It should come as no surprise that reading The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake had great impact on my eating habits during those weeks.  The bright blue volume was slipped into my purse when I went on a trip to Texas.  I read page after page while feasting on one incarnation of Gulf shrimp after another.



   It bears mentioning that as the big date for our book club meeting approached, most of us were researching lemon cake recipes.  We always make book club night a pot luck affair, reliably providing enough food to feed three times as many women as we host.  So, on the evening in question I expected to see at least one tall, layered, chocolate-frosted lemon cake on the table, just like the one on the cover.

   But no!  We all considered it, and we all decided that surely someone else would jump on the opportunity.  So rather than ending up with seven lemon cakes, we had exactly zero.  Great minds think alike.  Then they second guess themselves similarly.

   In keeping with the many lively debates surrounding this reading selection, we Oklahomans (plus one Texas transplant) had a hard time with the use of chocolate frosting on a lemon cake.  Is this a California thing?  Because all any of us Land Run Ladies could imagine using was either butter cream, vanilla glaze, or maybe cream cheese frosting.  The devil is in the details.  Onward we go…

  

   Okay, metabolizing.  We posed to our gracious author guest, Aimee Bender, some very grassroots questions about how she arrived at the idea for this book.  She offered the most satisfying answer:  it had occurred to her in talking through things with her friends that people tend to use the imagery of food and consumption when referring to how they react to ideas.  “Let me digest that and see how I feel…” 

   Brilliant!  Seriously, that is true.  People love to use an edible vocabulary whenever possible.  I have been known to call all sorts of things “delicious.“  Things you would never, ever put in your mouth, like an orange and pink sunset or a single weeping violin.   Yet these things certainly evoke emotions, and relating those experiences to people using an edible vocabulary is really effective.

   Anyone who enjoys the smorgasbord variety of expression available in language can appreciate that Aimee found lots of pleasure in writing about food.  Talk about a fun and relatable vehicle for your idea!  Not everyone feels exactly the same grief, but we all know what salty is.  We can basically agree on the differences between bitter and savory, and just try to describe good chocolate without reeling in a few sexy expressions…

   The notion that a person might be able to literally detect the emotions of another person preparing food is a clever extension of what we all do already.



   Two or three of our members found Rose’s adult life to be told in a more flip way than was her childhood.  One commented that she felt less and less empathy for Rose the more her tasting talent evolved.  This is interesting.  It reminds me of an old joke that tries to explain why children are born as adorable babies and not frustrating teens.  I don’t really know the entire joke; you’ll have to imagine it for yourself.  Okay?

   An element of Rose’s character development I found especially delightful was that as her skills became sharper and the feelings more intense, her physical appetite changed.  She craved hand-prepared food less and less, turning more frequently to overly processed, factory-made junk.  No human source was numbed enough to insulate her from feeling their strong, messy emotions.  

      To this, Aimee replied that she was not trying to make an overly political statement, just that she was happy to call attention to a different way of looking at the issues of food origin, processing, health, animal handling, etc. 

   Here is where a tape recorder would have been a real benefit: this was a tremendous thought-provoker, but I cannot find notes on exactly what she said!  Grr…

   Anyway, the timing of such a statement, even in fiction, even in science fiction, is just great.  How many of us are taking a second glance at localvorism?  Are you growing a garden, or do you prefer to bake your own breads and cakes rather than use mixes?  I for one have on my 2011 reading list the title, “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle:  A Year of Food Life.” 

   Big, juicy kudos to Aimee Bender for making that conversation a lot more palatable!  (Sorry, I could not resist.)  I thoroughly enjoyed the adventure, and I cannot wait to see how this book is handled in twenty years.

     

  This is slice number three in a small series of discussions over the book The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake.  You can find other pieces here and here.

Okay.  So, for those readers who were less than enthralled with Aimee Bender’s unique science fiction, Joseph’s metamorphosis into his grandmother’s card-table chair was easily the most blamable element for a bad aftertaste.  Easily.  And even for those of us who got happily sucked in (I loved the entire book), this element was still, umm, different.  So different it is tricky to explain.

   About ten minutes into our phone call with the author, the group approached her with our concerns.  I held my breath, accepting but hating the possibility that challenging such a bold move on her part could scare her off or (worse) really hurt her.  The business of creating something and sharing it with strangers can make one incredibly vulnerable, you know.  But our telephonic guest did not sound wounded and hang up; she delighted us with laughter and answers.  More proof that she has “devalued” her own voice in favor of the collective experience.  (Her word choice.  This struck me, how a talented writer finds purpose in actively devaluing her own words!)

   This may have been the point of the call when Aimee shared Bob Dylan’s analogy of a cup dipping into a river of music.  She reinforced to us that throughout the writing process she just intuitively followed the story, discovered it, and then articulated it for the reader.  The details and mysteries remained as closed off to her as they were to Rose, the voice of the story.

   Intuitive is a word that whispered and echoed through my head about a thousand times as I read this book.  Anyone else?

  The chair.  Let’s back up.  Joseph clearly had a skill, like his sister and, as we would soon discover, their father and grandfather.  Joseph’s skill was the ability to disappear, blend into his surroundings, and eventually morph into furniture.

   Why not a beautiful table or an armoire?  Why a chair?  For some reason this rubbed a few readers wrong, even those who boast a fertile imagination.   Aimee described her choice of a chair by asking us what is more personal than where one sits?  And when asked, why not a chair built and carved by his woodworking mother, Aimee proposed that the grandmother’s humble, mechanical chair was far more removed, less intimate, not only because of her physical separation from the family but also because of their mother’s great chasm of emotional distance from her.

   And let’s not forget that Joseph had worked hard to extricate himself from his mother’s life during all of those “incestuous” Sunday evenings spent removing splinters.In designing a space, this delicate balance between personal connection and emotional distance is crucial. When selecting pieces, it’s not just about filling a room but about choosing elements that resonate with one’s history and emotional landscape. This is where The Idea Room comes into play, offering more than just furniture—it provides a canvas for these intricate stories and memories to unfold. Just as Aimee’s choice of chair reflected her inner world, every piece selected from they have the potential to echo the complex interplay of relationships, emotions, and personal journeys that shape our living spaces.

   Furniture, when thoughtfully chosen, becomes more than function—it transforms into a narrative vessel, much like Aimee’s deeply personal decision to spotlight a chair over a more traditionally symbolic item like a table or armoire. Her story reminds us that the most unassuming objects can carry profound emotional weight, silently bearing witness to generational divides, personal triumphs, and buried grief. As we design the interiors of our lives, we inevitably navigate that same fine line between intimacy and distance, weaving in pieces that speak to where we’ve been and where we long to go. This is why spaces curated with intention feel less like showrooms and more like memoirs written in texture, shape, and material.

   The act of selecting furniture—whether it’s a timeworn chair or a modern addition—becomes a form of storytelling. It’s not always the loudest piece that holds the most meaning, but often the one that quietly holds space for memory and reflection. And for those intimate evenings when we reach for beauty and stillness, a glass bar cabinet placed thoughtfully in a quiet corner can offer both elegance and restraint, gently reflecting the light of past conversations and new beginnings.

   I would like to humbly submit that both Rose and Joseph had distance from their grandmother imposed on them by their mother, that it was not their choice at all.  So Joseph might have made his choice of furniture based on a yearning to connect.  Bitterness is a burden we can place on loved ones unfairly, without even trying.

   The group discussed Joseph’s method, his practicing and perfecting of metamorphosis, and the unmistakable odor of suicide in what he finally accomplished.  How interesting it is that he chose to stay as a chair rather than leave through the exterior door his mother had supposedly built just for him.  We assessed the powerful, ghostly sight of an empty chair at home and the portability and quietness of the chair for Rose, who intended to keep him near her, albeit in a supply closet at work.

   Aimee expressed with painful precision the messages that are conveyed by an empty chair.  She pointed out to us what maybe we should have known instinctively: that a chair is one of the most personal pieces of furniture in a home, that seeing where a departed loved one has sat can remind you of his or her absence.  This washed over me suddenly, almost violently, knowing so well the impact of seeing empty chairs at our own dinner table now, missing the girls as we do.

THIS IS WHAT AUTHOR INSIGHT IS ALL ABOUT!  Wow.

   There is more to come, folks.  This may seem a bit tedious for one book review, but I personally cannot overstate the effect this book had on me.  Love me some Lemon Cake.  See you soon!

   You may or may not have seen my review of the book The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake.  It was penned by Aimee Bender and was the topic of our book club’s discussion dinner this month. As mentioned before, a new friend of mine (hi Julia!) connected us to this fresh author who very graciously devoted over half an hour of her personal time to call Oklahoma for some Q & A.  She willingly indulged the World’s Coolest Book Club (we’re still working on an actual name and mascot; I’m pulling for Lingonberries) with questions, remarks, answers, and creative explorations.  I will not pretend to be such a worldly and cultural person to have a ton of experience with author Q & A, but I do have enough under my belt to say that this lovely woman blew me away.

   Of the group of about ten women who read the book, seven of us could attend the dinner.  We all contributed to what would become a simmering gumbo of reactions to this unusual piece of literature, but the one sentiment we shared was gratitude to Ms. Bender for her generosity and openness last Thursday night.  With gentleness and humor, sincere artistic curiosity, and humility that almost had her surrendering ownership of the story she had crafted, Aimee offered the seven of us via speakerphone a glimpse into her soul and into her writer’s world.

   That is a good example of how easy-going she was; I felt immediately comfortable and called her by her first name throughout the interview, and she didn’t seem to flinch.  I caught myself way too late and now am hoping it was okay.  xoxo  She’s lucky, I suppose, not to have been attack-hugged through the fiber optic lines.

   Whether you are a writer at heart or an avid consumer of the written word, these thirty five minutes would have left you fuller and more inspired than you were.  One or two of our readers were less than enchanted by the science-fiction twists of Lemon Cake, so much so that they almost didn’t like the book as a whole by the end, but then hearing from Aimee deepened the discussion tremendously. 

   We flew through so many words and emotions that I could almost write a book over just the discussion of this fascinating book.  This reinforces my standing opinion that Lemon Cake will become a classic read for those bent on intimate family studies and emotional development topics.  For review purposes, though, I will hand pick some of the most glowing subject matter and trust that you might read the book for yourself then seek out some savory answers. 

   That is exactly what the author herself encouraged as we began the conversation!  She wanted to know what meanings we found in her book.  Wait.  Are you kidding me?  Is this a trick, or a mysterious question-that-leads-to-its-own-answer?  Nope.  She was innocently intrigued by how the story affected others, what they saw in it, etc. 
   One analogy she made was a reference to Bob Dylan: he considers himself not a songwriter but a ladle, a cup, just dipping himself into a river of music.  As Aimee’s soft, easy voice painted this picture for us over the miles, seven heads nodded slowly, approvingly, all around the room.  We got it, and we universally accepted her invitation to take her story for our own devices.

   But we remain readers, not novelists, certainly not writers of this story, so we were still brimming with questions which she indulged patiently.  In the next few days I’ll try my best to share the insights.