My Kitchen Wars

My Kitchen Wars

by Betty Harper Fussell

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My Kitchen Wars is a war story-but the warrior is a woman, the battleground is the kitchen, and the weapons are the batterie de cuisine with which Betty Fussell evokes her era's domestic battles. As much about hunger-emotional, sexual, intellectual-as it is about food, this fierce and funny memoir takes no prisoners.
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My Kitchen Wars is a war story-but the warrior is a woman, the battleground is the kitchen, and the weapons are the batterie de cuisine with which Betty Fussell evokes her era's domestic battles. As much about hunger-emotional, sexual, intellectual-as it is about food, this fierce and funny memoir takes no prisoners.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
As befits a noted food historian and writer (I Hear America Cooking), Fussell recounts how the domestic wars of her childhood, marriage and family life played out in a succession of kitchens--in brilliant vignettes marked by appealing humor, biting irony and unflinching honesty. In the house where Fussell was born, the scene of her father's delight in squeezing oranges became, before Fussell was two, that of the death of her high-strung mother, with an open tin of rat poison mutely testifying to the cause. Until Fussell escaped to college, she endured the harsh restrictions of a hostile stepmother whose favorite appliance was the pressure cooker. At school, Fussell concentrated on the primary mission of every girl in the late 1940s: landing a man. When she married Paul, a literature student, the inevitable wedding present of that era--a Waring blender--symbolized the beginning of a sophisticated lifestyle. Paul focused on his career in academe, while Betty enthusiastically embraced her role as wife and mother, and turned entertaining into a competitive sport. In the 1960s, the Fussells' circle turned to erotic excess: Betty recalls drunken wife-swapping and her own illicit affair, and she offers gossipy tidbits about Kingsley Amis and Philip Roth. Paul's book, The Great War and Modern Memory, brought him acclaim but, according to Betty, he continually demeaned her writing efforts. Their marriage failed after his homosexual affair with a student. Fussell was finally able to make her own way using what the French call a "batterie de cuisine" (kitchen artillery), displaying her considerable talents in such publications as the New York Times and nine of her own books. Agent, Gloria Loomis, Watkins Loomis Agency. First serial to the New Yorker; 8-city author tour. (Oct.) Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal - Library Journal
Fussell's riveting memoir parallels the lives of many women who fought their own private wars against a backdrop of tense world politics. Readers will empathize with her dysfunctional West Coast childhood, anticipate her liberation as she attends college during World War II, and celebrate her romantic marriage to a veteran with a promising academic career (historian Paul Fussell). Life as a young faculty wife began with earthy, pot-luck picnics and flirtation and evolved into elaborate, multicourse dinner parties, extramarital affairs, and boredom during the affluent, turbulent Sixties. Her marriage failing, Fussell embarked on her own remarkable career, becoming a food historian/writer acclaimed for her most recent work, The Story of Corn (LJ 7/92). More intense than Ruth Reichel's Tender at the Bone (LJ 3/15/98), this work features dark humor and stunning gastronomic descriptions that will speak to Fussell's contemporaries and astonish younger generations fighting different battles today. Recommended for public libraries.--Bonnie Poquette, Shorewood P.L., WI Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.
Bradley T. Johnson
Food writer Fussell whips up a tartly funny history of post-World War II domesticity in this memoir of her marriage to cultural historian Paul Fussell.

Entertainment Weekly

Laura Shapiro

Culinary memoirs have been piling up like flapjacks in recent years, but Fussell's beautifully written little book avoids the clichés of the genre...astute and evocative.


Kirkus Reviews
A memoir by a woman who measures out her life in kitchen utensils, from her father's orange-juice squeezer to an olive wood spoon used to stir "the stockpot of memories" simmered here.

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Product Details

Gale Group
Publication date:
Thorndike Press Senior Lifestyle Series
Edition description:
Large Print
Product dimensions:
5.77(w) x 8.76(h) x 1.16(d)

Read an Excerpt

Assault and Battery

Come in, come in. I've just made coffee and it smells, as good coffee should, of bitter chocolate.

Don't mind the mess. It's always this way, because a kitchen is in the middle of things, in the middle of life, as I'm living it now, this moment, the detritus of the past heaped like a midden everywhere you look. That squat brown bean pot we got in 1949 for our first kitchen, in a Boston slum, when I didn't know beans about cooking. That tarnished copper bowl I bought at Dehillerin in Paris in 1960, used heavily for souffl�s during my Julia decade, which I haven't used since for anything at all.

I like food because it's in the middle of the mess. I like thinking about what I ate yesterday, what I'll eat tonight, what we're eating now--this hot crumbly shortbread full of butter and toasted pecans. So delicious. So tangible, sensuous, real. I can hold it in my hand, in my mouth, on my tongue. I can turn it over in my mind. I can count on it. The next bite will bring the same intense pleasure the last bite did, and the same plea sure tomorrow, if there are any bites left.

Do you take milk, and would you like it frothed? This little glass jar has a plunger fitted with a wire-mesh screen, and when I pump it up and down, the hot milk thickens into a blanket of foam. It's the little things that count, and everything in my kitchen counts heavily. Look at this olive pitter that I use maybe twice a year, this shrimp deveiner which removes that telltale line of gut in a trice, this avocado skinner, ingeniously fiddle-shaped to allow me to separate soft flesh from shell in a single motion. When I try to explain to my grown children, to friends, to myself, why I still live a kitchen life, I begin with the naming of kitchen parts. Well-made implements, well chosen and well used, turn labor into art, routine into joy.

And yet the French got it right when they christened the kitchen arsenal the batterie de cuisine. Hunger, like lust in action, is savage, extreme, rude, cruel. To satisfy it is to do battle, deploying a full range of artillery--crushers, scrapers, beaters, roasters, gougers, grinders, to name but a few of the thousand and two implements that line my walls and cram my drawers-- in the daily struggle to turn ingredients into edibles for devouring mouths. Life eats life, and if we are to live, others must die--just as if we are to love, we must die a little ourselves.

I've spent most of my life doing kitchen battle, feeding others and myself, torn between the desire to escape and the impulse to entrench myself further. When social revolutions hustled women out of the kitchen and into the boardroom, I seemed to be caught in flagrante, with a pot holder in my hand. I knew that the position of women like myself was of strategic importance in the war between the sexes. But if you could stand the heat, did you have to get out of the kitchen? For even as I chafed at kitchen confinement, cooking had begun its long conquest of me. Food had infiltrated my heart, seduced my brain, and ravished my senses. Peeling the layers of an onion, spooning out the marrow of a beef bone, laying bare the skeleton of a salmon were acts very like the act of sex, ecstatically fusing body and mind.

While cooking is a brutal business, in which knives cut, whisks whip, forks prick, mortars mash, and stoves burn, still it is our most civilized act. Within its cardinal points--pots, a fan, a sink, a stove--my kitchen encompasses earth, air, water, and fire. These are the elements of nature that cooking transforms to make the raw materials of food, and the murderous acts of cooking and eating it, human. Cooking connects every hearth fire to the sun and smokes out whatever gods there be--along with the ghosts of all our kitchens past, and all the people who have fed us with love and hate and fear and comfort, and whom we in turn have fed. A kitchen condenses the universe.

Food, far more than sex, is the great leveler. Just as every king, prophet, warrior, and saint has a mother, so every Napoleon, every Einstein, every Jesus has to eat. Eating is an in-body experience, a lowest common denominator, by nature funny, like the banana peel or the pie-in-the-face of slapstick. The subversive comedy of food is incremental. Little laughs add up to big ones, big enough to poke a hole in our delusions of star-wars domination and bring us down to earth. The gut, like the bum, makes the whole world one.

That's why I write about food. It keeps me grounded in small pleasures that add up to big ones, that kill time by savoring it, in memory and anticipation. Food conjugates my past and future and keeps me centered in the present, in my body, my animal self. It keeps my gut and brain connected to each other as well as to the realities of the world outside, to all those other forms of being-animal, vegetable, mineral-of which I am a part. Food keeps me humble and reminds me that I'm as kin to a cabbage or a clam as to a Bengal tiger on the prowl.

That's why I decline the epic view from the battlements in favor of the view from my kitchen window, fogged by steam from the soup in the pot. When I chop onions and carrots, crush garlic, and hunt out meaty bones for my soup, I'm doing what I've done for decades and what women before me have done from the beginning of time, when they used stones instead of knives and ashes instead of pots. There's comfort in this, in the need, in the craft, in the communion of hands and of hungers. A wooden spoon links me to my grandmother in her apron and to the woman who taught Jacob to stir a mess of pottage. History can turn on a spoon, on a soup.

And so of arms and the woman I sing, while we drink our coffee, you and I. The singer is an "old stove," as they say in San Francisco of a woman who's done time at the burners. But the songs of an old stove, no matter how darkly they glitter, are gay.

Copyright (c) 1999 Betty Fussell

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