Crimble-crumble and Co from Pete Brown

I absolutely love it when I look forward to a book and when I finally get to read it, it is as good as I imagined. Quite often, that's not the case - see The Binding by Bridget Collins - but when it is, boy it boosts my literary ego.

Pie Fidelity: In Defence of British Food is one of these - in fact, it has surpassed expectations for me, anyway. I think I first found out about it when applying for a job at Penguin Press last Spring which, despite not even flirting with the idea of giving me the job, has since become my favourite imprint. Penguin Press encompasses Allen Lane, Penguin Classics, Particular Books and Pelican: basically everything I could ever want in life. Their books include Kings of the Yukon and poetry anthology Zoo of the New (highly recommended, I keep it on my desk at all times) for example; and now, Pie Fidelity.

Pete Brown sets out to re-discover and re-evaluate nine typically British dishes - at least that's the easy way to sum up, but what counts as 'typically British' and why is another question put to rather interesting debate in this book. From pie and peas through fish and chips, spag bol and even the humble cheese sandwich, not only does he try to consume these dishes in their most traditional setting, he also writes about their history, how they came to be a 'national dish' and far and wide anything interesting that relates to them.

What did I like about it?

Everything. Pete's humorous, tongue-in-cheek writing style mirrors perfectly the sentiments towards the dishes he writes about, the very Britishness of although publicly we'd denounce fish and chips with an apologetic smile, try saying something bad about the dish and we'll be quick to aggressively defend it.

He especially comes into his element when describing the eating experiences, and despite reading this at 7am on the tube, he still made me crave spag bol immediately. The enthusiasm, detail and gentle love for these dishes makes the reader feel these exact feelings towards the book; it even makes me want to head to Blackpool for some proper fish and chips (despite vehement opposition from my partner) and to try 'off-the-bone' chicken curry even though... ugh. Gross.

I especially enjoyed his description of taking cream tea, and how his initial skepticism towards the pomp of the ceremony quickly turned into passionate love and understanding once he saw his scones arrive on a tiered cake stand. (Who wouldn't have a change of heart?) "As soon as I see the stand ... I'm flooded by the feeling that this is a special occasion. Suzanne could have served our order on a bunch of separate plates, but where would the fun be in that? And besides, with so many different components, the tidy order of our relatively small table would have been ruined. It would have become... unseemly."

There's also lots of fascinating food history and research; Pete has dug deep in the archives. From how fried fish came to be sold together with fried potato, to why Danish bacon imports made it affordable, he covers it all - one of my absolute highlights from the book though is his detailed calculation of the possible varieties of full English one can order at a café. Also, did you know Britain produces over 700 named cheese varieties? No, you didn't.

What was I not massively fond of?

Perhaps the only thing I'd highlight here is the varying lengths of the chapters - crumble and cream tea get much less air time than fish and chips or curry. But I'm not blaming this on Pete. After all, just how much research could be done on crumble?

Also, for some reason I keep imagining Pete as Jay Rayner, even though he's not and I don't even like Jay Rayner. Annoying. Sorry, Pete.


Overall...

Writing this review was like being a kid in a candy shop, all 'ooh, that was a good bit' and 'ooh, I should include this too'. I didn't realise how much I enjoyed this book. The selection of dishes is perfect, I wouldn't have it any other way; the research is brilliant, the writing flows, the eating is enviable.

It's funny, it's kind, it's interesting and totally delicious. We are so ordering a curry tonight.


9/10

The Most Beautiful Book About Nature-Hoarding

If one was asked to define what 'nature writing' really means, it might be more of a challenge than one might think. I, for one, was asking myself this question while reading The Wild Remedy by Emma Mitchell.

I'm on a bit of a nature writing stint at the moment. I've read nearly the entire backlist of Robert Macfarlane, have dipped into Roger Deakin, have got Nan Shepherd lined up; I've read about figs and oak trees and pebbles, and have had a blast doing it. With this book though, I had to question the very nature of nature writing. Something just wasn't right.

The Wild Remedy declares itself to be a diary, and the idea is so lovely - in a nutshell, Emma Mitchell sets out to explore the healing effects of nature through her own grapple with depression, diarizing her walks with her dog, Annie, and her various adventures in search of natural wonders in the UK. Just the kind of thing that should fit into my above 'starter pack' in nature writing, in theory.

What did I like about it?

It's true that this book looks absolutely stunning. Emma is a talented illustrator and photographer (as well as hoarder of beautiful little things - a true soulmate to me), and the book is peppered with her artwork, illustrating her stories, which I think not enough books in this area do. With other books, I often find myself googling as I go along, looking up plants and animals and places I can hardly imagine; with Emma's book, I didn't have to. I absolutely loved every little piece of art in there.

She has really good knowledge of her local flora and wildlife, as well as those of the areas that she ventures to throughout the book, from Suffolk to Pembrokeshire. Her insider knowledge of bird habits or flowering seasons really helped feel just as excited as she did upon finding a rare wild orchid or seeing the first snowdrops of the year.

What was I not massively fond of?

It's with regret that I have to say that Emma's writing style just did not appeal to me. Sometimes she ventured into that - for me at least - over-sentimental language that sometimes threatened Adam Weymouth too, but unlike Adam, I didn't feel that she could then successfully navigate back to solid ground.

It's most likely unfair for me to say this, but as a reader, I felt that she held back too much detail about her personal life too. For a book that intends to open up honestly about depression and experiencing it day-to-day, it would often only state something like 'something bad had happened' or 'bad periods'. And, due to this, I had trouble identifying with the heaviness of depression itself. Of course, it's easy for me to say I would have been honest about all these things - who knows?

My final bone to pick with Emma is her fondness of technical language when it comes to her depression, which often feels forced. She hovers between a lyrical, poetic work that describes both depression and nature in flowery detail, and presenting research into depression without actually saying much about it. The blurb promises that she "explains the science behind such changes, calling on new research" - none of which really happens in my opinion. She seems very keen on the word 'neurotransmitters', and passages like this made me weary: "My overwhelming urge to stay in the house and barely move comes from my susceptibility to the lower levels of bright sunlight in late autumn and winter, causing my energy levels to falter. This is combined with the long-term effects of family anxieties and pressures, leading to raised stress levels..." It feels a bit like reading a textbook.

I don't mean to criticize the author herself, nor to demean the seriousness of the condition she has to battle every day. I think it all comes down to writing style, which in this case to me felt jarring.

Overall...

It's a shame that I didn't enjoy her style, because the topic of the book is a great one. The execution deserves the highest praise, because despite this being primarily a piece of non-fiction, it would easily pass as a coffee table book. And I'm sure others might enjoy the writing, too. Don't expect to find out much about how nature heals us, apart from the fact that it truly does - which in itself is a miracle - but if you give yourself over to purely the stories of the author's adventures, you will enjoy a pleasant enough read.

5/10

To The Lighthouse

Have you ever pondered over the fact that we've been to space and the Moon, yet there are still vast areas of ocean floors that we haven't set eyes on? Or that there is such an occupation as 'oceanaut'? I think it says so much about the secretive, elusive and terrifying nature of our waters on Earth - surely something to be respected and feared.

Yet of course, just like the air and land, we have declared victory over our waters too, shipping and cruising across the world for business or pleasure. It seems cocky to think we've got this under control.

The sinking of cargo ship El Faro [the Lighthouse] in October 2015 is the 'proof in the pudding' - a haunting phrase that returns many times towards the end of Into the Raging Sea, the book by Rachel Slade that tells the story of this maritime disaster in detail.

It is a truly fascinating account: using the actual conversations transcribed from the ship's 'black box', we get real insight into the days leading up to the tragedy, and this is accompanied by in-depth analysis of the preceding history and events following the sinking of the ship. I love the back cover copy of this book, because for once it genuinely sums up the contents of the work, and perhaps is worth quoting here in full:

Why did the captain steer directly into a hurricane?

Why did the engines fail?

How could it sink without a single survivor?

Who's responsible?

What did I like about it?

I didn't think the story itself would be as captivating as it turned out to be - don't try selling me something with the word 'megastorm' on the cover - but Slade's powerful narrative works wonders to bring the tragedy alive and to hammer home the significance of such a singularity. It takes an in-depth look at the laws and regulations around shipping in the US, outlining the many areas in which it is lacking, and going deeper into the history of how these regulations developed in the first place.

She also takes good care to present all the major figures from the transcription in detail: backgrounds, interests, employment history, even personal lives are provided for everyone from captain of El Faro Michael Davidson to John Glanfield, retired shipbuilder who took part in the creation of El Faro's 'older sister'.

The human element is well balanced with the technical, and Slade is thorough in every area, which gives the book a satisfying air of professionalism. The years of research she must have carried out comes across bright as day - she knows the story inside out and it seems has spoken to everyone even remotely connected to the tragedy in any way. From how the crew is recruited for voyages through shipbuilding and weather forecasting, she leaves no stone unturned. And this helps people who know absolutely nothing about container shipping - me being a prime example - to not feel left out, but in fact come away with a general idea. And this is what good non-fiction is supposed to do. It makes us care.

What was I not massively fond of?

There are a few points I picked up on throughout the book for this section. Number one being that Slade too often flirts with melodrama in her writing style for my liking. When approaching turning points, short, dramatic sentences and single-sentence paragraphs take charge, and in my opinion cheapen the occurrences to the feeling of a disaster film. "In the whipping winds and waves, Shultz secured the scuttle. But it was too late." "Time slowed to a crawl. The sky began to take shape. Dawn." Of course, this type of dramatic tension is necessary, no debate - but I think a touch of subtlety would have gone a long way.

I also found that perhaps sometimes the technical bits went a bit too in-depth and I found myself zoning out. When discussing the Jones Act, for example (federal law that regulates maritime commerce in the US), we spend a long time on Alexander Hamilton and his role in the creation of the law, as well as its many variations. Interesting and absolutely relevant to the story, no doubt, but perhaps a bit of editing down would have worked in the book's favor.

The blame is also very clear in the book. Slade doesn't shy away from making her opinions known. Of Davidson: "What kind of a man is capable of facing such excessive errors of judgment?" (I mean, fair enough, she is right, but still.) Perhaps the book was written with a purpose more than just education.

Finally, there is a chapter towards the end of the book - 'Spirits' - that I just did not understand. It's only a few pages, but talks about the many 'ghostly' occurrences that family members and friends of the crew of El Faro have experienced after the tragedy. Premonitions, ghostly communications and the like. I would have cut this out entirely.

Overall...

The significance of the sinking of El Faro in maritime history really shows itself in the second part of the book, which deals with the aftermath and trial. US officials are baffled. People who deal with shipping emergencies all day, every day, for decades, are shocked. And it slowly dawns on us how outrageous and unfair it is to have lost 33 lives at sea due to, in large part, bureaucracy. It's frankly disgusting.

This is a well-written account, captivating in every way and, hopefully, influential to the right eyes.

P.S. If you're more the dip into things kind of reader, here's an in-depth article about the tragedy.

7/10