This is a must-read--but only for those with appetites, since that's what the book is about. Lewis, a Seattle native, is a former sex worker with a literal lust for life, so whether it's describing a blind date in Capital Hill or answering the question of how much bacon will satisfy her bacon craving, she evokes the sensuality of the experience with a carnal immediacy. She disdains diets and artificial foods as not satisfying natural hunger, and so only prolong the body's need; better to just trust your desires and enjoy them rather than starve yourself in whatever way. I'm a hedonist myself, so that's a life philosophy I can relate to.
But be warned: she also has a wicked scatological streak that rivals that other Sarah. In the first chapter she bemoans the fact that all her recent boyfriends seem to think she's turned on by oral-anal attention. And she has a chapter about one of her former clientele, a guy nicknamed "Baby Ruth Man" who may have been permanently warped by viewing CADDYSHACK at a young age. Now, whereas Cynthia Heimel or Laurie Notaro would recoil from this sort of stuff in Judeo- and/or Christian revulsion, Lewis understands that there are some awkward moments in life that can only really be shared if you're willing to hear about the grim details. But she avoids the common pitfall of graphic detail for its own sake, the shock-humor of the last decade or so. What she's telling you needs to be said to draw the picture, whether it's the anatomical detail of the mussel she's about to cook, or her own personal hygiene at the moment she meets an ex-boyfriend, there are things ordinarily left unsaid that can lend an immediacy and humanity that is often missing in most narratives, no matter how otherwise evocative.
A chick who tells it like it is, and makes no apologies. But if the devil is in the details, then God is too: I defy you to read her chapter on cooking mussels and not want to try it (I more or less hate shellfish, and yet somewhere for me a switch has been flipped...). And her essay on the personal quality of pasta sauce had me re-evaluating my thoughts on culinary identity, about what beyond ingredients and preparation account for a distinct style. Sure, I have my own way of doing pasta--I call it fettucine al bachelor--but I hadn't thought of it as an existential expression. The book is a pure delight: I feasted on it.
P.S. -- In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that I met the author over the weekend--and she is as striking in the flesh as she is on the page. She showed me her tattoos, and schooled me in Latin--both at the same time. How cool is that?
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