Love is My Favorite Flavor, by Wini Moranville

Early in her career, Wini Moranville decided her lifetime goal would be “to rearrange a modest but sweet life” around small moments and great meals. She was in the Rhine River valley on a backpacking trip through Europe, where she discovered food and wine that “tasted like the joy of knowing something good had settled into your soul and will be there forever.” These were the moments to live for, she realized.

And so she did. She became a food and wine writer, summer resident of France, and restaurant critic for the Des Moines Register. And now, she shares this sweet life in her memoir, Love is My Favorite Flavor, an engaging book that demonstrates how food is all about love—growing it, preparing it, serving it, and sharing it.

She started waitressing when she was 13 at Baker’s Cafeteria, a family-run, family-focused place with plenty of mashed potatoes, gravy, and cream pie. For the next ten years, through high school and college, she worked at some of Des Moines’ iconic restaurants——Younkers’ Tea Room, the Meadowlark, and Parkade Pantry— building the foundation on which her career was forged.

She still remembers instances in which she failed a customer in need of sustenance, like the woman in the houndstooth suit who wanted a tuna salad sandwich at The Soup Kitchen, one of Des Moines’ earliest vegetarian restaurants. In hindsight, rather than turning the woman away, Moranville wishes she had encouraged her to try one of the restaurant’s satisfying alternatives and helped her enjoy her lunch. Or the little boy whose family mocked him for mispronouncing pecan to the point he couldn’t enjoy the pie he had been savoring. The memory of somebody being deprived of the joy of a meal still rankles.

And she remembers a fussy customer who wanted her tea in a teapot so she could brew it just the way she wanted. First, the woman seemed unsufferable, but then Moranville caught a glimpse of her “staring contemplatively into space and sipping tea brewed just the way she liked it. She simply looked so…happy.”

She realized the woman, like most customers, had her own drudgery, and the treat she allowed herself was her afternoon cup of tea.  “And it took so little to make her happy: hot water in a teapot, tea bag on the side, two packets of honey.”

In the best restaurants, the staff shares a meal together before their shift begins, testing menu items, but also bonding, creating an atmosphere in which serving feels like a calling, not a job. She saw this in full color on a trip to France, when she and her husband Dave came upon a raucous group on a restaurant terrace, finishing a meal and enjoying the food and one another. They learned this was the staff, which was just about ready to go to work, after finishing the espresso being served by the restaurant owner.  They talked to a chef, who encouraged them to return later, which they did, enjoying their own delicious and convivial meal. Moranville observes:

It occurred to me that the staff seemed to operate from a kind of pact: they had their turn sitting down at the table and being nourished and cared for. When it was our turn to sit at the table, the promise was that we would be in equally good hands.

The book charts Des Moines’ growth from a meat-and-potatoes backwater to a place where chefs win James Beard awards. But the strain of being the town food critic eventually took the fun out of that job, so she resigned as the Datebook Diner. And the wine junkets to exotic places never were much fun because she seldom saw the beauty of the landscape but was stuck in a stuffy room with stuffier writers. She turned to writing books, several on French cooking; she blogs about food at Dining Well in Des Moines with Wini Moranville.

Perhaps the most enjoyable part of the book was the discussion, especially the stories book club members shared about their own relationships with food. We talked about the weirdness of carrot Jell-O salad, and learned how to make Jell-O in England without a refrigerator, about a picnic with salmon and peas, and about our own experiences as young, energetic and occasionally not sober wait staff. This was a relaxing read in a stressful time, reminding us that our tables can be sanctuaries, sacred places for friends and family, and that through food we build community.

— Pat Prijatel

The Demon of Unrest, by Erik Larson

The book’s subtitle points to its main themes: “A Saga of Hubris, Heartbreak, and Heroism at the Dawn of the Civil War.” It is a full saga, though compressed into about five months, with plenty of each of those themes.

The election of Abraham Lincoln in November 1860 began a swirl of events in the North and in the South. In the swirl are successive state secession conventions, polarization of views, and Lincoln’s formation of his cabinet and the long train trip from Springfield to Washington. By April 1861, hostilities have begun. 

Along the way we meet a remarkable array of characters. Familiar characters include Lincoln and incoming Secretary of State William Seward, Robert E. Lee and Jefferson Davis; less familiar are people like Sen./Gov. James Hammond of South Carolina, the secessionist Edmund Ruffin, the diarist Mary Chestnut, Abner Doubleday in military service rather than baseball context, and Allan Pinkerton of detective fame. 

Larson takes us back into the decades leading up to 1860 to show the intensification of attitudes for and against slavery and how the hubris of those extreme viewpoints built on each side. Ultimately the extreme abolitionists could not reconcile slavery with union, those on the other side could not reconcile union with slavery, and all discounted the eventual cost of war. 

The heartbreak took many forms. Those in the middle ground were dragged to extreme positions by lack of familiarity with other regions, and by political bungling that drove people to opposite extremes. For example, John Brown’s raid on Harper’s Ferry pushed southerners to extreme defense of slavery, while South Carolina’s belligerence to Fort Sumter solidified northern union support. There were many examples of bungling as events built between the election and the inauguration on March 4. Did Lincoln need to enter Washington incognito? How could the battleship Powhatan be dispatched on two different missions? How many telegrams were misinterpreted or summarized to suit a political position? (Telegrams were a relatively new communication technique in 1860, and like e-mails today, lack tone of voice and body language that help convey accurate meaning. They were also subject to interception, non-delivery, and other problems. Letters and messengers were slower, but usually more secure). Decisions, like resupplying Fort Sumter, were delayed past the time when they could have made a difference.

Heroism was shown most clearly in Major Robert Anderson, commandant of Fort Sumter, which was strategically located to control access to the Port of Charleston.  He was given ambiguous orders and incomplete information, and inadequate garrison troops and supplies to actually defend the fort. He understood the political implication of surrender, and used judgment and tact to delay his surrender until mid-April, after secession decisions had been made. With 491 pages of text, the book packs a lot of information, but Larson delivers again as a superb story-teller. He gives us a page-turning narrative that holds the attention and still respects the historical record (there are 51 pages of bibliography and notes). The saga provided lots of grist for our discussion, from the depictions of slave markets to artillery techniques, planter society and mentality, and how political positions can be polarized. Even the history-reluctant members of our group enjoyed this saga.

— Bill Smith

The Serviceberry: Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World, by Robin Wall Kimmerer

This is an exquisite book—112 lovingly designed pages of thoughtful commentary, elegant language, and engaging drawings. It’s essentially an essay packed with a call to reconsider capitalism by injecting it with what Robin Wall Kimmerer calls the gift economy.

The back cover, with a luscious drawing of hands brimming with purple and red fruit, carries the message we’re to take with us: “All Flourishing is Mutual.”

Kimmerer uses a simple springtime fruit, the serviceberry (also called a juneberry, shadbush, wild plum, saskatoon and a litany of other names), as a metaphor for the difference between indigenous beliefs and capitalism. (Kimmerer is a member of the Citizen Potawatomie Nation, professor at the State University of New York’s College of Environmental Science and Forestry, and director of its Center for Native Peoples and the Environment.)

A gift economy, she writes, is built on sharing and recycling. When the serviceberry produces too much fruit for one family, the tradition is to give the remainder to neighbors and friends. In a capitalist approach based on concerns of scarcity, the rest might be hoarded or sold. There is no room in a gift economy for hoarding; great wealth is frowned upon because indigenous societies value reciprocity over accumulation.

It’s a system in which everybody gets a bit of the bounty, nobody goes hungry, but all involved—insects, birds, humans—reciprocate. “Just as all beings have a duty to me, I have a duty to them,” she writes.  “If an animal gives its life to feed me, I am in turn bound to support its life. If I receive a stream’s gift of pure water, then I am responsible for returning a gift in kind.”

Kimmerer uses multiple examples of current gift economies, including Little Free Libraries, and the larger public version on which they are based; sites such as Buy Nothing, which digitally connect neighbors who give away household items they no longer need; and recycling stores like The Freestore in Des Moines.

She acknowledges problems in the system, and points to the Tragedy of the Commons, in which those wishing to make a profit take control of community resources. In one case, a neighbor puts up a “free farm stand” full of fresh produce to share, and somebody steals the entire stand. (Kimmerer acknowledges that it was, in all fairness, advertised as free.) In response, an Eagle Scout replaces the stand and organizes other members to build similar structures in their communities.

The book is an easy, pleasant read that allowed us to dip our toes in economic theory, making it accessible and almost fun. It’s an antidote to the greed that is currently the operating philosophy in our government.

— Patricia Prijatel