Friday, April 24, 2020

Virtual Reality



When I was in middle school, all 8th graders were required to take a computer science class. At the beginning of every class the teacher would have us recite the history of computing with a chant.  I vaguely recall the lyrics including Babbage! and FORTRAN!  What I can’t forget is the enthusiasm of the teacher as she punctuated every lesson with a multitude of exclamation points and cheerleader-like excitement.

Something of that enthusiasm for learning is captured in The Unseen World by Liz Moore. Ada Sibelius is a precocious 12-year-old being raised by a single father who isn’t called Dad, but David. Each day, David and the homeschooled Ada go to the computer science lab he directs at the Boston Institute of Technology.  Her favorite parts of the day are when she gets to spend time on the lab’s key project, a chatbot program called ELIXIR. 

One Saturday, Ada wakes to find her father missing. When he reappears late the next day, Ada begins to suspect something is wrong with his memory. Enlisting the help of David’s colleague Liston, Ada concedes that he may more need care than she can provide. Just before he’s placed in a care facility, he hands her a floppy disk that contains a puzzle for her to solve.

Two decades later, we see the adult Ada preparing to meet with investors to demonstrate a virtual reality headset she has helped develop. As she tries to escape her present, she delves deeper into her past, finally cracking the code her father left for her to figure out his true identity – and hers.

Fans of Wrinkle in Time and Anastasia Krupnik will find that Moore’s characters embody the awkwardness of adolescence and the magic of discovery. She also conveys the pain of trying to remain true to one’s identity when the world hasn’t quite caught up as well as the elixir of escaping reality that is all too tempting.

Don’t be too alarmed if when you reach the book’s satisfying conclusion, you find yourself cheering…Gimme an A! Gimme a D! Gimme an A! ADA!

Friday, April 3, 2020

Julie and Julia - Reread


Reorganizing the bookshelves, as one is wont to do in times of crisis, I came across Julie and Julia. It's just the thing for vicarious cooking (and cleaning up), especially when the stores are still out of flour. Haven't checked on the whole marrow bone thing.

The following is a repost from 2009.

“Sometimes I just made stuff up.” Despite the disclaimer on page one, Julie Powell serves up a humorous account of her attempt to follow all the recipes in Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child. Faced with conception complications at home and the endless files to be copied at work, she began the cooking project (and blog documenting the project) in August of 2002. Interspersed throughout the book version are imaginary scenes between Julia and Paul Child. I skimmed these for the most part to get back to the meatier narrative.

Powell recounts her successes – skinning a duck and flipping a flawless crepe - but more entertaining are her mess ups – one memorable description likens her homemade ladyfingers to “so many sunk mastodons” in a “tar pit” of caramelized sugar. She also relates how she connected with her blog readers with proficient swearing and as ifs which resulted in donations of funds and jars of her favorite salsa. You might recoil with her in the discovery of a maggot colony under the drainer, but you’ll marvel at her chutzpah at leaving an offering of butter at the Julia Child exhibit at the Smithsonian.

 If you missed the blog, then read the book. If you missed the book, there’s always the Nora Ephron movie.

The book by Julie Powell is called Julie and Julia: 365 days, 524 recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen: How One Girl Risked Her Marriage, Her Job, and Her Sanity to Master the Art of Living.