When Kevin Powers’ debut novel, Yellow Birds, arrived on our shelves, Austen wouldn’t stop ranting and raving about it. I read it to shut him up, but truth be told, the book shut me up too. (You can read his blog here)

A Michener fellow, Kevin Powers studied poetry and fiction, and it shows in his work—stunning prose and poetry with a good story. It’s the best of both worlds.

 I had reservations about Powers’ poetry (What if it was horrible? What if he should have just stuck with fiction?) because, lets be honest here: poetry is not everyone’s cup of tea, and even if it is, poetry readers are a pretty picky bunch.

But Powers does something on the page that is rare; he makes us experience the speaker’s emotions. They aren’t just real, they are us (and not just the speaker— we’re the young republicans with popped collars, the boy in the dusty velour suite, the pretty girl at the Fourth of July celebration).

Letters Composed During a Lull in the Fighting follow an unnamed speaker through his return from Iraq and reintegration into society. We learn about his childhood, his mother’s pond, his fear and anxiety and regret.

Sometimes, when the wind blows so certainly

you feel that it is spring, regardless of the season,

there is no cause to comment on it. It goes,

and if it passes over a child

in a carriage at the end of the sidewalk,

you would be forgiven for not noticing

the one moment in our life

you were allowed to see the holy.

The poems accuse the reader. He is not trying to shock us with accounts of the terror on the front—as was the case with WWI poets—nor honoring the bravery of his comrades like 19th century poets. He is not cursing the “establishment/government/man.” The war in Power’s poems is not the result of a tyrannical dictator nor about war crimes. Rather, we are all standing accused. We are accused not of violence or arm-chair criticism. Rather we are accused of being human. Of having fear and shame and responsibility. We are guilty of not being dead.

The poems are not so much about war, but about our own insignificance. In war and peace, overseas and here, we don’t’ matter except to ourselves.

I must confess, I am a sucker for a good book jacket and when I really think about it, I would bet that about 75% of the time that is what lures me into picking up a book.

With this being said, I was perusing Lemuria’s newest books two weeks ago and the cover of Susan Minot’s newest novel, Thirty Girls, enticed my eyes.  I began to thumb through it because I was familiar with Minot’s previous works, such as Evening.  Soon I discovered that I must have this book for a variety of reasons.  Honestly, Thirty Girls hit a personal chord with me as soon as I read the inside jacket synopsis:

“Esther is a precocious Ugandan teenager who is abducted from her Catholic boarding school by Joseph Kony’s rebels and, along with twenty-nine of her classmates, forced to witness and commit unspeakable atrocities in the Lord’s Resistance Army.”

Now, let me just start with the name that hit me first:  Joseph Kony.  Joseph Kony and I go way back.  Actually, I have known Kony since 2003.  I first heard of his ruthless, power hungry, havoc-filled, and sadistic behavior when I was a freshman in college.

Time for a little history lesson:  in Kony’s attempt to form his own centralized government, a war began that has now spanned over fourteen years in Uganda; and eventually Kony’s men started to flee.  Kony had no other choice but to go to small villages, kill copious amounts of people, and those that remained he would enlist as soldiers.  For example, Kony would line children up.  These children would be as young as four and could be old as fifteen (still impressionable).  Kony would go down the line, one by one, asking each child if he would join his army.  If the child refused, a soldier would shoot him point blank.  The next child in line would witness this, have the same question asked, and would hopelessly join.  The girls who were abducted would become “camp girls” for the older soldiers.  The girls would be defiled and beaten.  When a girl was allowed to leave due to a trade or exchange or escaped, she would try to return home.  Yet, upon returning home she would find that her parents and village did not want anything to do with her due to her being “unclean.”  These girls with nowhere to go would often commit suicide, go back to the army camps, or live their lives in exile.

You and I were going about our ordinary lives as these events were taking place.  Now let us flash-forward to 2003.  A group called Invisible Children was at that time comprised of three people:  Jason Russell, Bobby Bailey, and Laren Poole.  In the spring of 2003 Russell, Bailey, and Poole traveled to Africa to document the War in Darfur.  Instead, they changed their focus to the conflict in northern Uganda, Africa’s second longest-running conflict after the Eritrean War of Independence.  They began to focus on the abduction of children who are used as child soldiers by Joseph Kony and his Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) and made a documentary.   People all over the world became aware of Kony.  The only things that mattered were saving these children and abolishing Joseph Kony.  (You are probably wondering where in the world I am going with this but I promise I will piece all of it together.)

I want to focus on another name:  Esther Akello. Esther Akello, one of the lives the novel Thirty Girls follows, has experienced and witnessed horrors that no pre-teen girl should ever be forced to endure.  Now, she is striving to adapt in a rehabilitation center.  Esther, like many of the girls, has become unfeeling as her mind struggles to handle what she has been forced to undergo.

“How were our days? We searched for food. We gathered vine leaves and cooked them. We ate cassava leaves, simsim, boiled sorghum. We carried the radio, carried water, and were always thirsty…”

Susan Minot’s description in explicit and direct detail, allows Esther to recount the ritualized rapes and sometimes impregnation, the beatings, the dehumanizing of these previously wholesome girls. The story haunts the reader and helps them become aware of the horrors that only Joseph Kony could enact.

Having known about Invisible Children and attending the numerous events that the organization held for the abducted children, I was immediately reminded of another child like Esther:  Grace.  Grace, like Esther, was abducted when she was only ten years old.  At thirteen she was forced to be a sex slave for a rebel commander 40 years older.  By the time she was sixteen, she managed to escape the bush only to find out that she was pregnant.  I had to read this book and I needed to know what would happen to Esther.  I could not disconnect the story of Grace from Esther’s.

Yet, Esther’s is only one part of the story.  The other interweaving story line focuses on the character Jane Wood, who struggles to know what she wants out of life.  Jane, an American writer, meets Lana while working together in London on a film set.  Lana, a native of Kenya, extended an open invitation to come and visit and Jane, needing something new and exciting, took the offer.  Jane comes to Africa to write about the horrors that are occurring in Uganda. Immediately through Minot’s vivid imagery, the reader is taken to a different part of Africa, even though atrocities are occurring only a few hours away.  Jane meets Harry.  Harry is an incalculably confident twenty-two year old.  Jane is fifteen years older than Harry and falls for him instantaneously and quickly becomes inseparable from his side.

Minot does a brilliant job in developing the characters of Esther and Jane.  I even might go as far to say that they are on the same spectrum.  Esther, who starts the story, is broken and a part of her has been taken away or murdered.  She seems to vastly differ from Jane.  Yet as the story progresses, we see a change:  the roles of Esther and Jane reverse.  Jane becomes the one who has to deal with an incredible tragedy and a piece of her dies along with her hopes and dreams.  Esther, on the other hand, begins to heal and truly understand what it is to live.

We find hope in Minot’s newest novel.  Hope that we, as readers, need to be reminded of every now and then in our busy lives.  We can rebuild from tragedy, and we can arise stronger like Esther Akello.

Available at Lemuria on March 18!

Let’s talk about the B.T.C. old fashioned grocery in Water Valley, MS. When my husband Daniel and I lived in Water Valley right after we got married, the B.T.C. was our go-to place for fresh produce, local meat cuts, and creamy, scrumptious cheese (you delicious dill Havarti, you, I dream of you nightly). In the back of the small building is an eatery ruled over by the grand and mighty chef Dixie Grimes and is populated on any given morning with several very, very old men eating grits. Dixie teamed up with B.T.C. owner Alexe van Beuren and together they decided to chronicle the incredible recipes used daily to feed Water Valley’s hungry townspeople. (You should read about Alexe and the B.T.C. here and here)  I am SO excited about this cookbook. Excited enough that when my coworker Lisa heard that I was a little obsessed with B.T.C. and asked me to write a blog about it I not only said yes! yes! a thousand times yes! I also promised to cook from it and write about that too. This blog had humble beginnings, I promise. As most things do in my life though, it quickly spiraled into a bigger-than-intended project, which is why I now present you with this full-fledged foodie extravaganza.

Picture it in your mind: roasted pork tenderloin, roasted fennel mashed potatoes, baked fresh green beans with mushrooms, and wine, wine, wine. I chose these recipes from the cookbook because first and foremost, they looked the easiest. Look, I’m not a natural when it comes to cooking. My sweet husband started the battle early by hitting the grocery store before I got home from work and then at 7:30 it was show time. I will say that I had way too many irons in the fire, but it all turned out beautifully, despite us not owning a roasting rack. I forgot to take a picture of our poor man’s solution to the lack of roaster but suffice it to say, I will be deep cleaning my oven when I get home from work today.

The recipes were wonderfully easy to follow, which for me is super important, and they used ingredients that I didn’t have to Google to figure out what they were. I mean the Barefoot Contessa is great and all and I want her to adopt me, but usually when I read her recipes I end up thinking, “wait, what is a wheatberry?” Dixie and Alexe have mixed together the perfect combination of finesse and accessibility that can make not-so-great cooks like myself feel like they really accomplished something delicious. Next up on the list: That chicken and asparagus casserole and some of their famous fried pies. Ooh! And that roasted pear and zucchini soup. 

We had a few friends over to help us with the feast, and boy am I glad we invited them. The yield on those recipes should have read “not just you and your husband”. I decided to go all Pioneer Woman and catalog my culinary journey through photographs, so here are too many of them…

Oh wait! Before you look at the pictures, one more thing. The B.T.C. grocery in Water Valley is, in my opinion, the heartbeat of that little town. I want you guys to buy this cookbook because the recipes are amazing and it’s full of stories of Southern revival, but I also want to raise awareness about this amazing business. If you’re ever in the area, stop by, tell them I’m missing them, and pick up a fried pie and a bit of town gossip on your way out the door.

Daniel in our matchbox kitchen. It is as small as it looks, and yes, we tripped all over each other and also the dog all night long.

So these were the hit of the night. After everyone’s plates were clean, we basically just polished these off straight out of the casserole dish. We are so classy.

Get in my belly potatoes! True story, I had never cooked with fennel before. It’s a giant bulb-like thing! Who knew?

The boys! You can’t tell in this photo, but David (in the purple) has a giant, regal lynx on his shirt. I’m a big fan of that kind of thing.

We ate excessive amounts of cheese. Shameful amounts. No apologies! YOLO!

No meat in the history of ever photographs well, but here are the delicious pork tenderloins. Go forth! Roast the loins!

Here’s a picture of my cat sitting in my lap like a little old man. I know this picture isn’t pertinent, but who doesn’t love a good silly cat photo?

My view of the bounty (cheese). I feel like this picture describes the evening pretty well, because the wine was flowing all night. We even tried our hand at toasts, and by “we”, I mean I was the only one cheesiest enough to do it. I think I used the phrase “sticks closer than a brother” which was probably weird for everyone else.