Keeping the Wolf From the Door

Books 8, 9, 10, and 11

I was a young woman, still in high school. In love, getting married, having a baby. We wanted the baby, knowing it would be hard but believing we were ready for the challenge.

So, during that time Dad gave me a book. How to Cook a Wolf by M.F.K. Fisher. I never read the book and don't even know why. Perhaps because I thought it was supposed to be a cookbook, or because of so many resentments between us.

I read How to Cook a Wolf this week, along with a couple of other books by M.F.K. Fisher (Serve if Forth, Consider the Oyster, and The Gastronomical Me.) All these books are compiled in a book titled The Art of Eating.

Dad was a philosopher, and he loved showing his heart rather than telling people his feelings. How to Cook a Wolf was his way of preparing me for the adversity and challenge in being a young family with little money. I believe he was trying to tell me that I could do it, and that he knew I could. That's something I never knew, and it makes me sad to think that I only felt his judgment and disappointment instead of his support.

Oh, well! There's nothing I can do about it now except belatedly acknowledge the gift, and be happy because I feel closer to him now that I have read it.

M.F.K. Fisher is a wonderful writer. I have thoroughly devoured these books and am about to dive into An Alphabet for Gourmets. The Gastronomical Me is definitely my favorite.

Fisher is a thoughtful, interesting, articulate woman who is appreciative of people and food, and has the talent of being able to tell a story with crisp descriptions that are just perfect. For example she described a woman as having a "kind of leashed vitality" - I loved that. Her generosity of spirit inhabits her writing.

I probably should wait a bit before writing more, as I am still in that overwhelmed state that comes when I finish a great book. It was crazy stormy today, with 60 mile per hour gusts and the tree branches wrenched up and then down, leaves flying everywhere and pounding rain. The power was out most of the day, and Paul and the dogs and birds and I huddled by the fire. It just might have been the perfect Saturday.