The thing about getting married is you lose track of time.
When you're a single renter there is a change in the landscape. You look back and think 'well, I was dating that guy from Detroit, and living in the apartment by the beach with that really skinny girl from LA, so it must have been eleven years ago.'
But once you're married, it all begins to blur. 'Hmm' you think, 'it was the summer I was living with that guy I love, and we were living in the house that we were lucky enough to be able to buy and still enjoy living in, so it could have been, well any time in the last eight years.' Which, while fabulous to be married to my best friend living in our comfy house, doesn't do much for carbon dating the events of my life.
Of course there is more to life than marital bliss and owning real estate. Like your friends, and their lives. Which is why I know how long our Book Group has been together. I walked into the first meeting to find a former co-worker already in the room, noticeably pregnant (or should the be visibly pregnant? Far enough along to be able to politely mention the fact that she was clearly having a baby soon, without running the risk that she in fact was not pregnant, but had just put on weight in a rather unflattering distribution). Her son is fourteen now, and will forever be, among the many bright brilliant things the future will bring him, the historical marker for the duration of the book group.
Which is how I came to read Mediterranean Summer. You get a bunch of food and travel loving readers in a room, and it is a no brainer that at some point they are going to be attracted to a book about a chef who spends a summer cooking on a yacht.
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