One of the best descriptions in a book review I have read recently is "it's a romance novel for the lowest common denominator". Which paints a picture that is hard to get out of the mind's eye, despite being basically a plain monochrome rectangle. No, the book in question is NOT pornographic; any and all breasts, collar bones, or private parts, therein are entirely clothed, three layers, and there is a pick-up truck too, because the action such as it is takes place in rural America. Somewhere between the East Bay Hills and Staten Island.
Where even the little yellow school bus is probably a pickup truck.
After brief forays, I have no intention of ever going there again.
Several years ago I was exposed to two books: The DaVinci Code, and The Bridges Of Madison County. The first deals with mediaeval shenanigans as Midwesterners imagine it, the second details sex as Midwesterners imagine it. Somewhere twixt turgid and bland.
Both are the Iowa pork tenderloin sandwiches of literature.
Bland tasteless witchburning, procreation, and mastication.
Done because it's necessary. Not because it is good or fun.
The Midwestern pork tenderloin sandwich is a flavourless slice of pig pounded extremely flat, dipped in beaten egg whites and crushed saltine crackers, then deep fried and served up in a hamburger bun with lettuce, pickles, tomato, and yellow mustard. Apparently folks in Indiana, Iowa, and Missouri, can't get enough of it, and practically live off this stuff.
In between stodge casseroles and bean lard mulch.
Texans do the same, but add a few slices of jalapeños en escabeche, for spice.
In the Deep South, grits are served alongside, and there is a bottle of hot sauce.
Are you traumatized enough, or must I mention what they do to chicken and pizza?
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