winter solstice rosamunde pilcher book review

There are much worse things.Īlthough Winter Solstice enjoys a bit of an ensemble cast, if we must choose a single character to be our main one, it would be Elfrida Phipps, a 60-something former actress whose penchant for the flamboyant doesn't mar her solid and sensible personality. The characters are warm and uncomplicated, the plot turns on the most simple of premises and, at the end, the reader is left feeling satisfied and even warmed. It demands nothing more of the reader than following the story and turning the pages. Winter Solstice is mac and cheese or tinned soup for the intellect. But at the end the result is precisely the same: I'm no longer hungry when the last bite is consumed.

And yet, that simple eating experience - while certainly different - is no less rewarding. The flavors are pleasantly processed to the point where the only participation demanded of me is lifting my eating utensil to my mouth. And as for sussing delicate flavors: forget it. Neither of these things demands anything more of me than the ability to boil water. Times when, quite frankly, a simple mac and cheese or a peaceful bowl of soup that began its life in a can are exactly what is required. There are times when demanding food is simply not what's needed. And while I enjoy that type of eating very much, I can't imagine doing it every day. Scallops served on wilted greens and with a balsamic vinaigrette, the combined flavors practically cause me to topple off my chair in sheer pleasure every time I try this particular dish.Īll of the foods I really like are complicated combinations of textures and flavors that demand my attention and participation. The flavors were sophisticated, subtle yet complicated, challenging the diner to identify the source of this flavor or that one.Ī current favorite of mine is served at a Provençal restaurant in my city. One of the most amazing things I've ever eaten was lobster in a lobster sauce. Review | Winter Solstice by Rosamunde Pilcher

Winter solstice rosamunde pilcher book review