Before Oprah had a book club there was...
The Villette Society
The Villette Society
Hijacked from the Falcon's nest
When the Falcon speaks, we listen.
Um....sometimes.
So after she recommended "Appassionata" last month and after she chose next month's book, too, (how on earth did that happen???) maybe it's time to go public with some of Falcon's other great ideas.
She forwarded these reading suggestions to the Villettes recently from the National Reading Group Month's Great Group Reads. Sponsored, it looks like, by the Women's National Book Association, they picked the following:
- Appassionata by Eva
They also thought people should take a gander at:
- The Unit by Ninni
- The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë by Syrie James - Hm! Villettes like Bronte!
- The
- Perfection: A Memoir of Betrayal and Renewal by Julie Metz
- While I'm Falling by Laura Moriarty
- Out Stealing Horses
- Cost by Roxana Robinson
- Burnt Shadows by Kamila Shamsie
They say they picked 'em for their "potential to open up lively conversations about a host of timely and provocative topics, from the intimate dynamics of family and personal relationships to major cultural and world issues."
Whew. What a mouthful.
Well, judging from the hoo-haw over "Appassionata" during Frenchie's delicious lambchops at Sunday's night's meeting, some of these could be worth a look.
Off the dusty shelf or "vom staubigen Regal"
How wierd to see the German perspective in a vintage Kaiserly romance novel "Geliebte Petruschka" by Lotte Gummert.
Don't bother trying to find a copy - I'm sure this is the only waterstained, moth-eaten hardback by this author to survive the '50s. But Kaiser is happy to lend any Deutsch-speakers her entertaining volume in which Americans are portrayed as chubby sausage-manufacturers with silly, irresponsible, spoiled wives who leave their jewelry cases open and un-guarded on transatlantic voyages to Europe.
The heroine? A tall, thin, very organized and efficient (of course) German ex-pat working as the sausage mogul's au pair. She finds out after she wins $10,000 on a TV quiz show and after she sets sail that she has another, "real" name, that her parents aren't her parents and that she might be minor royalty.
Ooooohhh, can't wait for the ship to reach das Mutterland......
A passionata for drink
So, forgive me, if one of my favorite lines in this novel about:
the value of classical music in contemporary society
terrorism
marriage
the consequences of sleepovers with dark, swarthy, mysterious strangers
is this, four pages from the predictable and lame conclusion: "Wine is extremely important in times of decline."
Can't wait for Sunday's bookbashing chat.
the value of classical music in contemporary society
terrorism
marriage
the consequences of sleepovers with dark, swarthy, mysterious strangers
is this, four pages from the predictable and lame conclusion: "Wine is extremely important in times of decline."
Can't wait for Sunday's book
Distractions
Let's be honest here. Belonging to a book club comes with very few rules and responsibilities. Numero uno: READ THE DAMN BOOK.
Everyone knows that dutiful members begin next month's book the day after last month's meeting. (Unless they're too hungover.)
They make notes in the margins as they read, conduct an obligatory Google search on the author and arrive at meetings with theirwine bottles well-thumbed copies in hand, ready for dinner a spirited discussion.
Sad to say, every book club has a slacker. Or two. (It's in the bylaws, look it up.) These clowns are the "readers" who get the new book, study the cover, read the first page, frown and go read something else.
Something like Greg Iles' "The Devil's Punchbowl." Not only is it not a Villette selection. It's 580 pages long and it's written by - gasp - a MAN. Still, Jersey will tell you this page-turner has everything: Murder, torture, river boat gambling, dog fighting, tenacious journalists, honest and corrupt politicians, tarts with hearts and pit bulls.
Best of all, Iles (born in Germany, like the Kaiser) does what good authors do: turns the setting of his story into a major character in the book.
Hello, Natchez.
Did you know that in 1840 Natchez, Mississippi "had more millionaires per capita than any city in America"? Did you know it survived the Civil War "intact" which means the place is loaded with antebellum mansions that were never sacked or burned by marauding Yankees? Did you know the Mississippi River is a mile wide in Natchez? Yep, Jersey is going there in December to see for herself. And yes, she'll take pictures.
The best part of this particular mystery? It was a gift from Jersey Junior who managed to snag a signed copy (thanks Square Books!) and then she took the time to inscribe it herself.
Is there anything better than an inscription in a hardback book? It's a sure sign that the person who gave it to you knows you well. She knows what you've read and haven't read. What you'll enjoy and what you won't. And she knows she's given you a book that will never, ever find it's way to a used book store.
But back to the rights and responsibilities of book club members...Once the punchbowl was empty surely it was time to pick up "Appassionata," right?
Not so quick.
You see, for months an enticing novel a neighbor dropped off - you'll love it - has been sitting on the nightstand, begging to be read.
Hence, "The Help" has been occupying Jersey's spare time all week.
This memorable first novel is set in Jackson Mississippi (yes, a trend here) in the mid-1960s. It's the story of an unlikely relationship - not a friendship, exactly - between a young college-educated white woman and two black maids, set against the backdrop of the Civil Rights movement.
Would the Villettes like it? Who knows. This one did.
With just three days till the monthly gathering, time to tackle (speaking of tackles, college football is something else that interferes with autumn reading) "Appassionata" and the kind of brainy, slightly mind-numbing literature that the smarter members push on the dumber one from time to time.
Featuring sentences such as this:
Passages from a Bach Partita peregrinate through her mind, steady and ceremonious.
Peregrinate? Please.
Wethinks Ms. Hoffman is showing off. But what do we know, we're still on page 11.
It gets better. Right? Right?
Everyone knows that dutiful members begin next month's book the day after last month's meeting. (Unless they're too hungover.)
They make notes in the margins as they read, conduct an obligatory Google search on the author and arrive at meetings with their
Sad to say, every book club has a slacker. Or two. (It's in the bylaws, look it up.) These clowns are the "readers" who get the new book, study the cover, read the first page, frown and go read something else.
Something like Greg Iles' "The Devil's Punchbowl." Not only is it not a Villette selection. It's 580 pages long and it's written by - gasp - a MAN. Still, Jersey will tell you this page-turner has everything: Murder, torture, river boat gambling, dog fighting, tenacious journalists, honest and corrupt politicians, tarts with hearts and pit bulls.
Best of all, Iles (born in Germany, like the Kaiser) does what good authors do: turns the setting of his story into a major character in the book.
Hello, Natchez.
Did you know that in 1840 Natchez, Mississippi "had more millionaires per capita than any city in America"? Did you know it survived the Civil War "intact" which means the place is loaded with antebellum mansions that were never sacked or burned by marauding Yankees? Did you know the Mississippi River is a mile wide in Natchez? Yep, Jersey is going there in December to see for herself. And yes, she'll take pictures.
The best part of this particular mystery? It was a gift from Jersey Junior who managed to snag a signed copy (thanks Square Books!) and then she took the time to inscribe it herself.
Is there anything better than an inscription in a hardback book? It's a sure sign that the person who gave it to you knows you well. She knows what you've read and haven't read. What you'll enjoy and what you won't. And she knows she's given you a book that will never, ever find it's way to a used book store.
But back to the rights and responsibilities of book club members...Once the punchbowl was empty surely it was time to pick up "Appassionata," right?
Not so quick.
You see, for months an enticing novel a neighbor dropped off - you'll love it - has been sitting on the nightstand, begging to be read.
Hence, "The Help" has been occupying Jersey's spare time all week.
This memorable first novel is set in Jackson Mississippi (yes, a trend here) in the mid-1960s. It's the story of an unlikely relationship - not a friendship, exactly - between a young college-educated white woman and two black maids, set against the backdrop of the Civil Rights movement.
Would the Villettes like it? Who knows. This one did.
With just three days till the monthly gathering, time to tackle (speaking of tackles, college football is something else that interferes with autumn reading) "Appassionata" and the kind of brainy, slightly mind-numbing literature that the smarter members push on the dumber one from time to time.
Featuring sentences such as this:
Passages from a Bach Partita peregrinate through her mind, steady and ceremonious.
Peregrinate? Please.
Wethinks Ms. Hoffman is showing off. But what do we know, we're still on page 11.
It gets better. Right? Right?
Mystery solved
Well, this is embarrassing.
Remember back in June when Jersey was frantically looking for a book she'd read years before that was set in Mobile, Alabama around the time of a Jubilee?
She was desperate to find the novel for two reasons.
1) She really liked it.
2) Jersey Junior's Cute Alabama Boyfriend had arrived and Jersey wanted to share the book with the college kids.
She remembered a few key things about this particular novel.
She knew it was written by a woman and that her copy was waterlogged because she'd left it outside on an Adirondack chair during a freak - or was it freaking - summer storm. She also remembered loaning it to another Villette who NEVER BOTHERED TO RETURN IT.
Ahem.
So, imagine Jersey's surprise when, in the course of cleaning JJ's room, something caught her eye. Over there, in the bookcase.
Yep. It was THE book. And oh look, it does not have "Jubilee" anywhere in the title.
But it is, indeed, waterlogged.
Jersey's going to reread it and if "This One and Magic Life" is as compelling as she remembers, she'll recommend it.
And, as penance for accusing her pals of stealing her book, she will offer to loan her long-lost personal copy to anyone who wants it. Although, considering its condition, who'd really want to touch it?
So, she may just tuck it in her suitcase next weekend when she heads to Oxford to see JJ and JJCAB at the Ole Miss-Alabama football game. Hey, they're in college. They're used to handling items that are saturated.
PS If there is a stupid-Ray-Ban-Wearing emoticom in the text, don't blame me. It arrived unsummoned and keeps coming back no matter what I do to lose it.
Remember back in June when Jersey was frantically looking for a book she'd read years before that was set in Mobile, Alabama around the time of a Jubilee?
She was desperate to find the novel for two reasons.
1) She really liked it.
2) Jersey Junior's Cute Alabama Boyfriend had arrived and Jersey wanted to share the book with the college kids.
She remembered a few key things about this particular novel.
She knew it was written by a woman and that her copy was waterlogged because she'd left it outside on an Adirondack chair during a freak - or was it freaking - summer storm. She also remembered loaning it to another Villette who NEVER BOTHERED TO RETURN IT.
Ahem.
So, imagine Jersey's surprise when, in the course of cleaning JJ's room, something caught her eye. Over there, in the bookcase.
Yep. It was THE book. And oh look, it does not have "Jubilee" anywhere in the title.
But it is, indeed, waterlogged.
Jersey's going to reread it and if "This One and Magic Life" is as compelling as she remembers, she'll recommend it.
And, as penance for accusing her pals of stealing her book, she will offer to loan her long-lost personal copy to anyone who wants it. Although, considering its condition, who'd really want to touch it?
So, she may just tuck it in her suitcase next weekend when she heads to Oxford to see JJ and JJCAB at the Ole Miss-Alabama football game. Hey, they're in college. They're used to handling items that are saturated.
PS If there is a stupid-Ray-Ban-Wearing emoticom in the text, don't blame me. It arrived unsummoned and keeps coming back no matter what I do to lose it.
Kaiser Siegt!
After
Thank goodness, every step of the way she
In addition, she must admit - and Kaiser rarely admits anything - that rereading Rosamunde Pilcher's 700-page saga in translation gave her native vocabularly a swift kick in the Hosen.
Meet the Villettes: Jersey
Finally, the profile everyone has been waiting for -- our last installment of Meet the Villettes: Jersey. As is often the case, the best has been saved for last. Also, since Jersey is our only blogger (with the exception of Kaiser), we couldn't help it. And we couldn't expect her to write her own profile, now could we? Jersey would be much too modest about her many accomplishments. So we just had to bite the bullet and get off our rears stop reading long enough to do Jersey justice.
Wait, you say that's not Jersey but ace reporter Katherine Hepburn in "Woman of the Year"?
Same thing. Only Jersey is cuter, her quill sharper, and her newspaper columns more popular. She even gets fan mail from around the world.
As insightful readers may have guessed, Jersey is from well...Jersey. But not just any part. The nitty-gritty part. Trenton. The town that makes what the world takes ... as Jersey is fond of reminding us. That's what makes her such a tough reporter. That and the disgusting Taylor Pork Roll she keeps threatening us with.
Her newspaper column makes local mayors and city councils quake in theirfilp-flops boots. And keeps them honest. And has brought justice to many (especially when the Dancing Bears -- as she is so fondly refers to our elected leaders -- keep their heads in the sand).
Did I also mention that Jersey honed her formidable newspaper skills at a big-time Washington newspaper? And that she spent a couple of years writing for the Irish Press (in Dublin, no less)? During "The Troubles." She even risked her life associating with wanted IRA members -- all in the line of duty.
But, deep down inside our tough reporter is an elegant, sensitive soul who can do it all: manage deadlines; take loving care of two smart children (both in college), a "judgmental" husband (it's his livelihood) and 3 poodles (obviously restraint is not one of her virtues); and exercise like a demon (did I tell you she's getting ready to run a marathon?!). Not to mention host fabulous book club meetings with yummy food, a beautiful table, great wine (not that we care about wine), and riveting conversation. OK, so she does use the occasional Reddi Whip -- but she's from Trenton, so whaddya expect?
And about her husband. He's a model book club spouse: he grills, cleans, serves wine, and actually reads books (just not ours).
The Villettes count on Jersey to keep us honest. No sneaking in any male authors on her watch. Or trying to skip a month. Or, heaven forbid, avoiding a cookie exchange around the holidays. We wouldn't dream of any of those things with Jersey around.
Pretty formidable, isn't she? But what do you expect? She's a Villette.
Wait, you say that's not Jersey but ace reporter Katherine Hepburn in "Woman of the Year"?
Same thing. Only Jersey is cuter, her quill sharper, and her newspaper columns more popular. She even gets fan mail from around the world.
As insightful readers may have guessed, Jersey is from well...Jersey. But not just any part. The nitty-gritty part. Trenton. The town that makes what the world takes ... as Jersey is fond of reminding us. That's what makes her such a tough reporter. That and the disgusting Taylor Pork Roll she keeps threatening us with.
Her newspaper column makes local mayors and city councils quake in their
Did I also mention that Jersey honed her formidable newspaper skills at a big-time Washington newspaper? And that she spent a couple of years writing for the Irish Press (in Dublin, no less)? During "The Troubles." She even risked her life associating with wanted IRA members -- all in the line of duty.
But, deep down inside our tough reporter is an elegant, sensitive soul who can do it all: manage deadlines; take loving care of two smart children (both in college), a "judgmental" husband (it's his livelihood) and 3 poodles (obviously restraint is not one of her virtues); and exercise like a demon (did I tell you she's getting ready to run a marathon?!). Not to mention host fabulous book club meetings with yummy food, a beautiful table, great wine (not that we care about wine), and riveting conversation. OK, so she does use the occasional Reddi Whip -- but she's from Trenton, so whaddya expect?
And about her husband. He's a model book club spouse: he grills, cleans, serves wine, and actually reads books (just not ours).
The Villettes count on Jersey to keep us honest. No sneaking in any male authors on her watch. Or trying to skip a month. Or, heaven forbid, avoiding a cookie exchange around the holidays. We wouldn't dream of any of those things with Jersey around.
Pretty formidable, isn't she? But what do you expect? She's a Villette.
Whipped Cream: A Lesson
A troubling thing happened at last week's meeting.
It was such a monumentally disturbing development that it took Jersey an entire week to wrap her head around it. (Or she was too dang busy to write until today, take your pick.)
The incident occurred after she cleared the dinner plates and swept the remnants of the incinerated chicken into the trash, while the other Villettes wereswilling wine discussing "The Little Stranger" in the dining room.
The ever-helpful Falcon appeared in the kitchen.
"What can I do?" she chirped as Jersey began to slice a key lime pie, which was not as bad as the blackened chicken.
"Whipped cream!" a grateful Jersey replied, tossing Falcon a can of topping.
The Falcon froze. Smiled weakly. Held the can with two fingers like it was a cold, dead rodent.
"How does this thing work?" she finally asked.
"You've never used canned cream?" Jersey screamed.
"Never," she confessed.
Friends, we are left to ponder the Falcon's childhood. Sure, she had Central Park at her doorstep and a wonderful close-knit family, but think about it: She never once experienced the clandestine thrill of opening the refrigerator door when her mother wasn't looking, basking in that blast of cold air and then shooting Reddi Whip directly into her mouth.
Poor, poor Falcon.
And apparently, until last week, this cosmopolitan woman had not knowingly ingested mono and diglycerides, carrageenan, high-fructose corn syrup or vanilla flavoring. Worse, she hadn't shivered over the naughty excitement that comes with using nitrous oxide as a whipping propellant.
The Falcon actually thought whipped cream was something you MADE BY HAND.
To spare others the same embarrassment the Falcon experienced in Jersey's Shortcut Kitchen, we've prepared a pictorial lesson. Followed carefully, it could prevent serious canned cream accidents and humiliating situations at fancy dinner parties where hostesses serve whipped cream. From a can.
First, look for a red lid and a can that somewhere, in the teeniest print, mentions "Real Cream."
Shake it, baby.
Next, remove the cap. And do not look at what passes for a manicure on our hand model.
IMPORTANT STEP: Invert the can, placing your pointer finger on the nozzle of scrumptiousness.
Press. Squirt. Eat.
Whipped cream makes everything delish. Even tomatoes.
Next time: Better living through Velveeta.
It was such a monumentally disturbing development that it took Jersey an entire week to wrap her head around it. (Or she was too dang busy to write until today, take your pick.)
The incident occurred after she cleared the dinner plates and swept the remnants of the incinerated chicken into the trash, while the other Villettes were
The ever-helpful Falcon appeared in the kitchen.
"What can I do?" she chirped as Jersey began to slice a key lime pie, which was not as bad as the blackened chicken.
"Whipped cream!" a grateful Jersey replied, tossing Falcon a can of topping.
The Falcon froze. Smiled weakly. Held the can with two fingers like it was a cold, dead rodent.
"How does this thing work?" she finally asked.
"You've never used canned cream?" Jersey screamed.
"Never," she confessed.
Friends, we are left to ponder the Falcon's childhood. Sure, she had Central Park at her doorstep and a wonderful close-knit family, but think about it: She never once experienced the clandestine thrill of opening the refrigerator door when her mother wasn't looking, basking in that blast of cold air and then shooting Reddi Whip directly into her mouth.
Poor, poor Falcon.
And apparently, until last week, this cosmopolitan woman had not knowingly ingested mono and diglycerides, carrageenan, high-fructose corn syrup or vanilla flavoring. Worse, she hadn't shivered over the naughty excitement that comes with using nitrous oxide as a whipping propellant.
The Falcon actually thought whipped cream was something you MADE BY HAND.
To spare others the same embarrassment the Falcon experienced in Jersey's Shortcut Kitchen, we've prepared a pictorial lesson. Followed carefully, it could prevent serious canned cream accidents and humiliating situations at fancy dinner parties where hostesses serve whipped cream. From a can.
First, look for a red lid and a can that somewhere, in the teeniest print, mentions "Real Cream."
Shake it, baby.
Next, remove the cap. And do not look at what passes for a manicure on our hand model.
IMPORTANT STEP: Invert the can, placing your pointer finger on the nozzle of scrumptiousness.
Press. Squirt. Eat.
Whipped cream makes everything delish. Even tomatoes.
Next time: Better living through Velveeta.
Road-weary ears
Last weekend Kaiser took a wind-swept drive to the barbecue-rich South.
She watched the bird-laden sky above the traffic-heavy highway while listening to plot-poor "Off Season" by Ann Rivers Siddons, an event-free, boredom-inducing, compound adjective-rich read.
How ever, she wondered dully, as the narrative-heavy tome went on and on and on, did this make it into a CD-laden book on tape?
She watched the bird-laden sky above the traffic-heavy highway while listening to plot-poor "Off Season" by Ann Rivers Siddons, an event-free, boredom-inducing, compound adjective-rich read.
How ever, she wondered dully, as the narrative-heavy tome went on and on and on, did this make it into a CD-laden book on tape?
Summer Nights
You visit some people's homes - Jersey's for instance - and wonder why anyone would want Owen Wilson as their decorator.
You enter others and marvel at the artistry.
"It's like a still life," gasped the Kaiser, as six Villettes - Frenchie was doing that Grecian thing - settled into the Captain's quarters.
This sort of Flemish setting BEGS for a high-minded literary discusssion, no?
Proof, that even when the host hasn't read the book she can still set the mood.
The conversation? Tepid. There was a general concensus that the Potato Peel novel was interesting. Red, Falcon, Kaiser and The Cajun get a shout out for at least reading it. They liked it. They seemed to learn a bit about geography. They agreed that the ending was "predictable."
Meanwhile, the Captain and Jersey busied themselves with finger food hoping no one would notice that they had nothing to say.
With the obligatory book chat behind them, the Villettes were able to turn their attention to their real love. Wine. Sangria. And food.
Wait. Let's pause for a moment to admire this very Southern centerpiece.
Lemony magnolias. Those of us who unfortunately grew up north of the Mason-Dixon line can't get enough of these June blooms.
First course? A refreshing salad made with beans and lemon and cilantro. Odd, though, when the Captain was asked for her recipe, she smiled mysteriously.
Dessert? You have to ask?
This one was provided by Red and topped with a scoop of coconut ice cream. If you do a little geometry you can visualize the six missing slices.
It's a fact that the Villettes insist on dessert, eat every speck and sometimes beg for seconds.
And yet they all have great legs.
Say hello to the Falcon's...
Proof that life isn't fair.
You enter others and marvel at the artistry.
"It's like a still life," gasped the Kaiser, as six Villettes - Frenchie was doing that Grecian thing - settled into the Captain's quarters.
This sort of Flemish setting BEGS for a high-minded literary discusssion, no?
Proof, that even when the host hasn't read the book she can still set the mood.
The conversation? Tepid. There was a general concensus that the Potato Peel novel was interesting. Red, Falcon, Kaiser and The Cajun get a shout out for at least reading it. They liked it. They seemed to learn a bit about geography. They agreed that the ending was "predictable."
Meanwhile, the Captain and Jersey busied themselves with finger food hoping no one would notice that they had nothing to say.
With the obligatory book chat behind them, the Villettes were able to turn their attention to their real love. Wine. Sangria. And food.
Wait. Let's pause for a moment to admire this very Southern centerpiece.
Lemony magnolias. Those of us who unfortunately grew up north of the Mason-Dixon line can't get enough of these June blooms.
First course? A refreshing salad made with beans and lemon and cilantro. Odd, though, when the Captain was asked for her recipe, she smiled mysteriously.
Dessert? You have to ask?
This one was provided by Red and topped with a scoop of coconut ice cream. If you do a little geometry you can visualize the six missing slices.
It's a fact that the Villettes insist on dessert, eat every speck and sometimes beg for seconds.
And yet they all have great legs.
Say hello to the Falcon's...
Proof that life isn't fair.