Recipes: Yes
Grade: B
Reading Judith Jones' recently published memoirs The Tenth Muse: My Life in Food is like sitting in your grandmother's living room. The ordered, bare room is strewn with pictures of lustier times: Grandma in a kicky mid-50s, tea-length wedding dress with matching hat & jacket, Grandpa in his Air Force uniform, blonde hair cropped close; Grandma in a floor-length black gown smoking a lengthy cigarette and talking to three or four dashing gentlemen in tuxedos; Grandma sitting in front of a picnic basket, pouring wine for James Beard and Marion Cunnigham; Grandma and Grandpa standing on either side of the imposing figure of Julia Child. Meanwhile, the woman herself stands before you, plain cotton apron dusted with flour, hands on hips, politely answering your questions about the photographed luminaries before you while constantly trying to steer the conversation back to the picture of her pushing your toddler-aged father on a swing.
That is, it's a restrained, elegant tome that outlines Jones' experience as the “it” editor to culinary 20th century America (and let's not forget Anne Frank's diary) without divulging too many opinions or gossip. I found myself at times getting anxious with the dilligent prose style, wondering when Jones' would come back to facts she had left out (for example, the beginning of her relationship with the then-married Evan Jones) and realizing, with great disappointment, that she would not. Such details simply are not pertinent to the task at hand.
Why disappointment, though? Ostensibly our (the culinary literature reading public) interest in Jones' life is as it relates to the development of the American culinary literarture catalog. I can practically hear her chiding me: “This is a book about food, darling. Why do you wish it were something more than that?”
I don't know why. I don't know that I truly do. I know that I gorged myself of David Kamp's luscious The United States of Arugula and came away feeling both satiated and yet somewhat artificially so. Jones' book had rather the opposite effect; it somehow reminded me of eating shortbread.
I talk a big talk about treating this literature with the respect it deserves; I claim to be anti-food porn, anti-foodie. Does my desire to see some color added to The Tenth Muse belie these professions? I don't entirely think so—or at least, I hope not. Closer to the truth is that I honestly think it's possible that Jones is on unfamiliar territory here—a women so clearly devoted to the culinary literature of others, a woman who has spent her entire life discovering and cultivating new and fascinating gastronomic voices has failed to develop one of her own. I wonder if we couldn't get a better picture of Jones' life, voice and vision by reading the collected works of her writers. I think that her great passion and skill was in delivering the right culinary voice to the right audience at the right time. The Tenth Muse is interesting but perhaps a better reference volume than a page-turner.
2 comments:
That's crazy Paula--I read your blog all the time.
We will fight, one day, on the merits and demerits of Giada.
If you are willing to accept this mission, let me know. PS What's up with all the aspic in 'ole Betty Crocker cookbooks. NAST.
Oh goodness, I have no idea what I said about Giada. I find the woman damn annoying, but at least she knows what she's doing-I have to admit I've made her holiday salad more than twice.
And aspic is gross. I once helped cook/plan a 50s themed dinner party where we made cucumber mousse for that extra-special touch of authenticity. And grossness. But it is the only food I remember from that meal, so...?
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