Amy Scribner

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Marcus Samuelsson made his name as one of the youngest executive chefs in Manhattan and a familiar face on the Food Network.

What might be less familiar is Samuelsson’s fascinating personal history, which he lays bare in Yes, Chef. Born in Ethiopia, Samuelsson and his sister became dangerously ill with tuberculosis. Their mother walked with them from their remote village to Addis Ababa, where she died. The children were adopted by a loving Swedish family.

Samuelsson spent much of his childhood at the elbow of his Swedish grandmother, an excellent home cook, and went on to work at restaurants in Europe. But after a horrific car accident killed one of his closest friends, Samuelsson sought an apprenticeship to take him away from his grief. He landed at New York’s Aquavit, a restaurant that is, he writes, “more Swedish in its menu than any I had ever worked in.”

This was the beginning of a love affair with New York City. To read his descriptions of the food he eats, from steamed buns in Chinatown to roasted meats from street vendors, is to almost viscerally experience the smells, sounds and sights of the city.

Although he traveled the world learning about every cuisine from French to Mexican, Samuelsson was at a loss when a student asked him to describe trends in African cooking. He had not set foot on the continent since he was a toddler. Rediscovering his Ethiopian roots led him to open the successful Red Rooster in 2010, deliberately choosing the underappreciated streets of Harlem as the site for the restaurant.

Samuelsson’s is the most unlikely of journeys, and he takes readers along every step of the way in this delicious memoir.

Marcus Samuelsson made his name as one of the youngest executive chefs in Manhattan and a familiar face on the Food Network.

What might be less familiar is Samuelsson’s fascinating personal history, which he lays bare in Yes, Chef. Born in Ethiopia, Samuelsson and his sister…

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On its surface, Kristen Iversen’s childhood in suburban Denver was idyllic. She and her three younger siblings had horses to ride, a local lake and a neighborhood filled with kids.

But just under the surface lurked dangers that Iversen doesn’t fully understand until she is much older. Her Scandinavian parents believe in a stiff upper lip. They rarely acknowledge Iversen’s father’s alcoholism, even after he flips the family car on the way to a horse show. Only after years of chronic pain does Iversen discover the incident broke her neck: Her parents never took her to a doctor after the wreck.

Perhaps even more sinister than the Iversen clan’s demons is the threat just upwind from their home: Rocky Flats. Most local families believe Rocky Flats is a factory for household cleaning supplies. The truth is that Rocky Flats is a U.S. Department of Energy facility churning out plutonium “pits” for the thousands of nuclear weapons assembled during the Cold War.

Even a tiny speck of plutonium ingested in a human body can lead to cancer, immune disorders and other long-term health problems. Unbeknownst to those who live downwind from Rocky Flats (and, indeed, to many of the thousands of Rocky Flats employees), the plant is careless in both producing the plutonium pits and handling the resulting radioactive waste. Thousands of leaking barrels of waste seep into the soil and drinking water. Regular fires at the plant—some intentional—release plutonium particles and other toxic material into the air. Yet from the 1950s through the 1970s, public health officials insist Denver and surrounding communities are safe, even as children and adults in Iversen’s neighborhood develop testicular cancer, brain tumors and other health issues.

With meticulous reporting and a clear eye for details, Iversen has crafted a chilling, brilliantly written cautionary tale about the dangers of blind trust. Through interviews, sifting through thousands of records (some remain sealed) and even a stint as a Rocky Flats receptionist, she uncovers decades of governmental deception. Full Body Burden is both an engrossing memoir and a powerful piece of investigative journalism.

On its surface, Kristen Iversen’s childhood in suburban Denver was idyllic. She and her three younger siblings had horses to ride, a local lake and a neighborhood filled with kids.

But just under the surface lurked dangers that Iversen doesn’t fully understand until she is much…

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When Rosecrans Baldwin, author of the critically acclaimed novel You Lost Me There, landed a gig with a French ad agency, his longtime dream to live in Paris came true. Though his French was iffy—and his wife Rachel’s was nonexistent—they packed up and traded Brooklyn for the third arrondissement.

In his funny and candid memoir, Paris, I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down, Baldwin learns that life in the City of Light isn’t all croissants and berets. Sure, Paris can be beguiling, filled with exquisite food, art and history. But living in France has its drawbacks. It means dealing with endless bureaucracy: Rachel had to provide an application, two photographs, a copy of her passport, a copy of a recent bill, a copy of their lease and a notarized document proving international health insurance to join the neighborhood gym. It also means struggling with the finicky language and enduring notoriously melancholic winters. “Cold in Paris was both a physical and a mental state,” Baldwin writes. “It explained why Parisians wore scarves in June, because winter haunted them.”

Still, Baldwin is not immune to the enchantments of Paris. On a return trip to Manhattan for work, he is stricken by its size and noise. “Every cliché ever lodged against New York percolated inside me, and my acquired French radar went bananas,” he writes. “New York smelled fried where Paris smelled baked. It was a totality, an expression of many cities. Paris, on the other hand, was a village. Perhaps I’d become a village person.”

Although Paris has a starring role, the book is as much about big life choices—work, family and purpose—as it is about a place. Baldwin just does his navel-gazing in a slightly better setting than most of us. “Was my dream now to rise in French advertising?” he writes. “I didn’t know how long it would last. I didn’t know how long I wanted it to. Every day was an improvisation. I was so tired.”

Ultimately, Baldwin and his wife move back to America, but they can’t quite leave the city behind. “Saying goodbye to Paris was something a person did when he knew he was dying,” he writes. “Until then, Paris was forever one day soon.”

When Rosecrans Baldwin, author of the critically acclaimed novel You Lost Me There, landed a gig with a French ad agency, his longtime dream to live in Paris came true. Though his French was iffy—and his wife Rachel’s was nonexistent—they packed up and traded…

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Tania Head was in the south tower of the World Trade Center when a hijacked jet sliced through it, leaving her severely injured and barely able to escape before the tower came crashing down. In those same perilous moments, her fiancé died in the blaze of the north tower.

Or so her story went.

The subtitle of The Woman Who Wasn’t There is “The True Story of an Incredible Deception,” but “incredible” doesn’t begin to capture the depth of Head’s lies in the wake of the horrific terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. Head, whose seeming strength and resilience made her a cause célèbre and co-chair of the powerful World Trade Center Survivors’ Network, was not in the tower on that awful day. She was not even in the country.

How Head managed to hoodwink so many for so long is the focus of this fascinating book. She started her deception shortly after September 11, when she joined an online survivors’ forum. Her mind-boggling story of loss and hope comforted others suffering from guilt and post-traumatic stress. No one thought to question the veracity of her account, which included an encounter with a badly burned man in the 78th-floor sky lobby who begged her to return his wedding ring to his wife. Her story began to unravel only after a New York Times reporter profiling her for an anniversary story tried to verify her claims.

Head’s motives are perhaps unknowable, but the reader is left yearning for more answers than the authors are able to give. Certainly Head had her share of traumatic experiences: As a teen, she was in a serious car accident that nearly severed her arm. Her parents had an ugly divorce, and her father and brother were involved in a high-profile embezzlement scandal. But what causes someone to exploit such a tragic event? Head never applied for victim compensation, and her work with the Network was voluntary. In the end, all she gained was a small measure of fame and intimate friendships with survivors. Ultimately, The Woman Who Wasn’t There forces us to examine our need for connection and purpose by any means necessary.

Tania Head was in the south tower of the World Trade Center when a hijacked jet sliced through it, leaving her severely injured and barely able to escape before the tower came crashing down. In those same perilous moments, her fiancé died in the blaze…

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Only two cents of every dollar African Americans spend in America go to black-owned businesses. Disturbed by this leakage of money from black communities, Maggie and John Anderson pledged to spend a year buying only from black-owned businesses for themselves and their two young daughters.

They called it “The Empowerment Experiment,” and hoped to start a movement that would harness black buying power and infuse money into local communities. More local purchasing leads to better services and more jobs, and can even help alleviate “food deserts,” areas where residents have few fresh, healthy, affordable choices.

It seemed like a simple idea. And yet, even in Chicago, with its many black neighborhoods, the Andersons struggled to find groceries, clothes, gas, restaurants and household goods. Black-owned businesses simply didn’t exist in most places.

Our Black Year is a blistering, honest journal of the Andersons’ efforts to buy black, and those efforts can only be described as Herculean. Maggie Anderson spent hours driving to far-flung, dumpy minimarts to pick up $6 boxes of sugary cereal and subpar produce. “I felt like it was my duty to keep shopping this way,” she wrote. “If a point was going to be made, maybe it was good that I didn’t have a wonderful option . . . because most Black Americans don’t.”

The Andersons got widespread media coverage for The Empowerment Experiment—and a different, uglier kind of attention, too. Comments on their website ranged from supportive to downright sinister. Some suggested the family move to Africa. Others called them racist, and suggested they wouldn’t give their children medical care unless it was from a black doctor.

Maggie, a business consultant, and John, an attorney, were confounded by the vitriol. “We viewed our project as a moderate, well-reasoned form of self-help economics, something that people across the political spectrum could support. After all, experts of every stripe agree that the problems in America’s impoverished neighborhoods—black, Hispanic, Hmong or rural white—are fundamentally economic. So why were we being tagged as racists?”

Our Black Year is a brisk call to action, offering clear-eyed perspective on how African Americans got to where they are today and what they can do to support black business owners. In Maggie Anderson’s eyes, it’s a moral imperative. “My worst fear is that black people will always be the pitiable, ridiculed underclass,” she writes. “We built nations and empires, invented industries and revolutionary products, and conquered slavery, rape and genocide. We put a black man in the White House. And we’re still stuck at the bottom.”

Only two cents of every dollar African Americans spend in America go to black-owned businesses. Disturbed by this leakage of money from black communities, Maggie and John Anderson pledged to spend a year buying only from black-owned businesses for themselves and their two young daughters.

They…

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You can be forgiven for being distracted these days. It is a sign of the times, according to the authors of Organize Your Mind, Organize Your Life, a how-to book that manages to be both entertaining and rooted in current brain science. They write, “There was a time when you weren’t always so reachable . . . when you weren’t always being bombarded by so much stimuli, whether in the form of e-mails or texts, Twitter posts or whatever new technology may emerge . . . well, any minute now.”

Paul Hammerness, a psychiatrist at Harvard Medical School, and Margaret Moore, a wellness coach and cofounder of the Harvard Institute of Coaching, call this “the distraction epidemic”—and it’s more than just occasionally misplacing your keys. Disorganization and distraction can snowball into information overload, poor work habits, clutter and strained relationships. But Hammerness and Moore offer simple ways to harness organizational abilities that already exist in our brains.

I suspect that anyone who is in dire enough straits to need an organizational book may just skip to the appendix, where the authors lay out the six “brain skills” one needs to master in order to organize their mind—but don’t do it. Hammerness and Moore make neuroscience fun (really) and use case studies from their own work to illustrate their points. In the chapter on “applying the brakes,” for example, we meet Deborah, a soccer mom in her mid-30s who, despite all her energy and good intentions, can’t quite seem to finish what she starts. She heads out to the garage for a quick tidying up, and four hours later is still knee-deep in old sports equipment. She just can’t apply the brakes. In brain-science talk, this is called “exercising inhibitory control.” The authors offer easy, common-sense ways to build this skill—for example, applying the STOP tool (step back, think, organize your thoughts, proceed).

This is a must-read if you could use less stress and more order in your life. Log off Twitter, put down your cell phone and pick up this book.

You can be forgiven for being distracted these days. It is a sign of the times, according to the authors of Organize Your Mind, Organize Your Life, a how-to book that manages to be both entertaining and rooted in current brain science. They write, “There…

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The premise of this newest essay collection by mother-daughter writing team Lisa Scottoline and Francesca Serritella may be shaky—that moms and daughters the world over are best friends who sometimes get on each other’s nerves—but why quibble? Scottoline and Serritella, who tag team a column in the Philadelphia Inquirer called “Chick Wit” and had a hit with their last combined effort, My Nest Isn’t Empty, It Just Has More Closet Space, are seriously funny and seriously honest.

As always, Scottoline is at her acerbic, slightly off-color best when she ponders life as a middle-aged single mom with a houseful of unruly pets. Her take on how declining hormone levels equal lost sex drive: “Whether you’re married or not, this is excellent news. Why? Because you have better things to do and you know it. Your closet floor is dusty, and your underwear drawers are a mess. Your checkbook needs balancing, and it’s time to regrout your bathroom tile. Get on it. The bathroom, I mean.”

Serritella, 25, is still finding her own voice, an understandable situation given that her mother is an internationally best-selling novelist with 25 million copies of her books floating around. Many of Serritella’s essays mimic her mother’s trademark one-liner style, and even the topics she tackles (pets, her lack of a boyfriend) echo Scottoline’s choices. The Harvard grad obviously has chops—she just needs a little seasoning.

Despite the pair’s obvious mutual love and admiration, Best Friends, Occasional Enemies never lapses into schmaltz. Quite the opposite. You’re not getting any giving-birth-is-a-miracle musings from Scottoline. “Childbirth is not beautiful,” she writes. “Children are beautiful. Childbirth is disgusting. Anyone who says otherwise has never met a placenta. I’m surprised ob-gyns don’t have post-traumatic stress from seeing a few of those a day.”

What you will get, though, are sweet, funny, clear-eyed observations on the pleasures and pitfalls of family.

The premise of this newest essay collection by mother-daughter writing team Lisa Scottoline and Francesca Serritella may be shaky—that moms and daughters the world over are best friends who sometimes get on each other’s nerves—but why quibble? Scottoline and Serritella, who tag team a column…

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Blue Nights, it must be said, is almost unbearably sad. As in 2005’s The Year of Magical Thinking, for which she won the National Book Award, Joan Didion here writes starkly about the death of a loved one. She also muses on her own failing health and her fears of growing old. Yet despite the bleak subject matter, Didion’s writing is as crisp, candid and thought-provoking as ever.

Didion and her husband, the writer John Dunne, adopted daughter Quintana Roo as a newborn in 1966. She was a precocious girl who traveled the world with her parents when they went on assignment. It was this lifestyle that Didion believes made Quintana “the child trying not to appear as a child.” She recalls “the strenuousness with which she tried to present the face of a convincing adult.”

Quintana also showed early on what Didion now recognizes as warning signs of impending mental illness (she was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder as an adult). At age five, Quintana called the local psychiatric hospital to find out what she needed to do if she were going crazy. She obsessed about what would have happened to her if her parents had gotten in an accident on the way to adopt her. She assumed a mole on her scalp was cancer. She had suicidal thoughts.

Still, Quintana realized some happiness. She attended Barnard College, worked as a photographer and got married in 2003. But in 2005, just a year and a half after her father died from a massive heart attack, Quintana died at age 39 of acute pancreatitis. Thus, in her late 70s, Didion found herself not only grieving two terrible losses, but also living alone for the first time in decades. This is a precarious situation for an older woman whose doctor suggests she has made “an inadequate adjustment to aging.”

“I had lived my entire life to date without seriously believing that I would age,” Didion writes. “My skin would develop flaws, fine lines, even brown spots . . . but it would continue to look as it had always looked, basically healthy. My hair would lose its original color but color would continue to be replaced by leaving the gray around the face and twice a year letting Johanna at Bumble and Bumble highlight the rest. . . . I believed absolutely in my own power to surmount the situation.”

Blue Nights is Didion’s bravest work. It is a bittersweet look back at what she’s lost, and an unflinching assessment of what she has left.

Blue Nights, it must be said, is almost unbearably sad. As in 2005’s The Year of Magical Thinking, for which she won the National Book Award, Joan Didion here writes starkly about the death of a loved one. She also muses on her own…

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Disregard the in-your-face title—Yoga Bitch is actually a hilarious, thoughtful and only occasionally profane account of one young woman facing mortality and bad habits head on.

Suzanne Morrison was 24 years old when the Twin Towers fell. Shortly thereafter, feeling stressed and spiritually disoriented, she found herself wandering into a yoga studio on Seattle’s Capitol Hill. Yoga was, to say the least, not really her thing up until that point: “My idea of exercise was walking up the hill to buy smokes,” Morrison writes. “Rearranging my bookshelves. Having sex. Maybe an especially vigorous acting exercise. Most of the time I lived above the neck.”

But Morrison finds herself drawn to her yoga practice in a way she can’t quite explain. She puts her plans to move to New York City on hold so she can head to Bali for a two-month yoga retreat. Yoga Bitch is something of a travel journal, in which she records her thoughts from the moment her plane leaves Seattle to her arrival in a steamy Balinese village. “Wellness is very big among my yogamates,” she muses on Day 3. “If Wellness were a person, it would be Michael Jackson circa 1984, and my yogamates would be screaming, crying fans, jumping up and down just to be so near to it. Kind of the way I would act around a cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes right about now.”

Anyone who has read her eponymous blog or seen her one-woman show knows Morrison is whip-smart and irreverent. In her first book, she proves that she’s also wise and has a singular way with words. Whether you relate to Morrison more in her cigarette-smoking, stressed-out urbanite phase or in full-on Yoga Bitch mode, this book will inspire you to walk your own path to enlightenment—or at least make you laugh a lot.

Disregard the in-your-face title—Yoga Bitch is actually a hilarious, thoughtful and only occasionally profane account of one young woman facing mortality and bad habits head on.

Suzanne Morrison was 24 years old when the Twin Towers fell. Shortly thereafter, feeling stressed and spiritually disoriented, she found…

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Adam and Eve most definitely lived in Ohio. Or China. Or the North Pole, or Mesopotamia.

Actually, the real location of the Garden of Eden (if indeed there was a Garden of Eden) is something of a mystery. In the thought-provoking Paradise Lust, author Brook Wilensky-Lanford explores why this Biblical paradise still fascinates so many. It may be an unanswerable question, relating to some intangible human need to understand our origin. She calls a well-known archaeologist to ask just why people care so much.

“You tell me,” he replies. “You’re the one calling from halfway around the world.”

Fair enough.

So Wilensky-Lanford goes directly to the source, so to speak: Genesis, which describes Eden as being situated between four rivers (Pishon, Gihon, Tigris and Euphrates). “The Bible sounds positively nonchalant: if you can pinpoint the four rivers, you can locate paradise,” Wilensky-Lanford writes. “In fact, many Eden seekers claimed that the unusually matter-of-fact description was the reason they decided to look for Eden to begin with—it just sounded like a real place.” Real enough to draw the attention of everyone from the first president of Boston University—William Fairfield Warren, a Methodist minister who firmly believed Eden was in the North Pole—to Elvy Callaway, a Baptist Floridian who opened the Garden of Eden Park right there near Pensacola in 1956. Paradise Lust recounts their journeys and those of others with buoyant humor and fascinating historical tidbits.

This is the first book for Wilensky-Lanford, who has written for ?Salon.com and other publications. If you want dramatic pronouncements about the latitude and longitude of the Garden of Eden, you’ll have to look elsewhere. As Wilensky-Lanford notes, “No matter how unassailable a theory of Eden seems, it will be assailed.” But if you’re looking for a sly and entertaining account of the ongoing search for paradise, Paradise Lust is it.

Adam and Eve most definitely lived in Ohio. Or China. Or the North Pole, or Mesopotamia.

Actually, the real location of the Garden of Eden (if indeed there was a Garden of Eden) is something of a mystery. In the thought-provoking Paradise Lust, author Brook Wilensky-Lanford…

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When a speeding car slammed into Molly Birnbaum while she was out for a run, she broke her pelvis, fractured her skull and ripped tendons in her knee. Those injuries, though severe, would heal with time and hard work. But for this aspiring chef, the loss of her sense of smell was more devastating by far.

In Season to Taste, Birnbaum vividly recalls what it was like to suddenly live in a world devoid of scent. “It was an invisible injury, potent and intense,” she writes. “It involved nothing concrete like crutches; physical therapy wasn’t a possibility. But the absence—the monotone blank, the indescribable pale of a scentless landscape—was more painful than the nights I hyperventilated in the hospital after knee surgery.”

At the time of the accident, Birnbaum—who writes a delicious, recipe-filled blog called “My Madeleine”—was about to begin studying at the Culinary Institute of America. She’d spent a grueling summer working in a popular Boston restaurant to prepare for school, washing dishes, cleaning wild mushrooms and herbs, peeling garlic and learning to trust her sense of smell to guide her cooking. And then, in the split second it took for her forehead to smash into a moving windshield, the neurons that connected her nose to her brain snapped. Her brain could no longer receive the messages about incoming smells. There’s even a name for it: anosmia.

Birnbaum began talking with experts in the science of taste and smell, trying to understand what had happened, and what would happen next. After recovering (physically, anyway), she moved to New York City in search of a job and a fresh start. Intriguingly, she began to get flashes of scent. First, rosemary, smelling green and woodsy. Then chocolate, followed by laundry soap, cilantro, cucumbers, old books. Slowly, she reclaimed her life, one scent at a time.

Birnbaum powerfully explores the science of smell and its ties to emotion, love and even memory in Season to Taste. This deeply personal recollection of recovering from a loss invisible to the outside world is a truly mouthwatering read.

When a speeding car slammed into Molly Birnbaum while she was out for a run, she broke her pelvis, fractured her skull and ripped tendons in her knee. Those injuries, though severe, would heal with time and hard work. But for this aspiring chef, the…

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Much like Betty Friedan’s groundbreaking The Feminine Mystique unveiled “the problem that had no name” in 1963, Marriage Confidential tackles a modern-day social dilemma: the semi-happy marriage.

I don’t agree with everything author Pamela Haag posits, but I do admire her honest, wonderfully nonjudgmental examination of marriage in the 21st century. Her husband (who is either a saint or crazy for agreeing to let his wife unwrap their union for all the world to see) is apparently fine with Haag admitting right up front that she can’t tell whether her own marriage is woeful or sublime. “Marriage . . . has its own CNN-style ticker at the bottom of the screen, scrolling a fractured mental subtext of unarticulated grievances, deferred fulfillments, and lost ecstasy,” she writes.

But this book, thankfully, is not Haag indulging in navel-gazing about her own marriage. Rather, she wittily and meticulously explores what sets apart those who suffer quietly in their semi-happy marriages from those who take action—whether that action is working to improve the situation, splitting up, retreating to a man cave or having an affair. On this last point, Haag finds that the Internet has changed infidelity—she calls it “the accidental cheater in the age of Facebook and Google.” Who hasn’t peeked at an old flame’s profile photo on Facebook? But sometimes it goes further: “Facebook blurs the bright line between the illicit and the merely nostalgic and delivers temptation to your door,” she writes. “It slides the marital affair right into normal, online everyday socializing.”

So what is a married couple to do? Just when you’re starting to feel desperately pessimistic about the future of marriage, Haag concludes that it’s not a lost cause. Couples just need to worry less about convention and focus on what works for them. Ol’ Blue Eyes may have called marriage “an institute you can’t disparage,” but as Haag finds, it may just be one you can re-imagine.

Much like Betty Friedan’s groundbreaking The Feminine Mystique unveiled “the problem that had no name” in 1963, Marriage Confidential tackles a modern-day social dilemma: the semi-happy marriage.

I don’t agree with everything author Pamela Haag posits, but I do admire her honest, wonderfully nonjudgmental examination…

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Reading Crazy U—journalist Andrew Ferguson’s hilarious, scary account of his son’s college application process—made me think my own children should get cracking.

They are 6 and 3.

Ferguson, editor of the Weekly Standard, takes no prisoners as he writes about the big business that our higher education system has become. He eviscerates the inane, tightly choreographed college campus tours (try not to snort when he describes a Harvard admissions officer “shimmering” into the room for an open house). He meets a $40,000-a-pop private counselor who helps grease the wheels for admission into the Ivy League. He takes the SAT, earning a math score “somewhere below ‘lobotomy patient’ but above ‘Phillies fan.’ ”

All the while, Ferguson’s son is sweating through this in real time. He applies to the Big State University (they live in Virginia—draw your own conclusions), a couple of stretch schools (Georgetown, Villanova) and some safety schools (Virginia Tech, Indiana University). The application essays are just as tedious as I remember from my own college days: It seems nowadays colleges insist that every 17-year-old describe a life-changing epiphany in a 500-word essay. So what happens to those teenagers who are not yet in touch with their rich inner life, as required in our Oprah-fied society?

“I’m a white kid living in the suburbs,” Ferguson’s son moans. “I’m happy. My family is happy. My brother Timmy didn’t die.”

“You don’t have a brother Timmy,” Ferguson points out.

“Exactly,” his son retorts. “Then what am I going to write about?”

Ferguson makes a superb case for stopping the insanity in higher education, from the overblown marketing to the broken financial aid system. Yet Crazy U is not a diatribe, and in fact Ferguson doesn’t offer a prescription to cure what ails college admissions. He simply shines a (very funny) light on the issues, and offers an important reminder that not every young American needs a $200,000 degree to live a good life.

Reading Crazy U—journalist Andrew Ferguson’s hilarious, scary account of his son’s college application process—made me think my own children should get cracking.

They are 6 and 3.

Ferguson, editor of the Weekly Standard, takes no prisoners as he writes about the big business that our higher education…

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