Born Round: A Story of Family, Food and a Ferocious Appetite by Frank Bruni (Eng

Description: Born Round by Frank Bruni Bruni, restaurant critic for "The New York Times," tells his heartbreaking and hilarious account of his lifelong, often painful struggle with food. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description The New York Times restaurant critics heartbreaking and hilarious account of how he learned to love food just enough Frank Bruni was born round. Round as in stout, chubby, and always hungry. His relationship with eating was difficult and his struggle with it began early. When named the restaurant critic for The New York Times in 2004, he knew he would be performing one of the most watched tasks in the epicurean universe. And with food his friend and enemy both, his jitters focused primarily on whether hed finally made some sense of that relationship. A captivating story of his unpredictable journalistic odyssey as well as his lifelong love-hate affair with food, Born Round will speak to everyone whos ever had to rein in an appetite to avoid letting out a waistband. Author Biography Frank Bruni was named restaurant critic for The New York Times in April 2004. Before that he served as the newspapers Rome bureau chief and as a White House correspondent. His 2002 book about George W. Bush, Ambling into History, was a New York Times best seller. He lives in New York City. Excerpt from Book Excerpts from Chapter One I have neither a therapists diagnosis nor any scientific literature to support the following claim, and I cant back it up with more than a cursory level of detail. So youre just going to have to go with me on this: I was a baby bulimic. Maybe not baby -- toddler bulimic is more like it, though I didnt so much toddle as wobble, given the roundness of my expanding form. I was a plump infant and was on my way to becoming an even plumper child, a ravenous machine determined to devour anything in its sights. My parents would later tell me, my friends and anyone else willing to listen that theyd never seen a kid eat the way I ate or react the way I reacted whenever I was denied more food. What I did in those circumstances was throw up. I have no independent memory of this. But according to my mother, it began when I was about 18 months old. It went on for no more than a year. And Id congratulate myself here for stopping such an evidently compulsive behavior without the benefit of an intervention or the ability to read a self-help book except that I wasnt so much stopping as pausing. But Im getting ahead of the story. A hamburger dinner sounded the first alarm. My mother had cooked and served me one big burger, which would be enough for most carnivores still in diapers. I polished it off and pleaded for a second. So she cooked and served me another big burger, confident that Id never get through it. It was the last time she underestimated my appetite. The way Mom told the tale, I plowed through that second burger as quickly as I had the first. Then I looked up from my highchair with lips covered in hamburger juice, a chin flecked with hamburger bun and hamburger ecstasy in my wide brown eyes. I started banging my balled little fists on the highchairs tray. I wanted a third. Mom thought about giving it to me. She was tempted. For her it was a point of pride to cook and serve more food than anybody could eat, and the normal course of things was to shove food at people, not to withhold it. But she looked at me then, with my balloon cheeks and ham-hock legs, and thought: Enough. No way. He cant fit in another six ounces of ground chuck. He shouldnt fit in another six ounces of ground chuck. A third burger isnt good mothering. A third burger is child abuse. I cried. I cried so hard that my face turned the color of a vine-ripened tomato and my breathing grew labored and a pitiful strangled noise escaped my lips, along with something else. Up came the remnants of Burger No. 2, and up came the remnants of Burger No. 1. Mom figured she had witnessed an unusually histrionic tantrum with an unusually messy aftermath. But Ive always wondered, in retrospect and not entirely in jest, if what she had witnessed was the beginning of a cunning strategy, an intuitive design for gluttonous living. Maybe I was making room for more burger. Look, Ma, empty stomach! It became a pattern. No fourth cookie? I threw up. No mid-afternoon meal between lunch and dinner? Same deal. I had a bizarre facility for it, and Mom had a sponge or paper towels at hand whenever she was about to disappoint me. As I grew older and developed more dexterity and stealth and more say, I could and did work around Mom, opening a cupboard or pantry door when neither she nor anyone else was looking, or furtively shuttling some of the contents of a siblings trick-or-treat bag into my own, which always emptied out more quickly. I wasnt merely fond of candy bars. I was fascinated by them and determined to catalog them in my head, where I kept an ever-shifting, continually updated list of the best of them, ranked in order of preference. Snickers always beat out 3 Musketeers, which didnt have the benefit of nuts. Baby Ruth beat out Snickers, because it had even more nuts. But nuts werent crucial: one of my greatest joys was the KitKat bar, and I couldnt imagine any geometry more perfect than the parallel lines of its chocolate-covered sections. I couldnt imagine any color more beautiful than the iridescent orange of the wrapping for a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup. And the sweetest sound in the world? The most gorgeous music? The bells of a Good Humor truck. Every summer evening, just before sundown, one of these trucks would come tinkling down Oak Avenue, a narrow road near the shoreline in Madison, Conn., northeast of New Haven, where my fathers parents owned an extremely modest summer house. I knew the options by heart. There was the Strawberry Shortcake bar, coated with sweet nibs and striped with pink and white. There was the cone with vanilla ice cream and a semi-hard hood of nut-sprinkled chocolate over that. An argument in its favor was the way the eating of it had discrete chapters: hood first, ice cream second, lower half of the cone after that. And then there was the Candy Center Crunch bar, which was vanilla ice cream in a crackling chocolate shell, with an additional, concealed element, a bit of buried treasure. When you got to the middle of the bar, you bumped up against a hard slab of nearly frozen dark chocolate, clumped around the wooden stick. You had to chisel away at it in focused bites, so that chunks didnt tumble to the ground -- lost, wasted. The eating of the Candy Center Crunch bar lasted longest of all. Almost without fail, thats the bar I got. I remember almost everything about my childhood in terms of food -- in terms of favorite foods, to be more accurate, or even favorite parts of favorite foods. Age 6: homemade chocolate sauce over Breyers vanilla ice cream. Mom used squares of semisweet chocolate, along with butter and milk, and as the chocolate melted in a saucepan in the galley kitchen, it perfumed the entire first floor of our Cape Cod in northern White Plains, a 45-minute train ride from Manhattan, where Dad worked. Mom made chocolate sauce every Sunday night as a special weekend treat, and my older brother, Mark, my younger brother, Harry, and I got to eat our bowls of ice cream (three scoops each) and chocolate sauce in front of the TV set while watching Mutual of Omahas Wild Kingdom. I always volunteered to carry the empty bowls back into the kitchen, because Marks and Harrys were never entirely empty. There was always some neglected sauce hardening -- like fudge! -- at the bottom. I would sweep it up with a finger en route to the dishwasher. Age 7: I discovered quiche. Quiche Lorraine. Mom baked it in the upper of the double ovens on the south wall of the eat-in kitchen in our Tudor on Soundview Avenue in a section of White Plains that made believe it was part of ritzier Scarsdale, which it bordered. The quiche needed to cool for about 45 minutes before it could be eaten. I knew because Id often kept count. Age 8: lamb chops. Mom served them to us for dinner at the table in the Soundview kitchen about once every three weeks. I ate not just the meat but also the curls and strips of fat at the edges of the meat. Mark and Harry winced when I did that and merely picked at their own chops, wishing aloud that it were steak night or hamburger night or pork-chop night. We were a meaty family, the chops, strips, patties and roasts filling a separate freezer in the garage. Wherever we lived, we had a separate freezer in the garage, a testament to Dads belief, instilled in him by his Italian-immigrant parents, that an abundance of food -- or, even better, a superabundance of food -- was the best measure of a familys security in the world. Mom absorbed that thinking from him and made sure that wherever we lived, we had a separate freezer in the garage. She was mystified by, and censorious of, families who didnt. How could they be sure to have enough kinds and cuts of meat on hand, enough varieties of ice cream to choose from? Was that really any way to live? All of us could eat, but Dad and I could eat the most. I took after him that way. During the Soundview years, he frequently took Mark, Harry and me into the city to watch the Yankees play baseball, the Knicks play basketball or the Rangers play hockey. Mark and Harry loved those games. I loved the peanuts, pretzels, hot dogs and ice-cream bars with which vendors roamed the aisles, looking for takers. Youre getting another hot dog? Dad would ask when he saw me waving down one of these vendors. He wouldnt be opposed -- just surprised. Mark and Harry would still be on their first hot dogs. Dad too. The game seemed to distract them. I was only a year and a half younger than Mark. Harry trailed me by just two and a half years. And as in so many families with children of the same sex clustered so closely together, the three of us defined ourselves -- and were defined by Mom and Dad -- in relation to one another. Mark was the charismatic and confident one, most at ease with his peers. Had there been fraternities in elementary school, he would have pledged the most desirable one and might well have ended up its president. He was also the agile one, adept at just about any sport Dad foisted upon us. He ate steadily but boringly: plain bagels with butter, cheeseburgers with ketchup but no other adornments, slices of cheese pizza instead of the pizza with sausage, peppers and onion that Mom and Dad preferred. I ate both kinds of pizza and I ate Big Macs and I ate pumpernickel bagels with cream cheese. And for every bagel Mark ate, I ate a bagel and a half. Harry had an extraordinary ability to focus on one task or thought to the exclusion of all others, and could spend whole days putting together the most intricate models, whole weekends building the most ambitious backyard forts. As an eater, too, he fixated on a single object of interest and lost sight of much else. For a while his fixati Details ISBN014311767X Author Frank Bruni Short Title BORN ROUND Language English ISBN-10 014311767X ISBN-13 9780143117674 Media Book Format Paperback DEWEY B Audience Age 17-17 Illustrations Yes Residence Washington, DC, US Year 2010 Publication Date 2010-06-29 Place of Publication New York, NY Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2010-06-29 NZ Release Date 2010-06-29 US Release Date 2010-06-29 UK Release Date 2010-06-29 Pages 368 Publisher Penguin Putnam Inc Imprint Penguin USA Subtitle A Story of Family, Food and a Ferocious Appetite Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:25849320;

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