Slacks for Ella Funt

I’ve been reading a fair amount of food writing lately, primarily online. Sort of armchair cooking, I guess, since I haven’t been cooking anything very involved these days. I enjoy reading about people making extremely complicated dishes that I would never try at home. Cooking her way through the entirety of the Julia Child cookbook, Julie Powell definitely attempts a lot of dishes that I would never try. The cooking descriptions are fun and some of the food, the parts that don’t involve liver, marrow, gelee, or anything else icky, sounds pretty good.

But the book isn’t just a book of food writing, it’s a memoir. And I had no interest in hearing about her medical issues, her friends’ love lives, her sex life with her husband, etc., etc. She seems like a complete drama queen, someone whose problems are always sooo much worse than everyone elses. I was pretty tired of hearing about it all by the end of the book.