I stopped reading Freeling’s crime novels years ago; resumed interest on reading about my cousin’s trip to The Netherlands. Could there be a less pompous author? In this book he seems to be writing for himself as much as for the reader. Unfortunately, Freeling couldn’t make up his mind about this book. He comes back to the same subjects repeatedly, particularly his ambivalence about his relationship with his mother, and never resolves the matter. The book is an uneven hodgepodge; as memoir, it’s not nearly as satisfying as The Kitchen Book.