M.J. Mancini's Blog
October 19, 2012
Paper or Electronic Books?
I used to think it was an age thing, my affinity for holding an actual book in my hands, but my opinion has changed.
Recently, while eating dinner at La Strada in Brick, NJ (best veal dishes in Ocean County), I had the pleasure of meeting two ladies at the table next to us. They overheard me speaking to my wife about the success of my debut novel, “Revelation” and they wanted to know how to buy it.
Judging a ‘book by its cover’, I estimated their ages in the upper forties to early fifties. I immediately assumed they would prefer the paperback. Much to my surprise (pleasantly I might add) they both said they loved their Kindle readers. I shot a wry look at my wife, who sat with an eager grin on her face while she watched me try to remove my foot from my mouth, and kindly apologized for making assumptions based on age.
In my own defense, I must admit, my personal preference towards holding an actual book may have jaded my judgment. But, regardless, I decided to begin taking a poll. My book sells for under $5.00 for the electronic version, and $14.95 for the paperback. After reviewing the sales figures from last month, it seems clear people prefer the electronic version. I do not necessarily believe it is a price issue. Those who like ‘real’ books are accustomed to paying for them. Not to mention those who are exclusively hardcover readers. But the quandary still irks me.
My answer is obvious: paperback just feels better in my hands, and perhaps, it makes me feel better about myself. I just love to look at my bookshelf and see all those good books I read lined up, showing their colorful cracked spines. It makes me smile, like a job well done. Somehow, the electronic versions get lost in a sea of ones and zeros.
Recently, while eating dinner at La Strada in Brick, NJ (best veal dishes in Ocean County), I had the pleasure of meeting two ladies at the table next to us. They overheard me speaking to my wife about the success of my debut novel, “Revelation” and they wanted to know how to buy it.
Judging a ‘book by its cover’, I estimated their ages in the upper forties to early fifties. I immediately assumed they would prefer the paperback. Much to my surprise (pleasantly I might add) they both said they loved their Kindle readers. I shot a wry look at my wife, who sat with an eager grin on her face while she watched me try to remove my foot from my mouth, and kindly apologized for making assumptions based on age.
In my own defense, I must admit, my personal preference towards holding an actual book may have jaded my judgment. But, regardless, I decided to begin taking a poll. My book sells for under $5.00 for the electronic version, and $14.95 for the paperback. After reviewing the sales figures from last month, it seems clear people prefer the electronic version. I do not necessarily believe it is a price issue. Those who like ‘real’ books are accustomed to paying for them. Not to mention those who are exclusively hardcover readers. But the quandary still irks me.
My answer is obvious: paperback just feels better in my hands, and perhaps, it makes me feel better about myself. I just love to look at my bookshelf and see all those good books I read lined up, showing their colorful cracked spines. It makes me smile, like a job well done. Somehow, the electronic versions get lost in a sea of ones and zeros.
October 17, 2012
Gravy or Sauce
Ask any Italian-American to describe what his mother cooks on the stove every Sunday morning, and the answer splits right down the middle. Is it gravy or sauce?
Growing up in the middle-sixties in the suburb of New York called New Jersey, I never knew there was a way to ‘order’ pizza. My four-foot-nothing great grandmother brought it up from her cellar every Friday. The smell of oregano, fresh tomato, and broiled cheese filled her house.
It wasn’t until I was sixteen that, to my amazement, I found out people called a phone number and had pizza delivered. I thought it was a dish of my own family’s creation. Of course, it was not the kind of pizza I ate at home. Nor did it have that certain irregular perfection, but for the first time in my life, I realized there were other Italians in America.
When I was six, I wasn’t allowed out of my back yard. At eight I graduated to the front yard. At ten, I roamed the block like a mad Bedoin looking for goat milk. It wasn’t until I reached the ripe old age of twelve, that I realized the world was bigger than a dead-end street in Brick, New Jersey called “Acapulco Drive’.
Dishes like menesta and beans, cavatelli and broccoli, and ciambotta, were staples on our table. Black coffee was what my family drank after dinner from tiny white cups. Anisette was drizzled in it – milk was never an option. Peppers were always roasted, and chicken soup contained pastina. Most of us took it for granted. Now I feel like my heritage is a green-patina tint on a long forgotten past.
When I was sixteen, I came home from school with a bloody nose and a three day sentence in detention. My mother hit the roof. She demanded an explanation. I told her a boy, on the bus, insisted what she cooked for four hours every Sunday morning was ‘sauce’. I stood my ground. I adamantly told him it was ‘gravy’. For that I got a punch in the snoot. It was the first time I was struck by another person, and the last. I promised my mother if anyone ever insulted her cooking again, I would strike first, and answer questions later. Her laugh was both inspirational and confusing.
As a grown man out of college - raising a family - and cooking my own pot of ‘gravy’, I realized the answer.
When someone says, “If it’s red, it’s sauce – gravy is brown,” they are mistaken. I respond in a kind, but firm voice. “In cooking, the color brown denotes meat, and meat makes gravy. Red is a dominant color in food. Tomatoes are red - therefore whatever they are cooked with becomes red. But, once meatballs, sausage, braciole, and pork bones are added, ‘tomato sauce’ becomes gravy.
Since the bloody nose in High School, I have come to realize one thing – never insult a mother’s cooking. But, as an intellectual, I feel compelled to examine the root of a preconceived notion. The answer is simple: “When you put meat in it – its gravy.”
Growing up in the middle-sixties in the suburb of New York called New Jersey, I never knew there was a way to ‘order’ pizza. My four-foot-nothing great grandmother brought it up from her cellar every Friday. The smell of oregano, fresh tomato, and broiled cheese filled her house.
It wasn’t until I was sixteen that, to my amazement, I found out people called a phone number and had pizza delivered. I thought it was a dish of my own family’s creation. Of course, it was not the kind of pizza I ate at home. Nor did it have that certain irregular perfection, but for the first time in my life, I realized there were other Italians in America.
When I was six, I wasn’t allowed out of my back yard. At eight I graduated to the front yard. At ten, I roamed the block like a mad Bedoin looking for goat milk. It wasn’t until I reached the ripe old age of twelve, that I realized the world was bigger than a dead-end street in Brick, New Jersey called “Acapulco Drive’.
Dishes like menesta and beans, cavatelli and broccoli, and ciambotta, were staples on our table. Black coffee was what my family drank after dinner from tiny white cups. Anisette was drizzled in it – milk was never an option. Peppers were always roasted, and chicken soup contained pastina. Most of us took it for granted. Now I feel like my heritage is a green-patina tint on a long forgotten past.
When I was sixteen, I came home from school with a bloody nose and a three day sentence in detention. My mother hit the roof. She demanded an explanation. I told her a boy, on the bus, insisted what she cooked for four hours every Sunday morning was ‘sauce’. I stood my ground. I adamantly told him it was ‘gravy’. For that I got a punch in the snoot. It was the first time I was struck by another person, and the last. I promised my mother if anyone ever insulted her cooking again, I would strike first, and answer questions later. Her laugh was both inspirational and confusing.
As a grown man out of college - raising a family - and cooking my own pot of ‘gravy’, I realized the answer.
When someone says, “If it’s red, it’s sauce – gravy is brown,” they are mistaken. I respond in a kind, but firm voice. “In cooking, the color brown denotes meat, and meat makes gravy. Red is a dominant color in food. Tomatoes are red - therefore whatever they are cooked with becomes red. But, once meatballs, sausage, braciole, and pork bones are added, ‘tomato sauce’ becomes gravy.
Since the bloody nose in High School, I have come to realize one thing – never insult a mother’s cooking. But, as an intellectual, I feel compelled to examine the root of a preconceived notion. The answer is simple: “When you put meat in it – its gravy.”
October 16, 2012
Preview from "Second Coming"
The unadulterated love of a child can heal many wounds, but the scars left by losing one are immutable.
- MJ Mancini, "Second Coming"
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- MJ Mancini, "Second Coming"
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October 15, 2012
Heart and Soul
Perhaps the most profound event that can take place in a person's life is having children. The event changes a life in ways indescribable, some wonderful and some not so, but once a parent, there's no going back.
My daughter has been my muse since her birth. She is a constant source of joy and the walking expression of perfection. Sometimes just looking in her eyes causes fierce reflection of my own life. I regret nothing I have done, but I might change a few things. One thing that I would never change is having her as my daughter. I hope she grows into a strong independent woman who is self-assured and generous, just like her mommy and grandmother.
I write this blog to all those parents out there who know the extraordinary gift God gives us in the lives of our children.
My He bless them all, and keep them each safe.
My daughter has been my muse since her birth. She is a constant source of joy and the walking expression of perfection. Sometimes just looking in her eyes causes fierce reflection of my own life. I regret nothing I have done, but I might change a few things. One thing that I would never change is having her as my daughter. I hope she grows into a strong independent woman who is self-assured and generous, just like her mommy and grandmother.
I write this blog to all those parents out there who know the extraordinary gift God gives us in the lives of our children.
My He bless them all, and keep them each safe.
October 8, 2012
Too Much Information
I'm positive there's way too much information flowing through the Internet, it's a given fact. What unnerves me is people's unwavering tendency to fail at editing their own statements.
Whereas many of the ideas, comments and thoughts I have the unique pleasure in viewing, seem clever in their own way, they're really only a minute fraction of what's actually circulating on the web.
Surprisingly, nobody has been able to generate a truly life-changing statement to post yet. Or perhaps I just don't spend enough time surfing. I guess I'd rather write books than read blogs.
Whereas many of the ideas, comments and thoughts I have the unique pleasure in viewing, seem clever in their own way, they're really only a minute fraction of what's actually circulating on the web.
Surprisingly, nobody has been able to generate a truly life-changing statement to post yet. Or perhaps I just don't spend enough time surfing. I guess I'd rather write books than read blogs.
