Slow Cooker Mexican Pork Carnitas

Carnitas, literally "little meats," is a dish of Mexican cuisine originating from the state of Michoacán. Carnitas are made by braising or simmering pork in oil or preferably lard until tender. The process takes three or four hours and the result is very tender and juicy meat, which is then typically served with chopped coriander leaves (cilantro) and diced onion, salsa, guacamole, tortillas, and refried beans (frijoles refritos). (Wikipedia)

My love for great Mexican food dates back to the late 1960s. As I've mentioned in previous posts, my grandparents had a beautiful beach house in Leucadia, California and every summer my family would make the long drive down I-5 from Central California to visit for several blissful weeks. Highlights of those memorable vacations are forever engrained in my mind. We enjoyed long days at the beach, playing in the chilly water, building sandcastles, and hunting for sand dollars. There were day trips to Disneyland, the San Diego Zoo, and Balboa Park, where I remember savoring a warm homemade corn tortilla from a historical exhibition at the Museum of Man.

The Beach House (on the right),
 which has been remodeled. 

We gazed out the large picture windows that spanned the full length of the house, watching for whales, and occasionally spotting a pod of dolphin riding the waves with the surfers. And of course, there were always the breathtaking sunsets. We dug for sand crabs to use as bait when we fished from the shore and jigged for bait when we went to the pier up in Oceanside. We sneaked jelly beans and gumdrops from my grandfather's candy jars and learned how to play Mah Jong with our North Carolina cousins. The one thing I don't remember is eating out anywhere other than Tony's Jacal in Solana Beach. I think it was at Tony's that I tasted my very first taco, enchilada and guacamole dip. I've been in love with Mexican food ever since.

Oh, my. This picture. So many, many memories of sitting in this back room... my grandmother's memorial lunch was held here. I ate here with my parents, my grandparents, my first husband... my baby girl.

Best rice, beans and enchilada sauce ever.

This past month, my daughter's Instagram feed (yes, you really should follow her!) has been full of tantalizing meals at Mexican restaurants in the Dallas area, making me drool with envy and hit the cookbooks in search of more recipes to add to my repertoire. I have an old recipe for carnitas, which requires simmering a pork roast on the stove top for several hours. In an effort to use my slow cooker as often as possible, I was excited to find this recipe in, yes, you guessed it, The Skinnytaste Cookbook. I made the carnitas a couple of weeks ago and dinner turned out great! Of course, a taco is merely a vehicle for the transfer of guacamole, but these tacos were seriously good. I used the leftover meat for quesadillas later in the week and they were just as amazing. 

You're welcome!

Slow-Cooker Mexican Pork Carnitas

2 lbs. boneless pork shoulder roast, trimmed
6 garlic cloves, crushed with a garlic press
1/2 cup low-sodium chicken broth
2 bay leaves
2 chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, minced (or more if you like it spicy)
1  1/4 tsp. ground cumin, divided
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1/2 tsp. dried oregano
1 1/4 tsp. kosher salt, divided
1/4 tsp. ground black pepper

Season the pork all over with 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt. Set in a large nonstick pan over medium-high heat, add the pork, and brown on all sides for about 10 minutes. Remove from heat.

For the dry adobo rub:

In a small bowl, combine 1 teaspoon of the cumin, the garlic powder, oregano, 1/2 teaspoon of the salt, and the black pepper.

Using a sharp knife, insert the knife into the pork about 1 inch deep and insert the crushed garlic, rubbing any excess over the pork. Rub the pork all over with the dry adobo rub.

Pour the chicken broth into the slow cooker and add the bay leaves, chipotle peppers, and the pork. Cover and cook on low for 8 hours. After 8 hours, transfer the pork to a large dish. Discard the bay leaves. Shred the pork using two forks and return it to the slow cooker with the juices. Add the remaining 1/4 teaspoon cumin and the 1/4 teaspoon salt.

Serves 10

My Notes:

This recipe made enough for 6 tacos and 2 large quesadillas. If I'm going to make this for a group, I'll definitely want to use 4-5 pounds of pork. The roast I bought was 4 pounds, so I cut it in half and put it in the freezer for future use. I was worried that 2 pounds wasn't going to be enough for a couple of meals, but there was plenty. However, I think next time, I'll just double the recipe and freeze the cooked meat for tacos, quesadillas and burritos. 

I didn't use the garlic and the meat still tasted flavorful.

I've never cooked with chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, and I wasn't sure how spicy they would make the meat, so I decided to just use one pepper. I didn't dice it up, either; just set it in the broth and stirred it around. I'm not sure if I'd bother with it next time around. Maybe some cayenne added to the rub would be sufficient for a little kick.

After shredding the pork, I decided to throw it in a hot skillet to make the meat a bit more crispy. I didn't have to add any oil or fat since the pork is already a little fatty. 

Serve with warm tortillas, shredded jack & cheddar cheese, diced tomatoes, chopped cilantro, guacamole and sour cream. Don't forget the Negra Modelo!

Mmmmmmm!

Please visit Beth Fish Reads for Weekend Cooking.

Weekend Cooking is open to anyone who has any kind of food-related post to share: Book (novel, nonfiction) reviews, cookbook reviews, movie reviews, recipes, random thoughts, gadgets, fabulous quotations, photographs. If your post is even vaguely foodie, feel free to grab the button and link up anytime over the weekend.

I'm also participating in Trish's Cook it Up! Cookbook Challenge. Click on over to see what she has going on!

Welcome to the Seventh Edition of Cook It Up! Feel free to join in the challenge at any time, any month. The idea is to pull those cookbooks off your shelves and use them. These can be cookbooks that you already own or cookbooks that you’d like to check out from the library (or borrow from a friend?). You can cook from one cookbook over the course of the month or pick and choose recipes from different cookbooks. And feel free to make a dozen recipes or just one. You make the rules!

Eleanor & Park

Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell
Teen Fiction
2013 St. Martin’s Griffin
Finished on 6/23/13
Rating: 4.75/5 (Outstanding!)




“Eleanor & Park reminded me not just what it’s like to be young and in love with a girl, but also what it’s like to be young and in love with a book.” ~ John Green, author of The Fault in Our Stars

From the author’s website:

“Bono met his wife in high school,” Park says.

“So did Jerry Lee Lewis,” Eleanor answers.

“I’m not kidding,” he says.

“You should be,” she says, “we’re 16.”

“What about Romeo and Juliet?”

“Shallow, confused, then dead.”

“I love you,” Park says.

“Wherefore art thou,” Eleanor answers.

“I’m not kidding,” he says.

“You should be.”

Set over the course of one school year in 1986, Eleanor & Park is the story of two star-crossed misfits – smart enough to know that first love almost never lasts, but brave and desperate enough to try. When Eleanor meets Park, you’ll remember your own first love – and just how hard it pulled you under.

Yep. I remember mine. (Who doesn’t remember their first love? Even after 36 years?) His name was Kevin and he had blond hair, blue eyes and drove a Chevy El Camino. We met at the end of my freshman year (he was a junior) at a mutual friend’s baseball practice. From that day on, we spent the rest of the summer together, hanging out at the beach, going to the races (Del Mar, Where the Turf Meets the Surf!), wandering around the Del Mar Fair, hanging out at his house, watching endless hours of MLB (we preferred the Dodgers over the Padres) or listening to Boston, Styxx, Foreigner, Little River Band and Bob Seeger on vinyl albums, played on his Pioneer stereo system (which, of course, had HUGE speakers). Later that year, we saw The Doobie Brothers and Pablo Cruise in concert, went with his parents and brother to the Pasadena Rose Bowl (Huskies vs Wolverines) and danced the night away at the Christmas formal. I cheered him on at our football games (he was a wide receiver) and sunbathed on the beach while he surfed with his buddies. For Christmas, he gave me a beautiful roll-top cedar chest, which he made in woodshop. I no longer have that lovely gift, but thanks to Rainbow Rowell’s novel, I was instantly transported back to the summer of ’77 and my first high school romance. 

Teen fiction isn’t a genre I typically read, but there have been some winners over the years (The Book Thief, The Hunger Games, Twilight, and The 5th Wave, to name just a few.), so when I started hearing all the buzz about Rowell’s teen debut, I decided to give it a try. I was immediately drawn into this gem of a book and quickly came to care about Eleanor and Park. This is not your typical teenage angst-ridden story and the authentic dialogue made me laugh out loud one minute and tugged at my heartstrings the next. Although I graduated from high school in 1980, I still enjoyed all the 80’s references and was eager to listen to the music mentioned in the narrative. Click here to listen to Eleanor & Park’s playlists.

I was sorry to miss out on the author’s visit and book signing at work, but I hadn’t finished the novel and was worried someone might reveal a spoiler. I only had a few chapters remaining and was completely invested in the story. The last thing I wanted was to hear a fan to blurt out the ending before I had a chance to read it for myself.

Final Thoughts: This is going on my list for a re-read! I’ve heard the audio version is very good too, so I’ll probably go that route. I also want to read Attachments, which is general fiction (as opposed to teen fiction) written in e-epistolary format. As with Eleanor & Park, it’s received glowing reviews.


From Publisher’s Weekly:

Half-Korean sophomore Park Sheridan is getting through high school by lying low, listening to the Smiths (it’s 1986), reading Alan Moore’s Watchmen comics, never raising his hand in class, and avoiding the kids he grew up with. Then new girl Eleanor gets on the bus. Tall, with bright red hair and a dress code all her own, she’s an instant target. Too nice not to let her sit next to him, Park is alternately resentful and guilty for not being kinder to her. When he realizes she’s reading his comics over his shoulder, a silent friendship is born. And slowly, tantalizingly, something more. Adult author Rowell (Attachments), making her YA debut, has a gift for showing what Eleanor and Park, who tell the story in alternating segments, like and admire about each other. Their love is believable and thrilling, but it isn’t simple: Eleanor’s family is broke, and her stepfather abuses her mother. When the situation turns dangerous, Rowell keeps things surprising, and the solution—imperfect but believable—maintains the novel’s delicate balance of light and dark. Ages 13–up.

About the author:

Rainbow earned a journalism degree from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln in 1995 and at, 24, became the youngest-ever – and first female – columnist at the Omaha World-Herald. She lives in Omaha, Nebraska, with her husband and two sons. She's also the author of Attachments.

Flashback

I'm heading back to San Diego (Del Mar) for my 30th high school reunion.

Honestly, where did the time go?!

I wonder if I'll recognize anyone!

The Big House

The Big House: A Century in the Life of an American Summer Home by George Howe Colt
Nonfiction - Memoir
2003 Scribner
Quit on 7/16/09
Rating: DNF




Product Description

Faced with the sale of the century-old family summer house on Cape Cod where he had spent forty-two summers, George Howe Colt returned for one last stay with his wife and children. This poignant tribute to the eleven-bedroom jumble of gables, bays, and dormers that watched over weddings, divorces, deaths, anniversaries, birthdays, breakdowns, and love affairs for five generations interweaves Colt's final visit with memories of a lifetime of summers. Run-down yet romantic, the Big House stands not only as a cherished reminder of summer's ephemeral pleasures but also as a powerful symbol of a vanishing way of life.
..."We're here!"

When I was a child, this was the moment we had been waiting for all winter. As the car slowed to a stop, my brothers and I would kick off our shoes. Then we'd spring from our seats to run barefoot from place to place, making sure the things we had dreamed of during the last nine months were still there. We'd run down to the beach to test the water with our toes, a foretaste of the hundred swims that lay before us. We'd patrol the rocky shore for sea glass, jingle shells, and the skates' egg cases that my grandmother called mermaids' purses (but that to me looked more like devils' pillows). We'd touch the dinghy from which we'd fish for scup. We'd race across the lawn to the barn, where we'd run our fingers across the winter's dust that furred the pool table's protective plastic cover. And then, like the child at supper who saves his favorite food for last, we'd turn to the house.

When I first began reading Colt's memoir (coincidentally, while traveling to our family reunion in Depoe Bay, Oregon), I was reminded of many childhood summers spent at my grandparents' beach house in Leucadia, California. The house (which everyone who knew of it referred to simply as The Beach House, and always pronounced as if it were capitalized, so I'll do so here) sat high upon a bluff, overlooking the Pacific Ocean; eighty-plus steps led down to the sand where my brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles and family friends would spend long days playing on the private beach. We would dig huge holes that would fill with sea water as the tide rushed in; build castles dripping with wet "icing" made of sand, surrounded by protective moats; bury one another with only our heads exposed, warming our chilled bodies beneath the sand; shiver under sandy towels, popping seaweed bulbs as we obeyed that dreaded parental order to wait one hour after eating before going back in the water; dig for sand crabs that we'd use for bait in the early morning hours, catching perch and the occasional stingray; ride the waves on styrofoam surfboards which rubbed our stomachs and legs red and left us with sore rashes (this was long before boogie boards); join my grandmother on long walks, stepping cautiously as we searched for shells, sand dollars and other treasures along the shore, avoiding the slimy jelly fish that would wash up on the beach, hidden amidst the piles of kelp.

My grandparents, great-grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins and brothers.
It's probably pretty obvious which one is me.

My grandmother sitting at her dining room table.
What a view!

My grandparents, Nathan (Nate) and Margaret (Mardie) Searles.

After a full day in the sun, we'd make the long climb back up to the house, wash the sand (and the annoying tar, the removal of which required a rag dipped in turpentine) from our feet in the outdoor shower, and head inside where we could continue to enjoy the beauty of the ocean from the wall of windows looking west in my grandparents' living room and dining room. Oh, such memories! As my grandfather sat in his chair, watching a golf tournament or working a crossword puzzle, we could find my grandmother in her large kitchen, making dinner preparations for the crowd. Someone was always gazing out the windows, shouting out for everyone to come see the whales passing by or dolphins and seals riding the waves closer to the shoreline, and my brothers and I always fought over who got to look through the binoculars first. And, oh, the sunsets. Beautiful beyond words.

So many memories of that incredible house on the bluff (and the creepy basement room that had a door leading to exposed crawl space, full of spiders and who knows what!) and the times spent together with other relatives who had also traveled great distances to spend a week (or two or three!) enjoying all the fun in Southern California. In addition to all the beach activities, there were trips to Disneyland, Sea World and the San Diego Zoo (although I'm fairly certain we we didn't do them all in one summer). And, it was at The Beach House that my brothers and I and our cousins all learned how to play Mah Jong. Fun times, to be sure.

And, of course, there's nothing quite like falling asleep to the sound of the waves crashing up against the bluffs. It always took me a couple of nights to get used to that rhythmic sound, just as it always took me a couple of nights to get used to the sound's absence once we'd returned to our home in Northern California.

Yes, The Beach House was a special "summer home," but as I read Colt's prologue in preparation for writing this review, I realized that my grandparents' house wasn't really a summer home. It wasn't the sort of summer home that was closed-up at the end of the season. After my grandfather retired from PanAm in 1966, they moved to the house and spent the next ten years entertaining friends and family year-round. It was their home year-round. Can you imagine?!

However, as I began to read Colt's memoir, I was flooded with another set of memories--those of my parents' cabin near Big Bear (in California's San Bernardino Mountains). Like my grandparents' beach house, The Cabin became the place for many summer (and winter) family gatherings and getaways.

The Cabin
Big Bear, California

My mother teaching Amy how to knit.

Rod relaxing in the living room.

The following passage from Colt's prologue particularly reminded me of many arrivals to our mountain retreat:

The doors that are always open have been closed and locked. The windows are shut tight. The shades are drawn. No water runs from the faucets. The toaster—which in the best of times works only if its handle is pinned under the weight of a second, even less functional toaster—is unplugged. The kitchen cupboards are empty except for a stack of napkins, a box of sugar cubes, and eight cans of beer. The porch furniture—six white plastic chairs, two green wooden tables—has been stacked in the dining room. The croquet set, the badminton equipment, the tennis net, and the flag are behind closet doors. The dinghy is turtled on sawhorses in the barn, the oars angled against the wall. The roasted-salt scent of August has given way to the stale smell of mothballs, ashes, mildew.

Here and there are traces of last summer: a striped beach towel tossed on the washing machine, a half-empty shampoo bottle wedged in the wooden slats of the outdoor shower, a fishing lure on the living room mantel, a half-burned log in the fireplace, a sprinkling of sand behind the kitchen door. Dead hornets litter the windowsills. A drowned mouse floats in the lower-bedroom toilet. The most recent entry in the guest book was made five months ago. The top newspaper in the kindling pile is dated September 29. The ship's clock in the front hall has stopped at 2:45, but whether that was A.M. or P.M. no one can tell.

After gorging on summer for three months, the house has gone into hibernation. They call it the off-season, as if there were a switch in the cellar, next to the circuit breakers, that one flipped to plunge the house from brimming to empty, warm to cold, noisy to silent, light to dark. Outside, too, the world has changed color, from blues, yellows, and greens to grays and browns. The tangle of honeysuckle, Rosa rugosa, and poison ivy that lapped at the porch is a skein of bare branches and vines. The lawn is hard as tundra, brown as burlap. The Benedicts' house next door, hidden from view when I was last here, is visible through the leafless trees. The woods give up their secrets: old tennis balls, an errant Frisbee, a lost tube of sunblock, a badminton birdie. Out in the bay, the water is the color of steel and spattered with whitecaps; without the presence of boats to lend perspective, the waves look ominously large. On the stony beach, the boardwalk—a set of narrow planks we use to enter the water without spraining our angles on the algae-slicked rocks—has been piled above the tide line, beyond the reach, we hope of storms.

A summer house in winter is a forlorn thing. In its proper season, every door is unlocked, every window wide open. People, too, are more open in summer, moving through the house and each other's lives as freely as the wind. Their schools and offices are distant, their guard is down, their feet are bare. Now as I walk from room to room, shivering in my parka, I have a feeling I'm trespassing, as if I've sneaked into a museum at night. Without people to fill it, the house takes on a life of its own. Family photographs seem to breathe, their subjects vivid and laughing and suspended at the most beautiful moments of their youths: my father in his army uniform, about to go off to World War II; my aunt in an evening gown, in a shot taken for a society benefit not long before her death at twenty-eight; my grandfather as a Harvard freshman, poised on the sunny lawn. I am older than all of them, even though many are now dead.

In this still house, where is the summer hiding? Perhaps in the mice whose droppings pepper the couch, the bats that brood in the attic eaves, the squirrels that nest in the stairwell walls. They are silent now, but we will hear and see them—and the offspring to which they will soon give birth—in a few months. For if the house is full of memory, it is equally full of anticipation. Dormant life lies everywhere, waiting to be picked up where it left off, like an old friendship after a long absence: that towel ready to be slung over a sweaty shoulder, that tennis ball to be thrown into the air, those chairs to be set out on the porch, that fishing lure to be cast into the bay, that guest book to be inscribed with a day in June. Even on the coldest winter morning, this house holds within it, like a voluptuous flower within a hard seed, the promise of summer.

I haven't been to The Beach House for over 30 years. My parents sold The Cabin in 1997. But the memories live on in stories shared and in photographs stored in albums and shoeboxes. This past July, we gathered in Depoe Bay, 15 of us aunts and uncles and grandpas and grandmothers and cousins and sisters and brothers, for a small family reunion. We climbed to the top of a sand dune in Pacific City, kayaked on Devil's Lake in Lincoln City, and hiked in the Silverton Falls Forest near Portland. But the most memorable moments were those spent in my parents' beautiful house in the woods -- watching my sister-in-law make homemade flour tortillas; listening to the soft murmer of early morning conversation out on the backyard deck, as my husband and stepdad enjoyed their coffee in the company of chipmunks, squirrels and hummingbirds; walking through the peaceful neighborhood and along the bluffs with my brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephews; listening to incredibly gorgeous music my niece and nephews created on the piano in the loft above the dining room; learning magic tricks from my niece and nephew; watching one of my older nephews patiently play board games and cards with his younger cousin; and, yes, teaching my nieces and nephews the joys of Mah Jong. As my sister-in-law says, we Jacksons are a competitive bunch when it comes to that game. It was most definitely a fun-filled and memorable week.

My parents' house in Little Whale Cove (Depoe Bay, Oregon)

My sister-in-law, Ana, making tortillas!

Mah Jong!

Ana and my niece and nephews (Julia, Tim and Steve).

My brother, David, and his son, Caymon.

But I digress. This is a book review after all.

I know I was distracted by all the activities of the week in Oregon (and I rarely do much reading while on vacation), but I was quite certain I'd get engrossed in The Big House once we boarded our flight back to Nebraska, especially since I so enjoyed (and related to) the prologue and first chapter. I read and read and read, but I simply could not get interested in Colt's story. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar location (Cape Cod) that failed to intrigue me. Or, maybe the problem was the family history (which, to be honest, wasn't all that compelling). Whatever the reason, I finally called it quits. And yet, I'm not sorry for the time I invested in it. It stirred up a lot of great memories and made me thankful for the opportunities to enjoy so many wonderful summers at the beach and in the mountains -- and in the woods near the ocean.



And, yes. I saw whales off the coast in Oregon. Just a few hundred yards offshore from the bluff that I walked along every morning while visiting my parents in Little Whale Cove. This time I didn't have to fight over the binoculars.

Does your family have a summer home or retreat? Share a little bit about it in a comment and I'll throw your name in the hat for a chance to win my gently used copy of George Howe Colt's memoir. Entries to win this book are open to all! Cut off date is Saturday, August 22nd.

Last Night at the Lobster

Last Night at the Lobster by Stewart O'Nan
Contemporary Fiction
Copyright 2007
Finished 1/30/08
Rating: 2/5 (Below Average)



Book Description

Stewart O’Nan has been called “the bard of the working class” and has now crafted a frank and funny yet emotionally resonant tale set within a vivid workaday world seldom seen in contemporary fiction.

Perched in the far corner of a run-down New England mall, The Red Lobster hasn’t been making its numbers and headquarters has pulled the plug. But manager Manny DeLeon still needs to navigate a tricky last shift. With only four shopping days left until Christmas, Manny must convince his near-mutinous staff to hunker down and serve the final onslaught of hungry retirees, lunatics, and holiday office parties. All the while, he’s wondering how to handle the waitress he’s still in love with, his pregnant girlfriend at home, and the perfect present he still needs to buy.

Last Night at the Lobster is a poignant yet redemptive look at what a man does when he discovers that his best might not be good enough.


Like most teenagers of my generation, my first real job was in the food industry; Carl's Jr., to be precise. I had been babysitting for relatives and neighborhood families since I was 11, but I was tired of crying babies and $2.50 an hour and decided to give the restaurant biz a try. My older brothers were making much better money working in real restaurants. (You know. The kind where the wait staff seats you and brings the food to your table in return for a nice tip!) David had worked at Smitty's Pancake House, as well as Sizzler; Neal and Mark both worked for Marie Callender's. (Mmmmmm. The day-old strawberry pies they got to bring home were such a treat!) Ok, I admit it. Working in a real restaurant was too intimidating for this klutz. What if I mixed up an order? What if I tripped carrying one of those huge trays of food?! (How do they carry those things??) Chris wound up at McDonald's, so I opted for Carl's, since it was less than a mile from our house -- close enough to ride my bike when I couldn't borrow Mom's car.


I enjoyed my three- or four-year stint at good 'ol Carl's. The crew felt like a close-knit family, complete with the favorites, not-so-favorites, and annoying siblings. And, of course there were the "regulars" that I can still remember like it was yesterday: The homeless man who came in every morning, absolutely filthy; matted, dirty hair and dirty hands that looked like they were tan, they were so covered with grime. He had a wild, crazy look about him and never said a word other than to place his order: One coffee and 8 sugar packets. He would count out his money, all dirty pennies and dimes, yet always enough for his order. We took pity on this man and occasionally pitched in to buy him a breakfast or lunch. He never made eye contact, wandering off into the dining area to drink cup after cup of coffee (refills were free) until he disappeared 'til the next time. I think he lived under the freeway overpass near my house...

And then there was the charming elderly couple who came in every morning, holding hands while they ordered their usual pancake breakfast and coffee. (He took his with two creamers, but didn't like them to be cold so we took them out of the dairy fridge when we opened at 6 am.) They would always chat with the morning crew, talking about the weather or their grandkids. They were the epitome of a happily-ever-after and I hoped to someday marry someone who would grown old along with me just like they had.

And as long as I live, I'll never forget the young woman with a cute, chubby little baby boy. He had the prettiest blond hair and huge blue eyes. We all loved to make him smile and laugh, and oohed and aahed over his first teeth and steps across the lobby floor. Such a happy little guy. And of course, we all loved to slip an extra hamburger or milk in his mama's bag since we knew she too was homeless. We all worried about her and the baby when they missed a day or two, wondering where they were and if they were warm enough. (Yes, it gets cold in San Diego!) It just occurred to me that that little baby is now somewhere around 30 years old! I wonder what ever became of him and his mama...

I had some good times at Carl's. Ate too many Famous Stars with Cheese (hold the pickles and onions), but it was fun, especially when someone called out, "We've got a bus!" There was a great sense of camaraderie, and while I don't remember too many of my co-workers' names, I do remember sitting back in the break room, gossiping or complaining about a customer, employee or corporate rules. I remember going home after closing, so wound up I couldn't fall asleep for hours. (So, of course I read.) I remember the stink of grease on my polyester uniform and the God-awful hairnet and hat we were required to wear. I remember learning how to do the supply order and how cold that walk-in freezer got when you had to spend 10 or 15 minutes inside, working the inventory numbers. (And trying not to worry about getting locked in and wondering if I was strong enough to use the ax that was mounted on the wall. Come to think of it, what was I supposed to chop, exactly? The door was metal!). I also remember when one of the assistant managers came rushing around to the back-line after close only to step right into a hot vat of fryer grease! Fortunately, I wasn't working that shift. I don't do well in emergencies and that would have been horrific.

So you'd think Last Night at the Lobster would resonate more strongly with me and score a much higher rating than I've given it. Unfortunately, slim as it is (146 pages), I was constantly flipping to the end to see how much more I had to slog through to get to the last page. Clichéd characters that failed to evoke any feelings of sympathy (along with a thin plot) left me hoping for something much more substantial. Maybe you really do have to have worked in a real restaurant to appreciate this book. I have a few friends who thought it was very good, so don't be too quick to dismiss it. You can probably read it over a nice slice of pie and coffee at your local diner!

Brrrrrrrr!

-40 degrees (F)
Valleyview, Alberta, Canada
1965

It's cold. (16)

It's snowing. (Again)

The wind's blowing. (When isn't it?)

On the brighter side...we're off to Virginia Beach where it's a balmy 35 degrees!

Oh, and Spring is just 63 days away. :)

The Way the Crow Flies

The Way the Crow Flies by Anne-Marie MacDonald
Fiction
Finished on 1/10/07
Rating: 4/5 (Very Good)
Chunkster Challenge Book #1



Shortlisted for the 2003 Giller Prize

Publisher Comments:

The optimism of the early sixties, infused with the excitement of the space race and the menace of the Cold War, is filtered through the rich imagination of high-spirited, eight-year-old Madeleine, who welcomes her family’s posting to a quiet Air Force base near the Canadian border. Secure in the love of her beautiful mother, she is unaware that her father, Jack, is caught up in a web of secrets. When a very local murder intersects with global forces, Jack must decide where his loyalties lie, and Madeleine will be forced to learn a lesson about the ambiguity of human morality – one she will only begin to understand when she carries her quest for the truth, and the killer, into adulthood twenty years later.

What a great start to the New Year! This hefty novel (810 pages) may actually wind up on my Top Ten for 2007. It took me close to ten days to read, but I never once got bogged down, nor did I feel like I had to wade through a lot of extraneous detail. When I began reading, I had no idea that the story was based on a fictionalized version of a murder that took place in 1959 on an air force base in Ontario. (The author was raised in the area at the same time.) For more information about that specific case, go here (although, if you plan to read the novel, I suggest you wait to read about the real murder after you’ve finished.).

This book has stirred up a lot of memories from my childhood. I turned 8 in 1969, so I’m a bit younger than the main character, yet I think I had the same sense of blissful ignorance as Madeleine. While I don’t remember the Cuban Missile Crisis or “duck and cover” drills, I do remember Things go better with Coke, TV sets with rabbit ears and only a handful of channels, watching Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color in black and white, Tang and Space Food Sticks, and the Apollo 11 moon landing on July 16th, 1969. (We were on our sailboat out in the middle of Whiskeytown Lake in California.) Carole King’s Tapestry, Don McLean’s American Pie and The Beatles (The White Album) make up the soundtrack of that particular time in my life. It was a simple, carefree childhood. We walked to and from school; bought penny-candy at Frankie’s corner market; played in the creek, catching minnows and tadpoles; rode our bikes hither and yon, not a care in the world other than losing track of time and getting in trouble for arriving home after dark. Boy, have things changed. Or have they?

There’s so much to say about this novel, but it’s impossible to go into great detail without revealing spoilers. The Orlando Sentinel sums it up quite well:

“Murder mystery, spy thriller, historical novel, morality play – The Way the Crow Flies is all of these. Add several interconnected plots and an undercurrent of evil in an age of innocence, and you’ve got an engrossing tale.”

Favorite Passages:

Afterwards, in bed with a book, the spell of television feels remote compared to the journey into the page. To be in a book. To slip into the crease where two pages meet, to live in the place where your eyes alight upon the words to ignite a world of smoke and peril, colour and serene delight. That is a journey no one can end with the change of a channel. Enduring magic.

And

There is nothing so persuasive to deep recall as the hum of the slide projector in the dark. The audible fuzz that follows each colour slide as it sh-clinks into view. The longer ago the picture, the longer the moment of silence before Dad’s cheerful voice in the dark: “That was a beautiful day, remember that day, Maman?”


I was completely captivated by MacDonald’s hypnotic story, and although I didn’t care for the abrupt leap forward in Madeleine’s life, I still enjoyed the book and highly recommend it. I have a copy of MacDonald’s debut novel (Fall on Your Knees) and just might have to add it to my stack for next month.