to tap into the darkest regions of his readers' collective unconscious. The vulnerability that comes with being trapped, knowing nothing of the threat one faces, watching helplessly as your would-be allies lose their senses and turn on you are all terrifying scenarios. For my part I've seen them rarely in recent horror, so to have those fears drawn up in my imagination felt like the summoning of a subconscious nightmare, dreamed before but long forgotten. If King's other work achieves this, I'd be more than happy to give him another chance. Given the choice however, I'd still be more likely to pop Darabont's adaptation of The Mist into my DVD player.
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