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It's beautifully written and creates a lovely atmosphere. But this is undermined by the printing of the photographs - why are they not in colour? This gives a miserable austerity-feel to what is actually a life-affirming cookbook/memoir. The pictures give no incentive to make the recipes. Such a shame - this lovely book is really spoiled by this!
This was a disappointment. The recipes are imbedded in the narrative; I found them difficult to follow. If you are interested in her story, you might want to buy this book, but if you are more into the recipes, skip it.
I found Fanny Singer's memoir rather boring and strange as it's basically a book that's all about her enormous love for her mother Alice Waters really a love story addressed to her mother which I found very odd.. There was nothing negative about her mother, nothing about her parents divorce, and very little about Fanny's life just how wonderful her Mom is. My husband and I went to Chez Panisse once, even though it had been open for years at that point , it was enormously to difficult to get a reservation. The food was good, but not extraordinary, yes Waters has been involved in various sustainable food programs, honored by Obama and various others, very into farm fresh and organic food, but she was never trained as a chef, and except for Chez P she never had other restaurant experience. Initially it was a hippie enclave, but she managed to get some very good farmers involved and some excellent chefs, but there are plenty of other very restaurants.It almost made me want to gag with Fanny's extremely strong idealization of her mom, and her overpowering love for her mom, is so much that this book is really is love story to Alice Waters, and rather annoying, and yet not dealing with various aspects of Alice's or Fanny life.
Sadly, this book is written in a very pretentious manner, using a twenty dollar word when a ten cent word is more appropriate. Rather than enjoying a book about an interesting childhood, I kept marveling at how desperate the author seemed to make sure we knew she was intelligent. It became a chore to read rather than an enjoyment.