Does your life revolve around food? Slater's does, and though what he ate as a boy was frequently canned or frozen, his memories are invariably fresh and warm in this charming memoir of growing up in suburban England in the 1960s. The bite-size chapters have names like "fried eggs" or "banana custard" (there are also references to many unfamiliar British brands, so consult the glossary in back), but they're really about love, class, mischief, mourning and the growing self-awareness of an admitted "Nancy boy" who would rather decorate a wedding cake than kick a ball. His posh mom destroys every meal but, as he says, "it is impossible not to love someone who makes toast for you." Many scenes are hilarious (the family confronting an exotic new food called spaghetti) and the language is so evocative ("You can't smell a hug. You can't hear a cuddle. But if you could, I reckon it would smell and sound of warm bread-and-butter pudding") that it will stimulate your own fond remembrance of meals past.
FICTION
