I have been obsessively reading these culinary mysteries by Diane Mott Davidson lately. I don’t know why, but I am practically obsessed with them. I usually prefer Biblical, historical or Christian fiction. I have always gotten so much from those genres, savoring the Truths in them for weeks and months after I finish the last page.
Now I am reading these rather silly books. Not a lot of wisdom or eternity can be found in them. As I read more, though, I can see either a growing faith in the author, or just a growing boldness in her faith. Her chapters have always been laced with delicious recipes, but are increasingly including prayers and Scripture. But I don’t care!
I don’t read them for spirituality. I am just enjoying the mystery—immensely! Ridiculously and shamelessly are other accurate terms. The books are a lot of fun. I have tried out a couple of other authors, too. Some I have liked, others haven’t gotten me through the first book. But I always come back to the Goldy books.
I tell my husband about them as I read. Today I told him about a major development in the overarching storyline—something I’d sort of been hoping for. He graciously acknowledged that it was about time. So sweet to pretend to care! But then I turned suddenly concerned and told him that there was trouble for Goldy. He replied that of course there was. Then I, because I am twelve and can change emotions more quickly than socks, became indignant and said that she was innocent. My hero didn’t miss a beat. He said, ‘I know she is, but you know people are going to suspect her after all she’s been through. But it will be ok, she is innocent.’ He kissed me on the forehead and walked out of the room.
You know that he will even hold my hand when I am reading the scary parts?
What kind of great guy plays along with that sort of silliness and can keep up on plots to whodunnits that he doesn’t even read? My kind of guy, that’s what!