Okay, this is getting ridiculous. If you've been coming here for any amount of time, you know that even at the best of times the posts about, you know, actual books I've read, can be a bit on the scant side. I don't know why I do this. What can I say? I'm a mystery, even to myself.
Is it fitting that I'm finally finishing a post that I started TWO MONTHS AGO on April Fool's Day? Probably. While I may have been remiss in the book bloggery front, at least I've been reading at an okay pace and tracking my reads on the saddest looking, most dog-eared post-it note you can imagine.
But enough chatter. Let's get this out of the way before I get distracted by something shiny.
Before I say anything about this book, I feel like I have to defend myself here from potential charges of foodie-ism. I am not a foodie. I like food. I like eating it, and cooking it, and reading about it. BUT I AM NOT A FOODIE. Mostly because, like all decent people, I hate the word "foodie".
This is where I get into sticky territory. I hate saying mean things about books. For one thing, writing books is hard -- about a gazillion times harder than writing a blog post, and look how awesome I am at that? For another thing, on the extremely rare occasions that I've written anything negative here about a book, the author has somehow discovered it (thanks a bunch, Google) and written me a justifiably hurt note. And these notes are unfailingly polite. It kills me. I don't need that kind of guilt in my life. I already have kids.
So that's my circumspect way of saying that, while French Lessons wasn't awful, I value your precious reading time too much to recommend it. If you're reading this, Peter Mayle, I'm sorry, but hopefully you'll be comforted by the fact that, for people in search of vicarious food and fun in southern France, I still fully endorse A Year in Provence.
More reading updates to come soon. I'm 95 percent sure I'm not making an April Fool's Day joke when I say that.