forget me not

a tv producer fellow told me a while back that he loves mystery books. he was incredulous that i don't. in fact, i said, i couldn't remember the last time i read one—maybe some nancy drew thing when i was a kid. well, two things have jogged my (failing) memory: a story about richard price and a story about harriet the spy. i read clockers and liked it, though what i remember most is that the hero has an ulcer and soothes it by drinking yoohoos. that detail is unforgettable.

as for harriet the spy, i don't remember reading it and i don't remember why i didn't, though perhaps just seemed that the girl power/girl sleuth struck me as corny or too deliberate. i was much more into childhood trauma a la blubber. but a radio piece about the book this morning made me reconsider and i might give it a try. apparently harriet's babysitter or nanny writes her a letter and tells her it's okay to sometimes tell small lies if they spare people's feelings. but always be true to yourself.

(also, i liked the yiddish policeman's union, which is kind of a mystery, i s'pose, and the secret history, also has whodunnit threads, but that's not what made it delicious then)

that said, i apologize to that tv fellow for misleading him about my own history of mystery.