Friday, January 10, 2014

FOODFIC: Feathered - Laura Kasischke

I feel I should open with an apology for the tone-swing I’m about to take. You see, I’m going to start by being so fluffy that, if you haven’t read this book, you might not even be able to follow my meaning. Then there’s going to be a harsh lecture. Oh, and I’m not really going to offer any sort of plot synopsis, either, so you may want to click on the cover photo above to read the publisher’s description on Goodreads.

If you’re still with me after that stellar disclosure, read on. ;)

First, the vaguery! (I do hate it, but believe it’s a lesser evil than a spoiler, so I’ve gotta do it.) Now, I’m not saying I’m right in doing so, but I treated the “surreal” aspect of the book (particularly Michelle’s return/recovery) as a metaphorical processing of [unnamed traumatic event] rather than a literal out-of-body (and space and time) experience. Like I said, that could be an entirely wrong interpretation of the story, but it’s mine – most likely because it’s bent toward the solidly real, as is my way of thinking. If I pegged the author’s motive correctly, yay! If I’m totally off, whoops. Either way, that’s as far as I’m going to take you as far as interpretation on this one; you’re on your own!

On to the part there can be no misinterpreting (yup, here comes the lecture segment of the program): the spring break scene in Mexico. As you’d expect, the girls’ plane hits the tarmac and they hit the hotel bar, where the specialty is Sky Juice. And it’s just what you’re imagining: sweet. Without ice, it tasted, at room temperature, the way the ocean might have tasted without salt. It didn’t taste like wine, or beer, or whiskey…none of which [Michelle] particularly liked. This was perfect. 

Of course it was. It and its sugary tropical friends always are. There’re a million such drinks created for the sole purpose of getting girls drunk and therefore leaving them susceptible to bad decisions – theirs and everyone else’s. Because if alcohol was only served in its pure form, very few people would partake at all, let alone rapidly or in large quantities! 

No, I’m not 100 years old, and by lecture I didn’t mean beat you with my cane; I’ve been there like every other girl. My first fraternity party opened with mystery punch, closed with barf, and left me with little to no recollection of the evening. The only difference is that my drink was red. And that I got really lucky in having 2 kindly partygoers return me to the dorm when I had no chance of making it on my own. Some of the girls in this book are equally lucky, some not so much – sadly, very true to life. I just wish kids’ rites of passage didn’t have to have “odds.”

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