And for my next trick...

Okay, folks, here's what's coming as soon as I get my life together:

* Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen
Kindly lent by my little sister, and so amazing I read it in a day.

* Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
Picked up at Wal-Mart yesterday, and so great I find myself nodding along as I read like she's talking to me. I'm way excited about this one.

* Mercy by Jodi Picoult
Mom's choice at Wal-Mart, but it looks pretty good. Apparently there's some sort of trial in this one as well? Not sure.

* Edith Hamilton's Mythology, if I can find some way to do a review on it. It seems like I am going to need a different sort of format. Maybe not a review so much as a pondering, or a list of all the non-literary books English majors need to have in their libraries.

* Any suggestions, which will be put into action as soon as I get a paycheck and can get on Amazon. Don't hold your breath, as my debit card just expired and I'm supposed to be saving money for Ireland. Heh.

EDIT: Not so much on the Mercy, folks. I tried, but around the time the main character slipped into a Scottish burr--mind you, the man has barely been to Scotland--I stopped. Maybe I'll try again later, but don't expect a stunning review.

The Coffee Trader by David Liss

“This coffee isn’t like wine or beer, which we drink to make merry or because it quenches thirst or even because it is delightful. This will only make you thirstier, it will never make you merry, and the taste, let us be honest, may be curious but never pleasing. Coffee is something…something far more important.”

This book is every caffeine addict’s wet dream. Sorry for that graphic image, but 386 pages of a high-stakes fictionalized historical account of how coffee came to Europe cannot be described any other way.

Every single character drinks, as well as sleeps and breathes, coffee. Coffee is described as this miraculous, almost magical, drink that makes failed men successful, virtuous men backstabbing, and submissive women full of spunk. The book has this kind of nervous, jumpy, impatient feel that makes me wonder how much coffee David Liss was drinking at the time – but the novel is all the better for it.

Unfortunately, the main character’s scheme to bring coffee to Amsterdam involves a financially risky and rather complicated set of plans to manipulate The Exchange, 17^th century Amsterdam’s version of the stock market. This means a great deal of financial talk, a lot of complicated language revolving around “puts” and other things that totally went straight over my head – all three times I read it, so it’s not like I just read too quickly.

But if you’ve got the mindset for finance, the novel would probably be even better. Even if you don’t like finance at all, there are still plenty of interesting characters and historical idiosyncrasies to keep you amused. There’s a woman who grows up Catholic and discovers she’s a secret Jew, a Jewish man who lived through the Inquisition, a widow and her manservant who are both more and less than what they seem, and a very strange, possibly mad, Dutchman who inexplicably speaks Portuguese. And all of the above are connected by coffee.

David Liss has also written two other books concerning historical intrigue: A Conspiracy of Paper and A Spectacle of Corruption. Maybe if you have no interest in the stock market, even historically, these would be a better choice?

Plain and Simple

“There’s no way for me to make you understand what it means to be Plain, because most people can’t see past the buggies and the funny clothes to the beliefs that really identify the Amish. But a murder charge—well, it’s an English thing.”

My mother reads a lot of books about Amish people, and I don’t know why. They all seem to involve a young man and a young woman who fall in love, but one is an Englischer and one is Plain so their romance is impossible. Sometimes the woman has been shunned from the Order and falls in love with an English man, only to realize that she’s really Plain at heart. Usually someone comes to the Lord.

So when my mother plunked Plain Truth down on my dresser (on top of the baked good mysteries), I teased her mercilessly. It wasn’t until I read that Jodi Picoult has an A.B. in Creative Writing from Princeton and a master’s from Harvard that I started to gain some respect for her.

If everyone who comes out of Princeton can write like this, I think we should round up all those romance novelists and make them take a few courses. Picoult takes the reader into the center of Amish culture and exposes the humanity behind all the rules and restrictions. The woman could have been a journalist, with all the research that must have gone into this book, and the realism with which she paints everyday life in a Plain community. That being said, I’m glad she decided to be a novelist.

The plot is good. I am used to being able to guess what the outcome of any given book is going to be, with the exception of Gentlemen and Players by Joanne Harris and a few select others. And while there were hints through Plain Truth about the real story behind the dead baby in the barn, I have to say, I was stunned when I discovered what happened. Picoult says in the readers guide that she found it really challenging not to have the end be a Scooby-Doo moment – to place tiny clues throughout the narrative so the conclusion made sense. I don’t think she should have worried, because she did it absolutely perfectly.

The characters aren’t bad, either. I liked Ellie, the big-city lawyer, and her psychiatrist friend/lover, Dr. Cooper (he of the coffee and peppermint gum, who goes by the inane nickname of Coop throughout the entire novel). What I loved about this pairing was that Picoult was keenly aware of whenever she was on the edge of a too-soppy moment.

In one courtroom scene where Ellie has Coop on the stand and they begin talking about their relationship through the guise of the case, in a way that is perhaps a little overdrawn, the judge wryly asks Ellie to please change the channel from As the World Turns back to The People’s Court. It’s that kind of self-awareness that keeps Picoult from being just another feel-good women’s fiction writer.

I liked the sympathy Picoult has for her other characters, too, including the Plain boyfriend of the woman who had the baby in the barn, who easily could have been just a dolt or a kind of Amish jock – handsome, but nothing in his head. Picoult gives him feelings and ambitions and an amazing sense of humanity, especially once he’s on the stand in the courtroom.

This is most definitely the best book my mother has made me read so far. While I’m not sure if I’d read it over again (though I probably would), I am definitely going to be on the lookout for more of Jodi Picoult’s books – and I’ll be less hesitant next time Mom tries to make me read something. Maybe.

You know you're single when...

I am turning into a bitter old woman, and here’s how I know: I couldn’t finish the three cheap romance novels I meant to read for the post today. Sure, I read the first two. But somewhere between starting the third and viewing 27 Dresses, my will to suffer through another overwrought, unrealistic romance disappeared, only to be replaced with a raging cynicism that is singularly unattractive.

The first romance novel I read was The Husband She Never Knew, about a girl named Vicki (as in vixen, in case you didn’t get that) who married an Irish guy who was desperate for a green card. When she later wants to marry a dashing and yet slimy antiques dealer, her previous marriage causes problems. Somewhere in the middle there are a storm and a twisted ankle, incidents that end in Vicki and Irish Man making tender, yet impassioned love on a sailboat.

The second one was called Wife for a While, in which Chelsea, or “Chels” as she is affectionately referred to, offers to marry Ben so he can keep his grandfather’s apple orchard. The only condition is that she wants a baby in return, and then of course he objects to being treated like a sperm bank, so they make tender, yet impassioned love on a couch, I think. Bonus points to Ben for refraining during her period (yuck).

In the third, called The Millionaire and the Glass Slipper, was about a millionaire who has to find someone to marry him or lose his share in his father’s business. The only catch is that she can’t know he’s J.T. Whatever, and she has to marry him for love. This is the one I didn’t finish, but I am sure that J.T. and Amy (the plain younger woman he falls for instead of her sophisticated polished stepsister) make tender, yet impassioned love on a yacht or in his office or something.

And that’s where I stopped. Because I cannot imagine that there are women out there who are so deluded or so lonely that they actually believe these plotlines and these men. First, there are simply not that many men out there who have to get married to save a large sum of money. Second, I refuse to believe that romances like these exist in real life.

There are fictional romances I can get behind, don’t get me wrong. There are higher-end romance novels that are not too shabby, and I'll admit to reading and enjoying Nora Roberts from time to time. As for romance in other types of novels, there’s a moment in the next book I’m going to review where the protagonist describes the guy she’s after as smelling like coffee and peppermint gum. I can believe that – coffee because it’s morning, the gum because stale coffee breath isn’t attractive. The fact that she noticed this fairly everyday scent (not aftershave or a vague ‘man smell’ that I can only assume is made from sperm and Axe) and found it attractive is even better.

But when every single man in these other novels is so clearly a figment of some uncreative female fantasy, described as rugged, yet somehow polished; dignified, yet somehow wild; and gentle, yet somehow untamable in bed, I can’t believe that. I can barely dignify it with a response, though clearly I managed to rise to the occasion.

The fact remains that I can only suspend my disbelief for so long. Maybe I could have finished the one about the millionaire had I not been forced to watch the travesty that was the character of Kevin Doyle -- who, by the way, is about as realistic as Superman. Find me a journalist who isn't fat, doesn't live off of cheese doodles, has time to follow women all over the city, dresses that well and can still afford to give away Blackberrys, and then I'll be happy to recant. Good luck.

Sure, the men in romance novels and romantic comedies are designed to make women fall in love with them, and I’m sure many women do. But not this bitter old crone, who has these novels to thank, not for some satisfactory light reading or even an amused laugh at the poor quality of the writing, but for a bitter taste in her mouth that even a whole pack of Stride isn’t going to get rid of.

The Cookie Jar Mysteries

I have been known to read the odd mystery, which is why I didn’t balk when my mother dumped three of Joanne Fluke’s novels on my bed and demanded I at least look at them.

And look I did, because if there’s anything I love more than a mystery, it’s a mystery that involves food. And since all of Fluke’s works have the word “Murder” combined with some sort of baked good in the title, I figured they were worth a shot. And, lucky for you, three books means a triple review.

Chocolate Chip Cookie Murder

The thought struck Hannah like a lightning bolt of dread. Bill had told her to be careful about asking questions and she thought she had. But what if the killer had the misguided notion that she was hot on his tail?

I’m a little mystified (har har) about the title of the book. The murder victim was found with chocolate chip cookies scattered about, yes, but that’s a minor detail and they had nothing to do with the death, so why do they get such a place in the title? That aside, though, the book really wasn’t bad.

This is the first in the series, and though some of the characters are a little shallow and Fluke’s idea of an attractive male character involves a mustache, it wasn’t bad. The small-town atmosphere was cute, the requisite romantic entanglements and a miraculous transformation from frumpy to sexy were all there, and I actually grew to like Andrea, the protagonist’s sister, very much.

Hannah Swensen herself isn’t bad either, as female detectives go. Not as witty as Amelia Peabody Radcliffe and not as sexy as Rei Shimura, Hannah seems like a genuine human being with her own set of problems (including a stunning caffeine addiction). I’ll always take a realistic coffee-swilling baker over an international detective who falls into bed with two to three different men in every book.

Strawberry Shortcake Murder

Same dilemma about the title, frankly. Murder victim found with his face in a plate of Hannah’s strawberry shortcake – recipe included! Side note, my mother tried this recipe and hated it, which is probably good because I don’t know how I’d feel about eating shortcake knowing that the victim in the book had bled all over a similar piece.

But I digress. I liked Hannah even better in this book, though I think if Fluke is going to try to have this sexual tension involving the two men in her life, she needs to make sure it’s clear that Hannah actually likes both of them. The more handsome prospect is so overwrought as to be laughable, and the other, balder man seems like he’s never really going to be more than a friend.

The plot wasn’t badly executed, though, and it kept me interested through most of the book. I do think that Hannah, being the detective she is, would not have so easily missed those last few clues that led to the murderer’s capture, but I see why Fluke needed to make Hannah momentarily stupid. Clumsy writing, yes, but also understandable.

Carrot Cake Murder

Possibly this woman needs to stop handing out baked goods. This time, she gives a few slices of carrot cake to a man who is later discovered with an ice pick in his chest. Yikes.

What struck me most, though, about this particular book is the amount of times Fluke seems to introduce a topic just to show off the trivia she knows. I noticed it a little bit in both Chocolate Chip Cookie Murder and Strawberry Shortcake Murder, but it came out in full force in this book around page 44, where Fluke takes a whole half page to talk about the weights of regulation and practice hockey pucks, as well as the different types of hockey pucks and what they are used for. All this while Hannah’s phone is ringing and her cat is running around inside the bathtub like a whirling dervish. Am I supposed to believe that anyone would take that kind of time to ponder sports equipment, especially at that particular point?

The series as a whole is definitely worth checking out and reading, if not re-reading. There are 10 total books in the series, starting with Chocolate Chip Cookie Murder and ending with Carrot Cake Murder, so far as I’m aware, but there might be more. Not sure if the recipes are any good, though – I’m dying to try the Scandanavian Almond Cake from that last book, but my mother’s attempts at Fluke’s recipes didn’t yield great results. Possibly they’re more of a gimmick than anything else.

The Eye of Jade

The Eye of Jade by Diane Wei Lang has a beautiful cover, and to be honest, that's what drew me toward it. It's all red and gold and absolutely gorgeous, and generally if that much attention is spent on a cover, it's safe to say that the actual book will be pretty good. Not so in this case.

It's ostensibly a mystery novel, with protagonist Mei Wang opening her own business as a private detective in China. Lang tells the reader that private detectives are illegal in China, which should add excitement to the plot, but sadly no one in the book seems at all concerned that Mei is living outside the law. The story opens with her taking on a case from a man named Shao, a case that has nothing to do with the rest of the novel and only leads to confusion later. Twenty-five pages in, there is still no hint of the artifact the dust jacket promises Mei will be commissioned to find, and there is no sense of the plot heading anywhere. There are flashbacks galore that seem like they're supposed to add depth to the character, but they're so vague and so out of the blue that the reader ends up more confused than enlightened.

Near the middle of the book, I found myself writing things like "WHAT'S THE POINT?" and "FOCUS?!?" in my notes. I thought maybe I had missed a previous book in the series and that's why I was confused (no such luck), I thought maybe I was the one not focusing, and I eventually just gave up and put the book down unfinished.

Maybe I missed something. After all, Lang's native language is Mandarin, not English, and maybe her writing style has literary influences that I don't recognize and therefore didn't appreciate. Maybe I focused too hard on the mystery part of things rather than just taking the plot as it came and seeing how Lang worked things out. It's very possible that my total lack of enjoyment was my own fault, and not anything Lang did wrong.

I think I understand why the book was written. With the recent mania for everything Asian, it makes sense that a Chinese woman might see what Sujata Massey, Amy Tan and Jhumpa Lahiri (not Asian, but same idea) have done and think she could do it. And Lang is probably right; there is a niche right now for Asian-inspired everything, and with the Olympics coming up in Beijing and the comparative lack of Chinese-inspired literature, sure, there's space for a Chinese writer.

I also think that Lang wanted to use some of her own life for a story. Beginning writers are always told to write what they know. Since both Lang and her protagonist have been in labor camps, both of their fathers have died in them, and both struggle against Communist China in their own ways, I'm positive Lang took this advice. Other authors (see above) have done it with great success, but somehow Lang didn't take it beyond autobiography and make it into a really good story. I found myself wondering what Mei's past had to do with finding this artifact that is barely mentioned but presumably the point of the novel. Maybe if I had finished the book, I might have understood better, but suffering through 200 pages to get the answer didn't seem quite worth it.

That's why, despite getting why the book was written, I can't recommend it. Some critics are calling it exquisitely written, but since this book made me want to whip out a pencil and start rewriting it in the margins, I'd have to respectfully disagree. Steer away from this one, unless you have a passion for China or a lot of time to kill.