The Art of Eating In, Cathy Erway: I will confess that two-thirds of the way through, I just started flipping to the recipes at the end of the chapters. This is another entry in the gimmick-life-project-turned-blog-turned-book category, which is always hit-and-miss: Erway didn't eat in a restaurant in New York for two years, a pretty staggering achievement (though I would argue that hipster foodie underground supper clubs are restaurants, just illegal ones. Exchanging money for prepared food is what defines a restaurant meal, yes?). But the book is tiresomely full of predictable mid-twenties dating drama, which is only ever interesting to the people it directly involves, and maybe their friends, out of politeness--the general reading public? Not so much. And while it's admirable to cook at home, as well as much cheaper, better for the environment, good for the soul, etc., one doesn't have to then become a super-creative gourmet cook. Ain't nothing wrong with pasta and burritos.
Heart-Shaped Box, Joe Hill: Yeah, I like Horns enough that I sought out his first novel, which is even better, though more linear. And, in what I think really defines horror fiction as successful, IT IS SCARY AS HECK ZOMG.