I was crazy busy for most of last week and then I got my hands on this book and fell into a trance-like state of complete reading happiness such as I haven't experienced in ages.
I haven't forgiven Gabrielle Hamilton for her smart but mean little review of Dorie Greenspan's big and generous Around My French Table last fall. Her review was a great read, but there were a few too many gratuitous barbs. But then Hamilton isn't nice. She doesn't pretend to be nice. You don't read her new memoir Blood, Bones & Butter and think, golly, I'd like to meet that nice Gabrielle Hamilton and be her best friend because she's just such a warm and lovely person, especially when she's having one of those low blood sugar tantrums/breaking furniture/telling employees they "f****** s***/ stealing/snorting coke/turning a cold shoulder on her septuagenarian mother/criticizing her husband's Italian family/et cetera.
You think, I will read anything -- anything -- this woman writes and I hope she writes something else very soon.
A+, as I would have said in a previous life.