Stuffed.

I picked this book up, mostly because the little person on the front reminded me of Finley (pot belly and all!). Or kind of the way I imagine he will look in a couple of years. Then before I got to the end of the first paragraph I was hooked:

"Our hallway was the colour of ballpark mustard. The living room was cocoa, my mothers wall-to-wall, iceberg green. The floor of the lobby was maroon and white terrazzo like Genoa salami. When our elevator went self service, the wood was replaced by enamaled walls that looked like Russian dressing, the lumpy pink kind our housekeeper, Mattie, made by lightly folding Hellmanns mayonnaise into Heinz ketchup with a fork.  Daisies were the fried eggs of flowers. Gladioli the asparagus. We were a restaurant family, four generations in a six block radius. When you opened our fridge food fell on your feet."

Nothing seduces me faster than domestic detail and interior description. That mixed with food talk, family history and humour, and above all else, promise, means I can’t wait to read on.