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The Way Life Should Be: A Novel

The Way Life Should Be: A Novel

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The Way Life Should Be: A Novel

4/5 (34 evaluări)
344 pages
5 hours
Oct 13, 2009


From the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Orphan Train, and the critically acclaimed author of Bird in Hand, comes a novel of love, risk, and self-discovery—includes a special PS section featuring insights, interviews, and more.

Angela can feel the clock ticking. She is single in New York City, stuck in a job she doesn’t want and a life that seems to have, somehow, just happened.  She inherited a flair for Italian cooking from her grandmother, but she never seems to have the time for it—these days, her oven holds only sweaters. Tacked to her office bulletin board is a photo from a magazine of a tidy cottage on the coast of Maine—a charming reminder of a life that could be hers, if she could only muster the courage to go after it.

On a hope and a chance, Angela decides to pack it all up and move to Maine, finding the nudge she needs in the dating profile of a handsome sailor who loves dogs and Italian food.  But her new home isn’t quite matching up with the fantasy. Far from everything familiar, Angela begins to rebuild her life from the ground up. Working at a local coffeehouse, she begins to discover the pleasures and secrets of her new small-town community and, in the process, realizes there’s really no such thing as the way life should be.

Oct 13, 2009

Despre autor

Christina Baker Kline is the author of six novels, including the #1 New York Times bestseller Orphan Train as well as A Piece of the World. She lives outside New York City and spends as much time as possible on the coast of Maine. Learn more about Christina at www.christinabakerkline.com.

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The Way Life Should Be - Christina Baker Kline



My grandmother is stirring the soup. It’s almost ready, she says without turning around. You want some?

It’s a Thursday night and I’m in New Jersey visiting my father and stepmother and grandmother. I usually take the half-hour bus ride from New York City to Nutley every week, but I haven’t been here once in the past month. I call on Sundays, but none of them is much for the telephone. My father and stepmother don’t like to chat, and Nonna frets about my phone bill, no matter how many times I tell her my cell phone is free all weekend.

Sure, I say. What are you making?

Stracciatella alla Romana, she says. But this is only stock. I haven’t added the rest yet.

When I was young, my father used to take the family out to dinner once a week. After my grandfather died and my mother ran off with her gynecologist—the same year, when I was nine—my grandmother moved in with us, and she scoffed at this habit. Mediocre restaurant food, she declared, was soul destroying. "In the same amount of time it takes to go to a ristorante I could mash nice plum tomatoes with a little garlic in some good olive oil and have a fine, simple meal. Why waste time and money on food that is no good? Non lo gradisco. I will not do it!"

In Nonna’s kitchen, life was pared down to its simplest elements: flour, yeast in water, an egg. I loved coming home to a warm kitchen, the windows steamed from baking, the presence of a woman who didn’t seem to wish she was elsewhere. I was grateful to her for taking care of us. She sewed buttons on my father’s shirts; grew herbs in the yard; baked taralli, spicy cookies, in the afternoons. I’d stand by the stove and watch her make tiny meatballs, the size of large marbles, and plump gnocchi from scratch. As soon as I was old enough to wield a knife, I began to help her—as I’d never helped my mother, who didn’t teach me anything about food, who equated cooking with indentured servitude—by chopping vegetables. "Taglilo sottile. Slice it thin, Nonna would say, handing me a garlic clove. Like a fingernail."

I learned the importance of the soffritto, the first step in many Italian dishes, a foundation of flavor: Put olive oil or butter in the bottom of the pan and add finely chopped onion. Cook it slowly, stirring often, then add a sprinkle of fresh garlic, which will turn a pale gold. The next step, insaporire, or to bestow taste, involves adding parsley, celery, carrots, possibly some ground meat. If the soffritto is not cooked precisely, the flavor of the dish will be compromised. The onions must be sautéed until they are translucent. The garlic must not be allowed to burn.

"You have il regalo," Nonna told me one steamy August evening before I left for college. The gift. A light touch, an instinctive ability to substitute and improvise. I knew I had it—it was one of the few things I was certain I did well. Though hopeless at chemistry in the classroom, I intuitively understood the alchemy of cooking. Once I learned the basics, the soffritto and the insaporire, I was on my way.

Nonna is eighty-eight now, and she moves slowly. Yet despite all the changes of the past fifteen years—I moved to New York; my brother settled in Westchester; my mother died and my father remarried—Nonna continues to rule the kitchen. More often than not, my father goes to the store to pick up ingredients for her after she dictates a list. She stands at the counter making dinner and listening to the radio, her hands trembling as she minces the onions and the garlic. When she has finished everything she needs to do, she sits at the table staring out the kitchen window at the driveway, her hands in her lap.

"So how do you make stracciatella?" I ask. I know how to make it; she has told me before. But I want her to tell me again. Nonna doesn’t use recipes; she cooks by feel, by touch and taste and sight. She takes out the spinach, the eggs, the pecorino romano cheese, and instructs me to add a handful, a sprinkle, una punta piccola, a little pinch, just enough.

In my other life, in New York City, I am Angela Russo, Italian-Irish-American, not too much of any one thing. I don’t conceal my Italian heritage, but I don’t make a lot of it, either. It is hidden in plain sight. But in Nonna’s kitchen I am an Italian girl, just as she used to be, learning to cook from her grandmother, who knows all the secrets.


After college I wanted to apply to culinary school, but my father, who is an accountant, objected. Cooking isn’t a real job, he said.

Too much hard work, my stepmother chimed in. Terrible hours. Take my advice, Angela: Get a normal job where you can leave at five. You’ll thank me when you have children.

Nonsense. Carpe diem! my mother exclaimed long-distance, but I wasn’t inclined to take her advice. When she ran off with Murray Singer, she didn’t just leave my father, she abandoned my brother and me. I overheard the arguments before she left—she needed a clean break, she wasn’t emotionally equipped to deal with needy children, my father had always been the better parent anyway. She and Murray moved across the country to Portland, Oregon, and I only saw her three times before, in my midtwenties, she was killed in a car accident. My brother and I flew out to the funeral, but it was hard to feel much for a woman who had written us out of her life fifteen years earlier, when we needed her most.

So after college I moved to New York City with Lindsay, my best friend from high school. We rented an apartment near the river on the Upper East Side and did temp work at consulting firms while looking for normal jobs where we could leave at five. I cast a wide net for positions available to liberal arts majors with no discernible skills except the ability to make lists, follow directions, and look fairly presentable. As in a game of musical chairs, the music stopped at event planning, and I sat down.

For the past five years I’ve been planning events at the Huntsworth Museum, a modish showcase for contemporary art in lower Manhattan. While I like some things about my job—the long-term planning combined with last-minute urgencies, the immediate gratification of momentary accomplishment, the blinking red light on my phone and the jaunty sherbet pop-up Post-its in a little box on my desk—I also have to admit that it’s no longer much of a challenge. For the first few years the learning curve was steep, but now my days are spent gliding across a smooth plateau of predictability. I can’t erase the nagging sense that there’s something else out there for me, if only I knew which direction to take.

It’s midmorning and I’m sitting at my desk sipping my second cup of coffee, researching novelty circus acts online. My big project at the moment is a black-tie gala four weeks from now, a benefit for a new wing of avant-garde art featuring the works of the French artist Zoë Devereux. Mary Quince, the curator and my boss, has said only that she wants color, pizzazz, an element of the outrageous. My idea is to stage an evening that animates figures from Zoë Devereux’s paintings—circus and carnival performers, acrobats and fire-eaters and jugglers.

Mimes, jesters, clowns, you name it, apparently they’re all for hire, à la carte or as a group. I print out a selection of options to discuss with Mary and start e-mailing several of the acts to see if they’re available to perform on September 19. As I’m tapping out an e-mail, my glance strays to the small ad at the bottom right of the screen:

Looking for Your Love Match:


My finger hesitates for a moment over the mouse, and then I click on the tiny blue typeface.

I have found that the biggest moments in life, the ones that change everything, usually catch you by surprise. You might not even recognize them as they happen. Your finger is straying over the mouse and you click on the icon and suddenly you find yourself at the portal of a website—an embarrassingly named website, one that makes you wince: kissandtell.com.

Now why would you ever be drawn to such a place? More important, why would you linger?

A few days ago, during our usual Monday morning check-in, I told Lindsay about the abysmal blind date I’d been on the Saturday night before, and then waited to hear the details of hers.

Well, Lindsay said, it wasn’t, actually.

Wasn’t what?

Abysmal. Believe it or not.

Riffling through the cluttered filing cabinet of my brain, I retrieved a scrap of memory: Lindsay joined an online dating service about a month ago. An amateur photographer took her picture. The resulting image, an off-the-shoulder embarrassment in soft focus, provoked a deluge of responses, mostly from shady guys on Long Island. Don’t tell me—it’s Hot4U, I joked.

Lindsay laughed uncomfortably. It was clear she regretted sharing this detail. Actually, it is, she said. But the name is tongue-in-cheek. You know, an ironic commentary on the whole online-dating thing.

I see, I said dubiously.

She sighed. This guy is so great, Ange. So cute, so nice. So smart. I don’t know. This is going to sound crazy, but I think maybe I’ve found my soul mate.

Are you kidding? It’s—pretty soon to be talking soul mates, isn’t it, Linz?

I know! she said. Aren’t you happy for me?

That night, after a dinner of four warm Krispy Kremes straight from the bag, I climbed into a sudsy bath and closed my eyes. How many people, I wondered, can actually claim to have found their soul mate, the one person in the world destiny has set aside for them? Not many, I’d bet. I’m skeptical that there is such a thing. I’m inclined to believe that the whole concept of a soul mate is like Sasquatch, the giant hairy ape-man of legend who turned out to be nothing more than a guy in a monkey suit running through a forest.

But now, sitting at my desk, I think—if Lindsay believes she’s actually found her soul mate, who am I to scoff and ridicule?

When you read the Sunday wedding section—the women’s sports page, as Lindsay calls it—to see how people met, you discover that it’s often in the most accidental of ways, in the unlikeliest of places. At a funeral. In the park. In the back of an airplane. At the grocery store. Which makes those of us who haven’t found the right one edgy. Are you my life partner? Are you? If I don’t go to this party, or if I stay in my apartment on a sunny Saturday instead of heading over to Central Park with a picnic blanket and the Times, will I miss meeting the man of my dreams? You could drive yourself crazy with the what-ifs and why-nots.

After a while you start appraising fire hydrants and telephone poles—hmm, tall, sturdy, good posture, could be the one.

The other day on TV a so-called relationship expert said that it’s when you aren’t looking for love that you find it. But what does that mean, exactly? The truth is, even if you make a pact with yourself that you’re not looking and don’t care, a piece of you is always waiting for love to happen. Especially if you’re a woman who might someday want to give birth to a kid or two, and you’re thirty-three.

The problem with your best friend putting an idea in your head, even if it’s an idea you loathe (or perhaps especially if it’s an idea you loathe) is that then it’s in there, gestating, like the larvae of a nasty insect that burrows under your skin.

So…given the myriad ways in which people can and do meet, and the frank reality that I have managed to live for more than three decades without meeting my soul mate, perhaps I should give it a try.

And so it is that I find myself at kissandtell’s buoyantly graphic home page. Never go on a bad date again! promises the slogan at the top, and while that strikes me as unrealistic, I find myself caught up in the madcap hopefulness of it all. Pricking up my ears for the click-click of Mary Quince’s heels, I fill out the free entry form. I compile a shopping list of my requirements with the zeal of an early-bird shopper on the day of a big sale: male, between the ages of thirty-five—scratch that, twenty-nine—and forty; no kids; college educated. I specify my geographical locale as New York region and click Done.

A little human icon on the screen crosses its arms and cocks its head, as if considering my request. After a moment a database of postage-stamp-size photos and screen names pops up. I scroll down the seemingly endless list, most with suggestive or boastful screen names and subtle-as-a-mallet opening lines, only the first eight words of which are visible, followed by a trail of ellipses. The screen names generally contain a vanity-license-plate combo of numbers and letters, upper-and lowercase, puns and double entendres. Look4Love, Bod4U, SINgledad. (That one’s just creepy.) Though most photos are clearly intended to show off the subject’s best features, the men tend to look either menacing, intense, meek, too pumped, or downright dweeby.

I click on a photo, and the profile is revealed. Chuck, thirty-four, is an actuary who knows how to have a good time. He has been burned before but remains confident that the woman of his dreams is out there. Robert, thirty-one, wants a mutually satisfying relationship with a fellow bodybuilding enthusiast from the tristate area. Colin, a thirty-nine-year-old firefighter, is looking for a red-haired beauty who is ready to start a family and would be happy living on Staten Island. It doesn’t take much reading between the lines to spot the guys who live in the same house with or next door to their parents.

As I consider these options, my gaze strays from the computer screen to the bulletin board on my wall. Tacked to the gray synthetic fabric is a photo, torn from a magazine, of a weathered elfin cottage on the Maine coast. Several times a day my glance strays to this photo; the image has become totemic, as unreal a place as Middle Earth. Just looking at it soothes me, the way sound machines of waves or rain can calm your nerves. I have never been to Maine, but in my imagination life there isn’t so complicated. I picture a lump of dough rising under a tea towel on a kitchen counter; pansies spilling from a window box; seagulls the size of small dogs, circling in slow motion overhead.

Impulsively—perhaps recklessly—I widen my search, inching up the East Coast. Near Boston I find fewer Italians and bankers, more Irish Catholics and lawyers. Curiously, my qualms about serial rapists and ax murderers diminish the farther north I go, as if all the miscreants and deviants in the northeastern U.S. have confined themselves to the New York area, and the rest is safe.

Moving up the coastline, the pickings get slimmer. Maybe there’s a dating website specifically for Mainers, or perhaps Internet dating hasn’t really caught on there yet. There is a grand total of six profiles. Most of the head shots feature guys wearing baseball hats with obscure local slogans. Then, all at once—hey! I am gazing into the ice blue eyes of a thirty-five-year-old with the screen name MaineCatch. His opening teaser is Sail away with me… No baseball cap, a nice tan, a full head of slightly tousled blond hair, navy blue tennis shirt. I sit up straight in my desk chair and click on his picture.

…in the night, and all day, too, the teaser ends. As I read the profile I have to remind myself to breathe. It turns out that Rich, thirty-five, runs a sailing school in a coastal town on Mount Desert Island (Where? I must Google it immediately). Five eleven and 180 pounds, he has never been married, is a nonpracticing Protestant, loves Italian food and shellfish. Besides sailing, his interests include curling up with a good book, my dog Sam (short for Samantha), hiking, and…cooking.

My heart thumps.

I click a button that says Register for free! I can post my profile and picture, and receive and respond to inquires, but if I want to contact someone, I’ll have to pay the monthly charge of $29. There’s a feature called tagging that allows you to comment on someone’s profile without joining by using one of ten canned lines they provide (You’re hot! Check me out—maybe we can start a fire together).

I fill in the blanks:

Name: Angela (no last name).

Age? Am tempted to lie, then realize that it might lead to a potentially unpleasant spurning scenario. 33.

Religion: Nonpracticing Catholic.

Profession: Event Planner.

Hometown: New York City.

Vital statistics: Hmm. Tempted to ignore or minimize, but realize that this is risky. How is it that most people on this website describe themselves as slim when most Americans are overweight? I check medium height, medium build. Then, reconsidering, change it to slim.

Hobbies /activities: Watching old Lifetime movies in bed, drinking vodka tonics, going out with friends, reading the Styles section, trolling the Chelsea flea market, eating out. Going to the gym every four or five days and trotting on the treadmill for the duration of Access Hollywood.

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

Had I the kind of lifestyle wherein one might actually cultivate interesting hobbies, what would they be? Not that I have ever actually done it, but if I did exercise in a nongym way, I think I might enjoy hiking.


The one time I went sailing, with friends at a time share in the Hamptons, I threw up over the side of the boat, but I’m sure I could grow to love it. I like everything except the water part. The beautiful wooden vessels, the salt-crisp nautical wear, picnics on deck with a glass of wine. The shiny, curving wood in the cabin and the rounded windows belowdecks.


When I was little I wanted a dog. I begged for years, and finally got a mutt named Rusty. He didn’t take well to housetraining and tended to snap, and when he was almost a year old he met an unfortunate end after ingesting rat poison left in the garage by my dad. But I have no doubt that I could grow to love someone else’s adored dog, particularly a Lab named Sam.


And then there’s cooking. For this one I don’t have to lie or fudge. I write, Enjoys cooking Italian food and shellfish with friends, al fresco dining under a clear, star-filled sky. The lyrics of that oldies song about piña coladas and getting caught in the rain waft through my head.

So call it coincidence, call it kismet, call it what you will, but my interests dovetail quite nicely with those of MaineCatch.

Several months ago the publications director of the museum took a picture of me for the annual report. It’s like a yearbook photo—stiff smile, white blouse—but it’s all I’ve got. I fish it out of a drawer and hurry down the hall to the industrial-strength printer/scanner, scanning it through before I have time to second-guess myself. On the computer screen, I am cheered to see, I look a little better than in real life.

I finish filling out my profile and hesitate over the screen name. It should convey cool nonchalance as opposed to sluttish desperation. What would appeal to Mr. Catch? I try out a few. Ready2Sail? Too obvious. NewYorkCatch? Erk. I flash through a few possibilities—SpicyGirl, LemonLover (like my grandfather, I do love lemons, but—no)—before trying out NewYorkGirl.

NewYork…Girl. I think about it for a moment. It’s a stretch, but anyone can see my age on the form. It’s breezy. I’m going with it.

Since I am disinclined to pay for this, I scroll through the short list of generic options and fix on the one that seems most neutral: I’m intrigued! Check me out.

I send my profile and the canned tagline to MaineCatch and get a confirmation notice from the website. I feel a flash of regret, and then a tingle of hope. It’s the same feeling I had when I was ten and stuffed a message in a bottle and tossed it off a pier into the ocean. Now that I remember it, the bottle kept washing up onshore with the tide and I finally gave up—but still. My message is out there, and now all I can do is wait and see.


Mimes and jesters, it turns out, are a dime a dozen, but a good fire-eater is hard to find. After half an hour of following leads, I am finally on the phone with one of them, a cranky, demanding guy named Frank. I’m doing my best to get him to give me some references, but he doesn’t want to cooperate.

Yeah, yeah, he says, sighing dramatically. I’ve got references, but I gotta dig ’em out from god-knows-where, and frankly, right now I don’t need the work that bad. Fire-eating’s big these days, Cirque du Soleil or I don’t know what….

Sure, I understand, I say. It’s just that it’s a formality. I can’t hire you unless I talk to someone. Anyone. Your dog, even, if your dog could talk.

His laugh sounds vaguely evil. Well, that can be arranged.

As we’re talking I click idly onto kissandtell again. Oh my God! MaineCatch has written back. Now Frank wants to know which other carnies I’ve been talking to—It’s a small world, kid, believe me, and I can’t stand the half of ’em—but I can’t resist peeking at what I’ve reeled in.

You intrigue me, too. But why is a city gal like you interested in a country boy like me?

Frank is going on and on, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from hanging up on him.

Well, you’re my number one choice, I tell him. I’m not signing anybody else until I get you.

Runs a sailing school. Lives on an island. Dog named Sam.

Maybe opposites attract, I write. And send.

Let’s talk about your fee, I say to Frank, settling down to business. The price seems exorbitant to me, even given the fact that he shoves fire down his esophagus for a living.

I click back to kissandtell. So maybe we should find out, MaineCatch has written. Already! My heart pitter-pats, then thumps, like the tail of a friendly dog as you get closer to petting it. Let’s take this conversation off-road. Call me, 207-555-2814.

I sit back in my chair, flummoxed. A number! Isn’t Internet dating supposed to be anonymous, at least for a while? Doesn’t this break the rules? (And isn’t the guy supposed to call first?)

For advice on these and other questions, I do what any sane woman would do: I call my best friend.

"He gave you his number? He wants you to call him?" Lindsay repeats.


That seems a little—fast.

He’s from Maine. He lives on an island.

Maybe that explains it, she says. He clearly has no idea what he’s doing. There’s an etiquette to this, for God’s sake! She pauses for a moment, then says, What are you doing hooking up with a guy from Maine, anyway?

Oh, he says he wants to move, I lie. So—what should I do?

Just ignore him and he’ll go away. Something’s not right about this guy.

I hang up the phone and brood. What’s so wrong with talking to him? Hearing his voice? You can tell a lot about a guy by his voice.

There’s a sharp rap on my door—instantly identifiable as Mary Quince’s knuckle—and I click quickly to another screen. She pops in, all business, frameless glasses perched on her head and lavender cardigan buttoned at the throat. Big Apple Circus, she says, click-clicking over to my desk and looking over my shoulder at the screen. Are we having any luck?

Just got off the phone with a bona fide fire-eater, I report. I’m about to call his references.

Mary looks at her watch. We’re cutting this close, she says, as if the party is minutes away. Her watch has no calendar; it’s a symbolic gesture. Also, she doesn’t mean we, she means me. I’ve never actually missed a deadline or botched an event, but that doesn’t stop Mary from obsessing. It’s what she does best.

Everything’s coming together just fine, I say in my most competent voice.

The big secret of event planning is that hundreds of things always go

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  • (4/5)
    This was a really nice, breezy read while I've recuperated from being under the weather! I wish the book had been a little longer, actually, as I'd like to know more about the characters! I can see where Maine, like NYC, would be a fantasy place to move to start over, so it was fun to live vicariously through Angie. I enjoyed the relationship between Angie and her grandmother, especially since I'd like to become a better cook. I may try a couple of recipes from the book.

    The book also made me want to visit Maine again. The last time I was there was for the author's wedding! :-D

  • (3/5)
    I received this book from the publisher via Librarything.com as an Early Reviewer. I was very interested to read this as I loved Orphan Train also by Christina Baker Kline. Angela Russo was raised by her dad and Italian nonna in New Jersey and remain close to them. Now single gal in her early thirties living in New York and an event planner for a museum. She seems to have it all but love and a soul mate. Taking a chance she gives online dating a try, she sets her sights on a man from Maine and immediately convinces herself this is "the guy". They meet halfway for a first date which sets Angela off on an all consuming pursuit of love. Losing focus on the job, her current responsibilities literally end in flames. Out of work she sets off on a new path - to Maine and the man of her dreams. While she knows she is taking a huge risk leaving everything behind, she ignores the sensible advice of her best friend and family and goes anyway. When things don't go as expected with her chosen "soul mate" she must re-evaluate why she is there and what she wants to do with her life. This was a quick light read and while somewhat predictable I did enjoy it. Kline's description of life in Maine is heavenly and indeed "the way life should be". Highly recommended for a vacation/beach read. How I acquired this book: HarperCollins via LibraryThing.com Early ReviewersShelf life: Two weeks
  • (5/5)
    This is not typical of the kinds of books that I read. It is a romance (sort of) but there is more than that going on. Angela Russo sets her sights on a man that she meets on the internet. Things do not work out between them, BUT....that is a good thing for Angela. It gives her the chance to do what heart tells her to do.Angela's love for cooking she inherits from her Italian grandmother (Nonna). Nonna lives with Angela's father and stepmother, and teaches Angela many lessons. Nonna confides in Angela a deep dark secret that no one else knows about. This secret gives her pause to think about her own life and how she wants to live it.My Thoughts: This is a "feel good" story about a woman who changes her path in life, and finds happiness along the way. I admire this character in what she accomplishes on her own. This novel warmed my heart while reading it, and left me content as a cat in a sunny window upon finishing it!
  • (4/5)
    When Angela packs it all up and moves to Maine for lust, it isn't all bad. After all, she got the energy to move, didn't she? Lust does always make love follow and, in this case it didn't but Angela is determined to stick it out until she has an epiphany. Her new group of friends, verrrrry interesting folks! - help her along and her beloved Nonnie back in New Jersey has taught her all she really needs to know about life. Food will basically fix anything.Out a few years ago, I loved this book and did, in fact, want all the characters to come over for supper!
  • (5/5)
    Very enjoyable,light read. The title is perfect for the story.I agree with others,this is a good summer or beach read!
  • (5/5)
    A great story about a single who is looking for more from life than the usual 7am - 9pm grind in Manhatten. With a grass is greener view, she decides to date a guy from Maine, who she believes is her soul mate. With a whim and pray she packs up her belongings, after a disasterous mistake at her job, and moves to Maine to start a new life...but not the life she originally expected.It was such a great quick summer read, it took me only 1 1/2 days to finish it cover to cover. Complete chick lit, I would highly recommend it.
  • (5/5)
    Three things drew me to this novel. First, it takes place in Maine. I’ve always wanted to live on the coast of Maine; it’s just so darn beautiful. Second, sometimes when I reflect upon my life, I think, “This isn’t what I signed up for; this isn’t the way life was supposed to be.” The third reason is the author, Christina Baker Kline. After reading, and loving, Orphan Train and A Piece of the World, Kline is one of my favorite authors and I want to read all the books she has published. And just icing on the cake, the front cover blurb is from Caroline Leavitt, an author I’m just discovering. So I ask you, “How could I resist this novel?” Angela Russo lives in New York City and is thirty-three years old. She is an event planner for one of the lesser-known museums. On her office bulletin board is a cutout magazine photo showing a cottage on the coast of Maine. It portrays such a simple life; the life Angela has always wanted. With her love life is nonexistent, she decides to look into some internet dating sites. A profile name MaineCatch. He’s thirty-five, has ice-blue eyes and lives in Cushing, Maine. Angela spends more time mooning over MaineCatch than she does thinking about the big fundraising event she is planning for the museum. She has to go to Boston on business, and luckily, MaineCatch sails down to meet her. The sparks fly.When the event goes horribly, horribly, horribly wrong, Angela is fired from her job. She decided to move north to be with her catch. Things go horribly, horribly wrong; seems she has misunderstood MaineCatch’s intentions.Without a job to return to, Angela decides to stay in Cushing. She finds a little shack to rent that she can renovate, gets a job in a local coffee house, and begins to rebuild her life. The knack for the Italian cooking she learned from her grandmother rises to the surface.The novel is written in first person, which I think helps add immediacy to the story while Kline’s scenic description have me longing to pack me bags and head Northeast. I was able to live vicariously through Angela. I could barely put this story down and I didn’t want it to end. I hope in the future Kline writes a follow-up novel. The Way Life Should Be 6 out of 5 stars in Julie’s world.
  • (5/5)
    I found this book in a "take one, leave one" bookshelf at the cottage we stayed at in Maine. Mostly taking place on the same small island where we were vacationing (Mount Desert Island, home of Acadia National Park), this was a perfect vacation read. I also loved the recipes dotted throughout the book.
  • (5/5)
    I have read two previous books by Christina Baker Kline, historical fiction, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Was surprised to see this one as it looked too "chic lit" for her. But I was wrong and now I am going to read any other book she may have written. A novel about a 30-something female New Yorker (by way of NJ) who lost her job through her own carelessness as she became enamored with a guy she met on a dating site, all told in a light, humorous vein. She retreated back to her old bedroom in NJ where her Nonna, father and stepmother still reside. But, always having a dream to go to Maine, she ends up doing that to live with the guy from the dating site. That quickly fizzles but she stays in Maine and finds a job and a dog and friends, but most importantly, herself. It takes a trip back home to NJ after 3 months and a heart to heart with Nonna, for her to realize all that; and, that she is happy and fulfilled.
  • (2/5)
    Angela has always admired the hallmark picture of a quaint Maine cottage . On Impulse Angie joins an online dating service by recommendation of a friend and finds a sailboat instructor from Maine that seems to be the perfect catch. After a fumbled career she goes to Maine for a brief trip that will end up changing her life forever..I did agree with her family and friend's that she was jumping the gun by moving so fast and staying in Maine with this man she met on the internet and barely knew. It was nice to see Angie get a grip and reevaluate her life and what she wanted her goals to be after everything seemed to be falling apart at her feet. This was slow paced and although a quick read I wasn't engrossed in the book and feeling like I can't wait to see what would happen next in Angie's life.
  • (5/5)
    I loved it---but----I certainly wouldn't mind a sequel---I want to watch this collection of characters do more things!!!!
  • (4/5)
    This book falls into the category of cooking-school-find-yourself-romance books, with a Maine setting and a lot of recipes for Italian dishes.Angela Russo, 33, is fired from her job as an events planner in New York City, and on a whim, packs up her things and drives to Maine. She had always been intrigued by the idea of a romantic cottage on the Maine coast, and had even initiated a real-life relationship with a guy she discovered through an online dating service calling himself “MaineCatch.” She initially goes to stay with “MaineCatch” (who is actually Richard Saunders), on a small Maine island called Mount Desert. But Rich is a “player” who is not really interested in anything serious with Angela. Now homeless, jobless, and without romantic prospects, she gets assistance from a local barista, Flynn, who gives her a job and helps her find a place to live. Angela hadn’t been all that attached to her dad and stepmom, but had a close relationship with her Italian grandmother, Nonna, who taught her to prepare food with love and skill. This knowledge serves her well in Maine, after she starts preparing treats for Flynn to sell in the shop. The customers pour in, and Flynn helps Angela set up cooking classes. Thus, Angela gradually finds new friends, a new purpose to life, and maybe even love.Discussion: If you like cooking and/or Italian food, you are bound to enjoy this book, which includes a number of recipes. I also appreciated the fact that Flynn, who is gay, is not a caricature, but just a regular very nice guy.
  • (5/5)
    I read The Orphan Train right before I read this book and the stories were very different but both were so well written. This story takes place in contemporary times, and is about a woman who moves to Maine to find herself after losing her job. The story was interesting and flowed nicely. It was a quick read. My only criticism is that so much apparently happened in such a short amount of time. The main character developed friendships in a matter of weeks that takes most people months or years to develop. Overall, though, this was a great read.
  • (4/5)
    although this story has been told by many different writers, Christina has managed to bring new life to it. Her characters are likeable and the story moved along quickly which held my interest. I enjoyed it so much that I will now be getting her older books to read and will highly recommend this one..
  • (3/5)
    Angelo Russo is an event planner in New York City. She is finds her job boring and isn't meeting any good men. Her best friend suggests trying an online dating service. She responds to and ad written by Richard Saunders, a sailing instructor from Maine. After losing her job, she decides to drive to Maine to start a new life...hopefully with Rich. When she arrives in Maine, things are not as she thought they would be.I found this an enjoyable read, but not a memorable one.
  • (3/5)
    Angela is running on auto-pilot as an event planner in New York City when she makes a mistake that causes her to lose her job. She turns to the guy she met through an online match service and leaves for Maine to "find herself." I do not approve of pre-marital or extra-marital sex, and this book had too much of the former for my tastes. I did enjoy the descriptions of cooking and food throughout this book. I enjoyed the part of the plot that related to cooking, food, and to the friends she made on the island. I enjoyed her interaction with her Italian grandmother who taught her to cook.
  • (5/5)
    The first Christina Baker Kline novel I read, like most people, was Orphan Train. I found the story so engrossing, and I was surprised that I had never heard of the orphan trains before.After that, I read Sweet Water by Ms. Kline and was happy to report that I enjoyed that one as well. I just finished another book from Kline's backlist, The Way Life Should Be, and I found this book the best of the three.Angela is a 33 year-old single woman living in Manhattan, with a burgeoning career as an event planner for an art museum. She has a big event coming up that could bring her into the big time if it all comes together.She has a loving father, a grumpy stepmother, and an Italian grandmother who loves Angela dearly. Nonna taught Angela all about Italian cooking, and Angela always enjoyed spending time in the kitchen with her.The only thing missing in her life is true love. When her friend Lindsay meets a wonderful guy through online dating, Angela decides to give it a try. She finds a man who runs a sailing school in Maine, and they begin an online romance.Angela has a picture in her mind of a quaint Maine cottage by the sea, her and her man living together in blissful love. When things go badly at work, she decides to pick up and move herself to Maine to give love a try with her online beau.There are bumps along the way, but Angela sticks to her guns and is determined to stay in Maine. She starts hanging out a local coffeehouse, and the owner Flynn, an Aussie transplant who followed his heart (and a man too, like Angela), becomes her best friend and offers her a job.She finds a tiny, dilapidated cottage (nothing like her dream) and convinces Flynn to redecorate the coffeehouse and offer homemade pastries and soups for lunch. Flynn persuades Angela to offer cooking classes, and she makes some new friends.This book has so much that ticked all my boxes- Angela is a strong woman, Flynn is adorable, there are lots of delicious descriptions of food (recipes included), a group of interesting new friends (with secrets) and a setting that is new to me (I must visit Acadia National Park).As someone who has planned events, I found that part of the story fascinating. And any book that has food at its core, if it is well done like this is, will always appeal to me. I also liked that the characters are not one-dimensional (except the wicked stepmother). Angela's boyfriend Richard could have been the stock guy-who-is-really-a-jerk, but Kline gives him shades of color that made him more interesting.The relationships- Angela and Nonna, Angela and Flynn, Angela and Lindsay- are so believable, you wish you were Angela. I will warn you that The Way Life Should Be will inspire you to dig out all of your food utensils and give Angela's recipes, like Pasta e Fagioli, Chicken Marsala and Basil Marinara, a try.When Tom asks Angela who she really is, she thinks "the stories we tell about ourselves are filled with half-truths, distorted recollections, and blind spots as well as occasional moments of insight. It's all in the spin, isn't it?" And, I for one, liked the spin of Angela's story.
  • (4/5)
    Loved this author's book Orphan Train so was excited to get this as an Early Reviewer. The book is a fun read - with enjoyable characters. It has a wonderful nana-granddaughter relationship and as a surprise many of the recipes that they shared together.
  • (3/5)
    I liked but was surprised by the sudden ending. Bit more story and less recipes would have been nice.
  • (4/5)
    It was a pretty fun book. The writing style flowed well. Engaging enough without being a “wow.”