“Life goes fast,” Lee Kravitz observes in Unfinished Business: “Click. You are fifteen. Click, click. You are fifty-five. Click, click. You are gone. And so are the people who loved and nurtured you.” Realizing these truths all too clearly when he finds himself out of a job in his mid-fifties and suddenly adrift, Kravitz decides to take a year out of an otherwise workaholic existence and attend to the real currency of life—human relationships.

“All of us have unfinished business,” he writes. “It can be a friend we lost touch with or a mentor we never thanked; it can be a call we meant to make or a pledge we failed to honor. It can be a goal we lost sight of or a spiritual quest we put on hold.” When he makes his conscience-clearing “to do” list, it is long and complicated, and he is uncertain how his long-overdue overtures will be received; among the fractured relationships are a beloved aunt he has neglected for 15 years, a traveling buddy he borrowed $600 from and never paid back and a bereaved friend he never consoled. His inspiring journey of re-connection and redemption takes us to far-flung places—a refugee camp in Kenya, a monastery in California, a bar in Cleveland—and introduces us to a host of kind and kindred spirits from whom he gains strength, insight and encouragement.

In turn, Kravitz encourages us to act, to keep moving forward toward “true human connectedness” despite the demands and pressures of modern life. “The hurdles we face in tackling our unfinished business can seem impossibly high, but the first step in clearing them is usually quite simple: Write an email, or make a phone call. You can never tell when the weight you’ve been shouldering will slip away, leaving you a more complete and loving person.”

Kim Severson, who now writes for the New York Times, first found success as a food writer for the Anchorage Daily News. But by the time she arrived at the San Francisco Chronicle seven years later, she had nearly succumbed to alcoholism, despite her professional success. Spoon Fed, her new memoir, recounts her journey from strung-out restaurant rookie to spouse, mother and award-winning food writer.

Severson engages the reader with her self-deprecating humor and insight into the family dynamics that shape us and sometimes hold us prisoner. She effectively interweaves the story of her young adulthood, during which she realized she was gay, with her encounters with some of the most influential cooks in America. From each woman, she learns lessons about food and life. She also gleans some great recipes, listed at the end of each chapter.

“It would take a series of women who know how to cook to re-teach me the life lessons I forgot and some I never learned in the first place,” Severson writes in her introduction to the book. Her conversations with Alice Waters, Marion Cunningham, Rachael Ray, Ruth Reichl, Marcella Hazan, Edna Lewis and Leah Chase illustrate each woman’s passion for food, of course, but Severson is also honest enough to reveal their strengths and weaknesses as well as her own, resulting in a satisfying peek into the real lives of cooking icons.

The eighth cook Severson describes is her mother, Anne Marie Severson, an Italian-American who made home-cooked meals a daily priority. By the end of the book, with her mother facing a life-threatening illness, Severson is the one at the stove. Their story is not only about the heritage of food and family, but also about growing up, telling the truth and making the perfect red sauce.

In 52 Loaves, William Alexander, an IT manager and amateur baker, recounts a year spent trying to bake the “perfect“ loaf of bread. Alexander, author of The $64 Tomato, takes the reader on a quest that involves growing his own wheat, building a brick oven in his backyard and traveling to a yeast factory in Canada, a commercial wheat mill, a communal oven in Morocco and, ultimately, a French monastery, where he teaches the monks to make their own bread.

Alexander, who is a funny and likable writer, tells us a great deal about the history of bread, the process of making commercial yeast, and one courageous doctor’s fight against a disease called pellagra, which killed hundreds of thousands of people during the Great Depression and has now been vanquished by the simple addition of niacin to bread. But while 52 Loaves is in one sense a book about bread, it is really the story of a middle-aged man discovering a need for spiritual meaning in his life—a need that is entwined with, and perhaps even supersedes, his quest for the ultimate loaf. Though the sections of the book are named after the seven daily services of the monastic ritual, Alexander does not return to the Christian faith of his grandparents. He does, however, come away with a renewed appreciation for the value of a spiritual life, and he learns that “the only thing more unsettling than having your faith shaken is having your lack of faith shaken.”

If you are looking for a book that will teach you how to make a great loaf of bread, 52 Loaves is probably not the place to start; Alexander does include some detailed recipes at the end of the book, but it is not meant to be manual for bakers. Instead, it is a very engaging and well-written book about the lessons that a smart and sensitive person learned from trying to do something as well as possible—and that is a story always worth reading.

Wilbert Rideau’s autobiography takes the reader on a dark journey through a black teenager’s botched bank robbery—during which he kills a white woman—and his narrow escape from a lynch mob in rural Louisiana, followed by 45 years inside Louisiana’s prison system and as many years of struggle to find justice in the courts. But despite its subject matter, In the Place of Justice is anything but depressing. It’s the story of the man that teenager became, and that story is fascinating and inspiring.

Rideau’s remorse for the crime that took the life of bank teller Julia Ferguson is a constant throughout this memoir. But it took him 45 years of imprisonment before he could finally disprove the falsehoods of the prosecution’s version of what happened that evening in 1961. Rideau was blessed with a motivated and talented legal team to help him win that struggle, and his memoir, while intensely personal, serves as a reminder of all those incarcerated who lack the power to contradict the prosecution’s case.

Rideau gained national support through his remarkable transformation into a prison journalist who won many of the nation’s most prestigious awards. He was incarcerated in Angola prison during the time when Angola was the bloodiest prison in the United States, and his articles in the prison magazine, The Angolite, served to expose many aspects of the violent life there. Both as a journalist and as a memoirist, Rideau chooses the complexities of truth over the simplifications of anger and bitterness, a trait that helped him to gain professional recognition. But more importantly, his articles also led to improvements within the prison. He made it a habit to always include a solution to the problems his articles exposed, and more often than one might expect, prison authorities worked with him to make the prison a safer place for inmates and staff.

This book is a gift to all of us in so many ways. It will serve as a valuable primary source for scholars of the prison and court systems of this country. It will hopefully inform every voter and every politician or potential politician who reads it. But first and foremost, it provides an enormously satisfying emotional and intellectual experience as Rideau weaves meaning into what would seem the most threadbare of situations.

Patricia Black writes from Greensboro, North Carolina.

Chimpanzees are loads of fun, or so movies and TV shows would have us believe. They’re charming, intelligent, affectionate—just like us. But they really are just like us: They can be violent and domineering, and they are deeply intolerant of strangers. They do, indeed, share most of our DNA.

Bonobos, another species of ape, also share more than 98 percent of our DNA, but it’s less likely you’ve heard of them. There are fewer of them, they were discovered by scientists more recently, and they haven’t been well-studied yet. But their differences from chimps are fascinating. Bonobos are female-dominated, have staggering amounts of sex of all varieties and are naturally cooperative and altruistic. They’re also in serious danger of being wiped out by hunters.

Vanessa Woods, an Australian chimp aficionado, had never heard of bonobos herself until she fell for Brian Hare, an American scientist whose dream is to compare the behavior of chimps and bonobos living in Congolese sanctuaries and figure out what the differences reveal about human evolution. Bonobo Handshake is Woods’ beguiling story of falling in love with bonobos and the Congo while her marriage to Hare matured.

Bonobos turn out to be easy to like; the Democratic Republic of Congo is more problematic. Following decades of the brutal Mobutu dictatorship, it’s been wracked by unimaginably vicious civil wars. Lola ya Bonobo, the sanctuary where Woods and Hare work, is a paradise surrounded by horror.

Woods is candid about her own emotional immaturity at the beginning of her adventures. Just as her husband learns about humans by studying apes, Woods comes to terms with herself through interaction with bonobos and their keepers. Her Congolese friends, human and animal, rise above their traumas and teach her much about courage, endurance and tolerance.

Objects of Our Affection by journalist Lisa Tracy is one woman’s personal “Antiques Roadshow”-like quest through three generations’ worth of bric-a-brac, photographs, dishes and piece after endless piece of furniture. Told with equal parts humor and bittersweet sentiment, the book opens as Tracy and her sister are moving their independent—yet increasingly frail—83-year-old mother from her Lexington, Virginia, home to a nearby retirement community. “I was on an archaeological dig,” Tracy writes, “plowing through layers of family possessions we’d managed to ignore for decades, or in some cases had never seen before.” Inside one chest of drawers are a miscellany of family papers: “genealogy charts, military commendations, fragments of biographies, letters from the War of 1812, a photocopy of a journal from the 1840s, and what seemed like dozens of little framed daguerreotypes of people whose identity was a complete mystery to me.”

The sisters decide to take care of their mother first and worry about all the stuff later, but 10 years on, there’s still a bursting storage bin to contend with. An auction is scheduled, and though Tracy is relieved that “the family’s centuries-long accumulation of material goods is no longer going to be our personal responsibility,” she can’t help but wince at the parting of so many long-treasured items. “It’s hard to let go of objects because they are full of stories,” she writes.

Stories shape Objects of Our Affection. Believing that “we can . . . never be free of our stuff until we have dealt with the stories it carries,” Tracy consults curators and librarians, her research taking her from Philadelphia to the Philippines. Far from a mere cataloguing of expensive heirlooms, the book is a journey into the past, into family and community, and a look at the mystifying way that an aged Victorian horsehair sofa can stand as a silent yet eloquent reminder of “loss and pride, anger and love for a world that was.” Objects of Our Affection is a touching tribute to the lesson that “somewhere in the hastily sorted documents and photographs were probably our last best clues to who we were, where we’d come from, and why we’d lugged all this furniture with us.”

Lacey Galbraith is a writer in Nashville.

To: Jen_Lancaster@home
From: Linda_Stankard@home
Subject: Review of your latest soon-to-be-bestseller

Hey Jen! I just wanted you to know that when I was first asked to review your latest book, I hadn’t read your other books and had a slight case of up-in-the-air nose (Shame Rattle!) concerning the subtitle: “One Reality Television Addict’s Attempt to Discover If Not Being A Dumb Ass Is the New Black, or a Culture-Up Manifesto” (being pretty much a TCM gal myself), but I totally loved My Fair Lazy and I am soooo bringing Bitter is the New Black, Bright Lights, Big Ass, Such a Pretty Fat and Pretty in Plaid to the beach this summer so I can laugh and tan at the same time and catch up on all the Jen I have heretofore missed! You’re hilarious! I know (from your book) that you already have plenty of pink drink pals, but if you ever need a new BFF . . . I’m there! And your “JENaissance” mission—to achieve a higher state of cultural enlightenment—is not only fun to read and inspiring, it also provides justification for indulging in all my guilty pleasures: theater, dance, music, movies, art—and the eating and drinking appropriately paired with them. (You are awesome at writing all things epicurean!) (I like this “growing” and “enriching” business!)

Some of my favorite parts of your book are: when you are in Chinatown for your book tour and the “wizened old woman” in the bakery who reminds you of “one of those dried apple-head dolls” bullies you, but it all ends well with a steamed pork bun; your dog Maisy’s “Agenda” (more Maisy!); your love of animals in general and how you and Fletch take in those three abandoned kittens; your experience in the small, intimate theater and the guy who feels it necessary to have his seat even though you are sitting in it (ha!); your setting fire to the curtains in your Four Seasons hotel room (how gauche! LOL!) and of course how you sprinkle emails and letters throughout and . . . dang, I could go on and on, but I had better get to the review. I’m sure your fans won’t need any encouragement, but if there are any would-be stragglers like me out there, I will be sure to set them straight!

P.S. Your blog at jennsylvania.com is cool too!

Wes Moore—Rhodes scholar, army officer and one-time Special Assistant to Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice—discovered one day in a newspaper article that he shared a name with someone whose life had taken a far different turn. Though they were born only a year apart in the same Baltimore neighborhood, the other Wes Moore was now doomed to spend the rest of his life in prison after committing a robbery that culminated in the death of a police officer. Determined to discover how two people from such similar backgrounds could wind up in vastly different circumstances, one Wes Moore decided to research the other.

The Other Wes Moore shows there are no easy explanations. Moore the author makes no attempt to justify the imprisoned Moore’s actions, even while detailing a familiar litany of neglect, absence of male role models and bad choices. The successful Wes Moore also shows he was far from perfect in his youth, but thanks to his loving family’s insistence that he fulfill his potential, he excelled in academics and forged a satisfying career. Through hundreds of interviews, not only with his namesake, but with police, social workers and others, Moore’s book reaffirms the impact that even one tough parent can have on a child’s ultimate success or failure.

It also dispels some myths, most notably the contention that everyone who grows up in the mean streets eventually either emulates the negative behavior surrounding them or is overcome by it. Writer and journalist Moore emphatically says the other Wes Moore is not a victim. But he does see him as another person who fell through the cracks. Their one-on-one discussions crackle with intensity, as the two men frequently disagree. Still, the author continually wrestles with  the reality that they aren’t nearly as different as their social positions indicate.

While in prison, Moore has acknowledged his guilt, converted to Islam, become a grandfather and accepted the fact that he’ll probably never be released. The two Moores share the priority of keeping other young men, especially black kids, from mimicking his behavior and making the same mistakes. The Other Wes Moore contains a detailed resource guide, providing parents with the names of organizations that can help them in times of need and offer counsel before problematic cases degenerate into hopeless outcomes. He knows he can’t save everyone, but Wes Moore is determined to do whatever he can to prevent the emergence of more “other Wes Moore” situations.

Some may consider Craig Robinson’s background a little bland to warrant a memoir. He’s relatively young and his resume isn’t rich in scandal or easily recited accomplishments. Robinson was an excellent college basketball player who has become a very good coach at Oregon State University. But he may be best known as the older brother of First Lady Michelle Obama, who, while dating the future leader of the free world, asked her brother to gauge her then-boyfriend’s character by playing pick-up hoops.

Whether President Obama had started his odd practice of wearing his shirt tucked into his sweats when he hooped it up isn’t answered in Robinson’s book, A Game of Character—a combination of autobiography, motivational handbook and presidential campaign log. Though he does touch on a bit of everything, the book is really an upbeat look at his own rise to prominence.

Along with baby sister “Miche,” Robinson grew up in the Southside of Chicago, the son of working-class parents who preached honesty, discipline and hard work. The love Robinson had for his parents worked both ways. When he was accepted to Princeton, which did not offer athletic scholarships, his parents paid for the tuition through loans and credit cards, never suggesting young Craig should go anywhere else.

After graduation, Robinson played pro ball for two years in England, which started his love affair with coaching. Despite a successful career in finance and an MBA, basketball still had a pull, so Robinson coached part-time before getting a full-time, low-paying job as an assistant coach at hapless Northwestern. It was a drastic career change—a divorced Robinson had to move back to his childhood home—but one that led to a rewarding new career as well as a second marriage.

Mixed in with the autobiographical touches is a ton of motivational prose (complete with exclamation points) that should make Robinson a smash on the corporate speaker circuit. That can be ignored. What shouldn’t be ignored is how Robinson’s determination and principles allowed him to succeed on his terms. As A Game of Character makes clear, Craig Robinson is not riding on Barack’s designer coattails or on the hem of Michelle’s designer dress.

If you’ve never pored over the real estate section long after your coffee has gone lukewarm, or gone to an open house for a place you have absolutely no intention of buying, you are a better person than I am. There is something beguiling, almost voyeuristic, about peeking into someone else’s home and imagining yourself living there.

The siren song of house-shopping has never been so exquisitely or cannily captured as in Meghan Daum’s memoir, which is ostensibly about her search for the perfect house. But it’s about so much more. She traces her parents’ own peripatetic tendencies (the family lived in Texas, California, Illinois and New Jersey during her childhood) and how it affected her own skewed definition of home. Daum moved no fewer than 10 times during her four years at Vassar College. After college, she did a stint in a pre-war apartment in Manhattan, followed by a move to a drafty farmhouse in Lincoln, Nebraska (where she based her thoroughly wonderful 2003 novel, The Quality of Life Report), before landing permanently (maybe) in Los Angeles just before the housing bubble burst.

Only after she dragged her possessions from one coast to the other did she realize that maybe the nomad routine was more about her search for identity than her search for shelter. It was about her need to live somewhere that would make her “downright fabulous.” Friends and potential suitors had to point at her latest choice of residence and say: “ ‘She’s no Ally McBeal in a twee Boston apartment with her roommate and hallucinations of maternal longing; she’s Jennifer Beals living alone with her pit bull in her loft in Flashdance. . . . She may not have a farm, but she’s still got a little Willa Cather in her. Someone buy this woman a drink!’ ”

Funny, self-deprecating and wise, Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House is a joyously honest look at what Daum calls “mastering the nearly impossible art of how to be at home.”