I read this book because I decided I needed some fluff after the heaviness of the last book I read. This… well, it didn’t really fit the bill, somehow. I would have expected a book about cooking your way through The Art of French Cooking to be… happy? Fun, at least?
It wasn’t. It was ‘light’, for sure, but this book was so riddled with sarcasm and complaints (about the author’s job, about New York, about every other than New York, about her apartment, about the new place she moved in to in order to escape her apartment… and so on) that it actually made me angry just sitting there and reading it. I was somehow simultaneously angry at and angry for Julie Powell. It actually managed to just put me in a bad mood most of the time.
And although it was an easy read, it felt long. Nothing really happens in this book. It was just like climbing inside the head of a pessimist for a week and waiting for something interesting to occur, only to find yourself at the end of the book with nothing but a sour taste in your mouth.
It wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever read, but I did get a really icky Eat Pray Love vibe from it. It’s a self-indulgence thing, I think. Like, I get why it would be fun to write these books, but who really enjoys reading them? How did they get so popular in the first place?