In the personable Bodega Bakes, pastry chef Paola Velez presents just that: sweets that can be made solely from the ingredients found at a corner store.
In the personable Bodega Bakes, pastry chef Paola Velez presents just that: sweets that can be made solely from the ingredients found at a corner store.
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Behind the Book by

About to turn 40 years old, I was having a serious midlife crisis. A novel I’d spent five years working on had been rejected, at the same time that my husband “Aaron” and I were going through infertility. I nicknamed this sad, vulnerable time-stretch my “no book, no baby summer.” Then I picked up the phone to hear the voice of Brad, an old college beau I hadn’t spoken to in a decade. He was currently a Harvard science professor with a 24-year-old graduate school girlfriend he could have 20 kids with. Worse, he had a new book coming out. Why did Brad get a book? He was a biology major. I’d been a struggling freelance writer in Manhattan for 20 years. I was enraged.

Instead of killing him, I offered to write a profile of Brad, turning my anxiety into a business opportunity. At our emotional lunch interview, I found myself less interested in his sociobiology book than with what had really happened between us in Ann Arbor, 20 years before. Without realizing it, I’d wound up conducting an exit interview. Focusing on my previous rejection took my mind off my current rejection. It was wildly cathartic. When two other exes called out of the blue, I got together with them and asked them the same questions. Before I married, from the ages of 13 to 35, I’d been madly in love five times, once every 4.4 years. I’d created a mythology in my head about why each of my old loves hadn’t lasted. One guy was a skirt chaser, another was too immature, a third had fallen for a more petite, successful woman. For each breakup, I’d blamed them. Now that I was a happily married, 40-year-old graduate of a dozen years of psychotherapy, my perspective had changed. Instead of being the victim, I pinpointed the moment where I’d screwed up each relationship. Having written countless personal essays on male-to-female issues for The New York Times, Cosmopolitan, Glamour, Jane and New Woman, I suspected I was onto something. I scrawled down what happened when I’d reconnected with each beau and brought the early version into my writing workshop. The group’s members were usually critical about my rough drafts, offering such comments as, “That’s throat clearing. Throw out the first five pages and start over.” This time somebody said, “You should have gotten old and bitter a long time ago, ’cause this rocks.” Giving a reading at NYU, where I taught journalism, I nervously read the first chapter. When I was done, the audience roared. Then all the female undergraduates in the room mobbed me, telling me about their romantic disappointments. I realized what the next step was. I tracked down my other two major heartbreaks. My husband Aaron, a TV comedy writer, always hated when I wrote anything about him or our marriage. It was a problem since I preferred writing in first person and hated censoring myself. But here I could write about sex, drugs and rock and roll in past tense, so he couldn’t complain. There was only one problem. The workshop insisted that the tiny role of the muttering husband in the background be expanded. It seemed that the book I was writing in order not to write about my husband needed him as the hero. I feared the minute he read it, he’d divorce me.

The day after a wonderful editor at Delacorte bought my finished manuscript, I handed it to Aaron. He loved it, though he later joked to a friend that he was penning a rebuttal called The Bitch Beside Me. When I e-mailed Brad that I sold the book, he asked if he could see it. After he read it, his response was, “You’ve written a better character than I am a person.” The only people who don’t like it so far are my parents in Michigan. My mother said, “Go ahead, tell the whole world you’re in therapy.” My father is threatening to move to Alaska and keeps telling me how the sculpture of five male heads on the cover makes it seem like I cut the heads off. I told them that one of the benefits of publishing a book at my age is that I don’t really care if it’s not their cup of tea; they’re not my audience. “If you think turning 40 was hard, wait until you turn 50,” an older colleague recently warned.

Since I had the most fruitful midlife crisis in the history of the world, I can’t wait. Susan Shapiro’s heartbreaking and hilarious memoir, Five Men Who Broke My Heart, investigates the current lives of her past loves. A freelance writer, Shapiro lives in Manhattan with her husband.

About to turn 40 years old, I was having a serious midlife crisis. A novel I’d spent five years working on had been rejected, at the same time that my husband “Aaron” and I were going through infertility. I nicknamed this sad, vulnerable time-stretch my “no book, no baby summer.” Then I picked up the […]
Review by

A journalist’s edgy enthusiasms I tend to measure all literary journalists against Joseph Mitchell, who was a literary journalist before anyone and certainly any self-respecting journalist ever thought of putting the two words together. This is no more fair than measuring a novelist against Mark Twain or Henry James, I concede, but when you find your rock in the firmament you tend to cling to it.

Ron Rosenbaum, I’m happy to say while mixing my metaphors, is more than fit to touch the hem of Mitchell’s garment. Their writing differs, of course. Mitchell sinks more completely, almost with abandon, into his subjects, and Rosenbaum, though he doubtless would deny it, sometimes writes with a sense of knowingness edging into mockery that is foreign to The Master. But all in all, Rosenbaum’s collection, The Secret Parts of Fortune: Three Decades of Intense Investigations and Edgy Enthusiasms, is a worthy bookshelf companion to Mitchell’s McSorley’s Wonderful Saloon and Joe Gould’s Secret.

Rosenbaum prefers the term “narrative nonfiction” to literary journalism, which, as he correctly says, sounds too highfalutin. In a foreword, filmmaker Errol Morris himself something of a narrative nonfictionist nails Rosenbaum pretty squarely by describing his “grand scheme . . . to squash grand schemes, to defeat our natural tendency to retreat into easy answers and bogus explanations.” Morris refers to Rosenbaum’s metaphor of “the lost safe-deposit box” a device that Rosenbaum used in his Explaining Hitler: The Search for the Origins of His Evil “a metaphor for truth that exists but may be beyond our grasp.” Well, truth, schmooth sometimes you just want to have fun. One of the book’s chief pleasures is learning about all sorts of quirky ideas and the oddball characters who believe in them.

There is, for instance, the Rev. Willard Fuller, a dental faith healer with the inspiring message, “The Lord’s out there fillin’ teeth!” Indeed he is, and the good news is that he doesn’t require an actual laying on of hands to fill cavities, straighten crooked teeth, or grow new ones. It seems the Lord also works through the U.

S. mail.

Then there’s Robin Leach of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, much more high-profile and prosperous than the Rev. Fuller but, in his own way, no less deranged. Asserting that he documents what he calls, without a scintilla of irony, the “passion for privacy” of the rich and famous, Leach grows indignant when Rosenbaum suggests that Lifestyles could be considered “porn for the wealth-obsessed.” Not deranged, but certainly monomaniacal, is Ralph Waldo Emerson III in his quest to unseat Charlie Douglass, the King of Canned Laughter, with “real” canned laughter. Trouble is, he’s too good. His canned laughter does sound more natural than Douglass’s, but the networks don’t like it because it’s too different from Douglass’s more artificial-sounding laughs, which audiences have grown used to.

And deranged on an empyrean scale are the scholars of the Dead Sea Scrolls, or at least many of them. In fact, there appears to have been some sort of Curse of the Scrolls that has driven a disproportionate number of scholars to drink, depression, or religious dementia. Those who weren’t crazy were consumed by ambition or a Fred C. Dobbs-like passion for secrecy. “The Riddle of the Scrolls” is one of the best pieces in the book. In it, Rosenbaum gives a brief rundown of the loony crusades to find the Ark of the Covenant and thereby forcibly bring on the Messiah, Judgment Day, or some other calamitous cosmic event satisfying to the souls of moonstruck religionists of various stripes. But in the course of his research, I wish he had learned that it is the Book of Revelation, not Revelations.

This is not just a litany of wackos, far from it. All sorts of people and topics are covered, from Mr. Whipple of “don’t squeeze the Charmin” fame to Yale’s Skull and Bones society. He gives a nice appreciation of Ben Hecht, one of the first Americans to raise his voice about the Holocaust when it was happening, and one of Murray Kempton, “our Gibbon.” “The Catcher in the Driveway” is another superior piece that stands out from an excellent bunch. It is about not just his attempt to find J.

D. Salinger’s home, and Salinger himself, if possible, but about explaining the meaning of Salinger’s isolation and silence and “the compelling seductiveness of the silence.” In the latter goal, at least, he succeeds.

Roger K. Miller is a freelance writer in Wisconsin.

A journalist’s edgy enthusiasms I tend to measure all literary journalists against Joseph Mitchell, who was a literary journalist before anyone and certainly any self-respecting journalist ever thought of putting the two words together. This is no more fair than measuring a novelist against Mark Twain or Henry James, I concede, but when you find […]
Review by

Scrapbooks are like little time capsules, lovingly pieced together over the years to keep the past alive or record those special moments. There was a time when scrapbooks were passed down to the next generation along with simple herbal remedies and yellowed recipe books filled with delicious family favorites. But scrapbooks aren’t just about pictures anymore; now they’re veritable works of art, colorfully created and designed to remain enjoyable for decades. Saving memories is back in vogue, and Time-Life has two excellent books on scrapbooking to get you started.

Beginners to scrapbooking will like Scrapbooking Made Easy! Using samples and photos taken from her own life, the author gives basic, helpful information about protecting photos and then moves on to supplies, design, cropping, choosing color schemes, layout and balance, collages, lettering, and embellishments. She includes a frequently asked questions section and tips for creating special projects. A handy resources section for each chapter is located in the back of the book, as well as a listing of companies that sell scrapbooking supplies. As the author writes, Scrapbooks are no longer just about pictures pasted onto paper. They are about recording those moments that have been meaningful to you and your family. The intermediate or advanced scrapbooker will find A Year of Scrapbooking filled with monthly challenges and a wide range of projects that can be customized to family lives and interests. The book is organized by the 12 calendar months and covers album ideas, design concepts, new techniques, journaling, new project ideas, and photo tips. The last chapter even shows how scrapbooking techniques can be passed along to children in the form of bookmarks, activity books, greeting cards, memory boxes, bulletin boards, and posters. There is also a handy glossary and resources list for each month’s project.

Both books include numerous how-to photos that take you step-by-step in creating a family treasure that will be enjoyed for generations. The eve of this new millennium offers a unique time to begin creating a scrapbook for future generations. Perhaps the scrapbook you begin this New Year’s Day will find its way into the hands of your first-born child 20 years from now.

Pat Regel writes from Mt. Juliet, Tennessee.

Scrapbooks are like little time capsules, lovingly pieced together over the years to keep the past alive or record those special moments. There was a time when scrapbooks were passed down to the next generation along with simple herbal remedies and yellowed recipe books filled with delicious family favorites. But scrapbooks aren’t just about pictures […]
Review by

Imagine yourself in the attic at Graceland. There within bulging trunks and boxes lie the masses of photos, letters, telegrams, legal documents, ticket stubs, and receipts that mark Elvis Presley’s uneven passage through life. Imagine further that assiduous elves have laid out all this fascinating material in chronological order for you to savor. Well, that’s pretty much what this book offers.

Peter Guralnick knows more about Presley than Boswell ever suspected about Johnson. He has illuminated the King in numerous articles and the minutely detailed two-volume biography, Last Train to Memphis and Careless Love. Guralnick’s co-author, also an Elvis scholar, has co-produced boxed sets of the singer’s music and annotated his recording sessions.

Here the two researchers go far beyond the information they amassed personally for their own works to plumb the Graceland archives, which now contain, among other treasures, thirty-five tons of records and memorabilia from the estate of Presley’s longtime manager, Colonel Tom Parker. Guralnick credits Parker and Presley’s father Vernon with holding onto material they knew would eventually have great historical interest.

Elvis Day by Day stretches from April 12, 1912, the day Presley’s mother was born, to October 3, 1977, when a CBS-TV special aired Presley concerts filmed earlier that year. It is, as Guralnick says, a kind of biographical exoskeleton. Besides citing Presley’s routine daily activities, the book also lists the dates and places of his live performances and recordings, as well as the release dates of his records. Every known woman Elvis dated a prodigious list to be sure is dutifully noted here.

But the most appealing feature of the book at least to those who are not scholars or zealots is its wealth of photos. There are more than 300 of them, many published for the first time. Among them are pictures of Elvis’s early grade cards, a receipt for his gaudy TCB pendants, bills for jewelry and costumes, numerous candid shots from family and friends, reproductions of movie posters, and a vast array of publicity photos. They offer private glimpses of a man who, for most of his life, had no privacy.

Edward Morris is a Nashville-based writer and journalist.

Imagine yourself in the attic at Graceland. There within bulging trunks and boxes lie the masses of photos, letters, telegrams, legal documents, ticket stubs, and receipts that mark Elvis Presley’s uneven passage through life. Imagine further that assiduous elves have laid out all this fascinating material in chronological order for you to savor. Well, that’s […]
Review by

The psychology of money and work Twenty years ago, personal finance writer Andrew Tobias produced a best-selling book with a boastful title. It was called The Only Investment Guide You’ll Ever Need. Rather than scare away the competition with that all-encompassing name, the book’s huge success may have helped spark what’s become a growth industry unto itself: the avalanche of books intended to provide care and feeding to the emboldened individual investor. In 1978, very few people actively controlled their own investments, from automated payroll savings to retirement accounts. In 1978, there was no CNBC, no Internet stock trading, not even any Internet stocks to trade. In 1978, the mutual fund industry was a fraction of its current size. Given the enormous change that’s engulfed the world of personal finance, Mr. Tobias decided it was time to return to his original theme. So we have The Only Investment Guide You’ll Ever Need: Expanded and Updated Throughout (Harvest Books, $13, 0156005603). As for the compelling title, Mr. Tobias says it was his publisher’s idea, and he agreed in a weak moment. He notes that there are other good investment guides around (and many poor ones), but accurately adds: . . . reading three good investment guides instead of one will surely not triple, and probably not even improve, your investment results. So how does Mr. Tobias’s one-stop shopping site for investors hold up? Quite well. The author is a knowledgeable guide and a gifted writer. The book is a pleasure to read, which is important since so many people regard reading about investment options as an unpleasant if important chore. He covers most of the waterfront, and he is forthright in his opinions. For example, he doesn’t think much of investing in commodities or gold. On commodities, he writes: It is a fact that 90% or more of the people who play the commodities game get burned. I submit that you have now read all that you need ever read about commodities. On gold he offers, Gold itself pays no interest and costs money to insure. It is a hedge against inflation, all right, and a handy way to buy passage to Liechtenstein, or wherever it is we’re all supposed to flee to when the much ballyhooed collapse finally materializes. But if you’re looking for an inflation hedge, you might do better with stocks or real estate. Mr. Tobias is particularly strong in an area many people wouldn’t consider the province of an investment guide: frugality. Simply stated, spending less of your income is a great savings and investment strategy. Given effective tax rates, keeping an after-tax dollar in your pocket rather than in some merchant’s cash register is probably the equivalent of going out and earning two dollars before taxes. The author advises buying in bulk and hard bargaining on big purchases. He takes the reader through the pros and cons of most investment options in an engaging, common sense manner.

Every investor is different, of course. Mr. Tobias, for one, describes himself as rather chickenhearted. People should take on levels of risk that are not only appropriate for their income, goals, and stage of life, but also in line with their psychological ability to withstand risk. In other words, you want your investments to allow you to sleep at night.

Despite our differences, there are some psychological foibles most of us share when it comes to thinking about money. That’s the subject of a fascinating new book, Why Smart People Make Big Money Mistakes and How to Correct Them (Simon ∧ Schuster, $23, 0684844931) by Gary Belsky and Thomas Gilovich. The authors (Belsky is a journalist who wrote for Money magazine for seven years; Gilovich is a professor of psychology at Cornell University) take us into the world of psychoeconomic theory, which explains how widespread human behavior patterns have an adverse impact on our pocketbooks.

Take the concept of mental accounting, which deals with how we categorize money and treat it differently depending on its source. For example, we more easily fritter away money that was won at the racetrack the night before than we would rashly spend the contents of our hard-earned paychecks. Like other ideas of psychoeconomic theory, the various aspects of mental accounting are presented here through hypothetical scenarios in which readers can participate. This fun approach makes the issues at hand easy to identify with and clear. The bottom line solution to the mental accounting problem is this: Make sure you treat each dollar in your possession equally, no matter whence it came. This popularization of the work of psychologists hits on many interesting issues, including the fact that losses hurt more than gains please. That makes a lot of people more risk averse in their investment decisions than rational investigation would likely lead them to be. And then there’s the sobering fact that most of us are not as smart or as savvy as we imagine. The authors write: . . . for almost as long as psychologists have been exploring human nature, they have been amassing evidence that people tend to overestimate their own abilities, knowledge, and skills . . . in financial matters the tendency to place too much stock in what you know, or what you think you know, can cost you dearly. For most of these interesting tendencies, knowledge that they exist can help you fight them. The authors of this well-researched and clearly written book also offer specific remedies for the financial aspects of these psychological peccadilloes.

Psychology doesn’t abandon us once we put away the bills or monthly investment statements; it accompanies us to work (and everywhere else, for that matter). The ability to cooperate, collaborate, and even inspire our colleagues is a crucial factor in our own personal success as well as in the prosperity of our employer. In 1995, Daniel Goleman wrote a bestseller called Emotional Intelligence, which challenged the dominance of the IQ in measuring smarts. Now he’s taken those concepts to work in Working with Emotional Intelligence (Bantam, $25.95, 0553104624; Audio Renaissance, abridged, $16.95, 1559275154; unabridged, $39.95, 1559275162). Goleman received a doctorate from Harvard University and spent a dozen years covering behavioral and brain sciences for the New York Times. His essential message is an upbeat one: Those qualities that in an earlier time might have been labeled character or made one considered a good person are also the qualities that should help us get ahead at work.

There’s more good news. Your fate isn’t determined by some stagnant measure of your intelligence; you can improve on your emotional intelligence at any stage of life. In today’s work world, hierarchies have been flattened and the success of team work often depends on people’s ability to get along. Emotional intelligence has never been more important.

In readable detail, based on research and corporate profiles, Goleman lays out the personal competencies of emotional intelligence, which include self-awareness, self-regulation, and motivation, as well as social competencies, such as empathy and social skills. (Each category has more specific sub-categories.) This is an important and helpful book.

The changes in the American workplace in the past couple of decades haven’t all taken place within our heads. One seismic change has been the vastly expanded role of women in the work force, both in terms of number and influence. That change is the subject of Powerchicks: How Women Will Dominate America (Longstreet, $22, 1563525216) by Matt Towery. For a book about the growing strength of women in business, entertainment, and politics, as well as their dominant place as consumers and voters, the title strikes one as a tad irreverent. Mr. Towery, a former Georgia state legislator, says, however, that many influential women have willingly and proudly accepted the new term. As for why a man wrote this book, the author cites an old newspaper adage, to wit, You don’t have to die to be qualified to write obituaries. Mr. Towery has produced a glowing testament to women in a host of industries who have made it to the top or near top. Through numerous interviews, they tell of their motivations and of obstacles overcome. Among the many interesting points made are that corporate inflexibility might partly be behind the surge in female entrepreneurship and the description of a social phenomena he calls the female bachelor. This describes high-income, high-status single women with lots of disposable income who don’t feel pressured to marry.

Neal Lipschutz is managing editor of Dow Jones News Service.

The psychology of money and work Twenty years ago, personal finance writer Andrew Tobias produced a best-selling book with a boastful title. It was called The Only Investment Guide You’ll Ever Need. Rather than scare away the competition with that all-encompassing name, the book’s huge success may have helped spark what’s become a growth industry […]
Behind the Book by

My new book, Physical: An American Checkup, probably sprang from an Abe Lincoln quote I first came across many years ago: I must study the plain, physical facts of the case, ascertain what is possible, and learn what appears to be wise and right. And from crazier notions I came up with on my own, such as: The truth is, I don’t think I’m going to die. Not today, not tomorrow, not in 2067. Not me.

As I reached my late 40s, I thought things like that more and more often. In April 2002, a stitch along the left side of my abdomen suddenly graduated into an aching throb. I’d turned 51 in late March and was just beginning to get my feet underneath me again after the death of my son James from a drug overdose. I had tenure as a lit and writing professor, my second marriage was flourishing, and my book about poker (Positively Fifth Street) was scheduled to be published the following March. I felt pretty good about things, as long as you didn’t count the abscess in my soul where my son lived. But within a couple of days the thorn in my side, as I thought of it, had me walking hunched over like a little old man with bad knees and end-stage cirrhosis, not exactly the image I like to project to the world. As the throbbing intensified, I gulped down more Advil and worried.

I’d been taking Zocor to lower my cholesterol for almost two years, this while neglecting to get my liver function tested. Lynn Martin, my primary care physician, had told me to have it checked after three months because the possible side effects of the medicine included nephritis and liver damage, but I somehow forgot. I knew I’d been dosing myself far too liberally with Advil for headaches and hangovers, so my self-diagnosis was liver failure, though the phrase I used with my wife, Jennifer, was some liver thing. It was only at Jennifer’s insistence that I finally made an appointment to have my liver enzymes tested. I also stopped drinking and, in spite of the crippling pain, as I phrased it to myself, stopped taking Advil, even though I understood the damage was already done. Oh, and another thing, Braino, Jennifer said after wishing me luck and dropping me off at the lab. Your liver’s on your right side, not on your left.

The first appointment I could get was with Dr. Martin’s partner, Dennis Hughes. Tallish, maybe 40, all business, Hughes glanced at the blood test results, felt around where I’d told him it hurt, asked a few questions, then told me I probably had diverticulitis. Your liver’s functioning perfectly. Hughes e-mailed scrips for painkillers and antibiotics to my Walgreen’s and recommended a CT scan of my abdomen, which would confirm his diagnosis. The colonoscopy two weeks later will confirm that it’s all healed up nicely. I nodded. Had I missed something? The practice had just been computerized, and Hughes was happy to demonstrate how my records, medications, etc., were all in the system. The referrals for your scan and colonoscopy are already at Evanston Hospital. Terrific. The antibiotics killed the infection, or at least the symptoms, in a couple of days, so I was able to squirrel the unused painkillers into my party stash. When I called to report the good news, a nurse reminded me I still needed to get a colonoscopy. I’ll make the appointment as soon as I hang up, I told her, then sat down to breakfast, all better.

Days went by. Maybe a week. The pain was long gone, and I’d heard all about colonoscopies. You fasted for two or three days while slurping battery acid; step two involved a fully articulated four-foot-long aluminum bullwhip with a search light, a video camera and a lasso at the tip getting launched a few feet up into your large intestine. Not to worry, however. They used really super-duper lubrication. While discussing some unrelated business with Lewis Lapham, the editor of Harper’s, I happened to mention my gastrointestinal adventure. Next thing I knew, Lewis was proposing that I go to the Mayo Clinic for what he called their executive physical, then write a big story about it. Now, this was a guy who had already changed my life by sending me to cover the 2000 World Series of Poker, so I had every reason to trust him. Yet the Mayo proposal triggered a whirlwind of panic. Accepting this plummy assignment would more or less guarantee I’d be told things I did not want to hear. The good news, Mr. McManus, is you’ve got almost five weeks to live. The bad news is, we started counting over a month ago. What if the Mayo clinicians discovered a tumor the size of a Titleist wedged inoperably between my pons and my creative left hemisphere? What if as they certainly would they made me swear off alcohol, tasty food and my nightly postprandial Parliament Light? It wasn’t that I didn’t understand how lucky I was to be offered a free Mayo Clinic physical, I just had too many other things on my plate turf and surf, garlic mashed potatoes, baked ziti, the take-out Mekong Fried Pork from the Phat Phuc Noodle Bar. But no! Not only would I have to drink gallons of icky stuff before I got reamed, they’d make me give up all the good stuff! To say nothing of my terror that the verdict might not be all that rosy.

Bottom line? I couldn’t get more medical treatment unless I followed up like I’d promised: my referral was already in the system, gosh darn it unless I got a colonoscopy as part of the Mayo thing. That way I could get everything checked in 72 hours, all under one roof, by the best of the best of the best. It was time to cowboy up and take my medicine.

Poker columnist for the New York Times and author of the bestseller Positively Fifth Street (2003), James McManus has also written four novels. He teaches writing and literature at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

My new book, Physical: An American Checkup, probably sprang from an Abe Lincoln quote I first came across many years ago: I must study the plain, physical facts of the case, ascertain what is possible, and learn what appears to be wise and right. And from crazier notions I came up with on my own, […]

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