So I’m halfway through…

So I'm halfway through reading L.M. Montgomery's Jane of Lantern Hill, which I'm oddly enjoying quite a bit, despite the fact that the basic story is: here is a miserable little girl who then gets to keep house for her estranged father for a summer and is UTTERLY BLISSFUL at doing all the household labor.

It makes her so, so, so happy to hang curtains and cook everything (dad tries to make porridge once, but it is lumpy, and he immediately gives up cooking in despair) and clean everything and plant an extensive garden and be totally responsible for all the domestic work while dad putters along in his study writing. Jane is magically good at all of this, because she's inherited the skills from his mother somehow, who was also a brilliant cook, housekeeper, etc.

I mean, on the one hand, I also kind of love all the domestic stuff, as you probably have figured out if you've been reading me blog about cooking and garden and organizing and parties and stuff. Well, I don't love cleaning, but there's a certain satisfaction to it. I am totally up for books that thrill to domesticity.

But this book. She's ten years old. And we are supposed to be thrilled along with Jane that she finally has found happiness in taking on all the domestic work for a grown man.

But gosh it's satisfying when she finally masters the plum pudding. I don't know!

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