Next Up?

I finished two books within the last two days.  Both were related to food, both were pleasant, and both left me feeling that it would be okay to skip the last chapter or two.

One was the book by the woman who I said was a good, solid baker.  I still think that.  Throughout it, she made interesting comments about the art of baking, though I don't think she ever used the words art or craft. She just talked about what she made, and why she liked it.  Sometimes it was just because it was fun to make; sometimes because it reminded her of her grandmother - things like that.

The other was by a fellow who had more or less fallen into being a chef; as he said fairly far into the book, he seemed to have been born with an intuitive feeling for what would work, in a kitchen; what might taste good, what went well together.  After a lifetime of doing this, though, he was burned out, and so he and several friends went to stay in a leased house in France, in a small town.  He swore not to cook a single thing while he was there.

The first book - well, even given how much I liked her style, I got a little tired of all the things she knew how to bake.  It just kept coming.  There's a picture of her in the back of the book, frosting an enormous cake; I thought of my difficulty in frosting a cupcake, and sighed.  I liked her - she hardly ever alluded to who her sister was, or her occasional and ongoing brushes with the glamorous life; when she did, it was with a light, mocking touch -- but I thought that even with the recipes she included, I'd never be able to replicate any of it.  So, at about 90% of the way through the book, I gave up on it.

The other one was much worse.  Basically, everything - everything - that this fellow saw in France, he liked, and much preferred to home. The trains.  The weather.  The people driving cows in the country lanes.  And, of course, the food - the glorious, amazing, like god just invented it, food.  Not cook?  He cooked every day, and everyone exulted in the result.  I really wanted to like the book, but by about, oh, 60% -- I think it was the chapter that started with Everyone agreed with my decision to make meatloaf.  I had it freshly ground by the.... Yeah. Got it. So, enough of that one, too.

I suppose I should be pleased - I've read about 1 1/2 books, and liked them. Hmm?