Trail of Crumbs was sent to me as a gift by reader Elizabeth (who’s also going to be participating in the RG development I’ve hinted at, coming up shortly), and was previously recommended to me by a number of readers after I wrote about my love of foodie memoirs.
The beautifully written book follows author Kim Sunee as she falls in love with a French millionaire (the guy who founded L’Occitane) and moves into his home in Provence, where she must quickly learn to be the lady of the house, hosting extravagant meals and keeping everything – including a rambunctious stepdaughter – in order. Now, I’m enjoying the book, and I understand that at heart it’s about the search for home and a true identity (Sunee was abandoned in Korea at the age of three)…but something about it isn’t sitting quite right with me.
Confession: I think my problem with Trail of Crumbs stems from the fact that – to put it simply – I’m jealous. Sunee writes about feeling lost even as she pours ice-cold port wine into summer melons fresh from her own garden, or mourns her inability to feel at peace while sitting naked on the shores of an island off the coast of France, wrapped in the arms of a man who adores her. Olivier builds Kim her very own writing studio so that she can pursue her passions in peace, and encourages her to open a bookstore (which of course he would pay for). Yes, he’s controlling, and yes, none of the beauty that he rains down upon her is “hers and hers alone”…but…she seems just a touch ungrateful for her extraordinarily lucky situation. Perhaps that’s insensitive – and true, I suppose that her search for identity is something that I can’t readily identify with on the same scale – but to me, this book feels like self-indulgence wrapped up in a pretty package.
It’s only when Sunee and Olivier go on their ill-fated trip to Asia that the depth of her misery is revealed, and with it the heart of the book. Up until then, it’s a little tough accompanying this woman on her journey of discovery without rolling your eyes at every turn, but when she has doors quite literally slammed in her face by the people she had been hoping would embrace her, you realize that all the cantaloupes and wine in the world will never be enough if you don’t have a family that you truly feel is your own.
On a lighter note, I’m extremely excited about testing out the aforementioned “Tipsy Cantaloupes” (ice-cold and draped with top-quality prosciutto) once summer is here in full force. I may not be munching on them from the deck of my mansion in Provence, but I bet I’ll enjoy ’em nonetheless.
(Photo taken a few days ago, at 44 1/2.)
