Mountain lion barbacoa. Margarita's yam soufflé. Pastel de Choclo, a.k.a. Rodeo Pie. And for dessert, perhaps, Miss Ruby Cupcakes. These are but a few of the gustatory memories of John Weston that
waft us on a poignant journey into the past in the company of a gifted writer and unabashed bon vivant.
Weston has fond memories of his life in the Southwest, where he grew up during the Great Depression. Mostly he recalls his mother, Eloine, whose food he continues to relish. She started out as a southern cook, but the Southwest, with its game and its peppers, transformed her cuisine. Together, mother and son also learned to make the best of the deprivations brought on first by the Depression and then by wartime rationing. Within this text, Weston reproduces many of his mother's best recipes, turning this memoir into a virtual cookbook that proves as welcome in the kitchen as in the armchair.
Weston's writing is vivid and powerful.
Like all good memoirs, this one is rendered with love but not sentimentality.
—Body & Soul
Full of rich flavors . . . In delightful meanders, he covers a lot of topics besides childhood memories. It's an engaging book and easy to read.
Weston knows how to grab one's attention from the very first page when we find ourselves eating barbecued mountain lion. . . . His mother emerges from this book n such elegantly understated prose that we find ourselves falling in love with her. She's painted with no sentiment, no glossing over, and thus she comes across as one of the millions of heroic people of that era who suffered from a damnable poverty and survived—and made sure the family survived as well.
The author is revealed as a generous, loving man who can write of total poverty without asking us for pity. . . . This is most definitely the kind of man one would want to have as a friend.
—Red Rock News
Skillfully written, containing much of the truth of Depression-era life in the rural Southwest, Weston's book is eminently worthwhile. One suspects that many of these recipes would be worth trying as well.
—Southwest Book Views
The place is Skull Valley in central Arizona, the time the 1930s. Taking food as his
theme, Weston paints an instructive and often hilarious portrait of growing up, of rural family life under difficult circumstances, and of a remote Arizona community trying to hold body and soul
together during tough times. His book recalls life in a lineman's shack, interlaced with "disquisitions on swamp life, rotting water, and the complex experience of finding enough to eat during the
Central to Weston's account is his mother Eloine, a valiant woman rearing a large brood in poverty with little help from her husband. Eloine cooks remarkably
well—master of a small repertory from which she coaxes ideas surprising even to herself—and feeds her family on next to nothing. She is a woman whose first instinct is to cry out "Lord, what am I
going to feed them" whenever visitors show up close to mealtime. Recalls Weston, "Her strength lay in a practical- and poverty-born sense that there must be more edible food in the world than most
people realized," and he swears that six out of seven meals were from parts of four or five previous meals coming round again, like the buckets on a Ferris wheel.
Although Weston evokes a
fond remembrance of a bygone era that moves from Depression-era Skull Valley to wartime Prescott, rest assured: food—its acquisition, its preparation, its wholehearted enjoyment—is the foundation
of this book. "I did not have a deprived childhood, despite its slim pickings," writes Weston. "If I recall a boiling pig's head now and then, it is not to be read as some Jungian blip from Lord of
the Flies but simply a recurring flicker of food-memory." Whether remembering his father's occasional deer poaching or his community's annual Goat Picnic, Weston laces his stories with actual
recipes—even augmenting his instructions for roasted wild venison with tips for preparing jerky.
Dining at the Lineman's Shack teems with sparkling allusions, both literary and
culinary, informed by Weston's lifetime of travels. Even his nagging memory of desperate boyhood efforts to trade his daily peanut-butter sandwich for bacon-and-egg, baloney, jelly, or most anything
else is tempered by his acquaintance with "the insidious sa-teh sauce in Keo Sananikone's hole-in-the-wall restaurant on Kapahulu Street"—a peanut-butter-based delicacy for which he obligingly
provides the ingredients (and which he promises will keep, refrigerated in a jar, for several weeks before baroque things begin to grow on it).
Through this tantalizing smorgasbord of
memories, stories, and recipes, John Weston has fashioned a wholly captivating commentary on American culture, both in an earlier time and in our own. Dining at the Lineman's Shack is a book
that will satisfy any reader's hunger for the unusual—and a book to savor, in every sense of the word.