Unraveled Wednesday: 8/20/25

I'm joining Kat and the Unravelers with some small sock knitting progress. I'm working on a small sock and there is a small amount of progress. 

 

The first sock is done and I even made myself weave in ends and graft the toe. The second sock is just barely past the ankle ribbing but it's started. 

 

I received the yarn that I ordered to knit a Christmas present, so I'm anxious to finish this pair of socks for Jess and cast on for the gift. Depending on how that goes, I may cast on a second pair of shortie socks for Jess in inverse colors. 

I finished two books this week. Wild Dark Shore is an atmospheric, slow-burning story that blends survival, family drama, and eco-thriller elements against the stark, haunting backdrop of Shearwater—a fictional remote island on the edge of Antarctica. Charlotte McConaghy has a gift for crafting setting as character, and the bleak isolation of the island is evident on every page. The descriptions of the storms, the encroaching sea, and the seed bank itself are immersive and often beautiful.

Rowan, the mysterious castaway, is a compelling figure. Watching her tentative bond with the Salt family—fractured, lonely, and desperate for connection—was one of the novel’s strengths. The interplay of secrets and distrust builds tension nicely, especially as Rowan and Dominic circle one another with wary curiosity.

That said, the pacing sometimes falters. Much of the middle leans heavily on atmosphere and introspection, which creates mood but can feel repetitive. The characters, while layered, don’t always feel fully realized, and the revelations at times arrive more conveniently than convincingly.

Still, McConaghy raises urgent questions about climate change, resilience, and the fragile balance between trust and survival. Wild Dark Shore isn’t flawless, but it’s a memorable, windswept read that lingers after the last page. Three and a half stars rounded up.  

The Impossible Thing is an especially original mystery. Belinda Bauer has a gift for taking unusual subjects and spinning them into taut, page-turning mysteries, and The Impossible Thing is no exception. The novel begins in 1926 with a haunting scene on the cliffs of Yorkshire, where desperate men risk their lives to steal rare seabird eggs. From there, Bauer bridges past and present, weaving a story that combines historical intrigue with a modern-day crime.

Patrick Fort stumbles into a case that seems small at first—an apparently simple robbery—but it quickly expands into something far stranger and more dangerous. The stolen object, a scarlet egg in a carved case, connects the present to a century-old legacy of obsession, cruelty, and greed. Bauer balances suspense with thoughtfulness here, raising questions about the human drive to collect, to own, and to risk everything for beauty.

What I enjoyed most was the subject matter of collecting eggs (I had no idea!) and how seamlessly Bauer blended the dual timelines. The historical passages on egg collecting are vivid, atmospheric, and at times harrowing, while the contemporary storyline provides momentum and wit. Patrick is both prickly and compelling, and his relationship with Nick adds warmth to the darker undercurrents of the plot.

If I have one tiny quibble, it’s that the pacing occasionally falters—there are moments when the narrative lingers a bit too long on background or exposition—but Bauer always manages to pull the story back into sharp focus.

Overall, The Impossible Thing is an inventive, intelligent thriller that marries history, natural history, and crime in a way that feels both surprising and deeply satisfying. A strong recommendation for anyone who enjoys mysteries that step outside the ordinary. This one was four stars for me. 

What are you making and reading this week?

 

Another Quote From Justin

Back in June, I wrote about a quote Justin had shown me and I wondered what it might mean. You helpfully provided some interesting answers and gave me plenty to think about. I've got another quote from Justin today.

 

This one is a little easier to grasp than the last quote. To me, it’s a reminder that real confidence and self-worth come from within—not from other people’s approval. Justin has been dealing with some challenges at work lately, and he said starting each day with this thought has actually helped him stay grounded. Ryan has some things going on this week, so I've passed it along to him. 

 

I've found it's helping me, too—at least a little. I may not be able to control the world burning around me, but I can choose to act like a thoughtful, rational, moral, and decent human who still gives a damn. Nugget, of course, always carries herself like royalty, so this regal photo felt like the perfect companion to the quote. 

 

I hope your week is off to a strong start—and may you keep striding through it like the absolute queen you are. 👑

 

Unraveled Wednesday: 8/13/25

I’m joining Kat and the Unravelers this week with a little unraveling and a little sock progress. A couple of weeks ago I mentioned my watermelon sock yarn, and I finally cast on with it—planning to make shortie socks for Jess. That’s when the unraveling began, both literally and in my head.

First attempt: knit the cuff in the watermelon yarn. Didn’t like how the “seeds” (the black speckles) looked in ribbing. Rip. Second attempt: cuff in solid green, then straight into the heel flap after only three rows of watermelon yarn. Didn’t like how the seeds looked in my usual eye of partridge heel. Tried solid green for the heel—looked silly with just those three watermelon rows in between. After the third unsuccessful attempt, I admitted defeat. The watermelon yarn is in time-out.

 

 

While putting it away, I spotted some bright green yarn that matches Jess' new scrubs, along with some purple yarn I’d wound ages ago. Inspiration struck! I cast on shortie socks with the green for the cuff, purple for the foot, and I’ll probably go back to green for the toe. The second sock will match—but if time allows, I might knit another pair with the colors reversed for fun. (You know how quickly I knit in my mind, even if real life is slower!)

 

I also finished and grafted the second sock of my blue-and-green striped pair, which I love almost as much as my rainbow socks. Now I just need some crisp fall weather to wear them.

 

 

Reading-wise, I caught up with the books I've finished on Monday. I'm currently reading The Impossible Thing and The Friend (our Read With Us selection), so I'll probably be sharing my thoughts about them next week.  

 

What are you making and reading this week?

Books: Part II

I hope you've had a good weekend and that it included reading something good. I'm here today with some more of my thoughts on books I finished recently.

Family Drama by Rebecca Fallon is an ambitious, emotionally layered novel that straddles the line between glitzy soap-opera glamour and quiet New England melancholy. At its heart is Susan Bliss—soap star, mother, enigma—whose life and death shape the trajectory of her fractured family.

Fallon sets a striking opening scene: a Viking funeral on a snowy beach, two bewildered children watching their mother disappear into the water. It’s a bold start and full of promise. The novel then shifts between timelines and perspectives—tracing Susan’s passionate, bifurcated existence between L.A. stardom and New England motherhood, while also following her twins, Sebastian and Viola, into adulthood.

There’s a lot to admire here: vivid prose, clever structure, and emotionally sharp moments. Sebastian’s longing and artistic obsession with his mother feel tender and well-realized. Viola’s storyline—particularly her entanglement with her mother’s old costar—is messier, and sometimes uncomfortably so.

That said, Family Drama occasionally buckles under its own weight. The narrative momentum falters in places, and Susan herself—though often described as dazzling—feels more like a symbol than a fully inhabited character. The emotional payoff promised in the beginning is somewhat diluted by the novel’s more theatrical flourishes.

Overall, this is a solid, evocative read that touches on fame, family, memory, and identity. For fans of literary fiction with a dramatic flair, Family Drama is worth picking up—but be prepared for a slow burn rather than a soap-worthy explosion. This was three stars for me (despite the great cover).

Thanks to Edelelweiss and Simon & Schuster for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on February 3, 2026. 

Sarah Moss’s Ripeness is a quiet, layered novel that weaves together two timelines with characteristic intelligence and restraint. Set partly in 1960s rural Italy and partly in present-day Ireland, the novel follows Edith—first as a dutiful teenager sent to assist her pregnant sister Lydia through a complex and emotionally fraught birth, and later as a mature woman navigating a friend's unexpected family revelation.

Moss is at her best when writing about the subtleties of obligation, memory, and the undercurrents in female relationships. The sections in Italy are especially evocative, filled with tension, sunlight, and the heavy silence of things left unsaid. Edith's youth and the decisions she’s asked to carry out on behalf of others create a sense of unease that lingers well into the present-day narrative.

However, while the prose is typically sharp and the themes compelling—particularly the question of who gets to make life-altering decisions and why—the novel occasionally feels underdeveloped emotionally. The present-day plotline, involving Maebh’s surprise sibling and Edith’s role in unearthing that family mystery, doesn’t land with the same weight as the earlier story. There’s a detachment that makes it hard to fully invest in the characters' current dilemmas. Some of this may be due to the fact that the book feels overstuffed. Lots of issues are mixed up in this book—it deals with refugees, migration and immigration, Jewishness, rape culture, abortions, Irishness, the Magdalene Laundries, the war in Ukraine, toxic ballet culture, and much more. It often felt like too much and made Edith a frustrating character.

A thoughtful, readable novel that explores the long reach of the past, Ripeness doesn’t quite deliver the emotional payoff it promises, but Moss’s elegant writing and insight into the lives of women still make it worth the read.

Thank you to Farrar, Straus and Giroux and NetGalley for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on September 9, 2025. 

Isola is a beautifully written survival story rooted in historical truth and elevated by Allegra Goodman's lyrical prose. Inspired by a real sixteenth-century woman who was abandoned on an island as punishment for an illicit relationship, the novel imagines what inner strength, longing, and faith might look like when stripped of society, family, and even hope.

Marguerite begins the novel as a privileged young woman—an heiress raised to expect comfort and refinement. But after a series of betrayals by her guardian, she finds herself exiled to a remote, frozen island. What follows is not just a story of physical survival, but a spiritual and emotional reckoning.

Goodman’s writing is spare and evocative, especially when describing the stark beauty and brutality of the natural world. The island becomes a character in its own right—merciless, isolating, but also strangely liberating. Marguerite’s transformation from ornamented girl to self-reliant woman is subtle but deeply felt, and her voice—narrating from a place of endurance rather than drama—is compelling in its restraint.

Some readers might find the pacing slow or the emotional register too muted, but for me, the novel’s quiet intensity made it all the more powerful. It doesn’t sensationalize Marguerite’s suffering, but it doesn’t look away from it either. Instead, Isola invites us to sit with loneliness, resilience, forbidden love, and the aching clarity that can come when everything else is stripped away.

A contemplative, moving book that lingers after the final page. Recommended for readers of literary historical fiction and survival narratives with emotional depth. This was a solid four stars for me. 

 

Maggie Smith’s A Suit or a Suitcase is an introspective, tender, and at times disorienting collection that blurs the lines between mind and body, past and present, self and world. Smith has a gift for crafting images that feel both fragile and sharp-edged, offering moments of clarity that catch you off guard. Many of the poems linger in that liminal space between what we know and what we can only guess at—asking questions about identity, continuity, and the limits of human perception.

That said, while the language is often gorgeous and contemplative, the book can feel somewhat diffuse. The thematic repetition sometimes risks dulling its impact, and a few poems felt more like sketches than fully realized pieces. Still, when Smith’s words and ideas land, they land well, and the best moments have the kind of quiet resonance that stays with you long after you’ve closed the book.

Not every poem here will speak to every reader, but for those who appreciate meditative, thought-tinged verse and a willingness to explore uncertainty, this is a collection worth spending time with—whether you’re in a suit, a suitcase, or somewhere in between. Three and a half stars rounded up. There is a Goodreads giveaway for this book if you're interested.

Thank you to Washington Square Press and Edelweiss for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on March 24, 2026. 

I'm grateful that I enjoy reading so much as it provides an escape, a respite, and it's also educational. I hope you have a good book in your hands or your ears and are also experiencing all the benefits that reading can provide. 

Books: Part I

I read lots of books while I was away from blogging and sitting around in waiting rooms, so it's time to share my thoughts. There are lots of them, so today is Part I, and I'll post Part II on Monday. 

Wreck by Catherine Newman is everything I want in a novel about family: messy, hilarious, heartfelt, and full of tender truth. Returning to Rocky and her crew two years after Sandwich felt like coming home—not to a perfectly tidy house, but to one filled with life, love, and chaos in equal measure.

Rocky is as funny and neurotic and deeply lovable as ever, navigating a new phase of adulthood where the kids are grown, the parents are aging, and the existential dread doesn’t take a day off. Newman captures this liminal space—the “what now?” years—with clarity and compassion. I laughed out loud at the family’s banter, teared up more than once, and found myself nodding in recognition page after page.

What elevates Wreck is the way Newman threads weightier themes—illness, grief, fear, identity—into the story without ever losing its warmth. Rocky’s obsession with a local tragedy and her spiral into medical what-ifs feels so real and human, and it’s this emotional honesty that makes the novel so moving. Life doesn’t always follow a clean arc, and Newman doesn’t try to force it to. Instead, she gives us something better: a beautifully messy, sharply observed portrait of a family doing their best, loving imperfectly, and staying afloat in the wreckage.

You don’t need to have read Sandwich to appreciate Wreck, but fans of Newman’s earlier work will be thrilled to reunite with these characters. I know lots of reviewers said that Sandwich was dull, boring, and didn't reflect their experiences. Not every book is for everybody, but I loved Sandwich and I enjoyed Wreck even more. This is a novel that affirms how strange and beautiful it is to be alive and connected to other people. Five stars from me, and there is a Goodreads giveaway if you are interested.

Thank you to Edelweiss and Harper Collins for providing me with a copy of this book. It will be published on October 28, 2025.

The Headache by Tom Zeller Jr. is part memoir, part science journalism, and part social commentary on how one of the world’s most common ailments remains so widely misunderstood and still too often dismissed. Zeller, a veteran science writer, uses his own decades-long battle with cluster headaches as a starting point for a deep dive into the world of chronic head pain, weaving personal narrative with reporting that spans medical history, pharmaceutical research, and the often frustrating world of clinical care.

The book's greatest strength lies in its accessibility. Zeller does a commendable job breaking down complex neurological science and exploring how cultural perceptions of pain—especially invisible pain—contribute to the marginalization of headache sufferers. His descriptions of cluster headaches are harrowing and vivid, bringing to life what is often an invisible condition. His voice is empathetic and clear-eyed, especially in his interviews with other sufferers and researchers.

That said, the blend of memoir and research isn't seamless. At times, the many personal digressions—while heartfelt—slow the narrative momentum or detract from the more investigative parts of the book. Readers looking for a focused scientific account might find the structure a little meandering, while memoir fans may occasionally get bogged down in the medical detail.

Still, The Headache is an important contribution to health literature. It advocates for greater awareness and research without slipping into sensationalism or self-pity. For those living with migraines, cluster headaches, or even just trying to understand someone who does, this book offers not just insight, but validation.

Recommended for: readers of narrative nonfiction, science writing, medical memoirs, and anyone who has ever had to explain that a headache is so much more than “just” a headache. Three and a half stars rounded up.  

 What We Can Know by Ian McEwan is a cerebral, speculative novel that blends literary mystery with climate fiction and philosophical inquiry. As always, McEwan writes with polish and intelligence, but this novel doesn’t quite achieve the emotional or narrative impact of his best work.

Set in 2119, in a Britain dramatically altered by climate catastrophe, the novel follows academic Tom Metcalfe as he becomes obsessed with a lost poem from 2014. This premise—part detective story, part meditation on memory, loss, and legacy—offers fertile ground. The scenes of a drowned Britain, rich with eerie detail and melancholy, are among the book’s strongest, capturing both the slow violence of climate change and the weight of cultural forgetting.

However, the narrative often feels more interested in ideas than in people. Tom's journey is intellectually intriguing but emotionally muted. Characters are sketched in ways that serve the book’s themes, rather than developing as fully human figures. The past/present structure, while initially engaging, sometimes bogs down in exposition and philosophical asides, stalling momentum. The central mystery of the poem and the interpersonal betrayals it uncovers promise more drama than they ultimately deliver.

There’s no question that McEwan is wrestling with urgent questions—what will be left of us, and how will we be understood? But What We Can Know occasionally feels more like a thought experiment than a novel. It’s elegant and thought-provoking, but lacks the narrative drive or emotional resonance that might have made it a great one. This one was three stars for me, and there is a Goodreads giveaway if you are interested, 

Recommended for McEwan completists and fans of climate fiction with a literary bent, but others may find it a bit too aloof. Thank you to Knopf and Edelweiss for providing me with a copy of the book. It will be published on September 23, 2025.

Kat is a big fan of Bruno so I decided to start with the first one and see for myself. Bruno, Chief of Police by Martin Walker is a charming and atmospheric mystery set in a picturesque French village. The book introduces Bruno Courrèges, a kind-hearted local policeman who prefers to resolve issues with diplomacy rather than force. When a murder with possible racist undertones disrupts the town’s peaceful rhythm, Bruno finds himself navigating tensions between tradition, modernity, and a darker history.

The real strength here is the setting—Walker paints the Dordogne region with such affection that the food, wine, and scenery practically steal the show. The mystery itself is solid, though a bit meandering at times, and the pace is more leisurely than suspenseful.

While the plot could have been tighter and some characters more fully developed, Bruno, Chief of Police is a satisfying start to a series that’s as much about community and culture as it is about crime. Best enjoyed with a glass of wine and some cheese. Three and a half stars rounded up. I haven't read any more in the series (yet) but I'll definitely continue, especially since they are available on hoopla. 

I hope you've got something good to read this weekend. I'll be back on Monday with more books.  

Unraveled Wednesday: 8/6/25

I'm joining Kat and the Unravelers with some knitting progress. A finished pair of rainbow socks:

The blue and green striped socks are still in progress. One is done (even grafted) and the second sock is in progress, heading down the foot for the toe. 

As soon as I finish this sock, I'll be casting on with the watermelon sock yarn that I mentioned several weeks ago. There is just something about knitting socks that I'm finding satisfying. Maybe it's not just knitting socks but I also really love knitting with self-striping yarn. One of my kids actually had a knitting request, so I couldn't order the yarn (more self-striping!) I wanted fast enough. I'll have to find some sort of pattern but I'm looking forward to much more knitting with colorful self-striping yarn for the foreseeable future.

I read six books during my break (and might possibly finish a couple more in the next couple of days) so I'll split my book "reports" into a couple of posts, probably this Friday and next Monday.  

What are you making and reading this week?

Hello Again

I cross this bridge a lot; it's the one from Milford, New Jersey to Upper Black Eddy, Pennsylvania. There is a more direct route to PA via the Frenchtown bridge, but that bridge is under construction (possibly until the 12th of Never). So I take this detour that adds about 20 minutes to my trips but it also gives me time to really look at the bridge and think about what I'm seeing. 

After a longer-than-anticipated break—thanks to an ongoing series of medical tests and the unpredictable detours life tends to throw—I’m finally back. The time away has been necessary, sometimes frustrating, sometimes clarifying. But now, even though the sign says no diving or jumping, it’s time to dive back into writing blog posts.

Blogging isn’t always easy. Some days the words come slow, and the doubts come fast. But what I’ve missed most isn’t just the writing—it’s you. The people. The connections. The quiet encouragements and the kind messages from those who reached out to say they were thinking of me, and even missed me.

It’s amazing how much a simple “you were missed” can do. So I offer a big thank you. A little encouragement truly does go a long way—and here I am, back at the keyboard.

See you in the comments. Let’s pick up where we left off.