I still haven’t finished Gabrielle Hamilton’s book yet, but I’m so in love with it right now. Besotted, really. I love how honest, quiet, fair, and thoughtful she is about her experiences. I love how she describes every nook and cranny of her life education. It’s probably the cold glow coming from my iPad, but I can just feel the incandescence of her warmth. No wonder Anthony Bourdain called it “simply the best memoir by a chef ever. Ever.” and wanted to burn all his own works!
Hamilton’s narrative makes me want to eat (I must go to Prune the next time I’m in the East Village), she makes me want to travel, but most of all, she makes me want to love everything. In a world marred by the actions and words of irrational individuals and groups, it’s absolutely necessary to be reminded of things that are good (a word, in addition to that of “love”, that carries more weight than it is given credit, but that’s a Tumblr ramble for another day). I’m just reminded of what good represents and the importance of finding meaning and purpose in one’s work. I can just feel all my building cynicism melt away as I continue to delve deeper into Hamilton’s world and surrender myself to the struggle of love and all that is good.
Love— the remaining cynic in me considers it so trite, but yet I can’t help myself. Is this how people on ecstasy feel?