You know when you read something described beautifully by a great writer so you try it and you never doubt (because they’re a great writer) that you’ll love it. Then you realize, ‘O wow. They’re just a great writer…this sucks.’ This is a story about that.
Awhile back I read Bet Me by Jennifer Crusie and it quickly jumped onto my favorites list. The book is fast paced, hilariously sarcastic and the main character doesn’t want kids (in a romance novel?!). It was perfect. A book of all out crazy. Which is generally my favorite kind.
So yeah, it was perfect. Too perfect.
Half of this book is taken up with loving descriptions of Chicken Marsala. Everyone loves it. Eating it, making it, talking about it. It’s involved in practically all of the exciting points somehow.
And since Crusie is such a fantastic writer, I am her main characters when I’m reading. So naturally I assumed that I too loved Chicken Marsala.
I didn’t. In fact, I hated it.
Like throw up hate. Like OMG I need to order something else because this is so gross and I’m really hungry hate. Tragic hate.
Which happens, you know, hating food. And USUALLY there isn’t anything tragic about it.
But….this was sad. I finally realized I’m not Min. Or Cal. Or Crusie.
So I now have an even better appreciation of Crusie’s writing since even though I now know that tastes gross…when I read about it…I forget all that. Because OhMyGosh unlike the chicken…She’s good. Reeeeally good.
Have you ever had this happen? I think the worst would be developing a love for boating and then realizing you get super seasick. That would suck.
Update: I just found a bunch of really shitty reviews for the place I had the Chicken Marsala. Maybe that’s it. The restaurant sucked? Or maybe I still just really want to like that damn chicken. Now I just feel confused…