It's been a week since I finished Fat Cat. And in that time, I haven't eaten one bite of sugar. Or dairy. Or white flour. Or listened to music on my ipod.
Yes, it's quite persuasive.
You are what you eat. . . . Cat smart, sassy, and funny—but thin, she’s not. Until her class science project. That’s when she winds up doing an experiment—on herself. Before she knows it, Cat is living—and eating—like the hominids, our earliest human ancestors. True, no chips or TV is a bummer and no car is a pain, but healthful eating and walking everywhere do have their benefits. As the pounds drop off, the guys pile on. All this newfound male attention is enough to drive a girl crazy! If only she weren’t too busy hating Matt McKinney to notice...
For the record, this isn't the first time I've gone on a literary-inspired tangent. My mind patters back to the Mandie Era, the year I lived and breathed those phantoms of delight, baking at least three pies a week and getting up every morning at 6:30 (AM) to "fix" myself grits and coffee. With molasses. (Yes. The molasses went in the coffee.)
Aside from my inability to withstand literary peer-pressure, however, there is a lot to like in Fat Cat: it isn't about how she looks (mostly). It's about refusing to throw trash into the ocean that is our bodies. About reclaiming the time we waste on media.
I like that Cat grows closer to her brother because they walk to school together; spends evenings around the dinner table with her family because she's cooking healthful delectables. But never does Brande descend into thinly-veiled dieting tips. The romance entertains, the experiment provides framework and motivation, and you close the novel with an exhilarated determination to copy Cat.