Dear readers, My family doesn’t have a motto, but if we did, it would be one of two refrains my parents repeated throughout my childhood. The first is the golden rule of food sharers, which averted many a fight between me and my siblings over the years: “I divide; you choose.” The second (and more likely) contender was drilled into us over Friday night challahs, Christmas soufflés and post-Thanksgiving turkey gumbos. It’s even inscribed inside the copy of “The Joy of Cooking” that my parents gave me for my 25th birthday: “In our family, cooking is an expression of love.” I suspect the Harlans are not alone in holding this second precept dear. Food, especially when you have prepared it yourself, is more than mere sustenance. It’s how we provide comfort in the heaviest times, and how we celebrate in the lightest ones. It can be an offering, an apology and an inside joke; someday I’ll tell you about the time I baked heart-shaped revenge scones for a friend. On the page, food can inform character, propel plot and serve as a catalyst for catharsis. It is, however, hard to get right. I am instantly frustrated by sloppy or halfhearted food descriptions in a book, shaking my head like a disappointed parent as I mentally admonish the writer. (I expected better from you!) But when food writing is done well, it — if you’ll excuse the obvious metaphor — brings flavor to the story, providing just the right touch of zing or sweetness when you need it most. —Jennifer “Kitchens of the Great Midwest,” by J. Ryan StradalFiction, 2015
I’ve never met Stradal, but after reading his polyphonic debut novel I am certain that he subscribes to the Harlan family creed. The book hopscotches from the 1970s to the 2010s while following Eva, a Minnesota-born, Iowa-raised girl who grows up surrounded by the kind of ad hoc family that both tragedy and food service jobs tend to foster. An obsession with flavor is in Eva’s DNA. Her mother is a sommelier and her father a chef, a man so committed to both his craft and his unborn child that he dreams up a week-by-week menu of essential culinary wonders that makes his wife’s horrified OB-GYN look at him “the way someone might regard a toddler who’s holding a Buck knife.” (Bless Lars’s heart, his Week 12 plan calls for osso buco, spaghetti squash and pork shoulder.) When Eva does reach solid foods, her palate is astonishingly well tuned, and by her mid-20s she has become one of the country’s most celebrated chefs. Each chapter in the novel is named for an ingredient or dish and peppered with vivid descriptions of food, from typically Midwestern fare (tuna casserole, Kraft caramel bars, lutefisk) to Eva’s ultra gourmand creations, some of which also come with recipes. It’s complex comfort food, with salty and bitter notes that balance the sweet message at its core: Family, like a great meal, can be found where you least expect it. Read if you like: “Eleanor and Park,” by Rainbow Rowell; “The Last Days of Café Leila,” by Donia Bijan; county fairs; hot dish. “Redwall,” by Brian JacquesFiction, 1986
I cannot possibly talk about exquisite, evocative food writing without talking about “Redwall.” When I mentioned this novel recently to some Book Review colleagues — specifically, its eloquent and mouthwatering descriptions of food — I was met with some questions. “Aren’t those books about mice? And aren’t they for kids?” To which I say: Yes, and? “Redwall” is a fantasy series for young readers, set in the mythical Mossflower Woods, that follows the ever-raging but surprisingly cozy struggle between the forces of good (mice, hedgehogs, badgers and other brave little mammals, many of whom reside in the abbey that gives the series its name) and the forces of evil (foxes, weasels, rats). The writing throughout is enchanting — Jacques was a master of world-building and a deft hand at chortle-worthy dialogue — but never more so than when describing the meals by which the characters fortify themselves before a battle or celebrate a victory. I first read the books in elementary school and to this day I still dream about whortleberry pies, toasted damson scones and cold cups of fizzy plum cordial. The series stretches across 22 novels (and one official cookbook). If you haven’t yet set foot in their dew-laden pages, you are in for a treat; and if you have, I’m thrilled to report they hold up winningly upon a reread. Like the brave if clumsy young mouse Matthias, I fell head over heels — or should I say, “cowl over tail” — all over again. Read if you like: Miyazaki films; “The Very Secret Society of Irregular Witches,” by Sangu Mandanna; “Not for the Faint of Heart,” by Lex Croucher; Dungeons and Dragons (the game or the underrated 2023 movie). We hope you’ve enjoyed this newsletter, which is made possible through subscriber support. Subscribe to The New York Times. Friendly reminder: Check your local library for books! Many libraries allow you to reserve copies online. Like this email? Sign-up here or forward it to your friends. Have a suggestion or two on how we can improve it? Let us know at books@nytimes.com. Plunge further into books at The New York Times or our reading recommendations. Want to see more of our expert reporting in your Google search results?
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