Tiltott gyümölcs

My fourteenth read this year was Five Quarters of the Orange by Joanne Harris, author of Chocolat. For some reason this epithet follows the poor (?) lady everywhere, and I hate it when they do it with someone. Like selling Julia Roberts films as starring "Academy Award winner J. R.," even if she was a baby when the film was made (not that I know of any film including her as a baby.) On the other hand, that's what comes first to my mind too, Harris being the author of Chocolat. The more embarrassing it is because what I associate with it is the film starring Juliette Binoche and Johnny Depp, and when I read the book at last I was kind of disappointed to see how different it was from the film.
This Provance-fad is another thing which makes me furious. I mean, haven't you noticed all these pointless attempts at showering us readers and movie-watchers with Provance-movies and Tuscany-movies, and even Provance-themed cooking shows? And we buy it all, even though we've never been to Provance in person, and believe me, the word "Provance" popping up in a movie is not a guarantee for good fun. Think of that Russell Crowe-Marillon Cotillard thing I don't even remember the name of, for instance.
One of my friends is a great fan of Harris, and I think read nearly all of her works. A few years ago I got Coastliners from her as a present, but I don't remember much of it. At the time I thought all Harris books are roughly the same, and didn't read any more up until now. And I liked it a lot.
Five Quarters of the Orange tells the story of a 65-year-old woman remembering her 9-year-old self and the events of a particular summer. This setting is kind of a cliché but didn't feel like it at all while reading. As a rule I don't like elderly people, perhaps because I travel too much by public transport, where I encounter the worst of them, I mean the worst side they can possibly show. You see them dragging their trolleys, elbowing their way round, gossiping, complaining about the youth, and eyeing you cruelly if you don't give up your seat, even if you're dragging half a dozen bags and your guts with you. Some days I try to tell myself "You will be like them one day" to remind me of respect and sympathy, but it hardly ever works. I know I'll be even worse than them, already complaining about my miseries half the time I'm awake, and I already dread the feeling. And yet I know they have a story of their own, just like I will have it, and I can't face the thought that one day I'll be just another stinky old bag for the ever so cheeky teens.
So what we have now is an old lady with a story. A lady who's flesh and bones, and a great cook actually, which is about the best one can wish for in old age, and that's how I want my grandchildren to remember me, too. Granny with the unforgettable blueberry pies (recipe stolen from her blogger soulmate, he-he, cool Gran knew how to use the Internet too). The other perspective, that of the 9-year-old girl is also quite interesting for me because my littlest sister is about the same age, well, ten going on eleven. It is such an amazing period with so much going on in their minds you can't possibly imagine half of it.
To get closer to the point, the story is set in a small village on the Loire, during the Nazi German occupation. What we know is that something terrible happened here, and that's why old Framboise has to disguise herself when she returns, I mean, change the name and all. The story unfolds gradually, the narrative shifting between the story of old and little Framboise. We also have an embedded text, the curious album of Framboise's mother, the infamous Mirabelle Dartigen. This album is all she has left to Framboise, along with a truffle in olive oil (if I remember correctly.) In it she wrote the recipes for her delicious meals along with various scribblings mostly written under the influence of severe migraines, referred to as "bad spells" in the book.
Only after decoding and reading through the album can Framboise have the chance to fully see and get close to her mother, known as a hard and unpredictably frantic woman in her life. And this is her chance to face her past and get close to her very own children, too.
I don't want to spoil it for you, so let's just settle that it's an enthralling book full of luscious food and intriguing story lines tangled into one big unit that is alive even in its tiniest particles. Just to give you an idea, Framboise was named after her mother's famous raspberry liqueur. Her daughters are called Noisette and Pistache, and her grandchildren are Peche, Prune, and Ricot. Now, I guess even one with a pitiful bit of talent for languages can see that it cannot be anything but the book of a true food-lover, which is exactly the kind of book I want to indulge myself with. So taste it and enjoy.

P.S. The day of the big interview is creeping in on me, and I've never in my life prepared so eagerly and anxiously for an interview. Have never spent that much either. It feels like in a casino now, when you've already spent so much you can't afford to lose, so place all your stakes on a single number. Meanwhile I'm struggling with a nasty cold yet again, overdosed with nasal drops, vitamin C, and herbal tea.