One of the books I picked up on Swede and my New Year’s Book Bonanza was My Life in France, by Julia Child. There was an inscription on the inside from 2006, from a woman named Cheré to her friend Marya, who apparently received the book as a 40th birthday present from Cheré.
Poor Cheré. Marya obviously did not think highly enough of this present on her special, special birthday to hang on to it eight years later. Or maybe Marya was tired of Cheré’s comments about her eating. “Do you eat to live, or live to eat?” Was Cheré trying to tell Marya she needed to lose weight? Was she calling her Marya a bad cook? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY, MON CHERÉ?
Because if you’re going to be like that, it’s no wonder Marya tossed your book in the To Donate pile.
But if, on the other hand, you gave this as a thoughtful, inspiring gift to your friend who loves to cook and/or eat, well.
All I have to say is her loss. You sound like a lovely friend. Come over sometime, I’ll make you some cake and we can talk smack about Marya. She’s such a snob. I’ve always said that about her.