Volume 2, No. 47: All My Love to the Library + Pumpkin Olive Oil Cake

Greetings, book and treat people! I put my Christmas tree up over the weekend and looking at it brings me joy every moment of every day. I used to forbid myself from putting it up before December 1. Then I realized that I’m an adult and I get to make the rules. Now I put it up whenever I damn please. Because joy: grab it where you can.

In this week’s Bookish Teatime video, I talk about a few books that are great for gifting, as well as some of my favorite indie bookstores around the country.

I read a lot of books from the library. Even though I read more ARCs and listen to more audiobooks now then I used to, I simply cannot imagine my reading life without the library. There is no way I could afford to read all the books I read if I had to buy them all—and I wouldn’t want to, either! So this week I’m celebrating how much I love libraries with three recent library reads.

The Books

Frontlist #1: Blue by Emmelie Prophète, tr. Tina Kover (Fiction)

This is a short, quiet book that often feels more like a poem than a novel. The unnamed narrator is a Haitian woman traveling home to Port-au-Prince from somewhere in the US. She’s waiting for her flight at the Miami airport, and she uses the time to reflect on the nature of travel, home, memory, belonging. Her thoughts return again and again to her mother and her mother’s two sisters, her aunts. She shares the stories of their lives—whether they chose to stay in Haiti or to leave, their relationships to the country and, more specifically, the neighborhood they grew up in, the families they did or did not make, their losses and loves. None of these stories unfold in a linear fashion, though. Instead, the narrator moves from memory to memory, letting her surroundings guide her thoughts.

A cup of coffee from Starbucks sends her into a deep meditation on the ritual of brewing and drinking coffee in her childhood, the feeling of being surrounded by women and partaking in a scared act. The travelers bustling down the airport corridors lead her into memories of the streets of Port-au-Prince, the colors and scents, the shapes of the house where she grew up. She repeatedly uses the word blue, referring often to “the blue province.” Though this book is basically without plot, and very internal, it’s also quite physical. Her family’s life is tied to a particular place, and she see seems to be trying to tease apart the strands of what connects her to that place, and what doesn’t. Descriptions of trees and roads, the ocean, vistas, houses—she returns to these physical realities again and again.

In many ways, this book feels like a spell. It pulled me along, and I was content to go where it led me. It’s not a story about change, or growth, or movement. The fact that it’s set in an airport only adds to this feeling of stillness. Around her, everyone is rushing, everyone is in transit, everyone is on their way to somewhere else. The narrator, too, is traveling, but it’s a quieter kind of travel. She sits at the airport Starbucks, catching her breath, watching the crowds, and the transient nature of the place allows her to settle in, to slow down, to let her mind wander. There’s something about this act of stillness that feels revolutionary, or at least meaningful. The novel takes place a month after 9/11. The narrator is a Black woman traveling home to her island nation, leaving the country that so many of her family members have tried to make lives in, a country that has done so much harm to those who have tried to live there. It’s a book about borders and immigration—the narrator is keenly aware of all the social and political complexities swirling around her—but all of that simmers under the surface.

This morning I am measuring the steps of those people, my people, their lowly paths. I am seeking their souls to console myself. I have an urgent need for reasons to dream, to continue to watch travelers, to think of where they might be going, what their lives are like. I’m alive, too, with roots painfully severed. I am strangely alive.

I could read the above paragraph over and over again. Each line rings out like a small poem. So much of the prose in this book is like this: exact and expansive and layered with meaning.

Frontlist #2: God’s Children Are Little Broken Things by Arinze Ifeakandu (Short Stories)

Let me start by praising the power of Bookstagram: this is a queer book I’d never heard of until Ian (@criticalgaze) recommended it to me. It’s spectacular, certainly one of the best story collections I’ve read this year, and one of my all-time favorite story collections, too. It is a beautiful, heartbreaking book. The prose is smooth and delicious—the kind of lovely writing that’s effortless to read, and so it fools you into thinking it must have been effortless to write. There are so many gorgeous details, so many ordinary moments captured with such a light touch, so much depth in the characterization. Everything about this book is perfect.

The stories are about everyday queer life in Nigeria. Most of them take place in Kano (Ifeakandu’s birthplace and the second largest city in the country), but some are set in Lagos. They’re mostly about gay men and their families. The longest story (and one of my favorites) charts the years-long relationship between two men, from their university days through their young adulthood, as one of them slowly becomes more successful in the music industry. Another favorite, “Where the Heart Sleeps” is about a woman who returns home to Nigeria after her father’s death, and the time she spends in her childhood home with his partner. I could write a whole essay on this story, all the layers of it, the quiet heartache of these two people sharing space and finding their way to each other through their separate, and different, kinds of grief.

I could write an essay about every story in the book, actually. What makes these stories so spectacular is the space Ifeakandu makes space for both tenderness and pain. The stories are mostly about romantic relationships, though some are about family relationships and friendships. In all of them, there is so much tenderness, so many moments of deep care and gentleness. In particular, Ifeakandu has a talent for writing quiet domestic scenes: lovers in the kitchen, watching TV, driving into the city, out at a bar, doing errands. In one of the stories, a character has his boyfriend saved as “Baby” in his phone, and in another story, a different character has his boyfriend saved as “My Heart.” I mention these details because I think they capture the joy and playfulness that Ifeakandu allows his characters. They are not shy about their love. They tell each other how much they love each other. They create homes in which they are safe, spaces where they are free to express themselves.

But these are not happy stories, either. These characters deal with homophobia in their daily lives. Some of them are rejected by their families. They are afraid to show themselves, to live public queer lives, for fear of what will happen. This fear affects their relationships and seeps into those soft, intimate moments. They are not safe. Lovers do not always manage to hold each other through all of it. Relationships end. There is so much heartbreak.

It’s easy, I think, to view stories about queer joy and stories about queer suffering as mutually exclusive, to posit these two experiences as opposites. Ifeakandu rejects this premise. He writes about queer suffering because it’s a reality of his character’s lives. And he writes about queer joy because it’s a reality of his character’s lives. The men in these stories make choices, hard choices, in service of their happiness, their liberation. They are not perfect people who never hurt each other or make mistakes. They do not lead blissful, easy lives. They grab joy with both hands. They experience tremendous loss. They delight in pleasure. They fight for each other, betray each other, take care of each other. They have little private jokes. They go about their ordinary lives. They are not their suffering, they are not their joy, they are not reducible.

Honestly, I haven’t done this book justice. There’s so much more I could say about all the complexities here, the endless ways Ifeakandu refuses the simple story and instead writes into the messy heart of what it is to be human. It’s rare for a story collection to move me so deeply, but this one is special. It will stay with me forever.

Frontlist #3: Other Ever Afters by Melanie Gillman (Graphic Fiction)

This is a lovely book of queer fairy tales. The art is especially wonderful. Each story has its own distinct style, and I found myself lingering on each page to take in all the details—the facial expressions and the clothes of the many characters, the various settings (forests, mountain ranges, villages, castles, gardens). I love the way Gillman draws monsters and other magical creatures—the monsters in most of these fairytales aren’t actually monstrous (or, at least, they aren’t villains) and that comes through in the art.

All of the retellings are queer, most of the characters are sapphic, and the stories all have unexpected endings that subvert old fairytale tropes. A ranger falls for a girl she believes is poaching in the king’s forest. A powerful queen tries to convince a beautiful goose girl to marry her, but the goose girl isn’t having it—she wants a basic living wage for everyone and an end to the queen’s tyrannical rule. A young woman is carried off by a giantess and learns the giantess is not the evil monster the villagers tell stories about. A knight whose greatest pride is to serve the princess finds new meaning when they meet an old woman in a quiet forest.

I’m realizing, as I write this, that I don’t know what fairytales most of these stories are based on. It doesn’t matter, because what Gillman captures is the feeling of a fairytale. The stories feel magical and timeless. They’re soft around the edges. They’re about journeys and the power of names. Themes, words, phrases, and scenes often repeat. Characters struggle through danger and learn someting about themselves and the world in the process. Gillman uses familiar vessels to tell stories about women who rebel, monsters who nurture those in need, princesses who find happiness outside of marriage, communities that create their own definitions of care and belonging.

I read this in under an hour, and then flipped back through, revisiting my favorite stories. It’s quick, comforting, delightfully subversive, and beautiful to look at.

The Bake

No one is surprised that I baked another cake from Snacking Cakes. This one is especially good, though. It is so soft. It’s like a pillow. Does that sound appetizing? I don’t know, I just know this cake has the most amazing, luxurious texture. The glaze—a maple olive oil glaze—is also spectacular. All the stars.

Pumpkin Olive Oil Cake

I added chocolate to this and changed the spices around, but otherwise it is all Yossy Arefi’s genius.

Ingredients

For the cake:

• 200 grams (1 cup) light brown sugar

• 2 eggs

• 230 grams (1 cup) pumpkin puree

• 1/3 cup (120 ml) olive oil

• 1 tsp cinnamon

• 1/4 tsp nutmeg

• A few grinds of black pepper

• 1/2 tsp salt

• 190 grams (1 1/2 cups) all-purpose flour

• 1 tsp baking powder

• 1/2 tsp baking soda

• 75 grams bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped

For the glaze:

• 100 grams (1 cup) powdered sugar

• 2 Tbs olive oil

• 2 Tbs maple syrup

• 1-2 Tbs hot water

• Pinch of salt

To decorate (optional)

• Flaky salt

• Sparkling sugar

• A handful of pepitas

Preheat the oven to 350. Butter an 8-inch square baking pan and line it with parchment paper, so that it overhangs on two sides.

Make the cake: In a large bowl, combine the eggs and sugar and whisk until pale and slightly thickened, 2-3 minutes. Add the pumpkin puree, olive oil, cinnamon, nutmeg, black pepper, and salt. Whisk until smooth.

Add the flour, baking powder, and baking soda and whisk until mostly combined. Add the chopped chocolate and mix until no streaks of flour remain.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top with an offset spatula. Bake until a tester inserted in the center comes out clean, 25-35 minutes. Let cool on a wire rack for 15-20 minutes before removing the cake from the pan.

Make the glaze: In a small bowl, whisk together the powdered sugar, maple syrup, olive oil, 1 tablespoon of hot water, and a pinch of salt. Continue whisking until smooth, adding more hot water if necessary, until you have a shiny, pourable glaze.

Pour the glaze over the cooled cake. Sprinkle with pepitas, flaky salt, and sparking sugar if you’re feeling fancy. Let the glaze set for 20-25 minutes before cutting.

The Bowl & The Beat

The Bowl: Broccoli, Cheddar & Potato Soup

I make a lot of potato soups, but I’m honestly not sure I’ve ever made broccoli cheddar potato soup until now. I was craving something rich and creamy, and had just bought a big bag of potatoes, so this is what I made. It was exactly what I wanted: warm and luscious.

Heat some butter, a few tablespoons at least, in a large soup pot. Thinly slice two leeks and add them to the pot. Cook over medium heat until the leeks being to soften, 5-10 minutes. Add a few pressed garlic cloves, some salt and pepper, and a big pile of chopped potatoes—maybe two pounds. Add 1-2 quarts (it depends on how many potatoes you use) of stock (any kind) or water. Bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer, and cook until the potatoes are soft, about 30 minutes. Meanwhile, cut 1-2 heads of broccoli into small florets and grate a whole lot of cheddar—I used about 1 1/2 cups.

Remove the soup from the heat and use an immersion blender to puree it—how much is up to you. I like a soup with texture, so I left some of the potatoes chunky. Return the pot to the stove. Add the broccoli, cheese, and a few glugs of cream. Cook over low heat until the broccoli is tender. Garnish with bacon if you want, and/or chives, scallions, parsley, and more cheese.

The Beat: Manifesto by Bernardine Evaristo, read by the author

Next up in my series of audiobooks I’ve loved that I haven’t written about here is this mostly linear and straightforward memoir about Evaristo’s life and career. There are a lot of musings on creativity and writing and doing artistic work for the long haul. I appreciated her directness and her reflections on how she’s changed as an artist over 40 years. I also loved the section on queerness, where she talks about how she was a lesbian for ten years. The idea of queerness being “a phase” is used so often and so violently to undermine queer experiences, which makes it tricky to write about. But for Evaristo, it clearly was—well, maybe “phase” is too flippant a word—but she was a lesbian, and then she stopped being a lesbian. And guess what: it’s allowed! People can be more than one thing. People can be something, and then stop being that thing. I really dug the way she wrote about it, refusing to adhere to anyone else’s (queer or straight) ideas about identity markers and how they apply to her life.

The Bookshelf

A Portal

A few years ago I decided that December is for comfort reading. It’s the darkest, coziest time of year, and it’s a stressful time of year for a lot of people. It’s a month tailor-made for comfort reading. I make sure to wrap up my work reading for the year in early December, and I dedicate the rest of the month to reading only what brings me joy. It’s one of my favorite yearly reading traditions.

Currently, my shelf of unread romance includes a whole bunch of books I can’t wait to read in the coming weeks: The Hellion’s Waltz, Unmasked by the Marquess, A Duke in Disguise, Queerly Beloved, and Mistakes Were Made.

Do you have any December reading traditions? Are you reading for comfort this month? Come talk to me in the comments!

A Bookish Quandary

Today’s question comes from Cheryl, and it’s another great one.

With all the amazing books out there that still need to be discovered, how do you decide to reread one you’ve already read? And is there ever a seasonality or ritual to your rereads?

One thing Cheryl mentioned is her question is that feeling of should—that we should be reading something new, even if we actually want to reread. I know this feeling well, and I’m getting better and better at banishing it. I’ve embraced rereading in the last few years, and the more rereading I do, the more natural it feels.

There are two main reasons I reread books. The first is for comfort. I reread a ton of romance, often on audio. I’ve reread most of KJ Charles’s catalog this year. There are certain books I reach for when I’m stressed, upset, or anxious. I used to feel guilty about this kind of rereading but now I know that a) who gives a fuck, my reading life is my own, and b) if I forbid myself from rereading whatever delicious comfort novel I’m craving in the moment, I get stuck in a reading slump.

The other kind of books I reread are the books that I can’t get to the bottom of in just one read. I trust my instinct about these books, and and my instinct is almost always right. I usually know the moment I finish a book if it’s one I want to reread. A few books in this category that I’ve reread in the past two years: Yerba Buena, Stone Fruit, The Town of Babylon, and Butter Honey Pig Bread.

The challenge, of course, is actually giving myself permission to take the time to reread. I’ve started rereading a lot of books on audio, which is a way to trick my brain into making space for rereading—experiencing a book in a different format is, in some ways, new. I also remind myself that I’ve never regretted rereading a book, and when I remember that, it’s easier to just go for it.

I do have several seasonal rereading rituals. I reread The Lord of the Rings every other December, like clockwork. I always start it on Christmas Day. This has become such a familiar part of my reading life that I don’t question it anymore. It’s just what I do, and I’m never sad about it. December, in general, is a big rereading month for me. I spend a lot of time baking, so I often set aside books to reread on audio while I’m in the kitchen. These days, rereading in December just feels right. I look forward to it all year.

Around the Internet

For Audiofile, I wrote about three audiobooks that highlight and explore the communities that shape who we are.

Now Out / Can’t Wait!

Now Out

A Line in the World by Dorte Nors (Graywolf): I came across this book browsing the Graywolf website and immediately put it on hold at the library. I don’t know anything about this author, but I love books that blend memoir, history, and nature writing. Also: I will read anything about the ocean and/or northern places.

Can’t Wait

The New Life by Tom Crewe (January 3, Scribner): I downloaded an ARC of this queer historical set in 1890s London because it sounded interesting, and then I read my bookish friend Jessica’s review and that made me even more excited to read it.

Bonus Recs: More Great Library Books

I’ve read 69 books from the library this year! Here are a few I didn’t review, but that I enjoyed immensely: The Words in My Hands by Asphyxia (YA dystopian graphic novel by a Deaf author), Hijra by Hala Alyan (poetry), Little Foxes Took Up Matches by Katya Kazbek (queer fiction set during the fall of the Soviet Union), and Ready When You Are by Gary Lonesborough (queer Aboriginal YA).

The Boost

• The Chappaquiddick Wampanoag Tribe is raising funds toward their goal of land reclamation on Chappaquiddick Island (part of Martha’s Vineyard).

• It’s gifting season, if you do that sort of thing. There are oodles of gift guides all over the internet, and I’m not going to make another one. But it’s always a great time to support Indigenous-owned businesses, so here are a few ideas:

  • I don’t know anything about the people who made this list, but they have good taste in books.

  • There are so many beautiful things (art, jewelry, foodstuffs, cards, etc.) at Birchbark Native Arts, which is part of author Louise Erdrich’s bookstore Birchbark Books.

As always, a little bit of beauty to send you on your way: The days are getting darker, but brilliant winter sunsets are lightning up the afternoons.

I’ll be taking a break from the newsletter starting in mid-December, which means you’ll be getting three special editions (double newsletters!) over the next three weeks. The first one comes out this Friday—catch you then!